I just don’t understand. Is this how we raised you? To swap bodily excretions in our kitchen with an unemployed Venutian named Steve?!
Just a minute. Don’t turn this on me—I am not being species-ist! I just don’t appreciate you attempting Interlinkage with some guy whose best quality is his eighteen-inch-long prehensile tongue! And just who is this “Steve” anyway? Who are his parents? Does he even have parents? Or is he some orphaned hatchling of questionable origin?
How dare you?! I AM A VERY UNDERSTANDING PERSON! Wasn’t I understanding when you begged me to get your pupils pierced, even though I predicted they would get infected—which they did, requiring very expensive eyeball replacement? And wasn’t I understanding when you “borrowed” my Interstellar Micron Transporter, then “lost” it in a black hole? Did I complain, even though I had to ride that disgusting Quasar Shuttle to work for weeks?!
All right. I’m sorry for raising my voice. I just . . . I miss the old days when you and I would spend Saturdays taking the HyperTube down into the Mall of the Core. We’d share a plate of Chocolate-esque NutriPellets and just ThinkSpeak, for hours. And now? . . . Hand me my Endorphinizer. I think I feel moisture in my tear duct.
(long inhale, long exhale)
Are you being grounded? Uh, does a cyborg evacuate its waste materials through a pneumatic-tube chamber? Yes, you’re being grounded.
First you will disconnect from the MindHive for one month.
Second, there will be no SexThink. Not even with yourself. You’ll just have to research how we used to do it manually. No, it’s not ideal, but you’ve made your REM pod; now you’ll have to sleep in it.
Third, you will start dressing appropriately. That means your nipples are to be covered at all times. And if I find out that you’re swapping motherboards with anybody . . . That kind of behavior is fine when you’re in a Committed Partnership or Conglomerate—but until then, pardon my language, but no Starbuck’ing way.
Bottom line is, I didn’t undergo cryogenic freezing—TWICE!—just so that I could be defrosted and watch you behave like some twentieth-century animal.
I just wish you would heed the words of your grandmother Johanna—a very wise and extraordinarily beautiful woman—who always used to say, “Don’t be flattered if a being with male characteristics demonstrates visible excitation in its penile appendage.” Of course, I may be paraphrasing, but I think you get the drift.
And by the way, don’t even try asking your dad for help with this one. He’s in a horrible mood as it is—he was late for the Space-Time Conveyor, and now his legs and briefcase are stuck in 1973 until tomorrow afternoon. Personally, I’d leave him alone until he can reorganize himself.
Yes, we’re done. Now despite everything, I want you to know that I love you, and I will never stop loving you. And I know you’re upset now, but when you’re four hundred you’ll look back at this and laugh. Now give my jar a kiss and turn me around so I can look out the window.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book took a lot of words. And time. And snacks. And the help of a whole bunch of people to whom I am tremendously grateful.
The insanely talented folks at Perseus Books and Da Capo Press—thank you for all your hard work, your kind words, and for being so gentle with me (especially considering this was my first time). And great gobs of humongous, emphatic thanks to my editor, Renee Sedliar, for her instincts and intellect, and for our phone calls, which were consistently the funniest, most entertaining moments of my day.
Doug Abrams, thanks for putting me up to this, and for being the wisest, most honest, and intuitive literary agent I could ever have dreamed up. And thanks also to the delightful Lara Love (who, p.s., lives up to her name).
To my writer friends and to the writing groups to which I belong, past and present: Safehouse, The Disclaimers, and to my Chicago lay-deez (I don’t think we ever came up with a name; we were too busy writing and snacking to do that). Thank you for your notes, feedback, laughs, and raised eyebrows in response to many of these pieces. Thanks especially for making the solitary sport of writing not quite so lonely.
Wendy Hopkins, Renee Albert, and Rebecca (The Other Manly Lady) Corry: three of the smartest, funniest first readers a gal could have. Nobody punches up like you. Or in a more positive, loving, thoughtful way. Oh god, now I’m weeping. Moving on . . .
To Dani Klein, who suggested that I start writing about my family in the first place. This book is all your fault, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Lisa Belkin, the Honest-to-Godness Godmother to this book. Thank you for your support and encouragement and for entrusting your column space to my goofy stories. And thanks for making me cry the first time I saw my name in print.
To Alanis Morissette, for your insight and inspiration, and for telling me (in your non-pushy, Canadian way) that I was going to do this, years (seriously: years) before I knew it myself.
Suzanne Luna, for not just being a cheerleader, but for being a model of what hardworking creative kick-assery looks like. I’m still not sure how you fit seven days of living into a twenty-four-hour period; my best guess: a time machine. (I look forward to an explanation when I see you next yesterday.)
Thanks to Lindsay Howard, TV agent extraordinaire, for your continued guidance and faith over the years—I’m pretty sure our relationship has lasted longer than most Hollywood marriages.
To all the caretakers who’ve given me the space and time to think and write, all while keeping my kid safe, happy, and fairly clean: Jessica Dooley, Tina Rajabi, Astride Noel, Claire Kander, Telma Giron, and the wonderful staff members at JCYS, TBH, and Riverside Drive Charter School.
For their generous time and excellent advice in this alien land known as publishing: Nia Vardalos, Emmy Laybourne, Brett Paesel, Claire Zulkey, Jen Coffeen, Kara Corridan, and Rich (“What What?”) Fulcher.
To Story Studio Chicago, the Writers Workspace, and the WGA (for that fantastic office space with the couch that is comfy, but not overly so).
To the writing teachers who stoked my love of words and kicked my ass as they did: Amy Friedman, Neil Besner, Mr. Carruthers, and the lovely Joanie Fridell. Thanks for your enthusiasm, your dedication, and your excellent teaching. (And if you don’t like what you’ve seen in this book, blame it on one of the other teachers who undid all of your hard work.)
To my friends and family in Winnipeg, Chicago, Austin, Calgary, New York, L.A, and beyond . . . I am one lucky so-and-so. Thanks for your encouraging words and stimulating ideas over coffee, wine, meals, and snacks (lots and lots of snacks). Thanks for your letters, e-mails and Facebook posts (the forwards, the likes, and the shares . . . oh, the shares). There are too many of you to mention by name, but I am grateful for you all, and the next time I see you, if I suddenly lay on you a too-tight hug or a wet, sloppy kiss—you’ll know why.
And to Jay Leggett and Dave (Big Dave) Marks, two fine fellas who left way too soon: you are both missed, often and very much.
To Walt, Gail, Aaron, and David Stein: even if you weren’t my family, I probably would have chosen to spend my days hanging out at your house (as creepy as that would have been). Mom and Dad, I’m grateful for your excellent and insightful feedback, not just on this book but on pretty much every creative endeavor I’ve ever taken on. Thanks for giving me a childhood worth remembering and writing about, and for your continued help and advice now that I’m the one doing the “parenting” (even if that word sticks in your respective craws).
To my in-laws Christine and Cliff, Bob and Susan, and Paul—for your humor, your acceptance, and for giving me the single greatest score of my life. I’m not sure what I did to deserve David Gassman (maybe the result of some karmic debt I incurred sometime in the fourteenth century?) . . . In any case, thank you.
To David, my BFF with benefits, for taking care of business when I was lost in my laptop screen; for allowing me to dig deep into that big, creative brain of yours, and for taming the snakes in mine; for believing in and loving me
so well through this whole process; and for making me laugh every single g.d. day. You truly are the wind beneath my flappy batwings.
And finally, to Sadie, who inspired it all. I hit the life jackpot the day I became your mom. I know everybody thinks their kid is special, but just between you and me—in your case, it’s true. It’s a privilege to know you, and a joy to watch you grow. I love you with all my heart (and then some). Now go clean up your room.
How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane Page 18