The (almost) lost interview with a Queen

Last week, I interviewed Jill Conner Browne, who was scheduled to appear this week at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference.

I had such a good time with her on the telephone, she in Jackson, Mississippi and me in Jackson, Wyoming, that I couldn’t wait to meet her. Unfortunately, her Mama is sick, so she had to cancel her talk at the conference. I couldn’t print an interview for an appearance that isn’t happening, so I’m going to print it here. Uncut, even, thanks to the limitless space that Cyberspace provides.

You can find Browne, THE Sweet Potato Queen, at her Web site ... or friend her on Facebook, or find her on Twitter as @spqueens.

Browne published The Sweet Potato Queens Book of Love in 1999, and has put out seven other titles since then. She sells merchandise, sponsors chapters of Queens, has a speaking tour. “It is a cult,” she says.

Q: How did you get started as a writer?
A: I had written for newspapers as a stringer for a number of years. I was divorced from The Antichrist and left heavily in debt by that marriage: he loved cashmere socks and racing tires. With no child support, I was raising my daughter by myself, and my mother chose the most inopportune time to have a stroke. I was working full-time for three newspapers. One of the papers changed hands, the new people that came in dropped my story with no preamble... I finally got one of them on the phone. He said, “Maybe it’s just me, but you’re just not funny.” Well, clearly it’s just you. Nobody has ever said to me, “You’re not funny.” All of the other queens, who are incredibly accomplished women and / or heiresses, said, “Why is it a big deal?” It’s my light bill. It was what I had to do to keep our heads above water. It was really the loss of that that put me so off-balance, spurred me to go and look for something else... it was the only reason I ever went to pursue a book deal.

Q: How would you describe your style?
A: I always say that if you don’t laugh out loud, I’ll personally refund your money. I have no illusions about my work, it ain’t War and Peace. I wouldn’t say that it’s Lit-er-a-ture. The humor is the vehicle through which the greater message is delivered. The books are deceptively deep.

Q: What’s funny about the South?
A: Everything. You might as well laugh. It is a poor region, historically, and very hot. So we would sit still and tell stories, that’s where the storytelling tradition comes from. Wasn’t a whole lot else to do. Willie Morris said that air conditioning and television were the destroyers of conversation. There are very few situations in life that you truly cannot change. Those that you can’t change, you’ve gotta figure out how to make fun out of it, or make fun of it. That is what resilient people do, and we are resilient people.

Q: You sign e-mails “Be Particular.” What is this “Be Particular” business?
A: That is the only advice my grandfather ever gave us. He never said “Be good,” “Be sweet” or “Be careful.” It’s the best advice ever given, the only advice you ever need. I can point to the times in my life when I haven’t followed it.

Q: Have you got advice for writers?
A: There’s no secret to it. We all, prior to writing, want to know a secret about it. You know what the secret is, just to write. Nobody likes writing, we all like having written. Write what you know, write what you like, write what pleases you. Write for yourself. Unless you’re writing textbooks. I think too many people try to write instead of writing. They think, “If I was a writer, how would I say this?” instead of just saying it.”

Q: Who is eligible to be a Queen?
A: Everybody, anybody. We have not found a line in the Queendom that we do not cross. We have men and women, gay and straight, men and women, children, married single, drunk, sober, whatever else you got. We got it, and are glad of it. The youngest are in utero, and the oldest one who marches in the parade comes from Midland, Texas. Everybody calls her Aunt Fay, and she will be 97 next year. There’s one who comes who is older, but she doesn’t march. She will be 102. We have 13 women from Indonesia this past year... they come from all over the world. Women, men, undecided, in-between. There is no line. I have the ashes of a queen from Arizona, who died, one of her fellow queens, got some of her ashes, boxed them up all nice, and Dutchie, she rides on the float.

Q: Are you able to support yourself now, just by writing?
A: Absolutely. I’ve had two number-one New York Times best-sellers. When I was very young, someone said to me, “You should do what makes your heart sing and the money will follow.” It won’t always take the form that you think it’s going to, but whatever you’re doing with your time should make you very happy, or you should not be doing it. There are times in our lives when we must do what’s necessary to fulfill our obligations. But even if we’re forced by circumstances to work at some job that’s not fulfilling us, we need to give the time and energy to something that does fulfill us.
Everybody really did get here with some sort of gift. I wanted to sing. I did not get the gift that I wanted. We spent so much time moaning over what we did not get that we completely miss what’s staring us in the face.

Q: How in the world did you write that first book while being a single mother and working full-time?
A: When I think about it, it makes me sick at my stomach. My daughter was in the second grade when I was writing the first book, I was going to work at 5 o’clock in the morning, and I still had to cut the grass, feed the dogs... Whatever got done, I did it. Then had to promote that, started the Web site... then with the second book, nothing went away. I had to still do all of those things, and write the second book. After the third book I finally gave up my day job. I was making enough money by then. When I look back at what all I did ... I’m satanically lazy. My goal in life is to lie down. I have no ambition whatsoever. I can sit still longer than anyone I know. Not doing jackshit is an absolute gift. There are many people who need my help. I hate to be busy. But I flat did it.

Q: Do you have any advice for people like me, who still aren’t done writing their first novel?
A: Can’t anybody finish it but you. I would write at 2-3 o’clock in the morning when you wake up and are terrified of something. If you’re going to be up in the middle of the night making up crap to worry about, you might as well be writing.

Q: But I just had a baby ...
A: You do get a free pass. Babies aren’t little but once. You enjoy that.

Yes, I've let myself go. I had a baby. What's your excuse?

“Welcome to the club,” said the card my friend Margaret Gordon gave me at my baby shower.

I was looking forward to joining the Hot Mama Club. I imagined myself and other stylish mommies, toting along Mini-Mes, dressed in matching outfits, to lunch. Our large, tanned, life-giving bosoms, draped in jewels and cashmere, would be the envy of baby daddies and busboys alike.

Alas, that group of MILFs (that word won't pass muster in the newspaper) wouldn’t admit me. Rather, I’m part of the Bedraggled Mommy Society. Most days, I roll out of bed to the hungry, squawking cry of my babe. From that point until I leave the house, it’s a 90-10 balance of Desi-Mommy time. She gets fed, diapered, dressed, played with, tickled, snuggled, offered six appropriate items for chewing, rattling, watching. I get dressed. Usually.

My typical wardrobe for the past six months consists of “inside-out” clothes. Yes, they’re so sloppy, you can’t tell if they’re inside out or not. Basically, pajamas without the penguins. But they’re stretchy, dark colored, and suitable for sleeping, lounging or exercising. They work inside the house or out to the store.

I try to not wear these togs to work. However, given the choice between brushing my teeth and scrounging in Mount Clothesmore (my pile of clean-ish clothes) for pants that fit, I usually opt for teeth. You’re welcome, co-workers.

I attended a baby shower when Desi was 9 weeks old. I remember exactly what Desi wore, down to the leg warmers, but I probably just threw on my nicest inside-out attire. A group of Hot Mamas, most hailing from the Big City, was discussing how a fellow mother had “let herself go.” I don’t recall exactly what her sloppy sins were – slippers? unplucked eyebrows? bedhead? – but my Olympically groomed friend’s exact words are frozen in my mind: “They should kick her out of the club.”

I was horrified. They might as well have been talking about me. But I just got into the club. Could I really be kicked out so soon? Didn’t matter, as I haven’t changed my ways yet.

Sleep is the new crack, and if I have to choose between manicuring my nails or 20 minutes of snooze, take a guess at the winner.

While I was pregnant, my descent began into a Slovenly Sisterhood. Couldn’t see my feet, so pedicures became less pressing. Shaving my legs, I felt like a contortionist. I gave up on plucking the gray hairs that began blooming from my forehead as my fourth decade progressed.

Washing my hair every other day is now a long-forgotten luxury. My curly locks don’t seem to mind going four days without water, but a little dandruff has begun to accumulate. I shake it out, a la Breakfast Club, and keep going. The tangles are usually tethered into a ponytail, which makes it harder to see flakes.

Jackson Hole isn’t what I’d call a “makeup” town, anyway. My first year here, I gave up on the full-face makeup endemic to the South. Amazing how much clearer your skin is when you’re not plastering it with foundation every day. I opted instead for the glow that comes from exercise and a little sun.

At a kids’ birthday party on Saturday, friend Emily Siek recounted how she shaved time off her hygiene routine that day. She popped 1-year-old Sage in the tub with toys, then took her own shower and shampooed above her. Sage shrieked in protest – it was raining on her playtime.

My own bath time used to be a respite, a place where I soaked and read fine literature: celebrity porn like US Weekly, thought-provoking articles in Psychology Today or Bicycling. Now it’s a frantic two-minute scrub of the girly bits followed by hollering “Ready!” Then a squirming, nekkid baby lands in my lap for her turn.

Even sunscreen has become an afterthought. I slather the baby with it and forget to swipe myself.

Show me the new mother who has time to groom herself in the way she has been accustomed, and I will swear the child has been drugged or she’s not disclosing full-time help.

I’m pretty sure my friends don’t know what to say. Absent are the old comments like “lipstick on tooth” or “bra strap showing.” It would take too much energy for the hip 20-somethings to say “National Forest on legs, Snow White hairdo, cascading baby spitup stain on shirt, britches too tight, shopping bags under eyes ... Have a mint!”

Besides, they don’t want to hurt my feelings as I show off the latest baby pictures on my iPhone.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Johanna Love is plotting her second post-baby pedicure. Wish her luck as she scrabbles back into the ranks of the cute.

Balancing baby, lifestyle requires flashing flesh

A hungry baby’s cry is unmistakable, and it only escalates until the siren is muted with a nipple.
If the baby is yours, you start to fret upon hearing the wail. “Oh, poor baby! I’m a terrible mother. How did I let you get so hungry?”
You could be embarrassed. “I must look like a total amateur! All these women are judging me.”
Every so often, the reaction is exasperation. “Again? You just ate not five minutes ago … well, maybe it was 50 minutes ago.”
The physical response is messier. Your body might kick into dispensing mode. Never let ’em see you sweat? Ha. Try to hide it when your chest begins to “milktate,” a word coined by the best friend character in Juno.
Lactation-speak calls it the “let-down reflex,” when hormones open the valve between milk glands and ducts. This is a necessary part of breastfeeding, but it would be way cooler if it always only happened after Tab A was inserted in Slot B.
The inevitable next thought is logistical: “How in the world am I going to feed you in this taxi / on this bike / in the grocery aisle / in seat 16B of this airplane?”
You could spend perfectly good money on specialty poncho-like devices – Hooter Hiders and the like. And I’m sure you will always remember to tote said Hooter Hider along, since you already look like you’re outfitted for the South Pole with a carseat, diaper bag, purse, breast pump and toys everywhere you go.
No? You forgot your Hooter Hider? Time for Plan B.
I started out motherhood with some degree of modesty, I swear. But when my child begins to yowl like a possessed wolverine, that draws more attention than the alternative: a quick presentation of breast and a prolonged, contented slurping sound.
In January, I attached the baby and walked around the grocery store with her under a blanket. I avoided eye contact and let my vegetarian sister grab a pork loin off the shelf as I used both hands to carry and position her for feeding.
In February, I flew to Phoenix and followed the pediatrician-recommended advice of breastfeeding during takeoff and landing to prevent painful pressure from building in baby’s ears. A scarf hid the hooter without suffocating the eater.
A week later, while waiting for other passengers to board our shuttle bus, she began to complain of hunger pains. I hung a hooter into her carseat. Not enough time to mess with unbuckling. That snack helped tide her over until we reached our destination.
In May, I unleashed a boob on our picnic blanket while watching Desi’s daddy play softball. Her sun bonnet was the perfect cover. I operated under the premise that, from a distance, it looked like she was giving me a prolonged hug.
Long bike rides are a challenge. It would be ideal to invent some sort of bicycle-powered breast pump. Milk would snake down a tube into an inverted bottle in the baby trailer, and she could sip at her leisure, sort of like a hamster watering bottle. As this device isn’t yet on the market, I’m forced to stop pedaling and find a place to sit Indian-style for 10 minutes.
A larger feat is getting Desi to focus on food. She is so interested in the colorful outdoors, it takes her a few minutes to stop gazing around and eat.
On Saturday, my mother-in-law was kind enough to drive Desi to the rest stops during an organized bicycle ride in Logan, Utah. I fed her in the front seat of the truck, and spotted a few more of the 2,600 women juggling babies at Little Red Riding Hood.
Our grandmothers mostly stayed home with their infants. Many of our moms raised kids when formula was in vogue. My generation of mothers seems to be the first with the societal expectation that we can do it all: work, exercise, play, breastfeed, run a household.
It’s possible. I’m doing it. But I’m tired a lot. I took a pay cut to work a few less hours per week, and I have put beaucoup hours on my breast pump. I have a support system: part-time nanny, weekly cleaning crew, involved husband, doting Grammy.
So if I have to flash a little flesh to keep my baby happy and healthy, and myself sane by getting out and about, look the other way. And after latch-on, give a little smile. And a thumbs-up wouldn’t hurt.
______________________________________________
This column will appear on June 10 in the Jackson Hole News&Guide.

SHOES

Sidis for sale ...


While my weight has fluctuated quite a bit during my adult life, at least my feet have always been a constant, a la Jennifer Weiner’s In Her Shoes character Rose.
During the past decade, I must have amassed a collection of about 50 pairs of footwear. I didn’t feel bad about this over-consumption because they all had a specific purpose, from date-night heels to ankle-preserving high-top hiking boots to specialized shoes for kayaking, road cycling, mountain biking, scrambling, rock climbing. Sandals for water sports, fashion and kicking around. Snow boots in dressy, slouchy, athletic and funky. Sneakers for the gym, for casual hikes, dog walking. Four pair of cowboy boots, one that I actually ride in. Oh, and three pairs of ski boots: cross-country, skate and downhill. I only indulged in one pair each of the expensive ones: MBT, Frye, Dansko. Dare I say practical fashion?
Here’s the thing nobody warns you about, ladies. Pregnancy can make your feet grow. Oh, it’s just swelling, people said. They’ll shrink. Nope. Mine grew between a half and whole size.
Can you bind your feet? Melanie asked, in best-friend supportive panicked voice. Nah.
A few of my old favorites still fit, but mostly I’m paring down, giving away, selling them. I’m sure my collection will never reach its former glory, because now I have to buy shoes for Mini-me.

Retail Therapy, or, How I Staved Off Baby Blues

It was Jan. 9 that I began to feel trapped. I know the date, because I checked my credit card statement.

I was tethered to the baby by a distance of about 20 yards. Whenever I’d try to sneak away, Scott would say “When did she eat last? When are you coming back?”

At 3 weeks old, Desi wasn’t eating from a bottle yet, so I had to be with her whenever she might be hungry, which was every hour and a half.

Life as a dairy animal was lonely.

I missed my friends, the newsroom, the freedom to dash out somewhere. I cried some. Desi was, by all accounts, an “easy” baby, and if she hadn’t been I might have hurled myself off a cliff. Well, OK, perhaps off the porch into a soft snowbank.

These feelings were not discussed at length in baby class. With my sister gone back to Memphis, husband and friends all working, I was looking for any way out. Of the house, that is.

So I packed Desi into her carseat, and we went shopping. Retail therapy netted us some socializing, gear to make this new phase of life easier and a much-needed spirit-lifting dose of style.

Our spree happened to coincide with the politicians’ call to lift our economy by spending. Hey, we did our part.

I hit Teton Kids, hard. I returned a masculine baby sling that Scott refused to wear. He seemed much more comfortable holding Desi from the platform of the couch than strapping her on. I also cashed in a tiny outfit, same as another top-and-pants combo, but in another pattern. With $120 in credit, I was able to buy a steezy [look how hip I am! That means stylish] green Baby Bjorn and a snowflake-patterned Hotsling. These baby-toting apparatuses enabled us to do even more shopping.

Off to DD Camera Corral. My little point-and-shoot died in the delivery room before Desi was born. I knew iPhone photos were not going to appease Desi’s growing fan club. While deciding on a new camera, I got the 411 on passport photos for Desi, but decided not to buy one until we had a trip planned.

When our BOB Revolution stroller arrived in the mail, it got scant time to rest in the garage. I toned up the bed-rest-atrophied legs by taking laps on the ice-covered Cottonwood subdivision streets. Desi looked like a teddy bear in her giant, fluffy snowsuits.

When the stroller craved indoor time, we took a few Stroller Strides classes at the Rec Center. But its roomy pouch underneath seemed to want more. So we drove two hours each way to stroll TJ Maxx, Target and Grand Teton Mall in Idaho Falls, Idaho.

With so much time each day being spent on the baby’s needs – food, diaper, clothing – I paid less attention to my own appearance. It didn’t really matter whether I had greasy hair or not; wherever we went, Desi stole the show.

We cruised Town Square, searching for easy-access V-neck tops and pants that might fit a re-emerging waist.

Baby-wearers will know: It’s impossible to try on clothes with a baby strapped to you. Then again, modeling clothes may be the last thing you want to do after you realize you’re a full size larger than you were when you started all this baby-making business.

When scouring the sales racks at Boot Barn (nee Corral West), I remarked aloud to a tall woman whose husband carried an infant, “Don’t you just loooove post-baby clothes shopping?” My voice, I hoped, carried an intended tone of sarcasm.

She fired back, “Yeah, my boobs grew like a size with each baby. And I have eight.” Eight. I felt like a whiner, and because she didn’t say “had” rather than “have,” I got the sense perhaps she wasn’t stopping her streak. Not for me, honeybee.

Retail therapy – and, in the interest of full disclosure, Lexapro – got me safely through the mental health gauntlet of seasonal affective disorder, postpartum depression, baby blues and cabin fever.

But the credit card polishing had to come to an end. There are so many things we don’t really need to buy new.

Most weekends, we now visit yard sales to search for baby clothes and toys. Prices range from free and nearly free to a few dollars. We’ve scored jackets, an outdoor swing, carseat flair [dangling toys], books and a faux-fur vest, in sizes from 6 months to 4T.

Once a month, I comb through Desi’s closet. I remove the too-short onesies, pants and dresses and squirrel them away for friends who are pregnant. Then I dive into the tubs of new-to-us clothes. Hey, this will fit now! It’s closet shopping at its finest.

Now that I’m back at work, most of our shopping is utilitarian: groceries, diapers, wine. We can spend an hour cruising the aisles of a grocery store, Desi wide-eyed at bright colors, strange faces and smells. We visit with friends and acquaintances, and it feels good to live within our means again.

Toes and other 5-month things

Desi is fascinated by her toes now. She puts them in her mouth every chance she gets.




When she plays on her bouncy seat or under her activity gym, she props her legs up so she can grab her toes.

Toes must be the hottest new toy. Or maybe she's just got flexible hamstrings like her mama.

What the heck, let's just make this a picture post.

Here's one of her in her Carhartts.

And one of her with Aunt Amy.

And another one at dinner with Amy and Mike and Marcus and Steve and Tina ... Desi doing her famous "Don't shoot!" pose.

Birthing a column

After a decade or so of writing and editing for the newspaper, I finally published a column today. I had proposed many columns over the years, but the other editors kept shooting me down. Waiting for me to find the right topic, they said. As such, I finally felt under control enough to write a sample, and they approved it without delay. So "Mommy Love" debuted. It will publish every other week. Here's the first installment...


Birth offers lesson in rolling with changes


“I think we need to do a C-section.”

My heart sank. Really? I had guzzled organic milk, sprinted away from the microwave for nine months and driven on fumes to avoid pumping my own gasoline, all in the name of keeping my first birth as natural as possible. And by extension, to keep my baby as healthy as possible.

But with blood pressure climbing higher by the week, plus the ever-present headaches and three weeks of bed rest, I was done with pregnancy. Dr. Doug George and I decided it was time to induce labor with synthetic hormones.

“Your baby is not getting any better in there now, she’s not getting any smarter,” Dr. George said. “She’s just getting bigger.”

Reason enough for me to agree to induction. My husband Scott’s massive cranium already had me terrified of how I was going to squeeze this canteloupe out of a Bratwurst-sized orifice, so if she didn’t get bigger, that was fine by me.

In the back of my mind was the idea that induction wasn’t the way I planned to go into labor, but I was worried enough about my blood pressure not to care. A foggy thought – one intervention in birthing leads to another – crossed my mind, but I ignored it. My friend Katy Gray had just given birth to Milo with no problems after being induced. Piece of cake.

I checked into St. John’s Medical Center on Dec. 18, when nurses administered Cervidil, which is supposed to ripen the cervix. At 6 a.m. on Dec. 19, they began the Pitocin drip. That drug causes contractions. I was OK with the pain until about 9 a.m. when Dr. Laura Vignaroli broke my water with a device that looked like a crochet hook. Then I demanded an epidural – stat. Labor continued, with me drifting in and out of consciousness and waiting for the drugs to magically urge my baby south. She didn’t cooperate.

I labored for about 11 hours, endured plenty of pain and then I had to have a significant, unplanned surgery. It just didn’t seem fair.

But my baby’s heart rate was showing that she was stressed by labor. She wasn’t descending very far into the birth canal. Tapped to emerge at 39 weeks gestation, she just wasn’t ready. I think she would have preferred to hang out in the womb another few weeks. The only good reason to come out is that it was getting crowded in there, like Town Square during Old West Days.

My friend Michelle Ohmart said she thinks the best advice anyone could give a pregnant woman is to roll with the changes. No matter how much you prepare, things never turn out the way you plan.

Letting go of expectations has been an issue of mine ever since I can remember. I’d spend weeks dreaming of the field trip, only to be disappointed that nobody wanted to sit next to me on the bus, the exhibit smelled weird and lunch was crummy.

So roll we did, into the operating room, where doctors Vignaroli and Giovannini Anthony sliced me open and pulled out my baby. Did I mention that it seemed like every doctor in town had a hand in my, uh, delivery?

And she was perfect. Desi Alexandra Love Edwards weighed a robust 7 pounds, 11 ounces, measured at 20 inches long with a 14.5-inch cranium. She got a 9 out of 10 on her first test in life, the Apgar score of baby vigor.

I missed all the weighing and measuring fuss while I got the last restful sleep I can remember, in the recovery room.

Although it wasn’t the birthing “experience” I dreamed about, the C-section had its advantages. Codeine. An extra day or two of nurses helping me in the hospital. Everything intact down below. Desi’s beautiful, un-smushed head. And Scott got to have those first magical minutes of parenthood for himself.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johanna Love does not claim to be an expert on parenting. Her only qualification for writing this column is that she has kept her child alive and seemingly happy thus far. Her column will appear in this spot every two weeks.