Kogan - Someone will be with you shortly: notes from a perfectly imperfect life

I SUPPOSE YOURE WONDERING why Ive gathered you all here today. Wait a secondwho starts a book like that? Why am I suddenly channeling Agatha Christie? Okay, lets not panic. I can break set, I can shift gears.

Maybe something like this: Attention everyone who was ever mean to me at Alice M. Birney Junior High (that means you, Randy Herschman, Greg Silver, Judy McMahon). I have a word processor now, and Im not afraid to use it

My name is Lisa Kogan, and Im a forty-nine-year-old single woman who maintains that life is a fragile bit of luck in a world based on chance, that Michelle Obama should be cloned, that Bernie Madoff is the devil, that nobodys grown a decent tomato since 1963. What else? I live in New York City because its the only place that would take me. I work at O magazine, which sounds vaguely glamorousbut mostly involves explaining why I cant get tickets to The Oprah Winfrey Show for my podiatrists cousin. I have spent the best years of my life growing out bangs, searching for a good bra, and wishing I were skinny. (Heres a tip for anybody whos looking to drop a few pounds: Wishing doesnt do it.) I dont understand money, football, corporate culture, or the computer Im typing on. I used to think the world wasnt all that complicatedjust add water and livebut along came AIDS and crystal meth and Rush Limbaugh and I guess I grew up. Still, Im deeply nostalgic for that time when you had to walk across a room to change channels and there was no such thing as a spy satellite capable of spotting the precancerous mole on my inner thigh.

Have I left anything out? Lets see, my recent apartment renovation consisted of turning over the sofa cushions, then realizing they looked better the other way. I think every human being deserves a great mattress, a comfortable pair of shoes, and a very smart shrinkthe rest is gravy. Its been a long time since Ive believed in God, but now that Ive put that in print, Im scared that this God I dont believe in will be mad at me. I get scared a lot. Im scared the ozone layer is disappearing. Im scared one of those horrible superstores will be coming soon to a neighborhood near me. Im scared my parents are getting old. Im scared my upper arms are getting flabby. Im scared of lunch meat. And Im frightened to death of ambivalent men.

For a long time, I had a type: dark, intense, just a touch remoteyou know the ones I mean, right? They dont want you, but they want to make good and sure that you want them. At the end of most dates, thered be a quick peck on the cheek and a simple Well, it was nice not getting to know you. Id actually find myself tempted to reassure the guy that the only thing hed given away was his name, rank, and serial number. My hope was that this sort of man would fall in love with me. My prayer was that I would get over him. My wish was that we had never laid eyes on each other.

Then, just when I decided I could have a fine life as what the wickedly funny Wendy Wasserstein used to call a bachelor girl, Johannes appeared with his slow-dance eyes and his easy laughand ever so gently, he crushed my resistance like grapes into Cabernet. Except for a couple of bouts of stomach flu and a few genuinely ugly arguments, there hasnt been a day in nearly seventeen years when I havent wanted to inhale him.

But theres a twist.

In order to share custody of his son, Johannes lives on another continent. For those of you playing the home game, that would be eight-thousand miles, nine lost-luggage situations, and a six-hour time difference away. We are together roughly every two monthsmaking us the envy of most of our married friends. But theres another twist.

Her name is Julia Claire Labuschand shes our seven-year-old daughter. Its a pretty name, dont you think?

When I was six months pregnant I dodged the name-question with my mother. Gwynff, I said.

Gwynff? my mother repeated.

Thats right, Im going to name your one and only granddaughter Gwynff.

Silence. Is that an actual word? she asked calmly.

Yes, I believe its Welsh for Were not telling people the name weve chosen, I answered with equal calm.

Middle name? attempting nonchalance.

Nosferatu, attempting to preserve privacy of middle-name decision.

Ava is a nice name, she said, floating a trial balloon.

Yes, youve mentioned that, I said, bursting it.

I mean, not that you have to go with Ava or anythingLauren, Emma, Rachel, they all work.

Gwynff, I said.

My mother and I go back nearly half a century. It took a lot of time, but Ive trained her well. She no longer tells me my paintings hang too low or my hemlines hang too high. She doesnt suggest I get my head out of the clouds or the hair out of my eyes. In exchange for which I refrain from complaining bitterly that she served broiled chicken with a side of Birds Eye frozen green beans virtually every night from 1974 to the bicentennial. She doesnt throw my inability to parallel park at me, and Ive quit addressing letters home to the woman who forced me to wear a coat over my Halloween costume. Weve managed to forgive each others frailties, to accept that shes neurotic and Im, well, even more neurotic. We understand that I will never wear anything that involves appliqu and she will never eat anything that involves calories. Its a fairly complex truce but it generally works for us, and when it doesnt, we moan to our respective shrinks and live to love another day. Others are less fortunate.

My friend Robin insists that the next time her mother decides to slip her phone number to a divorced orthodontist from Great Neck, she fully intends to fake her own death. I applaud Robins creative problem solving and hereby volunteer to show up at her phony memorial service and repeatedly sob, Oh, dear God, I guess all that blind dating finally did her in.

They say good fences make good neighbors, but I look at the mothers and daughters I know and find myself wondering if the fence must be electrified to keep ones mother from straying into dangerous territory. I kept thinking, will this little person whos currently occupying space in my uterus have to one day line the borders of her heart with razor wire to stop me from chipping away at her choice of laundry detergent and footwear? How do we keep from becoming trespassers in each others lives?

I ask my mother about this, but all she says is that everything will be fine. She insists Ill know what Im doing, and that if I dont, little Gwynff Nosferatu will train me. Her vague response annoys me to no end. Im looking for some hard-core mothering here, for a Campbells commercial in which were wearing chunky hand-knit sweaters and sharing deep truths over piping hot bowls of tomato rice soup. I want her to brush my hair and call me Cookie and say the kind of things you read in Hallmark cardsbut thats just not my mothers style, nor was it her mothers and, for better or for worse, Im pretty sure it wont be mine, either. Instead, Ill leave Julia Claire irritating phone messages suggesting she switch laundry detergents and invest in better shoes. And because Im a writer, Ill probably write her all the things that my mother has said to me over the yearsif not in word, then in deed: Always try. Always care. Always believe in what youre doing. Always respect yourself. Always know that you are loved. And always remember how happy you made me just by showing up for the big dance.

There was a lovely old Warren Zevon songMutineer, I think its calledplaying the morning Jules showed up. The song is about rocking the boat and venturing into uncharted territory and bearing witness to a life outside your own. At least I think thats what its about. To be honest, I couldnt hear very much above the sound of my own shrieking. I cant take it anymore, I wailed. Really, how much longer? Andrei Rebarber, obstetrician extraordinaire, took a quick peak between my flailing legs and deadpanned in a voice that struck me as altogether too serene, given that I had just attempted to kick his face in, Someone will be with you shortly. Story of my life, Doc, story of my life.