don't knock it till you try it: figuring out music

I owe a debt to "Alex", this dude who worked at Disc Jockey (!!) at the Southdale Mall back in about 1990.

See the thing is, I'm an only child, and I've found that most of my friends who have any real "taste" when it comes to music had the benefit of an educated older sibling--the older sister who'd eject the New Kids on the Block tape and replace it with the Pixies, or whatever.

I didn't have a situation like this. My situation, in fact, was dire. Like I said, I'm an only child. And while my parents' taste in music is just fine, I certainly wasn't programmed at age 13 to notice or care what my parents thought about music.

In fact, I was languishing in a cultural wasteland. At junior-high age, I was a cynical and unpopular student at a small Catholic school in south Minneapolis. While many girls in my situation might have taken solace in artistic pursuits, I had the misfortune of being the student of a "creative arts" teacher who had what I can only describe as misogynistic tendencies (and according to the school's website, is still teaching there!). But that's a subject for a different blog post.

What I should really be talking about here is Twin Peaks. I was a total Twin Peaks nerd--a Twin Peaks nerd in the sixth grade. In other words, not a cool member of my class at Annunciation Catholic School.

But whatever. I became obsessed, of course, with Julee Cruise. Shortly after she appeared on the show, I hustled out to the Edina mall to purchase her album. And that's when I met Alex!

Alex was--and I suppose it should come as no surprise--a total dork (in retrospect). But at the time, I thought he was SO FUCKING COOL. I didn't even know better to act nonchalant--I eagerly sought his assistance in locating my Julee Cruise record. He walked me over to the CD (probably my fifth), and then said those magic words--"Well, if you like Julee Cruise..."

My tapered jeans were already half-off. He walked me over to the "soundtracks" section and presented me with the soundtrack to the Wim Wenders movie "Until the End of the World" (filled with tracks by "washed-up punk rockers" according to my German teacher in high school several years later).

"You should check out the Talking Heads, and Nick Cave and Elvis Costello," he said. Weak kneed, I assured him that I would.

And check them out I did. In fact, one thing led to another, and I ended up a manic Nick Cave fan girl, dragging two of my soccer player friends to his show at Lollapalooza in 1994 ("Oh my God, did he just say 'I've been CASTRATED?'").

I went back to Disc Jockey to buy more CDs and "flirt" with my mentor. He was always helpful and accommodating. But when it came down to it, he had to let me go: "If you really want to get good music, you should go to the Electric Fetus or Let it Be," he said. And well, he was right.

don't knock it till you try it: baby story time

So, being both introverted and masochistic, I took my child to baby story time. The first session was presided over by a manic, relentlessly positive woman who played violin, wielded puppets and made "funny" voices.

I was mortified, but it wasn't about me, right? So I suppressed my emotions, reminded myself to ignore my intuition and imagined the least shameful alcoholic drink I could consume at 2 pm.

Regardless of my reaction, my daughter seemed to love it. So I took a week off to recover, and then I packed her up to try a different story-session at the public library. This one was more subdued--a dreary and repetitive song was used to "introduce" the babies, which used up about half of the allotted time. Then we read several books as a group. That was it. I don't know why I needed to leave the house for that, but I guess I secretly hoped that I'd spot my misanthropic soul mate-mother rolling her eyes across the circle. No luck so far, though.

The most nerve-wracking part of these endeavors actually comes after the official "program" in the form of "baby play time." I guess some of the older kids are playing, but not my kid. It's obviously a chance for parents to chat each other up and make friends, but when the only thing you have in common is parenthood and you're an antisocial malcontent, this is tough.

Actually though, I really tried to make an effort the first time. One woman was funny and displayed a personality, but I was surprised to discover how reserved so many of the parents were. "But I'm reserved!" I thought. "Aren't the majority of normal people extroverts? This is fucking exhausting for me!"

Although I respect the pedestrian nature of the library story thing, it's still not quite the right thing. I think there's a real need for something different. But not like that "rock the cradle" event, which is just a bunch of dads in horn-rimmed glasses dancing around with their daughters to Bjork songs. I guess what I'm thinking of would involve songs in a minor chord, stories with a bleak angle and plenty of opportunities for parents to slink off into dark corners, instead of hanging around talking, pretending to be well-adjusted.

don't knock it till you try it: work-study jobs at college

I attended Macalester, a fancy liberal arts college, but I really had no business being there. For one thing, I'm not that smart. In addition, my family isn't well off at all. But most importantly, I'm just not that "interesting."

Those of you who attended Macalester or similar schools probably know what I mean. Along with a bunch of rich kids, Macalester is populated by all kinds of students with backgrounds that are incredibly novel. "From Berlin by way of Sioux City," as one friend summarized.

It's amazing they let in any townies at all. But they do, and I was one of them. Hailing from south Minneapolis, my most impressive claim to fame in my college application was probably my starring role in a poetry reading at the Sears Rotunda at the Mall of America. Other than that, it was corn-fed midwestern mediocrity all around. And I can assure that I received plenty of feedback about this from my freshman year "friends" from the east coast!

Another thing that happened during my freshman year was my assignment to report to work at Kagin, the Macalester cafeteria. Of course I qualified for work-study -- that close-to-minimum-wage job that helps the financial aid students pay for their whiskey and gin.

Like a good rules-following Minnesotan, I promptly reported to work, already accustomed to the food service grind from my teenage years spent in the bagel shop/coffee shop/chow mein joint. I actually didn't mind the job--it didn't take much effort to scoop baked tofu onto a plate for my classmates. There was possibly something a little demeaning about it, but I took a sick pleasure in the role. For example, although I recognized the insult, I basically reveled in it when some girl referred to me as "that hipster who works at Kagin."

The thing I did not revel in was my (completely anecdotal) observation that all the "interesting" financial aid kids got the easy and desirable work-study jobs in the academic departments, while all the locals/midwesterners/southerners got the shit jobs in the cafeteria and the "physical plant" (e.g. picking up your classmates' cigarette butts). I'm sure there were some exceptions to the this rule, but I don't think there were many!

I kept this suspicion to myself for years, so redolent was it of "sour grapes" or perhaps, "not recognizing my own privilege." But finally I brought it up to Nick, my lawfully wedded husband who also went to Macalester and didn't even qualified for a work-study job, so interesting was his background.

He agreed with me. His interesting-to-him but not "interesting-on-paper" friends from Nebraska and Waseca got assigned to the cafeteria, while his technically-cash-strapped but in reality prep-school-educated freshman girlfriend got the "sit around and drink coffee in the English department" work-study job.

The anecdotal evidence was in and I was livid! It was true--there was a method to the work-study madness. The locals and red state students got the crappy jobs (e.g. it was unlikely they'd ever make anything of themselves and donate large sums to the annual fund) while the fancy-poor got the "flirting in the staff lounge" assignments.

I know this probably sounds frivolous but I am convinced that it's a real thing! And if I could get someone in the admissions office at Macalester to back me up (anonymously, I suppose) I think I could write something quasi-factual about this.

don't knock it till you try it: adult conversation

So the thing about having a baby is that I was really looking forward to the maternity leave. Starting at the age of 15, I've basically always had a job. From Cathay Chow Mein to Big Agriculture, I've been working virtually nonstop for 18 years. The one time I was fortunate enough to get laid off (unemployment benefits!!) I was offered a job I didn't even seek out within about two weeks. WTF, right??

For years I've dreamed about getting a break from it all--and finally my reprieve arrived in the form of a small human I must help usher through the world for the rest of my life. And although I had serious doubts about my maternal instincts and my appropriateness as a potential parent, there is one thing I had no doubts about at all--those three months of government-approved, mostly unpaid time off.

I was under no illusion that it would be a vacation. Most of the nauseating cliches have proven to be true--parenting really is a full-time job, the sleep deprivation will render you clinically bipolar, etc. etc. But one thing that is not true is this: I do not miss the "adult conversation."

That's one of the things I hear working mothers talk about all the time. "I loved staying home for a couple months, but it was good to get back to work--I missed the adult conversation."

I really don't understand what they're talking about. Where do these women work?? Are there any open positions there for a hack writer?? In my experience, the "adult conversation" I experience at work can be boiled down to a lot of passive-aggressive nonsense rendered in meaningless corporate quasi-sentences ("Shannon, why don't you reach out to the VP of EHS for his take--I'm feeling rather agnostic about the talking points you've drawn up.")

Don't they have any friends with whom they can chat? I know it's tedious to hear all about someone's baby, but it's also tedious to sit through a breakdown of just how insulting it was when that one executive insisted on two spaces at the end of a sentence instead of one despite the fact that it's just plain wrong and makes him look completely old fashioned!!!

There were many times during the first three months at home with the baby when I would look at her--red-faced, screaming for five hours straight, ruing the day she was born--and think, "Would I rather be at work right now?" The answer was always no.

don't knock it till you try it: a c-section

So everyone knows about the c-section "epidemic" in the U.S. However, two out of three births still need to be completed the old-fashioned way, and when I was pregnant not so very long ago I assumed that I'd be having a "natural childbirth." I mean, I went to Macalester College!! And I'm a Pilates instructor, too--an ideal marriage of power-to-the-mother politics and physical training, right?

I was actually looking forward to the challenge of an unmedicated labor. I imagined it would be the ultimate practical application of my Pilates training--all that breathing and concentration finally put to a task other than successfully executing "Big Splits" on the reformer (which, it should be noted, is quite a challenge in its own right).

I was also kind of smug about my "plan." On one level of my brain I would tell myself that "Every woman should be respected for her choices in childbirth," but I have to admit that when a girl at a party told me she "Couldn't wait for the epidural!" I had a petty little feeling of superiority. I would not be cheating at childbirth! I think I successfully hid this uncharitable reaction from her, but still, there it was in all its assholishness.

So in the grand tradition of divine retribution (which I totally believe in selectively when stuff happens to me that I'm unhappy about, despite my rejection of my Catholic upbringing), naturally I was destined for that childbirth procedure which I dreaded--the preference of celebrities like Britney Spears and Posh Spice.

About a month before my due date I went in to see my midwife (of course) for a routine appointment. She praised me for my healthy, active, relatively uncomplicated pregnancy thus far. We patted myself on the back for what a model patient I was. She asked me about my doula and the waterbirth consent form. And then she noticed that the baby was breech--which, even in my natural childbirth-friendly clinic, is a recipe for a c-section.

Suddenly she canned it with the chitchat about my "birth plan." With the emotional distance of someone who's about to break up with you, she avoided my eyes and told me that I needed to meet with the resident OBGYN as soon as possible. "You're about to have this baby, and you'll have to have a c-section. I hope we can buy you a week." I expressed my dismay at this sudden change in plans. "I'm sure you don't want to compromise the health and safety of your baby for the sake of having a particular 'experience,'" she said. You could actually hear the air quotes!

This was the last I'd see of her and her holistic prenatal care. Like Pontius Pilate, she'd washed her hands of me! (And although that's dramatic and self-indulgent, it's somewhat relevant in relation to the way one is strapped down for a caesarean).

And also, I was going to have the baby in a week?? I refused to believe it, mainly because I was moronically unprepared. Assuming I had at least a month to get ready, I hadn't acquired anything baby-related, aside from some helpful hand-offs from a few good friends. Mainly I'd been making jokes about "packing for the hospital" (of course I'm not the kind of loser who'd pack a bag in advance, WHATEVER!)

So I met with the OBGYN, who I actually liked and who reportedly was "natural childbirth-friendly", but he was like, "Yeah, we should pencil you in for a c-section in a week or so. But I think you're going to have this baby sooner than that."

"Yeah right," I thought. "I'm gonna flip this baby around and show these assholes!"

I was pretty sure I could do it. I started with my acupuncturist who made a valiant effort with moxibustion. I went to the YWCA and did handstands in the pool. I practiced inversions involving an ironing board propped on the side of the bed. In other words, I abandoned my dignity with these futile efforts to encourage my unborn child to disengage her ass from my pelvis (she was a "frank breech"--e.g. "ass down").

On the morning of October 4, I went in for an appointment with the OBGYN. I'd reluctantly gone to the hospital the night before (I guess I was in labor), but since I wasn't "progressing" very quickly they sent me home. I was relieved, as the OBGYN on call (who would have been the one to slice me open) appeared to be in her early 20s and bore a striking resemblance to my freshman year dorm RA ("I'm KT, but my friends call me 'Crackie', because I act like I'm on crack!")

"I'm surprised they didn't section you last night," he said. ("Section" you???) After a discussion of my concerns about the inevitable operation, he sent me home to pointlessly burn my cute little moxibustion incense sticks next to my toes.

Later that afternoon I had a business meeting at a cafe. I became increasingly feverish and sick-feeling as the meeting progressed, sweating profusely and visibly in my light grey dress. I was mortified by this unladylike display in front of my potential client, but in a vague, through-the-fog sort of way. I staggered home and collapsed into bed, where I writhed around until Nick, the father of the child, came home.

He was supposed to go to band practice that night, and I was like, "You should totally go." But he was all, "Uh, you're totally in labor, I'm taking you to the hospital!" And I was like, "Well, okay."

We got the hospital and I was hustled into a room. I was dismayed to see the admitting nurse--a sour-looking, humorless woman who instilled in me an immediate sense of dread. She got down to the business of hooking me up to an IV. Meanwhile, I was having all kinds of contractions. Next on the agenda was the installation of the catheter.

I should explain that I am irrationally afraid of catheters. A few years ago, when recovering from surgery to my shredded Achilles tendon, a particularly nasty nurse threatened me with a catheter if I was unable to urinate unassisted within the hour. I put my mind-over-matter skills into action and completed the task--anything to avoid having a tube shoved in my bladder!

But evidently the catheter was non-negotiable. "Can't you wait until I get that needle in my spine?" I asked, sarcastic but also genuine. She wasn't having any of it, and painfully forced the tube on in. This made it virtually impossible to writhe around during the increasingly intense contractions. However, this negative experience made me almost excited to get the spinal block--one of the aspects of the operation I'd been most dreading. I was like, "Stick that giant needle in my spinal cord RIGHT NOW!"

It was time to be wheeled into the operating room. Nick put on his hospital-issued Devo suit but was kept out of the room while they took me in to get numbed. I sat on the edge of the bed while the anesthesiologist asked me to flex my spine in order to create more space between the vertebrae so he could better insert the needle. The OB stood directly in front of me. At the time I assumed he was being "supportive," but in retrospect he was probably just there to catch me if I pitched forward.

Like a dead deer, I was then hoisted awkwardly from the gurney thing to the operating table. At some point, they allowed Nick to come in. Someone strapped my arms down and out to the side, crucifixion style. The whole thing was becoming increasingly Lynchian. I waited for the light overhead to start flickering.

They installed a curtain over my abdomen to shield me from the carnage. "Don't you dare watch this!" I ordered Nick, uncharacteristically assertive. I was, you know, hoping to preserve "the mystery."

Although it wasn't painful, I could most definitely feel the doctor pulling that baby out. And despite my instructions, Nick did in fact peek over the curtain at one point, later informing me that the doctor had been "up to his elbows" in my abdomen.

So eventually the baby was removed, and they took her over to the corner of the room to do whatever it is you do with babies when they're born in the hospital. Although women sometimes report feeling bad about this separation from their baby, I was on too much pain medication to really be having any "feelings" at that point. I remember someone bringing the baby over to me while I will still strapped down on the table (Nick? The doctor? Some nurse?) and presenting her to me from a distance of several feet. "Oh my god, it's a boy!" I thought, taking note of my baby girl's swollen genitalia. Then I started shaking uncontrollably as the anesthesia wore off.

The days of recovery in the hospital are a blur. Although in theory I have a problem with taking massive amounts of painkillers and then passing them along to the baby in my breast milk, Courtney Love-style, I quickly revised this position when confronted with the reality of major abdominal surgery. Simply rolling from my back to my side in bed was a major undertaking, requiring fortitude and at least two Percocets.

On day two they removed the hated catheter and I was encouraged to stand up and lurch around the room. It was excruciating--as if my organs were about to spill out of my body. One of my nurses (who'd had three c-sections of her own) suggested that I grasp a pillow over my abdomen to provide the sensation of extra support.

For several weeks, the surgery made it painful and difficult to do a variety of things: stand up, sit down, roll over in bed, bend over to pick up the baby and walk. I'm sure a "normal" childbirth results in all kinds of physical challenges as well, but there's just a special something about having a baby sliced out of you. However, as some well-meaning friends informed me, I am trying to take pleasure in the fact that my baby got to emerge with a "perfect," not-cone-shaped head. Indeed, that will have to be the first thing in the baby book.

don't knock it till you try it: pregnancy

One of the most mean-spirited essays I ever wrote was about pregnant women. Titled "Pregnant Women are Disgusting" or something along those lines, it was inspired by a former coworker who waddled around the office, grimacing while clutching her lower back, dropping her pens and then waiting for the rest of us to dive under the conference table to retrieve them.

I was repulsed. I couldn't believe she would come into work like that! There was no dignity in it. Plus, the pregnancy made her even more irritable and unpleasant than she usually was. The whole thing was very inconvenient for me, both practically and aesthetically.

I've never really considered myself one of those "pregnant types." Until lo and behold, one day I was.

I staggered around for a few days, trying to come to terms with it. Surely, the encroaching mediocrity of my life (suburban job, sensible shoes, etc.) would be hastened by the appearance of a child. I imagined myself meeting with a friend post-baby for my once-a-month social outing where I would speak in the third person, saying things like, "Mommy never knew how much she would appreciate a shower back in her childless days!!!"

Isn't everyone rendered tedious when they have a kid? I suppose I know quite a few exceptions to that rule, but I fixated on the worst offenders--the suburban coworkers with their "AVASMOM" license plates, for example. Filled with dread, I obsessed silently to myself, confiding in no one.

Eventually I calmed myself down and went out to purchase a couple books on the topic of having a baby. Although I would have preferred to go to Magers and Quinn, I didn't want to risk it. Instead I went to a bookstore near my corporate workplace in the suburbs. I found the two books recommended to me by a friend who hasn't been ruined by motherhood, and clutched them to my chest (so as to obscure the titles, the way one might conceal some pornography or a self-help manual) as I hurried to the cash register.

As the woman at the counter rang up my purchase, I felt strongly compelled to mention that the books weren't for me--that I was picking them up for my sister, or something. But I forced myself to keep my mouth shut.

Luckily, I didn't start to "show" for a really long time, so I saved myself the trial of having to admit to it too early. I'm still hyper-aware of the judgement leveled at pregnant ladies (being a former offender myself) and I didn't want to invite any unwanted attention if I could help it.

Now that it's pretty obvious what's going on, I've resigned myself to having to acknowledge the pregnancy in public some of the time. But the fact that people--especially strangers--even want to discuss it blows my mind. Despite some evidence to the contrary I am pretty much a prude at heart, sex-negative at my core from years of Catholic training. Being pregnant is clearly a sign that I'm "in trouble", visual evidence that I'm damaged goods. Embarrassed silence would make sense to me--not a battery of questions about how I'm feeling, the status of my "nesting" stage (nonexistent) and whether or not I'm "excited" about being knocked up.

don't knock it till you try it: childhood dieting

Back in the fourth grade I was tormented every day by "Curt Mudger" for being fat and ugly. The abuse was primarily school bus-based--every morning I would get on the bus and there he was, taunting me for the rest of the ride. He'd start in again on the way home, and I'd finish my day with a barrage of insults shouted from his open bus window as I lumbered towards my house, mortified and hating myself.

For the record, I think it's safe to say that I was in an ugly phase that year. And I was by no means skinny.

But a petty, hateful defensiveness rises up as I write this. "I may have been pudgy and less than lovely, but I was by no means the fattest in my class!" I protest loudly in my head to an audience of no one.

I was not so righteous at the time, taking Curt's insults as the gospel truth. "I am hideous," I said to myself as he encouraged his friends to get in on the action. "He's right--no one will ever love me. And yes, I'm definitely going to grow up to be a hooker."

No one rose to my defense, least of all myself. I became depressive and extra-withdrawn and got scolded during class for "daydreaming" (i.e. fantasizing about suicide). I certainly didn't have the nerve or the self-regard to stand up for myself, and no way was I going to swallow my pride and complain to my teachers or parents. I figured that it was just something to be endured.

And I put up with it until the end of the school year, when I was finally released from the daily verbal assault. I approached the summer with grim determination.

That summer both of my parents were working and I was left to my own devices for at least half the day, with strict orders not to leave the house. Since I couldn't go outside to over-exercise, I'd stay in and do cable TV aerobics for at least a couple hours a day. My "meals" generally consisted of plain microwave popcorn and nonfat yogurt--a weight-loss plan I'd probably devised from reading Seventeen magazine. I was also playing soccer that summer, so I'd get my second helping of exercise every day on the soccer field.

It was fear-based, unhealthy and joyless, but it worked! And I suppose it also helped that I grew a few inches that summer. I managed to transform myself from a pudgy little kid into a freakishly tall, overdeveloped woman-child. I certainly didn't look like a "normal" fifth grader when I went back to school in the fall, but I was thin and therefore prettier and that was all that mattered.

And it was true. When I climbed back onto the bus that fall, I braced myself for the inevitable insults. I might have gotten skinny, but I was still the same self-loathing troll deep down inside--and Curt was a manipulative little asshole, he would surely tune into that.

But he didn't. There he was, sitting in his usual seat in the middle of the bus, and he didn't say a thing. I refused to look at him but I could sense his disbelief. I'd "won"--silencing him with socially acceptable attractiveness. I felt like I should be proud of my big accomplishment, but I didn't. I felt pissed off. I hated myself for getting skinny for his benefit, and I hated him because he fell for it. "So, this is how it is," I thought.