I have a super great old friend from college, Jen. She’s a writer (here’s her book) and a journalist. And a mom.
She lives in Des Moines and recently she acquired chickens.
She and her husband and her kids have chickens in their backyard.
Do you ever look at your friends, when they do something cool/amazing/odd/wonderful/outrageous and think:
“Uh oh.”
Here it comes. The Existential Chicken Crisis.
The other day, my friend Deb was over and she mentioned chili or something and then she said:
“Ah I saw that article you posted on Facebook, what was it? The 10 Foods You Should Never Eat? And I thought OH NO!! Here I thought I was doing something great, making homemade chili! But I use CANNED TOMATOES! Ah shit. They were on that list.”
See?
Uh oh. Existential Tomato Crisis.
There are times — many times — when I have wished I were a moron. Existential Chicken Crises are definitely one of them.
Oh don’t worry. It’s not a permanent feeling. It’s just passing moment when I think:
“OH wouldn’t it be so much easier if I were an idiot and didn’t notice ANYTHING at all and could just work as a waiter forever, and then come home and roll around mindlessly on my Made in China sectional, right after I put ALL of the wrappers from my fast food — include the recyclable and compostable ones — in the trash can?
Then I have to say no to myself. My days of waiting tables and eating quesadillas at midnight — for the most part– are over. That’s fine with me.
It’s just then I have to DEAL with the new information. I have to DECIDE: am I going to be a person who hosts chickens in MY backyard, or am I going to keep buying them from the chicken factory?
Or something in between.
Once new information seeps in, it makes just living a decent life a tussle.
I don’t think it’s keeping up with the Joneses so much. It’s keeping up following our own ideology: what our family wants to be.
Existential Chicken Crisis commence.
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Number four child was TRYING to whisper in Jolly Old St. Nick’s ear at the Santa Village when she was interrupted.
Elf: “WHICH PHOTO PACKAGE DID YOU BUY?!” the elf barked at us.
Me: “We haven’t chosen one yet,” I said. “We wanted to get in line before it got too long.”
Elf: “WHAT?! Well, you each sat on his lap so you want FOUR photo packages, right?”
Colin: ”Uh, actually we were going to have them all sit together–”
Elf: “So, what, you WANT to buy FIVE photo packages?”
Us: “Well, er, uh, um –”
Elf (tapping foot): “I can SEE Daddy over here being all SNEAKY with his iPhone when he’s not supposed to be. Why don’t one of you get over here and pick one of of the photo packages. Because Santa’s got a LONG line of people and only 25 minutes until lunch.”
Beat. I exchange glances with Santa. Number 4 is smiling like crazy and whispering in his ear.
Me: “Excuse me. Can my daughter please just talk to Santa for a minute?”
–
Dear Stamford Town Center Mall and Snapfish,
You are on the Naughty List. For sure.
–
This post is part of the December BIG QUESTION Series, “If Only in My Dreams.”
What’s your dream of the holidays? Or how has that dream gone horribly wrong?? Tell us in the comments!
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When I lived in Kansas City, I was single.
This meant that I spent a great deal of my energy and mind space being frustrated and unhappy about my “alone”ness.
Like most young women (and men too, I guess), I really wanted to find someone special to connect with, to be with, so long as we both shall live.
And I did! YAY!
But before that time, I spent many Christmas times alone. Not the actual holiday itself, because on the that day I would head back to my parents’ house and hang out there.
But that time from Thanksgiving and the Plaza Lighting Ceremony to Christmas Eve … that was spent pretty much on my own.
This week, I’ve been nostalgic for Kansas City. I have so many great friends there. This is how I am remembering that time.
Even though I was “alone,” — a girl on her own in the big city — I had a family I created from people I met who loved me even though I wasn’t related to them at all.
Now that I have kids around here, I have lots and lots of things on my To Do List for this time of the years. LOTS.
So it is nice to reflect now and then on the “alone” days. I guess some days I even pine for them. But I also try to remind myself to not make them seem more wonderful than they actually were. Because I know I was pretty lonely back then too.
Now, I just want to remember them… the good, the sad, the beautiful.
The lights, the porches, the roommates, the parties, family visiting, the demanding customers I waited on, the smoky bars, the uncommitted men, and the house with two cats.
But most of all, the friends, the hugs, and the laughing.
–
This post is part of my BIG QUESTION December series “If Only in My Dreams.”
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]]>(This is a guest post from Paul Merrill, part of the If Only in My Dreams: Big Question Series.)
Christmas means different things to different people. After 22 years of marriage, Heather and I are finally understanding how much our families influenced how we enjoy holidays.
- How many presents are under the tree?
- Do you open presents on Christmas morning or Christmas Eve?
- How many lights go up on the house?
- Which way do you have your kids celebrate the holiday?
So, what was that great Christmas memory?
One of my best childhood memories is riding in the back seat of our 1967 VW Beetle on a cold Christmas Eve. The weak heater forced us to huddle close to stay warm. (That model doesn’t even have a fan to force the engine’s heat into the cabin!) My brother Bill and I shared the secret of what present we got each other. I can remember the cold, but, the memory doesn’t stretch far enough to remind me what that present was.
My brother, Bill, and I still are great friends. Though we live 900 miles apart, we still share presents, though not whispered in the back seat of an ancient Beetle. And our presents look a little different.
This year, share some aspect of Christmas with someone you love.
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In which I tried to explain to the kids that our little “artificial” tree is actually “real.”
Existentialism 101
Me: We are putting up our tree this afternoon.
Kid 1: Is it a real tree?
Me: Well, yes, it is a real tree. A real tree in that it isn’t imaginary.
Kid 1: No, I mean, does it–
Kid 2: She means is it the kind with the needles, no.. wait, I mean
Kid 3: The kind that grows out of the ground! That we CHOP DOWN!
Me: Like the one we got when we went to Jones Farm.
Kid 1: I didn’t like that. It was too cold.
Me: The tree we are putting up today is a real tree. A real fake tree.
Kid 2: NO!! I mean, a tree, that like has smell!
Me: I am sure the tree we are putting up today smells. Perhaps like chemicals or petroleum byproduct.
Kid 4: Wha?
Me: Let’s put it this way: The tree is really, real. It will really be in our house.
(Silence)
Kid 3: When can I open presents?
–
Another lovely post in my December “If Only in My Dreams” series. Read more!
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At the post office, the hated post office, where lines greet me
and awful racks of greeting cards
Line walls, ignored.
The post office and its
Perfume of desperation.
The place where scales and stamps sit in dusty corners
Like aristocrats awaiting their bloody fate.
The post office, doomed, because
It is about
PLACE
and we have no
PLACE anymore. We are no longer
PHYSICAL beings
we are no longer
ACTUAL.
We are
e-people, shoving our lives and our
words
(same thing)
around in
Formless
cyber worlds.
The mailbox
Has no shape
Anymore. It’s
A percentage
Full or
empty.
P.O. stands for
Pissed off, that the
WiFi doesn’t work.
Now’s the time to
Collect the actual.
Postcards from
A storied past.
It will be memorabilia
Hot on the auction block
Soon.
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I want things handmade. I want a life devoid of BPA-worries.
I want the holidays decorated in popcorn strings and toes of knee-high socks filled with sticky penny candy and tiny oranges.
I want to have the hot cocoa, but not the packaging the dried chocolate-flavored granules come in.
I want to make the gift bags, without needing the troll Jo-Ann in deathly fear of whatever other impulses may come.
I want the craft, but not the storage.
I want handmade — the originality, the texture and depth. The artist’s signature. But not the price.
I want beauty.
I want art.
I want tomorrow, but I am unclear about today.
–
I will to unwrap the porcelain cow again this year.
I will place him in his manger scene.
Arrange the kings and the baby Jesus.
Avert my eyes from box and its $9.98 Walmart tag.
–
I am not sure what I want.
–
This post is part of the BIG QUESTION Series in December, “If Only in My Dreams”. Click and read more.
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December is the month of dreams, of nostalgia, of memories, expectations, hopes and disappointments.
We were all little children once… dreaming our dreams of light and mystery, wide awake under our covers. It doesn’t matter whether those covers were cotton or silk.
We are still those children. Some of us still imagine the twinkling light dreams – and decorate our lives that way. Some of us can only remember them. We cast those sepia shadows onto our grown-up holidays.
This month, my family and I are far away from our own families.
Colin and I are spending the holiday the way we did last year: here in Connecticut.
We are working to create our own traditions. We are working inside boundaries, like many people are: tight budgets and the even tighter bonds of our ideas of what this time of year should mean.
What does it mean to be home for the holidays?
How do we – intentionally or inadvertently — reshape the imaginations of our own children and our community?
Can we do it, without succumbing to the naiveté of nostalgia? Should we?
My December series is: “If Only In My Dreams” – featuring images, poetry, and thoughts that prod at the Big Question: What is our dream of holiday all about?
***
Feel free to participate; however you like.
You can:
Comment
Think about it
Talk about it.
Tweet it, hash tag #BigQDreams
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]]>I heard: “Big Sur is calling to me” and here’s what happened to me.
I immediately felt the grey, El Nino winter that that I spent in California, in 1999.
I was working in a restaurant in Kansas City at the time a place that was renovating. All the staff was given 6 weeks vacation, unpaid.
So I planned for it, saved up money the way that single people can do– just enough– and bought a one-way Amtrak ticket to San Francisco. I had a cousin to stay with. And a college friend. And my first-ever laptop.
In the weeks, I hung out in Berkeley, writing things that got saved in the hard drive of a laptop I don’t own anymore. Also on floppy disk. Once I printed onto dot matrix at some point too. My feet froze in the Starbucks as I wrote.
It was a psychological break from work for me that I hadn’t ever taken before. I was free to wander around… in my writing and in the day.
Unfortunately, most days were drenching cold rain.
On the weekends, I found my way to be with my friends Mallie and Adrian. We drove north and stayed in cheap hotels. Walked barren beaches and watched dogs chase men in wetsuits into the surf. We argued and ate. She dropped me back in Berkeley again for the weekdays, to come and find me again on the weekend.
More writing at the library table, and wandering around San Francisco alone. Then the weekend again and roadtrip.
We meandered south, where we found the sun. We stopped in Santa Cruz and walked along a funny boardwalk and up onto the cliffs, watching the wild surfers below us. We went on for miles on two-lane roads through old Western towns that are hidden like real fossils. Stopping at bar that was rough hewn and soaked in beer and pops up in my memory like a movie scene.
We kept going, by the artists’ caves packed into the trees along Highway 1, and the little surprise restaurants in the middle of nowhere, overflowing with people and paperbacks and coffee stains.
We found our way to Hearst Castle Road, and timed it so we could take the tour. Stared at the abandoned and gleaming bowling alleys like they they were diamond rings sitting on a can of tuna in the supermarket. The castle on top of the hill that people wanted to be haunted with fame and glory was just draped in fog and stony silence.
We wound our way back up the first highway. Stopped in Carmel for lunch and felt cheated by the diamond choker vibe. A strangeness of glamour tarred the wildnerness.
Another weekend we went north again. Into the redwoods, walking without anyone else. Only the rain and dead leaf carpets. Trying to adjust our sense of proportion. And our sense of alone.
In between the weekends, to solidify the strangeness, my cousin introduced me to a red-headed boy. And the boy took me on a date. To dinner in North Beach, San Francisco. And then to that wonderful, narrow bookstore where the Beats lived.
The boy took me out again, and then surprised me by finding me beautiful.
In weak moments, the sun winced its way out from the clouds.
Otherwise, the rain poured down. We had to kiss in a doorway to stay dry.
After another week, I stared at Bridal Veil Falls at Yosemite, my nose frozen, but far enough from the coast to be in the sun. Wishing to be back in Berkeley, the way girls in love do.
Then the train and the goodbyes and the wishes to stay and promises to come. And photographs — traded — all before the cell phone era. And I don’t remember the train home, even though I took it there.
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I need a vacation.
Let’s all insert here for a minute the list of blessings I have.
- Nice house
- Good family
- Everything I need and want (food, clothing, shelter)
- Friends
- Education
- Human Rights
- Time to meditate and do yoga
- Lots of good books, and a library card too.
- Many more
OK, even in the face of all these blessings, I know there comes a time when the mind and body need to get away.
Out of the normal, out of the routine, outside of life-par-normale. For longer than a couple of hours or a day.
For a VACATION.
Colin and I love to travel. We both agree we are most happy with he in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger’s seat, the iPod filled with music lists and podcasts, the van filled to the brim with chattering — or snoozy — ones, and the destination programed in the GPS. It’s the kind of time that lets us simulatneously switch off and tune in.
I can feel the physical changes in my body and my mind when we set off for “vacation.” Even if there’s traffic, arguments, or bad diners, the entire experience feels different.
I mean, not to sound idiotically obvious, but it feels, well, separate. Switched off, and tuned in.
But, we can’t take vacations right now.
Airfares disagree with our budget and our schedules seem to continually argue with any meaningful drive time.
So how do we teleport ourselves to Vacationland — to that place where we can all just chill for awhile — without leaving home? It seems to be a mystery I cannot solve.
I’m open to suggestions.
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