Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal Read online

  I woke up on January 1st to the most glorious gift from Jason—a pair of bright yellow jeans hanging in the closet.

  FIG.1 Gray pants

  FIG.2 Black dress

  FIG.1 Email from friend Brooke, who was with me on the January 1st conclusion of project

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  If you announce or demonstrate a fondness for a particular snack or treat in the company of an adoring and thoughtful family member, there is a good chance that they will instantly link it to you. The next time you are their guest, they will excitedly bring you by the arm over to the bowl/dish/tray that holds this favorite item of yours. You may or may not love the item as much as they think you do. Either way, the food association will likely continue for the rest of your life.

  FIG.1 Person-food associations

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  The same message kept popping up on the treadmill: USER NOT DETECTED ON BELT. I had to keep fiercely pressing some button. I am right here! I am walking on the belt! I do so exist! The machine elicited uncomfortable feelings in me. I felt inconsequential and ignored.

  Mundane Highs and Lows

  Noticing an older, hippie-ish-looking couple, Jason turned to me and said, They definitely compost.

  Our waiter is kinda checking on us too much.

  Where the heck is our waiter?

  I think this is a story about the unsuspecting ripple-effect influence we have on one another. Or maybe it’s a parable about trusting your instincts. It goes like this: A friend was telling us about being at an artists’ retreat in California. The first day she spotted someone who had an uncanny resemblance to the comedian Andy Kaufman—something about his mannerisms and demeanor. She was sure he must hear this all the time, so she refrained from jostling him with the obvious. But after a couple more days, she could not shake the pull to approach him, and their conversation was revelatory. Did Andy K. Doppelgänger hear this all the time? No, he did not; in fact, she was the first person to ever say this. But funny you should say so, he says, because guess what?—and this is the part where I imagine confetti being released from the ceiling—Andy Kaufman’s parents and my parents were best friends.

  A college friend and her fiancé came to visit when Jason and I were first married. They stayed with us for one night. I’m pretty certain we had a fine time. But the one crisp, lingering memory is that we—Jason and I—somehow failed to provide them with pillows. It came up the next morning at breakfast. You could say we were just young and inexperienced hosts—both true—but that doesn’t really cut it. When tending to the comfort of a houseguest, there are but a meager smattering of slumbering accessories to remember. And how could we possibly forget the most important one of all? Plus, I happen to have a deep affection for pillows. Pillows are the best. They were both jovial good sports—We were FINE! We’ll just remember to bring our own pillows next time!—and we all ha ha ha had a good laugh. But I felt, and still feel, ashamed by such a bizarre and sloppy oversight.

  Resolutions of Bewilderments

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  At the luncheon, Nora Ephron was the guest speaker. She was thoroughly charming, interesting, engaging. But I couldn’t stop watching the waiter assigned to the table next to ours. The other servers were much younger, much more confident and agile. He was an older gentleman. He had a slow, subservient manner, as if always half expecting to be reprimanded by his manager. He was working hard. He dropped a knife at one point and it made a loud clink. He looked around nervously. I felt so bad for him.

  There was a time when I did not fully understand the concept, pervasiveness, and tentacles of sadness. I can point to the precise spot and moment I first had an inkling that the landscape around the bend was probably going to change—still vast and vastly beautiful but maybe with more parched patches than I was accustomed to. It was at a movie theater in Boston in the fall of my freshman year of college. One of the characters said, I haven’t met that many happy people in my life; how do they act? It took some recalibrating in my mind and shifting in my seat to make sense of the line. Aha, I realized. This character must not be unusual.

  Usually I can figure out who Jason is talking to on the phone—by his phrasing, by his inflection, by his level of brevity. But he’s really throwing me for a loop here. His responses are so unusual and confusing. With scrunched eyebrows, I keep mouthing to him:

  Who is it?

  Who is it?

  I was reading Interview magazine. Looking at the table of contents, I knew I wanted to read two pieces: Billie Jean King interviewing Roger Federer, and Whoopi Goldberg interviewing Amy Sedaris. I began reading the first article. Somehow I totally tangled who was interviewing whom, even though I had just moments ago read the correct pairings, not to mention (of course) the clear connection between interviewer and interviewee. So I am reading the Federer interview and Whoopi (who is really Billie Jean King, but I’m thinking she is Whoopi) says, Yeah, I remember I saw you at that big party before the US Open. And I’m kind of intrigued—Okay, cool, I didn’t know Whoopi was so serious about tennis. And on it goes like this for about half the interview, me being swept along by the Whoopi-Federer narrative. When it finally clicked back into place—it’s Billie Jean King, not Whoopi, interviewing Federer!—I had to do a whole reset and was reluctant to part with the (non)reality I had unwittingly constructed.

  You don’t really see chubby symphony conductors.

  You run into someone from elementary school, someone you haven’t seen in forever. How have you been, what have you been up to?! they ask. There are many ways to come at this question, but considering your shared history—you were once prepubescent fort-makers together—there is really only one response: What have I been up to? I’ll tell you the biggest, craziest thing since I last saw you: A few humans tumbled out of my lady parts.

  I was standing in front of the mirror. I dared myself to cut off my hair. I did it. Now I feel like I can do anything in the world.

  About that past social transgression, that unflattering, face-flushing faux pas you imagine is being relentlessly snickered about in your absence, the one you’ve been replaying over and over in your mind—I’m not sure stressing about it is a great use of time. To wit, when I hadn’t seen H. in a couple years, the very first thing he said—and I had no clue what he was talking about—was: Amy, I want to apologize for eating all your pâté last time I saw you.

  small

  1. I have been and have felt small for as long as I can remember. The kind of small that gets you immediately placed in the front for group photos. The kind of small that in order to retrieve things from cupboards requires slinging a knee onto the kitchen counter and boosting yourself up. In grade school I was called Krouse Mouse—affectionately, I think . . . At least I don’t recall it feeling like a diss. Many of those childhood pals still greet me that way in person, in greeting cards, in texts.

  2. I almost always have to get my pants shortened. I almost never have to duck. A coach seat is perfectly roomy.

  3. After it was clear we were kind of falling in love but before the meeting-of-the-parents, Jason’s mom asked him to describe me. As the story goes, the first thing he said was, Well, she’s small.

  4. There was one period of my life where I actually felt tall, and that was when I towered over my young children. This was, um, short-lived.

  5. When I started creating YouTube videos, I grappled with what term to use when asked. Videographer sounded like I filmed weddings. Filmmaker sounded like I thought I was all that. Finally I landed on just the right phrasing: I am a tiny filmmaker. Whether one interprets that as a person who makes tiny films or a tiny person who makes films, both are correct.

  6. I wonder how it would feel to not have to crane my head upward when chatting
at cocktail parties. I wonder how it would feel to be able to see no matter where I stood at the concert (and I wonder why no one has invented a concert snorkel, a periscope attached to sunglasses). I wonder if most people are familiar—though I am not—with the top of my head.

  7. I sometimes get the sense that when readers meet me, there is a discrepancy between the me they imagined and the me who shows up. Perhaps they were expecting someone taller. Or maybe it’s not a height thing at all—maybe they just thought I’d be younger, or be more of an airbrushed pretend person, or have a nicer coat. Even if I’m in the zone of what they were expecting, the prevailing sentiment still might be: Something’s different here. For example, Oh, you got your hair cut, I heard recently. I could tell by her tone that it wasn’t a gleeful, girl-to-girl observation—her inflection didn’t go up on the word hair—but rather a you tampered with something that belongs to me remark. So a few years ago I explored the idea of finding someone else to actually be a stand-in for me. I posted an ad, then held auditions with a waiting room and a snack table and everything. It was terribly fascinating, listening to people (men and women both) read from one of my books, trying to decipher who would be the best me. There were some excellent candidates, but in the end the project lost traction (for me) and I let it fizzle. I still keep in touch with one of the front-runners, though, an artist and swell chap who now resides in London. He would have been a great and tall me.

  Perhaps we should get matching tattoos.

  Send along an idea.

  Make sure you are serious about this because I am.

  How’s that for author and reader bonded by ink.

  First, text Tattoo.

  G7 D A

  It is easy to fall in love with someone who passes the time at the airport gate strumming their guitar.

  Aviation etiquette has evolved in such a way that it is no longer customary to thank our pilots for the flight. (Unless it’s a long international flight—then the passengers, exhausted and giddy, break out into applause. I always love that.) We thank all the other travel-related transporters: cabdrivers, bus drivers, hotel shuttle drivers, rickshaw drivers. Yet we do not verbally acknowledge our gratitude to those who maneuver lumbering masses of aluminum through the sky and somehow manage to tippy-toe touch down with two grocery-cart-sized wheels. The flight attendants are clearly trained to thank us as we exit the aircraft, and so when I am rounding the corner and handed one of their courtesy thank-yous, I always toss it back like a hot potato—Thank YOU, I’ll say, looking directly at the pilot. But the pilots never appear to care one way or the other. They just stand there, hunched in the cockpit entryway, relaxed like it was no big deal, waiting patiently for us to file out.

  Jason and I were at a concert. While waiting for the headliners to take the stage, a camera was panning the audience, projecting people dancing on the big screen. The camera landed on a tall, gangly guy with a bopping mop of hair. When he saw himself on the screen, he kicked into high gear, dancing in an adorably enthusiastic and goofy way. He worked the crowd into a frenzy. A few seconds later the headliners walked on stage. The camera was still on him, and everyone had just erupted into full-on applause and woo-hoo-ing. You could tell by his expression that he believed the rousing applause was for the band. He will never know that it was really for him.

  Retention of Passing Comments

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  Just look at us, all of us, quietly doing our thing and trying to matter. The earnestness is inspiring and heartbreaking at the same time.

  More than half of the calls I receive from my dad are pocket calls. I’ve stopped telling him, because what is the point?

  ME: Dad, you pocket dialed me again.

  HIM: I did?

  When I see his name pop up on my phone, I still always answer with a perky Hi, Dad. I have not yet defaulted to the stance that he is probably calling me unknowingly. It is only after a couple Dad? Dad?s followed by that distinct brand of garble (tunnel voice, crinkly static, whooshes of wind) that I all at once register, remember, and accept what’s at hand. I’ll try to make out a word or pin down a familiar sound just for the sport of it, but after a few undecipherable syllables I press end call and return to the matters of the day. There was one Saturday morning, however, where somehow his pocket call came in crystal clear. Almost immediately I could tell who he was with and what they were doing: He was with my mom and they were playing golf. I listened in for a minute but then hung up because it felt sneaky. About thirty seconds later my dad “called” me again; at this point I decided it was more than okay to eavesdrop—this was an unexpected gift and I was happy to receive it. I put my mom and dad—who have been married more than fifty years—on speakerphone, poured myself a cup of coffee, and took notes for an hour.

  Their dialogue consisted almost entirely of sweet encouragements. Nice shot! Very nice! Oh my, that’s a beauty! Oh yeah, honey . . . lovely. What, honey? I know, honey. Absolutely perfect! There was one bit of advice, gently delivered: I think you took too long thinking about that last shot and lost your rhythm. There were two other sounds I could make out in the background: the golf cart as they drove from hole to hole. And birds—every few minutes, I could hear birds. I like to think they were lovebirds.

  When my life flashes before my eyes, I hope my subconscious turns out to be a skilled curator. It would be unfortunate to be stuck watching a montage of all the times I bent down to pick up those flimsy subscription cards that fall out of magazines.

  Being divided into groups has always played out the same for me, whether we’re talking middle school or middle age. The leader eyeballs the room and either sections us off or instructs us to count off by threes: All “ones” over there, “twos” over here . . . First I will feel unsettled; I will be skeptical about these people in my group. I will look over at the other groups and conclude: Yep, I’ve definitely got the bad group. I’ll accept my lot in life and then—because really, what other choice is there?—resign myself to the group. I will slowly but surely begin to enjoy, connect with, appreciate, and, ultimately, bond with my group. Now I just love my group. I got the best group.

  To be matched (via email) with two other readers, go to Match Me at textbookamykr.com.

  Perhaps the three of you will become dear, digital companions.

  Or start a business.

  Or end up vacationing together in the Caribbean.

  ART

  For You, Me, and the Elephant in the Room

  bowl, fifty-three peanuts (with shells on)

  exhibited on kitchen table to coincide with guest’s arrival

  2015

  Flyer

  paper, black marker

  exhibited on community bulletin boards

  2015

  Self-Portrait (diptych)

  pen on paper

  2003

  Send in your own self-portrait . . . a photo, drawing, painting, any medium at all.

  It will then be added to the website’s gallery of Readers’ Self-Portraits.

  First, text Self portrait.

  Existential Napkin

  ink printed on disposable napkin

  dispensed at local restaurant

  1999

  Just Add Daughter

  photographs

  outfits picked and laid out by daughter on nights before preschool

  2000

  Book Jacket Jacket

  book jackets from thirteen books adhered to muslin, stitched with thread

  April 2015

  Venting to Black Hole

  email intentionally sent to Postmaster Undeliverable address

  August 2015

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  A Penny for Your Thoughts


  thoughts taped to pennies

  exhibited on sidewalks around Chicago

  2015

  Text on Pennies

  Penny 1: I just learned the German word fernweh, sort of a cousin to wanderlust; it means “far-sickness, an ache for distance.”

  Penny 2: With the kids now all out of the house, I find myself having random, panicky, parenting thoughts such as: Wait! Did I forget to teach them to look both ways even on a one-way street??!!

  Penny 3: If you ever meet Neil deGrasse Tyson, please tell him this anagram for his name: Is N. astro legend? Yes!

  Penny 4: Driving along, I noticed a piece of chocolate cake in the middle of the road. When I think about it now, it feels like art.