'NOW I SEE YOU' Book Giveaway!

It's giveaway week at Short Fat Dictator!

On Tuesday my friend and fellow blogger at A MOM AMOK released her memoir "Now I See You". 

When a friend comes out with a book your mind kind of goes like this (and when I say "your mind" please note that I probably mean "my crazy mind"):

[Book is Announced] My friend wrote a book! How exciting! OMG I can't wait to read my friend's book! When can I get a copy of her book?

[Book Arrives] Oh look! The copy of her book has arrived! Wow! I can't believe I'm about to read the book she wrote!

[About to open the book] Ooooooohh noooo! What if my friend's book is TERRIBLE?

I am thrilled to report that Nicole's book is NOT terrible. Instead it is terrible's opposite! It is page-turnery and laugh-out-loud funny -- which is especially notable when you consider it is a memoir about going blind.

Nicole was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa at the age of 19. 'Now I See You' follows her, post-diagnosis, as she navigates life as a college student, then as a young working woman, and eventually as a mother for whom the reality of "LIGHTS OUT" looms large in the who-knows-how-distant future.

Nicole took time out of her busy book tour schedule to answer a few questions about the book for ShortFatDictator:

FIVE QUESTIONS WITH "NOW I SEE YOU" AUTHOR NICOLE C. KEAR

SHORT FAT DICTATOR: Well (SPOILER ALERT!) it turns out you are going blind. What made you want to write about your diagnosis of retinitis pigmentosa? (Wow, my spell check doesn't like that diagnosis, either.)

NICOLE C. KEAR: I think that my desire to write about the diagnosis was pretty much born the day I got it, at nineteen. Not in a clear sense (I definitely didn’t keep a notes-for-my-future-memoir journal, which, in retrospect, would’ve come in handy) but in a vague, deeply-buried way. I think I wrote the book for the same reason most people write about sad, crappy things that happen in their lives – to try and wrest some purpose from it, so it doesn’t feel so sad and crappy anymore. It TOTALLY worked, incidentally. I highly recommend the idea.

SFD: Raising three kids = hard. Raising three kids while going blind = LIKE, SO MUCH HARDER. Why did you have to write a book that makes me feel bad about complaining about my own petty problems???

NCK: Yep, that’s my consolation prize and I’m loving it . . . especially since I haven’t been able to enjoy it for the past nine years, when I was keeping my vision loss a secret. I wish I was so secure and modest and such a deeply good person that I could say it doesn’t make my day when someone says, “I just don’t know how you do it! It’s amazing!” but that would be a lie. I LOVE that comment! I mean, I pretend to be very modest and wave their admiration away, but really I’m just eating it up, doing an internal “Keep it coming” gesture.

SFD: Nicole, you have a terrible potty mouth. I mean, in the best possible way. The "voice" of this book feels totally authentic, but a "funny" book about going blind couldn't have been an easy sell. Did you struggle with how to approach this story?

NCK: I really didn’t struggle with the approach at all; I knew the only way I could write this story was if it was as funny as it was heart-wrenching. I knew the humor had to be not just sporadic and tension-relieving; I wanted it to be integral, a foundational part of the story, because it’s integral to me, as a person. I’m not saying I laugh my way through life, but it’s basically the only weapon I ever to use to combat anything. I’m a one trick pony in that regard.

I remember when my son was born, I read this memoir Cockeyed by Ryan Knighton, about his experience losing his vision because of the same retinal disease, and it was so hilarious and so moving, my mind was blown; his book gave me permission to do what I’d always wanted to do but wasn’t sure was possible in a book about blindness, be really funny. My struggle, actually, wasn’t in bringing the humor in, but in opening up, emotionally. The first few drafts were hilarious but not terribly honest or vulnerable, so I had to keep forcing myself to add that in, and to trust that it wouldn’t be unbearably depressing, like, Milton-level bleak, as was my fear.

SFD: The concept in the book of the approaching "LIGHTS OUT" moment resonates so strongly with people. What is on your "bucket list" of must-sees? What are some unusual things that people have told you are on their must-see bucket lists?

NCK: My bucket list has changed a lot. The main thing on there now is just my kids; I want to see everything I can, including but not limited to the high school graduations and the school plays and the weddings and just them, in everyday boring situations, as they age. I’d also like to go to India; my son and I want to see the Taj Mahal. Once I start that game, there’s no stopping it; I want to see all sorts of places around the world, which I’ve only gotten a tiny glimpse of. Trouble is, having three kids pretty much obliterates your travel fund (not if you all buy ten copies of my book and tell everyone you know, though! Then I can go to India!)

People’s bucket lists tend to include the same kinds of items; travel destinations, mainly. Sometimes people put really practical things on there – like “pay off my mortgage” (seriously, that’s a common one) -- and that depresses the crap out of me.

SFD: The scenes with your family in the book are laugh-out-loud funny. Like, "I read this book on an airplane and my seatmate thought I was insane"- LOL- funny. The passages featuring your larger than life Italian family are especially hilarious and your grandmother "Nonny" is a STAH! Can you just write something else in your Nonny's voice so that I can laugh some more? 

NCK: The thing that’s cracking me up about Nonny lately is that NOTHING about book publicity impresses her. I have an essay in the New York Times today and I brought the paper to her and showed her the page with my byline and she gave me this patronizing look and said, “Oh dat’s very nice. Don’t worry. Everyting’s gonna work out one day for you.” And I replied, “It’s working out RIGHT NOW! That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you!” and she nodded, fully humoring me, and said, “Oh, how nice. I know.”

I could win the freaking Pulitzer and she’d have the same response.  

__________________________________

You can read an excerpt of the book here:

 http://issuu.com/stmartinspress/docs/now_i_see_you_excerpt

Nicole's publisher, St. Martin's, has given me two copies of 'Now I See You' to giveaway to my readers. If you want a free copy of 'Now I See You' (SPOILER ALERT: YOU DO!) all you have to do is answer the question either here on the blog or on my the FB page at facebook.com/shortfatdictator:

Let's say you discovered you were losing your sight - sure, there would be a whole host of downsides but - - - what is ONE THING you be most grateful for never having to see again?

ANSWER AND WIN!!!! The winners will be announced on Wednesday, July 2 and the very next days free books shall speed toward them!

Father's Day

For Father's Day this week I'm sharing a piece from my aunt's blog. It is about her father, my grandfather and I love it. Go read her anytime at 

www.terrymartinhekker.com

June 2014 ~ Father's Day Memories of my Father

Probably  the most unappreciated job in our culture is “father”. He is the butt of jokes calling him clueless. He shows up in TV commercials as the one asking the stupid question or behaving like a dimwit.  A man’s home may be his castle but he’s regrettably portrayed as more court jester than  knight in shining armor. In our family the role of a husband had been defined  by my grandmother O’Donohue whose infamous line was “It’s not a fit night out for man or beast. Let your Father go.”

But in truth and in life, a Father is most often that knight. He struggles to make money he almost never sees as it flies out to cover family bills. He carries you when your ankle is sprained, comforts you when bad dreams terrify and confronts your mean teacher/coach/boss. He refinances his house to pay for your education and foregoes the new car to pay for your wedding. He is your life-long safety net and most trusted advisor. And when he’s gone there is a void no one can ever, ever fill.

My own Father was the original alpha male. A child of the depression his first job (while still in fifth grade) was  as a look-out for a floating crap game. He never did finish high school when he married he had to supplement the income from his Hell’s Kitchen diner by pushing a hot dog wagon down by the NY docks. One sweltering day, when the fleet was in, he realized that families in line who couldn’t afford his Orange Crush were parched so he began going up the line giving out small cups of water. Free. Now here comes an anomaly . . . a good deed that wasn’t punished. The iconic Parks Commissioner Robert Moses rode by and noticed this kind act and had an aide contact Dad to offer him concessions in some of the city parks. Soon, with umbrellered carts all over the metropolitan area, he’d built such a fine reputation that in 1941 he was offered the Tiffany of concessions . . . the state owned historic Bear Mountain Inn up in the Hudson Valley, which he managed magnificently for the next 25 years.

But think about taking over a country hotel in September ’41.  Three months later war was declared and with it came gasoline rationing, food rationing and ruination. Then Dad saw an item in the Daily News that the major league ball clubs would no longer be able to travel south to Florida for spring training so he found the Dodger office in Brooklyn and offered them a deal . . . come north instead. But the  boss, Branch Rickey, thought it wouldn’t work because the weather would confine the team indoors.

So Dad then drove the few miles from the Inn to West Point where he assured the Commandant that his  cadets were about to be perceived as draft dodgers and the Academy needed some good publicity like giving over their huge indoor Field House to the Brooklyn Dodgers. With that deal done the Dodgers trained at Bear Mountain for the next four years. The football Giants came too and the Knicks and the Golden Glovers and they stayed on into the sixties. 

Along the way my Father was considered such a friend to West Point that he was made an honorary graduate and to this day an award in his name is given out at graduation. (An honor that proved more enduring than his solid gold pass to Ebbetts  Field.) Providentially his connection to West Point gave him the chance to recommend an old friend (who’d been coaching high school football) for a job with the Army team. His old friend was Vince Lombardi who later got to know the NY Giants as they trained at Bear Mountain. And the rest, as they say, is history. 

Still in the game of modern fatherhood my Dad would have struck out.  He never read any of his six children a bedtime story or helped with homework. He never came to our school events although Dad was once blackmailed into attending my brother John’s high school graduation because he was valedictorian.  And later proclaimed it was the best speech given since the Gettysburg Address. And he should know!

Dad took care of us all . . . Mother, her mother, his mother and was a soft touch for all who knew him. His motto was “Never resist a generous impulse” which has infused his children and their children with their remarkable generosity. In his later years he was a millionaire and knew three presidents and dozens of celebrities.  He had friends in high places and not so high places and treated them all the same. And his faith demanded that no priest or nun ever got a dinner check and that the many groups of disadvantaged children who visited the park were guaranteed free drinks and ice cream.

He believed that to run a business there was only one rule . . . you had to be good to your customers and be good to your employees. His was one of the first corporations to offer profit sharing to employees who knew they could always come to him for help and advice. As the biggest venue in the area, the Inn specialized in huge banquets which made for a crushing work load for the employees. So at the end of every big event, when he knew his staff was bone weary, Dad would take off his tie and jacket, roll up his sleeves and  help mop the floors. I heard that when a union representative attempted to organize his employees the poor fellow was lucky to get out alive.

While he demanded that each of his children got a college education and insisted that the boys get advanced degrees from Ivy League universities, Dad brilliantly educated himself with books. And since he came to learning later in life he brought an unusual perspective. One night as he was immersed in the Greek classics he shouted to Mother, “That Socrates was one smart son of a bitch”. 

As a Father he was our gallant protector and bountiful provider. And he did the most important thing a man can do for his children . . . he loved their Mother. Not that they were a perfect couple. My Father was, to say the least, mercurial, and Mother’s patience was stretched.  But she often had occasion to look at him lovingly and say a line I used a lot in my own marriage.  “I’m so glad I didn’t murder him yesterday.”

A Brief Update

Hey Guys!

So our plan to move East has moved from "planning phase" to "holy crap its happening phase". This means we are on the eve of a cross-country move.

In other news, the house we were in the middle of purchasing in New York fell through. This means that my little family of FIVE leaves LA on Monday without, you know, a destination. It's pretty much like a leap of faith where we are 100% sure there is no ground on the other side. 

So it is that I've been pretty busy rocking back and forth, panicking, breaking out into crying fits and hurriedly attempting to bolster my childrens' song and dance skills in case we should need to live for months or years as traveling vaudevillians.  

What I haven't been doing a lot of is, you know, blog writing. But at least now I have provided an excuse. 

The blog will return next week. Until that time please enjoy this picture of a kitten in a pile of marshmallows:

It's Laundry Day! (Everyday)

What else is there really to say about the laundry?

And yet -- ALL I WANT TO DO IS COMPLAIN ABOUT THE LAUNDRY!

Before I was married I can't say I ever really gave laundry that much thought. 

I would wear clothes, occasionally they would become dirty, and then I would journey to the laundry room and wash them, perhaps while reading a novel of my choosing. 

Could it be that it was all so simple then? 

I mean I guess it could because there was ONE of me and therefore there was ONE set of clothes -- and also I had kind of a lot of free time.

These days there are FIVE of us and I find myself with the unwelcome job of FAMILY WASHERWOMAN.

It is not a role that I relish. Of late it might even be fair to say that it is driving me completely friggin' bonkers. 

Back when there was a spree of post office shootings a theory emerged that postal workers were particularly prone to such violence because of the nature of mail work. The thought was that the sheer relentlessness of the mail made folks go crazy because no matter how hard any given mail person worked, there was always just MORE MAIL to be dealt with.

I gotta say I FEEL YOUR PAIN, CRAZY POSTAL PEOPLE!

The laundry is like a hydra. You do a load of whites and six more loads spring up in their place. I had a relative staying with me recently, and she kindly lent a hand with the wash. At some point she emerged from the laundry room and proudly announced, 

"The laundry is finished!"  

I looked at her like a grizzled veteran of a long war and responded, 

"For the sake of my own mental health I've come to accept that the laundry? IT'S NEVER FINISHED." 

I feel like one of my strengths as a parent and a wife is my ability to pretty much keep it together when things are going totally sideways, but this week the laundry has broken me. 

I imagine my children years from now sitting in front of a sympathetic therapist and providing a detailed remembrance of Mommy's screeds, including but not limited to:

"You don't have to unfold all the shirts! Just wear the one from the top of the pile!"

"Get out of the mud!!! I just cleaned those pants!"

and the perennial favorite,

"What is this dress doing in the laundry pile? IT'S NEVER BEEN WORN!!!"

At present absolutely no one is safe from my laundry-based rage. 

I assure you that when my husband saw me across a crowded restaurant in Venice, CA back in 2006 he COULD NOT HAVE IMAGINED that just 8 years later I would be standing over him at 7:30am one morning shrieking,

"How can you possibly be going through this many pairs of boxer shorts? YOU ONLY HAVE ONE BUTT!"

All I can hope at this point is that I am merely on a long and stinky path that will eventually lead to laundry acceptance.

STAGE ONE: DENIAL AND ISOLATION: I am all alone! All alone with piles and piles of filthy clothing.

STAGE TWO: ANGER: [insert laundry-based rage spiral]

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING: Fine. I'll put another load in and then maybe I convince my husband to fold it all and put it away.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION: [cut to me sobbing a top a large pile of undershirts]

But if I'm being honest I'm fairly concerned that I may be stuck on Stage Four, because I'm not gonna lie to you,

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE: seems a long, long way away right about now. 

Who knows? Maybe it will come to me if I JUST. KEEP. FOLDING...

Fight Night! (And Day. And Then Night Again)

Oh people, the fighting at my house. It is not to be believed.

When I opted to have three children in short order I had visions of a jolly threesome who might spend long afternoons frolicking merrily about the lawn as I sat, perhaps enjoying a cocktail of my choosing. 

What I failed to imagine was just how many hours I would spend shrieking repeatedly and at ever-increasing volume, 

"I'll get your Hulk back I promise! Just please STOP PUNCHING YOUR SISTER IN THE HEAD!"

Battles break out at our house over which movie to watch. Conflicts flare up over who got a bigger scoop of ice cream. Clashes arise over who gets to be Spiderman and who has to be Iceman when it's time to play superheroes.

This week my children have invented a new game called 

"WHO GETS TO OPEN THE VAN DOOR?" 

I call it a "game," but in reality it is more of a "terrifying ritual that commences every time the car stops which inevitably leads to bitter recrimination followed by lengthy bouts of crying." 

Our every outing now culminates in an epic battle for dominance of the van door as each of my children rush to unbelt themselves and win the coveted honor of pushing the button that causes the door to slide open. 

Whichever child proves victorious in this mad dash then relishes in taunting his or her siblings for several minutes, basking in the glory of having, you know, OPENED THE DOOR FIRST.

http://www.safeaccessnow.org/oops_we_did_it_again_ca

Cut to me, moments later, attempting to calm my offspring as we stand gathered on my front lawn. I work to get the winner to tone down their mocking victory dance before turning my attention to the losers, who stand heartbroken by their terrible loss, hot tears streaming down their faces. 

I calmly explain what I feel is the simple-yet-obvious truth that no one has actually "lost" the game of "WHO GETS TO OPEN THE VAN DOOR?" because, in fact, THERE IS NO SUCH GAME!!!

This proves futile and the sobbing continues.

I finally give up and settle for rushing the children inside where at least their lamentations will not be witnessed by the entire neighborhood.

Once we are safely ensconced in the playroom the inter-sibling strife begins anew:

A train with one wheel? My threesome will roll about the floor engaged in vicious hair pulling to secure dominion over it.

The Buzz Lightyear doll with a missing arm? Look how it suddenly represents the fulfillment of my son's every desire the instant his sister touches it!

Broken peach crayon? Allow my son to prove how much it really is HIS ALONE by attempting to remove his brothers arm using only his teeth!

Feral animals fighting over a carcass in the street could teach these kids a thing or two about decorum. 

http://www.amazon.com/War-What-Good-For-Civilization/dp/0374286000

I try to referee. I pull the hitters and biters into time out. I set limits. I offer alternate peaceful solutions. I lovingly explain that crushing each other inside the sofa cushions is an activity that seems super fun at first, but rarely leads to lasting happiness.

My once cherished dream of mothering closely-spaced siblings has lead to the reality of me sitting in the backyard with that long-imagined cocktail in hand - not watching jolly frolicking, but instead witnessing my threesome violently have at it until I'm eventually forced to get up and intervene.

I reestablish peace, I kiss boo-boos, I force apologies to be made and then I retake my seat only to start the whole process over again moments later.

What can I tell you folks? 

It's war at my house - and at this point - I'm just trying to survive the skirmishes.

If I Lived Like My Three-Year-Old

• Instead of making polite conversation with people I didn't feel like talking to, I would simply point at them before shouting "I AM SHY OF YOU!" Then I would cover my face with both of my hands until they went away.

• I would consider a handful of goldfish crackers and an ice cream cone a sensible dinner.

• When big decisions were needed I would ask myself, "How would Spiderman handle this?"

• I would not be scared of spiders or snakes but would be terrified by the appearance of a small spear of broccoli on my dinner plate. 

• I'd be capable of having a conversation with my sibling for 23 minutes consisting solely of the words "DID NOT" and "DID TOO."

• If I found a Sharpie, the thought would occur to me, "I should probably draw all over my face with this."

• A terrible day could change into the BEST. DAY. EVER! just like that if I saw a firetruck.

• I wouldn't need a gym membership because I would run at every opportunity, preferably while shouting loudly, "Look at me everyone! I'm running!!!"

• I would never struggle to make friends because whenever I saw someone who seemed interesting, I would only have to run up to them, grab them by the hand, and announce, "WE'RE FRIENDS NOW!"

• I would rarely have a life crisis that could not be solved through judicious use of tickling.

• When I was upset I would not smile and pretend that I was OK. Instead I would hurl myself to the floor and shriek and roll around until all around me registered my displeasure.

• Instead of struggling with self-confidence I would consider myself to be the GREATEST at every activity I attempted -- the FASTEST runner, the FUNNIEST face maker, and the BEST IN THE WORLD at rolling around on the grass in a strange way.

• I would not worry that my stomach wasn't flat enough. I would celebrate my midsection's roundness by rubbing it regularly and showing it off to friends and neighbors whether they had requested to see it or not.

• My "special place" would be the toy aisle at Target.

• I would take falling down a staircase directly onto my face in stride, but I would consider not getting to watch "Elliot Kid" for the 9th time in a day a major tragedy.

• An immense amount of my personal energy would be devoted to the single thought, "GET. SOME. CANDY."

• If someone had something I wanted I would declare "I WANT TO SHARE!" and then grab their thing before running away as quickly as possible. 

• Every night at bedtime I would sit up in bed and announce, "My favorite part of today was EVERY PART OF TODAY!" Then I would jump on my bed like a wild monkey before falling into 10 hours of deep and restful sleep. 

• Then I would wake up the next day and start it all over again.

If I lived like my three year old…

When Does the Grown Up Get Here? - My Messy Beautiful

We celebrated my father's birthday a few years back, and at the end of our dinner he raised a glass and announced to his assembled family,

"Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. You never do feel seventy-five!"

I knew just what he meant. 

I try, as often as possible, to spend time with my childhood BFF. Whenever we're together it's like old times. We laugh like crazy, we rage like emotionally unbalanced teens, and we generally act like the kids we were back when we first met. Then at some point her 23-year-old son will saunter into the room and stun us with the hard truth that what we are, in 2014, is a pair of forty-something moms on an ill-advised weeknight bender.

We've all had this experience, right? Where the very realness of our current reality proves just so out of step with the way we perceive ourselves that our brains can't…quite...manage to...keep up.

I'll give you another example.

Several years ago my car broke down on the 101 freeway in Los Angeles. I don't remember the exact mechanical details, but suffice it to say that without warning my vehicle decided to stop being a vehicle and to become instead a giant car-shaped paperweight completely incapable of forward motion.

I panicked. 

Trucks and automobiles were whizzing by me on either side at alarming speeds. I prayed that perhaps some kind soul might lend a hand, but passing motorists merely slowed in order to offer a shouted critique of my driving abilities and/or to briefly proffer a raised middle finger and a facial expression designed to convey, 

"Thanks for ruining the freeway! You. Are. Terrible."

I did the only thing I could think of. I called my Mommy. 

From the 3rd lane of one of the busiest freeways in America I sat in my smoking vehicle, crying, and I called my mother -- a woman with absolutely zero automotive knowledge who was, at the time, over 3,500 miles away in the suburbs of New York City.

My mom picked up the phone, and after finally making sense of my situation through my frantic sobs responded abruptly,

"Well, darling! What in the hell are you calling me for?"

I didn't have what you'd call a "logical" response to what was, in truth, a pretty fair question. 

But as I look back, I understand that I was calling for a reason. I was calling because in spite of the fact that I was close to thirty years old at the time, I'd managed to get so overwhelmed that I'd opted to abandon any pretense of being an adult and instead just kind of commit to curling up in a very small ball, staying completely still, and hoping that a "real grown-up" would magically show up and make everything OK again.

It's a feeling I get sometimes.

I was thirty-seven the night I sat trying to soothe my firstborn child through his early hours home from the hospital. As I rocked and sang to him I just kept thinking,

"Wow, this seems a little advanced for me. I sure wish an adult would come and, you know, actually take care of this little guy."

Just a year earlier I'd sat holding my husband's hand in the warm office of a Texas funeral home making arrangements for his father's memorial service. As we began to work out the details I found myself summoning what willpower I could muster to keep from actually saying out loud,

"Um -- shouldn't we wait until a grown-up gets here before doing any of this?"

It's a panic reaction really. 

It's this feeling of being an impostor -- a frightened kid in a grown woman's body who is IN NO WAY CAPABLE of dealing with the things that real adults have to face.

But the truth is, of course -- those magical grown-ups? They're not coming. (I mean, to be fair, the Triple A guy who dragged me off the highway was an adult and he was pretty magical in that he didn't even goof on me for bawling and he let me finish his Big Gulp to help me calm down -- but that's not really what I'm talking about here.) 

I now have three children of my own. I am at a stage of my life in which bruises and bad days and good days and accidents and outings and diagnoses and dilemmas and sometimes even terrible awful deaths are going to keep arriving at my grown up doorstep -- mine to figure out and navigate.

And that -- I mean IT'S LIKE REALLY REALLY FREAKY you guys!!!

But there's no sense in panicking, right?

So instead I do what I can. I try to offer comfort. I attempt to soothe. I work at meeting the "big girl" challenges with whatever flawed and fraught and frantic solution I have at any given moment.

I work on accepting the fact that I'm not the caller anymore. I am the one who gets called.

And what else can I do but try to do it. Try to answer.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!