Not at This Address

We got another package for The Believer at the building last week. This time instead of being addressed to Heidi Julavits, it was addressed to Ed Park, the Cofounder and Editor. It was from a publishing company, so I'm guessing they were sending Ed a copy of their latest book for his review. The package sat in our foyer and after two days, I couldn't stand it any more.

I took it.

It sat in my kitchen for a couple more days. I really wanted to open it, just to see what book it was, but I didn't. (Mainly because Erica wouldn't let me.) So, I finally admitted my theft to Jay who said, "You should at least decorate the envelope." So I did. And I put the blog address on it. Then I wrote, "Not at this Address" on the front and I threw it in a mailbox.

Now, if I got the mail for Ed Park, I know I would check the blog, just for curiosity's sake. If I were Ed Park, I would probably be far too busy to check some random blog. Plus I would probably get the envelope and roll my eyes. "Not this again. I wish people would stop tagging up my mail."

I'm just hoping that whoever ends up with this envelope is not friends with people at Tumi Publishing.

"Dude. Ed just got your book and some asshole totally drew all over the envelope and plugged her blog at the same time. You should prosecute her for destruction of property or something."

Fine. You're ugly anyways.

This 826NYC place I've been obsessing about lately has this great section on its website where they post stories written by their drop-in tutoring students. This is my favorite:

Hector's Girlfriend Broke Up With Him
by John, Age 10

Written during Drop-In Tutoring
May 2006, Williamsburgh Annex

Hector's girlfriend Kristen broke up with him because he had a big nose. Every time he went next to her, he pushed her with his nose. Every time he called for a drink, she always felt his saliva, because he also had a big mouth. He looked like a giraffe.

One day, she was asleep and Hector came home at 6am. He didn't like to tell her he tutored. He
did it in secret.

"What are you doing coming home at this hour!" she yelled.

"It starts with a 't,' but I can't tell you," he said.

"It's OVER," she said. "And I'm sick of you walking in with your hairy legs when my friends are here. You're always embarrassing me in front of my friends."

"This is MY HOUSE! Tell your friends to leave if they don't like it. And tell your friend Michelle to stay away. She got a mustache, so she shouldn't be talking."

"Well," said Kristen, "I'll stay with you 'cause you make a lot of money."

"Forget about that," Hector said. "I always knew that's why you liked me 'cause when you saw me I was bling blingin' but you can't get no ching ching. So Kristen, are you gonna leave me or not? Now get out to the hallway like a little cat."

"Fine. You're ugly anyways."

Kristen pretended to leave. She walked out to the living room and hid under the sofa. Hector thought she was gone. He said, "I don't know if I'm gonna go to tutoring or not. Those kids drive me crazy!"

Kristen heard him. She thought, "I'm telling him I know he works with kids." When Hector came into the living room, she got up and Hector screamed like a girl: "AHHHH!!"

"So, where do you work at?" she said. "A TUTORING CENTER??"

"In the library. All I do is help out my John John Bigalow. And John John Bigalow's under my bed!"

Then, John John Bigalow came out and she said, "AHH! He looks like a bum!" She snapped her fingers and said, "Get out of my room!"

"This ain't your room, this is MY room," said Hector. "JJB staying here. And YOU leave out my room, Kristen. Or else I'll call the cops."

He called the cops.

Ok. I'm figuring out how this thing is going to work for me. Erica found an article in the Times today on blogs that are being turned into books. For serious money. From serious publishers.

This is what I want. And not because I want a book deal. Because I want to be able to get Random House to pay for my Past Life Regression session with Shala Mattingly.A session with Shala is $300. But. If I could convince Random House (or McSweeney's. I don't care) that it was necessary for my research and that it should be covered under my expenses ... how cool would that be?

Me: You know Dave. I'm really inspired to write right after a day at the Four Seasons Spa.
Dave Eggers: Susan. You are fantastic. I want you to write a lot. So, go to the spa for a week and put it on the card!
Me: Yippee!

And I will write. And I will seek therapy near and far. I don't care how many therapeutic ranches I have to be pamperd in to get my stories out, I'll do it. If it takes a million foot reflexology sessions to recall even five sentences of a story, I don't care. A hundred visits with wacky mediums and seers on Oxford Press' dime -- Bring it.

Fear of Getting Caught

I got a phone call from my uncle today and seeing his name on the screen literally made me jump. Mom called yesterday and I couldn't listen to the message for hours. Certainly he's calling to see why I haven't called my mother. Or, it's some new horrific shit-storm. People in my family rarely call just to say, "What's up?"

I am 37 years old and seeing a relative's name on my phone screen freaks me out and just the idea of talking on the phone with my mother terrifies me. You know why? This blog. In so many ways, I am rebelling and defying my mother by writing all the horrific truths about our family.

But not really because thus far, Mom doesn't know about the blog. Oprah has yet to discover me (or Dave Eggers ... Did I tell you that I applied to be a volunteer at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.? I did. I can already taste the wine and cheese they'll serve for my party when I'm awarded "Volunteer of the Month".)

Anyway. My mom, to my knowledge, does not know about the blog. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared of the day that she does find it. So much so that when she called yesterday with her vague, "It's your mother. Call me sometime," message, I immediately believed that she had found the blog just like when she found that notebook the night before my senior trip to Panama City. But this time, I've gone way beyond profanity.

And I try to convince myself that it's my story. My story to tell if I want. And I try to be conscious of the line that delineates my story from Mom's story, or my sister's story. And, as I mentioned I am approaching forty. You'd think I'd be over this fear of getting caught. But the thing is, the possible repercussions for my transgressions now are way beyond being grounded for a D in English or having to miss the Aerosmith concert because I got caught drunk. Because the number one rule above all others has always been, "Never Tell."

I've joked for years that my memoir is going to be titled, "Don't Tell Mama, But ..." Every secret I ever heard from a family member started that way. And the secrets went from things like, "we got a new puppy," to "I got another DUI last night." And when each of those situations is treated with the same severity, a kid gets confused about what's okay and what isn't and you just decide everything that isn't done in a church or in front of Grandma herself is up for judgment. And the odds are, you will be judged harshly and punished by being told things like, "You have broken your mother's heart." So you lie. Then you are punished for lying. And then you are punished for pointing out that the Punisher was the one who taught you how to lie in the first place.

Thing is all of the lies are based on shame. Shame for who and what we really are as opposed to the picture we are taught to show those who don't live within our four walls. And really, I am proud of myself and I am proud of my life. I'm not ashamed of who I am anymore.

But, I'm pretty sure Mom is.