EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED JILLIAN LAUREN is the author of the New York Times bestselling memoir Some Girls: My Life in a Harem and the novel Pretty. Some Girls has been translated into eighteen languages. Jillian has an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, The Paris Review, Vanity Fair, Los Angeles Magazine, Salon, Elle, and The Moth Anthology, among others. She is a regular storyteller with The Moth. Lauren blogs about motherhood and writing at www.jillianlauren.com.
She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Weezer bass player Scott Shriner, and their son. "Lauren''s writing is brave and honest, and she calls out hypocrisy wherever she sees it." --Kirkus Reviews "Lauren proves she is a master storyteller." --Catherine Burns, artistic director of The Moth "In this ferociously brave, funny, and heartwarming memoir, Jillian Lauren parses the challenges and rewards of motherhood with true grace and humility. No other parenting book has ever made me feel so validated about the big, messy, beautiful picture of what it means to care for another human being. I closed the cover in awe of both the author and of parenthood itself." --Claire Bidwell Smith, author of The Rules of Inheritance "With humor and poignancy, Lauren interweaves her struggle to become a mother with her own story of being adopted as an infant. It''s a love story--between Lauren and her rock star husband and also between a couple and their new son.
Like all great love stories, the beauty is in the struggle." --Kristen Howerton, founder of Rage Against the Minivan "A transformative, unflinching account of the creation of an adoptive family. Jillian and Scott and their son, Tariku, show us--painful, frustrating, and joyful step-by-step--how to attach, heal, listen, trust, and then let go. A testament to the fierce and fallible journey of any mother. Reads like a novel, moves you like any great story of survival would, to tears of joy and triumph." --Jamie Lee Curtis Praise for Some Girls "Riveting . [Lauren writes] with humor, candor, and a reporter''s gimlet eye." --Jennifer Egan, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of A Visit from the Goon Squad "[Lauren] is a deft storyteller and not afraid to provide candid descriptions of her life.
" --The Miami Herald "Lauren . imparts equal parts poignant reflection and wisdom into her enlightening book. A gritty, melancholy memoir leavened by the author''s amiable, engrossing narrative tenor." --Kirkus Reviews "Some Girls is a heart-stoppingly thrilling story told by a punk rock Scheherazade. Lauren writes with such lyrical ease--the book is almost musical, an enduring melody of what it is to be a woman." --Margaret Cho Pretty Some Girls: My Life in a Harem An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street New York, New York 10014 penguin.com Copyright © 2015 by Jillian Lauren Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture.
Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. Excerpt from "Somewhere That''s Green" from Little Shop of Horrors, music by Alan Menken, lyrics by Howard Ashman. Copyright © 1982 by Universal - Geffen Music, Trunksong Music, Ltd., and Menken Music. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
Excerpt from "Good Morning Starshine" (from Hair), music by Galt MacDermot, words by James Rado and Gerome Ragni. Copyright © 1966, 1967, 1968, 1970 (copyrights renewed) by James Rado, Gerome Ragni, Galt MacDermot, Nat Shapiro, and EMI U Catalog Inc. All rights administered by EMI U Catalog Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music (Print). All rights reserved. Cover design: Rachel Willey Cover photograph courtesy of the author LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Lauren, Jillian. Everything you ever wanted : a memoir / Jillian Lauren. pages cm ISBN 978-0-698-16855-8 1.
Lauren, Jillian. 2. Women--California--Biography. 3. Identity (Psychology) 4. Women novelists, American--Biography. I. Title.
PS3612.A9442275Z46 2015 813''.6--dc23 [B] 2015005344 Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author''s alone. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content. Neither the publisher nor the author is engaged in rendering professional advice or services to the individual reader. The ideas, procedures, and suggestions contained in this book are not intended as a substitute for consulting with your physician.
All matters regarding your health require medical supervision. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising from any information or suggestion in this book. Author''s Note THIS is a work of creative nonfiction. My son, Tariku, disagrees. He insists that this book couldn''t be nonfiction, because real nonfiction contains photographs of planets and lizards and stuff. I have changed names and identifying characteristics at times, to protect the privacy of those involved. That said, to the best of my ability, planets and lizards aside, this book is the truth. I''m his December bride.
He''s Father, he knows best. Our kids watch Howdy Doody As the sun sets in the West. A picture out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine, Far from Skid Row I dream we''ll go somewhere that''s green. --Alan Irwin Menken and Howard Ashman, from Little Shop of Horrors ~ Prologue THERE are three kinds of daylight in Los Angeles. There is the midday light--flat and relentless. Usually partnered with heat, it catches and suspends you, like a formaldehyde solution. It has weight, singes your lungs, would poison the rain if the rain ever fell. Makes you wish the bloody red sunset would hurry up and come already.
There is the light after a rare rainstorm--the cerulean blue sky that frames the Hollywood sign and breathes new life into a thousand impossible dreams. Shatters your heart into glistening David Hockney swimming-pool pieces. You feel rich. You want to be driving down Sunset Boulevard through Beverly Hills in a convertible. Forget that. You want to be driven down Sunset in a Bentley with tinted windows. Only tourists admit they want to be seen. Finally there is the dawn--cool, pale, and still smudged with shadows from the night before.
In Hollywood, for many people it still is the night before. But for those of us who wake with the dawn instinctively, it is forgiving. It is forgiveness. It is soft, from the humbler east, more understated than the garish twilight displays over the ocean. It yearns for something clean that never comes. No matter--it is the yearning that counts. The dawn is my time. I always rise before everyone.
More often than not, I dress quickly, have a few sips of tea, and walk out the door to exercise. On the morning of my eighteen-month-old son Tariku''s final adoption hearing at the Children''s Court in Monterey Park, I wake at five. The hearing is a formality, but a significant one. After this, he will be irrevocably ours. My husband, Scott, and T are sleeping next to me. The pale predawn light seeps around the edges of the curtains. We don''t have to be there until ten. I slip out of bed and lace up my sneakers.
In our neighborhood in northeast L.A., there is a hill on the southern border. A road cuts over it, but the back side is undeveloped, with trails I''ve yet to explore. The road is steep and winding. A good hike, I think, and doable in time. If I walk at a brisk clip, I don''t even need the car. I feel strong as I push toward the top.
When I reach the crest, the trail looks clearly marked. I figure fifteen minutes to the bottom. Perfect. When I arrive home, Scott will have just woken up with T, the morning chores will be under way, and I will plunge in. But now I''m headed down and something is wrong. I hike enough to be able to feel when a trail is going wrong--probably heading to a dead end. I go back to the last fork and take another trail, which also ends abruptly. Through the branches, I can see the back of what looks like a high school down below.
I figure I can bushwhack my way through the brush, then walk through the campus and back out to the street. It won''t be far. After that my home is just over the next familiar hill. It''s harder than I thought. Burrs invade my shoes; an errant twig scratches my face; another tears my favorite leggings. At the bottom, I remember that this isn''t the era I grew up in, of smoking pot and getting felt up in the woods behind the library. This is the era of high-security schools. A tall chain-link fence blocks my passage.
My chest seizes and I recoil. When I was a kid, a jagged end of chain link ripped my hand open. I still remember t.