Some of My Other Random Thoughts

Grouchy Blogger

2009-10-26T21:45:00.002-04:00

And not very faithful one, either. Maybe the two are related. Uploading pictures makes me grouchy, which is probably why I haven't done it in 4 months. See other blog if you want the family photos.

I'm working! I think it's a keeper job, too, so I am happy about that. I've even gotten my first paycheck, which is even marginally the most I've ever made. Never mind that the marginally less paycheck was in 2001-2002 when I was teaching in public school with one less master's degree. But I didn't like it. I think I like this.

But, I'm working! And I have so little time for anything. No exercise. It's taking me more than a week to finish a novel that I actually enjoy because I'm falling asleep before I finish a chapter. Don't get me started on how the DVR is sucking up the rest of my time. I'm not complaining. Really, I'm not. It's a good busy.

I will try to do this more often. But if I can't, I can't.

Fragments

2009-05-16T08:58:00.002-04:00

I keep dreaming about my office. Not the building, but the actual small room where I worked. The scratched wooden desk whose drawers I never fully cleaned out from the last resident. My filing cabinets, the rusty metal bookcase behind me where I kept neat stacks of in-progress projects and frequently used forms. The not-outstanding rolling chair, slightly wobbly and creaky. Even the computer and phone, same as everyone else's, which nonetheless felt like an extension of me, the worker.

When I'm awake, though, I think about the people I had to leave without warning. Like I said last time, I don't want to inflate my own self-importance. The people I worked with are used to being left behind, low priority, forgotten, so my absence likely won't be significant for very long. Yet, that in itself bothers me. Not my insignificance, but that these are marginalized people, with more emphasis on the "marginal" than the "people" part. I know there's this whole middle class employee socialization about never at any cost jeopardizing one's references, but what's my greater responsibility? To the people I was trying to help, whom I was paid to help, or to the employer who might or might not even be around to give me a reference. My conscience (or my also socialized evangelical Christian-guilt) tells me I'm not off the hook, human-to-human, just because I was asked to pack my things and stop working there. I don't know what that means, though. I don't know what I should do.

I wrote a note to one woman I was working with. I put it in my home mailbox this morning. She'd asked me to help her with a very simple, human need the day before I was laid off. In fact she asked me as I was walking out the door the day before, so I'd planned to start working on it the next morning. It was a line on a post-it on my desk. It was one of the things I mentioned to my supervisor as I was taking down my pictures and trying to remember if I'd brought the calculator from home (I decided I did). So I just this morning wrote her a note, telling her that I was sorry I couldn't have said good bye. I told her I was still thinking about her and wishing her well. I told her the resource I was considering calling on her behalf and gave her the number to try to call herself. I put my return address on the envelope.

I wasn't working as a counselor, just a case manager, but in my counseling program we hear a lot about boundaries. I had doubts in my mind about whether I should maintain contact, however slight and unobtrusive, since I can no longer help her with the backing of any agency. Is it appropriate to imply some kind of friendship, however passing and limited? But also, how human is it to just pretend that no one mattered to me beyond the paycheck? She's just one person out of over 100 people I worked with in the brief 6 months I was there. I'm only speaking of the over 100 homeless people who can't do anything for me, who can't give me references or remember that I was professional and competent when I coordinated services with them or made referrals to them in the spring of 2009. I have a few of those other names, too, which I'm keeping for my future employment searches.

Most of the homeless people have moved on already, of course, and funding woes may cause the rest of them to move on soon. Many of them I only met for a few hours or a few days. Many of them were addicts. A few of them were unpleasant sociopaths, but then again, I've met a few of those who weren't homeless, too, haven't you? They all had stories, though. And they were all human, like me, like my co-workers, like my supervisors, like you.

This layoff is still less than 4 days old. I may be going through one or more of the stages of guilt. I may be having trouble moving on and accepting my situation. Beyond all that, though, part of me wants to get out of the line of sheep moving from one insecure employment situation/temporarily-grassy-field to the next. I don't know what all of this means. Part of me wants to take the $100 digital voice recorder I had to buy for my graduate program and interview these people for public radio. But maybe I've just been listening to too much This American Life. Before their stories make me laugh or get a lump in my throat as I take my exercise walks around my neighborhoods, how were those contributors perceived? Slightly deranged, potentially obsessed yahoos with digital recorders, pursuing their highly personal stories with no hope of financial gain.

I've wanted to be a writer my entire life, but the main reason I'm not (leaving aside any judgment on my actual ability) is because I've always been afraid to take risks. I didn't want to get rejected (even though every published writer I respect says they've gotten countless rejection letters). I didn't want to put myself out there, in every possible meaning of that cliche. I'm not good at being vulnerable. I'm not good at being scrutinized. As much as I want to be loved, accepted, and approved of like every other human, I always fight the tendency to hide and disappear. I'm sure I'm not alone in that, either.

I'm right in the middle here. I'm less than two months from having a master's degree, my second master's degree, in a field where layoffs due to agency funding is unfortunately all too common (even before the global economic collapse). Even when employed, I can expect to work long hours for less than teacher's pay, unless I go into private practice, which is also no sure thing and pretty much guarantees that I will not be working with the most needy, since I will have to seek paying clients. My husband probably doesn't want to hear this, since we just spent thousands of dollars on this degree. I don't even know what I'm saying. Let's just call it adjustment disorder, for the moment.

I have to make pancakes now, for the two most important little humans in my life. My employment makes no difference to them. They're too young to notice any financial sacrifice we have to make, which won't, at any rate, include going hungry or losing the house. I still have all that: my children, my marriage, my house, my friends and family. Not much has changed, really, but I'm trying to allow myself to do whatever it is I'm doing. To mourn. To ponder. To give myself room to grow. To be. It is what it is. What will I be?

The Economy Hits Home

2009-05-14T14:44:00.002-04:00

One day you're at your desk, making phone calls and checking emails. Someone gives you an updated phone extension list, because someone moved to a new office, and you put it up on the side of your filing cabinet with the blue crab magnet one of your clients made. You complete a few tasks and throw away the post-it notes reminding you to do them. You sit across the desk from a new client, desperate and nervous, who clutches her small bag of meager belongings on her lap while rapidly tapping her leg. You think about what resources might be helpful for her and set up a follow-up appointment for tomorrow, because it's almost four o'clock and you have to get to class.

And then the next day they tell you they had to make some layoffs and, unfortunately, you're one of them. From there it's a little bit like on TV, and it feels that way, too. Not quite real. You take down the pictures of your children, turn over your keys to your apologetic supervisor, glance over the desk at the sticky notes that you'll never get to. Your supervisor promises he'll be calling you because he's sure he'll have questions. You have mixed feelings about this--you want to help, but if they need you, they shouldn't let you go. You shakily write your hours down in the payroll logbook for the last time. The few people you see in the hallway seem shaken as well. One co-worker says, "I'll be next. I have to be next."

You have a 30 minute drive home, during which you have to keep reminding yourself that those clients, those people you were actually helping, are not your problem anymore. They can't be. You think about the ones you just started helping, the ones who've told you about everyone in their lives abandoning them. You realize you sound a little grandiose, thinking you're the only one who could help them. Or that your clients will remember you in a year. But you were proud of your work; as cynical as you usually are, that mattered.

You also miss the people you'd almost become friends with. The people you spent 30-40 hours a week with, joking around, rolling your eyes, rushing around and getting things done. You realize it's too late to get their phone numbers. You wonder how you could have thought you were friends without getting phone numbers. Of course, you thought you'd have time.

You never think it's going to happen to you, even when it happened to others across the hall last month and the month before that. You never think you're going to be walked down the hallway carrying your belongings, the slim personal trappings of your former office, your former persona. What next? What now?

Baby Showers

2009-03-07T20:48:00.003-05:00

I'll just start out by saying I'm not a big fan. That may make me a humbug or a wet blanket or whatever quaint/vaguely British and/or 19th century phrase you prefer, but I would even have chosen to skip my own. Not that I had that choice, of course, since my mom and her friends organized the whole thing.

It's not just the indignity of guessing the girth of the pregnant mom using toilet paper. Or having to ooh and aah over baby clothes (yawn). Although those things are part of it. Until the last baby shower I went to, I probably would have listed silly games and mustering enthusiasm as two of the chief objections. That and my dislike of crowds, mingling, and socializing in general. (Don't I sound like fun to be around?) My new reason might be even more nitpicky and curmudgeonly, you tell me, but at least it's a new one.

The most recent baby shower was a ladies-in-the-church event. I went with my mother. The showered mom, with newborn in tow, is actually someone I'd like to get to know better. We went to the same college, although I graduated eight-ahem, cough-ten years earlier. She has an older daughter just a little bit older than P. I've heard that she wasn't actually crazy about getting a baby shower since she's shy, too (there are no secrets among the ladies-in-the-church), but since her husband is the new music minister and the church ladies were insistent, she didn't have much of a choice. All that to make it clear, I don't blame the new mom. (These silly traditions aren't anyone's fault, really; we just get pulled along into them by a group-compulsion to conform to some unknown body's expectation. Yawn. Boring myself.)

No, the most irksome thing about this shower was the woman who played hostess. I don't know her. I've never met her. She may be a friend of the mom. She may just be the type who likes to take charge and boss, er, run things. I know from a few of her offhand comments during the baby trivia game (woo-hoo!) that she's a teacher and she doesn't have kids (Question: "What is the highest number of children recorded to be born to one couple?" Irrelevant-no-one-cares comment:"Do my twenty-one 4th graders count?" Snarky silent answer: I don't know, did you teach them to count?)

OMG, I sound so harsh. Did she remind me of some peppy cheerleader from high school? Yes, she did! But I try not to let that kind of thing cloud my snap judgment. (Who am I kidding?) Really, what I'm trying to get to is the giggle over the word "ut.erus". And the giggle over the word "br.east-fe.eding". Note: I am doing the weird thing where I put dots in words because I don't want to get random hits and because my post about sore fe.et actually got one.

The ut.erus question went like this:

Peppy hostess: [giggle, possible snort] Well, I guess we're all ladies here, so here goes. How big does a woman's ut.erus get during pregnancy? [giggle, small chorus of giggles from two or three other skinny young women] Is it 50 times its previous size? 100 times its previous size? 200 times? Or 500 times? [giggle, unsolicited comment about discomfort of giant ut.erus, giggle chorus from skinny bitches]
(If you're curious, I think the answer was 500 times. I could look it up, but I don't really care that much.)

Oh, and I think there was a question about the size of the pla.centa which she was also clearly uncomfortable with, almost like she was telling a dirty joke. In front of the church ladies.

I feel I should say something here. The poor girl hasn't had a baby yet. She's likely never tried to get pregnant. If she's not married, since this is a conservative evangelical church, there's a possibility she's not even having the se.x now. So, there is always a discomfort with the unknown. And we are trained to have weird hangups about the female anat.omy. Polite (possibly Southern) church women don't say words like "ut.erus" and "pla.centa" or even "br.east". So, although it was definitely annoying, I can't entirely dismiss her as a shallow, self-absorbed twit with a warped concept of which words are inappropriate. She'll learn. She'll get pregnant or struggle to get pregnant, and she'll learn. Ignorance can be overcome, often by experience. (And I certainly have to add that, from the IF blogs I read, trying to conceive, struggling to conceive, brings perhaps even a higher level of intimacy with the an.atomical stuff, than birth does. So this is not a "if you haven't had a baby, you just don't get it" rant. I think I come across the word ut.erus a whole lot more from the TTC crowd than the mommy bloggers.)

Also because I've experienced this embarrassment before. I took a human se.xuality class in my counseling program with mostly women. We were all ages, from mid-twenties to early sixties. Probably a third of the women didn't have children. (All three of the men were fathers and age 40 and up. Let's forget about them now. They are irrelevant to this discussion.) No one was a vi.rgin, though. I found it very interesting that many women were much more comfortable talking intimately about or.al s.ex or s.ex toys than they were about va.ginal birth. Or even saying the word va.gina. Pictures of the male an.atomy brought a shrug from them. Pictures of the female an.atomy made them uncomfortable to the point of asking the professor to advance the powerpoint. "I can't look at that," one woman said. Which, if you know my professor, was just fascinating to him, since the whole point was to make us aware of our discomfort and deal with it.

Maybe it's because I came to this myself from the other direction. Pregnancy and childbirth brought me to a level of ease and comfort with my body, my se.xuality. I never talked to girlfriends about my s.ex life before I had kids. Now it may mostly be rolling my eyes saying, What s.ex life? but I would have been embarrassed to say even that before. Pregnancy and childbirth made me aware of myself as a se.xual person and comfortable and familiar with my an.atomy. We did a lot of comforting in that class. Sharing guilt and sadness when husbands didn't understand the period of disinterest in s.ex after childbirth, revealing unresolved pain from abortions gotten under pressure from partners, mourning the loss of possibilities from waiting too long to have children or from having children too soon. It was a healing class.

What's this have to do with the cheerleader from the shower? I don't know. This has been running around my head for a while and she brought it back to my mind. I should follow my own advice and be kind to women, even inane, bubbly-headed ones. We have it rough enough as it is.

Quick Post

2009-03-06T21:11:00.002-05:00

Halushki doesn't allow comments anymore, so I have to link her instead. This could have been written by me, although I haven't worked in a bookstore for nine years. It's good to remind myself when I get all nostalgic about the good old days (and irritated at the current job's insanity) that selling books also involved a lot of patience and resisting the urge to roll my eyes for minimum wage. (That said, if there was a good one within ten minutes of my house, I might think about it. But there isn't and there won't be, so not much thought, really.)

More later.

Unforeseen Side Effects

2009-03-01T22:29:00.002-05:00

of work, I guess. Specifically of wearing uncomfortable shoes to work. My feet hurt. I had taken for granted the general state of non-foot pain that previous my mostly barefoot, once-to-twice a week nice shoes for 1-2 hours tops, otherwise be-sneakered lifestyle yielded me. Other than getting (daily) foot massages and/or pedicures that I have no time to schedule, any suggestions? Any particular brands of shoes that don't cause foot pain long into the weekend? I buy cheap shoes, generally, being a frugal person. But I'm willing to fork over more money for less pain. No pain, preferably. I remember my feet hurting AT work when I used to stand most of the day in my retail years. But that was 10 years ago (yikes) and my shoes then, more often than not, did not have heels. I am oh-so-much-more fashionable these days. Inexpensively fashionable. Now they hurt after I've taken the shoes off. A day or two after. Like they hurt right now and in 9 hours I have to put shoes back on. Ow.

I have pictures from the last week! From softball! And playground! And Fun Fest! And P. with a softball helmet and not much else. Soon I will post them on the other blog.

Softball Moms (& Dads)

2009-02-21T10:24:00.002-05:00

As I sit here in my pajamas at 10:30 on Saturday morning, after enjoying a breakfast of scrambled eggs and Valentine's Day candy with my 2.75 year old, my husband is with the 5.5 year old for the opening ceremonies/picture day of her new softball season.

5-year-olds playing softball? Whaaa? No, seriously, they do. In fact, I was told by a pink-velour-sweatsuit-wearing mom at the last practice (5:30-7 pm on Monday), some girls--like her daughter--start at age 4. I was just trying to make small talk, be less introverted, etc., and had asked her if this was her daughter's first year, too. I was trying not to judge her by the sweatsuit (hey, I've done my share of public-wearing-of-exercise-clothes-without-actual-exercise, too) and hoping maybe for a little snarky-isn't-this-all-a-little-much banter. With someone I'd never met before, sure, why not? Turns out she was more the type to stand at the fence and yell at her daughter to be "Softball ready!" Turns out I'm more the type to slump on the bench and be bored/impatient because I haven't eaten since my inadequate packed lunch at 12 something and I'm still wearing my painful work-shoes.

I'll have to back up a little. My husband signed her up for this. With two seasons of YMCA soccer and one of basketball (he was the coach) under her small belt, he thought this program seemed to have more structure and maybe, just maybe, softball would be her thing. She's enjoyed all the other sports and seasons, but let's just say, she wasn't demonstrating any particular affinity for them.

I didn't play any sports as a kid, despite my dad's rabid sportsfan nature. He now says he wishes he had encouraged us (twin and I) more, but admits he didn't really think, as girls, that we would want or need it. Part of it was not having a lot of money, although when my brother was four or five (seven years later), he played t-ball. And soccer. And basketball. Probably not all in the same year, but still. It's not a major point for me, although I think it would have helped me socially and, you know, coordination-wise. I remember some culture shock when I went to my private college and realized all middle class children were supposed to have had ten years of piano and at least one sport. Oops.

As previously mentioned, we've done soccer and basketball already. The 5 year old has also done two seasons of dance and a couple of years of gymnastics--all at the Y. (And the 2-year-old is finishing up her third 12-week-session of gymnastics.) So, we've entered the acceptable middle-class child realm of organized activities and overscheduling already, but with this latest program it feels like we've entered a new level. (I'm thinking levels of hell here--Dante style--forgive me) .

I took her to her first practice, on a Saturday. Thinking we were good parents, we went out earlier in the week and had her pick out a helmet, bat, ball, and glove. Dad even bought a tee, so he could practice with her. Oh, and new sneakers. Arriving at the field, though, also with my 2ish year old in tow, I surveyed the row of mostly pink carry-bags, pink bats, pink helmets (many with names imprinted on them, not with marker, but all Pottery Barnish child font labeled), I thought, Hmm, not-so-good parent. At Dad's presumably more informed advice, we'd only brought her bat and glove. You can tell me, fellow children of the 70's and 80's, when you played softball/baseball, did you bring your own helmet to the practice (or the game for that matter)? Or did everyone just use the same few brought by the coaches? I'm remembering my brother's games. My husband recalls his even more solidly middle class suburban team sharing team helmets.

Being proactive, I decided to ask, as unsnarkily as possible, if my daughter needed to bring her helmet to practice (although obviously, everyone else had). The coach, a mom of a player, said, "I would" (and she had) and brought up lice. Lice. Yep. The bane of middle class existence, apparently. I have more lice stories, but I'm going to hold off in the interest of actually finishing this story before noon. Later in the practice, when the time came for the girls to wear their helmets for batting practice, she asked me permission for my daughter to use her daughter's helmet ("Is it okay if . . . ?") and again mentioned lice, in the context that her daughter didn't have it. (I just scratched my head.) I have to admit, as ridiculous as all this was, I felt kind of crappy at this point, as if I was one of those parents who may or may not send their child to school wearing underpants or socks.

Don't forget water bottles! Also, I hadn't brought any water, recalling (correctly) that the field came equipped with water fountains in the centrally located restroom area. The other girls had water bottles. Not the environment-destroying disposable Zephyrhills kind, the (pink) labeled reusable kind. Which I generally approve of, by the way, being a responsible liberal modern person, but it was another piece of evidence against me that I hadn't come prepared. That I'd thought city water through public water fountain would be sufficient for my daughter's rehydration needs. No, they need to bring water bottles. This was specifically mentioned, I can only assume, for my benefit.

It's possible E is the only first-timer on the team. The other girls seem slightly taller and their parents seemed to know what was expected of them. Maybe they at least have older daughters or sons who have gone through the drill before. I don't really think anyone was judging us. If they were, I'm trying really hard not to care. We wrote E's name on her (pink) bat and glove and (not pink) helmet with permanent marker, bought her a (red) water bottle, a (green) carry case and caribeener (sp?) hook so she could hang it on the fence next to all the pink ones.

One thing I'm sure of, if my daughter chooses (as she did at practice this week) to carefully pick tiny rocks out of the red clay and place them one-by-one in her glove when she's supposed to be playing catcher and retrieving the coach-lobbed balls which whiz past the unskilled batters, I'm going to let the coaches correct her. I am not going to stand at the fence and yell at her. I'm taking a stand, even while I'm sitting on the bench squirming at the thought that she's the worst on her team. As you might be able to tell from the preceding paragraphs, I've spent a lot of my life comparing myself to other people, usually with the aim/result of seeing where I've fallen short. I don't want to do that to her. I don't want to keep doing that to myself.

On an unrelated note, a few weeks ago, I sent an email to Dr. Stacey at Every Woman Has an Eating Disorder which included part of my post about the experience at student health. She made it into a post on her site. Very cool. And it got a lot of comments which seem to indicate, unfortunately, that this happens a lot. Not as cool.

Quick Post, New Link

2009-01-26T22:52:00.002-05:00

My other half started a blog. He might be better at it than me, with more time on his hands (and possibly more other stuff on his hands as well).

Also, I wondered if anyone wanted to play fill in the blank? Here it is:

Life wouldn't be worth living (for me, er, you) without _____________.*

For me, it's reading. Fiction. And I'm not doing much of it right now. Hence, stress headaches, night-time teeth grinding, general dissatisfaction. What is it for you?

*(I don't mean this in a I'm-feeling-suicidal way, just a this-is-what-makes-my-life-enjoyable way.)

How Working Kills Blogging

2009-01-15T21:43:00.003-05:00

For me, anyway. Or maybe I'm just in an adjustment period when I have too much to do at work to have time to blog AT work. And still a little paranoid about the ability of bosses and/or network administrators to look at a record of all the sites you surf at work. Maybe these things will pass. Or maybe I just won't be so achingly tired every evening that I want to go to bed at nine. (I say this optimistically, but I'm no optimist, really.) I may just be tired forever, from now on, and not blog much. Not that I was blogging all that much before getting the job. Sigh. Now I'm just depressing my tired self.

I did have two things I wanted to blog about, though, so here goes.

Last week, I went to the student health center to get an allergy prescription. I'm a grad student and student health is free! I still have to pay for the prescription because I don't have health insurance for the moment, but the appointment is free! Maybe you get what you pay for, because it was a weird little experience that I've probably retold to five or six different people in the last seven days.

The nurse had me step on the scale in the hallway. I did, and watched the number appear, all digital style, the same number I've been frowning at when standing on the YMCA scale, jiggling the non-digital balance thingy, hoping it'll bounce up, er, down, a little.

The nurse, on the other hand, was shocked at the number. Not because she knows me (never seen her before) or saw that I'd gained a significant amount since my last visit (I haven't) or was even looking at my chart. She was shocked because, as she put it, "Wow. You do not look like you weigh that much!"

I chuckled or snorted or something, perhaps slightly uncomfortable, but not hearing the alarm bells that later reflection told me I should have heard. My people-pleasing kicked in, and I said, with a little slap to my, ahem, outer thigh, "It's all in my hips!"

"Seriously," the nurse continued, unable to impress this upon me with only one inappropriate comment, "You do NOT look like you weigh that much."

Heh, heh, I might have said. I went into the room, briefly chatted with the doctor, got my script, and I was gone. It wasn't until after class, on my hour-long drive home, that I thought, Huh. Something was not right about that.

I probably should write a letter to the medical director, as more than one of my post-event confidantes told me. I should probably include in that letter that no staff member should ever comment on a woman's (or any patient's) weight while weighing them and writing the number in the chart. If a comment needs to be made, as it might, about significant gain or loss, or concerns about medical complications, it should be made by the primary provider, in a sensitive, confidential way.

Here's the thing. I think she thought she was complimenting me. "Wow, you look skinnier than that number!" or "Wow, you look like you weigh ten pounds less!" But isn't there also a subtext:
"Wow, that's a high number!" or "Wow, you don't look that fat!" And what about this? What if I were recovering from or still dealing with an eating disorder? This is university student health. I know I'm 36 and don't flatter myself that I look 18, but eating disorders have been around since my college days. If it bothered me, who has never been particularly obsessed or concerned about my weight, what would it have done to someone who was finally at a "normal" weight after years of anorexia or bulimia. What if I'd heard negative things about my weight through my whole life from my mother or other important role models? (And isn't that A LOT of women?)

Okay, maybe I'll copy some of that into a letter. Without the sarcasm. I'm going to send a note to a great blog I've been reading, called Every Woman Has an Eating Disorder, too. What do you all think?

My second ruminating point this week happened when I ran into an old friend. A girl I used to hang out with in elementary and a little bit of middle school. We went to sleepovers at each other's houses; we were in Girl Scouts together. We went to high school together, too, and were always friendly, but moved into different circles of friends and didn't hang out anymore. And I haven't seen her since.

I went to a meeting for work, with other staff from work, at another (much larger) facility who provides many of the services to which we refer clients. Behavioral health, substance abuse, etc. We were meeting their executive staff, with our director, trying to build a positive and mutual beneficial relationship, yada yada. Long story short, we're both covertly studying each other across the conference table because we had the feeling we knew the other. As soon as we start the tour, she takes my arm and says, "I know you." Then we say OMG, where do you live? how old are your kids? etc., etc.

Nothing is bad about this. It's just me, looking at her business card, realizing she has the same degree I'm about to get, the same license I will soon be pursuing, that she's an chief [blank] officer at a pretty fracking large facility. I'm happy for her. Why wouldn't I be? It's just that I'm a case manager. It's going to be close to three years before I can put those licensing initials after my name. It's like I can hear my mother saying, See that's why I told you to get a useful degree (I got an English degree), and Look at So-and-So's wedding announcement, she already has her CPA/MBA/Ph.D./M.D.

My mother's proud of me. That's not really the issue anymore. I don't know what the issue is, except that I have one. Why should I be jealous that someone else did things differently, more directly, with less distractions and diversions, and is successful in her career? (And, damn it, she even has one more kid than me.) If I hadn't done all the things that I did, I wouldn't have met my husband, other friends I have, conceived these particular children, blah, blah, blah. But it still stings a little. I still feel a little bit like a loser. This is not a plea for reassurances--I've already gotten a lot of those, from sister, mom, husband, my own more reasonable self. I just wanted to get it down. To look it in the face and maybe stop it.

You know what my (poker-playing, stay-at-home-dad) husband said when I invited him to the pity party, with all my qualifiers ("I know that people take different paths . . . I should be happy for her--I am, aren't I?"). I said, "Wouldn't you feel that way, though, honestly, if you met someone from your class who was doing really well?"

"I know there are people from my class who are really successful," he said, first, reminding us both unnecessarily that he went to a private, preparatory school. "Besides," he added, "I think I AM successful."

Maybe that's part of the difference. Maybe I need a bit of that. I am successful, too. I am.

Driving Post

2009-01-02T17:30:00.004-05:00

I could have had many of these, with all the driving we've been doing over the last week. Except that sometimes I was driving and other times I was reading. (Two books finished in the car this week, both highly recommended: Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union and Terry Pratchett's Nation.)

And have I mentioned that my husband is an online poker player? Like, for his job? So the main reason I was driving at all, was so that he could play poker on the laptop while trapped in the car. He also played while we were at the in-laws, so even there I had limited access to the computer.

We did drive a lot. Eleven hours or so, in one day, with minimal stops for gas/bathroom/food, to get to the in-laws. Four days after that, we drove three hours (north and slightly east) to visit one set of friends, another hour (north) beyond that to visit and stay with another set of friends. (Set of friends sounds awkward, but they are families now, too, with children around the ages of our children, which makes things so much more fun, if exhausting.) Then another two hours (west, this time) to visit more relatives, and finally four hours back (south) to the in-laws.

And now we're headed home, probably in the last two to three hour stretch, with the kids clamoring for pizza. The husband wants to get all the way back to our town, order some pizza from the local chain, and eat it at home. He has the slightly manic, possibly testosterone-driven desire to beat all his previous records on a given route, to make the least number of stops. I'm mostly on board with this--I want to get home, too--but two-year-olds and five-year-olds cannot be told to hold it and wait another two hours, although he's trying. I think they will wear him down.

I talked to my mom last night. She's home and glad to be there. She has to return to the hospital to check levels and adjust medications this weekend and three times next week. She won't be able to return to teaching this school year, because of her lowered immune system, but she is hopeful about next year. (My five-year-old and my sister's five-year-old would be in her class.)

I had all these profound thoughts I was going to say, composing blog posts in my head, when I was trying to fall asleep or taking a shower or walking around my in-laws' subdivision before the weather took an uncomfortably brisk, windy turn. Something about friends and how grateful I've felt recently.

I met up with one of my very best friends from high school on this trip after emailing a few times and talking on the phone once. She lives in the same city as my in-laws, has lived there for almost ten years, some of the same years that I was living only a couple of hours away, newly married and driving there to visit my new in-laws fairly frequently. We talked about that a little, a little regret that we hadn't found each other again sooner, but mostly we talked about ourselves. We shared things we hadn't necessarily known about each others' families back in high school, about how life doesn't ever turn out the way you think it will, how maybe everyone regrets something, but we just have to do the best we can.

Honestly, I'm not good at friendships. It's hard for me to make friends, being shy and always wondering what the other person really thinks of me. I'm prickly and waver between disclosing too much and not enough, probably mostly the latter. i often feel like I'm a couple of steps behind, that everyone knows some secret I don't, that (f you'll forgive the tired cliche) I'm always on the outside looking in. With her, my high school friend, I felt that we already knew each other's cores, as much as one can, and we could just keep talking as if we hadn't been interrupted by nearly 15 years.

So this is what I thought about writing, that there are some people you would be glad to have sleep on your couch (if, like me, you don't have a guest room to offer them), and I visited a few of them over this last week. When you find people with whom you don't have to pretend you're doing better than you are, people with whom you can talk about real things, even if those real things are books you've read or ways your children drive you crazy.

2009 is probably going to be a hard year, but I don't know if I've had an easy one yet, mostly because I haven't let myself just be and let that be enough. I look back and think I'd love to be 25 again, but a wiser 25-year-old, who knew just a little about what was to come, and lived better, happier in that light. But that's the way it works, I guess, that we have to live the best we can without knowing what's coming next. Maybe I'll start today.

Update

2008-12-25T20:59:00.003-05:00

Everything went well! My mom was out of surgery, transplant successful, at around 7 pm. We're planning to stop by to visit her on our way out of the state tomorrow. (I did think about staying here, but she'll be in the hospital for at least a week, and there's not much we could do for her.)

Thanks to everyone who sent good wishes our way.

Karen

Christmas Gift

2008-12-24T22:33:00.003-05:00

My mom might get a kidney tomorrow! She has to drive up to the big city hospital to get a blood test at 6 am and wait several hours for the culture results. If everything's good and the donor kidney is good, she will have the transplant tomorrow afternoon.

If you're a praying person, pray. If you're a wishing/hoping person, wish and hope. She (and we) expected to be waiting years because of her high level of antibodies from transfusions. She just got the call this afternoon.

Of course, when a kidney becomes available, that means someone has died. In this case, it was a 22-year-old woman somewhere up North. Her family is mourning tonight.

No Time for Blogging

2008-12-23T19:34:00.002-05:00

I got a job! Let's see, I've been looking for a job since August, as I've written here and here and here. Finally, I had a good interview, which I worried about, and then my heart was broken. I had a couple of interviews after that, but nothing really promising, and I slowed down my search.

I studied for my comprehensive exam, which I passed (yay!), spent November writing a novel (well, sort-of-a-novel), and got my internship set for spring semester. I kind of resigned myself to working for nothing but school credit, going to the gym, and puttering around the house (is that what I do/did? putter?). Out of almost nowhere, a friend with whom I worked at the last internship told me she got a job and could probably get me one, too. I said, sure, whatever, I'll talk to the boss, pretty sure no one was going to be as flexible as I needed. (I decided I couldn't work full-time, finish my internship, and still occasionally see my children and stay sane.)

So I drove down there, to the border of the next county, last Monday, got offered the job on Tuesday, and started working on Wednesday. I worked full days on Thursday and Friday, Monday and today. And I'm working close to a full day tomorrow. This turned out to be damn good timing because we suddenly don't have enough money to pay the bills in January. I'm sure we would have figured something out, but it's good that we don't have to.

Not that I'll be making piles of money, but I am going to work around 30 hours, get a decent wage, and have the option to work more hours if I can. And it's almost in my field, not counseling, but case management, a nebulous title, but experience in which seems to be a prerequisite for many of the jobs I've seen. The drive is 30-35 minutes, but more from distance than traffic, which I prefer. They seem to be generous in the little things like nobody clocking out for lunch, the hours are flexible, and goddamn it, I'm helping desperate people. Desperate homeless people. It does my little heart good.

On the other hand, I don't really know what the fuck I'm doing. I've never actually been a case manager before. I don't know anyone at any agencies in that county (okay, as of two days ago, I know two people, although I've only talked to one of them). Also, the homeless shelter itself is brand new, so all the procedures are just being written as we go. I don't have an office yet. I have no place to put charts. Until today, I didn't have charts at all. And then there's just the little, weird, annoying things about working with other people. Why does no one in the office have access to stamps? The phone system is awkward to use. Too many people are into too many people's business. Everyone smokes!

I think it will work out, though. It will really help my job prospects for post-Master's (July 2009) to have experience like this. I may even be able to move into a different position at the agency by then. I will probably be exhausted trying to squeeze everything into the week, but maybe it will be a good exhaustion.

When I had to go work last Friday, the last day of school before the holiday break, I had to tell my kindergartner that I couldn't go to her class Christmas party. I told her at the dinner table on Thursday night. Her face crumbled and she burst into tears. Assurances that her aunt (my sister) would be there, that Grandma (who teaches first grade next door) would be stop by, even that Daddy could come, got only sobs and "It's just not the same!" Really, I've not been the kind of mom who comes to every event because I have always seemed to have somewhere to go--interview, internship, nail appointment (just kidding about the last one)--around the time of the classroom events. I've skipped some entirely, or just dropped by for half an hour. (I don't know about you, but 20+ kindergartners and their hovering parents is overwhelming and exhausting for me.) I wasn't paralyzed with guilt at her tears, although it did remind me that she's still really little (even if she is the Big Sister). Sure enough, she got over it in a few minutes, my dad ended up showing for the party because he'd started his vacation days, and everything was fine.

A new chapter begins . . . maybe there will be more to write about, but I probably won't have time. When am I going to exercise? Is there a Saturday yoga class?

About social networking . . .

2008-12-16T14:03:00.003-05:00

Specifically the fbook.

I did join the other one, the one that starts with my, a few years ago, at the encouragement of my younger, hipper brother, but I didn't use it much. I found the whole thing a little silly, or maybe I felt silly.

I think there are two ways people respond to explosively popular cultural items or icons. I include fbook, Hannah Montana, and whatever toys have succeeded the phenomenon of the Cabbage Patch dolls I remember from my younger days. Fill in your own.

Most people, one has to assume, run with hands pressed to face in breathless excitement toward the new Wonder, otherwise it wouldn't be or stay popular, right?

A few of us, maybe we're elitists, too ironic for our own good, hopelessly uncool, or some combination of the three, we go in the opposite direction. Or at least we stand still, arms crossed, with a look of distrust (and maybe vague disgust) on our faces. Nah, not for me, we say.

But then I had this friend who would never call me back. The phone at her home would ring and ring, and whenever I tried her cell phone, it happened to be a day when her husband took it with him to work. She sometimes took weeks to respond to my emails. I have two reactions in these circumstances. My inner insecure teenage girl says, She doesn't really like you. Why would she want to be your friend? My more mature, rational adult says, She's busy. She has kids. She's in grad school. She has a job. You know what it's like. Anyway, this friend kept saying, Join fbook. I'm on it all the time, she said. And when we worked together, I remember seeing her check it when she had a spare moment, so I thought, hey maybe this way we can have a conversation.

Before that, of course, I'd disdained it a bit, for all the reasons that made me roll my eyes when I finally signed up. Do I really want to fling virtual thongs at people? Buy people virtual drinks? What is the point of all this? Don't I waste enough time as it is? I friended a few relatives and gazed at their lists of 100s of friends. I don't even know that many people, I thought. How could I keep up with that many people even if I did know them? Would I want to, even if I could? And I felt a little sorry for myself, a little inferior to the more social others, which was a comfortable and familiar place for me: the cozy pit of pity.

Then I found one of my high school friends. One of my best friends from high school, who I hadn't talked to since we'd just finished college. And I actually talked to her on the phone, and we wanted to keep catching up, and we are going to get together in person because she happens to live in the same city as my in-laws.

And speaking of my in-laws, I got into a messaging back-and-forth with one of my sisters-in-law, who I see a couple of times a year, have always liked, but never contacted much outside of those family events. And now I feel like I know her so much better, and she knows me better.

Then I found another old coworker from years ago, and some current and former classmates, and I'm probably going to keep finding people. I will probably never have 100 friends, but I may have more than I did before I started this whole fbook thing. I like that. I think it's good for me.

Even if I never do fling anything at you.

What do we do with the past?

2008-12-14T20:51:00.004-05:00

My sister called me yesterday. She often calls me. She lives about 4 miles away, her kids are the same age as mine (except she has one more, a newborn), we are probably still each other's best friends. She called once while I was at the gym and then again while I was napping. My husband forgot to give me the message while I was in between those two activities, so I had to call her back.

Little bits of small talk and details of the day are discussed: her husband took the two boys to a local campsite in their ancient RV. He was going to build a fire and cook them hotdogs and marshmallows on sticks. He needed kindling.

I'm only half-listening. I'm pouring myself some cereal or maybe a soda (two weaknesses of mine), holding the phone between shoulder and ear. Uh-huh, I say.

So, anyway, she says, I found this box of letters that we wrote each other, mostly from '93 to '95, when I was still in college and you were living at home, working. They're mostly the ones I wrote, but there are some of yours, too.

Uh-huh, I say. Did you read them?

I don't want to waste the whole afternoon, she says. I mean, I've read them before. Okay, I read one of them.

She tells me about the letter she read, eight pages, in which she complained about the camp cooking job she had at our college's outpost for wilderness exploration in Wisconsin. She says, I took a lot of naps. I complained about being tired, even though I wrote that I'd gone to bed at 10 and taken two naps that day!

I understand, having been through the newborn nightmare of no sleep, complicated by having a toddler who doesn't always sleep perfectly either. Yeah, I say, We didn't know, did we, how much more tired we could be? Then I think, Wait a second, didn't she say something about kindling about ten minutes ago?

You're not going to burn them, are you? Is that what you're calling to tell me?

She laughs, awkwardly. I'm not going to burn them, she says, J. is. Another laugh.

We wrote each other several times a week, when we were apart, my sister and I, and eight page letters were not out of the ordinary. What did we have to write about? I think I have more going on now and I can barely squeeze out a blog post once a week (definitely not eight pages worth). We wrote about people we talked to, roommate problems, boys we had crushes on, books we were reading, who knows? We wrote everything. From August 1990 - January 1992, when we were at different colleges, until she left hers and joined me at mine, and June 1993 - June 1995 before we moved to Charlottesville together, we must have thousands of pages.

What if you want to read them later? What if you want to read them when you're 50 or 60 or 70? Did you really call to tell me that you're burning your letters. Our letters?!

She seemed to waver a bit, although she said, Why would I want to read them, I was whiny, I know what I was like then.

I don't know if she called her husband and asked him to save the letters after all. Probably not, but it made me sad. There are more of them. I have most of mine (although I should have hers, probably, but that's the way we divided them when we moved). I don't think that's what I want to do with the past. Sure, I was a whiny little shit, too. Who isn't in their late teens and early twenties? But we had something to say, and we said it, if only to each other. I think we revealed stuff about who we are that we may not have even known at the time.

If there's one thing that I regret (okay, fine, there are a lot of things I regret, but here's one), it's that I didn't write letters or journal entries in more recent years. Now I'm blogging, so that's good. That's something, but what about those early years of marriage, those first days and weeks and months of motherhood? I'd moved to email, by then, if I had need to say something to someone. I wrote my sister some letters, but we talked more by phone, I think, and then we were back in the same city. No need to write letters, to record the minutiae that make up a life.

I said to my sister, If you burn them, they're gone, Sis. That's it. You can't get ever them back.

I know, she said. And I think she let her husband burn them.

Update: I talked to her at the gym this morning. She called her husband after our conversation and told him not to burn the letters. . .

Recipes and Whatnot

2008-12-10T16:46:00.004-05:00

I have a bunch of posts in my head, but since no one else can read my mind, I still have to write them down. But first . . .

Do you hate brussels sprouts*? Or perhaps you remember your mother, who famously claimed to like everything, admitting that she ACTUALLY liked everything EXCEPT brussels sprouts. So you figured you wouldn't either. Especially since every time you've tried them (n=2, your mother didn't make them, remember?), they've been boiled.

This is a surprisingly common problem, with or without the mother issues, judging by the number of recipes for brussels sprouts which include a variation on this disclaimer, "I never liked brussels sprouts," before insisting that the recipe below changed their mind.

I bought the brussels sprouts because I took the 5-year-old to the store with me. She said, Ooh, Mommy, what's that? Can we get that? And for once she wasn't pointing to candy or a supposedly baked confection filled with preservatives that comes in a box and keeps almost forever (think Little Debbies). I'm a meanie and say no to those things reflexively, but vegetables? Shouldn't I encourage this kind of thing? Perhaps I was feeling adventurous or kind toward the universe (especially plant life), but those little sprouts did look sort of cute. And, all credit to my mother for living in a time before the internet, but I have figured out she wasn't/isn't the most inventive cook. And they were on sale! (Or maybe they're always that cheap. Never bought them before.) Surely there is a good recipe for brussels sprouts?

There is! As long as you don't mind a little olive oil in your diet. I got it from 101cookbooks.com and I will link you to the recipe rather than retype it. Here it is. It was the "popped in your mouth" part that sold me. Don't they look yummy? And they are! Even my husband ate them and liked them [insert snarky comment about husband here].

More posts to follow. In less than a week, seriously.

*Apparently you can say brussels sprouts or brussel sprouts (thanks again, Wikipedia), but Blogger spellcheck doesn't recognize either one. Neither does it approve of "spellcheck". But that's because I refuse to hyphenate and or divide it. It's a compound noun, or a verb, I declare!

Only as Old as You Think You Are

2008-12-03T20:43:00.002-05:00

Or as old as someone else thinks you are?

I volunteer with Big Brothers Big Sisters as a volunteer in-school mentor. It's only once a week, less than an hour, and it's at my old high school. I walked with my student to the career center trailer today and made a comment about the campus. She said, "You went here?" (even though I'm pretty sure I told her that before . . . but she's a teenager, so she's probably not always listening!).

I said, "Yeah, a long time ago."

"When did you graduate?"

"1990," I said, realizing that was BEFORE SHE WAS BORN as I said it.

"Wow," she said, possibly the same thought occurring to her. "You don't look, like, that old. I thought you were, like, in your 20's."

I think I said, "That's good to hear."

Then we walked over to the guidance office, where the woman who was scheduling her appointment, looked at me and said, "Are you her mother?" Both of us kind of laughed, and my student emphatically said, No! The poor woman said, "I don't know. How was I supposed to know?" I explained who I was and showed her my volunteer ID badge.

So, I look younger than my age or old enough to have a teenager of my own, one or the other. Or both, I guess.

I did it!

2008-11-30T16:38:00.002-05:00

I heaved myself over the 50,000 word line, just now. I actually thought I had enough words, but with the difference in word counters (apparently there's a difference), I was 50 words short. You'd think adding 50 words wouldn't be hard, and it isn't like I have only (or any) perfect sentences or paragraphs that couldn't be improved. Or fluffed. But it was hard, although I managed to go 23 words over! Hurray, me!

So it'll be back to other topics for me on this blog, how nice for you!

I'm glad I did it, though, and maybe when I look at it in a week or so, there'll be some good stuff, among the not-so-good stuff. The winner's badge, BTW, only means I made it to 50K, not that it's any good or that anyone else has even read it. My husband is the only one who has read any of it, and he's only read bits and pieces. But the badge is pretty, isn't it? Even if it only means I can type!

Almost done!

2008-11-28T22:14:00.005-05:00

I am going to the library on Monday and reading five novels consecutively without stopping. But first I have to write these last 4000+ words. It's nothing really, but I find myself a little reluctant to finish. I won't really be finished, of course, but I will definitely stop, at least until those other-people's-lovely-far-superior-novels from the library are finished. So, maybe I want to cling to these frustrating, but disciplined days of forced writing, by dragging it out to the very end. Somewhere not so deep in my subconscious, I want someone to make me write . . . and that person should be me. Oh, so not profound.

A funny find-and-replace story for a small audience: I realized I had two characters, one named Pat and the other named Patricia who interacted for one scene. One character (Pat) was really only in that scene, while Patricia was in several scenes, so I decided to change Pat's name to Kim (although, IRL, of course people with the same name often interact, I didn't want to confuse myself with too much realism). I typed in replace "Pat" with "Kim." Word made 37 or so replacements, which seemed a little high, but it was 11:30 and I didn't think much of it.

The next day, paging through my story, I came across a sentence where one character Kimted another character's hand. Later a group was sitting on a Kimio. And another character ran out of Kimience. I wonder what else I will find. I should probably run the old spell check, no?

Here's to the end!

Remind me again (NaNoWriMo)

2008-11-22T23:02:00.004-05:00

why I am doing this? When I could be watching something from Netflix? Or drinking a beer and going to bed? I think I'm doing this to prove to myself that I can, to force myself to stick with a piece of writing beyond the infatuation stage. Oh, but I would really surprised if 25% of this is worth saving. And if any of those are the last 10,000 words I've written.

They said breaking 30,000 would be like reaching the top of the mountain, which I took to mean that the last 20,000 would be like skiing downhill, which I have very limited experience of, but sure looks like fun. I think they were just lying to get us to keep going.

My problem is (and then I'll get back to writing, I swear) is that my tone and even my point of view are all over the place. I've given in and switched to first person, which was nice at first, but now I just feel like I'm narrating the boring events of my life. Kind of like blogging, except stuff that happened ten years ago and without too much ironic distance. And I definitely don't think anyone wants to read my memoir.

What I'm hoping is that after I get my little NaNoWriMo certificate and the accompanying sense of accomplishment that I've written 50,000 words, even if 40,000 of them are crap, I will be able to figure out what I want to do with this idea. Right now I just don't know. I do know I would have abandoned it by now if it weren't for this contest. It's debatable whether that would be better or worse for me and this pile of steaming words.

I have a few photos to post on the mommy blog (Soccer! Stereotypical Thanksgiving Costumes!), but that will have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight I have to get to 35K, or at least close.

Reasonable, balanced discussion or rant? You decide!

2008-11-15T10:32:00.007-05:00

I take this break from my frantic fiction production--over 23K words, almost halfway there--because of this article in Fortune magazine. I realize this is a long article and some or all of you may not want to click through 5 pages to read it all, so I will do my best to summarize it.

First, you may be thinking, Fortune magazine? You read Fortune? Well, my in-laws started the subscription a few years ago when they, perhaps logically, assumed that their son, after completing his MBA, was on the path to junior executivehood (that is apparently not a word) and the subsequent wealth-building such a job would yield. Turns out they didn't know their son very well (and this is totally not a dig at you, Honey), but we actually both enjoy the magazine. What he lacks in career ambition, my husband makes up for in keen quantitative analysis and an appetite for casually acquired knowledge (I refer mostly to the internets). The articles are well-written and interesting. It's usually the 3rd or 4th thing I get to during the week, after Entertainment Weekly and the local yokel newspaper and whatever novel I'm reading. It's become part of my breakfast and lunch reading, when I don't have a novel to read. And right now, I'm not reading any novels because of this whole writing one thing.

Okay, but this article, which graces the cover of the November 10th issue with the headline "Who Pays for the Bailout? You do, of course!" has me hopping. (Or maybe that's the Flea Problem we discovered when we took New Cat to the vet this week.) The gist of the article is that folks (like you, typical Fortune reader--the article actually says this at least once) who make 250-500K are being overtaxed. These folks are dubbed HENRYs, which stands for High-Earners-Not-Rich-Yet. Although they earn more than 97% of Americans, we are encouraged to think of them (us?) with sympathy or even compassion because 1) they are not rich and 2) they are essential to our economic system (so let's not tick them off?).

If you're skipping the full text of the article, you might want to watch this video featuring one of the families from the article. That's problem number one with the article.* This family is great. He's a dentist, she's a part-time pediatrician and part-time stay-at-home mom for their two young children. They're tall, attractive, and African-American to boot. They went through a lot of schooling, sacrifice, and hard work to get to what they themselves describe as a "comfortable" place in their lives. They remind me a little of my own pediatricians who are both moms-of-young-kids (with doctor husbands) and split their hours so they can both work less than full time and be there for their kids. In fact, the couple in the video don't even complain about their taxes. The husband says, Yeah, we pay a lot of taxes, but we'd rather be in this situation than one in which we make less money and pay less taxes. Well, duh. So why is this article being written, again?

Because (surprise!) not all the people in this tax bracket are so reasonable about their proportion of the tax burden. Because you, typical Fortune reader, might be worried about Obama raising taxes on capital gains and, oh yeah, reducing taxes for those who make less than you.

So here's what bothers me the most. The not-so-subtle implication that the hard work of people in this bracket is somehow harder and more essential than other people's hard work. There's also more than an implication that these people make sacrifices due to being dual income households. Here's a quote that had me seeing red (green?): "They're all about the kids: saving for private colleges, paying for day care--practically a must, because Mom and Dad are both working--and providing dance, tennis, or gymnastic lessons. These might be seen as luxury items by middle class workers, but they're absolute necessities to the HENRYs."

Okay, calm yourself, Karen. It's just a sentence. Here goes: most of the people I know use daycare, which could be defined as a necessity (and not a luxury!) for dual-income households earning any amount from the 66% percent of households who earn under $50K right up to the HENRYs and beyond. But, while most of the people I know also provide dance, tennis, gymnastics lessons and may sacrifice to do so, I don't think anyone should refer to them as Absolute Necessities.

These things are choices, not necessities. It's great if you want to send your kids to exclusive private school, but you don't have to. Ditto with socking away money so that your kids can both go to (examples used in the article) Cornell or Duke, but again, that's your choice. It's a choice that costs money. Somewhere in the article it talks about how the HENRYs forgo luxuries to save for their futures. Well, again, duh.

I didn't hear a lot in this article about how the HENRYs are helping others. I'm sure many of them are, but that didn't seem to be important in this article. The authors seemed to consider the fact that the HENRYs are preparing their children by private-schooling and elite-college-preparing the new MasterClass as well as buying and producing economically/capitalistically at a higher level than the other 97% of us to be sufficient to establish their essentialness.

Oh, yes, one more thing. The unwillingness to use the word "rich." Let's take a look at some of the euphemisms used to describe themselves by the HENRYs interviewed in the article: "comfortable" "successful" "well off". Okay, if it makes you better to say it that way. They struggle to define what rich means: "people with golf club memberships" not people who "eat fast food and take [their] kids to soccer." The authors say that "many Americans" would define "wealthy" as having a net worth of around $3 million and/or "if a couple in their 30s, 40s, or 50s has the option to stop working and live on their ample savings . . . they can definitely be classified as rich." Oh, good, something we can finally agree on. I also think MAKING MORE THAN 97% OF YOUR FELLOW CITIZENS is not a bad definition.

Here's the bottom line, there's always going to be a cut off if we continue to use the tax bracket system the U.S. taxpayer has been participating in for years. There are always going to be people on the edge whose modest annual bonus pushes them up to a higher percentage owed to the government at the end of the year. Argue with the system if you want, but if you didn't question it before you reached $250K/year, you kind of sound like a big, fat, rich (yeah, I said it) whiner now.

I am an outside observer, not a HENRY, and a richer American could interpret my interpretation as envy. None of us are unbiased. I grew up squarely in the under 50K bracket, in whatever years' dollars you use. Only in the last year have my husband and I squeaked over that line. Now, I am only ambitious in the sense that I am trying to get a job with health benefits. I admit I don't have the drive of these families in the article. I don't imagine I will ever be a HENRY, unless I, say, write a best-selling novel or my husband hits the top 100 at the WSOP. So, make of that what you will.

I could go on and on, but my daughter has watched enough Disney Channel this morning and I need to sweep/swiffer my crappy linoleum kitchen floor. So, go read the article and tell me what you think.

*I'm going to mostly skip over the fact that the families featured in this article are all, well, families. I'd like to see statistics on this income group, which I suspect isn't any more proportionately burdened with progeny than any of the rest of us.

Are YOU tired of (hearing about) it yet?

2008-11-11T20:11:00.003-05:00

I am, but I will plow ahead, inspired by my previously dormant competitiveness. It is discouraging to click on a NaNoWriMo profile and see this person who already has 29,467 words is only 14 years old. Three things, though: 1) They could be 29,467 stupid words; 2) When I was 14, I wrote a lot, although I had no reason to count words; 3) What else does a 14 year old writing geek have to do anyway besides lame high school homework? Also, when I was 14, I did not worry about whether what I wrote was good. I mean, I thought about the words I wrote and even used my eraser every once in a while, but I didn't abandon stories halfway through because they'd never get published or because I couldn't think of anything that made sense. I just wrote. So, more of that, please.

Two non-writing related notices: Rent The Devil and Daniel Johnston if you are interested in art, music, mental illness, or humanity. Yeah, that better be all of you. It's from 2005 so I may be jumping on the bandwagon late, but I couldn't not recommend it. A story of a life. Maybe tragic, but also heroic. Plus, weird personal trivia, the church the family goes to is The Church of Christ. And so did I from ages 8-14! Definitely fundy!

What was the other thing? I started a poem about little P. Maybe I will post it later, after I bang out my ~2000 words for the day. I think there was something else, but I can't remember it now. . .

NaNoWriMo could be Nah, No Write anyMore . . .

2008-11-06T19:20:00.004-05:00

Day Four: You did it! You broke what they call the fourth wall. Way to get out of your character-who-resembles-you's head and right into yours. Consider that you might be the most boring person ever to write a novel about herself. Plus you wrote better when you were a teenager.

Day Five: Write down a dream you had seemingly in the world of your story, with you as main character (see, your dreams know she's you, too!), do dream analysis-lite and totally count it in your word count. Then do a bit of lazy writing during commercial breaks after 8 pm.

Day Six: Transcribe handwritten crap from last night, making it slightly better. Plan to write while your daughter is in her dance class. Talk to the other moms instead. Still 2000 words behind. Catch up! (After watching 30 Rock. And The Office. To paraphrase Homer Simpson: It's the networks!)

Progression (NaNoWriMo)

2008-11-03T20:10:00.003-05:00

Day One: You write 2000 words, witty sentences, keen observations, actually interesting to reread. This is going to be great! I might actually sell this thing!

Day Two: Realize you've used up all your good ideas on day one. Slog through threads of plot chronologically. Character seems boring (and too much like you). Realize you have very little dialog. Maybe it's literary fiction? Or weak writing. Still, 2000 more words down.

Day Three: Keep saying all day (to self) that you are going to spend your 2-4 hours adding dialog. End up with zero words as of 8:15 pm. It actually seems like a good day to veg in front of the TV with some Golden Graham cereal. But, no. Is it too early to go all meta-fiction and start writing about your process in the novel? Probably.

I feel weirdly good, though. Physically good. (That should probably be "well" as in "physically well" because I don't think my ability to discriminate texture through my skin has changed.) Can writing actually heal? I think it can. Off to knock off another 2000. Or 1000, since I'm ahead, right?

This week is also . . .

2008-11-02T20:00:00.002-05:00

National Put Your Kids to Bed Early Week (because It's Dark and They Can't Tell Time Yet!) Shh!

November 2nd (Day Two)

2008-11-02T11:12:00.002-05:00

I haven't started my writing for today, but I got over 2000 words last night. About 2 1/2 hours. I'm sure it won't be this "easy" every night, but it's a nice start.

I also tried drinking coffee at 8:30 pm and then tried to go to bed at 11 (or what would be 11 after the clocks were moved back. So, 12.). That was a bad idea. I generally drink 0-12 oz of caffeine a day, only in soda form and never later than dinner time (if at all). This was strong, fresh-roasted (the same day by my talented brother-in-law) one and a half cups. Delicious and maybe it helped my word production and creative juices, but not compatible with sleep. My husband suggests chasing it with beer. We'll see. Or not.

So now if I can just get him to go to the grocery store for me, make lunch for the kids . . . do you think I have time for a nap?

Tiny updates

2008-11-01T10:07:00.003-04:00

I passed my comprehensive exam. Woo hoo!

Ack! It's November 1st! I must start writing.

Also, laundry to fold, school picnic/fundraiser this afternoon, what else, what else?

Halloween was fun.

Two Commercials I Hate

2008-10-29T10:38:00.003-04:00

I wanted to link to them, but since I couldn't find them instantly on youtube or the product sites, I won't. I have a really bad cold, along with two out of three other members of the household (the five-year-old is the only one not dripping at the nose), so I'm even lazier than usual. I just hope it goes away before Saturday when I have to start churning out four pages a day.

Okay, the commercials. I'll just have to describe them. The first one is for a Corolla, a car I like and almost bought before I got my Accord. It features an attractive young (but not too young) woman describing its features. These amenities seems to be summed up in double entendres that imply brains and brawn. She ends with the punchline: "Now if I could only find a man like that." Ugh. Seriously, can you imagine a commercial, even in our soft, lovable, needy-men, Michael Cera times, in which a man ended with a line like that? For one thing that would be offensive to us, wouldn't it? You're comparing a woman to a fucking car? Stop objectifying us! But, also, aren't we ever going to move beyond the time when a woman needs a man? I realize I am a married woman, and I do remember the pride I felt when I got engaged--a noxious superiority to my former loveless self and, by extension, all my still unpaired peers. Yet I recognized it as noxious, even at the obnoxious age of 27. I guess with this commercial, I realize it's still kind of true, that women do think like this, but I wish we wouldn't.

My joke to my former fiance at the end of the commercial was, "Yeah, then when we land one, all we can do is complain endlessly about him." Ha ha. But I wish it weren't.

The second one (Edit: I found it, although it's the short version) is one in a series of annoying Glade spots featuring this woman who seems to think she's fooling everyone into thinking she's fancy or a fabulous housekeeper (one or the other, the message gets a little mixed) but her secret is Glade (that last part should be whispered). The one that really irritates me has her (beautifully coiffed and dressed and) chipperly dispatching her (perfectly groomed) children to school and cheerful husband (in a spotless business suit) who is apparently driving them on his way to work. Because Mom's got a busy day of cleaning ahead of her! Then we see her squirting Glade's Febreeze-like product on various pieces of furniture, taking a leisurely lunch in outdoor cafe (with wine!), and engaging in various other female indulgences, like tennis lessons (!) (don't you only keep those secret from your husband if you're sleeping with the pro?), and I think the longer version had her shoe shopping or getting her hair done. The kicker, of course, is her sliding onto her couch at home just before (still cheerful) hubby arrives home with the kids. They admire the smell of the house and actually say, Wow, Mom, you must have been cleaning all day. The fact that her husband notices the Glade spray on his way into the kitchen and calls her out is the final wink.

So, what irritates me most? The implication that actual housecleaning can be successfully imitated by the use of one odor-masking product? The suggestion that stay-at-home-moms are tricking their families by pretending to have domestic work to do? I realize the indulgent and ultimately patronizing father-knows-best who seems to actually do all the work (paid and unpaid) is probably supposed to be a twist of some sort, but is it a twist we really need? (Men are actually awesome! Women are pretty but useless!)

Now I am going to scoop the cat's litter box, put my pajamas back on (which I only changed out of because I had a volunteering gig today) and crawl back into bed after setting my toddler up with some cartoons and popcorn.

No, seriously, I'm going to wake my husband up first.

Second Chance

2008-10-27T20:44:00.002-04:00

Now I realize it was my own silly fault for yanking the story after 36 hours. I have not edited it further, so it still remains a story written over a 6 hour period with eating and childcare breaks.

The Acrobat

I noticed his eyes when I took his champagne glass. They were gold with a little green. Green-gold, which is an unusual color, but also there was something different about his gaze, or I wanted there to be. I looked back steadily without speaking and turned to take the glass to the bar for a refill. There was power in my gaze, there always is, but this felt different, too, maybe also because I wanted it to be.

Could I feel him watching me in any way that was unlike the way they all watched me? Walking in my elaborate costume which revealed the shape of me, the muscles defined from vigorous training, everything physical and female and yet somehow other than the bodies of their wives or the women with whom they socialized and worked. An illusion, I know. We are all flesh, and they must know it, too, but an illusion that had always worked and always would.

One of the rules is to let them believe it’s against the rules. That it’s spontaneous and forbidden and unique, when in fact everything is carefully orchestrated and we are taught how to negotiate every little thing. Artifice, all of it, and all for them, although even they have to know, really, that it’s a game, a transaction, like any other.

The other rule is never talk about yourself. Never tell them about being two months behind on your rent, your four-year-old kid sick with the flu, or how your daddy used to come in your room at night. Don’t, not even if, especially if, they might want to see you as somebody’s mother, someone’s daughter, somebody wounded, or some woman they’d meet for lunch at a cafe on a weekday afternoon. You are a mystery, someone who entertains but does not exist outside of her entertainment, your entertainment. You, for example, are someone who is paid to flip and fly through the air at a weekend party for the rich and powerful. You are someone they watch and maybe wonder, what would it be like to be with someone so flexible, so firm and limber. Such a tired fantasy, from your perspective, but for each of them, so fresh and exciting.

And some of them, not knowing that you could, you would, do just about anything for a price—that I would, could, do anything—only ask to caress the tautness of your thigh, which is almost nice, sometimes, except when it’s not. Except when you’re desperate, for money, for something touch can’t really satisfy, but is the only thing you can get. Or when you’re weary and feeling old and wondering what happens when you can’t fly anymore.

I wonder sometimes if any of them would have recognized me at the market on a morning, if it would even occur to them to look. Of course, that second rule helps. I am no real person at all, not one who selects fruit by hand by squeezing it for ripeness, not one who haggles over the price of fish. I look nothing like my entertaining self at the market, of course. Not in costume, my hair down or in a braid instead of the elaborate spray and pins affair. I go most mornings, like most people, although most of them, the party-goers, send others for them. Servants or assistants. They themselves would only be there on a lark. Let’s go to the market, they might say. Let’s blow off work this morning and pick out some ripe peppers. Perhaps we’ll cook tonight. Some recipe we saw prepared on television. It’ll be fun.

Meanwhile I take my bag home as always, with or without a child or two in tow. The child or two or not will go to the state school while I go to the gymnasium to train. As other workers head to the restaurants, the bus depots, the factories and offices where they labor the day away, I put on my plain leotard and practice the twists and jumps I will perform for tips on the weekends. I train with weights. I run. I stretch. I perfect my routines which should never be exactly the same, although similar enough for those who’ve seen me before to remember me.

There are many of us training at the gymnasium, and not all of us work parties. When I was younger I competed. I earned no salary, but my expenses—housing and food and clothing—were covered. I could have gone into the circus for a steady wage when I grew too old to compete, and might have, if something hadn’t caught an agent’s eye. The agents watch us and decide what best suits us, for what we are best suited. It would be too simple to say it was beauty. I do not think of myself as beautiful. I look in the mirror like all women and notice my flaws. My ears are not quite straight, so that when I wear shades, they are always crooked. Other little things like that. I think it is more a vulnerability or appearance of fragility, while it is often the opposite, a cold, hard inner shell that is not easily penetrated. Or something they know, because they are men, too, that appeals to men.

I would not say that the others who train with me, the circus workers, the young competitive gymnasts, do not judge me and those like me. But there is not much energy left for much disdain, as hard as we have to work. And there is the knowledge that there isn’t much choice for any of us. We have certain training and now certain skill; these are our options and we move through them as we are directed until we can’t anymore. Then, we don’t like to think what we will do later. What will become of us.

I have years left, barring injury, and maybe some others for whom I am responsible now, maybe more responsibility than I had when the state transported me to meets and games, and I had only my youth and promise. I don’t think about it often, except when I do, and then, too much.

Another rule is that you are not to eat the food and drink the drinks the guests do. This one is subtler but, really, relates to the other two. Of course you eat, you are human, but the guests never see you do it. You serve, you exist on another plane, you do not run in the same circles or perform the same cycles. This perpetuates your mystery, the wonder of your intimacy with them when you provide it. For you, of course, it is just your life as a worker. You eat separately, you perform your skill if you are lucky enough to have one, you serve food and drinks, you reveal nothing while appearing to be fascinated by every word they say, and sometimes you suck a stranger’s dick. It is all work, and you pretend none of it matters more or less than the rest. Except when it does.

I was lonely this weekend, which isn’t the way I like to be on the weekends. It is dangerous to be lonely at a party. I mostly leave my loneliness for the market mornings or the subway rides to and from the gymnasium, although that too has not always been without a consequence or two. At the parties, I almost always am able to lose my loneliness in the act, in the physical exertion of appearing to fly; the muscular energy required to provide the momentum and maintain the landing is usually enough to eliminate the emotion, all emotion. The exhilaration that I still feel from the motion itself and from the audience who sees me as something exquisite, something other, in a way that is different from all the rest of my transactions with the world, this is usually enough to block everything else. In some ways I am only me when I am flying, although of course that isn’t true. I do what I was trained to do, and after that I serve refreshments and do other things I have been trained to do.

I returned with his drink and met his gaze again with a smile. I suddenly felt my loneliness rise up and stick like a lump in my throat. I only lifted my chin a bit higher and recalled what it felt like to soar. It came through my eyes, I think, because he said, “You are remarkable. How do you go so high and still land on your feet?” The same question asked over and over every weekend, but maybe I wanted to hear sincerity in his voice, not just hunger for what I could do for him, so I smiled and shrugged.

“Practice,” I said. The same answer I always give, but I said it like it was the first time anyone had asked, as if he were really interested in me. Not in the me who goes to the market, who binds her wrists and ankles in tape for training, who may or may not sing a child or two to sleep at night, because that is not allowed, but in the me who flies. The me that on the weekends, more than the rest of the week, is the real me. The flying me who is, not to overshoot a metaphor, above the rest of the things I do. Especially the rest of the things I do for money.

The way you live, in a flat, in a building, with other workers, means you don’t cross paths with them very often. You are here and they are there, even in the same city or riding the same train. You know more about their lives because their lives are the ones written about in magazines and dramatized in movies. Your life is uninteresting to them because it is mundane. It is filled with the things that are done behind the scenes, without notice. The rooms which are silently cleaned, the trash which is mysteriously collected, the food that is miraculously prepared. You would resent it more if it weren’t such a solid and immutable fact of life. Of your life and theirs. Yours is to serve and theirs is to be served.

Yet. There is something human and real about handing another person a drink while looking them in the eye. Our fingers brushed and neither of us flinched or dropped our eyes. We connected in the same way that any two people connect or transact. Maybe, certainly, it was only temporary, but I felt exhilarated. How was this any different than any other weekend after I performed, when I mingled, and served, and pretended to be fascinated, and sometimes pretended to be persuaded to be touched or fucked? Only in perception, perhaps, only because my loneliness let me feel something beyond the confines of the script. The script someone taught me, and maybe the one someone, less formally, had taught him, too.

We didn’t move quickly. I took a seat beside him, eating and drinking nothing, of course. I had had water and bread and soup after my performance, in a back room, before washing away the sweat and freshening my make-up. I was not hungry or thirsty, although I would have like to clink glasses with him. To, even in this ridiculous costume, break bread with him. So I was not pretending when I demurred his offer of refreshment, but I was lying, and it made the loneliness sharp again.

I spoke into it, “Do you get to the parties often?” A standard, clichéd, acceptable question, but I felt like I wanted to know. Had he been here before? Had he seen me before? What did he expect from me? Even these were questions I asked myself every weekend, with every guest who engaged me, but this time they felt different, as if a part of me needed to know his—this green-gold-eyed man—his unique answers.

His smile was disarming, as were his eyes, and the way he looked down and spoke almost shyly. “This is my first one,” he said. He looked up with a crooked, nearly awkward smile. “I only got into this one because my supervisor came down with the flu.” I smiled with him, which brightened and straightened his mouth, and we seemed, for a moment, old friends sharing an old joke.

You can’t join their world, you know that. It’s not something you even dream about. You can’t put on a business suit and suddenly become a lawyer, a business executive, or a high-level government functionary, the kind of woman he might sit next to on a flight or marry. You cannot become his lover or his wife. This is not something you even want.

Your mother, who died in a flat identical to the one in which she grew up, the same exact flat in which you grew up; your mother, who worked double shifts to get your through your first training camps before the government saw your potential and took over the bills; your mother never even dreamed about that. It is true she also never dreamed you’d end up working parties, and you try not to imagine what she would say if she’d lived to see it. She did live to see your own flat, government-supplemented, nearly twice as large as hers, but still a worker flat. This was what she aspired to, to have a talented daughter, to see her in a decent flat, maybe to have her marry and have her own children with no need to work double shifts at the factory. Yet your life, despite the bigger flat, is not much different, raising your child or two on your own, working your own kind of overtime, but perhaps with less hope.

“Are you going to perform again?” he asked. An unexpected question, so I looked at him quizzically, not answering. He gestured toward me and then touched his own chest, suit-clad, with a silk tie. “Your costume,” he said. “Do you have another set?” He smiled the almost awkward smile again. “Is that what you call it, a set?”

I shrugged non-committally. “I might.” He seemed to be waiting for me to elaborate, so I said, “We don’t really know how long the party will last, so we are prepared if we need to. If we need to do another set.” This wasn’t true, not really, as everything about the party was carefully planned. The truth was the guests, we were told, wanted to see us in our costumes. It kept us in character. If we were not in character, of course, we would have had no business being at the party at all.

He was speaking again. “It seems, I don’t know, strange, for you to be serving me drinks.” He seemed to blush a little, and I had to lean closer to him to hear him above the chatter of the other guests. “I mean, when you can do that.”

My response, my trained response for questions for which I am not prepared, is bemused silence, so I smiled slightly, warmly, to encourage him to continue. I wanted him to continue.

He waited, too, then said, “I mean, I’m glad you brought me a drink. I’m glad you sat down to talk to me. I feel out of my depth at this party. You are being kind, I think.”

These parties are often held in houses, although compared to your flat, or even your building, these are houses of a different order, from a different world. The performances are often held in large banquet-style rooms, no stage, with the guests arranged at tables around the perimeter. Any equipment needed is set up in the middle. Any springs or mats or bars are placed and moved again for the needs of each performer. Like a theatre in the round. It is different than competing, but not so different once you begin your routine. Then it is just what you do, what you have always done.

The advantage of the houses are a multitude of other rooms for other aspects of entertaining among the elite.. Smaller rooms to eat more private meals or hold secret networking or power-brokering sessions. Some of the guests stay the night with their wives or lovers. Others only come for the evening, for the performance, but might need rooms for the quick dalliance. All of this is planned for; it is pre-arranged which rooms are for what purpose, and you, of course, know where they are.

“Kindness,” I repeat, leaning toward him again, because the guests around us are clapping for another performer. “To bring you a drink? To sit down to talk to you for a moment?” I smile and soften my eyes so that my words do not seem harsh or sarcastic. “I think you must be short of kindness in your life if that is how you define it.”

He blushes again. “Maybe kindness is not the right word. I’m out of my depth, I said. It’s true. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

This is the moment when I could, if I wanted, touch his hand lightly, look up through my lashes, and ask him if he wanted to go somewhere more quiet. I don’t have to, nor do I have to do anything specific when we get there. I have discretion. I have choice. I could leave him and find someone else. I could even take the night off, although I would make only the tips from my performance and begin to alert my employers to my ambivalence. Which we all have, but can’t reveal, not at a party. Not while working.

I almost do it—touch his hand, ask the question—but the moment passes, and we sit in comfortable silence, watching the next acrobat. I know her, of course. We all know each other, and I tell him about her medals, her places in recent meets, more recent than mine, truth be told. He tells me about his company, details I store away for future conversational use. He tells me about his brother who has just gotten married, his father who has just retired and is going stir crazy without any meaningful work to do. He talks to me as many of the guests have talked to me, with no assumption that I would be bored, with no particular questions about my brother, my father, my life beyond of this costume, this performance.

Which is as it should be. The way it is supposed to be. The kindness has passed, the kindness which never really was the right word, anyway.

A Whole Month of Nothing to Do

2008-10-26T17:07:00.003-04:00

So why not write a novel, eh? I have to admit I'd never heard of this Na(tional) No(vel) Wri(ting) Mo(nth) before my friend announced she was doing it. Go ahead, say it, NaNoWriMo. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? (Not for me it doesn't. I've yet to be able to pronounce it without thinking of the order of the words.) At any rate, I signed up, too, with only a vague idea in mind and no notion of whether I can actually get a novel out of it. I know 50,000 words sounds daunting, but it's really less than 4 pages a day if you single space. I admit that's 4 more pages than I normally write a day . . .

I'm not going into this with the idea that on December 1st I will have a novel ready to submit to [publisher of your choice]. What I'm hoping for is that discipline will do my writing good, that I will get some ideas which could be turned into submittable stories with some editing, and that writing will do my mood some good or at least distract me from melancholy. Wouldn't that be grand?

This is the point in the post when I mock/criticize/humiliate my husband. Or at least that is the way he seems to see it every time I mention him in what I intend to be a humorous fashion. You know, like he's my comic effect. If this blog were a Shakespearean drama, he would be my clown. No? Not any better, Honey? I did try. At any rate, when I told him I was going to write a novel in November, his response was, Oh, no, you're not getting caught up in that NaNoWriMo nonsense, are you? (And, notice, he pronounced it correctly without even thinking about it.)

Apparently, his much longer history of wasting time on the internet has included blog and message board reading with former participants of the novel-writing challenge. After warning me that I will want to claw my eyes out (or something like that) after a week or two and Don't come crying to me on November 10th that you want to quit, he did manage a I-think-you're-crazy-but-if-you-want-to-do-this-okay-then kind of support.

Part of this might be my own fault, as I am not very vocal about my writing aspirations, even to him. I always thought that it would sound pretentious, especially if I rarely produced anything and never attempted to publish anything. At times I thought (and still think a little bit) that it's one of those aspirations from childhood, cultivated from being an avid reader, and nurtured by being an English major, that isn't realistic so it just fades away. Like you either become a writer or you outgrow it.

This is an example of (unhealthy) all-or-nothing thinking. Since I can't be a successful published novelist, I shouldn't even bother to write. Also it defeats itself, since I couldn't become the former without doing the latter. So, I'm going to try it. Next November I'll (hopefully) be working, so I'll have less time and more excuses. I could do it anytime, of course, but the online support is good and brings out my little competitive edge.

Join me if you dare.

and another week slides by

2008-10-22T20:52:00.002-04:00

I'm wondering whether I should start a fiction blog. Would it encourage me to write or just give me (as helpful husband suggested) another blog to ignore? Would anyone else want to be part of a group fiction/criticism blog with a password known to all of us participants? Comment me or email me. I know there are such things out there already, so if anyone knows of or uses one already, also let me know.

I removed my story after 36 hours because I immediately jumped to the conclusion that if no one had commented on it, that must be because no one could think of anything nice to say and so, because their mothers had taught them to be polite, said nothing at all. Probably premature and paranoid, but that's what I did. I have been (have I mentioned this a dozen times already) a bit down and I tend to exaggerate everything and wallow in the self-pity at these times. Extraordinarily unattractive, even to myself, which generates more of the same. Ugh. The only thing that keeps me from staying under the covers all day sometimes is that the kids need to be fed, dressed, and driven places. No getting around it. And that's probably a good thing.

I did take my comprehensive test on Saturday and am reasonably sure I passed. So that's good, one more thing taken care of. All that's left is the last internship (already arranged) and a 6 week course in the summer. If the internship could lead to a job, even a PT one, that would be fantastic. It is very discouraging to job search and realize I need another 2-3 years experience before I qualify for some $28K job. Hey, I'm not knocking $28K, believe me, I'd take it, but I guess just the general idea that someone who is providing mental health or rehabilitative health care services and has a MA and 3 years experience . . . well, you get the idea.

I am still doing a reasonably good job with exercising. Yoga tomorrow.

Oh, here's some funny. E. (the 5-year-old) was asking me all sorts of questions about the presidential candidates, probably because I listen to NPR in the car. I explained that "these two men" are running for president. I told her their names, and said, Oh, that's one of them speaking now, when one of them was. She began to chant, "I want to be president! I want the government!" over and over in a kind of deep, theatrical voice, her adult male voice. I guess she jumped right to the heart of things, the subtext of presidential campaign speeches. Brilliant child.

We don't really talk politics around her much, because I think it's kind of weird and unfair to make your children parrot your political opinions. Because they will, gladly, but it's kind of like training a, well, parrot. She was asking more questions the other night when we weren't in the car, so I asked her if she wanted to see what they looked like. I took her to johnmccain.com and barackobama.com and played the videos. I think McCain got a little love in that she thought he slightly resembled her granddad (not my dad whose hair is still dark) and I confirmed that he was a grandfather. Obama's video was a bit long (10 minutes) for her attention span, but she thought it was cool that he had kids, "little girls!" and she cannot get enough of his name. We must have heard "Barackobama" about a hundred times that night. I was a little nervous she was going to get in trouble for saying it over and over at her (conservative) (Christian) school the next day, but I think she'd moved on by then.

One of us will take her with us to vote, so she can see democracy in action and all that.

Oh and she was also interested in the process of moving in and out of the White House ("His family moves in with him?!") And earlier, whether the president had to die before we got a new one. Not usually, I said, no.

Little P., on the other hand, likes to say "Ayudame"; for those of you without kids hooked on the Dora/Diego franchise and/or fluent in Spanish, that means "(2nd person command form)Help!" She says this while playing with her animal toys, when she needs help getting out of the car, down from a chair, up onto something or when she wants to make us laugh. It works.

If we could just combine the two: "Ayudame, Barackobama!"

More inconsequential complaints

2008-10-15T10:43:00.003-04:00

And another five days pass . . . (The below was written last Friday, although I just posted it today because I was too grouchy to finish it and afraid to post it). I'm feeling a bit more sane. Probably PMS is to blame. I bought some Midol. (This part's just for the women, so Brother and Husband, skip to the next paragraph. Why does my period seem shorter these days but my PMS is much, much longer? It seems like half the month is wasted on crampy crankiness. I should probably ask my OB/GYN rather than pose it as a question on my blog. But she'd probably tell me it's perimenopause--can't do anything about that--or recommend BCPs. Bleah, although I kind of like the idea of those four periods/year pills . . . but then I remember I don't have health insurance.)

Welcome back, guys, although this may be boring to you, too. I did my next two-week weigh-in and . . . (drumroll) . . . no change. I guess the positive spin I could put on it is that without all this exercise, I'd be gaining weight. I should probably add a couple of more vigorous cardios into my routine (that's what the computer-generated wisdom of my real age report suggested), but now I've got a sore toe from that toe nail (damaged 2 months ago) being about to fall off. Ugh.

I had another job interview last week, but haven't heard anything, despite the interviewer saying she was going to contact all the candidates "either way". It was a good interview though, with a high level person at the (very large) agency who has the same degree (and licensure) I'm after. I think I will be able to put ATTN: Her Name on future applications to that agency. Once again the issue of not being done with my graduate degree may have been the confounding factor. The position didn't even require a Master's degree, but I think she may have been concerned about my potential commitment level. Plus she kept saying how busy I was, how much I had "going on". Because I volunteer for two places, which I only do because I don't have a job and don't want to be bored (and it makes my heart feel good, that too)? Because I have two young kids? Would she have said that if I were a man? Would our children and their ages be relevant if my husband were the applicant? Am I cynical to think that it would be a plus for him, that he would be seen as a "family man" instead of an over-strapped homemaker/grad student?

I have, however, secured an internship for spring, which may be a place I will want to/be able to work in the near future. The internship, as is customary, is unpaid and obviously sans benefits as well. We'll survive on my husband's conservative, mathematically sound gambling career, although no saving is going on around here. I'll still be applying as jobs come up, of course, and maybe I can take on another tutoring student.

A whole bunch of other stuff I've been thinking about, even entire composed blog posts in my head (usually as I tried to fall asleep), has been forgotten. I will not go so long between posts, that might help.

If anyone is interested in a rare balanced, well-considered discussion about abortion, I recommend checking out Dry Bones Dance.

Ah, to be 32 again . . .

2008-10-10T20:31:00.003-04:00

Yes, that's my real age. I restarted the test a week or so again and finished it. Ta da! I can't say there's a whole of difference between 32 and 36 (my real real age), except that I'm probably tired-er. Pragmatically, I have one more child, a house payment (although not much in the way of equity, thanks stock market/mortage crisis/general financial meltdown), and almost another master's degree. I've probably gained a bit of weight since then, but everyone's bored of that by now. I do remember going to my G.P. when E. was just over one (and I was 32) and asking about anti-depressants (again). So, I wasn't necessarily happier. I know I have good habits and a good family history (disease and longevity-wise, at any rate), so 32 was about what I expected.

The other internet quizzes about longevity I've taken seem to indicate I'm going to live into my mid-nineties, which I guess is good. The downside is that my partner, who also likes to take dumb quizzes, will be lucky to make it to 80. So I should probably prepare myself for a significant widowhood. Unless of course I remember that these are all dumb quizzes.

What was I mulling about in my mind over all these 2 weeks of blog silence? Unfortunately, not much. I'm trying to get in my last-minute studying, so I don't have to retake the comprehensive exam in the spring. I take it next Saturday, so that won't be an excuse for much longer.

I joined Facebook, just so I could get ONE friend to write me back (she kept saying, join Facebook and then wouldn't return my emails). Now I have one more thing to check, one more way to waste time. I don't like it really (Facebook, that is, not wasting time, which I do seem to like). It has a strange interface that doesn't seem intuitive to me. Plus I can't see the point or pleasure of sending someone "pokes" or "hugs" or whatever strange non-communicative animation you want. Plus all the people I want to check out have closed sites--I have to invite them to be my friend before I can look at all their probably disappointingly boring info. That takes all the fun out of stalking, doesn't it? Of course, it's not even stalking anymore. It's like networking. Or even friendship, sort of. I don't want to reconnect with random high school dude or chick, I just want to see if they're married or happy or in touch with anyone else or not. And I don't really even want to know that stuff. What the fuck am I doing?

Truth: In the course of writing those two paragraphs, I have had to get up twice to tell my children to go to sleep. The older one is the one who comes out, to tattle- tale on the younger one for "not going to sleep." Sometimes we think she's genuinely trying to go to sleep and the little P. is all wound up and bothering her. Other times we suspect she's winding up said little P. so that we'll come back there and give them some attention, negative or otherwise. The second time, tonight, I screamed. Yep, I'm a screamer. Today has not been a good day for me and screaming. The little P., who we thought was over her cold + diarrhea kick and cleared to return to underwear, pooped on the floor. Second time this week. And not an easy clean-up. I screamed then, too.

It's not that I (rationally, intellectually) believe that a 2-year-old who has a previously documented upset intestine is trying to ruin my dinner-making process by pooping in her pants and then jumping around in her room as it leaks out. It's just that it feels that way. The incident happened when my partner (he of the shorter life-sentence) was out of the house picking up the Chinese food which would be our dinner while I was steaming spinach and broccoli for the little people in our house who don't like brown or garlic sauce on their vegetables. And tonight, just now, when I had to go in for the second time (really, it was the third, but the first is almost obligatory now and accompanied by desperate bonhomie), he was out filling up water jugs or buying beer. Maybe both. And I wanted to finish my G-D-mn blog post!

And then there's the cat, who won't let me type a single word without either swiping at my hand on the keyboard or batting at the screen, whose mysterious production of type seems as captivating as a live lizard or cockroach. MUST-KILL-TINY-MOVING-LETTERS-IT'S-APPARENTLY_INSTINCTUAL.

Another Tuesday

2008-09-30T13:12:00.002-04:00

I weighed myself two weeks ago with the idea that I would weigh myself every week, but then forgot last Tuesday. So, now it's every two weeks. And that's final.

I'm not one of those people (women) who know their weight up to the half-pound. You know, we all know, some girl who tells you she's 107 1/2 pounds, and you think, we all think, Wow, that's kind of specific, maybe there's an issue there. I assume a lot of people (women) weigh themselves every day whether they're on a diet or not. I don't. Part of the reason is probably because I've never had a serious problem with my weight and I could usually measure the progress I was making in my exercise/eating less efforts by seeing whether my clothes (pants) were tighter or looser. I know lots of people have much more significant issues and I do (usually) keep mine in perspective. I really don't want to be one of those obnoxious people who whines about the same ten pounds for years and years. But, this is my blog, and right now the ten pounds are bothering me. If I'm still whining about it in five years, um, think of an appropriate punishment.

I don't even own a scale, so I weighed at the Y. Same scale today and the first time, same time of day. I lost 1.5 pounds. I don't know if that's even statistically significant or if my weight bounces around 1 or 2 pounds on a regular basis (see above paragraph), but at least it's going in the right direction, right? I also am aware that because I began weight training for the first consistent time in my life this summer, I may have some "muscle" weight. That's totally cool, however, I'm still not fitting into some of my pants, and I'm pretty sure that's not muscle on my hips. The number is not that important, but it does indicate something. And the direction is good.

I exercised every day last week except Sunday. Saturday we took the kids to the park and I went on a rather hot and humid nature walk with E. We had brought her bike, but she decided she only wanted to ride it for five minutes once she remembered the nature trail. This is the same trail we walked at her birthday party, when it was even hotter and more humid. The walk combination was probably only about 20 minutes but I was walking around the playground afterward, following little P. (rather than sitting on a bench smoking or something), so I was upright and moving my feet, albeit slowly some of the time, for at least forty. Monday I remembered I had made an appointment to get an oil change while I was driving to the Y. I could have turned around (since I'd forgotten my cell phone--hey, at least I finally got one!) and gotten hubby to follow me in the van, blah, blah, blah, but I decided to just drive to the auto shop and walk to my sister's house. It reminded me of when we (my sister and I) lived in Cville and walked back to our crappy basement apartment on Cherry from the auto shop on whatever that street is (and back again to pick it up) because we only had one car. Sometimes we even walked all the way downtown. Anyway, that was 40 minutes or so and I helped reduce gasoline emissions and all that.

I plan to keep it up, exercising every day. It feels good and it can't help but help, right?

Ha ha. I was trying to take a quiz to find out my real age. Really a time waster because I'm sure there's something more productive I could be doing besides entering personal health/marketing information into an online quiz, hoping for the false rush of finding out I'm really only 33. (When I go back and finish it later, I'll let you know what it really is. Unless it's over my actual age, of course. In that case, I never finished it.) Yeah, so I had to quit because I either accidentally clicked that I had a heart problem or the program had a glitch in it. First it asked me about my last artery reading and then asked me how long I'd had each of the following problems: one of them was heart disease. Well, that would screw up my results, wouldn't it?

And I cleaned the bathroom (okay, half of it [okay, just the toilet]). Maybe I'll do the rest later, after I waste some more time on unimportant things. Like buying vegetables for my post-partum sister--yikes, I won't make it to school for pick-up and tutoring if I don't leave now. Bye.

The Hours Fly By

2008-09-27T20:17:00.003-04:00

when you're attending the birth of your niece. Actually it was less than three hours from the time we got to the birth center, which isn't very many hours at all in the perspective of those of us who have labored. Considering that my sister had 27 hours the first time around, with at least 3 hours attempting to push, that's really really short.

It was actually a very cool experience. She leaned over a birthing ball during contractions for the first hour, talking normally to her husband and I in between contractions. Then moved to the tub, where she continued to talk normally in between contractions. The midwife and her assistants weren't even in the room except twice to check the heartbeat. It was so cool that I was almost thinking I wanted to do this again.

Almost. Until she got the urge to push. Then I remembered how much I hated that whole pushing part and the rest of the reasons flashed before my eyes: physical recovery, no sleep, hormonal craziness, no sleep, breastfeeding what seems like every 30 minutes, no sleep, spit up and more spit up. So, it was only 10-15 minutes of pushing, which, again, in the perspective of those of us who have labored, is not much time at all. But Holy Mother of God (I can say that because my sister, the Catholic, isn't reading this blog), that was a hell of a fifteen minutes. I think the words "Get it out!" were used a few times, and I remember the feeling and am very content with the idea that memories of the feeling are as close as I will get to the actual feeling ever again.

Then she was out and it was blissful again. My sister sat in the tub holding the towel-wrapped baby, umbilical cord still attached, for 20 minutes or so while pictures were taken and we all ooh-ed and ah-ed. I haven't posted a picture of the sweet new girl (or her name) on the family blog yet because I keep forgetting to ask for permission. (Plus my brother-in-law seemed to be warning me about stalkers a few days ago: "Are you sure you want to put the kids' names on the blog? People could figure out who you are. Aren't you worried?" Um, no. But maybe you don't want your kids' pictures/names up there? I'd never asked him, only my sister!) But, she's here, just one day past her due date, and she's cute, and all the kids (mine and hers) are very excited.

Three things:
1) I used "very" a lot in the above paragraphs. I remember being told that "very" is an unnecessary modifier if one is a skillful writer. Tonight, I'm not. Sorry. Tired.

2) Being content with not having to push a baby out of my body again is a weirdly ambivalent contentment. Knowing that I will (most likely) never give birth again brings up age and yes, death issues (for my fellow counseling program/philosophy major readers: it's an existential crisis). It's not a rational thing; I know that all women's childbearing time must come to an end, but saying that mine has feels weird. Even though it's just me saying that I don't want any more pregnancy/childbirth/children, not a physical reality. I listened to a woman talking about dealing with her hysterectomy at age 49: she also talked about these feelings and being unprepared for how the finality hit her. There's no finality (as far as I know) with mine. It's just a choice, and I'm glad I have it and I'm glad I've made it. But I probably will never feel completely without, I don't know, regret? curiosity? Maybe I think continuing to birth will keep me young, stave off death, continue to increase my chances (biologically-driven desire) to perpetuate my gene pool. It's all complicated by emotions as well. I've told many people that "I'm done" because that seems to be the way to handle it here, these days: with no equivocation. Either you're a baby-making, if-God's-willing, "culture-of-life" woman in which case the answer is some version of "We'll see." Or you schedule your conceptions, make sure you have one room/child, and count the days until they're eighteen, in which case you say, "Oh, no more. Only (1, 2, or, less likely, 3) for me. This is definitely it."

Of course it's not that simple. Some people want to have babies and can't. Or have to do complicated things so they can. Some people plan it all out and then change their minds. Sometimes surprises happen and we change our minds about that number after all. I know a lot of people in that first group, so that's perhaps part of my own problem with this (artificial) finality. Many of these people are warm, nurturing, happy, generous people. Some of these people also use terms like the "culture of death" to refer to modern society, extending this term to abortion, birth control, or just the general selfishness and individualism all around. I think there's an in between, I do. I'm not an all-or-nothing thinker, but even saying that puts me on the wrong side in the minds of the all-or-nothing camp. This is way too long a discussion for right now.

3) My sister was very lucky to be able to have the kind of birth she wanted the third time around. She did all the right things to prepare, but even with all that, it could have been impossible. Some people have very strong objections to non-hospital/doctor-attended births. Some of those people have lost babies and would consider this kind of a birth a risk they wouldn't want to take. I'm not sure I would either, in those circumstances. All that said, the contrast between this birth and my hospital births was pretty striking. She basically just did it on her own. The midwife was right there, prepared to catch the baby, only for that last 15 minutes. I think she helped move the baby's arm a little right at the end. If it had been 150 years ago on prairie, I might have been my sister's midwife, performing those necessary but minor assists. Again, many babies and mothers died on the prairie (and still do, in underdeveloped countries) without the option of emergency c-sections, vacuum suction, and sophisticated post-natal care. My sister required no stitches--really great for her, although I'm a teeny bit jealous--and went home after 4 hours at the birth center. She slept in her own bed. She will be visited by the midwife at home on Monday. (I wonder if she'll ask her about birth control! Ha! Another post entirely.)

Even with my Bradley natural childbirth training classes (and lack of complications) which allowed me to labor without drugs, my births were still medical births. Strapped to monitors, IV (for fluids which made me need to pee what seemed like every 5 minutes, and antibiotics for strep-B which my sister took with a one-time injection into a port which was then taped off). With my induction (birth 1), I couldn't even shuffle to the room bathroom, but had to use the potty chair by the bed. Nurses in and out looking at papers, asking me to rate my pain from 1 to 10. The damn blood pressure cuff. I do not deny the necessity of the safety net provided by the hospitals and machines, but this birth was something completely different. So quiet. So normal. So simple.

That's all I have for now.

Great Books

2008-09-25T23:35:00.005-04:00

A meme from my friend at Westwood. Originally from this site. If anyone knows an easy way to do copy this list into comments and bold/italicize/underline without repetitively doing the less-than-u-greater-than crap, let me know. It's after midnight and I'm a huge fucking idiot.

Bold those you’ve read.
Italicize books you have started but couldn’t finish.
Add an asterisk* to those you have read more than once.
Underline those on your To Be Read list.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion
Life of Pi: A Novel
The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote
Moby Dick
Ulysses
Madame Bovary
The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre*
A Tale of Two Cities*
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the Fates of Human Societies
War and Peace
Vanity Fair
The Time Traveler's Wife
The Iliad
Emma*
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs. Dalloway
Great Expectations*
American Gods*
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Atlas Shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran
Memoirs of a Geisha
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West*
The Canterbury Tales*
The Historian
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera
Brave New World
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein*
The Count of Monte Cristo
Dracula
A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible
1984
Angels & Demons
The Inferno (we're talking Dante, right? required, Christian college)
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Oliver Twist*
Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Corrections (heard him on NPR, meant to check it out)
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (read review, meant to check it out)
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (ditto, see above)
Dune*
The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes
The God of Small Things
A People’s History of the United States: 1492-Present
Cryptonomicon
Neverwhere*
A Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything
Dubliners
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved*
Slaughterhouse-Five
The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake
Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
Lolita
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey (okay, did I see it on Masterpiece or read it? I’m going 50/50 on these Austen novels, to be fair)
The Catcher in the Rye*
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
The Aeneid
Watership Down*
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit*
In Cold Blood
White Teeth (read a review ages ago, forgot about it!)
Treasure Island
David Copperfield*
The Three Musketeers

Thanks to A.P. classes and my English major for many of these. Also, reminded me of how much I like all Margaret Atwood, loved Watership Down, and want to read Wicked again right now. Plus, I didn’t actually have a list except in my head, but now I do! Thanks, J.! I should study for my exam first, but . . .

Also, Exercise: 40 minute nature walk (carrying 27 pound 2-year-old about half the time; 25 minute treadmill during dance class at the Y (interrupted by beeper buzzing to tell me 2-year-old had accident in babysitting room; where would the beeper/pager business be without in-house daycare?)
Cleaning: nada and proud of it
Studying: yech, not much
Employment: verified interview for Monday, that took 2 minutes at most

Boring Boring Boring

2008-09-24T16:57:00.003-04:00

It is keeping me sort of accountable, but I'm boring myself. I will write about something else soon. Soon.

Tuesday
Exercise: 40 minute walk outside (skipped yoga to take a nap)
Cleaning: nothing that counts
Studying: Read more of study guide, probably an hour
Employment: nothing except checking email

Wednesday
Exercise: 30 minute treadmill, 30 minute weights (1 1/2 rotations)
Cleaning: nothing that counts
Studying: Plugging away on study guide and taking online practice quizzes
Employment: scheduled a sort-of-interview for Monday--she may think it's more of an internship inquiry, but at least I'm in the door giving them my resume.

Here's the thing that ticks me off about cleaning, in addition to the fact that I hate it. I do a lot of things on a daily basis that I can't suddenly stop doing, but I also don't feel it's fair to count them. You know, things like laundry, scooping the cat box, making breakfast, packing lunches, making dinner, putting away dishes, scooping the cat box, wiping the table, folding laundry. It's the big things that I want to get more disciplined about doing. Big things that, to some people, are likely daily, weekly things that THEY can't count. Things like vacuuming and dusting and cleaning the bathroom.

I have a whole rant about how, as women, we can say we hate to clean, but we still have to do it (or at least arrange for someone else to do it). Whereas for men, it's weird when they do clean or, even more weird, when they say they like to clean. I have run into several women lately who actually say they like to clean. I haven't drilled them on the intricacies of what part gives them satisfaction (that woman in the grocery store might have found me a little intense, especially since she wasn't even talking to me). I mean, I like the feeling of having had cleaned. That is, the pleasure of having a relatively sparkling bathroom. I just don't like it enough to compensate for the utter and complete loathing I feel toward scrubbing the tub.

Here's the rant part. I think we put a lot of burdens on ourselves unnecessarily when it comes to cleaning. Or maybe it's just me. I'm self-conscious about my usually-neat-but-decidedly dusty/somewhat grimy house. So much so that I rarely have anyone over besides my family. Even though I've been to houses which are just as dirty as mine. And I really don't mind other people's dirty houses. I breathe a small sigh of relief that I am not as horribly incompetent as I always, somehow, come back to believing that I am. (I only exaggerate slightly.) But I do really really notice when someone's house is immaculate and wonder how much time she spends cleaning each day or week.

Do you think thoughts like these EVER cross the minds of men? And, for once, I am not asserting the superiority of women here. I think we need to be more like men. Who the fuck cares about the dust on the baseboards? Who even acknowledges the existence of baseboards? Let's use our college degrees and our creative impulses toward higher things. But not toward the dust on the fan blades. That's too literal. I mean, things like reading novels and writing blog posts.

Still, I acknowledge that these tasks have to be tackled by someone at some point. Like when my mother-in-law is coming for a visit. I kind of like doing them in big chunks. Like, really thoroughly cleaning a whole room or two every three months or so. And if that seems icky to you, well, I'm probably not inviting you over anyway.

So, I want to be more industrious, but not more neurotic. The state of my house/dust is irrelevant to who I am as a person. Of course it is, but I wonder how many of us otherwise intelligent women really feel that way. That some part of our worth, no matter how many other things we do, is tied to how clean and presentable our houses are. That this is still our responsibility or our burden because we're women. (Ugh) Wives.

Note: my husband is VERY helpful. He almost exclusively does the dishes, both loading and unloading. He does about 50% of the laundry, both the loading and the folding. He sweeps. He swiffers. He has never proudly announced that he changes poopy diapers; he just does it. But, he doesn't really think about any of the other things. Those big things that I don't do regularly, but feel bad about not doing. He doesn't notice the dusty baseboards or the tub mildew or the dirty linoleum. Should he? I say, No! If I ask him to do something, he will do it, so it's all good.

I will still post my large cleaning tasks, just because I like seeing them there. Like crossing something off a list. But I will (try to) stop tying them to my self-worth.

Time to make pizza. Yum.

I didn't really take a nap

2008-09-22T15:04:00.003-04:00

I filled out one job application to mail, sent one through the internet, and emailed another job contact. Nearly two hours!

So here's today:

Exercise: 20 minute elliptical (cardio); 30 minute weights (2 rotations)
Cleaning: Does dumping out and cleaning cat litter box count?
Studying: Finished first chapter in study guide, started 2nd
Employment: 2 applications, 1 email contact.

I have a blog post(unrelated to my mundane goals) started in my head. It's about sexism. Sort of. More later.

Weekend

2008-09-22T12:45:00.002-04:00

First off, if you're a reading sort of person, read The Sorrows of an American, on the top of my recently read book list. Also very good is Ann Patchett--The Magician's Assistant is the one I just read and I've also read/loved Bel Canto--I am going to read the rest of her books ASAP. ASA I have taken my exam, it should be. Might be sooner, though.

Friday
Exercise: 1 hour on treadmill
Cleaning: finished girls' room incl. vacuuming, dusting, baseboards, throwing out more stuff.
Studying: Umm
Employment: Meh

Saturday
Exercise: Vacuuming, moving furniture, dusting and moving objects to dust
Cleaning: see above--the two are related today: both BR and LR now clean enough
Studying: Took practice test online
Employment: Hey, it's the weekend!

Sunday
Exercise: blah
Cleaning: blah
Studying: another practice test, read half of first chapter in study guide
Employment: Still the weekend, people!

Seriously, I should be filling out applications on the weekend, but apparently I can only be industrious in one or two quadrants at a time. I'm going to do more today! Not more cleaning, probably, but more job stuff. Right after I take a nap . . .

Guest Post Extraordinaire

2008-09-18T21:48:00.002-04:00

OK, since it looks like Karen’s throwing me under the bus with her latest post, I don’t think I have any other option than to tell the whole story of Shitstorm 2008. I think Hurricane Shit is better, but given the Gulf tragedies, I don’t think it’s quite fair to compare what I dealt with yesterday to the agencies cleaning up in Texas. That said, after reading this, you may disagree.

First off, there are no pictures, so imagination will be necessary. Whether or not there should have been pictures is an interesting discussion. I tend to think that pictures enhance the storytelling, but here, they may have been a bit over the top.

Perspective is always good, so let me lay out what the typical afternoon naptime routine is. On Wednesdays, P. (the two-year-old) usually goes to a Mom’s Morning Out at our church until 1 PM. I try to get in at least two hours of work while she’s there as well as catch up on sleep. I pick her up, bring her home, and immediately start moving toward naptime. Any delay pushes start time past 2 PM which is kind of her naptime event horizon. Plus, if I get her down quickly, it has the added bonus of me getting in an extra hour of work in the afternoon before E. (the five-year-old) gets home at 3:30.

That was the plan yesterday. I had her home and after cleaning out her lunch bag and such, we were in her room reading books by 1:15. She wears underwear to MMO because (KEY POINT) she is 85% potty trained. So, every day before her nap, we change into “bedtime clothes”, which involves a total wardrobe overhaul and (KEY POINT) change into a diaper in case she has an accident. She also (KEY POINT) goes to the bathroom to clean the system out before we put on the diaper. So, she is clothed, diapered, and ready to take a nap. Time is 1:30.

At this point, I usually head back to the kitchen or TV room (where my computer is) on the other side of the house and eat lunch while I wait for P. to fall asleep. This is like a 15-20 minute exercise and she usually falls asleep during this time. Occasionally, she’ll still be fussing or asking for something, so I’ll go in and tell her to lay down, time for a nap, etc., and reset the process. Wednesday, there was no noise coming from the room, so I do what I always do and check on her visually to make sure she’s out. On this occasion, she was clearly still awake; however, she was lying down, sucking her thumb, and quiet. Obviously, I’m not going in there and interrupting this and I assume, like 95+% of the other times she does this, she’s within minutes of being out. So, I start prepping to work by going to the bathroom, getting water, etc.

Side note: I think all regular blog readers here know what I do for a living. It’s a perfectly legitimate career that has supported us for two years, but I can think of many people that Karen knows who would disapprove. That’s not the point of this blog, though, and it only pertains to the story in that when I work, I need to have an hour of uninterrupted concentration. This is why I do the bulk of my work after the kids go to bed and usually stay up fairly late to get in hours. If I start and am forced to quit for whatever reason before I’m done with the hour, we’re talking several hundred, occasionally thousand dollars. I will not start unless I’m positive I will have an uninterrupted hour. Period.

So, over the ensuing few minutes, I am moving around the house, including the kitchen, which is very close to P.’s room and hear nothing. I don’t believe I checked on her again (possibly first mistake), but since there was strong evidence suggesting she was asleep and nothing contradicting this, I think it’s fair to say I was going to be in the clear. When she naps and the house is quiet, it’s usually two hours minimum and sometimes as much as three.

Side Note 2: It’s been beaten to death in the other blog, but we got a kitten in the last couple of weeks. Prior to getting the kitten, whenever P. took a nap and I was home alone with her, I would open up all doors between myself and her so that I could hear if something was up. As Karen can attest, I can and have heard her waking up from a nap with the TV on, so we never used the monitors with P. The kitten likes to cause problems though, so we have to close doors to keep him from waking up P. and I have to close the door to the TV room so I won’t be attacked while working. My right leg can attest to what that cat will do to get up on the desk.

So, at 2 PM, I sit down at the computer and start working, not to emerge until 3 PM. Little did I know what I would come out to in an hour. Nothing at all notable during the hour except a phone call from Karen at about 2:45, letting me know that she was heading from an afternoon out with a friend to pick up E. at school. At about 3, I came out and opened the door to the main part of the house and the stench was bad and P. was clearly awake and crying.

My immediate thought is “where did that cat do it this time?”, a fun game we get to play about once a day with the new kitten. I searched the main room, kitchen, and headed for the laundry room, where the cat’s litter box is as the smell intensified. I saw many fresh droppings and covered them up because he doesn’t do a good job of that yet. Thinking things were good, I went to the bathroom, got some more water and such before going to get P.. Normally, when she wakes up, she fusses for someone to come get her, but she’s fine. Two year olds fuss, especially when they’re tired and just woke up. Say whatever you want but every parent knows that they don’t always immediately rush to their crying two year olds unless there’s reason to be concerned.

All that said, what I saw when I went in to that room is nothing short of horrifying. I’m not even sure it hit me immediately what was going on. I certainly had to think for several seconds as to what I had to do next. P. had no pants on and her hands and feet were covered in poop. Every square inch of the sheet on her crib was covered in poop. Every square inch of the railing was covered in poop. It. Smelled. Awful.

Now, given this, I’m pretty pleased with how I handled it. I’m thinking a lot of parents would freeze. My first instinct was basically that I was going to have to contain the situation quickly and save what was salvageable. First, deal with the child. P. had poop on her and was very angry. I got the shirt off, picked her up and carried her across the house to the bathtub, put her in and turned on the water, trying to get as much of the poop off her as I could. Unfortunately, it was dried on pretty well (I suspect this had happened 30 or so minutes ago, maybe more :flogging self: ). Once I got the easiest of it off, I left her there, telling her to keep scrubbing and went back to ground zero to see what I had to do next.

Reflecting back on the scene of the crime, one thing sticks out. There did not appear to be any solid remains. Anywhere. There was a definite epicenter, resembling the center of an explosion, but outside of that, all of the poop appeared to have been distributed equally on the entire crib. I removed the sheet and the mattress pad and threw them in the washing machine. I figured they were permanently done, but our new washing machine would later prove me wrong. Go Frigidaire!

Now to attack the actual crib. First thought is that this was a really big job, so I decided wet paper towels would be my starting point. Unfortunately, they really weren’t that effective, so I ran around the house looking for a bucket, planning to fill it with a bleach/water combo. I remembered it was outside, so I went back to check on P. who seemed fine. Our drain is not working right, so I had to check back fairly often to make sure the tub wasn’t filling with poopwater. I found the bucket outside with rocks that E. had been collecting, dumped it and threw it under the sink. However, since the bathtub was running, I had no water pressure and it was taking forever, so I grabbed a plastic bag and some Clorox wipes and got back to work.

Back in the room, I noticed, interestingly, that absolutely no poop was on her diaper or pants or the numerous stuffed animals she usually keeps in her crib, but were now strewn about the room. I still am not sure why she chose to remove her pants/diaper before doing this, but I guess I’ll never know. I worked on it as best I could with the Clorox wipes, but they’re small and my mess was big. After a few of these, I ran back to check on P. in time to stop the bucket from overflowing in the sink. P. seemed pretty well cleaned at this point, so I picked her up, sprayed out the bathtub and started to refill it plus lots and lots of soap. I plopped her back in and ran back to add some bleach to the bucket of water in the kitchen. This plus a washcloth, which would give itself to the cause, and we were finally making some progress. A few minutes of this, then back to P..

Now, I was well aware that Karen and E. were due home any minute, so I was really hoping something held them up at school and would give me more time. Of course, this is the day they come straight home. Fortunately, I was able to alert them immediately upon entering the house of what they would see. I’ll give Karen credit. She and poop really don’t get along well, but she was able to take it in stride and help out. E. reacted about how you would expect a five year old to, with lots of unnecessary comments and noises about smell.

There’s really not much else to say about the cleanup. P. was fine, as if nothing had happened. We had the windows up, fans blowing, and cleaned every part of the crib we could, but the smell was not going away. It was like it had bonded with the wood. Ultimately, we took the crib apart and out to the garage where its fate will be determined at a later date.

I vacuumed the area under the crib after spraying it with carpet cleaner, but still, stink. Next were the toys under the crib. We pulled out every basket and inspected it with eyes and nose, throwing out what we didn’t care about anymore and washing everything else. Still there was a stench. Finally, P.’s books that were on the floor, but not right next to the crib. I found a few (Karen mentioned them already) that smelled and made the executive decision to toss them. I also encountered the largest actual piece of poop on the cover of Olivia, which was a good four feet away from the crib inside a bedside table. To the author of Olivia: we like your book enough to have cleaned it.

It still smelled a bit after all of this, but the kids managed to sleep in there anyway. Karen vacuumed again this morning and we shuffled some things around. As of right now, the smell seems to have been completely eradicated, so I think we got it all.

Ultimately, I think this was pretty much a once-in-a-lifetime set of circumstances that led to this, but I’m still pretty sure I lose Parent Points for not making sure P. was completely asleep and not making sure that I could hear P. if she woke up. Everything else was a series of flukes that culminated in one big, shitty mess. After five-plus years of this, I think I’ve got pretty good parenting instincts and maybe I got a bit casual here.

Thursday

2008-09-17T21:12:00.008-04:00

Spouse will be guest posting imminently (he's currently editing a four page Word document, seriously), but here's my-mostly-for-my-own-accountability checklist for the day:

Cleaning: More work on the girls' room: vacuuming with attachment to get corners! Sorting through toys!

Exercise: 5 minute cardio, 30 minute weights (2 rotations) during E.'s dance class; skipped yoga to take a nap :(

Studying: Umm, maybe after I finish posting.

Employment: One email. Again delayed phone calls I've intending to do for several days.

The closest to a literal shitstorm I hope I ever see.

2008-09-17T21:12:00.007-04:00

I think I'm going to let the hubby guest post the chronicle of this unbelievably fetid afternoon, an object lesson in less than good parenting, and the reason many former playthings (and books) are now in the trash, since he was the one home when it happened. So I will simply record my progress on my goals. (RIP Snuggle Puppy and Barnyard Banter. Not so much Biscuit Goes to School.) And to all the future parents out there, maybe you should skip this one.

Cleaning: Involved many, many clorox wipes, a sink full of hot soapy water and plastic toys, and a lot of sniffing to detect whether said odor clung to random items apparently within poop-flinging distance from crib. And that's only a fraction of what my spouse did before I got home. And thank God for that because it prevented me from strangling him.

Exercise: 60 minute treadmill, back in the blissful morning.

Studying: Listened to one study cd (60 minutes) while driving, unaware of what was happening at home.

Employment: Met with a former co-worker to brainstorm internship sites, ditto above.

Oh, and P. is now sleeping on a mattress on the floor! Like a big girl! We had planned to transition to this soon, just not, you know, today. Vaguely laid plans are often shat upon, apparently.

The Personal Betterment Campaign

2008-09-16T14:08:00.005-04:00

Thanks to E. for the term, is also possibly planning something similar in her blog/life. (Let me know if you want me to link to you, E.)

The truth is I am spectacularly lazy. My laziness is perhaps unmatched by anyone except my husband, whose advantage is that he doesn't feel guilty about it. You know how, when you were young and single and maybe had a college roommate or two, or a post-college roommate or two, or a boyfriend/girlfriend roommate or two, and there would always be someone who would slack on all the chores. That was me. I was enabled in this slacking by subconsciously (in one case) choosing a passive aggressive neat freak to share a house with. In another case I was living with my sister and I knew she would "notice" that the kitchen was dirty before I did. My comeuppance was marrying someone who never has noticed that the kitchen is dirty. (The upside is that I never have to clean to please him: that would truly be worse.)

So, I hate to clean, but I also am really good at wasting time when I should be studying. Or putting off tasks that need to be done for work if I can do them from home. Right now, for example, I should be preparing for this afternoon's tutoring session, but I have 45 minutes and I can probably bang that out in half an hour. Then, run late and tear out of here, forget my purse or my phone or something, and possibly get a speeding ticket on the way. 'Cause that's the way I roll.

Exercise is the same way. Although I've been semi-consistent through the summer, I've not done what intended to do. Nor have I lost any of the weight that's been creeping back up in the last year. I keep setting goals in my head for how many workouts, when to do them, where to do them. I keep meaning to start running again; I remember that I really liked it when I was doing it. I have even woken up spontaneously around 5:30 for the past few days, but have just groaned and gone back to sleep.

I also have to study. I have to take a comprehensive exam for my master's degree, so that I can graduate in the spring (yay!). Correction: I have to pass a comprehensive exam. Everyone that knows me might be rolling their eyes because I'm a reasonably high achiever when it comes to grades, but I feel that's because I usually, eventually, with possible kicking and screaming, buckle down and study at the last minute. Well, now it's a month away and several smart people from last year said it was really hard, so it's probably close enough to the last minute to start buckling.

Oh, and I'm trying to get a job. So I should be doing more about that. More applications sent out, more contacts made, etc., etc.

Sounds good on paper, but so hard in reality. I wish I could do all of this on the internet. Yes, the cleaning and exercising, too.

So, here's my proposal for personal betterment.

Cleaning: Assign chores (make chart for kids), have a daily task.

Exercise: 1 hour/day

Studying: 1 hour/day

Employment: 1 application or 1 phone contact/day (until they all dry up!)

I wanted to create a feature on my webpage where I could update those daily, but I can't figure it out. Plus, now I only have half an hour to work on my tutoring lesson. So, I leave you with today's effort.

Cleaning: Swept and mopped new laundry room floor.

Exercise: 20 minute cardio, 30 minute weights (2 rotations)

Studying: Not yet (2 hours yesterday?)

Employment: Not yet (interview yesterday?)

I'll keep you posted as I get better and better. Or totally slack off. One or the other.

A Swift Romance

2008-09-12T11:06:00.002-04:00

Seriously, it was like I'd fallen in love with this job. When I first read the posting, I thought it sounded cool, definitely worth checking out. I read up on the agency, the program, its missions and goals. Definitely my kind of thing. As I said to my husband, It's like all my experience meshes in this job. All those weird seemingly random things I've done, could reasonably be said to be preparation for this job. After that first interview, I was hooked. This was the one for me. I was valued, I was appreciated. When I got a call the next day for a follow-up, I even felt a little bit loved. I could picture my future there. I imagined myself telling someone where I worked. "I just love it," I said to my imaginary friend.

The second interview just confirmed my adoration. Everything felt comfortable, relaxed, natural. I knew all the answers to all the questions. We shared jokes. The eye contact was sizzling. Leaving, I loved just walking down the hall, going down the elevator, feeling like this was my place. I would get to know those security guards at the front door. That would be the bathroom in which I brushed my teeth after lunch. Ooh, right across the street, there's the little cafe where I and my new co-workers would do lunch together. I would learn the secrets of the parking garage, what time to arrive to get the best spots. Sigh.

Then three days went by and no phone call. I began to doubt. Finally I sent a cheery email: Just wondering about the position! Had a great chat on Monday!

I went out and returned to a blinking message on my machine. Sum: They just weren't that into me. Sob. Descent into unreasonable self-recriminations: I must be a loser; No one will ever want me; WTF am I going to do now? Put myself out there again? I don't think so!

I do have another interview (different job) on Monday, though, so maybe I should prepare myself for another rollercoaster ride. I don't think I'm going to fall in love again so soon, but you never know.

The Meet and Greet

2008-09-08T16:58:00.003-04:00

Seemed to go well. I talked to two co-workers in a separate room, after seeing where the people at my level worked (one not-so-big room, five desks and a small conference table) and saying hi to the woman (assistant director) who interviewed me Thursday. The director also poked his head in the door and said he was happy to see me again. Everyone was friendly, the discussion was informal and low-key. The two people were the team leader (my would-be direct supervisor who also has cases of her own), a woman around 50, and one of the people at my would-be level, a young guy (30 at most). Neither were dressed anywhere near formally, so I'm glad I scaled down a little for this second meeting (thanks, J)!

The best question was when the young guy said, We do a lot of report writing for the court, we have to edit and submit to the attorneys and then reedit--how comfortable are you with, you know, writing, using Microsoft Word, summarizing, etc., etc.?

Ha! English major! I love it when that actually comes in handy.

I should find out in the next day or two one way or the other. I feel pretty good about it, although Mary Poppins* could also have gotten a callback. I will try to go about my daily routine and not be driven to distraction by wondering and what if'ing. A lot of things will change if I get the job and my tendency is to want to mentally work out all the details as soon as I can. I was driving home holding imaginary conversations with the mom of the kid I'm tutoring, the group I volunteer with, etc., etc. No harm in that, I guess, except to get my hopes up more, maybe.

Thanks for the help, everyone! I will keep you posted.

*Practically Perfect in Every Way

Pessimistic Me

2008-09-06T12:35:00.004-04:00

The thought that what if there are two candidates coming in to meet the staff and the other one is the one they really want . . .

Still, I have no control over that, even if it is true, seeing as I doubt my lack of dazzling charisma to change anyone's mind.

So, moving beyond that . . . has anyone done a meet and greet with prospective co-workers? From either side of the table (the employed or the pre-employed)? What would my prospective co-workers want to know about me? What should I expect?

My only previous experience with this was when a professor did a trial class in one of my existing classes as part of her interview process. She is now employed at my university. Also, my spouse and his coworkers "interviewed" their prospective boss, only to find out that he was already hired and no one really cared whether they liked him or not. He was the reason my husband became miserable at work and eventually quit under pressure. (Irrelevant fact: That boss left/was fired around six months later.)

Neither of those examples really help me much. I am not anyone's boss, although there are administrative/secretarial support staff. There are five other people in the office at my level (total number of employees in the office is around 15, including bosses [3?] and secretaries), doing the same job I will be doing with different cases. What will they want to know about me? Should I just ask them questions about how they got their jobs? Their experiences in the job?

Lurkers (you know who you are, brother and brother's girlfriend, friend from the university) and faithful commenters (all one of you) alike, what do you think?

Call Back

2008-09-05T20:22:00.004-04:00

I got a second meet-the-staff interview. It's on Monday! Very excited!

What makes a good interview?

2008-09-04T21:54:00.003-04:00

Is it me? Is it them? Is it what everybody (or at least my business-school-graduate husband) says: When it simply becomes a conversation?

I don't know, but I finally had one today. For a job I actually want. I sent out two other applications/resumes this week, so I'm not clinging to it as the one and only hope for a meaningful life at work. (Although I may be checking the mail and phone messages with something approaching neuroticism in the next few days.)

What was nice about it:

People treating me as someone who might have many options. While intellectually I know this is true, my self-confidence is shaky and each interview, at the moment, feels like my only option. It's nice to be considered worthy of the job and other jobs, too.

Being asked whether I would find the position challenging enough. That's like they're acknowledging that I'm smart and capable and am up to challenges. And I was able to answer how it would, in fact, be challenging for me.

Being asked whether the starting salary would be enough for me. See above. My husband says that's just a screening question, but as long as I've been removed from the world of work for pay, I find it flattering that someone, however shallowly, thinks I'm worth more than they can pay. And I was able to assure them that social service jobs are pretty much right at that level or even lower, so yes, the salary would be fine. (Plus, State benefits! I have no benefits right now!)

No questions about a time I had a conflict at a previous job. Really, is there a good answer to that question? I've been asked that at two interviews this summer.

I don't know whether any of this means that I'm on the short list or will soon receive a Thanks Anyway letter in the mail, but it was nice to feel competent and qualified, at least for an hour.

Thoughts on the drive home: (Or, ways my brain might be preparing me to see the positive side of not getting this job.)

Will I be able to drive D1 to school if I have to be [40 minutes away] at 8 or 8:30?

Will my husband be able to get up and deal with that, as well as the two-year-old, if I can't? (No offense, Honey, it's just that you probably haven't gotten up before 10 two days in a row since you started working from home almost two years ago.)

When will I work out? Will I have to give up yoga? I just started yoga. I love it. I guess there are evening classes, but that means coming home even later. Suddenly my time at home seems very limited. And precious.

Will we be eating pizza and fast food more often? Could I do crock pot meals twice a week? Would anybody eat them?

How tired will I be at 6:30 pm for dinner, clean-up, bed-time? At 8:30 pm when the kids are finally asleep? I mean, I'm up by 7 every day anyway, but no more naps?

I'll have to pack a lunch for me as well as for D1. And D2 if we use any kind of daycare/preschool for her.

Random amusing moment:

I had my long-time hairdresser "do" my hair before the interview. My hair's at that weird stage where it's sort of long, needs to be highlighted again, and kind of just hangs there. And my hair is very fine, so attempts (by me) to put it up generally slip out and look sloppy (but not sloppy chic) or juvenile (like I'm 12, but with crow's feet!). She charged me $10, curled it and sprayed it, and if I looked a little more like my best days were in the '80's than I'd intended (or as my so-helpful spouse said as I was hurriedly getting dressed, Are you getting ready for the Prom?), it was way better than anything I could have done. And I felt pretty.

All this background to my daughter's (age 5) first question to me when I arrived home from the interview at 4:30. (She was at school during the preparation stage.) I was wearing my business skirt (pinstripe! black!), hose, heels, white blouse, and a nice jacket I've probably only worn once before. And make-up. She says:

"Mommy, why does your hair look all weird?"

Bah.

Talking Politics (or not)

2008-09-03T20:56:00.003-04:00

I don't know why I expected my dad to be reasonable about politics. I mean, I knew he was a raging conservative. I even knew he slavishly waited upon every word that fell from the lips of Bill O'Reilly. So what was I thinking, that he'd be all like, Whatever. McCain, Obama, it's all cool, man?

The thing is, I guess I was hoping some of that was a bit of an act, that whole Fox News part anyway. I made the mistake of saying, What makes Obama any worse than anyone else? after Labor Day family dinner at my parent's house (while 4 children, between the ages of five and two, two of them mine, ran wild around the house). Apparently, I "just don't get it." No, I don't, but I think I've decided not to discuss it further.

Everyone says, Don't discuss religion or politics with your family. Assuming you don't all agree on every single point. My sister and brother-in-law, for the most part, can discuss these topics with my parents without concern, even though my sister became a (evangelical, so that's okay) Catholic and married one. Me, on the other hand, I'm voting for Obama, but I'm not saying that out loud in front of anyone in my family. Oh, and I also don't think de-legalizing abortion is a good idea, but this is also not to be discussed.

My husband who (hopefully obviously) isn't biologically, psychologically or emotionally related to my parents, sat (perhaps uncomfortably) still during this brief confrontation, but didn't even bring it up until I did, well after we were back home and the kids were in bed for the night. His parents are also Republicans, although not of the Religious Right kind (more the Southern, Comfortably Wealthy kind), and his dad likes to send us forwards containing rumors about Hillary Clinton and various other hated Democrats. My husband likes to immediately link to the Snopes debunk and hit reply. It doesn't seem to bother him like it does me. Isn't it just the way it is, that you move apart from your parents politically? Isn't it?

It is, but not in my little enclave of Christian family and cohorts. Here, you know what's right, and why would you want to change it? I wonder if someone who grew up among raging progressives might feel a similar hesitancy to betray/hurt/disappoint her roots. Is my disagreement just rebellion? I know it isn't just the influence of the liberal media. I hardly even watch the news. Okay, a little Stewart/Colbert if I'm up extra late. And a fair amount of NPR in the car.

Now, I have a problem with the idea that the only way to be a Christian is to vote Republican. Or to be a one-issue (pro-life) voter. But that isn't really the heart of my rant. I think the heart is that I respect my parents. I value them as articulate, thinking, reading people who raised me to be the same. I remember my dad talking about writing college papers on the American Indian Movement and his stories about traveling through the South as a child in the 50's (he lived in Philadelphia) and being shocked by the separate drinking fountains. He talked about the inspiring speeches of Jack and Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr.

For God's Sake, my parents voted for Carter in 1980. (I was hoping to find a link that said, Nobody Voted For Carter, but it was closer than I'd thought. And check out the issues Reagan and Carter disagreed on.) How do I know this? Because I voted for Carter in the 3rd grade elections at my elementary school and I was practically the only one in the school who did so. And 8-year-olds vote the way their parents do. 8-year-olds believe in their parents' beliefs.

Of course my parents are entitled change their political beliefs, too. What I don't like is feeling like they (mostly my dad, my mom rolls her eyes at him when he's not looking, although I'm sure she's voting Republican, too) have gone right for the bait people like Bill O'Reilly are throwing at them. No reflection. No question of whether this is the party that meets my needs and addresses my concerns. At first it was just the abortion issue, I think, and I can respect that. The whole life-begins-at-conception argument is (enviably?) morally unambiguous. But now, Dad? You're angry that Obama might want to get rid of the estate tax when you have no estate that qualifies for that tax and have railed your whole life against the greedy rich people of the world (even if some of that was because you felt disenfranchised and unsuccessful yourself?). I freaking had to get reduced lunch in school! If anything, you should be on the other side. Tax the g-d-mn rich!

I'm not politically savvy or even particularly well-informed. I just know that it hurts my heart. My dad and I have a good relationship now, and it seems weird not to be able to, I don't know, be reasonable. Not agree, but be reasonable.

I would blame Bill O'Reilly (oh, yeah, there's a man of upstanding moral character!), but that seems too simple. My dad is what he is. He's capable of better, but I can't do anything about it.

Deep Breath

2008-08-21T10:02:00.008-04:00

Because I need to take one. I have yoga class in an hour, but I don't think it can wait that long.

I have sent in three new job applications since Monday. Good, right? The one I submitted online had someone called me yesterday between 5 and 5:30. And left a message since my husband never answers the phone unless he recognizes the name and wants to talk to them (so, rarely). I called her back this morning.

I talked to her while I was putting away the breakfast cereal, rinsing the dishes, and folding laundry, because I find that I am less nervous if I am doing too things at once. Or maybe I'm just too nervous to sit still. It probably doesn't qualify as a job interview, more of a screening. I'm not a good interviewee (have I said that before?), and I'm probably even worse over the phone. It's very possible that she decided she didn't want me after a couple of sentences, but continued just to be polite. It's also possible that one of my rambling run-on sentences contained something that turned her off. Maybe when I said "stay-at-home mom" (a phrase I hate, but seems to be the most commonly used way to describe being primary day-time caretaker of your children; better than "housewife," I guess. Ugh.) or maybe when I admitted I like the "flexibility of part-time." Let me just try to recall the way the interview--oops, screening--went.

____ . ____

Thank you for calling me back. I just wanted to find out a little more about what you're doing right now.

(rambling answer about doing some volunteering and mostly being the, you know, primary caretaker of my young children. forgot to mention grad school, for some reason. )

Okay. Are you interested in full-time or part-time?

Either. If the position is full-time (it was advertised that way), I want full-time.

Yes, but are you interested in part-time?

Er. Yes, I mean, whatever the position is. I would be willing to do part-time. Most of the positions I am applying for are full-time, so that is what I am thinking. I guess I like the flexibility of part-time, but I'm ready to work full-time. (I think I actually said,) I'm ready to get back in there.

Okay (seeming to chuckle), and what hours would you be interested in? Day, evening, weekend?

Er, any, really. My husband works from home, so we can arrange the schedule (blah, blah, blah).

Yes, but what's your preference?

I guess daytime hours would be better, but I'm flexible.

Okay, let's talk more about the last three jobs you've had.

(I did. Internship last year, blah, blah, blah, what I did there, paid through part of it, blah, blah, blah.)

And why did you leave that one? It says here (referring to my application, no doubt), "internship and semester ended"?

Yes, the internship ended. There weren't any paid positions available, so when the semester ended, I left. (I might have, but didn't, rambled a bit more here, because actually, this internship had some stress involved in it. The supervisor was a passive-aggressive weirdo who didn't know how to run a business, stopped paying me in March, but I stayed on to finish my hours even though I resented it. Sleepless nights. Long ranting, occasional crying sessions in my internship class. Wasn't going to talk about that.)

Okay, and the one before that?

(Rambling about how it was super part-time while I was at home with my kids, starting right after I had my first daughter. Consulting, teacher training, grant writing, blah blah, blah.)

And before that one?

Hmm. Before that (I did the grant thing for five years), I was the librarian at the same private school. (Explained, perhaps unnecessarily, that I had looked for public school jobs, but didn't find one, so took the librarian job.)

Ah, you didn't include the librarian job. (Did she sound triumphant? Like she'd caught me?)

(More rambling about how I tend to forget about that one because it kind of came in between things--between the real teaching job in NC and moving back here and having a baby.)

So, why did you leave the librarian position?

Umm, the school year ended in June or end of May. My baby was due in July and I decided not to go back to work or look for a job right away. (I was pretty sure this had come up already.)

Okay, so I see you already have a Master's degree.

In education.

And you're working on a degree . . .

In [my field].

(Repeats name of my field as if she's never heard of it before.) Right. And how did you hear about this position? What makes you interested in it?

(More rambling about how I check their website regularly for job postings, how I have considered them as an internship site. How, if I were to get a job there, I might try to do a separate, unpaid internship there as well. [The job I was applying for is a volunteer coordinator, not applicable to my internship requirements.])

I see.

Oh, and (yes, I interrupted her) I also was interested in this position because of the volunteering part. I have always volunteered. I am volunteering right now. (OMG, I sound like an idiot.)

Okay. So, for this degree you're working on, will you need time off to attend classes during the day? This position is 8-5.

Well, I don't have any classes this semester, but in the spring I will have to be on campus one night a week. The class starts at five.

And what campus would this be?

(Campus name). It takes about an hour to get there from (job location). I could work later another day to make up for it . . .

Okay, well, this position is 8-5 and that's not flexible. We have to have the same hours for all the volunteer coordinators.

(Finally, I'm silent.)

Well, thank you for talking to me. Thank you for calling me back. Oh, and we do do internships, so you know, keep us in mind.

(Snapping back to attention) Oh, do you know who the contact person is for internships?

Um, well, maybe. Oh, just call this number and ask the receptionist.

Okay! Well, if you talk it over and decide there is some way to work this out, call me back.

Okay. (Now she really sounds dismissive and patronizing. She really does. In that one word.) Thanks again for calling me back.

___ . ___

After (mostly accurately) transcribing that, I can tell I made several errors. I rambled. I didn't answer questions firmly, directly and confidently. I need to work on these things. Don't ask me how, but I need to work on these things.

Doesn't it seem, weird, however, that she asked me very early on if I wanted full-time or part-time and what kind of shifts I would work and then very abruptly identified my one hour a week potential deviance from the set-in-stone 8-5 hours as a deal breaker?

Some of my immediate angry sarcastic thoughts:

Well, why would you want someone who's earning a Master's degree in a field whose graduates you employ as a necessary component of your agency?
And why would you want to maybe discuss the one-hour-early one-day-a-week five-months-from-now issue with a team or a superior before crossing me off the list? I mean, she called me one day after I submitted my on-line application and the job's been posted for three weeks. They're obviously still looking. Maybe this is why.
Why wouldn't you say up front that this is 8-5 M-F non-negotiable?

Should I have lied? Not mentioned my need for an internship in the spring or my class requirement in the spring? Gotten the job and then asked for the time when I needed it. Most people in my program are employed. They leave work early once or twice a week to get to class.

Maybe she was just grateful to have an excuse to end this excruciating call. Maybe I should have been, too. Maybe I shouldn't want to work somewhere that is so inflexible anyway.

I should not let this affect me. I have no control over it. But I am the kind of person whose self-esteem is diminished when someone honks at me in a parking lot. Must work on that, too.

If I don't leave now, I will be late for yoga.

Don't Forget to List Your Loser Jobs, Part Two

2008-08-15T21:18:00.005-04:00

Back, from Open House (D#1 is starting kindergarten on Monday) and dinner and bedtime routine. (Want more about the bedtime routine? Read this.)

At the end of the interview, we walked through the building to the large open room low-walled, two-sided cubicles (apparently called cubbies) where the people who are already doing this job work. Some of them had two screens, the better to manage data! A few of them looked up at me with what I chose to interpret as curiousity: as a longterm zoo animal might view a visiting one, if prospective zoo animals had the opportunity to shop for zoos.

My interviewer had given me two pages on which to fill in those gaps (six slots available) and a pen. After thanking her for the interview (gag), I sat down in the lobby of the building with a clipboard and began to take myself back to the nineties.

I filled all six squares and the sad thing is, I can think of three jobs I left out. I had at least nine jobs between 1993 and 1999. Is that sad? Or the acquisition of interesting life experience? What exactly is the standard for number of jobs in a six year period? And who sets that standard?

Job 1: Fresh out of college (I did a lit major in three years, thank you very much), I took a job as a middle school English teacher at the private school where my mom worked (and still does). I was woefully unprepared, since I had decided an education major was beneath me (or maybe I was hung up on the idea that I couldn't do it in three years). My enthusiasm for literature was not matched by any ability to manage a classroom or deal with moody adolescent girls. Frankly, I was relieved when it didn't look like they were going to ask me back. And then when they did, I said no. Ha! (10 months)

Job 2: Bookseller at Not-Barnes-and-Noble. I had coworkers my own age! I experienced an unrequited crush again! Prepared me for working at Barnes and Noble. (10 months) Then I moved out of my parents' house and to another state. For the adventure of it all.

Job 3: Temp receptionist at hospital turned into permanent receptionist at hospital (when one of the permanent secretaries has fatal heart attack!). Worst. Job. Ever. Typing from dictation (on tape, not live) gives me TMJ. Listening to grown women call their boss "Doctor" (not Dr. X or First Name) but "Doctor" as in "Doctor likes all of the charts facing the same way so he doesn't have to turn them around when he's initialing the notes you just typed" gives me the heebie jeebies. Also attending a new employee seminar about 401K benefits at age 23 filled me with a sense of suffocating dread as if I could see rising up ahead of me like steep concrete stairs the years of servitude in a job like that one. This is not why I went to college. (Not surprisingly my view of 401Ks is now more favorable. Also the benefits were awesome, but I didn't really need them then.) Quit after crying to my surprised supervisor that I just couldn't take it anymore. (Temp: 2 months; Permanent: almost 6 months) Oh, and the cute surgeons? All married.

Job 4: (Not included on State addendum) Substitute teacher. Not much better. My sole experience in the elementary school involved a field trip to a Mexican restaurant with 2nd graders. I think I know why the teacher took the day off. 7-year-olds don't like to try new foods! Knowing names is very helpful in 2nd grade! I was not any better at classroom management. A few high school gigs, including one during a power outage, and one where students in the back of the science classroom poisoned the fish with soap powder. (2 months. End of school year. Thank God.)

Job 5: (not included on State addendum) Secretary at a church. Better. More independence. Less pressure. Learned how to do layouts for church bulletin and newsletter with MS Publisher. Had unrequited crush on the Fed Ex guy. (slightly over a year, overlapped for a few months with Job 6)

Job 6: Barnes and Noble. Finally, a keeper (by my standards). I was making $5/hour when I started. I remember making a half-hearted effort to start at, I don't know, $5.50, by talking about my freaking year of experience. Manager: No, that's the starting salary. But I was good at shelving books, a crack cashier, and I walked almost as fast I talked, so I got promoted. Also I met some friends with whom I still talk. Oh, and my husband. (3 1/2 years, overlapped for four months with Job 7)

Job 7: Teacher Assistant/Intervention teacher. I did this while at grad school for my M.Ed. Yep. For some reason, I decided to give teaching another try. Didn't so much like the teacher assistant thing (I do not like being told what to do!), but I thought the intervention (one-on-one reading tutorials) might be like what I would be doing when I got my degree. Sort of true. (10 months, 1 school year)

Job 8: (Not included on the State addendum) Census Taker. My second census. My first one was when I was 18 (also not included on my state app). The first time my partner was an old lady who packed sandwiches for us to share. Unfortunately her sandwiches were Wonder Bread with potted meat (I didn't even know meat came in a can before that. Well, except for tunafish and Spam). The second time, census takers worked solo, but I took the class with my fiance. I talked it up big, like it would be so much fun. He had already quit his job in anticipation of starting an MBA program (in four months!) and pretty disinterested, but I talked him into it. He hated it, and I didn't find it much fun this time around either. (2 months)

Job 9: (Not included on the State addendum because it overlapped with first post-Master's teaching job, so it didn't cover any gaps. Plus I'd run out of room.) Research Assistant. This one was fun. Also it was the first job I'd gotten solely by applying over the internet. Unfortunately, it was designed to be temporary. I was trained to administer assessments to kindergartners for a state readiness initiative. I had to score them and send them by Fed Ex to the university. (They sent them back if I'd made errors or left blanks!) The kindergartners were cute and it turns out I like administering tests almost as much as I like taking them. I should keep this in mind. (2 months)

Random thought. I just had one of those weird post-mommy moments when I wrote that the kindergartners were cute: I thought, What did I do with D#1 when I was driving all over town? . . . of course she wasn't born yet and wouldn't be for 3 years! (Also, for some reason I knew D#2 wasn't around yet. The mind is a weird thing. At least mine is.)

In conclusion. The years between 1993 and 1999 (actually my musings took me to 2000) were eventful. Maybe I am being too harsh to call them my loser jobs. I would like to be the kind of person (someday) who considers all her experiences worthwhile for what they taught her and just for the life they represent. It's not the destination, it's the journey and so on.

So, the State job? This one I interviewed for today? Suck it.

Don't Forget to List Your Loser Jobs, Part One

2008-08-15T16:13:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I took a math test for a state job that I didn't really even want. I just like taking tests, especially ones on which I am likely to do well. Or ones with no wrong answers. Like personality tests. Unless there are wrong answers on personality tests . . . never mind, I'm straying from the topic.

I and the seven other people gathered in the crowded minimalist conference room had to answer questions like this:

The X family, with three adults and 4 children is applying for food stamps. Mrs. X received two child support payments last year, each for $300, Mr. X received bi-monthly paychecks of $187.62, Mrs. X's father makes $6.36/hour and worked 485 hours last year. What is their monthly income?

Answer: They need food stamps.

I successfully proved I can use a calculator, round to the nearest hundred, figure out a percentage, and read a paystub correctly. Yay, me! For my perfect score, I received a phone call to set up an interview for today.

A little bit more about the position. I won't give you the exact hourly amount, but it's somewhere in between what these two housekeepers who work for hotels owned by Disneyland make. Think closer to the lower number. And I'm not at all saying they make too much. That is not my point. Plus, this job also includes no benefits for an indefinite period, until a "career" position opens up. "Could be up to a year," said the less cheerful of the two seasoned state workers who proctored the test. Have I mentioned that these lovely people kept emphasizing how stressful this job is? And that it took me 45 minutes to get to the testing site, which is also where the 40 hour a week/six-week training would take place?

And here we all sat, me one of only two under 40; the others were all closer to 50-60, all wearing professional attire, eyeing each other for potential weaknesses. The one who lives in another county and probably wouldn't want to drive an hour. The woman who kept asking questions about when the benefits start and probably would eliminate herself.

I really don't want this job. Can you tell? Do you think the interviewer could tell? I think, maybe. But I went because a) I need practice interviewing (because I hate it and I am bad at it) and b) I really really want people to like me and give me external validation even if they are humorless state workers who are trying to hire people for a job which sounds like it sucks to the extreme.

I'm getting to the point, I really am.

Before this whole process began, I filled out a state employment form online. It was an arduous process which required me to look up various addresses from old jobs (again, thanks for the internet, Al Gore or whoever really invented it). In a normal job application, you just include the most recent or relevant jobs, right? I mean, that's what I do. But, I am unemployed, so maybe I should check on this. Well, I did more than that. I went back several years, but at some point I thought it was enough.

The interviewer called me on the "gaps" in my employment. To be precise, she asked me what I was doing between 1993 and 1999. "I see that you graduated here [pointing to line on application] in 1993 and then you have a job here, starting in 2000. We need to fill in the gaps."

I don't actually have any gaps. Just a lot of dumb jobs. I was 21 in 1993. It was not the pinnacle of my professional career. I was a slacker or I lacked self-confidence or I didn't know what I wanted to do yet, so I did a lot of things. Not all of this went through my head, but I did bluster to explain myself by saying, Ha ha (it seemed funny to me), I didn't know I had to fill in all my jobs way back.

She didn't seem to get it. "You see [pointing to the form again] we need to fill in the information about what you were doing between this and this." And later after I questioned whether all of these jobs were necessary, she said, "Oh yes, you're supposed to include all the jobs. Or the reason you weren't working." She seemed suspicious. Maybe I seemed suspicious. But I was working. I was sometimes working two jobs which is what people do when they need to pay rent. And can't commit to anything. And people annoy them. And they're twenty-four.

I found out later, when I was asking the questions you're supposed to ask at interviews (now I can't find it, so no cool link), that my interviewer got her state job from a job fair at college and has moved up and over within the system since. Her fourteen years (we're the same age!) since graduating look a little tidier than mine.

Must run. I will continue with Part Two later.

Body Image

2008-08-12T21:14:00.003-04:00

I'm sitting here eating a bowl of graham crackers in milk. I usually do eat a bowl of cereal after the kids go to bed. I've even heard it's good for your metabolism (although that may be propaganda from the cereal companies). I don't eat dessert, so . . .

The problem is that I'm gaining weight despite exercising more consistently than at anytime in the last few years. I don't mind the number so much--I have started strength training and that might add pounds--but the fact that I can't fit into any of my pants, even shorts I wore with ease earlier in the summer, that bothers me. Here are the places my thoughts go:

My metabolism is shutting down . . . I'm getting old . . . There's nowhere to go but down (or, in this case, up) . . . Maybe I have a tumor. . . How come my husband can eat and drink whatever he wants and never go up or down more than 2 pounds? . . . I'm going to have to wear skirts everyday to hide my gigantic ass . . .

I have had some weird health things this summer, most notably two yeast infections, the first of which went untreated because I didn't know what it was and kept thinking it would go away. And I just got back from a week of vacation where I didn't exercise, ate as much as I could, and drank more than usual (that is, every night I had a few glasses of wine). The toe just happened last week, so I doubt that's been much of a factor yet. I am willing to give myself a break. I mean, I'm going to keep exercising and eating my normal healthy (if + extra cereal) meals, and try not to worry about it.

I want to start running again, but when I think that the last time I ran consistently (~3 years ago), I was 20 pounds lighter, I think I might not be able to run. Which is silly because people run at all weights. (People, yes, but what about me?) That would mean getting up earl(ier than my kids), though. Ugh.

I'm going to check in with my progress here every once in a while. I'm not going to record my weight or anything, but I'd like to be able to measure my satisfaction with things like fitting into my pants, over time.

Maybe, I joked to my husband while we were cooking dinner, I need to start breastfeeding again. He looked at me with horror.

Lessons from Yoga

2008-08-12T14:03:00.003-04:00

What happens when you walk in late to yoga? Well, it wasn't me today, but the yoga teacher for our beginner yoga class at the local YMCA had to get firm with some students about arriving after the starting relaxation time had begun. She huffed a little bit when someone came in late, then said, We'll have to talk about this later as a class, as adults.

After we finished the lying down stretches and sat up, she said again, Let's talk about this coming-in-late issue as adults. Everyone agreed that it would be okay for her to lock the door when it was time to start and then unlock it after the five minute relaxation. She encouraged us to arrive on time and promised that she would do better at ending her last class on time so she could start this one on time. It was all very pleasant and reasonable.

Then she said, See that's why I don't have kids, because you can't have a reasonable discussion like that with them. Everyone laughed. One woman said, Well, you can, but they won't listen. The yoga teacher said, Well, when I have a discussion, I like to get a response. If I just wanted to talk to myself, I would.

Because I have a hard time quieting my mind, I considered why she might have said this. My first thought: If you don't have kids, you don't know what you're talking about. My second thought: Well, she may be super flexible and skinny, but that's because she doesn't have kids. Several thousand unflattering (to me) thoughts later, I thought to wonder if she wanted to have kids. I wondered if she'd tried, struggled with infertility or even lost babies. I don't believe all women want to have children, but I wondered if her comment could be a defense mechanism. Maybe she was used to (and tired of) explaining to people that she didn't have any children. It doesn't really make any difference, but I tried to open myself up to all the possibilities of who she was and how she might have struggled. On the heels of my breastfeeding post, I wanted to be generous to all women and their lives.

And then I tried to go back to the breath. Or to balancing my right ankle over my left knee while squatting with my back arched and my fingers sliding down the mirror in front of me.

Later, but while we were still seated, someone raised her hand. Ah, a question, said our yoga teacher. The student said, Could I ask you to move a little to the right or to the left, so I could see you? The teacher said, Yes, but, next time, how about you move?

This time I thought, Wow. Was that passive-aggressive? Or just confident and in charge? Maybe no yoga teacher likes teaching newbies. We're like the remedial English class: all the senior teachers fight over the Honors and AP classes, but someone gets stuck with the 9th grade remedial class. And resents it. Most of the time during the class, I felt like she was enjoying herself, but maybe there are times when it gets to her.

I like yoga. I feel beautiful when I'm doing yoga, which is not how I normally feel when I'm, say, cardio kickboxing. When I'm doing yoga, I feel powerful, like my body can do more than I thought it could. Yoga makes me feel conscious of how I'm standing and moving at other times of the day.

Plus, yoga is one of the few forms of exercise that I can do while my toe looks like this.

More on that later. Maybe.

Breast (Feeding) Wars

2008-08-11T19:29:00.000-04:00

So, I thought, with which controversial topic do I want to start? All the posts I have been kicking around in my head, including the one about abortion after watching a documentary called Lake of Fire last week, never seem to get written. Then I was browsing around the blogs and came upon this post by less than two-weeks post-partum Julie. She is a fabulous writer and from the huge response (mostly positive) she received, this is a topic many women have stories about, stories they may have not felt able to share in other places (with family or friends, for example). I also linked from there to this post, which is hilarious, and this one, which is also well-written and refreshingly honest. Unfortunately (but not unexpectedly), comments on the original post have degenerated somewhat into a battle between militants. Emotions, hormones, and generous helpings of mommy-guilt and the expectations of others are all involved.

So, why another post about it? From me, who is not currently breastfeeding and may not breastfeed ever again? I guess just because, like most, if not all, women who have birthed babies (and many who want to, but can't), I have strong feelings about breastfeeding. Not so much opinions as feelings. I will start with my own story.

I had no particular opinion about breastfeeding prior to becoming pregnant for the first time. I knew my mother's story, that she had been discouraged from breastfeeding her firstborn twins (one of them was me) in 1972, and that she was determined to breastfeed her second, my brother, in 1979, which she did for a year. She received no support from doctors or others that time around either, although she was told it would be good for her baby. I guess I assumed that I would try to breastfeed. And that's pretty much how I felt even after I found out I was pregnant.

Then my sister, who was two months ahead of me in her pregnancy, convinced me to take a natural birth class with her. Bradley, to be precise. Because I had no plan of my own and am a follower sort of a person at times, I said, Sure, that would be fun. The (12!) classes required our husbands to attend as well, and it was fun (mostly). Our teacher was great. She taught all the Bradley curriculum, but she wasn't hardcore about it. She talked about things that could go wrong and encouraged us to be prepared for things that might not go as planned. I'd like to think that she encouraged us not to think of success as defined by no interventions and no pain killers, but I was a newbie with shining eyes, so I might have missed that part. I did learn a lot about my body and what happens when labor starts, etc. We also learned a lot about the medicalization of birth and how women's natural ability to birth had been co-opted. We learned how to write a birth plan so we could avoid interventions we didn't want.

One of our lessons was about the benefits of breastfeeding. We were encouraged to attend a La Leche League meeting, so I did. If you've never been to one, you might not know that mothers nursing toddlers during the meeting is common. This was not something I'd ever seen before. At this point, I knew I wanted to breastfeed, but I wasn't sure I'd be going back to a LLL meeting. I mean, it seemed simple. Just feed your baby. Why do you have to talk about it? Or do it in front of a bunch of strangers?

So I gave birth (induction at 41 weeks, pitocin, pitocin, pitocin, amniotomy, enema, threatening with vacuum, some kind of drugs to stop contraction, pitocin again, another wave of the vacuum, episiotomy, tear, and finally, baby) and began breastfeeding. I had already watched my sister deal with engorgement, mastitis, and fits of crying from no sleep and pain. For some reason I gave myself an 8 week timetable. Maybe because my sister's son was eight weeks old when my daughter was born and I didn't want to give up before she did. Or maybe she told me it was finally getting better.

I kept an elaborate chart for the first eight weeks: every feeding, every wet and soiled diaper, how many hours slept at night. I never got mastitis, but I did have one sore nipple for quite a while. It was agony to nurse on that side, but I didn't know what else to do. I read my Womanly Art of Breastfeeding which, naturally, suggested that I check the latch and use lanolin and continue nursing on both sides to keep up supply. All in all, though, compared to stories I've heard and read, I had a pretty easy time of it.

I did return to LLL meetings, usually with my sister. I enjoyed communing with other women who were experiencing the same lack of sleep, unsetting change of identity, physical discomfort, etc. Plus, it was often entertaining. LLL meetings always have at least one uber-natural-mommy. The one who grows her own vegetables, tandem-nurses her three-year-old and her newborn, uses cloth diapers, never leaves home without her kids . . . oh, and she tends to be opinionated about other mothers' decisions. As long as no one seemed to be getting their feelings hurt, I kind of enjoyed watching them spar over family bed or potty training issues. We also talked a lot about births. Many of the women were unhappy with their hospital births, where they felt they were treated without respect or were unable to have the birth experience they wanted. I didn't have that experience; although my daughter's birth wasn't the most pleasant (see above), I felt like I made the decisions I wanted to make and that all the medical personnel were working in my best interest. But these women were clearly grieved, and I felt for them.

At some point I stopped going to the meetings, although I still read the magazine (my sister was a subscriber). The stories in that magazine, yikes! It was like the meetings on hyperdrive. Every birth and breastfeeding horror story you can imagine, and these women prevailed through it. I felt thankful I didn't have to go through any of that and "test" my resolve to breastfeed. Breastfeeding my daughter, after the first few months, was mostly a great experience. By three or four months I had her pretty well on a schedule where we nursed at certain intervals or times of the day. I never had to pump because I didn't head back to work. We did call her the Spit-Up Queen because she spit up after every feeding, even as she approached one-year-old, but she exceeded the growth curve and never seemed in distress. It was only a problem of laundry.

I almost weaned her at 11 or 12 months when she was down to about 2-3 feedings a day (and doing very well eating regular food at the table), but I couldn't quite figure out how to cut out the last couple of feedings. She never used a bottle so I couldn't substitute that way. Then we bought a house, so as we packed and cleaned, and did all the things one does when preparing to move, she wanted to nurse more. Likely she needed me, needed my attention, and this was the sure-fire way to get it. I wasn't crazy about it, though, this nursing for attention. My sister, who is an Attachment Parenting sort of girl, nursed when her kids hurt themselves, when they were feeling tired, whenever they wanted. I realized, around this time, that I wasn't in that camp. Breastfeeding was feeding in my mind, and I was starting to feel resentful that this (adorable) little person was sucking on my nipples for attention. Yet, I didn't really know how to stop. I nursed her until she was 22 months old, although around 18 months I tapered off again to 2-3 feedings a day. And none at night. All I felt when I stopped was relief. I felt like my body was mine again. And I decided that if I had another baby, I wouldn't nurse as long. But I didn't tell anyone that. Many people likely thought I'd breastfed way too long anyway, and others held to child-led weaning. I didn't talk about it to anyone because I was afraid of being judged. Either judged as (finally) doing the sensible thing or judged as not being natural enough.

Here's the issue for me. For several decades of this century, women weren't encouraged to breastfeed because science was thought to be better and because breastfeeding was a lower-class or even savage thing to do. So La Leche League was formed as an organization to help women support each other in the effort to feed their babies the natural way. You still get weird looks from some people if you breastfeed (even discreetly) in public. Some women my age and even younger are still uncomfortable talking about breastfeeding; breasts seem to be more easily associated with sex than with feeding. But all of this good effort to allow women more choices and more control has turned some breastfeeding enthusiasts into rabid rigid judgmental fundamentalists. And some of us into more gentle, well-meaning "educators" of those who don't share the same vantage point. Why can't we just let women make their own decisions? Assume that women who've made their decisions have thought about them and don't need our help? It seems to be very hard for women to be neutral about this, or rather neutral about what other women decide. I ask the question because I know I've been judgmental, I know I've felt superior, and I know I know nothing about what some other women have experienced.

I breastfed my second daughter with no complications at all, but I had started back to graduate school and had to be away from home 5 hours at a time twice a week starting when she was three months old. I took her with me for a couple of weeks, but she hated the car, crying and throwing up all the way (1 hour and ten minutes) home. So I started to pump. Compared to women who have to pump right after birth for preemies or women who have to pump for 4o hours of work/week, what I had to do was nothing. But I hated it. For some reason my body didn't like pumping at night, although it would have been the most convenient (baby asleep, me engorged if I've just returned from class). I had to try to pump in the morning with the baby herself sitting in the bouncy seat, usually after nursing on one side. And my older daughter (then just turned 3) wanting breakfast or play-with-me or something. Most mornings I cried.

I would read my sister's LLL magazine and feel like such a wimp for wanting to give up. For some reason I thought it was more important not to be wimpier than some women I didn't even know than to be happy in the morning with my two daughters. I think I gave it four months, then I said, Enough. I still breastfed, but I packed that pump away with a huge sense of relief. She drank formula when I was gone and breastfed when I was home. And when she was a year old, I weaned her. No resentment. No guilt. It was what worked for me.

I am not better or worse than my sister who is still nursing her 2 1/2 year old (while pregnant with her third). I am not better or worse than my friend who returned to work after three weeks and went right to formula, feeling that she'd never had enough of a supply for either of her kids. I am not better or worse than the woman who pumps or the woman who refuses to pump. We all have our own stories and our own choices. We should be glad we have choices and give each other a break.

This post is not as good as I want it to be. For one thing, where's the sense of humor I admire in other people's writing? And the message: give each other a break? Duh!

Whatever. It's too late for me to still be up. #%!$& Olympics!

Goodbye, Alexander Isayevich

2008-08-09T22:00:00.000-04:00

Alexander Solzhenitsyn died this week. He was 89. Here is an interesting article on his legacy, if you want more. I read The First Circle sometime during college back in '91 or '92 most likely. I became really fascinated with Soviet political prisoners after this. I don't know if Solzhenitsyn's book was the one that got me started, but I know it was one of the first (and I really liked it). And from that point through the next 5 or 6 years, I read a ton of Soviet dissident memoirs, combing through the shelves in every used bookstore in Sarasota and Charlottesville for any I could find. (They are now still sealed in boxes in my closet, 3 1/2 years after moving into this house). I sat in the archives at U.Va.'s Alderman library reading library bound periodicals like the Chronicle of Human Rights in the USSR from the 70's and 80's. I bought all three volumes of Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, but I didn't make it all the way through it. (I'm a lazy scholar, as well, even when the scholarly pursuit is self-selected.)

I even took Russian at U.Va. as a non-degree speaking student, making it through Russian III. (Possibly my biggest compliment [as a writer?] came from that professor, a Russian woman, who said of a short story that I turned in, that I had captured the Russian sense of humor! I don't know where that short story is. I probably couldn't read it now anyway!) That was in 1996. I haven't used my fragile semi-fluency since. I loved to write in Cyrillic, forming the letters: it felt like drawing, especially when I learned the cursive. I think I can still do the alphabet and phonetically spell things like my name. I feel some nostalgia or maybe just wistfulness at the intensity of my interest. Am I interested in anything that much now?

So even though I can't remember exactly where my interest in Russian and the Soviet times in particular came from, or where it went, I felt like Solzhenitsyn's death deserved some thoughts, even if these thoughts ended up being all about me.

I just remembered that all this reading about political prisoners did lead me to get involved with a local chapter of Amnesty International for a couple of years. I'd like to do that again, too.

After losing his Soviet citizenship in 1974, Solzhenitsyn lived in Vermont for many years. He returned to Russia in 1994, where he died. Rest in peace.