creative.mother.thinking

explaining my life to strangers

Susanne

Story of the Month: The Ultimate Party

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The Ultimate Party

Looking at herself in the mirror Myra thought about what to wear that night. It felt like a day for red. The red dress. The dress that made her look voluptuous, and curvy; the one that hugged all the right places, felt good, and was easy to wear. The only question was whether to go the vamp route this night or more punk-like. High heels or army boots? A hat?

She’d probably regret high heels later in the evening, she always did. She thought of putting a pair of flats in her handbag but that was for sissies. Boots and a leather jacket would tone it all down a bit.
She’d be overdressed either way. Though she wanted this to be the ultimate party it probably wouldn’t be.

But what better place to meet new people than a party? So she put up her hair, put on the big dangling earrings, the red lipstick, the red pumps, and went out in a cloud of perfume.

…

There weren’t that many people at the party when she arrived. She frowned; everybody came late the days until there was hardly any time left to party. She said hello to everybody, fetched herself a beer, and joined a group of people she didn’t know to make new friends. If possible.

…

There she was again, thought Laura. This Myra. Always the same. She entered the room like she owned it in her terrible clinging dress. Laura would never have worn something so tight, so short, so clinging, showing so much cleavage. Horrible.
Wherever this woman went there was a whirl in the crowd. Squeals, laughter, disturbance. She talked all the time, as if anybody was interested in her stupid stories, she went from group to group, on to the buffet, loading her plate with food, not waiting for anybody.

Laura was glad that she at least knew how to behave.
…

Phew, this is boring, Myra thought. Maybe it’d get better later when there would be dancing. Maybe.
So far there were a lot of familiar faces, and as usual, people were stiff and as mute as maggots. She already got tired of her own jokes.
She saw Laura sitting on the other side of the room. In the corner as always. Such a beige girl. Short beige hair, beige face, all her makeup in pastels, and wearing black. Again. That woman looked like she could use some fun. And makeup. Nice earrings though.
And, Myra thought to herself, I don’t know how she does it, already most of the men in the room are drifting towards her. Drawn in by the pale, obviously.

Well, at least I can choose whom I speak to, Myra thought, looking for the promising looking guy she’d seen earlier, going after him, isolating him from his companions, and dragging him on the dance floor. Dancing was always a good way to determine whether someone had potential. Or not.
This guy didn’t look that good on the dance floor. He slinked off as soon as he could. He didn’t like to dance; neither did anybody else. Apart from Myra, that is. So she went right to the middle to dance alone.

…

Laura barely heard what that huge blonde guy standing by her side was telling her. Despite the fact that he was practically yelling in her ear she had forgotten it the minute she heard it. The nerve that woman on the dance floor had. Starting to dance even though everybody was looking at her. How embarrassing. And she wasn’t even dancing properly. No, she had to twirl all over the place, waving her arms about and grinning at people. Laura shuddered. Suddenly she wanted to go home. It had been a mistake to come in the first place. It was boring. She just wasn’t the type for parties, parties were for outgoing, extrovert people not for shy people like her. Inwardly she cursed the friend who had persuaded her to attend. She should have known better. A party was not a good way to meet somebody new. She promised herself to go as soon as she could without drawing attention to herself. Then she would go home, despite what her friend would be saying, eat some dark chocolate, have a glass of wine, and watch “Singing in the Rain.”

…

Boring, boring, Myra thought. At least it was better to be bored while dancing than while standing around next to boring people making boring conversation. The others didn’t look, they never did. As if dancing were only possible without any eye contact at all. Nobody looked interesting. She had checked. Twice. She had even talked to the group of musicologists in a corner between the buffet table and the piano. Dull as dishwater.
There had to be exciting people somewhere in the universe but certainly not here. Should she stay a bit longer? There surely would be more people coming in later.

On a sudden impulse she picked up her handbag and jacket, found the host in the kitchen, told him a big story about how she’d love to stay, how sorry she was, and that she had to get up very early the next day, so sorry, great party, ciao.
She walked home all the way, through the drizzling rain in her spiky high heels. An hour later she opened her door, changed into her pajama and woolen socks, opened a beer and a bag of potato chips, and stayed up late to watch “Funny Face” with Fred Astaire.

Story of the Month: The Man I Love

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The writer’s group I’m in has gone from writing really short pieces once a month to writing a story before each meeting. We’re posting the stories on the net so that everybody gets a chance to read them before the meeting. (Well, in theory anyway.) Since this means I’m spending two or three days a month on writing that is not blog-related I thought you might like it if I posted them here too. The following story was written for April’s meeting, and I have linked to it before.

The Man I Love

Maybe a story. With love in it.

Someday he’ll come along the man I love,
And he’ll be big and strong,
The man I love,
And when he comes my way,
I’ll do my best to make him stay…

Sandra took a sip of her red wine and continued staring at the singer. What a stupid song. How does one make somebody stay anyway? By buying the right lingerie? Applying the right makeup? Cooking meat and potatoes? What if you were in love with a woman?
What was love anyway?
“Did you say something?”, Kevin asked.
“Um.” She wasn’t aware of having said anything. But sometimes Kevin could pick up her thoughts. That probably meant something.
“I wondered about the song. The lyrics.” He gave her a blank look. All of a sudden she wished she were here with Matt. He’d get it. “All these words about ‘the man I love’. As if one suddenly looked up and saw the one and only. I don’t even know what love is, anyway.”
“Well,” he hesitated a bit, and looked at his wineglass, playing with its stem, “well, it’s what I feel for you.”
In defense she gave him the warmest smile she could muster. “Kevin, that’s so… I really don’t know what to say. You know I like you very much.”
“Liking isn’t love.”
“I honestly don’t know. Maybe I do love you. I’m still not sure where liking ends and love begins.”
He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, “I’ll show you. Later.”

He’ll build a little home,
Just meant for too,
From which I’d never roam,
Who would, would you?
And so all else above,
I’m waiting for the man I love.

That’s what they all did, Sandra thought to herself. Waiting for love. As if love made everything perfect. Like in fairytales. And then they lived happily ever after. That seemed to be Kevin’s idea too. Putting the two of them in a little box, maybe with a white picket fence, and then keeping her there.
She was weary of “I love you”s. She could deal if somebody wanted sex. Or companionship. Or friendship. But love? Life wasn’t like the movies where two people set eyes upon each other and were committed for life, or more often, beyond death. And then they always gazed into each others eyes and started kissing right away.
In the last year alone four men had told her she were the love of their lives. That obviously couldn’t be the case, and at least two of them had found other love interests since then. Even the deepest affection seemed transferable eventually. At least she hadn’t heard about anybody wasting away from unrequited love lately.

She went outside for a bit of fresh air as the singer crooned yet another love song. Love. It was everywhere. Like dust. Or bacteria. As if it were the most important thing in life.
She checked her cell phone. A message from Matt. He was back early. She dialed his number.
“Hi. – Yes, I’d love to see you too but I’m out with a guy. – Kevin. – I could dump him but that wouldn’t be very nice. How about breakfast? – Breakfast in bed? – I’ll bring the croissants then.”

She went back in. Maybe it would have been better to dump Kevin after all. But then he was a pleasure to be with. It was a pity that he had become that moonstruck. She would have to get rid of him eventually just because of that. This love-thing really made things complicated.

……….

Matt thought that maybe he should have called Sandra a bit earlier. He liked her company. At least she didn’t talk about “commitment” all the time. He thought about going out and finding another girl for the night but then he would have to explain why he had a date for breakfast.
This was one of the moment where he regretted not loving in the late sixties. Who would have thought that the 21st century would make people that uptight. With a bit of caution everybody could have much more fun. There was enough love to go around. No need to ration it out. But no, it was like being back in the fifties. You almost needed to be engaged to get a little cuddly these days.

……..

After the concert Sandra and Kevin went to his apartment. Kevin believed in romance and candlelight (and foreplay of course) so it took a while until Sandra finally could have some sex and sleep. Making love with Kevin was like eating a nice ham sandwich. Wholesome but only mildly exciting. Already she was looking forward to a nice bowl of chili so to speak with Matt.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I have to get up early, I’m meeting somebody for breakfast.”
“Whom?”
“You don’t know her.”
She had given up telling him the truth because he always got so upset when she was meeting other men.

………

When she left Kevin’s apartment the next morning she felt elated. She hated lying. But she didn’t want to hurt Kevin either and she knew she had hurt him enough by not speaking of love. Lying by omission all the time. Another reason to dump him. But he was nice. He even tried to make her breakfast. But she shouldn’t have to lie to him.
A bag of croissants in hand she went to Matt’s place. It was a good thing she had her own key, he usually slept like a log, and wasn’t exactly a morning person.

What was that commotion in the street? Was there smoke? Fire? Her heart beat wildly in her chest even before she started running. Matt, what about Matt? He’d be in there. Sleeping. With all that smoke. And fire. She ran as fast as she could, the bag in her hand forgotten. Racing along the street she saw the fire engines. People. No Matt.

……

Matt had woken up uncommonly early and found that he didn’t have any coffee or butter left. He came back from the grocery store to find that there was smoke everywhere. His apartment was burning. Oh my. Oh. Sandra. She had her own keys. What if something happened to her? The line in the grocery store had been tremendously slow. She probably had been waiting for him.

…….

Both of them felt distinctly unreal when they spotted each other in the crowd. It was exactly like one of those movies where everybody needed a lot of tissues. But of course they didn’t care.

From within and from without

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I have been thinking a bit more about the feeling of not fitting in I wrote about the other day.

A day later I went to another one of Rhiannon’s fabulous improvisation workshops for singers. (I’ve been to quite a few and have written about a few of them in these posts). I was early. (That’s the beauty of going by train, you’re either too early or too late.) By the time the workshop was supposed to begin there was a small cluster of singers standing around in front of the building. Since this was a different location than usual I didn’t know anybody. The other workshops I had attended were all held in the big city, and over the years I have come to know quite a few of the regulars. So, there we stood, nobody quite sure what to do or say. Then Rhiannon arrived by car. She emerged from the car, carrying a basket full of strawberries, greeting me enthusiastically. And that was the first moment where I found myself both in the situation, inside myself, feeling slightly lonely and a bit scared about the workshop and my singing, and outside myself, seeing the scene through the eyes of the other singers who hadn’t met Rhiannon before, who probably were feeling even lonelier and more scared. What they saw was that I was the only one getting a hug. That I was the only one whom the teacher knew.

It didn’t stay that way though. Later there were more singers who had been to workshops before. Most of those I knew. And they knew me. And I’m still surprised when that happens. I’m very used to not being recognized by people. Maybe it’s because I changed my look so much, I don’t know. The workshop itself by the way was marvelous. I had had my doubts before because I have been to so many of these workshops but I went home inspired and much clearer about what I want to do.

A few days later it happened again. I went to the concert Rhiannon gave with two other singers. I was very early because I wanted to have something to eat there before the concert, and I wanted to write the story I had to finish the day after for a writing group assignment. That I went there alone is nothing unusual for me. When I came to the venue I was greeted by a woman coming towards me from the other side. (I think that maybe singers are especially prone to greet people from something like 20 meters away.) It took me about 15 meters of going towards her to realize that she hadn’t greeted somebody behind me. And that I know her. (I’m sorry, she used to be blonde, and now she’s brunette. Also I couldn’t see her face at first.) But the same thing happened to me three or four times in the course of the evening. Somebody was saying hello to me and every time I’d think they meant somebody behind me.

I entered the jazz club where the band was doing soundcheck. As I went down the stairs I heard, “Hi! It’s Susanne!” from the stage. Amplified. I sat down, I had my dinner, I wrote about half of the story, and I met a lot of singers that I know. It was the same thing over again. I knew about a third of all the people in the room. But to me I was there alone, spending a lot of time sitting at my table with nobody to talk to. To the other people sitting at my table I probably was part of the “in-crowd”. Going here and there, hugging people, and talking. Telling stories of other concerts and other workshops. This seeing myself from the inside and the outside at once confuses me. The images don’t quite match. What’s the truth, me being part of a group amidst friendly faces, or me sitting apart, taking something to read with me because I’m on my own with nobody to talk with?

Two days later I went to a meeting of my writer’s group. Again, a group that I know, people that I like. And then there were the many nice comments on my blog. And I realized that though I feel as if I never fit in I am part of this friendly little corner of the blog-world nonetheless. And I had another moment of seeing myself from the inside and the outside at the same time again that week when I stayed in front of kindergarten to chat with another mother. I suddenly realized that I looked like those mothers I had seen standing there before, the ones of whom I thought they were big friends and had known each others for ages. Well, it seems that if you just stay somewhere for a bit of time you’ll get to know people and then you look like you have friends.

So, I’m not as lonely as I often feel. But then I still don’t have many friends. I’d still love to find a friend who loves the same things I do but that might be a little difficult. Even my husband has interests different from mine. When we first met we were pleasantly surprised about the similarities (of course). We both love Brazilian music, jazz, and the same piece of Anton Webern that nobody else loves. (Op. 22, you know, the saxophone quartet. What, you don’t know? Well, never mind, nobody does.) Even other Webern-lovers – of which there aren’t that many – regard that to be one of his inferior pieces.

I remember, back when I still studied musicology, how much I longed to have a friend to share everything with. Webern, classical music, Brazilian drumming, jazz, rock music, science fiction novels, and baking. But now I think that maybe that’s a bit too much. (And in all this I really shouldn’t forget to mention my real life friends who are reading this blog. All they hear me yammer about is how I don’t have friends. But they aren’t living nearby. And our interests only intersect so far.)

This whole thing might be a case of unrealistic expectations. But then I really long to find people loving the same things as I. And through the internet that has become much easier by the way. These days I’m spending quite a bit of my time over on ravelry (where I’m creativemother, by the way) discussing various aspects of sock knitting.

So I learned two things: 1) Other people might feel as lonely and isolated as I even if they don’t look like it, and 2) my quest to find people interested in the same things as I has been more successful than I thought. Only there weren’t any interested in exactly the same things or in all of them.

And now all of a sudden I feel the urge to make a list of the things I’m interested in. It might be a long list. And a bit unfocused.

April Just Posts

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buttonmar2008
It’s time again to share the posts we have read and written about social justice matters. Here in Germany we will be celebrating Mother’s Day on Sunday. I have always felt a bit ambivalent about it (You can read all about that in this very old post of mine.) but it’s a great occasion to think about the work we all do as mothers, and how important that work is. Also that it is hard and that you don’t get much time off.

I’m very grateful though that at least I don’t have to worry about my son having enough to eat or drink, warm clothes and a home. All my worries are small ones. Nonetheless it’s nice to have a day to think about mothers everywhere, and a day where our children think about what we do for them.

So I was all set to introduce this month’s roundtable with a few words along these lines and then last week I read somewhere about Mother’s Day and that we deserve being celebrated. Great. And then it went on with “Do you get breakfast in bed? Does your husband do the laundry?” because obviously that seems to be part of being a “mom”. When you’re a mother you are the one doing the laundry. I, of course, didn’t know. Because it’s my husband who does most of the laundry. And he’s not the only one.

And this got me thinking about what fathers today are doing with and for their children, and that maybe these days Mother’s Day should be Parents Day. Maybe we should just all take a day off on Sunday and pat ourselves on the back for trying as hard as we can.

So here’s this month’s list of posts:

Alejna with NYC Goddam
Alpha Dogma with Yearning for Lyin’
Babyslime with Shampoo free
Beck with Get out Yer Cheque books
Brenda Dayne with You and me, baby.
Chani with Mad dogs and mean girls
Gina with For shame, 40 years and we still have so far to go and For children
Gwen with Feeling Ranty
Jen with Flags of our brothers
Kyla with The speech
Mad with Kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight
Mir Kamin on blogher with Earth Day Every Day: Raising Eco-Conscious Kids
MOMocrats with MOMocrats exclusive: Obama answers readers questions and And now for something completely different: John McCain unveils his plan for healthcare
Painted Maypole with taking stock on Earth Day
Sage with At Least the Issue is Getting Some Press and My Real Problem
Sin with Benediction
Sober Briquette with Three Month Check-up
Suzanne Reisman on blogher with Which Paper Towel Would You Buy, or Why are Household Products Commercials Stuck in 1961?, How Do You Feel About Diet Foods?: Some Feminist Navel-Gazing, Keep Your Open Source Away from My Tits, Or I’ll Open Source You, Buddy! and US Companies and Politicians: Paying Women Less for the Same Work is A-OK as Long as It is Kept Secret
No Caption Needed with Have we no decency?
One swell Foop with Her heart beats in me
Thor with A Reform is a correction of abuses…
Lia with Fair Pay
The Reluctant Housewife with It’s not all about bra burning and man hating

Please, do also go to Mad and Jen to see what they are writing about this month. Hel who has been co-hosting this roundtable with us has more pressing things to do and resigned. I’d like to thank her for this and her thoughtful, beautiful posts. Also I forgot to put on the list Joanna who sent in links.

Just a quick reminder

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I’m busy again, so this is just a short post to say thank you to you. Your responses to my last post were incredibly uplifting. Since writing it I went to an improvisation workshop, to a fabulous concert, and wrote another story, and I’ll tell you all about it soon.

Right now though I’m headed out the door again.

Nonetheless I’d like to remind you that tomorrow is the last day to submit your own or other people’s posts to the just post roundtable. Just send me an e-mail at creativemotherATwebDOTde.

If you’re new to this and don’t know about the just posts, click on the button below:

justpost

See you soon.

Not fitting in

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I really wanted to write my monthly post about something social. Really. There would have been something about becoming a mother, and society, and books, and the color pink. Again. But then I found that it isn’t about pink books in bookstores for me, or about somebody saying that, well, he doesn’t feel that discriminated as a knitter since the whole fashion industry is dominated by men anyway (While most of the editors and designers are women, heads of publishing houses are obviously mostly men which doesn’t surprise me at all though it should.) – anyway, it isn’t about all that – it is about the feeling that I have of not fitting in at all. You know, in real life.

While I spend most of my time sitting in my house, often in front of the computer, I do meet people on a daily basis. And on a daily basis I am confronted with people, their actions and their ideas, and am startled at how different they are from me. And every single one of them assumes that I’m just like them!

Today alone I talked to somebody who told me – like everybody does – why it’s so nice to use your car when going on vacation, and how safe, and cozy it is, and how independent you are. While I thought of traffic jams, not being able to move around for hours, having to stop traveling for going to the toilet, and having to concentrate and take care for hours on end. And, I’m sorry to tell you, driving is not the safest way to travel. I’m very proud of me because I didn’t give her the “Why air travel is bad for the earth and should be avoided as much as possible”-speech. Or the “Why all this driving around will come back to haunt us in the end, is bad for the earth, and should be avoided as much as possible”-speech.

Then somebody phoned my husband with an unnecessary and dumb request for help assuming that we, of course, would spend today “preparing for tomorrow”. What’s tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Labor Day, and of course, right now everybody is running around like a chicken with its head cut off because they have to, I don’t know, run errands or something. For my husband and me today is Wednesday, the day where we teach a lot, and I had to re-arrange my whole schedule to pick up my son from kindergarten because my mother-in-law is on vacation. It’s also a nice sunny day. Nobody here in the house will starve because shops are closed tomorrow.

Then I went to the tea shop and had the “It’s nice that your son stays in kindergarten a year longer because then he’ll have an additional year to be a child.”-conversation. What? Here I am thinking that school is part of childhood, that learning is fun, and that responsibility is something children crave. Silly me. Everybody else knows that school is only hardship and marks the end of everything good in your life.

And in a way I can’t blame people because from where I stand they are right and their lives don’t look very attractive to me.

All this really happened today. I didn’t put it here to get a better post. And all these things leave me with the feeling of living among strangers and not fitting in. And you might think that if only I were with other musicians I’d feel better but they are full of assumptions too. And most of those don’t fit me either. So even if I’m going to an improvisation workshop tomorrow I don’t really hope for the feeling of being among my tribe.

It’s surely me, I never felt like I fitted in anywhere. Not with the children I grew up with, not with my family, not in school, nada. These days I’m very happy if I find people who understand even a tiny part of my life. Writers to talk about writing with, knitters to talk about knitting with, bloggers to talk about blogging with (well, and a few other things but that would so totally ruin this sentence), and my husband to talk about everything else with.

My husband, like me, is somebody who feels like he never fits in, and I’m very very happy to have him because otherwise I’d feel like I were nuts while the whole word is sane. But the funny thing is that my husband and I are wildly different. And have problems understanding each other. But at least none of us assumes that everybody else is just exactly like we are. (And I’ll just use this sliver of an opportunity to say that we just had our 13th wedding anniversary on Monday and that I felt it was an occasion worth celebrating.)

So you might think that I’m of course feeling out of place all the time because I’m concentrating on the differences so much. No, I don’t. For decades I went into every social situation with a feeling of happy anticipation, I was curious about people, I tried to be like everybody else, I really tried hard, I kept looking up and down, met a lot of people, and tried to look under the surface. And every single time I was greeted with remarks that left me totally startled and confused. And so I find that I’m faring better when assuming that something like this will happen eventually. That I might have to make myself comfortable as much as I can in a square hole.

Also, you might think that this is a mighty whiny post, and you’re right and so I’ll leave you with a nice little picture of something orange that’s totally unrelated to everything I wrote before:

It’s the Mystic LIghts shawl. I love the pattern, I loved knitting it, the whole knit-along was a very pleasant experience, and I’ll surely love wearing it.

And you might want to check out the collaboration between my husband and my son…