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Holly Korbey - Outside/In I'm in This Book! New York Magazine  Michael Pollan: The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals Brock Clarke: An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England Subscribe to this blog's feed Going back to Big D They say it's just like riding a bike. I've been off for a couple of weeks now, haven't written a word, spent my Christmas in New Hampshire with family and friends. I've eaten a lot of finger foods, probably too many (especially my mother-in-law's Lebanese pastry, kaak - toasted just a little, they're delicious); I've had even more glasses of red wine. I've contracted and treated strep throat, the "Christmas strep," as has the rest of the family. I have joked about requesting the gallon-jug of amoxicillin at the pharmacy. I have spent many evenings playing Sorry, TriOminos, and chess with my sons and husband. But now, I'm rested and healthy and ready to get back to the work at hand: trying to live two places at once - Brooklyn and Dallas, and be two people at once - Dallasinian and Brooklynite. And to explain to you what it's like being these two people.It's very difficult to do.When we were flying back to Dallas from Boston last week, on our downward descent into Dallas/Fort Worth, I looked out the window at the miles and miles of flat brown fields, a lake or creek tossed here or there, gobs of sunshine poured on top, and when we made a wide turn in our jet, and I got a glimpse of the city - a few tall, glassy, steely buildings that appear to be rising up straight out of a dirt field - it just didn't feel like home. It felt like camp. Camp is a place you go on vacation, a place you go to relax, and maybe that's just Dallas' vibe - it feels too relaxed to be my home. Or maybe I just haven't taken the time to make it my home. I don't know the psychological reasons for it, but for one reason or another, Holly is still "just visiting", thanks.Dallas feels temporary still. I wonder every day if we'll be here long - at this point, I can't really tell. I have certainly let go of any of my preconceived notions of location becoming my identity. Well. That sounds amazingly spiritually sound, doesn't it? I got it from a book. I say certainly, but I still think of myself as a New Yorker. I still actually call myself a New Yorker. I got caught at the park just the other day lying to myself (and an unsuspecting mom):A mom said, is this weather cold enough for you? I think it was around 60 degrees at the time. In January!I said, oh, jeez, no way, I'm a New Yorker. This is springtime for us. A New Yorker? Oh, do you live in New York? Um. No. Did you move from New York? Yes! Oh, very recently then? Well, it's been over a year and a half. Sounds pathetic. Posted at 01:16 PM in Texas | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Christmas, and What I Learned There Things I learned while celebrating the holidays in Texas and in New Hampshire:1. It is perfectly okay to pass off candy cane ornaments your mother made for you as your own and give them away to classfuls of children as, er, holiday presents.2. Airline travel with small children during holiday time is a modern - and acceptable - form of torture. 3. I do not miss snow.4. In the world of Dallas Christmas decorations, more is definitely more.5. Do not read Michael Pollen's The Omnivore's Dilemma for enjoyable vacation reading and then expect to be able to eat your Christmas Day meal. 6. Spending a few days playing with your children and their new toys without agendas or interruptions is divine joy. Posted at 08:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Christmas Vacationization Holly will be out of the computer from December 21-28 while she celebrates the holidays with family and the snow in New Hampshire. Posted at 09:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) You Can Call Me Al I used to be fairly confident in what my kids should call other childrens' parents, and now I just have absolutely no idea. In Brooklyn, it was so easy: everyone went by their first names. Even my son's preschool teachers, and certainly our friends, and certainly my sons' friends parents, all of us were on a first-name basis with one another, and it never really entered my mind that there were folks out there doing what we were doing growing up, calling parents Mr and Mrs. So-and-so. I had become so relaxed in my Brooklynness that I had forgotten there was a real world out there, one where respect for one's elders was still a virtue being practiced.To make it even harder, there appear to be several acceptable ways for children to address adults down here in Texas: by their first names, which happens very rarely here, by Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. (that's what they call female teachers at my son's school) and their last name, or a third option, which I have never before encountered: Mr./Ms. First Name. This comes off as very Southern when you first hear it, "Holden, will please say hello to Miss Dee Ann?" Can't you almost hear the twanginess inherent in that style, the Ms. First Name style, the honey-child sing-song that goes up at the end? Well, it's this option, the Ms. First Name option, that seems to be what has stuck to me like glue.I think it's because I don't know many people's last names. And, it's difficult to ascertain what their last name might be, considering that many women now don't change their last names when they get married and many have been re-married, by the last name of their child. So, I'm flummoxed. My child calling other parents by their first names seems to be relatively taboo (in that I've never heard anyone down here do that and so I'm not going to do it, either), so here I am, stuck with the Mr. and Ms. First Name. It feels silly. When Holden addresses one of our neighbors, "Hi, Nina's mom, can Nina come over and play?" I am forced to step in. "Holden, please call her Miss Sarah." "Sarah, can Nina come over?" "Wait, not Sarah, Miss Sarah." "Miss Sarah?" "Yep." "Miss Nina's Mom, can Nina come over?" I also don't like having to ask a parent what they'd like to be called. I know what I like to be called: Holly. But no one ever seems to ask me. Every time I get a note home from Holden's kindergarten teacher, and I see my name placed at the top in correct penmanship: Dear Mrs. Korbey... I cringe. Mrs. Korbey. Never in my wildest dreams did I envision myself a Mrs. Korbey. I feel good in admitting to everyone that I don't like it; I don't want to be Mrs. Korbey, or Mrs. Chris Korbey, or Miss Holly. Just Holly. If your kids are asking you, now you know the truth. There, I said it.Next, I'll be discussing my love-stronger-than-addiction to Facebook. Talk amongst yourselves. Posted at 12:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Sign Me Up, PTA - The Mommy Mafia and Me I wrote a piece for Babble ("Sign Me Up") that came out a few days ago about how much I hated the idea of joining the PTA until my son went to kindergarten this fall - and now I find myself passionately involved with parent volunteering. Now, when I say passionately involved, I do not mean that I'm heading up committees, keeping three-ring binders, and spending tons of time with it; actually, I'm only volunteering an hour or two when I can. I attend lunch with my son here and there, help out in his class when they need me, sign up to read a book to his class. But my attitude is one of passionate involvement - I realize that it's beyond me now to think that baking custom cupcakes for the kindergarten holiday party is cheesy.What I have become passionately involved with is my big realization - how large a part volunteer parents play in the kids' educational experience. So, I was very interested to read the comments the article received, the biggest concern among one commenter being that working mothers feel guilty because they can't be around for all the stuff that happens during the school day.I am very lucky that I am a writer and have flexible hours (sometimes too flexible), I am able to come during the day sometimes. But, I do urge the 9-to-5 mothers to consider this a huge plus, as another commenter noted, because part of my realization is that parents - any parents - being in class with your child is a good thing. Let me tell you something: when I go up to school to volunteer, I'm taking care of your child, too.This is an important thing to note, because I believe it directly relates to my Brooklyn/Texas move and the cultural divide. The mommy wars - just like the culture wars - have caused a gaping chasm between moms, making us want to believe that we are not doing our job properly and one of us is better than another of us. We have writers and psychologists and all sorts of experts telling us to go to work or to stay home or do both and most of us walk around a large part of the time feeling, no matter what motherhood path we've chosen, anxious and overwrought and wishing we'd made the other choice (see Judith Warner's "Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety").I have to say one thing I've noticed about the public school moms I've worked with here in Dallas - there is very little competition. At our school, there are stay-at-home moms, part-time moms, flex-work moms, and full-timers. Yet when we're working on a school project, work roles seldom surface. If there is competition between the moms, I certainly don't feel it. When an email goes out, say to organize the holiday party in my son's kindergarten class, every mom finds a place to fit in - the ones who can be there show up, and the ones who can't go and pick up stuff, or make something at home, or write a check. I don't see anything wrong with that - because everyone's contributing and being a part of the what the kids are doing in school, and I think it's important to know what's going on inside that classroom. More on this later. Posted at 10:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) The War Over Book Clubs Well, people, it's official, we've now turned book clubs into one more social ill we need to be concerned about. Check out this article in today's NYT: Fought Over Any Good Books Lately? Hmmm. What to say? Look, I'm a writer, and I spend my days (and nights) trying to find interesting things to write about, like whether or not to redshirt my son here in Texas, and how I fell head over heels in love with the PTA, and to be honest I'm thinking of writing a piece on how our school principal sent me to truancy court because I took my kindergarten-aged son out of school for a couple of days to attend my sister's wedding. Is it earth-shattering journalism? No. Is it worth talking about? I think so. But back to the subject at hand: book clubs. Is this worth talking about? This article in the Times concerned itself with women who had dumped their book club for one of several reasons, all of which I deem understandable. One woman quit because her group wanted to read only The Da Vinci Code and anything on the Oprah list, another because she was uncomfortable with all the members of her club getting drunk, forgetting about the book, and unloading personal secrets about their spouses and relationships during the meetings. I would hate all of the above, and those reasons are exactly the reasons that I'm not in a book club. The writer does go on to explain how book clubs for ladies got started in the 19th century, and how successful they were, and implies that there were no diary entries found saying, "I hate Rebecca! She is dominating the whole book club conversation with her butter-churning obsession, and I want to quit." I mean, obviously, there must have been some personality clashes, even way back then. Book clubs were not always perfect.I do think, however, that there is a little culture-war knowingness to articles like this, as a way to stir up the pot and get women seething. I smell a little culture war gasoline being thrown into the book club fire. This book club piece reminds me of the Mommy Wars - remember those? The articles, radio and TV shows, and blog entries that piled up everywhere a few years ago (at the same time I had my first baby), all talking about whether it's better to be home or be at work, or who is smarter, or whose kid winds up smarter, who makes more money, who saves more money, or the most important of all - who is a better person. This is a very long-winded way of my saying, Who cares? I think book clubs are a nice idea, if you can find one which likes to read the books you do, and has the same political/literary views you do (a must). Well, I say that, but is it a must? What if we're all the real losers by quitting our book clubs? In this Red State vs. Blue-State world we live in, what if it would be better to stay in a book club where we disagree with what's being read, or being discussed? Do we have something to learn from the stuff we disagree with? Or are we going to retreat further into our homogeneous zones, where we're surrounded by people who look, think, talk, and read like we do? Maybe I'll join a book club. Posted at 12:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) It's Really Hard It's very, very hard to come home and not read a book that you just bought when you're already reading a book at home. The new book is so very new and shiny, it begs to be read, it says, "I'm full of interesting details, ones you may not have known before!" But the old book deserves your respect, I mean, are you the kind of person who drops a book right in the middle merely because you've been with it for a while? I am reading An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England, and it's very funny and I am into it, but I've reached that 3/4-way point where things are getting a little boring, and now I'm ready to start a new book. Uh-oh. Today I just bought two: Jhumpa Lahiri's The Interpreter of Maladies, and Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. It's like Easter over here at my house, and I'm staring longingly at my brand-new Easter dress, but I know it's a week until Easter and I cannot wear it until then. The covers beckon: Jhumpa's is so exotic and Indian (and, full disclosure, I love anything Indian), and the cover of the Omnivore looks, to me, like an advertisement for sex. How will I stand it?Oooh. I know. I'll do what every mom/writer/housekeeper/laundress with an extra minute or two does: Read two books at once. That's what I'll do. And I'll start that second book tonight, yes, I've been longing for an introduction, new words, new point of view! Whew! Problem solved. Posted at 09:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Back To School 
My son, who just turned five a few days ago, started kindergarten today. (Post-date note: I wrote about him and our saga with kindergarten "redshirting," deciding whether or not to send him, in an article on Babble.) We just dropped him off. It was total chaos up at our neighborhood public school, there are 6 kindergarten classes of 22 kids each, and everyone was trying to locate their teacher, and their class. Everyone seemed to be a bundle of nerves, not knowing what to expect. It was easy to tell which parents were sending their firstborn off to the wolves; we were the ones crying and chewing nails, twisting pieces of hair. The moms and dads who had done this before – well, they were the ones who just walked away after plopping their kids off with their teacher. I was a nervous wreck and begged to stay until lunch.Holden was fine. He was excited. He is very confident, which makes me confident that he will be fine. He does have a terrible habit of letting his mind go and wandering off, and I’m sitting here right now praying that he does not do that. What if there’s an interesting poster on the wall? He is the kind who will step out of line, follow the pretty poster, go over and read it and see what it’s about. I hope he’s not doing that right now, I hope he’s fully engaged, and standing where he’s supposed to be standing, smiling when he’s supposed to be smiling.I was a school-obsessed child. I took it very seriously. I was always panicked about being late – my mom, trying to get ready for work and get four children ready for school - was always tardy in the mornings, and most days we pulled in on two wheels, and I’m still shocked to this day that I suffered no cardiac damage whatsoever for this torture. For I believed every day, as I sat on the couch waiting for my mom to get ready, hearing the strictly ordered hurdles of her morning routine – oh, that’s the blow dryer, good, now… yes, it’s the compact closing, she must have her powder on already! - heart pounding in anxiety, that for sure I would die having to endure this, waiting for my mom to get ready, being late to school. Will Holden love school as much as I did? We have a few things in common, like we both love to read, we both love gathering facts and information. Maybe he will love it, love it as much as I did, can’t wait to go. Maybe he will.What will he do all day there, without me? What will he talk about with the teacher, the other children? I think about him differently now. He’s doing seven hours worth of things that I’ll never know about. I wonder if he feels the same way about me, wondering what I will be doing. Posted at 11:59 AM in Children | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Here, There, and What I Did Here is something that really bothers me about having left New York: now, when I do things, I’m not doing them there. I’m doing them here. In Dallas. And, I know this might sound a bit wrinkled, but try and follow my line of thinking for a moment – even though I do nearly the exact same things there that I do here, for some reason when I do things here I sometimes experience a profound sense of confusion and loss, as if I’m playing the role of a housewife in an indie film who has let herself go, has lost her direction. I feel totally alone, even when I’ve got the kids with me. But when I did those things there, while living in New York – going to Target to pick up body wash, for example, or taking my kids to the dentist – I instead experienced a profound sense of excitement, as if I was going to lunch at Bergdorf's every day of the week, when really I was just going to pick my son up from preschool, or buying 2-for-1 produce at the fruit stand. I’m thinking of a time in Brooklyn when my older son was very sick. It was the middle of October, and the day was so beautiful, so yellow and crisp and very clear, with a strong fall breeze whisking all the street trash around like dancers, that I couldn’t stop smiling. I opened all the windows in our apartment. The kind of day that makes you want to listen to Springtsteen’s “Tenth Avenue Freezeout” very loud. But here was my poor baby, nothing more than a toddler really, so sick, with a thick green runny nose and a horrible cough. We were getting ready that morning to pack up and go to the doctor. I chose a terrific outfit, because it was one of the first days that it was cold enough to wear tights. Kulots had just come back in fashion, and I had a perfect pair in charcoal grey, with an ocean-blue turtle neck sweater, and – above all things, matching ocean blue tights to go with it. It was a killer outfit, especially when I put on my clogs with it, and a neon-orange vest. I could have starred in an American Apparel ad. So, I put my son in the stroller, and we stepped outside on this gorgeous day, and I had just dyed my hair red and my outfit was so smart, so fitting for the day, and I walked out the door of our somewhat falling-down apartment building, and I had to walk 6 blocks to where our car was parked on the street, and those six blocks were filled with literally every single kind of person. Black, white, Hispanic, Hassidic Jew, Orthodox Jew, Middle Eastern Muslim, Indian Muslim, Bangladeshi; Polish, Russian, Eastern Block, Midwestern American, African, old, young, kids, teenagers in wheelies, tiny babies, stray dogs. And we were one of throng! Dedicated mother, taking sick baby to the doctor! And the feeling that all those people, literally a whole world of people waiting right outside our apartment door, on that beautiful October day, with a sick baby, was nothing more than exhilarating. (The baby was fine, by the way. Just a serious cold.)But here, in Dallas, when we are off to the doctor, we get in the car alone. We proceed to the office alone, down beautifully landscaped avenues where all the interesting folks are locked up behind tightly closed car windows. We park in a large parking lot, where no one ever seems to be parking or leaving, just a bunch of lonely cars waiting in rectangles. I see no reason to drag out the kulots, certainly not the tights, because even with everything I’ve got to do all day, I’ll actually see only a handful of people, and interact with even fewer. Our last few years in NYC, after we had the kids, we didn’t do a lot of the things that make New York New York. We weren’t out at the bars every night, at every PS1 opening, enjoying theater and culture ad nauseum like we used to do. But, even the everyday things, the most mundane things, still seemed like such an adventure. Posted at 04:44 PM in Brooklyn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Where Is Everybody? I’m down here in Dallas, Texas. It’s hot – very hot – and dry. It is not the dusty, country cow-town place I half-expected from the city that birthed Southfork Ranch – actually, there’s no dust and no country at all, Dallas is a sparkling and spread megapolis, very sunny and clean, with lots of retail, it actually reminds me a bit of the newer parts of L.A. It is a different world, an entire earth away from the life I had in Brooklyn.Everyone here drives everywhere – not a fault, there’s no way to get anywhere without a car - and things are really spread out, so one spends what I believe to be an inordinate amount of time in the car. As a result, I hate my iPod. When we moved to Texas, my husband got me a long cord that has a blank and scary-looking cassette tape on one end, and a little metal pole on the other end, and through the mysteries of modern technology via the obsolete music methods of cars assembled in past decades, my old Volvo is able to play the same damn songs I’ve had on my iPod for 3 years during the many hours my sons and I seem to spend, trapped and breathing on each other, inside the car. Many of the homes here in Dallas are connected at the back by a series of alleys, and the driveways and garages of the homes are connected to the alleys, so nearly all people who are driving cars – ie, everyone - are pulling into the alleys to park in their garages, then walking inside their homes from a hidden back entrance. It sounds very fancy, and this being Dallas, sometimes it is indeed a very fancy, don’t-let-the-neighbors-see-us kind of richy-rich back entrance to a house with a security entrance and a gate and those metal buttons that you push. But it’s not the rule. We have a back-alley entrance and driveway, and we’re not at all like that. Not at all. It’s not the alleys and the driveways themselves that are so bad, but there is an aching and silent loneliness that occurs when standing in one’s front yard, like there’s been some sort of neighbor evaporation. A conversation holocaust. There’s nobody around. We’ve never seen any of our neighbors in their front yards, and we’ve lived in this house for 6 months. Okay, once, we saw some people. Our neighbors across the street had some sort of sprinkler accident, their built-in yard sprinklers went off at the wrong time, I’m guessing, and they were out there in the middle of the afternoon investigating the problem. I was looking out the window, sponging down the kitchen sink, and I spied them. There they were. Real neighbors. They looked like they might be happy people. They were silver-haired and wearing matching khaki shorts with pleats. I thought I might run out and say hello, but by the time I got the shoes on the kids and we were out, and there we were, standing on our very green grass in the middle of a 105-degree afternoon, they had obviously fixed the problem, and disappeared. My son said, “Mommy, were they really outside? Are you sure you saw them?” My five-year-old thought I’d had a mirage. They didn’t come back out, although we stayed and played a while in the shade, just to see. I miss them to this day.If a tree falls in the forest, will I hear it if I’m stuck in traffic? I bet you’re wondering, does Dallas have people? Oh, yes, of course it does. There are people everywhere, literally spilling over, tons of people in cars and restaurants and bars and shopping malls. People swerving to avoid being hit by giant Yukons, people pushing grocery carts. Lots and lots of people swathed in spandex and sunglasses, riding bikes. What I find confounding is that I’m never connected to any of these people in any way. I’d love to reach out to some of them, any of them, and have them interact with me, and say hello. I want to put my hand out the car window, and wave to a stranger in traffic. I fantasize about them rolling down their window at a stoplight, and saying they'll meet for coffee. I love talking to the ladies at the grocery store. They are so friendly, and for a few moments, while they’re bagging me up, we chat about the weather, and they ask about the kids. I hate myself for ever saying that Brooklyn was too crowded, or that the subway was too invasive. There was an old lady in Kensington that spit on me once, when I wouldn’t give her the coffee I was drinking. I even look back on that fondly now. At least we were talking. At least I could tell her to stop it, and she could hear me speak. Posted at 09:35 PM in Texas | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0) Next » January 2009 December 2008 August 2008 Brooklyn Children Texas Going back to Big D Christmas, and What I Learned There Christmas Vacationization You Can Call Me Al Sign Me Up, PTA - The Mommy Mafia and Me The War Over Book Clubs It's Really Hard Back To School Here, There, and What I Did Where Is Everybody? Add me to your TypePad People list Blog powered by TypePad _qoptions = { tags:"typepad.extended" }; _qacct="p-fcYWUmj5YbYKM"; quantserve(); |
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