Alison McGhee

Day Nine: Ugh

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One of my worst fears is losing use of my fingers. How would I type? How could I write? Horrifies me so much I have nightmares about it.

Voice recognition software is supposeod to be good, but I can only write when my fingers are flying on the keyboard. No planning things out ahead of time.

You would have to teach yourself how to type with your toes, is what I’ve always told myself. You would still be able to write, I’ve assured myself.

Some painters paint with a brush in their mouths. Touchstone screens would help, right?

But the idea of it –so slow, so laborious- has always scared the crap out of me.

And that is why today’s new thing was to type an entire post with my two big toes only, including inserting a photo. Here you go, people.

You have no idea how long this took me.

Never Done Before challenge: Day Eight

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Day Eight (or Day Nem as we say in phonetically-spelled Mongolian) of the never-done-before challenge started out easy.

The challenge: select three words you’ve never heard of before and use each of them in ordinary conversation with a straight face, as if you assume the other person is familiar with the word.

This challenge, which sounds so easy, doesn’t it, took a sharp turn toward difficult right out of the box. That’s what happens if you’re a person who loves words and thinks you know a fair number of them. If you are such a person, I suggest that you turn to this site and see how you feel after a minute or so.

Choosing the words alone took me close to an hour, given the giant blow to my vocabulary ego and the fact that there are So Many Fascinating Words in the world.

It was obvious that I was going to have to narrow the search down immediately, so I randomly chose one word each from the B, N and M sections.

(That right there is a lie. I already knew the B word that I chose, but because it makes me laugh every single time I think of it, and also because my friend Absalom is at least as fond of it as me, I cheated and used it; sue me.)

The next challenge, using each word thrice in ordinary conversation with a straight face, was also difficult because I was on a 400-mile drive, with the only two other people in earshot being my two elder companions. This added a certain je ne sais quoi to our car conversations.

Conversation #1

Me to elder female companion: Have you ever had a bezoar?

EFC: A what?

Me: A bezoar.

EFC (adjusting hearing aid): A boudoir?

Me: Bezoar. B. E. Z. O. A. R.

EFC: What in God’s name is a bezoar?

Me: An indigestible intestinal obstruction.

EFC: Oh. (Pause.) No. (Pause.) So a bezoar is like a bolus then?

Me (impressed): Um. Yeah.

Conversation #2

Elder male companion (squinting at car loitering in the left lane of I-90): Look at that fool. Yapping on his phone.

Me: Yup. He’s a ninnyhammer.

EMC grunts in assent, accepting ninnyhammer without question; jury’s out on whether he actually heard the word or not.

EFC, on the other hand, pipes up from the backseat: What did you just call that driver?

Me: A ninnyhammer.

EFC: Is this another of those words, like bolus?

Me: You mean like bezoar? Yes.

EFC: Oh right. Bezoar. Bolus is stuck in my head now.

Me: At least it’s not stuck in your intestines.

Conversation #3

Conversation #3 never happened, because I completely forgot what my third new word was. All 400 miles I racked my brain as to what it could be, but all I could remember was that it begins with M and means “emaciation.”

But this was no problem, right? My plan was to return to the Dictionary of Difficult Words and look up my M word as soon as I reached the Sleep Inn in Sioux Falls, SD and then race downstairs to the elder companions’ room to spring it on them in an ordinary sentence.

I got as far as the Dictionary of Difficult Words. But guess what? There are so many Difficult Words that begin with M, and so many of them are so fascinating, that I literally cannot locate the M word that means “emaciation.”

One hour, one Sleep Inn plastic cup of Bailey’s Irish cream over ice and a dozen times through my favorite songs on one of my favorite albums later, though, I do know the meaning of macradenous, musaceous, manustupration and melichrous.

Never Done Before challenge: Day Seven

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You know what? Doing something truly new every single day is not all that easy. It’s only Day Seven, or, as we say phonetically in Mongolian, “dahshawr,” and I wish, like God, that I could take the day off and just bask in the glory of the accomplishments of the last six days.

But no. A challenge is a challenge, and onward I forge, despite the fact that I’ve also learned it’s not all that easy to gauge what new things will be easy and what new things will be hard.

Take learning to count to ten in Mongolian, which I figured would be pretty easy. Wrong.

I did expect that finally doing a headstand for the first time in my life would be hard, but I also expected that with the help of my youthful companion, I would be able to do it. Wrong again.

So today, on Day Seven, I felt like doing something super-easy, like painting my toenails an entirely new shade that isn’t the bright green they’ve been painted for close to a year now. Yet here I am in a Comfort Inn in Cody, Wyoming, with no access to any nail polish beyond the bottle of bright green.

But lo, what do we have here? Why, it’s a large paper clip, right on the desk next to me.

This large paper clip reminds me of when the youngest of my youthful companions was in first grade and made herself a necklace out of paper clips, a nice complement to the collection of shark tooth necklaces she was then fond of wearing. She wore her paper clip necklace to school the day she made it.

I was a little nervous that the paper clip necklace wouldn’t go over well, but I said nothing, of course, and of course –something I could have guessed now but not back then, when she was tiny– within days, most of the kids in her class were also wearing paper clip necklaces.

So, in honor of the youthful companion, and also because this is the easiest new thing I could think of, I sally forth with a brand-new earring.

Never Done Before challenge: Day Six

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After a day that included hundreds of miles through the ever-changing Big Sky landscape, rows of wind turbines standing silent sentry on ridgelines, an escaped black Angus running along outside a fenceline looking desperate to get back in and rejoin his (her?) brethren, a close encounter with a semi, and a side trip to Ingomar, MT, ghost town home of the Jersey Lillie Cafe, an establishment that both my elder companions and I were too afraid to walk into, it seemed like a good idea to learn how to count to ten in Mongolian.

In case you, like me, were thinking that Mongolian must bear a strong resemblance to Mandarin, thereby making it super-easy to learn 1-10 in Mongolian if you already know Mandarin, you would be totally wrong.

Mongolian is nothing like Mandarin!

Something new that I thought would be a piece of cake took me close to an hour and many reruns of the Youtube video to master.

That doesn’t include writing down an approximation of the Mongolian non-English alphabet words in the tiny little notebook that my friend Julie S. gave me last week and then writing down a pathetic English phonetic equivalent next to each Mongolian word.

The effort has certainly not been in vain, however, because next time I find myself in Ulan Bator, I’ll be able to order up to ten –but no more than ten– Mongolian dumplings.

Poem of the Week, by Adelia Prado

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The Mystical Rose
– Adélia Prado (translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Ellen Doré Watson)

The first time
I became conscious of form,
I said to my mother:
“Dona Armanda has a basket in her kitchen
where she keeps tomatoes and onions”
and began fretting that even lovely things
eventually spoil,
until one day I wrote:
“It was here in this room that my father died,
here that he wound the clock
and rested his elbows
on what he thought was the windowsill
but was the threshold of death.”
I understood that words grouped like that
made it possible to live without
the things they describe,
that my father was returning, indestructible.
It was as if someone had painted a picture
of Dona Armanda’s basket and said:
“Now you can eat the fruit.”
So, there is order in the world!
—where does it come from?
And why does order, which is joy itself,
and bathes in a different light
than the light of day,
make the soul sad?
We must protect the world from time’s corrosion,
cheat time itself.
And so I kept writing: “My father died in this room …
Night, you can come on down,
your blackness can’t erase this memory.”
That was my first poem.


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A Never Before Done Thing: Day Four

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Day Four of the never before done challenge proves far more frustrating than the catwalk of Day Three (get it?), at least for me, since I can’t speak for my cat.

Take a look at that dashboard below.

That photo represents only part of the dashboard of the rental car which is mine for the week. There are all sorts of other electronic buttons all over the place in this car, but let’s focus on this particular screen shot. Pressing any one of those little icons at the bottom of the screen will cause a whole new screen to appear, each one full of indecipherable little icons.

Nice rental guy at the airport rental counter: We don’t have any full-size cars left, but we do have a Lincoln Continental for you!

Me (staring at him in fear): Wait, isn’t that like a really fancy car?

NRG (happy smile fading): It’s a luxury car, yes.

Me: Oh no. I don’t like fancy cars.

NRG: You don’t?

Me: Nope.

NRG: Hmm. Most people do. Well, I’m afraid it’s either the Lincoln or a Hyundai Accent.

At that point I picture the elder companions who are about to share this rental car with me for the coming week, during which we will be on a westward road trip. Here they are:

I ask myself this: Would these elder companions ride in a Hyundai Accent for a week without complaint?

Yes. They would.

Then I ask myself this: Would these elder companions like to ride in a luxury car for once in their lives?

Yes. They would.

NRG: Well, what do you think? Hyundai or Lincoln?

Me: Lincoln it is.

And so it happens that for the first time in my life, unless you count my first car, which was a Toyota that my friends and I eventually drilled the ignition out of so that it could be started with the butter knife that I kept on the floor of the driver’s seat, I find myself sitting in a car that I can’t start.

What is the point of a car key that doesn’t go into anything? I’m sure there are many, many cars in the world that now start with buttons, just like this cherry-red Lincoln Continental, but it’s a first for me.

It takes me a solid twenty minutes of sitting in the Lincoln, first jabbing the start button with the car “key,” then waving the “key” in front of the start button as if it has psychic powers that might cause the engine to ignite, then having an Aha moment in which I put the key aside entirely and press the start button with my finger, which lights up all the dashboard buttons and turns on the music and air conditioning but not the engine.

At this point I consider exiting the car and telling NRG that I’ll take the Hyundai after all. Then, in an unplanned and magical synchronicity of events, I happen to step on the brake at the same time as I’m pressing on the start button, and the engine comes to life.

Surely this is a sign from God that the elder companions and I were meant all along to rent this particular car. I pull out into the EXIT AIRPORT lane.

My youthful companion, who has a brand-new license and a lifelong love and appreciation of beautiful cars, something that she did not get from me, has been patiently waiting all this time in our own tiny, simple car, the one that she accompanied me to the airport in.

She follows me home and comes over to the Lincoln. I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to figure out how to turn off the engine.

She stands there, shaking her head sadly.

YC: You’re driving an amazing car. And you don’t even know it, do you?

Me: Nope. I don’t.

What I know is that it took me twenty minutes to figure out how to turn the thing on, which I suppose is pretty amazing right there.

A Never Done Before Thing: Day Three

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I blame this one on the youthful companion, as it was entirely her idea even if I was the one who ended up holding the leash.

See this cat?

His name is Hobbes. He looks serene and relaxed here in the living room, on the recliner that he leapt onto the minute the youthful companion exited the room (the very same recliner of doom that was featured in Day Two’s challenge), but he’s not.

Hobbes is highstrung, insatiably hungry and unable to govern his own caloric intake, difficult to pet because he claws and nips while being petted, and difficult to sleep next to because he thinks anyone next to him should get up at 3:30 a.m. and feed him breakfast.

He would also prefer to be an outdoor cat, but he doesn’t remember where he lives once he’s let out.

YC (months ago): I think we should get him a tiny harness and a tiny leash and take him on walks.

Me: Are you freaking kidding me?

YC: No! He’d love it!

Me: What if he did love it? Have you considered the fact that you would become known in the neighborhood as the weird girl who drags her cat around on a leash?

YC: Oh no I wouldn’t. But you would.

Me: You’re nuts.

Months pass and the YC keeps bringing up the idea, giggling maniacally each time she does so. Yesterday we find ourselves in the pet store, buying another bag of the super-expensive ultra-special cat litter that is the only cat litter that the cat will deign to use. (Denied this super-expensive litter, he pees on the YC’s backpack and duffel, but that’s another story.)

YC (holding up a wee little harness): Please?

Me: Absolutely not.

YC: It could be your one new thing of the day, though. Think about it.

Me (thinking about it): You know what? You’re right.

Later: let’s just say that sometimes, it’s immediately obvious that something you do once will never be done again.

 

 

A Never Before Done Thing: Day Two

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Day Two of the month-long challenge proves rocky.

I wake up wanting to do something major and heroic, something that involves the conquering of a lifelong fear. What I have in mind can’t be faced alone, so I lurk by the door waiting to ambush my youthful companion when she comes home.

Me to youthful companion: Thank God you’re home. You have to help me with today’s challenge.

YC: Why?

Me: I’m going to do a headstand and I can’t do it alone.

YC: Oh God! No!

Her reaction gives me pause. There is genuine consternation on her face. She is an extremely athletic person with very little physical fear. Can it be that the youthful companion is herself afraid of doing a headstand?

Me: Wait a minute. Are you afraid of doing a headstand?

YC: Hell yes! I’ve never done one.

Me: THAT IS NOT WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY.

YC: Oops.

We forge on. Against the wall? Against the couch? In the middle of the room with YC grabbing my legs and hoisting them up?

We, meaning me, decide on the recliner, as it is the only chair in the house with a back tall enough to let me gradually slime down over the top of it so that my head will end up on the seat and my legs up in the air.

Are you out there reading this and thinking with scorn and derision, That’s not how you do a headstand!? If so, I don’t blame you, but still, that’s how my headstand was going to happen.

Was going to happen. Past tense.

YC, upon hearing of the plan: No! Don’t use the recliner!

Me: Why not?

YC: Because it reclines!

The YC is right. The recliner does recline. Not only does it recline, but it reclines fast and also tips entirely over, flinging me off and crashing me to the hardwood floor. MAJOR PAIN ENSUES. The one good outcome is that the YC rushes to my side to see if I’m okay, which makes me feel loved and cared for.

There is an actual dent in my leg from the mishap. We both peer at it in interest.

YC: You should ice that right away.

Me: Are you kidding? I haven’t done the damn headstand yet.

But guess what? All further attempts at a headstand prove fruitless. The YC comes up with a new plan, which involves a yoga chair pose followed by a gradual tip into a headstand. You know, the way yogis do it. This works right up until the gradual tip into a headstand part.

I decide that the tip myself up against the couch plan is, at this point, the best bet.

YC: Kick your legs up! Kick them!

Me: How? HOW?

All efforts prove futile. How do people do headstands, seriously? More to the point, why do they do them? Can’t your spinal cord get mushed, with all that weight on it?

YC: Can’t you please do something else?

Me: Like what?

YC: Have you ever planked?

Me: Oh for God’s sake. Anyone can plank.

YC: That’s not the point. The point is to do something you’ve never done before, right?

Right.

One new thing a day: 8 July 2012

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Today’s my birthday, and I made a birthday vow to do something I’ve never done before every day for a month, starting today.

This something-never-done doesn’t have to be huge, like climbing Machu Picchu. It can be tiny, like trying an old-school cocktail that you’ve never had before. Such as this one, below.

This drink is called a Sidecar, and trust me, it’s extremely tasty. Not too sweet, even though it looks like it might be. Served in a martini glass, which is my favorite kind of drink glass. Kind of like a brandy gimlet, so if you’re a fan of vodka gimlets, take heed.

The something-never-done-before can be as simple as taking a right turn where you’ve never taken a right turn before, on a walk you do nearly every day, an hour+ walk so familiar to you that you literally know every single tree.

But take an unexpected right turn –something you probably wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t been on the lookout for something you’d never done before– and look where you end up:

Where you end up is a path through the woods that skirts the years-long familiar path you take with your dog, but which feels 20 degrees cooler and like an entirely new world, one running parallel to the world you walk in every day.

So many never-before-done things, right here in your own neighborhood. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?