I Invite My Mother's Ghost to Lunch at Ikea
I Invite My Mother's Ghost to Lunch at Ikea

I grab a blue-and-yellow rip-stop plastic tote with IKEA repeated up its handles. A worker greets me. Other customers disappear on their way to the ballroom. No thank you. The bag is for show. I don’t need any help. What I came for does not appear in any catalogue. I take the escalator past a miniature farmhouse with its candles, books, and modular kitchen, the promise of all needs met. It recedes below me as a black and white mural of a smiling face invites me further, all the way in. It will be wonderful! The white teeth beckon.

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FeastJulia NusbaumMother and Daughter, Food Writing, Childhood Comments
Not Your Mother's Meatloaf
Not Your Mother's Meatloaf

Tucked between the food-stained pages of my old Betty Crocker cookbook is a handwritten recipe for meatloaf. It’s written on the back of a menu from Gustaf Anders, the Swedish restaurant in Southern California where my stepbrother, John, once waited tables. It was 1992, I think, and John and his Norwegian wife were in the middle of a divorce. Or maybe it had already happened. We were drinking a lot and smoking weed in those days. We had flown back from Norway together, drunk for the entire fourteen hour flight from Oslo to Los Angeles, with a stopover in New York for Customs. I think it was New York; I was in a brownout then. The valium and booze had performed their customary magic. What I remember: putrid green cinderblock walls and men in uniforms. Our bags were screened and some item was questioned and we almost missed the connecting flight. We reeked of Marlboros and sweat and Kahlua. We’d drunk the liquor cart dry.

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FeastJulia Nusbaummother and daughter, family, Childhood, Cooking, Food writing Comment
How to Be Queer in Ten Easy Steps
How to Be Queer in Ten Easy Steps

Step 1: Find a Spot at the Lunch Table

The people I sit with at the middle school lunch table have an unsettling obsession with trying to deep throat bananas. I only have a passing understanding of the concept, and with a gag reflex so strong I sometimes struggle putting in a mouth guard, I don’t participate – or at least, I don’t participate well.

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Julia NusbaumComment
Unchosen
Unchosen

At the Olympic Games in Los Angeles, Béla Károlyi’s star gymnast, Mary Lou Retton, stuck the landing of her full twisting Tsukahara vault, earning a perfect 10.0 and the individual all-around gold medal. At age four, I loved her teammate, Julianne McNamara. She had strawberry blonde hair like me. My sister and I begged my parents to register us for gymnastics. At my first practice, I studied the older girls and followed every direction. At pick up I asked my mom, “Can I come back tomorrow?” 

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Julia Nusbaum Comment
Rebel Without a Date
Rebel Without a Date

For the long first act of my life, as a painfully shy kid growing up in Culver City – steps away from the Sony Pictures studio lot, the iconic Gone With The Wind mansion, which was right by the movie theater downtown, and down the street from the liquor store where they filmed the infamous McLovin scene in Superbad – dating and romance was something I experienced entirely through the silver screen.

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Coming of AgeSelena Raygozalove story, age, datingComment
Filling the Emptiness
Filling the Emptiness

My two young children, clad in neon swimsuits, danced around impatiently in the backyard, checking on the progress every now and then.  Our new inflatable pool—turquoise and gray with an attached blow-up slide—was being filled with the garden hose; it was taking forever for any noticeable progress.  It was mid-June and the Wisconsin weather was in the low 70’s; I wasn’t about to tell my kids that even when the pool had filled to an acceptable volume, the sun still had to heat the water, cold and sputtering from the spigot, and that it was likely to take days, not hours. 

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumFeminist, mother, Motherhood, parent, wisconsin, childrenComment
Learning Trust, In Lyric
Learning Trust, In Lyric

Suspended above the Delaware River, I can no longer time my contractions. The fierce waves of pain sweep up my facility to do anything but breathe. Breathe I do, with an equally fierce grip on the vinyl door handle of my husband’s pickup truck—never more thankful for its heated leather seats. As my insides constrict, my fingers squeeze the handle tighter. When my muscles release their grip, I release mine, measuring my breath with a will resolute.

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumMotherhood, Trust, Children, Parenting, ChoicesComment
Stolen or Saved
Stolen or Saved

We didn’t know the beauty we would find there. It wasn’t an obvious dazzling beauty. It needed to be unearthed, searched for. Our clothes stuck to us as we ambled off the plane. The heat and strong odors of others, of ourselves, pressed in on us. We cranked our windows down in the taxi as broken Soviet buildings rushed by. Their gray concrete stark against the sharp neon green of the trees and grass.

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MotherhoodJulia NusbaumMotherhood, Strong Women, adoption, Mother's love, Feminist, Travel Comments
St. Christopher’s Failure
St. Christopher’s Failure

My daughter’s fortieth birthday is soon, and I’m looking for something special for her. It’s a tradition in our family. At particular milestones, the mother gifts the celebrant with a special piece of jewelry, other “heirloom” from her own life. I’m looking for a piece of my history—something of me to stay with her as she moves toward all she’s becoming. When I turned forty, my mother surprised me by crocheting a lovely blue throw that I still can snuggle under on cold nights. I don’t have time to create something, so I sort through my jewelry box, looking for just the right thing.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschgrief, loss, relationshipsComment
Driving Lessons
Driving Lessons

I’m seated in the passenger seat of my old gray Prius teaching Zahra how to drive. She is in the driver’s seat intently watching the traffic light, waiting for the moment it turns green. I sit quietly so I don’t disturb her concentration. She’s wearing a black blouse with long sleeves and black pants on this hot summer day; her headscarf is absent. I’ve known her long enough to know that she wears a headscarf only when she wants to. “It’s not for religion,” she’s told me before, stopping short of telling me why she sometimes wears it. I’m wearing a short skirt and a tank top in light colors. Despite our different appearances, I feel a strong emotional kinship with her.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschgrief, loss, relationshipsComment
Born To Run
Born To Run

It is a beautiful, crystalline Saturday morning, early, 8:00 a.m. I pull on my lilac-colored capri pants, the ones with the pocket for my phone so I can listen to my music. I put on my spongy, perfect black socks and the running shoes I love so much, cushioned from every sidewalk crack by a substance like clouds.

And then I’m out the door.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschself care, explore, reflectionComment
Perpetual Motion
Perpetual Motion

I build up speed as my blades dig into the ice. Cold air stings my face the faster I go, but I don’t care. My pre-teen brain disconnects from my body and dreams my big thoughts of having that cute boy in math smile at me, coming up with a snappy comeback to my sixth-grade nemesis, or being a reporter like Woodward and Bernstein. The Dutch Waltz plays over the loudspeaker and while moving forward on my right foot, I lean into a strong inside edge, and position the heel of my left blade near the right, to transfer my weight onto a left back inside edge. The Mohawk. Forward, backward—I am flying, and I can be anything.

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Keep MovingKristina Buschself care, dance, reflectionComment
Everything That Breathes
Everything That Breathes

I’ve never seen the rooster next door that crows at dawn. And during thunderstorms. And during the ubiquitous fireworks—this is Oaxaca, after all. In the afternoon, when he’s tired of scratching at the same dirt hoping to find something different, but it’s just the same fucking dirt, he crows a little louder.

“I hear you,” I whisper over the fifteen-foot wall that separates us. “I feel you.”

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Keep MovingKristina Buschtravel, divorce, love, dance, reflection Comment
On a Train to Nice
On a Train to Nice

I rush to the quai in the Gare de Lyon in Paris. Flinging my small case on the train, I jump on. Moments later the train pulls away along the track, heading to Nice.

Slumped in my seat, I can relax, breathe, and observe those already settled in my compartment. Business people, couples, and single travellers surround me. One small figure catches my eye—a lady in her early sixties, dressed in a double-breasted camel hair coat, green beret, and smart brown leather gloves. She is elegant, with red lipstick. The slight nervousness of her fidgeting hands is familiar.

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Second ChancesKristina Buschgrief, Mother daughter, family, immigration storiesComment