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What is wrong with this woman? I’d like to know. Somebody with the gall to tell Terry Gross— in Wednesday’s interview —that she, Amanda Peet, thinks constantly about getting a face lift? That she worries about the sagging? What could be weirder, more boneheaded? Can she even see past her nose? Who does she think she is? Who does she think she’s talking to? I was at a function, she tells Terry. A premiere party. And when I was leaving, an older, quite beautiful woman across the room stood up and yelled “Amanda!” She made a beeline for me and sort of opened her arms and said “I love” — and I thought she was going to say “your performance.” Instead she said “your wrinkles.” No, responds Terry . Not like she’s shocked by that word wrinkles . More like, aghast at Amanda ’s fatuousness. I love that you haven’t had a face lift , says Terry. I love that you’ve kept your face. Terry tells Amanda, A face is such a n important tool . You have such really nuanced facial expressions in...
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You do what you can. Some come, and then more come and you get a tad dizzy , not in the falling-down sense, maybe more like foggy and dazed, but it’s okay, it’s okay. Every single bed in the house is taken, and the upstairs loveseat, and the living room sofa, and every night you load the coffeemaker and move it to the windowsill in your bedroom so in the dark of morning the drip drips maybe won’t wake the sofa child and everybody upstairs and you can get a few minutes for your brain. Or, that’s the hope. (Your husband’ll fall straight back to sleep.) (Once, i n the middle of the night, you f ind the sofa child still on the living room carpet, dead to the world, because h ours previous, getting settled, he thought the sofa was too ho t, but i n the mornin g you see he’s crawled up where he belongs and he still has Lulu with him, she must’ve crawled right along up with him, and she’s quietly wagging, not disturbing hi s slumber , just watching you out of her huge moon eyes. So that...
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Malika came up to the whiteboard before class, a pair of earrings in her hand, blue, with bitty rhinestones. For me, ooh. “Put one on,” I said, lending her my ear. She fumbled with my hair, tried, tried more. “I can’t,” she said. So I stuck them in my bag and took them home. Where I discovered they weren’t the clasp kind. “I don’t have pierced ears,” I said to Malika, next day. Pierced. Perhaps I wrote it on the board. Every interaction in a class like this—English for immigrants—is a game. You’re endeavoring to communicate without making things complicated. If that isn’t a trick I don’t know what is. Teacher and student, you’re trying to bore down to the word’s core, spark understanding, connect. It’s intimate, intense. “Why?” asked Malika. “Why?” Every female in her culture, she wanted me to know, down to the babies, had earrings. E ar holes . She maybe didn’t say holes. How to respond? Oh, well, I grew up Mennonite. Say that? Say I kind of have a Mennonite predispositi...
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It’s Ama. She’s going to be Ama. AH-ma. That’s what she’s decided—Jennifer, our daughter, whose son Jonathan is now a father. Perfect, I think. So now am I GrandAHma ? Wait, Great-grandAHma ? Or just Ma (pronounced Mah )? I’m de finitely not Maw. Now that would be revolting. Or could Solomon, the new baby, just say Grandmommy like all the others when his soft suckling mouth grows brave enough to try the word? Great-grandmommy, I think, would be taking things too far. It sounds overly greatly grand. I’m all thumbs. Mere days after his birth, over at Jonathan and Hannah’s, carrying Solomon across their grassy, bumpy yard and trying not to fall and break him—Jonathan had handed him over when I got out of the car—I realized I might be stabbing his tender fetal-curled back (through his clothes) with my car keys. Another day, Hannah on our sofa, Paulson and Jonathan outside somewhere, and me prowling the house with Solomon, I let his head slightly wobble. Obviously I was f...
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Now That Mine’s Worse than My Dog’s While the world blows up we go along, go along, attending to trifles. Some of us, at least me. I think all the time about my hair. I was running over to Jennifer’s for my trims. No wrangling for beauty shop appointments, anymore, and having to drive all the way into town. But there were issues. I’d go over with my towel, maybe my head already wetted in anticipation, and she’d plant me on a stool on her porch in the cold wind and demand how much do you want off? and then whack whack whack, she’d be done. No wasting time with that woman. No coddling me, as if she’d pined for me to visit and now I was there she could deliberate with me over how to best fix my mop, weigh every snick, draw out the process. So for one thing, I needed more attention. The other thing was what my grandgirl said. She said my hair was damaged. She said I shouldn’t be blow-drying it, frying it to death. She said to soothe the frizz, instead I should work in some coconu...
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Wintry Morning   Dog eats dog’s—no, deer’s—leg.       
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Now That We’re Back Whether the sleek hulk set in glass ocean water far out our windows was stalled or gliding past, who knew? It must have made it somewhere, because the speck disappeared and no news came of a ship going down. Whether our house on the mango banana coconut tamarind breadfruit hill, with our bed so vast we lay in two different countries, was the easier on our living, or the one back home in our bare broken woods, how to tell? Only here, things were for play. Here we had sand enough for castles. Whether the waters surging up the sharded rocks, crashing and spuming salt and cresting toothpaste blue, were more the spectacle, or our g leeful gleaming sunburnt children, who could say? Neither would keep. For a sugared shining spell we had the both. Photography by Caroline Murch. Family trip, Playa Mar Chiquita, Manití, Puerto Rico      
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