The State of Our Union

Mr Husband, Mr Son, Mr. Smaller Son, Distinguished Fur Bastard:

We gather tonight knowing our years of investment and service to The Imig family Home. Sixteen years of coupledom, 7 and 5 years of boychildren, and 15 years (7 of 9 feline lives) respectively. For the first time in years there are no Imigs leaving weapons of mass destruction in basement corners or under furniture, and our house is more respected and safer for unsuspecting playdates and their parents.

We began as a duo, traversing the North Side of Chicago. From my first apartment above a crack-den on State and Division, to our thrift store love nest in Wriglyville beneath the El train, through to our first mortgage--a condo in Edgewater filled with wedding registry items and an infant son—we nested. And on to our single family home in Madison, Wisconsin: Our current state.

These achievements are a testament to the courage, selflessness, and
teamwork of two now far away, but once-shiny human beings—who spent weekends scouring garage sales and second-hand stores for eclectic furniture, invested months in careful (him) leather vs. (her) shabby shic furniture debate, only to lay down thousands of dual-income-no-kids dollars in a matter of minutes in one grand Room & Board surrender at the turn of the millennium. Who lovingly selected the exact shade of Cafe Latte: Benjamin Moore 1054. Who framed, leveled, and hung photos, nay who read Dwell magazine and went forth to purchase fabric and stretch it over frames for headboards!

Imagine what we could accomplish if we followed their example. Think about the Imig household Design Within Reach.

We can do this. I know we can because we've done it before. Six years ago we purchased this homestead. Preschooler notwithstanding and I with child, we paint-chip spelunked, taped and rolled once again. Mr. Husband you re-habbed our entire basement—learning to drywall and electrify. How you sconced! Finding no affordable aesthetically-suitable bed for our children, to The Depot you strode with our stationwagon chariot. Not satisfied with just any board you looked through each maple slab, until you found the perfectly knotted platform for our children to slumber and nut-noogie each other upon.

The defining issue of our time is how to keep that promise alive. When did we stop seeing the pliers on our toaster oven knob? When will one of our guests fall through our splintering pleather too-good-to-be-true-Eames-style bar chairs? When, O when will we ever replace our Ikea ready-framed wall art?

Let's remember how we got here: It began with scotch tape and coloring pages with one spasm of pencil in one torn corner we could not part with. Milk drained out of sippy cups, while leaky children mocked upholstery protection lifetime guarantees. Pee splattered with abandon upon drywall. Guys were drawn in ink in places no guys belonged. We stopped seeing shoe prints on walls, toothpaste on comforters, and whatever in God's name sullied the shower curtain waffle weave.

That doesn't make sense. It was wrong. It was irresponsible.

We've curio-ed a broken VCR for five years. Only one cloudy low-ball resides where a set of eight once sparkled. Our bathmats have become hazmats, our bedroom is feng-shcrewed. Those are the facts.

The message is simple. Stop not seeing shit. We can do better.

Each time I look at our shredded mattress cover, I’m reminded that our domestic destiny is stitched together like when I used to taper my own jeans with safety pins. No one built this single family residence on their own, and no one—not even the youngest two males present—destroyed it on their own. This house is great because we arranged it together. This nest is great because we worked as a team. This crib is great because we get each others backs and can finally get most of the pee in the toilet most of the time.

And if we hold fast to that truth, in this moment of trial, there is no challenge too great; no mission too hard--no ceramic planters on our stoop we can't dump after three years of welcoming our guests with potted dirt and weeds. As long as we are joined in common purpose, as long as we maintain our common resolve, and get more gorgeous furniture from my mom like that buffet she gave us last month, as long as we could maybe register again--our journey moves forward, and our future is hopeful, and the state of our Union will always be strong and decreasingly smell of urine.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless Our Imig Home.

13 Seconds of My Family

 Beware the retractable key chain...


(if you can't see the video, click here.) 

Jayne of In Jayne's World Congratulations, you win a copy of  Keija Parssinen's The Ruins of Us!! Email me your mailing address and she'll get it to you. Thanks everyone for your comments!

Dear Ann Krinsky Age Twenty

A version of this letter appeared as a feature for Brava Magazine last spring. My girlfriends are especially on my mind and in my heart right now, so I thought I’d share it…

Dear Ann Krinsky Age Twenty rehearsing a monologue,

How are you Ann Krinsky? The UW theater department smells exactly the same 17 years later—of burnt microwave popcorn, bare feet, and creative desperation. Nice suspender pants, by the way. Very The Limited-does-Annie Hall.

I see you working diligently on your audition monologue for The Fantasticks. **Spoiler alert** you get the part. In fact, we could name 1994-1996 Krinsky Princesses On Ice for all the ingénues you play. Get this--in five short years you win the ultimate princess role of Bride to Ben-The-Drummer.

Ann Krinsky you look a bit wan. Yes, I said wife in five years. Believe me, he's not ready for you yet either. A redheaded non-Jew, not-quite-Democrat, Ben-The-Drummer currently resides in a Colorado basement. I only tell you this because I want you to know your life's most meaningful roles require no audition or casting. Not set to a score, or played out on a stage--your most prized roles are within the ensemble of your family and your life-long friends.

Your roommates in the apartment on West Washington Avenue--Erin and Maria--and the rest of the girls from your grade school group maintain your friendship over decades. Together you traverse career fall out, the quarter-century-freak out, career purgatory, pregnancies lost, new babies, no sleep, sick parents, marriage, graduate school, divorce, bad haircuts and biological clocks. You form a Greek Chorus of sorts, calming the Medea-of-the week from slaying her young with Turn on PBS Kids, I'll be right over with a bottle of wine.

I realize this might not resonate with you right now—as your biggest priority is perfecting your Cockney dialect, but these women become a constant in your life. They serve as your compass as you strive to put a label on Who You Are. How I wish you could know now how unimportant that is compared with who you're with.

You will spend years questioning yourself and your actress-turned-sales executive-turned-social-worker-slash-mother-turned-blogger-slash-writer-path. Yes, sales executive. In five years not only do you wed, but you also begin a career in advertising sales. Am I scaring the suspenders off of you, Ann Krinsky Age Twenty? Have faith. These skills you learn in theater bring you far—taking direction, improvisation, and especially the use of eyeshadow to make your nose appear smaller. I just killed your theater career dreams, didn't I. Don't cry Ann Krinsky Age Twenty. Use this devastation in Shakespeare class. You need it. Your childhood fared too comfortably for this serious acting business. Save those tears for ad sales. You'll be selling Dr. Laura. I'll leave it at that.

Let me take your shoulders and look you in the eye, and after we play a round of mime “mirrors” I will say yes Ann Krinsky Age Twenty you have talent. You have a lovely singing voice and stage personality, but the friendships you began in childhood, and that you keep rehearsing, become some of your most beautiful arias, highest hitch-kicks and most moving soliloquies. You never win a Tony, but you win an Erin, a Maria, a Megan—in fact, too many beloved friends to list. Competing for and winning Leading Lady feels so important to you right now, but the light these women bring to your life endures much longer than any spotlight.

These friends love you and celebrate you for being Ann Krinsky, they never leave you craving more applause, better reviews, or the next gig. Simply, your friendships nudge you toward authentic Ann, and away from actress Ann. This does not mean you never find yourself on the stage again, only that you need not find a stage to find yourself.

Well, I've got to go pick up your future children at school, and you--to your vocal glides. Some quick advice: Take full advantage of your roommates' wardrobes because you will never live with such an array of clothing again. Also, dance the gold unitard off of your role in A Chorus Line. Soon you'll move to Chicago and go to your first professional musical theater dance audition, after which you will change your resume from actor/singer/dancer to actor/singer/moves well and ultimately to actor/singer/…claps.

Fondly,

Ann Imig, Age 37

***

“The Ruins of Us” BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Today is the release date for Keija Parssinen’s stunning debut novel The Ruins of Us. I had the privilege of previewing The Ruins of Us because I have a very fancy friend  who happens to play chalupa to Keija’s chimichanga (Translation: Tarja —author of The Flying Chalupa—is Keija Parssinen’s sister).

Dudes? Keija writes literature. I spend a lot of time bulldozing through contemporary humor, and I loved settling into her elegant prose and fascinating plot line (my heart was pounding so hard I had to put it down at one point—no lie).  In celebration of her release date I'll pick a winner at random from the comments and Keija will send you a copy (Continental US only please).

The novel is set in Saudia Arabia on an oil compound—first read a bit about Keija and Tarja’s upbringing as expats in Saudi Arabia here.

Here are just the top three Editorial reviews posted on Amazon:

“A compelling debut.” (Marie Claire (UK) )

“Parssinen’s gripping, well-crafted debut tracks the awakening of a Saudi Arabian family to the dangers that lurk within. . . . Parssinen deftly illuminates Saudi Arabian life through a family locked in a battle over morality and cultural chasms.” (Publishers Weekly )

“Parssinen convincingly inhabits the shifting moods of her characters. . . . Throughout, her prose is artful without being showy, forced, or melodramatic, and her knowledge of Saudi culture informs the story. . . . A fine debut.” (Kirkus Reviews )

Congratulations, Keija!!

My Shortcomings Catalog: A Focus on Musical Constipation

I have a long list of shortcomings. Not curious about things I’m not already passionate about, I’m also ignorant about geography, history, and most of The Important Information people learn in school. This, despite the fact I performed well in my studies in excellent schools through 19th grade. I pick at myself, the pantry, and my husband when anxious. I learn only enough about technology to get by (see: my yahoo account). I expect my children to hurry when developmentally they’re programmed to stop getting dressed at underwear and one sock, in order to play with a delivery-pizza plastic center hubcap “sensei” dictating a multi-level journey to his plastic hubcap protégé. In Wolof.

Then comes the problem of music. It rarely occurs to me to put any on, unless I’m in the car. If you only think of music when you’re in the car, your choices become naturally selected: radio with a crappy signal, two scratched “Music Together” children’s music class companion CDs known to impair your driving more than texting (what with the all the triangle and wood block), and whatever decent music your husband left in the car during the past decade. Right now it’s Dylan. See how I said “Dylan” instead of “Bob Dylan” like I meant serious in-group musical business?  I nearly spelled him Bob Dillan, honest to God.

When someone else turns on music in my company I think Wow. Music... I should play that! A year ago I discovered Pandora and felt musically Roto-rooted for an invigorating three weeks. Then I lost the password. Password loss indifference falls just below musical constipation in my catalog of shortcomings.

My iPod is so busy updating free NPR podcasts it wouldn’t recognize a riff if Terri Gross shredded it herself. Riff! Shred! Serious in-group musical business.

Worse even, Husband now suffers musical-constipation-by proxy. He played drums in shows all over Chicago in the 1990s: The Double Door, The Metro, The House of Blues—Billy Corgan even spent a day recording his band! (Name dropping comes after password loss indifference, but above repeating things I’ve said that made one person laugh once in my catalog of shortcomings). When we met, he lived out west and still loved Phish. In Chicago we both traveled a Rufus Wainwright phase together, and then he got really into Jazz on Vinyl. “Vinyl!” Serious. In group. Musical Business.

I love music. I Swear. I sing along with most every song that comes on our crappy car radio—at least the chorus, with the wrong lyrics, and in perfect harmony which would be a lot less embarrassing if I were being ironic. I love to get on a dance floor and get DOWN. But I am musically constipated and I blame showtunes. I recently heard that the music we most remember/identify with is that which we listened to at age 14. Did I read that on your blog Nancy Davis Kho? Well at age 14 I basically wanted to be the next Disney Ingénue more than I wanted a cruise to Acapulco AND a real boyfriend to give me a Black Hills Gold heart-shaped garnet ring. But instead of a ravishing Jewish Ingénue, Disney gave us Fievel, and I listened to Somewhere Out There on repeat and ruined my musical motivation forever.

I need a musical enema. Things have become so dismal I’ve found myself humming along to the Super Mario Galaxy Official Soundtrack by Mario Galaxy Orchestra. I know sometimes drunk drivers or frail elders have a hard time handing over the keys, but I’m begging you.  I have good taste, I just lack initiative. Someone take our iPods. Take over my Spotify account, because I don’t want to learn to use it. If you’ll re-constitute our musical stylings, I swear I’ll take better note of the passwords. I’m serious this time. “Stop picking” and “grow learned” are already among my New Year’s Resolutions.

We Are Not International Coffee People

Organic. Fair-trade. Artisan. Hard foam. No foam. Triple Lutz Al Pacino with room. Today's gourmet coffee obsession focuses on supersonic Mach-3 beans, and an order as complex and individualized as a strand of your DNA--requiring a Bachelor of Barista.

Remember when coffee considered “fancy” came flavored and scooped out of a rectangular tin? It wasn’t just coffee. Actually, it wasn’t even coffee, but one part coffee-per-million Swiss mocha cremains. Whatever International Coffee lacked in taste, our generational palate was too young and ignorant to notice the difference. Come to think of it, maybe no real-life adults drank International Coffee. Maybe, for those of us with the inherited coffee gene, it allowed us to feel coffee mature--bridging the chasm between coffee ice cream and our parents' Folgers. Anyway, people didn't drink International Coffee for the taste of the coffee, but for that International Coffee Moment.

If you watched enough 1980s television, you know that International Coffee People didn't swig from a reusable BPA-free pony keg on their morning commute, but rather imbibed with slow, smiling, celebratory sips from a 6-ounce porcelain teacup—carefree pinkies raised—among their girlfriends and wearing freshly popped collars or a “still fits!” old prom dress. Whether the kids had each other bound and gagged in the attic, or your boss held on to your shoulder pads a little too longingly that afternoon, International Coffee promised soft light, intimacy, laughter, and perfectly ven-diagrammed eyeshadow. World-weary? Busted by your parole officer? Having another psychotic break? International Coffee brought serenity and festive banter. Just take a load off with your spouse or gal pals (and your most intimate confidant the camera man/television viewing audience) sip some International Coffee, and start giggling over the new love of your life— Double Dutch Chocolate now only 70 calories with 100% Nutrasweet. International Coffee became the Calgon, Take Me Away! of beverages.

My girlfriend told me that when she and her husband were looking for their first home, she would relate to each room according to beverage; Wow, I can totally see myself sitting in that breakfast nook with my morning coffee or This porch swing begs for an afternoon cup of tea. No, she did not say to herself Let's spend 19 hours painting the nursery and then watch our 8 month-old spontaneously combust during a diaper change, while I cry into my wine, or I can just imagine myself chain-smoking in this bathtub after 17 sleepless months with a toddler and an infant.

Then it hit me.

We are a generation trying forever in vain to recreate International Coffee moments. As we age and spawn, we're forced to marry the reality of our cat-puked stained carpet and pliers-where-a-knob-once-was toaster ovens with all those manufactured moments 1980s television buried into our young psyches.

In my home, when our kids’ bedtimes drone on, the television audience won't see teaspoons stirring in bone china, feet cozying up on ottomans, and chuckling between my Husband and I. We will not be freshly-creased and belted at the waist. You will likely find us without appropriate undergarments. “We” in fact might mean my laptop and I hermiting in the bedroom under two down comforters—my husband in a hotel in a distant city where consultants live four days per week. After the children finally settle (due only to Threat level Code Fuchsia: Never Wii Again), and on nights when my Husband lives in our house, he might emerge after 45-minutes of power-leaf-blowing outside or any variety of white-noise aggression-reducing activities in the basement to meet my laptop and I in the bedroom. Depending on our mood, we may engage in passionate couple's blank stares followed by tantric meal planning and school pickup/drop-off coordinating. If any beverages are consumed, they are of the category only permitted to people over 21.

With the exception of reality-TV personalities, most of us have grown and come to realize there is no camera and no viewing audience (thank God). While poignant moments with loved ones and lively conversation among friends occurs, it doesn't typically coincide with anything freeze-dried, flavored, and in a quadrilateral. Maybe in adulthood our generation—in creating and living our own authentic moments—expects more actual coffee from our coffee. As we come to grips with the fact that we are not International Coffee People, but exhausted fallible middle-aged people with unwanted hair, living at best among happy--if sticky--shambles, we at least want real coffee. We want good coffee, strong coffee and plenty of it.

New Years Resolutions 1990!

By THE HIGH SCHOOL COLUMNIST WHO IS GOING TO TURN THIS MUTHA OUT IN ‘90!

You are in High School now, Ann Krinsky, and High School means no more bullcrap. Do you understand??? Plus this is an entire new decade and it is just time already. You are no longer a frosh and it is just time!

So, I the first and only Ann Krinsky ever in the history of the universe do solemnly swear to these resolutions:

Tonight I’m going to party like it’s 1999! HA. J/K J/K Just kidding.

Seriously. Seriously now. I’m totally serious.

Stretch every morning and every night or you will never finally be able to do the splits. At least one side! COME ON!

Never comment on people’s jeans when they don’t tight-roll. You ruined your chances forever with Mike when you guys were on the risers and you mentioned he really needed to tight-roll his cuffs. WAY TO GO ANN. He was the only new and remotely cute guy and he was even in choir and now he hates you. But in my defense they practically looked like bell bottoms. Still. Remember in Less Than Zero when Jami Gertz spits at herself in the bathroom mirror because she is totally disgusted with herself once again? That is what you should do if you ever tell another soul to tight-roll his jeans. You have been warned, Ann Krinsky! You have been warned.

Remember not to flip your hair on the first floor. Sharon Carter and those girls almost kicked your ass last time.

Please finally understand how to get zit free.

Start an En Vogue group. Everyone said how awesome you and Sarah sounded in your duet of Somewhere Out There when we both sang out to the audience as individuals and not as Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt lezzies to each other. It is time to focus on your singing career. The West High stage is not Broadway, but even if it kind of is and even if you’re probably definitely talented enough, West High does not last forever! THANK GOD except there is no Fine Arts Week in real life! Oh MY God I am basically freaking myself out now. OH WOW Thanks so much Resolutions, NOT! (You so are welcome, Ann Krinsky!) HA HA HA J/K J/K J/K

If Jami Gertz played a model in Less Than Zero and sometimes people say you look like Jami Gertz, maybe that means you could even model. But all the cute boys want to kiss her in the movie, and no one wants to kiss you except every single nerd on the planet.

THAT REMINDS ME. Tell Craig he has to decide if you are friends or more than friends. Stop waiting around forever Ann. Camp is not reality. You need to move on. I know I need to move on but I cannot get over him because HE IS SO HOT. Like Ed Ollager hot, but nicer and Jewish, and not on drugs and lives in Minnesota. Also Craig would never stick his tongue down your throat on a ski hill like Ed Ollager and laugh mean like it was a joke. But actually I wish Craig would and why won’t he. CRAIG GROW UP AND ADMIT THE FEELINGS BETWEEN US. WE ARE LIKE THE PERFECT COUPLE. WHAT THE HELL? “Ooh, such obscene language from such a pristine girl” (From The Breakfast Club, duh.)

Don’t eat your cheese bagel so fast and then beg off everyone else. Same with cinnamon rolls. And gum.

OKAY! HAVE A GREAT YEAR! Now I have to go conjugate my Espanol. Back to life, Back to reality, However do you want me (CRAIG) However do you need me (CRAIG)!

Love,

Jami Gertz. I wish!

###

Thank you SheKnows for recognizing me as one of the Moms That Will Make You Laugh Out Loud. Funny is the goal. Actually, not killing the blog in its sleep is the goal, then funny. Anyway, I’m honored. A lot.

Holiday Yoga: Straw That Broke The Camel's Backbend

The holiday version of a 2009 tandem post with one of my first blog buddies Braja the famous blogging yogini, (and soon-to-be-released international book author). Go visit her blog next to read her corresponding post, okay?



Downward Facing Jowls: A non-express-line asana

Worrier Pose: Knit brow, tense jaw, beat chest, spit over shoulder. Watch out for the litter of infants in Santa hats behind you.

Childish Pose: Hands on hips, jutted lower-lip, eye-roll.

Oh-Joy Breathing: Deep sighs alternating with atonal passive-aggressive Skating Away humming.

Oy-Vey Breathing: Same as above, but shake head and downshift to atonal passive-aggressive Havanagila

Straw That Broke The Camel’s Backbend: Curl up in the middle of the aisle and alternate laughing and crying hysterically. Now is a good time to steal some M&Ms from the bottom candy rack.

Son Salutation: Proceed directly home. Turn on PBS kids for your dependents. Salute. Proceed directly to...

Chattarunga: Phone a friend.

Mountain Pose: Pause momentarily next to laundry hamper. Go directly to some peppermint bark.

Unhappy Mommy Pose: Get in bed, scream BITE ME ONE BILLION DOLLAR HOT WHEELS WALL TRACKS THAT DON'T STICK TO THE WALL mantra into pillow until falling into deep sleep.

Bridge Pose: Grab some retirees and gather around the card table. This is the dream sequence of your practice.

Plank: Breastfeed two boys. Ween. Look at profile in the mirror. You are wide awake now, unfortunately, and in need of some elves for your shelf.

Inversion: Twist someone’s words (an excellent couples pose!)

And finally a resting pose…shhhhhhhut-the-vassan-up-you-were-supposed-to-be-asleep-an-hour-ago

Finish with a cool chamomile and lavender scented Seratonin Specific Reuptake Inhibator.

photos compliments of freedigitalphotos.net

***

Giveaway Winners Announced! Make sure to read all the hilarious "Please Never Buy Me That" items in the comments. Thanks for playing, guys!

1. ElisaMarie you won Ketchup Is A Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves! Email Robin at robinschicks@gmail.com with your mailing address.

2. CommaGirl you won Wanted Cat! Email Marinka at marinkanyc@gmail.com with your mailing address.

3. The Empress you won the LTYM T-shirt! Email me your size, which style, and your mailing address please.  annimig@yahoo.com

Happy Holidays, Dear People!!