To See My Mother

Nero, also known as Little Black Cat, or Trouble, or Miss Query, or Shred-it, will be holding the fort and keeping my books warm. As the most petite of our four cats, she is, of course, Alpha Cat. She likes to hang out on my shoulder while I'm doing dishes (with claws like fishhooks) and sneak into boxes to shred papers.

I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks, visiting my mother and the country of my heart. The country will soothe me, I hope (if not too many vacation-home McMansions have been built in the last year), to counteract the unfortunate fact that my mother will drive me wild.

Mothers ... when someone said that there are only seven plots in the world, I think they forgot to mention that mothers are an entire genre unto their own. My own mother is currently eccentric, brilliant, sometimes a little silly, a hypochondriac, a beautiful writer, a visionary (in that she can "see" the world with the clarity of a Buddha), a guitar and piano player, an artist. She calls herself the Mad Duchess and is working on a musical about the evil benzene ring of oil. All this is an improvement over what she was for most of my life, especially when I was little and always scared of her.

A woman of genius, all her friends knew, and still do. A woman of violence and temper and never-quenched needs for love and affirmation (and financial support), few ever discovered. Those who did, scat. Except for my father, who had his own weak personality and a thwarted view that he had caused her madness; and of course except her children, who had no choice.

My mother was also the one who told me as I was leaving for college, "I hope I've taught you that science and practical disciplines aren't the only areas worth studying." Art matters. Her concern just baffled me, because art -- whether writing, painting, crafts, or reading -- was always dominant in our household. Indeed, despite an innate love for science and mathematics (inherited from my father's side), I went to university seriously crippled in my ability to study them. Everything in my life had always been abstract. What mattered was art. What defined my day-to-day life was my mother's constant redefining of reality to suit what she needed at the moment.

As a little girl, I was always frightened of my mother. Later, I was always angry at her. Now, her frozen inability to take any responsibility for her life frustrates me to no end, especially as it requires hefty financial support from those who have none to spare, and takes an emotional and mental toll on me that I could do without.

Her friends, and even her husband, know little of the personality underneath. They see only her brilliance, and speak, hinting, of the need for her art to be supported (her novel, her musical, her songs). Yes, true, but they are unaware of 30 years of uninhibited support, where every resource poured into her and she did nothing with it but to ask for more. One of the reasons I can't live anywhere near my mother is that my own hesitant pursuit of writing would crumble completely under the proximity to and weight of her needs.

And yet, there is nobody who understands or supports my pursuits like my mother does. Selfish, self-absorbed, needy, draining she may be, but she stimulates my mind in ways no other can. And when my confidence falters (as it does daily), it is her words of "this is most important -- all the other reality is veiling of truth" that make me lift my chin and keep going.

My mother taught me that messiness was good. And not just by letting me paint whatever I felt like as a child (pictures, stencils, walls, furniture ...). A messy life makes you look at the world from odd angles. It makes you see things others don't, and in ways others never can.

This is why I've never attempted to publish my memoir about my mother, my childhood. I haven't yet gotten to the point where I can brushstroke the strengths through the pain and rage and violence and fear. It is not enough to say, "My mother made me appreciate creativity." It will take years before I can wrap my head around, and appreciate, and write about fairly, the worldview she gave me.

This is Nemo. She keeps me company while I rifle through reference books thinking of posts and responses to others' posts at the new blog on grammar and language, The Chocolate Interrobang. The Compact Oxford English Dictionary makes a great cat bed.

Hands off my belly!

It's happened -- the thing I always dreaded most and was forewarned about. My belly has been rubbed without my permission.

It was a friend, a tiny-boned, lithe little Frenchwoman I used to take yoga from. I've tried to detach from her recently because I discovered that she's one of these new-agey health people who started giving far too personal advice about my husband's physical health (there's nothing wrong with him) and my mental and emotional life. She tried to drag me to a meditation class run by a woman who does past life regression. I can't stand that kind of thing. And this weekend, while we hung out at the organic farm (the little hide-out for the few liberals in my area), she rubbed my belly while lecturing me about a book I absolutely have to read on Parageneology. Work that one out.

There is another woman in my regular yoga class who I know would love to feel up my little sproglet, but is too polite to ask. I'm grateful to her.

One thing that made me so ambivalent at the beginning of my pregnancy was the knowledge that the single most private thing in my life, what was going on in my body, was something that the whole world would soon be able to see and comment on. For an introvert, a very private person, it was a horrific prospect.

I'm trying to steel myself to it. To anyone who doesn't know I'm pregnant, I can still hide it if I want (almost six months and I've only gained three pounds?). I live in a place where people tend to thickness, if not chubbiness. And I've started not to mind if strangers do notice and comment, as long as they refrain from telling me how I'm feeling and what I should be doing.

What strikes me as funny is how being pregnant, especially visibly so, has further solidified my position on abortion. (Side note: this position is something I'm going to write about soon, as it's going through some evolutions through experiencing a wanted pregnancy.) My body, my sproglet, me. Hands off me.

Talked out of the bookstore

I've been drummed out of Barnes & Noble. The drumming was performed by a chatty man who wanted to tell me all about his difficult decision about should-he-go-for-a-new-job, and what to do about his weekend beach house, and ...

But I was sitting placidly in a chair, working on an essay, and listening to my little music. My B & N has a second floor with all these huge, cushy chairs clumped in groups of 4 around coffee tables. It's a great place to work or read or nap. I do all of the above.

Or did. This is the third time a random man has started to jabber jabber at me about all sorts of things in his life. My husband thinks they're hitting on me, but they're not. There must be something in my aura that yelps, "Open for business!" It's happened all my life.

The time before that it was a Russian emigre, who lectured me about American food, American lifestyles, how Americans are so dirty and don't know how to cook. That happens all the time, too, people deciding I'm just the individual to try out their fix-the-world ideas on.

But this man went too far. Just over the edge. Can't say how I can tell, just can. And he trampled right all over my delicate introvert sensibilities. He kept interrupting my work (I cannot write if I think someone's going to talk to me at any moment--if I have houseguests, my writing life disappears). He asked for my email address.

He asked where I was from. I told him (heaven help me, I can't lie), and privately choked a moment at the physical grip the Rockies still have on me. God, I miss home. He said, "That's why you're so nice." I thought (sometimes wish I'd said), "No, where I'm from people respond politely when interrupted in a coffee shop because where I'm from the interruptor knows to go away."

A few days later I risked Barnes & Noble again. I hid at a table, away from the cushy chairs, near the used book section. An hour later, he found me, grinned, pulled a chair out as I reluctantly removed my earphones (I can only listen to one of 3 CDs when writing, and bookstores don't play them).

He jabbered. I shrank. Now I can't go back. I'm stuck at home, with so many distractions, like a computer with Internet access. Why why why! In the spirit of Jonathan Rauch, "How interesting. Now please shush."