Kelly Corrigan - Tell Me More: Stories About the 12 Hardest Things Im Learning to Say

Tell Me More is a work of nonfiction. Nonetheless, some of the names and personal characteristics of the individuals involved have been changed in order to disguise their identities. Any resulting resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Copyright 2018 by Kelly Corrigan

Reading group guide copyright 2019 by Penguin Random House LLC

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

R ANDOM H OUSE and the H OUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

R ANDOM H OUSE R EADER S C IRCLE & Design is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING - IN - PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Corrigan, Kelly, author.

Title: Tell me more, stories about the 12 hardest things Im learning to say / Kelly Corrigan.

Description: New York: Random House, [2018]

Identifiers: LCCN 2017023115 | ISBN 9780399588396 (paperback) | ISBN 9780399588389 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Corrigan, Kelly | Middle-aged womenUnited StatesBiography. | Conduct of life. | Adulthood. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | SELF-HELP / Motivational & Inspirational.

Classification: LCC CT275.C7875 A3 2018 | DDC 305.244/2dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017023115

Ebook ISBN9780399588389

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Title-page art: iStockphoto.com

Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for ebook

Cover design: Pete Garceau

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There was no real reason for it to fall apart that morning. And, in fact, it didnt. I did.

I could say it was because my dadwhom I adored to the point of absurdityhad died sixty-eight days before. I could say that watching him shrink into silence did me in, that grief bled me dry, that I was no longer a match for ordinary family life, that my radio station had lost the signal, the drone of static broken only by the occasional reception of two clear thoughts: Hes gone and Please give him back.

But the truth is that Im always teetering between a mature acceptance of lifes immutables and a childish railing against the very same. In the time it takes to get the mail, I can slide from sanguine and full of purpose to pissed off and fuming. As for perspective, theres a Hertz customer service rep in Des Moines who could release a tape of my recent feedback that would make the Internet break. All of which is not to say that I cant spot the difference between trivial and tragic. I can. I do. I genuflect in gratitude for my health, my husband, my kids, my central heating. I just cant stay bowed down. I keep popping back up, saying things like, Does anyone elses back hurt? In those moments, Im not that much closer to maintaining an adult frame of reference than I was the day I got my first period.

Speaking of menstruation, lack of perspective, and fits of irrationality, I have two teenage daughters. Georgia is sixteen, with Vidal Sassoon hair, almond-brown eyes, flat feet, and one killer dimple. She likes lacrosse and Snapchat and prefers precalculus and chemistry to the humanities, where there are too many possible answers. Her interest in me hinges on allowance and rides; offering more, like an opinion, visibly chafes her. Her independence tortures and impresses me. She is a world-class procrastinator who brushes her wet hair in the car on the way to the party and waits until we pull up to practice to put on her cleats. She is cool on a dance floor and sometimes, when shes telling me a story, I am as captivated by her as I have ever been by another human being.

Claire is fourteen, has blond hair that turns brown in the winter, size 12 shoes, dark blue eyes she gets from her father, and a smile that can be seen from space. She plays volleyball and basketball because we make her, lacrosse because she likes being outside in the spring. Without our interference, her extracurricular hours would be dedicated to the lyrics of Lin-Manuel Miranda, decorating baked goods with special nozzles she found on Amazon, and throwing theme parties, six a year, pegged to the holidays. She designs her own invitations, finds snack and dcor ideas on BuzzFeed, and plugs in a $14 disco light to energize the dance floor that is our deck. In fifth grade, she got every single answer right on a standardized test that was given over four days, but that doesnt mean she can spell skedule or arguement. We like to think she might be some sort of creative genius, but anything is possible.

When theyre together, the girls are either watching reruns of The Office, ignoring each other in favor of whatevers on their cellphone, or squabbling over how to say Wingardium Leviosa. Sometimes, the way they go back and forth reminds me of the way Edward and I bicker, and I feel sure that if only we had modeled bipartisanship, our children would be better and happier. Once or twice a year, they do a Bollywood routine they learned from Just Dance and Im reminded of the days when being at home with each other was enough. When they do the Garth & Kat skit from Saturday Night Live, I dare to believe I can see the faint edges of a future friendship.

That leaves Edward, my husband. Growing up, he was told he looked like Robby Benson of Ice Castles. Now he gets Ben Stiller. His obsessions are swimming, having the proper gear for any occasion, ensuring that each person he comes in contact with has seen and fully appreciated all five seasons of The Wire, and the Golden State Warriors. He fanboys their impetuous power forward, Draymond Green, whom he calls Sack Tapper after Green kicked several players in the nuts during the 2016 playoffs. Other than taking upward of ten days to unpack a suitcase and nagging me about going to the dentist, Edward is fairly easy to live with. He is not afraid of the grocery store or the stove and helps me color the very back of my hair, painting my gray roots Medium Brown 5 with the mini plastic brush that comes with the kit. He is deeply rational, has work that matters to him, and almost always holds my hand as we fall asleep even though he doesnt really like holding hands.

Me, Im all over the place. I look like my dad, and like both the girls in different ways. My hair is naturally curly but not in the sexy beachy way. If I were a dog, Id be the kind thats easier to shave down than to groom. I have been told I have large teeth. Im soft, and getting softer, and my ass is less pumpkin than helipad. To pretend I care enough to fix these things, I exercise every Saturday morning with Edward. I slow down when my forehead starts to shineIm not a huge fan of showers. I wear the same clothes all week and often get past noon before putting on a bra or looking in the mirror. I prefer projects to jobs. Ive built furniture, been a photographer, and started a company. I am riddled with ideas, a dozen a day. My ambition waxes when I drink alcoholone skinny margarita can have me filing to run for state senateand wanes in the morning after the kids leave and I am alone with the work. The one absolutely good thing I do is volunteer for our local childrens hospital. Every Tuesday, from three p.m. to five p.m., I hold babies in the NICU.