January 26, 2006

the Wrath of Oprah! plus: a clarification, a confession, and a tasteful bit of embellishment

not sad, just embarassed

I watched the first 38 minutes of Oprah’s interview with James Frey; for the most part, it just served to remind me why I don’t watch Oprah all that often. Because it’s all about Oprah!* Really, how MANY times could she tell us that she was ‘embarassed’ by the whole whoops-it’s-not-all-true thing? What irritated me was her swing from I BELIEVED EVERY SINGLE WORD to I HAD MY DOUBTS ALL ALONG. Because, of course, like you, I found myself thinking, well, if you had your doubts, why not pursue them? Like the folks at The Smoking Gun did!

Frey himself seemed to be regretting his decision to get clean and sober, as a stiff drink would have made it all better or at least less painful. In fact, I turned it off primarily because Oprah’s insistence that she was not sad, just embarassed was starting to make ME want a stiff drink. Frey did get himself into a bit of a tangle, however, when he insisted on referring to people in the book as ‘characters,’ a term usually applied to the folks in fictional writing. But let’s face it, he was just there to face the Wrath of Oprah. It’s the literary version of being called to the principle’s office. But with a live studio audience audience! And Oprah! By the end, even that drug-free double root canal was sounding less painful than this particular interview.

I was the most irritated with Nan Talese, Frey’s editor, who had no good answer when asked, in Oprah’s defensive, roundabout way, why she never had Frey’s manuscript fact checked. The best she could do was assert, repeatedly, that it ‘rang true.’ And while I will give her that (after all, OPRAH believed it), I still say that she has a responsibility to check the facts in any text that purports to be a TRUE story. How hard would it have been for someone at Doubleday to call the Ohio police department? Again, not so hard! The people at The Smoking Gun did it!

And now I have done with James Frey and Oprah. Forever and ever, amen.

when I said mundane, what I really meant was fascinating

I want to be clear about something I said in my last post, about Mommy blogging being about the ‘mundane.’ I did not mean that what I–or anyone writing in this genre–has to say is insignificant; quite the opposite. Too often, in our culture, we overlook the mundane–the everyday, the quotidian–in favor of the exotic. But while the exotic–Brad and Angelina and their instafamily, for example–might be entrancing, most of us are not Angelina. And if we think about it, I don’t think most of us want to be (although I would like to know what it’s like to have those boobs, just for a day. Wade thinks maybe for a weekend).

I went on to say that Oprah’s selection of A Million Little Pieces confirmed the importance of Frey’s story. I did not mean either that Frey’s story was more important than, for example, mine, or that only Oprah has the power to conferr importance. We live in a culture that demands external validation and we often turn to the media to find it. And, unfortunately, when the media talks about mommies, it is more likely to be a story about Angelina than a story about someone from your playgroup. Or mine, for that matter.

Even though THAT is the story I really want to read. Particularly if it’s funny. And perhaps involves a cute puppy!

Enough said.

other than this, everything else is completely true (I think)

Having made such a huge deal about TRUTH, I feel compelled to disclose the following: I don’t really like martinis. I like the idea of the martini, and I love those glasses, but the actual concoction makes me a little queasy. But I will happily carry one around at a party, because they make such great accessories! Although I prefer to drink wine. Or a nice Bloody Mary, if it’s early in the day.

Can you ever forgive me?

they’re sparkly! and shiny! and practical!

Let’s say, hypothetically, that I was thinking of buying these shoes (by which I mean that I have already bought them but have not told Wade). Are they fabulous or just . . . not? Help me out, here, Internet. I need some external validation.

*Yes, I am aware of the irony of complaining, in my blog, which is, of course, all about ME, about Oprah turning her televised talk show into an hour of narcissism. Let it go, people, let it go.

January 25, 2006

this is absolutely a true story (for the most part, anyway)

This post has an update, at the end.

This morning, as I was struggling to awake from the Sleep of the Dead (I went to sleep at 8:00 pm! and woke at 7:00 am!), Henry said, ‘I know! Let’s play a game! We will each say something we’re afraid of! Daddy, you go first.’

‘Snakes,’ Wade said.

‘Okay!’ Henry said. ‘I’m afraid of spiders! And the dark!’ (He’s not afraid of either of these things, but Clifford and his friends are.)

‘Me, too,’ said Charlie. ‘Mommy, what are YOU afraid of?’

‘I am afraid that Henry will get sick next and we will never leave this house again.’

‘Mommy!’ Henry said, laughing. ‘What are you REALLY afraid of?’

Wade looked at me. ‘Buddy, I think that IS what Mommy’s really afraid of.’

I do not have strep throat, thank god–and thanks to all of you for your sympathy and good suggestions. I do have a raging head cold, but I took some Sudafed and drank some coffee so now I’m too hepped up to sleep even though I’m exhausted and I still feel like crap. Mostly I feel like my head has been packed full of saltwater taffy, but not a good flavor like peppermint or raspberry but the icky white ones that no one wants to eat because they might be coconut, which is gross. My brains feel heavy and sticky and a little crunchy around the edges.

Then again, it feels like that a lot lately.

I have been thinking quite a bit recently about how I don’t believe in non-fiction narrative, about how every story, regardless of its essential truth, has some element of fiction to it, about how in a post-modern world ‘truth’ is a terribly slipery concept (much like the notion of the self, which is fractured and fragmented and almost entirely socially constructed). I want to say, yes, James Frey really shouldn’t have claimed so extravagantly to be someone he wasn’t (a hardened thug as opposed to a nice kid who went down a bad road) but his book–call it a memoir, call it a novel, whatever–still has value in the lessons it can teach a reader about addiction and recovery. And I want to say that perhaps the lesson is even more powerful when you cast it against this idea that the only way to tell that story is to exaggerate the details, that addiction is only really interesting, only Oprah-worthy, when it encompasesses some kind of seamy underbelly of American society, rather than the nice Preppy world Frey was actually living in. I want to think that narrative–both fiction and non-fiction–is returning to some earlier sense of didacticism, where the lesson learned is potentially of greater value than the actual truth of the story. But I’m not sure any of that is true, either.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I haven’t read A Million Little Pieces and that it is entirely unlikely, unless I am complelled by exterior forces (like my book group), that I ever will. I don’t have much interest in Frey’s story in general, and ironically, this whole debate about his veracity has given me even less interest. What does interest me, though, is the idea that a fabricated truth is the most compelling truth, that James Frey couldn’t tell the story of his addiction and recovery without embellishing. That the plain truth, quite honestly, just isn’t all that interesting.

I’ve been struggling, lately, for things to write about here, in part because what I am telling is the ‘true’ story of my own life and recently, with my candied brain and all, there hasn’t been much going on that makes for good copy. The plain truth is that on a lot of days, my children are difficult and I am cranky. That I spend most of my time trying to coax one child or another to get dressed! go potty! wash your hands! say please! stop hitting! come play with us! sit quietly! go to bed! That I have moments where I quite seriously doubt that I can do this any more. The plain truth is that this Mommy thing is hard, and that rather than getting easier as the boys get older, it just gets harder and harder with each passing day. My strategy is to be as funny as possible when I write about it, not in order to mislead any of you into thinking that my life is all fun all the time (I know that you are smarter than that) but in order to make the reality a little lighter and less crushing.

Every story we tell has some element of fictionalization to it–we embellish or overlook certain details, to make ourselves look better or, sometimes, worse. We may change the story slightly depending on the audience. We edit out things that are not relevant to the point of the story. We are always fictionalizing our own lives. Mommy bloggers often get beat about the head and shoulders specifically for this, for turning our lives into stories that have no larger relevance. What we write is mundane and insignificant. It isn’t important, in the way that Oprah’s selection of A Million Little Pieces confirmed the importance of James Frey’s story.

But in all these stories of sick children and potty training and preschool carpools and soccer games and birthday parties, we are telling what amounts to an important truth. I really AM afraid that we will spend the rest of this winter sick, unable to play with friends or go to school or stay awake past 8:00. I am also afraid of other things, like flying bugs and drive-thru car washes. And I am afraid that I’m not a good mother. That is my truth. There is a part of me that wants to defend James Frey, to say that he’s still telling a truth of sorts and that the larger lesson of his book is more important than how long he really spent in jail, except that I have really come to believe that his ‘truth’ was less about sharing his story than it was about making the New York Times bestseller list.

And that’s not my kind of truth.

I posted this on Wednesday afternoon; it’s Thursday morning now, and my friend Molly just called to say, ‘Have you heard about Oprah’s change of heart? She’s not backing James Frey any more.’ You can see it live, today! In the interview, Oprah asks Frey if he ‘made up the material because it helped him cope or because he though it would help sell books. Mr. Frey responded, “Probably both.”‘

January 24, 2006

it’s posts like this that got me on the BoB short list

Charlie is still sick. He woke up this morning, after a good night’s sleep, and said he felt ‘Great!’ He ate toast for breakfast, and reminded me that we needed to go get some bananas. ‘And APPLES!’ he insisted. ‘RED ones!’

So we took Henry to school and went to SuperTarget and had coffee and a bagel at the Starbucks; he ate the ENTIRE blueberry bagel, which was probably his first substantial food in three days. He made charming conversation and listed all the people in our family who love him. He was very cute and very happy. We ran into my friend Melissa and, because I was feeling daring, I made a lunch date for Thursday. Because by Thursday, I assured her, everyone would be healthy! and in school! and I would be ready for adult conversation!

We picked Henry up and had our lunch (Charlie ate a little bit of a peanut butter sandwich) and got settled for our rest time. Charlie was asking to nap, but Henry wanted to play, and wanted Charlie to play with him. ‘No, buddy, he needs to rest,’ I told him.

‘Okay!’ he said. ‘You can play with me!’

And then I realized how godawful tired I was, which seemed funny, as I had gone to bed early last night. I talked Henry into resting in his room and laid down on the sofa. And fell soundly asleep.

Wade woke me up when he came in, at 1:30, on his way to the dentist. And I thought, hmm, my throat feels a little scratchy. So I made some tea.

Henry got up at 2:00; he played a computer game while I loaded the dishwasher. Charlie woke up crying at 2:15, and the diarrhea started again. He spent the afternoon lying in my lap on the sofa, moaning, while Henry flitted around the house in his superhero cape.

Wade came home from the dentist a little before 5:00, as Charlie was wailing, ‘My tummy hurts!’ and I was trying to figure out if my sore throat was actually getting worse, or if it was just all the whining.

It’s 6:45 now; Wade has taken Henry to his parents’ house for dinner and Charlie is watching Elmo’s Christmas for the second time. And me? Well, it’s funny you should ask.

I feel like I’m going to die. And do you know what I think is wrong with me? Any guesses?

Strep throat. Again.

But how is that possible? you ask. And all I can say is, I have no earthly idea. But! There it is!

I’m going to bed. I’ll be back when I’m not dying. And the kids aren’t dying. So don’t hold your breath.

January 23, 2006

daterrific!

Hey, so did you all watch the first part of Bleak House on PBS last night? Wasn’t it wonderful? Isn’t Gillian Anderson a perfect Lady Deadlock?

Oh, that’s not what you want to hear about, is it? Okay–my date. My date was fantastic. In fact, it was $175.00 worth of fantastic! Yes! Really! Can you believe it? And no, that does not include the cost of any new shoes (or any new anything!) for me! That was just dinner and the sitter! See why we never go out?

We went to Cafe Nova (click the link, it’s totally worth it), which is, of course, owned by John Paul Merritt, who you remember from season three of the Bachelorette. He proposed to Jen and she said no and everyone was all ‘How could she choose JERRY over John Paul?’ but then she said no to Jerry, too, remember? And we were all horrified, but we can’t really hold it against her because really, who ACTUALLY meets their soul mate on reality TV? Jen started out with that Firestone heir and we all though THAT would last forever and it didn’t, so at least she was being more careful this time, although John Paul does really seem to be a nice guy, and I’ve met his mother and she’s lovely. And now he has this fantastic restaurant! Where he reportedly hangs out on the weekends!

And why wouldn’t he? It’s a beautiful place, and crammed to the gills with Beautiful People. Like our hostess, who was young and stunning and wearing (under a very nice cream-coloured cardigan sweater) a gold sequined bra. Where do you get something like that, I wonder?

But on this particular Saturday night, no John Paul. And sadly, no Molly either, as she had a sick child (102 degree fever! Yikes!). But her husband came and met us and the three of us had a wonderful time talking about how J. K. Rowling cornered the juvenile literary market (because she writes well, unlike so many of the people writing for children) and whether there is such a thing as a truly non-fictional narrative (I say no, there isn’t, but others at my table–ahem, you know who you are–disagreed). And nary a once did anyone ask me to cut up their chicken nuggets or announce ‘I have to go POTTY!’ or insist we go home! Hooray!

Cafe Nova is, shall we say, a little out of Wade’s and my range, both in terms of the cost (our portion of the bill was honestly $145.00. For dinner and drinks. And Wade wants you to know that we did NOT order off the entrees section of the menu, only off the appetizers and salad parts. Although we did have a nice cheese platter and dessert) and in terms of the hip factor. I was painfully frumpy in my nice cashmere sweater and nice black Ann Taylor skirt (I did wear a pair of sexy slingbacks, but they were under the table all evening). The food was, frankly, fine–the cheese plate was the best part, which is a little sad, I think. But! Did I mention that I wore slingbacks? With a heel that I can only barely walk in? And that no one asked me to carry them? Hooray!

For our next date, we will be going to a movie. At the dollar theater. With perhaps a stop at McDonald’s for something of the dollar menu. But I think I will wear my slingbacks again, just for fun.

Today, of course, I’m back in my routine–you know, the Monday routine where at least one child doesn’t go to school, thus depriving me of the ONE DAY A WEEK that everyone is supposed to go to school. That routine. Charlie is home with me today, for no good reason; he’s not sick (at least not that I can diagnose, although he did fall asleep on the floor in his room at 10:15 this morning, which is unusual–the early nap, not the floor part) but in the parking lot at his school he threw the mother of all tantrums, complete with screaming and crying and kicking and hanging on to the car, and could neither be reasoned nor carried into school. And because both my mother and my mother-in-law may be reading this, I will say, yes, I probably SHOULD have just dragged him in, but really, he was so upset and it’s possible he is getting sick and it’s day care, after all, not actual preschool and I TRIED, for fifteen minutes, I really did. And no, I don’t know if bringing him home was the right thing to do, but it’s what I did.

So, once again, I have a child with me today, and his punishment (and mine!) is that we are not going ANYWHERE, least he get the idea that throwing a tantrum during school drop-off will land you at Starbucks, which means that I haven’t had enough coffee. Or enough alone time. And it did kind of take the buzz off my let’s-wear-sexy-shoes-and-not-talk-about-the-children weekend.

But other than that, my date was terrific!

Update: Hey, guess what? Charlie has a STOMACH VIRUS! The poopy kind, not the vomity kind, and you’re welcome! Because I knew you were wondering. So not only did I have him at home today, but I will have him with me ALL DAY TOMORROW! Because he can’t be around anyone for AT LEAST 24 hours! And then I will probably have Henry home on Wednesday! Because that’s how these things work!

And while this makes me a good mommy for not leaving him at Day Out, it still makes me a crabby mommy. Because he’s SICK! God help us if I get it.