Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life Read online

  CATCH

  David threw a crumpled-up piece of paper to me. I caught it, looked at it, then set it down. He then threw a paper clip. Again, I caught it, put it down. Come on, Amy. Don’t you get it?! Throw it back! he yelled. How was I supposed to know that was what he wanted? I am a girl. I do not have the catch gene. Guys have the catch gene. That is why the symbol for male is It stands for throw the ball.

  CD, NEW

  I love the moment when I get a new CD and it holds the promise of being the best CD ever—all that potential, so many good songs to fall in love with, the dense liner notes to inspect. But then I realize, This song’s not so great, neither’s the next one—ew, what’s with that harmonica solo?—and in the end I like maybe two songs, love one, and within a few days it disappears under a stack of other loose, orphaned CDs. And going back to those two or three favorite songs—I feel bad listening to them exclusively, that’s somehow cheating. I must listen to the CD in its entirety, to not play favorites so to speak, and when those killer tunes come on, well, I’ve earned the privilege fair and square. This is not unlike my policy of occasionally rotating my least favorite jeans into the mix—There. I wore them. Happy?—and feeling justified the next morning in resorting once again to my beloved worn-in pair.

  CHAIN LETTERS

  I despise chain letters. They were amusing once, in third grade. But now I resent the intrusion, the assumption that I will play along, the CAPITAL-LETTER THREATS of what will happen to me if I don’t. When they used to arrive by regular mail, I had a kind of oh geesh reaction; I would feel disappointed in my friend, misunderstood: Doesn’t she know the first thing about me? Doesn’t she know I hate this and that I find it void of meaning, credibility, and beauty? But now when I get these forwarded chain letters in my e-mail, I don’t really feel agitated—I can and do simply delete them in a split second—I feel baffled. Does my friend really have time for this? Does she really believe this? I picture her at her computer, clicking on her address book, wasting minutes from her too-short-as-it-is life.

  CHANGE

  This money was left here intentionally and is specifically for your use. I know it’s not much—perhaps just enough to treat yourself to a cookie, coffee, a lottery ticket, donation to the homeless, a new pair of socks.… In any case, I hope it changes your day for the better. All I ask in return is that you let me know how you spend it. You don’t have to sign your name, and a prepaid postcard is included. Enjoy.

  Every week, for close to a year, I left an envelope containing this note, some loose change, and a stamped postcard addressed to my P.O. box for a random stranger to discover. I’d like to say that I set out to do this for purely altruistic reasons. But, more accurately, I did it because I’m easily bored/easily amused, and experiments such as this inject a morsel of suspense into the week. That, and I really like getting mail.

  It was always fun to plan where to leave the envelopes. I sent a few with friends traveling out of town. I left them in phone booths, taxis, and newspaper boxes. I left them on sidewalks, airplanes, and restaurant tables. I left them at a bookstore, a doctor’s office, and a bar mitzvah. Once, at a jazz bar, I watched a bride go into the bathroom, so I casually slipped in behind her and strategically left the envelope for her by the sink. She ran out, waving the envelope and screaming Look at this! to her bridal party. That was a highlight. Though I never did hear from her.

  I got ten postcards back. I was always amazed when I got a response. And I was always amazed when I didn’t. Responding was nearly effortless, yet most people apparently couldn’t be bothered. I couldn’t help but obsess over this: Did the postcard just get lost in a pile somewhere? Do they vow daily, I’m definitely going to mail this today, but somehow never get around to it? Did they think it was creepy—that they were being followed, or that by mailing the postcard they could be traced? Did they—those slimes—peel the stamp off the postcard for their own use?

  I’d like to think that how the ten people who returned their cards chose to spend their change said something (profound?) about them, in the same way that whatever poster you hung over your bed in college offered visitors an assessment of Who You Really Are. The responses ranged from the American Dream—“Florida Lottery Ticket for $55 million”—to Zen simplicity—“Bought a piece of fresh fruit.”

  Two spoke of serendipity:

  I was walking down North Avenue on June 12 (my birthday), had a fight with my partner, and almost flat broke. I chose to walk down North Avenue because several years ago that street was somewhat inspirational for me and I was thinking, “I dig North Ave.” I met a sweet woman on the street who needed some money—gave it to her. She offered me a beer to celebrate my day—I declined. What an Oprah Winfrey move—you sure you’re not Oprah? Anyhow, thanks for the smile.

  And this from Helen, the woman who works in the locker room at my health club:

  Hello. I’m sorry; I forgot to write for you how I spend money. I found money in locker Sunday when I forgot my money for breakfast. I opened and say thanks God and thanks for you. Helen, Lake Shore Club (you see me in club please).

  There was the philanthropist:

  Donated to Amy Erickson Alternative Cancer Treatment Fund.

  And the realist:

  Thank you for the gift! I added it to my fabulous coin collection, which I keep in an apple cider bottle and which I’ll use to partially finance my upcoming move. Thanks again for your thoughtful offering. Every little bit does help out and it’s so fun to receive help from a stranger.

  I gave away between fifty cents and $1.50 each week. In the end, that probably added up to about sixty bucks counting the postage—the amount Bill Gates leaves in those penny dishes by the register. But if a few people got a kick out of it, I’m hoping the mighty karma gods who saw me bite Bobby Bycraft in first grade will now call it a wash. Plus, as I say, I got mail.

  CHEEK BOUNCING

  I was flipping through the Sunday Magazine and came across an article about a fraudulent high-society woman. Let me see if I can retrace exactly what happened from there. 1. I glanced at the photo. 2. I then glanced over at the headline … Caused a Stir in New York Society This Year. 3. Ouch. Good juicy gossip, I thought.

  4. Back to headline: Especially When Her Cheeks Started Bouncing.

  5. What, her cheeks were bouncing? What’s up with that? 6. Look back at photo. Well, she certainly does have big cheeks. Maybe she had some freaky plastic surgery? And now her cheeks jiggle in a strange way, especially noticeable when she struts into high-society events? Perhaps her cheeks are full of silicon? She could be some kind of spy, in disguise? Or maybe she’s fake, like a robot person? 7. I reread the headline: checks, her checks were bouncing. Okay, that makes a lot more sense. 8. I proceeded to show the article to my husband and my friend John, and strangely enough, they both read it the same way. Cheeks started bouncing, they’d say, and kinda chuckle snort. It must be something about the smiling, cheeky photo that triggers the brain to read the second c in checks as an e (and they are very similar-looking letters to begin with, even more so in the New York Times’s typeface). I’m pretty certain that without the photo, there wouldn’t be any confusion with the cheek/check headline.

  See also: Farmer; Words That Look Similar

  CHEF HAT

  Surely they can design more flattering chef hats.

  CHICAGO FIRE

  Justin (age six): We saw the Chicago Fire on our field trip.

  Me: You did? You mean, you saw something about it downtown?

  Justin: No, Mom. You don’t understand. The Chicago Fire is a statue.

  Me: I see. You know, Justin, I think you missed the Chicago Fire part of your class when you were sick last week.

  Justin: The Chicago Fire was last week?

  CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

  Chronology of Events

  1965

  Amy Krouse is born, April 29.

  1967

  Amy’s sister Beth is born, October 16.

  1968

/>   Beth is in crib. Amy asks if she is thirsty. Pours glass of water on Beth’s head.

  1969–1977

  When Amy is home sick, her mother rubs her back while taking her temperature and sings the song she always sings when Amy is not feeling well. She sings so nice and soft.

  I’m a little doll that has just been broken,

  Fallen from my mommy’s knees.

  I’m a little doll that has just been broken,

  Won’t you love me please?

  1969

  Goes to Kiddie Kollege for preschool.

  1970

  Amy’s brother, Joe, is born December 16, two and a half months prematurely.

  1970

  Practices swimming in pool with father. She starts on stairs, he stands waiting a few feet away. Just as she approaches him, he takes a step back. He keeps doing this. He is encouraging about it, but she is nervous, out of breath. Doesn’t want to keep going, doesn’t want to be pushed to limit, feels misled—Don’t do that!—just wants to be swept up in his arms when she reaches him. The relief, the snugness, the glory, of finally being in Dad’s safe arms.

  1970–1974

  Gets to stir father’s coffee. Watches the cream change the color to light brown.

  1970–1975

  Father occasionally comes home from work with box of Jujubes as special treat.

  1970–1980

  Gets to pick out a Dum Dum lollipop from the bottom file-cabinet drawer after every visit to nice, bald pediatrician Dr. Nachman. Typically chooses butterscotch flavor; hates the root-beer one.

  1970–1980

  Amy falls asleep in car on way home from trip downtown or dinner at relatives’ house. Remarkable to her that she awakes just as they enter her subdivision, a minute from home. Seems to Amy that she has a talent for knowing precisely how long to sleep, exactly when to wake up. Not until she is older does she realize it was the motion of going fast on the highway that lulled her to sleep, that the car’s slowing down on small neighborhood streets was what stirred her awake.

  1970–1980

  Amy is served chicken pot pie when her parents go out on Saturday night. Steaming-hot cream sauce scorches roof of her mouth.

  1971

  Amy invents a game with sister Beth: Ooga. Ooga It. Odd sort of running game with rules that are unspoken, nonsensical, and completely adhered to. They play it for hours, screaming, “Ooga! Ooga it!”

  1971–1979

  Amy watches parents slow-dance in kitchen. Covers face with hands. Feels embarrassed but happy.

  1971

  First grade. In music class with Mrs. Swanson. Amy by mistake adds extra syllable to remember, says rememember. When their teacher Mrs. Stern comes to pick up the class, Mrs. Swanson asks Amy to say rememember again for Mrs. Stern. They both think it’s so cute. Amy feels that reenactment is strangely forced but likes the attention.

  1971

  Overhears mother on phone saying, “I think this summer I am going to send Amy to C-A-M-P,” and figures out what it spells.

  1971

  Takes turns showing privates with boy across street in his wooded backyard. Feels odd, devious, interesting. Recognizes that exposed genitals emit certain energy. In the end, feels she has been swayed. Glad when he later moves away.

  1971

  Steve C., a boy in her grade, dies in a car accident. Seems unreal, spooky. Haunted by idea of him gone. Thinks about him, the absence of this once-alive boy, for rest of life.

  1971–1972

  Amy goes to Florida to see grandmother. Grandmother’s friend Gladys has them to dinner. Radishes on the salad—Amy tries for the first time and loves them. Flurry of comments about radishes, older women say how unusual it is for child to like radishes. Year later, Amy returns. Again they have dinner at Gladys’s. Again Gladys serves radishes, now in Amy’s honor. These radishes taste different—bitter, sharp, stinging. Amy confused; other radishes so sweet. But Gladys served them especially for her, remembered how much she loved them. Amy doesn’t have heart or courage to speak up; forces herself to eat radishes.

  1972

  Amy rubs her stomach real lightly until she gets goose bumps. Puts her in a trance.

  1972

  Amy realizes one night at dinner that ribs are ribs, as in ribs like people have ribs, ribs are the ribs of an animal.

  Table

  WHAT MY CHILDHOOD TASTED LIKE

  Item Notes

  Fruit cocktail on top of cottage cheese Liked the grapes and maraschino cherries

  Marinated flank steak Liked the dark, crispy stringy ends

  Hot dog paprikosh Especially good with very cold applesauce

  Barbecue ribs Mesmerized by my mom gnawing on bones

  Heart-shaped hamburgers What my mom made on Valentine’s Day

  M&M’s Always in the candy dish on Thanksgiving

  Parsley Dipped in salt water at Passover seder

  Homemade cheesecake w/strawberry topping Picking at leftovers in the fridge, chunks of the graham cracker crust, that aluminum tin

  Triscuits Endless handfuls

  Slice of American cheese The one thing we were allowed to eat before dinner; everything else would apparently “spoil our appetite”

  Grand Marnier soufflé What my parents were baking late one night; I woke up for some reason and was allowed to stay up with them and help. Very big deal, very special treat. Felt like I was really in on something cool, as my other three sibs slept upstairs. This soufflé thing seemed very exotic, grown-up. Seemed like midnight. Was probably 9 P.M.

  WHAT MY CHILDHOOD TASTED LIKE

  Item Notes

  Bazooka gum The idea of “allowing six to eight weeks for delivery” on all Bazooka Joe prizes seemed like an unimaginable eternity.

  Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate chip ice cream cake Hated mint and was always disappointed when the mom walked out with it at birthday parties.

  Swiss cheese appetizer What my mom made at all holidays. Loved it. Recipe: Mix together ½ pound grated Swiss cheese, 1 small grated onion, 3–4 tablespoons mayonnaise (enough to moisten). Place Pinahs Original Crunchy Bread Chips on cookie sheet. Spread teaspoonful of mixture on each chip. Broil in oven for about 60 seconds or so, keeping an eye on them so they don’t burn.

  Froot Loops and bubblegum One of those stories that got told and retold over the years. What I “made” for my parents for their anniversary dinner when I was five years old.

  Hawaiian Punch Super sweet, left tinge of red on upper lips. Came in a big can. Poured it out of two triangle openings on top of can.

  1972

  Conscious of using for the very first time, albeit only in her mind, a swear word when her mom made her mad.

  1972

  Amy receives call at school; sister Katie is born, March 22. More excited about unusual occurrence of having principal deliver a message to her classroom than about having new sibling.

  1972–1983

  Family sings the family song together. Passed down from father’s side. Feeling of contentment singing it. Keg/beer reference goes over her head.

  The Krouse family is the best family

  The best family from old Hungary

  Singing glorious, glorious

  One keg of beer for the six of us

  And it’s glory be to God that there are no more of us

  Cause one of us could drink it all alone.

  Ba-da-du-dum

  1972

  Playing at neighbor’s, Amy gets a stomachache. From the bathroom, Amy tells Mrs. Bycraft that it hurts bad, her stomach. Mrs. Bycraft tells Amy to cross her arms and hold her stomach tightly, that sometimes helps. Amy does not feel good but is strangely cozy in that little bathroom, with the little window overlooking the backyard.

  1972

  Amy listens to Helen Reddy eight-track in station wagon. Watches her mother put lipstick on in the rearview mirror.

  1972

  Jamie Kasova, older girl who lives across street, informs Amy that if you drop your g
um on pavement, it is gross to put back in your mouth.

  1972–1982

  Amy is constantly filled with questions. Life seems extremely confusing, complex, layered. Is sure that adults attend a kind of convention where they are given all the answers, let in on subtle truths. She thinks she will never be able to utter a statement, to speak and not have it be a question. Idea of saying something in the affirmative seems unfathomable.

  1973

  Amy thinks her friend Rosalie Press is lucky because all the seat belt buckles in their car say Press.

  1973–1983

  Amy loves running her hand under the hot water while her mom takes a bath. They talk.

  1973

  Amy gets the skin between her thumb and forefinger caught in metal lever after flushing the toilet at school. Too embarrassed to tell teacher, so sits through rest of school with red, throbbing hand. Only thing that seems to relieve pain is putting pinched skin in her mouth and sucking on it. It is cold that day, but when she walks home, she keeps off one mitten so she can suck on injured skin. Arrives home with sore, freezing hand.

  1973

  Amy and Beth watch The Brady Bunch in family room, lying on stomachs, heads propped up by elbows, chins resting in cupped hands. They always call who they are for each episode. Amy calls that she is Marcia. Beth must be Jan or Cindy.

  Family room of childhood home.

  1973

  Amy relays to her mother part of story she is reading. Mother corrects her with a smile: The girl’s name is pronounced with a soft g, Ginny. Amy realizes she has read nearly the entire book saying Ginny with a hard g in her mind. She is standing in corner of family room at the time, her mother sitting in red chair.