Family

I Feel Bad About My Neck Hair (With apologies to Nora Ephron)

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Here is the link to my new essay just posted on the website dedicated to newspaper columnist and author Erma Bombeck’s legacy at the University of Dayton.  I have great memories of my mom and her friends reading and sharing Erma’s newspaper columns when I was growing up, and then I grew to love her work as well.

But I also wrote my essay with author Nora Ephron’s influence.  Her funny essay about feeling bad about her neck kind of gave me the inspiration to take her commentary a little further.

Two women writers who many of us today really miss…  (I will also copy the essay below if you can’t link to it for any reason.)

http://humorwriters.org/2020/08/19/feel-bad-neck-hair-apologies-nora-ephron/

I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY NECK HAIR

by Kathy Stevenson
(with apologies to Nora Ephron)
One weird side effect of this extended period of time sheltering in place is that many of us are spending more time looking in our mirrors. Maybe not those of you with small children at home – who rarely even get to go to the bathroom alone – but the rest of us are doing some really odd things to fill our days. A lot of us are trying things for the first time – baking bread, cleaning baseboards, flossing every day, cutting and coloring our own hair. Many of us are looking in our bathroom mirrors more than we ever have in our lives. And it ain’t pretty.
In the olden days of the past fifty years or so, my “beauty routine” has been remarkably consistent. I buy “product” (moisturizers, skin treatments, entire makeup lines) and then in a frenzy of self-improvement I use the “product” once or twice, at which point it goes where all product goes to die. Into one of the bottom drawers in my bathroom vanity.
These bathroom drawers themselves are like an archeological dig into my flaws and their potential remedies. Miracles have been promised; youth restored by tubes and vials and small glass jars that I blithely and enthusiastically put on my department store credit cards, urged on by perfumed saleswomen whose main sales technique is to stare appraisingly at my face (devoid of any product) and declare me a candidate for much improvement.
As a writer, I am seduced by the words on these products. “Pure Vitality,” “Healthy Radiance,” “Restructuring,” “Hydrates and Tones,” “Bio-Repair.” And the ingredients! Rose stem cells and extracts. Smoothing acmella flower. Bilberry and chamomile. Red ginseng root and Manuka honey. Yum, yum.
“Do you use a styling paste on your hair?” asks a lovely woman with perfectly styled hair and moist skin behind the makeup counter at Nordstrom. I had come in for my annual purchase of one tube of mascara. Somewhere I had read that you need to replace your product every so often, even if you haven’t used it. This seems somewhat of a scam to me, until the makeup lady frowns and shakes her head knowingly, “You wouldn’t eat a pastry that had been sitting in your kitchen cupboard for a year, would you?” Ahem. I might?
Back to my bathroom mirror. There is no nice Nordstrom lady any more. In fact, my relationship with Nordstrom – a relationship I have cherished and nurtured over many decades – has been reduced to the same two or three things I know I can order online.
Which brings me back to product. And my bathroom mirror. And a mistake I made in looking in those lower two bathroom drawers full of free samples of product. I decided that this would be the perfect time to start a new beauty routine, and use some of the product samples that had accumulated there like the ghosts of past flaws.
I pulled out my vanity mirror to take a good look at my facial and neck area. I turned my head slightly up and toward the side, the sunlight streaming in through the window to the bathroom mirror, and that’s when I saw it. Neck hair. I mean it wasn’t a pelt – you couldn’t comb it (yet) – nevertheless, it was there. Thanks, Polish relatives, I thought. We are a hirsute race, and I immediately wondered how long I had been walking around with this neck hair, with nobody telling me about it.
Not even my husband, who I corralled and screamed out, while pointing to my neck, “YOU NEVER THOUGHT TO BRING THIS TO MY ATTENTION?!” He froze in place and blinked rapidly, like he always does when he thinks I am accusing him of some transgression.
“THIS. THIS NECK HAIR! THIS FUR!”
“Hmmm…” As he peers at my neck. “It’s not that noticeable.”
And so, dear reader, I shaved it. With my pink Bic disposable razor. I Googled it first, of course, but then I decided that I would be my own beauty consultant for once. There was no nice Nordstrom lady to help me anymore. There might not even be a Nordstrom. And I was not going to live with neck hair, even if I never saw anyone outside of my house again for the rest of my life. Even if we all had to wear masks forever and ever, and probably nobody would notice my neck hair.
Because even in a pandemic, one has to have certain standards.

Writing Family Memoir: Finding the Guts

Kathy Stevenson1 Comment

A link to my new essay –  just published today… (I will also copy the text below.)

Writing Family Memoir: Finding the Guts

FINDING THE GUTS

“What are you working on?” This is probably the question I am most often asked, after forced to reveal (at a cocktail party, to a random seat-mate on the train) that I am a writer.

I always experience a bit of imposter syndrome, even after these many decades of writing and publishing. After all, I know that when I answer the next question: “Have you written anything I might have heard of?” a pleasantly vacant facade will settle onto the face of the questioner, when I answer, “Mostly, I’ve published essays. Hundreds of them.”

A look of dismay – or is it panic – then settles onto the face of my seat-mate. Their only likely life experience with “the essay” might not have been since school days, when they were asked to write any number of three to five-paragraph essays in order to satisfy English curriculum requirements. “The essay” does not have a great reputation.

At this point, even if they are moderately impressed by and slightly curious about my credentials, they are also not eager to take a selfie. (Here I am with a famous essay writer I met on the train!)

I try to steer the conversation back to them, but they always want you to answer that first question (what are you working on?) I mumble something vague about writing a memoir about my family, about being a sister – and here there is an even longer pause, followed by genuine puzzlement. “Wow,” they usually say. “That takes guts. I mean, writing about family.”

Yes, it does take guts. Actually, what I would like to say is that one has to have any number of questionable personality traits to write anything longer than a few pages about one’s family, and expect it to hold together in a way that other people (not your family) might want to read. Especially when you are writing memoir. Writing your truth – which memoir requires – requires bravery. It demands audacity. It calls for some skill. And, indeed, it requires guts.

Sometimes I feel like the word “bravery” is too strong a word to describe the act of writing memoir. After all, isn’t memoir just remembering how things happened, and then writing those things, and your interpretation of them, down on paper or on your laptop? It’s not like you’re going to get a writing medal for your bravery, or a commendation for courage. It’s not like you ran the rapids or scaled the sheer face of a cliff.

Nevertheless, it is pretty brave and audacious to reveal your truth, and trust that that truth will resonate with others. Many would-be writers are stopped before they even start by voices in their upbringings that whisper (or maybe even scream) that it’s not polite to talk about yourself, or tell family secrets, or assume anyone has the slightest interest in anything YOU might have to say. (You get the idea.)

Audacity isn’t something often discussed in polite company. But if you don’t have a certain amount of audacity as a writer, you might as well keep writing those first bland twenty pages over and over again until the end of days (which doesn’t sound so far away right now…)

Audacity itself might be described in many different ways. Audacity might range from such spirited traits as “impudence” or “pluck,” to what I seek in my writing: boldness, backbone, chutzpah, daring.

Which brings us to the heart of the matter. Or, for our purposes, the guts. Because the two are linked. The heart and the guts.

The guts are the more energetic and visceral of the two. Okay, so the heart does its pumping thing, and obviously we would die if the heart stopped doing its job. And the heart gets all the lovey-dovey Valentine bling. But the guts… The guts imply your innards. Literally, intestinal fortitude. And what does that imply? Yes – the aforementioned pluck, along with confidence, mettle, tenacity. Nothing sugar-coated or wrapped up in a pink heart-shaped box.

You know the difference, even if you can’t explain it. It’s the need to express something in your heart, yes – but maybe it’s also the need to write something you feel in your gut. Or maybe you need to express that thing that bypassed your heart completely and started in your gut. You took that gut-thing, wrestled it into a heart-thing, then added the narrative to give shape to it. And, presto – you have a piece of writing. A real, organic, living-on-paper story made of heart and gristle and sweat and guts.

 

Sheltering in Place: A Family Drama

Kathy Stevenson1 Comment

SHELTERING IN PLACE: A FAMILY DRAMA  (This essay originally posted on the website for WHYY in Philadelphia as “Snow Days.”  Just substitute “shelter-in-place” for winter storm warnings and snow days, and you have the same idea.)

The Day Before – Hello.  This is The School calling to inform you that, due to the upcoming winter storm warning, school will not be in session tomorrow.  Please do not drop your child off at school “accidentally,” on your way to your Pilates class, and then claim later that you never got this call.  You know who you are.  And so do we.  This message will now repeat.

Day One a.m. – What a rare treat to have the little darlings home for a day.  I will use this unexpected gift of time and make it a special day.  Outside the weather may be frightful, but our day will be quite delightful.  First, I’ll make everyone heart-shaped pancakes, then we’ll snuggle up and watch a family movie.  Or two movies – after all, we have all day!  We can bake cookies later, then maybe a few games of Monopoly.  Just some good old-fashioned family time.

Day One p.m.  – The school called again with one of those damn robo-calls.  Blah, blah, blah winter storm.  I mean, when I was a kid we didn’t have “snow days.”  And that was before global warming, when we used to have real snow.  Hubbie was telling the kids the story of how he used to deliver newspapers on his bike in snowstorms worse than this.  Then he got all grumpy because they walked out of the room during the part where he had to dig in the snow when he dropped his dime tip from Mrs. Gianetti.

Day Two – Slightly hung over.  I didn’t think I drank that much, but the recycle bin doesn’t lie.  The day I start hiding bottles is the day I will admit I have a problem.  But I know I don’t, so what’s the big deal.  Hubbie is home today also, because no one can get anywhere.  I can’t think of the last time we were all together with no chance for escape!  We have decided today will be “Puzzle Day.”  That is because no one will play Monopoly again with H.  I didn’t know this when I married him, but he has an irritating tendency to gloat when he has one over on you.  He actually cackled with glee when he bankrupted sweet little J.  She cried and asked, “Why is Daddy being so mean?”  I said I didn’t know.

Day Three – When the school message came in again last night I wanted to take the phone and smash it to a pulp.  No wonder our kids are lagging behind third world countries in education.  Today I will insist on everyone (including H) leaving the house to get some fresh air.  I don’t care if it is a wind chill of ten below.  Maybe they can build a snow house and all go live there.  Just kidding.  Not really.  Only eleven hours until cocktail hour.  I will not lessen my personal standards just because the city is in crisis.  Things could be a lot worse.  I just saw a news report of a couple stranded in a Best Western with no heat or food.  Uncharitably, I thought to myself, at least they’re not with H!

Day Four – Saturday, and the sun is finally out.  Unfortunately, the snow is now blowing sideways, and due to drifting, no one can get anywhere.  I told H that maybe he could get his trusty bike out and cycle on down to Whole Foods, just like when he had his paper route.  Luckily I bought the 1.75 liter size of Bombay Sapphire the day before the storm hit.  A stroke of brilliance, if I do say so.  Gotta go – I’m the Bingo caller for the family Bingo tournament, and quite possibly the only person in this family who doesn’t cheat.

Day Five – I never realized it before, but in certain unfortunate ways, my children seem to have inherited many of H’s family’s habits and personality quirks.  Nose-picking, slack-jawed staring off into space when being asked to help with chores, the aforementioned cheating (even at Candy Land, for Christ’s sake), nervous throat clearing, and an inability to tell when they’ve worn an article of clothing too many days in a row without putting it in the dirty laundry.  I really don’t know how much longer I can take it.  I had to stay on the Elliptical from noon until six o’clock just to keep myself away from the liquor cabinet.

Day Six – Just saw a news report that nine months from now there will be a big blip in the population with a whole lot of  “blizzard babies” being born.  I glowered at H as he sat playing video poker in his ratty bathrobe.  The gin is gone.  Don’t know if I can go on much longer.

Day Seven – Yippee!  Everyone back to school and work today.  Little J asked why Mommy was so happy, and I said because I love you and your brother and Daddy so much.  So, so much.

 

 

Stick the Knife In: Then Twist

Kathy StevensonLeave a comment

Stick the Knife In: Then Twist (a new essay about writing)

I’ve been thinking a lot about vulnerability lately. It’s no mystery why my thoughts keep going there – I’ve been writing a memoir about being a sister for the past two years. Naturally I would feel vulnerable writing about family, right? After all, the funny/but not funny joke in nonfiction and memoir writing classes is: “I want to write about my family, but I have to wait for them all to die first.”

That’s a bit extreme. But it does show the depth of vulnerability many writers experience when even considering writing about personal topics. And family is often one of the most personal. Of course there are many other subjects that are also personal, and require a writer to be vulnerable. Illness, physical or mental trauma, experiencing some event (either painful or joyful) out of the ordinary – all of these have their place on the vulnerability spectrum. Writing about any of them requires the writer to go inward, excavate, examine, and then turn that into engaging prose.

So much easier not to even go there. So much easier not to probe.

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