The UK Lessons in Taxidermy release date is officially March 21. If you tune in to BBC Radio 4 at 9AM that morning you can hear my demented squeaky voice talking about the book on Midweek.
If you are inclined to pre-order, Amazon has a good price at the moment. Otherwise you’ll be able to purchase it in all the standard bookstores.
You will also be able to find the book at every Tesco nationwide.
The supermarket version has a different cover, featuring a photo of my face:
Recently Scott and I were reminiscing about the Bad Old Days and I remembered that an ex-boyfriend spread a rumour that I might not know who fathered my first child.
At the time I was incredibly indignant about the accusation. Because, as I reminded Scott, I might have been immoral but I was always very organized!
He replied “Immoral, But Organized” is going on your tombstone.
That would be hilarious, though it is no longer accurate. Somewhere in my mid-twenties I acquired an ethical code, and later in that decade learned empathy.
Now if I had the capacity to feel envy I might be almost human. Or at least, I would better understand some of the puzzling behavior of my comrades.
During the course of the conversation I also recollected one of the various stunts I pulled off – a Rotating Date that featured a ferry ride and assorted other amusements, switching partners at short intervals.
Scott remembers attending, and that I ordered everyone to have a very specific and odd amount of money on hand, down to the last cent. Neither of us can recall who else was there that night; my bad boyfriend, James, and Pell-Mell for sure. Most likely Kath-E, Byron One, Buffy, all from Governors’ School, and probably Dave-E (an adult and mentor who must have been a true friend if he suffered the general insanity of my behavior and still showed up for both my graduation and wedding).
I wrote to Mash to inquire if she has any memories of that adventure but she has large gaps because of the accident – and it is likely she was in the hospital anyway. She said that she still has one of the Rotating Notes locked in a cupboard somewhere.
It might be interesting to look at the document – hundreds of pages of late eighties teenage drama as documented by me, James, Mash, Scott, David, and other people who disappeared long ago…. though most likely it would be too painful to even open the cover.
January is officially finished!
The day was sunny and warm and I jumped on my bike and headed for a distant village, only discovering halfway there that my leg is not in fact healed sufficiently for such antics.
While pedaling I reviewed my mental files and decided that this was the easiest winter I’ve ever had. There were many opportunities to feel grief-stricken, but each was entirely legitimate. I was variously lonely, homesick, sad, and confused, but at least I felt something. Negative emotions are as important as the other varieties. Twenty years ago I was just numb.
One of my primary strategies for improving the winter is avoiding medical interventions; this was harder to accomplish with my mother here asking pointed questions, but I somehow managed it. Then, because I am diligent if contrary, this afternoon I started the long process of booking a dozen critical appointments.
That decision in turn led me to open a few months of ignored mail, where I found a royalty check! Spring is starting well.
The recent threat of an airline strike left 150,000 people stranded after flights were cancelled – including my mother.
Her visit was extended, giving the children a bit more time to enjoy her presence. She also graciously allowed me to run away to London for a party I would have missed otherwise.
Today is her last day, and we walked over to the Polar Research Institute to look at Scott’s last letters home.
Growing up I never imagined I would leave my hometown. When I moved sixty miles away for college I was piteously homesick for the mountains and water, even though I was still on the Puget Sound. After grad school the six years in Portland represented a state of exile, no matter how much I loved my friends and house. When I moved to Seattle I felt like everything was finally sorted, that I had gone back to my true home.
I did not want to move away from the Northwest, or live anywhere more than ten miles from the place I was born. Then one afternoon I decided to leave forever – on a whim.
Every action has a consequence. Living here is fundamentally the best plan right now. But the choice means that I am separated from beloved family and friends, that my mother can only see her grandchildren for a few short visits once or twice a year.
This is excessively sad.
My mother is visiting for a month. The children had great fun with her when I wasn’t around to implement rules and regulations: they went on mad shopping sprees, bought candy they’re not allowed to have, stayed up late. They went to movies, rented countless DVD’s, saw Suessical the Musical and the Chinese State Circus.
I was extremely grateful that her presence allowed me to escape for ten days, and at the same time quite concerned that I might not do a very good job of entertaining her during the rest of the trip. January in England is a dark and cold time, after all.
So far we’ve been to all the good restaurants in town, and several in London. We’ve visited the Fitzwilliam, the Cambridge & County Folk Museum, and the Victoria & Albert.
Still on the list: Windsor Castle, West End productions of Cabaret and The Lion King, the inevitable pilgrimage to Harrods…
My mother deserves all the best treats the world has to offer. I wish that I could give her more.
Whenever we met in the evenings Parkinson or Josh would ask what I had done during the day, and the answer was invariably I walked on the waterfront.
Sunlight is a forbidden pleasure, something I have not experienced directly since childhood. The south of France in the winter was a perfect solution – it was bright and cold and I wandered around bundled up, absorbing the rays of the sun without exposing myself to the dangers inherent in the activity.
Every morning I visited the market at Cours Saleya and bought cheese, olives, bread, vegetables and fruit before setting off on my adventures. Mostly this involved walking to Vieux Port and sitting on a bench in the sun writing, or many hours on the beach at Castel Plage, eating picnic lunches and filling up notebooks.
There were long conversations in cafes with Andreas, and many chance encounters with other scientists I see all over the world.
I heard that Andy the Decadent Australian was in town and remembered how he came to see me read in NYC seven or eight years ago. At the time I was baffled that he was in the city to buy new glasses; now I’m the sort who flies to that city for the same purpose. I looked but never found him, never had the opportunity to congratulate him on his marriage.
One afternoon during a walk I stumbled across Josh, Andrey, and Nick taking a stroll when they should have been at the conference. I took my earphones out, wagged a finger, and said Busted!
Josh replied We’re on strike.
I was already dashing away but I turned back, spread my arms out wide, and shouted This is my job!
My thrashed leg hurt quite a lot, throwing off my posture and making both hips ache. I showed someone the bruises from the bike accident and he said It looks like someone took a ballpeen hammer and beat the shit out of you!
No injury could have kept me away from the 300 foot climb up the Colline du Chateaux to see the ruins and visit the cemeteries, including the Mercedes family tomb. One day I stopped at the Chapelle de l’Annonciation to light a candle for St. Rita, patron saint of terminally ill, but there were none for sale so I gave my tribute to a beggar on the doorstep.
Later there were candles at the Chathedrale de Ste-Reparte and I nodded at the wax statue of a fifteen-year-old virgin martyr towed to Nice by angels in a flowery boat.
I even explored the New Town and attempted to shop, without much thrill or success because I had nobody to direct the activity.
In the evenings I headed back to the hotel, admiring the yellow building on the corner of cours Saleya where Matisse lived, with brilliant light striking it as the sun prepared to set.
I worked on the terrace as the light changed:
Then it was time to meet up with scientists for a series of banquets, receptions, and dinners.
In my adolescence I aspired to be a geek but they weren’t having me; I was too strange in a way that did not mesh with their pathologies. Now I run around the planet with the super-elite of that world, and I’m not sure how it happened.
When I stumbled across him the first time Byron was just another broken boy: there was no indication at the time that he would end up having a career at all, let alone becoming a research scientist.
One night while I was taking notes about their behavior one of the mathematicians asked Will we be in your next book?
The answer is no. I like these people in part because they offer no references to my favorite topics.
There were many fabulous meals, my favorite at La Merenda, a tiny restaurant with no phone that does not accept credit cards but has some of the best food I’ve eaten anywhere in the world.
One evening I was chatting with the East London Massive about Byron’s so-called midlife crisis (which appears to have started at birth) and explained that it is actually a phenomenon that happens every two years, always requiring some major change in his material circumstances.
Peter asked So you’ve seen this happen seven times?
I nodded. The problem this time, I said, is the fact that he likes his job and can’t find anything else to fixate on — he certainly can’t blame anyone for any of his problems.
Peter considered the point and replied He would be a fool to throw any of it away!
I shrugged and said That is exactly how I feel about the whole thing. Josh and Peter raised their glasses in a toast.
When Byron appeared we collectively refused to tell him what we had been talking about.
It was simply genius to stay out late then retire to a hotel cut into the cliff of the Colline du Chateau, listening to the sound of the waves as I fell asleep:
I make an effort to wear clothing appropriate to every occasion. Even in my excessively dark youth I always tried – even if my failures were spectacular.
There is an etiquette to uniforms, and while I remain true to my own aesthetic I believe that it is important to be respectful of whatever circumstance I need to deal with.
Recently I’ve gone out to dinner with proper adults several times and I made an honest attempt to dress like a grown-up. It is difficult for me to pull off respectable, but I do own a few variations of outfits that fit the description.
There was one particular evening when I congratulated myself not only on my clothing, but also on my behavior. I did not say anything scandalous, did not challenge anyone on the fundamental flaws of their world view, did not inform a famous person that they were wrong and should stop talking.
I was surprised to hear later that an eminent scientist noticed my presence at all, let alone that they had formed an impression of me as stylish and jaunty.
Andreas was the recipient of the description, and he was nonplussed. He said But my friends are afraid of her – one remarked she is the kind of person who could slit your throat without blinking!
The person who made the first assertion replied There are some types of people you’ll just never understand.
When Andres told me about exchange I thought about it for a minute and said I would blink.
The other night we were sitting at a cafe in an alley in Vieux Nice and I was telling the East London Massive the story of the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks, but various colloquial and slang terms did not translate across the language barrier.
Six of us were from North America, or had lived there, and six were from elsewhere, and that meant that half the group dissolved in laughter as the other half stared in puzzlement.
I interpreted and brought everyone up to speed, including giving Ana’s version of what constitutes a Bad Boy: tall, dark, dirty, tattooed, emotionally unavailable…. and literate.
Dino asked if Bukowski or Henry Miller would make the cut for the literacy exam but I said that Ana would find both banal.
Someone suggested that we should take Josh on a Hunt for a Wife (because I suspect he believes in True Love). I offered to be the director of the endeavor but it was decided that an assistant would be better; I volunteered Ana’s services without asking her permission.
Hunting for a spouse is quite a different proposition than finding some random boy who knows how to cut down trees.
I never get involved in the serious matchmaking that might go astray and leave me forever stranded at unpleasant dinner parties.
Peter said that we should try to do a Bad Boy hunt in London but I shrugged and said that it would be impossible to replicate.
Dino said I can be emotionally unavailable!
I replied That is pretty obvious.
Then I remembered that I was not in fact on the west coast with my own people, but rather in a European cafe with sensitive scientists.
I need to do a better job tracking which country I’m in at any given moment.
France is one of the rare places on this earth where men approach and attempt to talk to me.
I have no idea what they are trying to say because I raise my hand in warning and march away.
Though this evening a boy on a scooter drove up on the sidewalk and blocked my path. I have enough language to know that he was not asking for directions.
This would officially be the first stranger who has ever hit on me, but I’ve decided that it doesn’t count if it happens in Europe because that would be too easy.
I wrote to Jeffrey and described the incident and he replied:
You are so silly. You evaluate these occurrences on an individual basis by some outlandish criteria and then invalidate them. Face facts. You are a hottie and everybody wants you. As disturbing as that may be.
Unfair! I’ve never debated the relative issue of hotness because that is something predicated on confidence, not beauty. Even in my most backward moments I’ve always had attitude to spare.
Though I challenged Jeffrey for proof and he was forced to reply:
I do not hang out with you and strangers. And when I hang out with you, people don’t hit on you. So it is hard for me to have evidence. But I feel you have a lot of stories of “confusing” situations that just turn out to be someone blatantly hitting on you . . .
This is perhaps true– but the incidents he is referring to never, ever involve strangers.
For example: recently Iain overheard a performance artist trying to figure out whether or not it was okay to chat me up. Critically, the individual didn’t even make eye contact.
I was reading a book proposal for Gordon and wrote to tell him that he should say his work is like Anthony Bourdain meets Noam Chomsky…. but sexier!
He queried What was your catchphrase? Dorothy Allison and Mother Jones meet in the cancer ward?
I have many Capricorn friends and colleagues, but we mostly communicate from a distance.
Until recently Erin Scarum was the only birthday twin I’ve spent a substantial amount of direct social time with, and she always startles me by understanding every subtle subtext of whatever anecdote I tell. This was particularly eerie in the days when I didn’t want anyone to see the back story.
This winter I’ve hung out with other Capricorns and the experience has been illuminating, in part because we have a tendency to critique each other – and most people wouldn’t dare.
One afternoon in Seattle Greg appeared to be digging for the truth about my name (short answer: it isn’t my fault I was born a Lavender) and in the middle of his speech informed me that I look like I know that I’m smarter than the common people (his actual words).
My mouth dropped open in shock. His eyes widened and he followed up with Did I just say that?
The waitress had turned up to take our order and she replied Yes, you did before offering her pen so I could take notes.
After quickly scribbling down the quote I replied If that is true of me, then it must be of you too!
He said Absolutely – I’m not separating you from me before getting distracted by flirting with the cute waitress.
The statement is not entirely true. Greg only knows me in the context of the Bus Stop and he was accurately describing the mighty force field that has historically protected me from straight boys in bars. Not that it fazed him.
Similarly, Sarah wonders out loud why Rachel gets away with so much in my company. For instance, I can’t think of anyone else who would dare grab my phone let alone send racy text messages around the world.
Hanging out with Rachel is hilarious because she tells me scandalous stories and says things like I guess you get what you deserve.
I throw up my hands and shout No, you get what you choose!
Then we both fall about laughing, to the bemusement of the British people watching our antics.
I’ve always been under the impression that I make perfect sense at all times, even when informed by credible witnesses that I am mysterious. I only just noticed that I might be sort of confusing.
This is what I have observed about children of the winter: we are, apparently, both capricious and constant. We move abruptly when we see a solution to a problem. We feel a conflict between decadence and thrift but keep business sorted even in dire circumstances. We do what we like even when we know better. We love secrets. We are excessively stubborn.
How strange.
Happy birthday to all the other winter babies!
I’m sitting on the terrace of a hotel room built into a cliff perched over sparkling blue water and a rocky beach, watching the sun sinking on the horizon.
For several days I had no internet access, no email, no journal updates. This felt more than slightly strange, even though I periodically retreat from the world. Not wanting to stay in touch with people is entirely different from not being able to do so.
My mother, kids, agent, publicist, and a few friends know how to reach me if I’m needed, but so far no urgent matters have come up.
During the day I walk along the beach, staring at the water and listening to sad music, not quite escaping the month of January but also not terribly concerned because the sun is shining and the air is warm and I never imagined that I would spend part of my winter on the Cote d’ Azur.
At night I go out with mathematicians and behave myself until the East London Massive crew splinters off and then I tell them sketchy stories and laugh and laugh with friends until I can barely breathe.
This year I resolved not to think about what January represents, about all the dark cold winter days and nights shivering in hospital rooms.
The distance between the past, those rooms, that view across the Puget Sound to the Olympic mountains, and this view, this day, this anonymous hotel room, staring at the Mediterranean and a clear and distant flat horizon, is immense and at the same time minuscule.
I’m the same person. I just, unexpectedly, grew up.