Kristen Brakeman - Is That The Shirt You’re Wearing?: a memoir in essays
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IS
THAT
THE SHIRT YOURE WEARING?
a memoir in essays
Kristen Hansen Brakeman
Copyright 2017 Kristen Hansen Brakeman.
All rights reserved.
First Edition
Published in the United States by Tidal Press.
Learn more at www.TidalPress.com
This book is essentially memoir.
It reflects the authors present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and identifying details have been changed (to protect the privacy of individuals), some events have been compressed (because long stories are boooooring),
and some dialogue has been recreated (because memory has gaps).
Several of the essays have been previously published; see back of the book for a full list.
Follo w the author at www.KristenBrakeman.com
Author photograph by Stephanie Wiley
Cover design by Laura S. Jones
ISBN: 978-0-9974009-4-6
EARLY PRAISE
Kristen Brakemans writing makes me laugh, makes me cry and makes me think. For me, and lots of women who read and relate to Brakeman, thats a perfect trifecta. She taps into womens lives with a sharp eye and a sharp wit. She understands her community and her audience. Her slice-of-life essays deliver on all counts.
- Lian Dolan - Co-host/Creator of Satellite Sisters and LA Times bestselling author
I love Kristens essays - she never fails to make me laugh!
- Kit Hoover, Co-host of Access Hollywood Live
Kristen makes me laugh, but more importantly, has me feeling Im not alone. Is That The Shirt Youre Wearing? helps me cope with the daily drama of being a mother of three.
- Michelle Tuzee, Co-anchor, ABC 7, Los Angeles
Brakemans delicious essays feel so true that you start off thinking, Yep, I know that feeling. But then you laugh or cry and end up saying, Hey, I never thought of it that way!
- Amy Goldman Koss, author
Apparently, Brakeman lives in the cushions of our couch, for how else does she latch onto the universal truths of our lives like this? The secret: Her life is our life. Only funnier. This new book belongs on the shelf between
Bombeck and Barry.
- Chris Erskine, Los Angeles Times
For Forrest
Summer of My Discontent
Summertime is always the best of what might be.
- Charles Bowden
Summertime blows.
- Me
Ten weeks remain
Its 9:00AM and my captors are still sleeping. If I want to escape, this would be the perfect opportunity. I pour another cup of coffee and fantasize about my getaway: I could just grab the keys, sprint for the door, and then drive, as far as our beat-up Volvo station wagon would take me.
But, save for the sound of baby birds outside, the house where Im kept is so blissfully quiet that Im lulled into passivity. Instead of leaving, I pick up the newspaper, one of my few links to the outside world. Im halfway through the summer movie preview section when I hear a distant voice.
Am I being rescued? Help! Im in the kitchen. Save me, whoever you are!
But then: Mom! I need you in the bathroom!
Damn. I missed my chance. Now I have to go sit in the bathroom while my youngest daughter pees. Why? Because some dopey kid at school told her there were ghosts that live in the bathroom and they only come out of the mirrors when youre alone. I may have to take a contract out on that kid. Oh yes. He needs to pay.
My three daughters love and look forward to summer vacation all year long, yet I dread it like the plague. Wait, thats not quite right, something much worse than the plague. I dread it like another tired plotline of mistaken identities on another tired rerun of Disneys Suite Life On Deck.
Summer has just begun and Im already counting the days until its over. I know I shouldnt do it. Some time ago when I was a teenager a wise old woman (I think she was twenty- six at the time) told me to stop wishing my life away. Over the years Ive heard her words echo in my mind, yet Ive never once obeyed them.
By 11:00AM my other two captors are finally awake. I
half-heartedly suggest an outing to the zoo or, more laughably, the museum.
Lets go see that new mummy exhibit, I say, already knowing their response.
But Im so tired, the 15-year-old protests while lying on the couch in her pajamas, staring inexplicably at a black TV screen.
Tired? You slept for fourteen hours. How can you be tired? The 12-year-old chimes in from the adjacent couch, Yeah, Im tired too, and I dont like dead bodies. Besides, who wants to look at a bunch of people lying there, not doing anything?
I cant imagine, I answer.
Im so bored, the youngest announces as she racks up points killing zombies on the computer.
The two older ones, bodies splayed end to end, begin to compare the shape of their toes. Mine are symmetrical and beautiful. Yours look like baby sausages.
Its going to be a loooong summer.
I spent bucks on my daughters high school yearbook, yet when it finally arrived a couple weeks ago I was banned from reading it. Hey, you cant read what my friends write, my daughter said as she ripped the book from my hands.
Well, darn. There is nothing more fascinating then clever quips from 15-year-olds. Youre so sweet! Text me. H.A.G.S!
Riveting.
In the few seconds I spent flipping through the pages I was amazed by how big the darn things had gotten. Mostly because of all the parent congratulatory ads they have now - Brittany, your Mom and Dad clearly love you more than your friends parents because we spent $250.00 on this full-page ad. The rest of the bulk was from the endless photos of sports teams, clubs, and the yearbook staff itself, of course.
They had the biggest section in my yearbook too, I told my daughters.
Wait, you had yearbooks way back then? my eldest asked.
Yes, we had yearbooks, I said through clinched teeth, but instead of photos, our likenesses were chiseled on tablets and our names were read by the town crier.
Really? Yes, really.
I instantly regretted my stupid admission. Once my kids knew I had a yearbook hidden away somewhere, they wouldnt rest until they had unearthed it. I made up excuses.
I didnt know where it was. It was buried under a stack of lumber. It was locked away in a safe, guarded by snakes, buried under a stack of lumber. I even tried the truth; it wasnt worth looking at because I was a shy nerd and there was only one picture of me in it anyway.
But it was no use. Soon I was out in the garage, brushing off rat droppings from the plastic bin that housed my childhood memories. While fighting off gagging, I began to have a change of heart. Perhaps it would be fun to look at my yearbooks with my kids? It might be good for them to see me as a person who was once their age, and not just their mom. Also, I had a reunion approaching and I was still trying to decide whether I should attend. These yearbooks might give me the sentimental nudge that I needed.
The kids grabbed the books and within seconds hilarity ensued. Look at that girls hair! And look at that guys shirt! Didnt they have mirrors back then?
Who could blame them? Between the frizzy perms and the shoulder pads, the eighties were indeed a train wreck of style and fashion.
My kids found the one picture of me. Even more laughter.
But then they found the handwritten messages from my friends. Oh dear God. I had forgotten about those. This was indeed a parenting mistake of colossal proportions.
My youngest daughter began to read out loud, Kristen, I loved hanging out with you at Dianes sharing Lowenbraus and Cheez-its!
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