Category: Inspiration // Cool

In which sometimes the universe helps you say yes

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

The thing I’ve basked in most since moving to Chicago from Columbus is the anonymity I have here. No one knows me in Chicago. I’m just one person in a crowd of many. One ant in the army, a pretzel in the party mix.

I know that’s unusual to say; don’t you want to be where everybody knows your name?

Well, therein lies our answer. I liked that no one knew me in Chicago because it made getting sober a lot easier. There were no expectations for who I was and how I would act.

No one in Ohio made me drink, of course, but it was hard to say no to “just one” when I had created the habit and reputation of being a party girl. I didn’t want to let anyone down, and you convince yourself you will by not drinking. At least when you’re a drunk. Codependency comes so easily for us!

I recognize that none of that matters and I what I needed to break through was why I had convinced myself I was Good Time Gina and couldn’t break free from that self-perpetuating idea. Nonetheless, moving to a new city was a relatively easy way to stack up some months of sobriety and then use them as the foundation for strength to even claw my way to that realization.

In Chicago, I didn’t care if anyone liked me. My move there wasn’t about them. It was about rehabbing a love and rehabbing myself.

Nearly a year and a half later, both of those things have come to fruition. No regrets, clearly, but I do find myself thinking sometimes, “Oh wow, I don’t really know anyone here except the person I came here for and the friends I met at work.”

That happens naturally as you get older. You settle in. Find one or two people who are worth your time and mostly just stick to them.

But I ain’t dead yet. And now that I know how and trust myself to hang out without wanting to drink, I’m ready to do it!

Getting myself to do that has proven difficult though. I think I’m an introvert who’s excellent at playing an extrovert. Which means, I make a lot of plans and never follow through. Then there’s that pesky monthly wave of depression.

Oh, and also, not being drunk means drunk conversations now bore the shit out of me. I want to talk the good stuff. Not share party stories. I’m so bad at small talk now.

Me at your kegger.

So imagine our surprise and, really, glee, when last Saturday Justin and I went out for an all-you-can-eat sushi date (gross in theory, delicious in reality) and found that a pair of our friends already had the same idea.

While we put our name in for a table, we heard our names being called from another one. We’d been “planning” double dates with this pair for as long as I’ve been living in Chicago, but we had yet to make it happen.

“Come sit with us!” they waved.

I think our first instinct was to politely decline and say something about not wanting to interrupt their date–or ours. I’m glad we did nothing of the sort. For the first time since I’ve moved here, it was really nice to not feel anonymous.

There was wine and gin on the table, BYOB, but I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t even think about it being there until we were out the door and on our separate ways, enveloped by the Chicago night. Alcohol finally appears to me in the way I think healthy drinkers see it: As secondary to the party as the food. It’s awesome when it’s there, but it’s not necessary.

Is this what coming out of a self-imposed hibernation feels like? I’m finally warming up to the city’s flesh and bone inhabitants, de-thawing into a wonderfully vulnerable little puddle that wants people to come and play.

As we shared dinner, sushi and stories, we discovered both of our date nights had been stalled in various ways to put us here, in the same obscure restaurant, at the same strange time, in a city where more than 2.7 million people could be roaming about.

What are the chances?

Here’s to no longer asking questions like that.

And saying yes more often with follow-through, no matter how shaky I feel.

Thanks for the kick in the pants, universe. And also for the sushi.

In sickness and in health, from memories do we part

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

The headache came first. On a Saturday afternoon, as innocent as a Cure song.

By Sunday I’m woozy. “Monday’s blue. Tuesday’s gray and Wednesday too. Thursday, I don’t care about you. It’s Friday, I’m in love.”

OK, but back to Wednesday.

By this point I had shut down almost entirely.

I had a full-on head cold, or probably the flu because it was complete with fever, nausea and exaltations to the Goddess that I would never do anything bad again if only my nose would drain itself of this hot gold mucus and allow me to breathe like a real person again.

This was the first time my husband of exactly one and a half months saw me so sick for such an extended period of time.

Though we lived together before being betrothed, it had never been during a bout of ol’ influenza.

During those illnesses of yesteryear, we’d typically give each other a middle-school-slow-dance-distance hug, a warm bowl of soup, and a shout to “Call if you need anything” on the way quickly out the door to our own, not-gross apartment.

It didn’t bother me that he was seeing me so absolutely unappealing. We’d seen each other at our most vulnerable long ago.

In fact, the scariest part about getting married wasn’t the wedding night or committing to each other for life, it was trusting one another with our money. Sharing bank accounts is the modern girl’s virginity, after all.

“Will you still love meeee tomoooooorrow – because today I spent way too much at Macy’s-there was a really good sale tho and we should go back asap because coats are eighty percent off.”

That’s how that song would go if it were written in 2017.

But here we were: Me sick, him catching it, and us together … living our “In sickness and in health” vow IRL. I really thought we had nothing left to learn about each other.

Incorrect.

For example, I learned that it’s possible for me to smell his stanky dried saliva on a shared pillow and not bitch about it once, and instead just roll over, mentally adding “wash sheets” to our to-do list.

I also learned that as I tend to skew into helpless whiny adult-baby territory when I don’t feel good, he turns into a no-nonsense Polish grandmother who loves me but is … whatever is Polish for “completely sick of my shit.”

The more I refused to help myself, the more he helped but also gave me lectures. While gently covering my burnt-out nose and chapped lips with Vaseline, for example, he gave a long-winded speech about not putting dirty tissues on the nightstand like I had been doing.

I stared back in awe that one person could have so much air in their lungs!

I also thought I had nothing else to learn about myself. But this infection was a monster and a scholar, ready to teach my sorry ass.

So, I work from home as a copywriter and I had an important client presentation to make via phone call on Thursday. At this point I was on the upswing but still ticking by at only about 70 percent.

Though I felt capable of faking coherency, I had been bequeathed a new sickness gift: A voice that was nearly gone.

When I dialed into my team line before we called the client, I managed to croak out a wimpy “Hello.”

My teammates on the other line burst into laughter. A loving laughter, at how pathetic I sounded and how they thought I should just go back to bed, but laughter no less.

I laughed too but told them I was going to go on mute and just jump in if there was a client question only I could answer.

Something inside my head—and not just the mucus buildup—made me feel like my scratchy, nearly nonexistent voice made me appear weak, not good enough, and that embarrassed me.

Hmm… Where did that come from?

Luckily, when you’re sick, you have a lot of time to think about things like this. Because while the Goddess giveth you DayQuil, she taketh your ability to sleep on command.

After the call ended and I had crawled back to my bed, I laid there and thought about this perceived weakness and my subconscious desire to not let anyone hear me that way.

Again, where did that come from?

I decided to start with my childhood. Because this is where all weird subconscious adult insecurities take root.

I remembered having sore and strep throat a lot.

Then there was the unfortunate bout of frequent yeast infections until we discovered I was allergic to the bubblegum scented, red-dye body wash we were using.

I remembered pretending to get sick from the fumes of 409 when it was time for chores and I didn’t want to work.

I remembered Grease. Yes, I associate sickness with Danny Zuko and, my favorite pink lady, Rizzo.

As we were not yet owners of cable, I spent my days home from school in the ‘90s watching Grease on repeat.

“Won’t go to bed ‘till I’m legally wed! I can’t! I’m Sandra Deeeee!”

Who knew going to bed meant having sex? Not I, said the child singing it.

I just thought she was willing to forgo sleep to find a suitor. Like a real idiot.

Following the lead of my boo, Rizzo, I never liked Sandy that much. Nothing in her character resonated with me. She was indeed too pure to be pink. She was too pretty. She was too sweet.

Too sweet… too sweet… Oh my god, bingo!

Like a T-Bird outta hell, the following memory landed on me:

It’s third grade and time for the Christmas musical. Grades 1-3 do a musical together, which means I’m considered an “older kid” and can try out for a lead role!

Fast forward.

I get it.

Fast forward.

I practice my butt off at school and at home, learning my lines, putting together my costume using my dad’s old robe and knock-off Birkenstocks, a raggedy brown towel draped over my head and tied on with baling twine from my dad’s farm.

Most of all though, I practice my one vocal solo.

My singing voice is pretty average now and it was pretty average in third grade. Here was my solo part. I still remember it:

“Sometimes I wish that I could be. Somebody else instead of me. A person who is quiet and sweeeeeet. To be like that would sure be neat.”

If I’d been assigned to sing this verse as a teen, my paranoid rage would have led me to believe someone was trying to tell me something. I’ve never been accused of being quiet. And being sweet is a nice goal but it’s not exactly something that comes naturally to me.

Sometimes you gotta tell a motherfucker that dirty tissues can go anywhere you damn well please when your head feels like it’s in a vice, OK?

Fast forward.

It’s the day of dress rehearsals and we’re performing our musical in front of the WHOLE SCHOOL, which means the all-powerful fourth, fifth and sixth graders will be watching from the bleachers.

I’m. So. Nervous. And on top of my nerves I have, you guessed it, a sore throat. And my voice is almost gone.

Here’s what I remember. Squirming my way through the whole show, bravely speaking into the mic even as my voice uncontrollably spat and sizzled.

My 9-year-old-self made every valiant effort to add inflection and drama and intrigue but I mostly sounded like a mouse on acid. I can remember so badly wanting to prove myself worthy of this part.

I thought I was doing OK. But then I had to sing.

And there, swimming in my dad’s weird brown throwaways, I sang. My nasally voice cracking the whole way:

“A person who is quiet and sweeEEeEEeEeet. To be like that would sure be nEEEeeEeat.”

As I recall this, I can see as clear and as bright as Christmas Eve’s come-to-Jesus star, the entire sixth-grade class whispering about and laughing at me.

Do you ever have memories of Those Moments where you wish you could DeLorean back in time and just give your little self a big hug and whisper:

“It’s totally cool, bitch. I got you. We’re gonna be SO fucking happy someday. Fuck them.”

Yeah. This is one of my Those Moments.

Fast forward.

My older sister takes a seat next to me on the bus home that day after school. She’s in fifth grade and doesn’t sit by me normally, so it’s nice to have her there by my side.

She tells me I did great, and I shouldn’t worry about those kids laughing at me. After all, didn’t I notice who was making fun of me the most?

I cringe. No. I was trying not to look.

“It was Hillary’s sister,” she says matter-of-factly. “You know, Hillary, the girl in your class that you beat out for the lead part. They just think they’re special because their mom is a professional singer and they think singing is all that matters and it isn’t.”

Then she changed the subject and rode by my side the rest of the way home.

Fast forward.

I wake up from my reverie and turn over to see my new family member, my person who has taken the place of my sister and now rides shotgun in my daily life. My Polish grandmother husband, now sick with whatever I gave him.

In that moment, it’s Friday. I’m in love. And I throw up a shout-out to the Goddess for giving me such good people throughout my whole life. I’d give them all my money, my flu, my voice. I’d give them anything, everything.

And, in that moment, I feel better already.

Tips for a successful DIY family holiday

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

When my family started doing its annual Great Pumpkin Day event, I only had one nephew and one niece. Now I’m up five. Total count: four nephews, two nieces.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say being an aunt is the best thing in the world. I love these little ones as if they were my own. My idea to start Great Pumpkin Day was just an excuse to hang out with them. I was also at the point in life where I was learning one of my most value life lessons to date: No one knows what they’re doing and traditions can be started at any time, yes even by you.

What began as a family get-together has turned into an annual thing I think we all look forward to.

Great Pumpkin Day 2012

Here’s how it works. It’s so simple. We just pick a Saturday in October that we all can meet at mom and dad’s house. We dress up in costumes (optional), do fun fall stuff, eat pumpkin everything (not optional), and just hang out.

There’s no pressure to cook a huge meal, like Thanksgiving, or bring a list-full of presents, like Christmas. And it’s in fall, which, who are we kidding, is the best season of all. Again, no hyperbole.

We just had our Great Pumpkin Day 2017, and it was my favorite one yet. Here are some suggestions to get your own family holiday started.

***

Keep the guest list small.

Part of what puts so much pressure on traditional traditions is that you have a whole contact list full of family and friends you want to see during them. That’s not a bad thing, but having a special day that you only share with a few people (like for us, it’s immediate family and grandparents only) no one can get shifty that you’re spending just an hour or two at their event before bouncing to another one. It also makes your nearest and dearest less likely to skip out on the event each year. It’s easier to send your regrets when you know a ton of people will be at the party and your presence won’t be missed that much.

Do it during the day.

Here’s why: It keeps the party flexible. We start at noon and it ends whenever we’re tired. You’re not trying to “make fetch happen” in a tight three-hour window at night when the mood has shifted and everyone’s thinking about going home or what they’re going to do later.

Have fun activities.

This takes you from hangout to holiday. We’ve done face painting, pumpkin carving, coloring, crafting, kickballing, apple bobbing, trick or treating, costume fashion showing, and, new this year thanks to the addition of Justin to the family, a piñata.

Stay open to anything.

Ugh. Other holidays are a pain when there are expectations involved. So, like, don’t have any. A general theme is fine, and planning ahead is necessary, but anything goes. It’s your holiday. So about that piñata. I love Justin’s family, and during a recent birthday party for his mom they had a piñata filled with little plastic bottles of liquor and lottery tickets. Oh shit, what a fun idea! We stole their idea but used kid friendly Halloween candy instead. Who knows what we’ll do next year? Maybe a kid piñata and an adult piñata? (Yes!) Spontaneity is the fun of it.

Take SO many photos.

My greatest Great Pumpkin Day regret? I didn’t take a million photos every year! I wish I had a picture album for each edition so we could see how much the kids and our family has grown year to year.

After all, time flies when you’re having fun.

 

Six things I’m loving this month

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

Apples. Pumpkins and their spice get all the attention these days, but apples are like the under-appreciated older sibling. I’ve been throwing them onto my sandwiches and into yogurt with honey drizzled on top. Goin fast and lose with the Golden Delicious, y’all! Loved this cover photo’s rendition of brie, Granny Smith apple slices and a cranberry chutney from Blind Faith Cafe in Chicago.

“300 Arguments” and “There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyonce.” These books of sentence-long essays and poetry, respectively, were on the list of recommendations at the Chicago Lit Crawl’s “Best Books of 2017” panel I attended last month in Andersonville. Read ’em.

From “300 Arguments.”

From “There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyonce.”

Speaking of our girl. I was surprised to find myself crying during this SNL performance by Jay-Z  of his apology song to Beyonce, “4:44.” It feels shameful and raw. Devastating in its aloneness. Wow.

Look, I apologize, often womanize
Took for my child to be born, see through a woman’s eyes

Still Processing podcast. New York Times reporters Wesley Morris and Jenna Wortham host these funny and insightful culture conversations.

The short story “Likes” by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum. I don’t even have children but find this story of a father trying to understand his 12-year-old daughter’s Instagram totally relatable. This is also one of the first fiction accounts about life after last year’s election that I’ve heard that really nails its emotional aftermath.

“Recovery: Freedom From Our Addictions” by Russell Brand. Brand is back. Thank heavens. After seeing this interview with Bill Maher, I can’t wait to read his new book about addiction recovery. I think a lot of people fear that breaking their addictions will mean they no longer are themselves. This brilliant sober wacko proves that’s not the case at all.

Fun finds from the NYPL digital collection’s music section

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

I spend a lot of time digging through the New York Public Library’s digital collection public domain to find photos to embroider for Mildly Depressed. Whenever I’m on there I feel like Alice as she falls through the rabbit hole. So much to look at. Curiouser and curiouser. I found a collection of old musical posters and book covers and had to share. Click on an image and it will take you to the library page for more info, should you still have questions about wtf is going on. You will.

Well, OK, but like, it was just a jammed finger. So, you’ll probably be fine.

“Where can I buy a shirt with full sleeves?!”

Awkward.

A love story goes sour.

He may not need to worry, but I would if he was throwing that leer in my direction.

 

My favorite. Yes, no bananas. What’s a boy supposed to do?

Words on the Street: October 5, 2017

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

As seen outside the funeral home by my house.

By an Andersonville candy shop.

Hole-in-the-wall quality hat stores are American treasures.

I’m still way into these old Chicago street signs and the names of these businesses… “Fade by Tom.”

As seen at an Indiana rest stop at midnight. I thought maybe I was just tired, but I still don’t understand what this means.

Unicorns, though. Unicorns I understand. From Unicorn Cafe.

At a WVU football game. There is no lemonade here. Only Zuul.

Left handed wave.

Brave.

Stealing this bar name for a short story.

History at a purple line stop. Good to know if you were writing about the CTA before 1997!

My new favorite store in Evanston, for all its bad words below.

My list of books to read this month

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

“Emma in the Night”

By Wendy Walker

This mystery novel was my September Book of the Month Club selection.

“Love and Trouble”

By Claire Dederer

This book of personal essays explores Dederer’s midlife sexual reawakening that traces its roots back to her teenage promiscuity. It’s been noted for its honest portrayal of sexuality and its innovative takes on the creative nonfiction form.

“The Trespasser”

By Tana French

Spoiler alert: I just finished this book. It’s a little tedious but worth a read since Tana French is one of the best crime writers working these days. Plus, it’s got an unsuspecting twist at the end. Her debut “Into the Woods” is still my favorite though.

“Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows”

By Balli Kaur Jaswal

Yes, there are some erotic stories in here, but it’s not what you think! This is a funny, heartwarming tale of British Punjabi women’s reconciliation with their patriarchal community and modern country.

“The Nix”

By Nathan Hill

This book topped a lot of “Best of” lists last year, and I’ve heard both positive and negative reviews.

“What Happened”

By HRC

More like “what the $&#@ happened.” I’m looking forward to reading what Hillary’s official take on all this is, beyond the easy headlines.

May the library be your regular haunt this October! Mu-hu-ha-ha.

For Jessi Zazu and the songs that help save us

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

I dated a Virginian once. A preacher’s son — the second I’d pursued; a high percentage for only being 20. Something about their balance — of fire and brimstone, innocence and hunger, optimism to believe in eternal life and pessimism to believe in a father sending his children to hell — that attracts me to them.

Like a tick on a fat dog.

He taught me sayings like that. Sometimes. Insecure about his southern upbringing in a liberal Yankee college town, his accent would mysteriously disappear as soon as we hit the Ohio border. Some Yankees made him feel bad about where he came from. Those Yankees were dicks.

I thought about him as I traveled through Pennsylvania into West Virginia this weekend. There’s enough distance between me and the me who dated him, so my thoughts were happy ones. Appreciative ones. How beautiful it would have been to grow up in the mountains, surrounded by a painting, tucked into trees.

He told me once that his first month in flat Ohio took some mental adjusting. It was jarring, startling even, to be so exposed by the topography. In a field of nothingness, horizons on all sides, how do you protect yourself? The mountains were safekeeping. The mountains were walls, the good kind. The mountains made him less afraid.

I agree. I feel better in places that live vertically. Chicago high rises scraping the sky, like a penny on a lotto ticket. Morgantown’s mountains beaming from on high.

Plus, there’s just more to look at. At our rental this weekend, I stood on the balcony one evening when the air smelled cold but felt soft. I looked out toward the skyline high above to see a hymnal of homes dotting the mountaintop. Who lives up there? What do you think they are doing? Dreaming? Lights twinkle spotty on the mountain side, mimicking the blanket of stars they’re so close to being part of.

When you know — when you can trust — that something’s ahead of you, it’s harder to be afraid.

Jimmy Cliff and Johnny Cash. “The boot the roots the radical” and “this time is not exclusive we want to stop a war.”

I’m not afraid of these songs anymore and the memories of him they send me colliding into. Instead I feel a calm. Now they’re just good songs. Songs I love.

A pleasant reminder that after the pain is gone, there’s always the music. The music that saves us.

***

I first heard “Ain’t Afraid” in February 2014, the best way how: live, standing on a floor like quick sand, sticky with beer and tears and who knows what else.

Those Darlins were playing at Rumba Café, a dark music bar that quietly hosted some of Columbus’ best shows. It was a tight squeeze in there, but always worth the liquor that got spilled on you by a neighbor shoulder-side because you could get so close to the performers. So close that you could see their goosebumps. And at Rumba, you’d always find performers who gave themselves goosebumps. Because they so believed in what they were up there doing.

“Ain’t Afraid” was a song I needed to hear that night. Their lead singer Jessi was a girl I needed to see.

I was heartsick. Justin had recently dumped me and moved two states away. I hadn’t grieved anything from the boy above or the one after that or Justin and was nursing a need to always be nursing a bottle. That winter was one where I was mentally preparing myself for a spring where I knew some things would need to change inside me. I just wasn’t ready yet. I was afraid.

But Jessi wasn’t.

Jessi Zazu at Rumba Cafe, February 2014.

At least not on stage. I was immediately drawn to her slink. Cool rock star prowl with pussy power. Then she sang and I was officially hers. She growled with a achy rawness that had dirt on its hem. The kind that can only come from living something real.

Turns out it was so real. Too real. She died from cervical cancer last week. She was only 28 years old.

After seeing her that night, “Ain’t Afraid” became my secret anthem for a little while. I loved that she croaked out the “I” and not one of the other words. It made me feel her fear of and power in herself, both coming from the same source of power, both with a chance to win until she chose strength. Behind that long, multi-noted “iiiiii” were many long, lonely nights figuring out who that “I” was — because survival wasn’t possible without it.

I needed to face those nights. And I did. I grew out of the song by spring—probably to a more confident anthem, something that dug in its tires less and mostly just cheered me on. My cuts were scarring over and I couldn’t connect with the pain in that chorus anymore, didn’t need it’s brute resolve.

But that line. That line! “I ain’t afraid anymore” still pops into my head sometimes. “Keep going,” it says. “This is your fucking life,” it says. “You choose.”

That’s a piece of Jessi’s voice in me, joined by a choir of the singers and songwriters who have all budged me a step forward. I could only dream of making something so meaningful in 28 years.

I wish I could tell her thank you for the song, for that voice, for being fearlessly, unfuckably herself.

Six things I’m loving this month

Jackie Mantey Leave a comment

That Danielle Steel’s writing desk is made to look like a stack of books. But not any books. Her books. Excellent reporting from the front lines of narcissism-so-gaudy-it’s-charming by Vanity Fair, per usual.

Hello, beautiful. Yes, you.

This ridiculously soft, skin-perfecting Pur makeup brush that makes my BB cream look not so DOA. I put makeup on my face every day so I’m immune to seeing it change. This seems counterintuitive, but each wrinkle deepens so subtly, each crow’s multi-clawed foot grip tightens on the rim of my eye socket so inconspicuously, like the boiling water in the pot with the frog (if you don’t know that analogy by now, you deserve to go look it up). Pretty soon I won’t be able to wear foundation, cream or powder at all lest I look like a founding father. Until then, this brush.

 

Miranda July’s new short story, “The Metal Bowl.” And Miranda July talking about marriage and how hard it is to write a short story here. Miranda July is so dreamy.

Photograph by Elizabeth Weinberg / NYT / Redux

Atlantic magazine, recognizing the increasingly chaotic nature and overbooked status of even the most loyal and disciplined reader’s everyday life (and the laziness/ distractedness of the rest of us), has started posting audio recordings of prominent stories from its print issues. Listen the “Donald Trump is the First White President” by Ta-nehisi Coates as you wash the dishes, or “When Your Child is a Psychopath” by Barbara Bradley Hagerty as you commute to AA <knowing head nod>. The recordings are often posted in the stories, but you can check out the Atlantic’s Soundcloud station here to binge on all the recordings made to date.

Ariel Pink’s new album, “Dedicated to Bobby Jameson.”And its sugar-in-your-veins “Feels like Heaven.”


This old commercial starring old Michael Jordan. Justin makes me watch it when I’m feeling anxious about making new work. Justin listens to NPR’s “Fresh Air” and Rocky’s greatest inspirational speeches while he works out. Justin is my favorite person.