Melanie Gideon

Recently I bought my son a copy of The Dangerous Book For Boys. Okay, I know, I’m a little late to the game here. I read the book that night from cover to cover and saw just how we had failed him.  All the knots we hadn’t taught him to tie.  All the rabbits we hadn’t shown him how to skin.  All the constellations we hadn’t pointed out to him in the night sky.

There was knowledge out there, ESSENTIAL INFORMATION that somebody should have told him about.  

I began to wish I had a book.  A dangerous book.  A Dangerous Book for a Forty-Something Woman.  In my dangerous book would be entries on:

How to remember the name of the movie (book, restaurant, TV show) you just saw, read, ate at or TIVO-d.

How to avoid  being exposed as somebody who doesn’t remember the name of the movie, book, restaurant or TV show you just saw, read, ate at or TIVO-d.

The One Thing Every Forty-Something Woman Should Never Say at a Party:

1.  Oh  my god,  I can’t wait to tell you. I just saw, read, ate or Tivo’d the most amazing . . . the most amazing . . .you know, that thing, were you with me?  Wait, it was something really good.  Didn’t we do it together?  Wasn’t that you?  We were eating.  We were watching.  I gave you a copy.  Did you ever give it back to me?  Wasn’t it amazing?   I felt so good afterwards.  Didn’t you?  Not too full.  But full enough.  You know the eat until you’re only 80% full kind of full.

How to Skin A Rabbit

Buy your kid The Dangerous Book for Boys and a swiss army knife and make him do it for you.

If there’s one song for me that evokes a New England summer in all its glory–its heartbreak, humidity, brevity, longing and hope, its clamcakes, Levi’s, docks and lakes and rivers, its yellow cellophaned packages of Swedish Fish, it’s Listen To What the Man Said, by Paul McCartney.

It was the summer of 1974.  The camp was the Episcopal Conference Center in Pascoag, RI.  The cabin was “Carlson”.  It was the last night of camp and all of us eleven year old girls were sobbing, bereft at the thought of leaving, when just a week ago many of us were bereft at the thought of being shipped off to camp–but there you have it–exactly what it means to be eleven.  In between. Neither this nor that.  No longer girl.  Not yet teenager.  But one of us was crying more than the others, our counselor, Leslie, because unlike the rest of us who merely dreamed of being loved, she was loved by a guitar playing boy named Billy and that night Billy was leaving to join the army.  All of us, sheltered, innocent, Rhode Island girls from the suburbs could not imagine anything more romantic or dangerous or unthinkable and we wanted to be a part of it.

And then in that way that sometimes the perfect soundtrack shows up to illuminate and intensify a moment, marking it so you’ll never forget it for the rest of your life, Listen to What the Man Said came streaming out of the radio.  It was a call. We climbed out of our beds and gathered around Leslie’s bed to console her, standing in our short nightgowns in our bare feet on the dusty floor.

Any time, any day
You can hear the people say
That love is blind
Well, I don’t know but I say love is kind

Soldier boy kisses girl
Leaves behind a tragic world
But he won’t mind
He’s in love and he says love is fine

It’s summer.  Thirty-four years later.  I’m back in New England and Listen To What the Man Says is playing on the radio.

Every so often I become obsessed with a particular kind of candy.  Candy other than Twizzlers, that is.  And Butterfingers.  Sweet Revolution Maple Honey Caramels.   I can’t stop thinking about them.  I bought a little box at Miette on Chestnut Street in San Francisco to give to my husband for father’s day.   I bought them on a Wednesday.  Father’s Day was on Sunday.  We ate them Wednesday afternoon.  I can’t believe they even made it over the Bay Bridge to Oakland.  Here are the ingredients:  maple syrup, cream, honey, butter, sea salt.  It’s the salt that puts them over the edge.  

Rapture.

Isn’t that an amazing title? I wish I had thought of it. I’m reading Matthew Zapruder’s book of poetry The Pajamaist and it’s brilliant. I’m so inspired that I have been practicing being a pajamaist. What is a pajamaist, you may ask. I’ve come to realize that’s a very personal question and I can only answer for myself. A pajamaist is somebody who sits around in their pajamas (problem number 1–I have no pajamas, just an odd assortment of mismatched ancient t-shirts and sweat pants) who thinks pajama thoughts (think I’d like some popcorn, think I’d like some chocolate milk, what’s wrong with me why don’t I have a decent pair of pajamas I keep going to the store, to the pajama department and I say to myself, now is the time to buy some pajamas but I never do and now my procrastination has led to my inability to be a pajamaist and I have only myself to blame.).

“You’re driving me to school in that?” my son sometimes asks in the morning.
“These are not pajamas,” I tell him.
“You wore them to bed,” he says.
“Yes, but they’re not matched. Pajamas are matched.”
“Please don’t get out of the car,” he says.
“Fine,” I say.

The point is. The Pajamaist. Read it.