[Today I’m participating in a mass blogging. WOW! Women On Writing has gathered a group of blogging buddies to write about family relationships. Why family relationships? We’re celebrating the release of Therese Walsh’s debut novel today. The Last Will of Moira Leahy (Random House, October 13, 2009), is about a mysterious journey that helps a woman learn more about herself and her twin, whom she lost when they were teenagers. Visit The Muffin to read what Therese has to say about family relationships, and view the list of all my blogging buddies. And make sure you visit Therese’s website to find out more about the author.]

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A few years ago, my mom asked me if I thought we talked enough.

“Should we be talking more than we do?” she asked. “Ruth talks to Lisa almost every day,” she added, referring to her best friend and her best friend’s daughter.

“What?” I said, buying myself some time. Then, “No. I think we talk just the right amount, Mom.”

“You do?”

Though the content of our conversation was new, the feelings it provoked in me were not. When my mom asked questions like this, questions like, “Do you love your English teacher more than me?” she didn’t want honesty. She wanted me to tell her that I loved her most of all. That she was doing everything right. That she was a good mother.

She wanted reassurance.

“Yes,” I said. “If we wanted to talk more, we would.”

“We would?”

The dialogue continued in this vein until my mom concluded that Lisa had started talking to Ruth more when she became a mother herself. I made a mental note to expect this same conversation after the birth of my first child.

During a recent trip to St. Louis to see my parents, my mom and I attended a reading (ironically organized by my dad, who works for the library). I happened to be in town with Sue Monk Kidd and her daughter Ann Kidd Taylor, who, after co-authoring a travel memoir together, spoke at length about the mother/daughter relationship.

Though their relationship is on the ideal end of the mother/daughter spectrum, their talk was excellent. Kidd pronounced the relationship one of the most complex, citing the Greek myth of Persephone, and discussing the cyclical pattern of loss, search, and return intrinsic to the mother/daughter bond. Like Demeter, the mother is continually losing her daughter; she searches and searches for her, until finally, her daughter is returned to her, only to be lost once again.

What’s interesting to me about this myth, and about Kidd’s use of the myth to structure the book, is that the story is told from the mother’s point of view. Persephone isn’t an active participant in the tale, or the relationship. She’s stolen from her mother by Hades; her mother searches; and Persephone is returned to Demeter for a finite period of time (spring and summer).

What would the story look like from Persephone’s perspective? Perhaps her mother’s need for her is too great. Or maybe Persephone wants someone to know her, really know her, for the adult she has become. Could it be possible that she chooses to leave? That the brief period she spends with her mother every spring and summer is enough for her? That too much time, the addition of fall and winter, would only damage the relationship they both want to preserve?

Many years ago, my mom and I went alone to buy the family Christmas tree, sans dad and brother. We looked at tree after tree; my mom would point them out; I would veto them. It’s too tall, I’d say. Or, it’s too big; it won’t fit; it’ll make a mess. When we finally decided on a Douglas Fir, the man who helped us load the tree into the car laughed at us.

“It’s like a role reversal,” he said. “She’s like the mom.” He jerked his thumb in my direction. I couldn’t have been more than 13. My mom and I exchanged uncomfortable glances and feigned polite laughter.

Do we talk enough?

In the myth, the fact that Persephone is responsible for her mother’s happiness is presented as a given. A non-issue.

And yet the weight of this responsibility is enough to pull her below the earth’s surface.

It’s that heavy.

We talk just the right amount.

I have mixed feelings about fall. While most people declare it their favorite season, what with the pretty leaves and gorgeous weather, I approach fall with a conflicted mix of excitement and apprehension. For me, the arrival of this favored time of year is like running into an old flame, familiar yet foreign.

Historically, on the whole, fall has been good to me. (Unlike that manipulative bitch, spring, who plies me with false hope, only to knock me down and beat me with a rusty baseball bat.) No, fall has brought me all kinds of goodies over the years—my best friend, my first love, my favorite two-year-old, pumpkin-flavored everything—and yet, still, the apprehension.

This is due in part to the fact that fall stirs up memories and nostalgia like no other season. I step outside and suddenly it’s late September of 1997 and I’m falling in love for the first time, feeling light and giddy and excited and just so hopeful. I notice the changing leaves on my way into work and I’m back in Virginia, driving to a bed and breakfast with my ex, feeling, yes, happy and excited and hopeful. Or it’s October of 2001 and I’m in the apartment I shared with Lizzi in Alexandria, five miles from the Pentagon; she’s making cookies, and I feel safe and comforted despite the fact that there are men with guns on the street and the world is crumbling around us.

The memories are visceral. It’s as though fall removes the barriers of time, and I’m like a character in Lost, being yanked in and out of moments in my life. It makes me sad, reliving these moments, because I know how they end. I know that they end.

And yet, at the same time, with fall also comes anticipation. Another visceral feeling—something, anything might happen. Something good. Excitement, because despite the endings, when fall comes around yet again, I know that its those beginnings I’ll remember.

Note: Written while under the influence of alcohol. Unlike some writers, I do not write better with a few drinks in me, so please forgive any incoherence. In fact, you may want to skip this post altogether.

Next week, I’m vacationing with my closest friends (the ones whose pretty faces are plastered all over my site; the ones whom I’ve devoted an entire un-published book to). We do it every year, head down to Cape Cod and shack up in Cris’s family’s cottage (see homepage for photo of said cottage). It’s become a tradition, and I love that. I love our traditions.

I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. We all have. For some of us, it’ll be the first vacation we’ve taken all summer (or all year). But more than that, it’s the one time during the whole year that all eight of us are together, in one place.

Aside from the Cape, we’ve taken quite a few trips together as a group, though usually with one or two of us missing. And every trip is memorable and wonderful. Which is why I always, always forget how fucking stressful the week leading up to the vacation is. But then, this is true of most family vacations, right? The packing, the logistics, the preparations.

Of course, with my friends, there’s always more to it than that. In addition to the mundane pre-vacation to-do list, there’s the drama. Oh, the drama.

Let me explain. My best friend Lizzi, for those of you who don’t know her, loves to cook. She’s an awesome cook, in fact, and she cooks for all of us, often. Many years ago, we were over at Adam’s for the Super Bowl. It was 2004, come to think of it, because Janet Jackson’s nipple was also in attendance that night. Lizzi planned to make hoagies, a Super Bowl tradition. (Like I said, we love our traditions.) I remember her stepping out of the kitchen and running through our orders: Julie, no peppers. Adam, no pepperoni. Cris, no tomatoes. And so on. Now, any other person who cooks for her friends on a regular basis would just make a bunch of fucking sandwiches. But not Lizzi. She always caters to our specific dietary preferences. Not only that, but she also remembers all of them.

I don’t cook, so my role is a little different. Substitute emotional needs and well-being for dietary preferences and you’ve got Julie. By that I mean, I cater to everyone’s feelings. I assess and uncover and mitigate and assuage and negotiate and resolve and encourage and facilitate. So you can imagine what my week’s been like. When eight adults who love one another as much as we do are about to embark on a week of togetherness, you’ve got problems. Lots of them. And the goal, if you’re a people-pleaser to the five-billionth degree like I am, is to resolve all of those issues so that the trip can be as fun as we want/hope/need it to be. So, I take it all on: the recent pseudo-break-up and the bullshit excuses and the petty fights and the awkward exes and the time to buy the groceries and the she e-mailed him but he doesn’t want to do that and he’s taking a half-day but she’s watching the kid and he just started a new job and she’s pissed and I’ll pick him up at the airport so that no one has to suffer anything or experience any discomfort. Because god forbid we experience discomfort.

I blame no one but myself for all of this. Like I said, I take it on. But then there’s my job and my other job and trying to finish everything before I leave and seeing my ex-non-boyfriend on the street and having to spend money I don’t have on new tires. And suddenly I’m screaming fuck you motherfucking fucker to some old man on the highway who’s driving ten miles below the speed limit. It ain’t pretty.

What I’m not-so-eloquently getting at is this: There’s currently a pimple on my chin the size of Canada. I’m calling it the Scooby pimple, because, well, the Scooby Gang put it there. My friends put it there. I put it there.

But the thing is, I know that by the time this horrid week is over, it will shrink. When I’m on the road, cruising down to the Cape, my pimple will be a distant memory. Because when all is said and done, unlike the family vacations of my youth, unlike most family vacations with everyone everywhere, this family, my friend family, actually enjoys one another’s company. We have fun together. We have more fun together than we do apart, and that’s why I sprout this pimple time and time again. Because once we get there, once we get past all the silliness and all the craziness, it’s worth it. Hell, it’s worth a thousand pimples.

Since starting my new job in February, I’ve spent a lot of time in the car. A lot.

I don’t really like all the driving and sitting, especially after taking public transportation for three years, but my brother has made my commute more bearable by giving me a cord to connect my iPod to my radio. (I know this is not a new thing to most people, but it has revolutionized my life.)

Every morning and every evening, 45 minutes there and one hour back, I shuffle. I have almost 2,000 songs on my iPod, and I cruise through all of them, bypassing the ones I don’t really like or don’t feel in the mood for. Sometimes I’m tired and I want something peppy, something to sing along to. Other times I’m contemplative and need some middle-ground music: not peppy, but not slow, either. Sometimes I’m feeling gushy and happy about life and want love songs. Other times I want to hang myself in my closet and need an appropriate suicide-inducing soundtrack. Crying, singing, zoning out—the music I choose to listen to in my car is dependent upon my mood on that given day in that given moment.

There are, however, a few exceptions. A few songs on my iPod that make the cut, no matter what I’m feeling. Happy, sad, I never skip them, and I never tire of them.

“Missing You” – John Waite
I actually have two versions of this song—the original, and one that he sings with Alison Krauss. (Both are excellent.) What I like about this song is that it can fit a variety of moods. It covers the full range of post-break-up emotions: denial, anger, heartache, acceptance, peace. No matter what stage of a break-up you’re in, this song has got you covered. At the same time, if you’re not sad or heartbroken, the beauty of “Missing You” is that it won’t bring you down. The tune is just upbeat enough that you can still sing along, all the while thinking, Man, I’m glad I’m not that guy.

“Sway” – Bic Runga
This song makes me feel all misty inside. That doesn’t really make sense, but it’s the best way I can describe it. I heard this song for the first time while watching American Pie back in college; it’s played at the end, when the boys are finally doing the deed with their respective women. The second time I heard it was in the room of a friend whom I later fell semi-in-love with. Despite the fact that he didn’t reciprocate my feelings, I’ve always loved this song. For me it’s all about longing and not being able to convey everything you’re feeling about someone. And I suppose I’m always feeling that longing, for something or someone. My head is battling with my heart / My logic’s all been torn apart / I say it’s all because of you.

“After All” – Cher and Peter Cetera
Yes, this is the cheesiest song on this list (though, c’mon, it’s me. They’re all cheesy). When we were kids, my brother Peter and I would find a movie we liked and watch it over and over and over and over again until the tape wore out—our obsessive natures revealing themselves. One of these movies was the 1989 classic, Chances Are, starring Robert Downey Jr. and Cybil Shepherd. And the theme song for the movie was, you guessed it, “After All.” (The song won an Oscar. Go figure.) Even though it’s not the most appropriate song to share with one’s brother, to this day I still consider it our song (just substitute “kiss” with “punch to the head”). My brother is, after all (ha), the one man who has always been and will always be there for me. Now that was cheesy.

“Bleed to Love Her” – Fleetwood Mac
This song just fucking rocks. And I’m not saying that because I have the hots for Lindsey Buckingham (which I do). I loved this song the first time I heard it, but it was actually my best friend Lizzi who sealed the deal for me. Not only did she adopt the song and play it on repeat while at the office and in our apartment, but she also once said to me, “This song always makes me think of you, because it describes how I want the man you end up with to feel about you.” Sniff.

“In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel
This is hands down my favorite song of all time. (Though Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” is a close second.) Aside from the John Cusack/Lloyd Dobler-ness of it all (“I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen”), this song expresses how I feel about love. What love is and what it means to me. Without a noise / Without my pride / I reach out from the inside.

How about you? Which songs do you never tire of? Which songs fit all of your moods?

I have a new article up at Sirens Magazine: “Give It Up for Masturbation.”

I think the title is fairly self-explanatory.

[Side note: One of the perks of writing this article? One free We-Vibe.]

My friend and former boss, Alex Goldfeld, recently published a book: The North End: A Brief History of Boston’s Oldest Neighborhood. It’s a fantastic read (and I’m not just saying that because I know the author or helped edit the book).

While I was in grad school, I worked with Alex for two-plus years at the Museum of African American History. Traffic through the museum was slow (sadly), especially during the winter months, which meant that Alex and I had a lot of time to talk. When he wasn’t recommending restaurants or asking me about my family and friends, Alex was talking about history.

I can honestly say that I’ve never met anyone who loves history as much as he does (and I’m a nerd; I know a lot of people who love history). And though I love Boston with a fierce kind of devotion, love it despite its many flaws and horrendous weather, my love for this town doesn’t begin to rival Alex’s.

That being said, if you’re at all interested in Boston history, read his book. It’s easy to read, short, and, hey, it’s got pictures. Best of all, it’ll make you appreciate this amazing city if you don’t already, or appreciate it even more if, like me, you’re already a convert.

Copyblogger recently posted a list of 73 ways to become a better writer. It’s a great list, one that I should take to heart—a list that should inspire me to get off of my ass and, you know, write. 

Unfortunately, these days I could probably come up with my own list: 73 ways to suck as a writer. #1 would be: Don’t write. #2: Watch Netflix DVDs of The West Wing instead of writing. #3: Sit down to write then check Facebook instead. #4: Turn the TV back on. You get the picture.

I’m in a slump. It’s not a block. A block would imply that there’s something I want to write, something percolating in my brain that I simply can’t get out. The truth is much more pathetic. There ain’t nothing in there. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The truth is, I’m bored.

At the moment, my life is boring. My friends will protest, but I will insist upon this fact. Everything is good, calm. No almost relationships (February). No self-inflicted angst (March). No break-ups/anniversaries of ex-boyfriends’ deaths (April). No debilitating, self-destructive depressions (May). No weddings or weekend trips (June).

For most people, boring is a good thing. No more drama, baby. In our lives. (A good song, by the way.) But for a person who writes about her life, it’s a major buzz-kill/mood-breaker/cock-blocker. I sit down to write, and all I feel is malaise. I could write, eh, or I could go to bed early. What does it matter?

The obvious solution is to make something exciting happen in my life, right? I could meet someone! And fall in love! And write about it! If only life worked that way. As I’m still learning, there’s not a whole lot about my situation that’s in my control. Except for my writing. I do control that, and I can make that piece more interesting, more prominent.

Except that right now, I can’t. You see my dilemma.

But like an impotent man gunning for that erection, I will keep trying. I’ve even pulled The Book out of hiding. It’s on my coffee table. I’ve re-read the prologue. I’ve even re-written the beginning in an effort to start over, though it lacks a certain something.

I think they call it inspiration.

I recently broke up with someone. The break-up had nothing to do with our feelings, per se, and everything to do with timing. Or rather, our age difference: He’s 32. I’m 30.

I know. That sounds ridiculous. But among the single, never-been-married, over-30 crowd, a few years can mean the difference between wanting to grow up and, well, not. Translation: I was ready for a more serious commitment, and he just wanted to “hang out and have fun.”

The signs, of course, were there. Sure, on our first date he showed me a photo of his friend’s kid, and on our third he mentioned that he wished he had someone to bring home with him for the holidays. But his friends were a dead giveaway. Friends whom he was “embarrassed” to introduce me to. So they’re a little obnoxious, I thought. Maybe they make fart jokes. No big deal.

They did that and more—on our third meeting, his roommate announced that he had to poop and proceeded to talk to us through the bathroom door—but their lack of social graces wasn’t the issue. Rather, the issue was this: After a night of drinking (on a school night, no less)—this crew pretty much drank every night—I woke at 4:00 a.m. with a full bladder. I threw on some clothes and tiptoed out to the hall. Not only was the bathroom occupied, but there was also someone waiting to use it. (I should mention here that though my not-boyfriend only had one roommate, about two or three other people stayed at his place regularly, kind of like stray dogs. Only drunk, stoned stray dogs that vomit in your living room.) I stormed back into the bedroom and barked at my mostly asleep not-boyfriend: Are you fucking kidding me with this? Are we in goddamned college?

And therein lay the root of our problems. Aside from his job, the 32-year-old man that I was dating was living the life of a 22-year-old. I, on the other hand, was living the life of someone in her 30s: I have my own apartment. I have friends who have real jobs, friends who get up and go to work each day in order to pay the bills. Some of my friends are married. A few even have kids and a house.

When I was dating my not-BF, however, I worried about this. Was I old beyond my years? Were my days of fun and drinking over? Why hadn’t the cops shown up at one of my parties recently? While I don’t want to live like a college student, I also don’t want to move out to the suburbs and join the PTA.

I tried (and failed) to explain this to the NBF. There could be a middle ground, I told him. Marriage doesn’t have to mean the end of sex and life as you know it. Children don’t have to hinder your glass-of-wine-a-night habit. Growing up does not have to mean becoming your parents. It does, however, mean relinquishing your adolescence. And, frankly, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Granted, there’s no line at my bathroom door in the middle of the night. And my friends aren’t smoking up and setting off illegal fireworks in the middle of the street on a Wednesday night. The cheap thrills are fewer. But I’ve been there and I’ve done that. For about ten years, in my 20s. (For my friends, it was tequila and a piñata filled with sex toys and lube.) And, lord knows, I did it up right.

But there’s so much that I haven’t done. And, as any older, wiser person will tell you, it’s the experiences you have as an adult that’s the true stuff of life. Falling in love, real love, based on more than just hormones and lust. Committing your life to someone. Having really good sex. Holding your child (or a friend’s child, for that matter) for the first time. Watching your children grow and learn and develop. Putting someone else’s happiness before your own. Finally landing that dream job. Or publishing that book. And it’s all the little steps you take along the way that matter most, the quiet, ordinary moments that occur naturally, without the assistance of booze or drugs or someone’s dumbass roommate.

While a prolonged adolescence may be fun, free of encumbrance and responsibilities, at the end of the day, what do you have other than an expensive beer tab? What gives your life meaning? Perhaps, though, living a meaningful life is only something that those of us who’ve taken the leap into adulthood worry about.

As my old pal Joni Mitchell once sang, something’s lost, but something’s gained, in living every day. Rather than trying to hold onto what you’ve lost, growing up means embracing the gains, in whatever form they take. And, god, there are just so many of them. I look forward to each and every one.

I (finally) have a new post up at Fringe Magazine: Confessions of a social media whore/pimp.

Now I’m going to Twitter about it.

My good friend Katherine just had a piece published in Education Next. If you’re at all interested in education, teaching or learning, you should check it out.