Well i've made it to Christmas Eve, dear readers. Presents are bought and wrapped, cookies have been made, even the goddamn Elf has been moved every single night. Of course, the kids had to up the ante and start trying to give him a snack each night. In an attempt to prevent my finding moldy cheese sticks everywhere, I wrote the kids a note from him, in an elf-esque curly handwriting that took as long as calligraphy, explaining he can't eat human food. Well this began a letter writing campaign from the kids that require I eventually have the elf break into our computer and learn to type using the Curlz font. But even with all that I have not missed a night - yet.
We are preparing for Christmas Eve dinner - The Night of Seven Fishes. This includes H taking two days off from work to cook, and bringing enough seafood into the house that we could open or own Red Lobster, including a five pound whole octopus that he likes to randomly snatch from the refrigerator to terrify the kids. Today we will enjoy the fruits of his labor for four hours, after which we will stagger away from the table drunk and stuffed to the gills (no pun intended).
I love that I have married into this tradition. And it's not just the fact that we eat and drink for hours, or the fact that I am wearing my new Christmas shoes, which H is now making a holiday tradition. No, I love it because, in addition to pizza, celebrating the night before Christmas is one of the best ideas Italians have ever had. What's better than having a party on the most excitement-filled night of the year? Growing up, our celebration took place Christmas Day with a table of over-cooked vegetables and some giant, equally over-cooked hunk of meat. It was fun, but it was tinged with sadness at the end of the night as Christmas was over for a whole nother year. At Christmas Eve dinner, the kids are out of their minds with anticipation and there's an energy zipping through the house.
One of my favorite moments of the year is when H and I stand up to make the toast. Thinking about it this year, I realize we are pretty much at the zenith of our lives. Sure, there many more good times to come, but right now, all my kids are young and sweet and believe in Santa. Our extended family is growing via marriages and babies. Our parents are all healthy and active. H and I are even still reasonably young. Right now, is the time of abundance which, like Christmas Eve, has so many good things to follow. So we will raise a glass to that tonight. To abundance and happiness and the the good things that are to come.
I wish you and yours Happy Holidays, whatever they may be and that you go to bed tonight filled with excitement, not about gifts, but about your life.
XO,
M
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Have a seat on my couch...
“I have a number if you want to talk to someone.”
This is what I said to a friend the other day when the subject of therapy came up. Yes, I am “in therapy” and, no, I’m not afraid to admit it, which apparently, I should be as evidenced by some of the surprised looks I get form people when I tell them I am. But I don’t see it that way. I think admitting I talk to someone is like telling someone I get my hair colored. Am I going to tell a perfect stranger? No, but if we get to know each other well enough, the topic will probably come up. And just like hair color, therapy is something I do for myself to make myself feel good.
So how did all of this begin? When I had #2, I’d say I dabbled in post-partum depression, which was nicely coupled with an undiagnosed, hyperactive thyroid, which resulted in my alternately crying and flying into fits of rage – all of which I contained to the hours the girls were asleep, which was SUPER fun for H. Thyroid surgery and the stabilization of my reproductive hormones finally ended these dark days, but when I became pregnant with Little Man I was terrified they might return. I was determined to prevent that, so I got a list of therapists from my insurance company in an attempt to find and develop a relationship with a therapist before his birth. It’s interesting the very nice people they put on the mental health phone lines. Guess they don’t want to drive anybody to suicide with bad customer service.
This was not my first time at the Therapy Rodeo (where all the clowns are crying, or manic-depressive). No, that was way back in 1993, after my mom died. Suffering from crippling stomach problems, the school doctor recommended “counseling”, which I began. In this particular circumstance, I had no choice of providers, so the middle-aged man who stared blankly at me while I cried, was not, perhaps, the best match. It beat annoying the shit out of my roommate though, locking her out of our room so I could sob in private. So this time around, I was going to find someone who I felt I really connected with. Someone I could tell all my deepest, darkest thoughts and fears without feeling judged, and who would have some helpful insight.
Finding a new therapist is a lot like finding a mate. Your first appointment is a one-sided first date – if your date was scribbling on a legal pad while you talked. You tell them your personal history and they ask probing questions – but no alcohol or awkward kiss goodnight. The first woman was a dud. Rail thin, prim and cold, she insisted we begin our “work” together by delving into my “unfinished” relationship with my mother with weekly appointments. First of all, the word “work” was not what I was looking for. I wanted to chat and kvetch. I have enough “work” in my regular life. As for my mother, I refuse to believe every issue in my life stems from the fact that my mother died when I was young. Sure, it affected me, and still does at times, but at some point you need to get over it. I have accepted what this loss has done to me mentally (control issues, difficulty allowing others to help me), so let’s just deal with the practical ways of managing that goody bag of neuroses, huh? And WEEKLY appointments? That is not going to happen. I’m looking for a tune-up when I’m having a tough week. I have three kids to raise, lady. She got the “it’s not you, its me” letter explaining I didn’t think we were a “good fit”.
The next woman, SV, was just what I was looking for. Soft and motherly, in appearance and personality, she suggested we make a list of the behaviors I wanted to change and move forward from there. She suggested we start out meeting weekly for four weeks, so she could really get to know me, and then we could taper down to fit my needs. I had found my perfect match!
My talks with SV are like having coffee with a friend, except I’m the only one who brings coffee and the only one who talks. I have almost suggested we meet at a Starbucks since I’m not dealing with scary issues, but there have been times tears have taken me by surprise, so maybe that’s not the best idea. Sure, I talk about big things like my mom (OK, it comes up more than I thought), what I’m doing with my life, etc., but I also do mundane bitching about the kids, the house, and H. I bounce ideas off her about how to deal with difficult situations with the kids and she offers advice, occasionally telling stories about when her boys were little. Sometimes just one sentence from her can alter my thinking. I was crying one time about some bad decision I felt I have made with #2, scarring her for life, when SV asked me, “Mary, do you think you are a good mother?” I started to deflect and she asked me again, forcing me to answer and, just saying out loud, “Yes, I am a good mother” shifted my thinking. Now any time I doubt myself I remember that feeling. We mothers say so many negative things about ourselves, that saying something positive out loud, without worry about feeling like a braggart, is very powerful stuff. She also tells me how, in the grand scheme of things, I am so mentally healthy, which, coming from a professional, who sees it all, is very reassuring. I leave her office feeling like I’m doing pretty good, and my life is pretty great. H LOVES me after I come home from therapy. Why wouldn’t I suggest this to all my friends?
So this is why I bang the therapy drum. It’s something I do for my well being and is just for me and about me. Like getting a massage for your psyche. Some people say, “My friends are my therapists.” No, not really. You can unload on your friends, but then you have to reciprocate which, maybe you don't have the energy to do that at the moment, so you don't talk to anyone. Sometimes, we all just need to emotionally vomit on someone who isn’t involved in your relationships and won’t judge you for saying, “Sometimes I hate (insert person or situation here)” and doesn't require you asking, "So what's going on with you" after you're done crying. Leaving a lot of my stuff SV’s* office means less time spinning in my own head and more time enjoying my life.
Isn't that worth a twenty dollar co-pay?
*email me if you want her number, Bergen County residents!
This is what I said to a friend the other day when the subject of therapy came up. Yes, I am “in therapy” and, no, I’m not afraid to admit it, which apparently, I should be as evidenced by some of the surprised looks I get form people when I tell them I am. But I don’t see it that way. I think admitting I talk to someone is like telling someone I get my hair colored. Am I going to tell a perfect stranger? No, but if we get to know each other well enough, the topic will probably come up. And just like hair color, therapy is something I do for myself to make myself feel good.
So how did all of this begin? When I had #2, I’d say I dabbled in post-partum depression, which was nicely coupled with an undiagnosed, hyperactive thyroid, which resulted in my alternately crying and flying into fits of rage – all of which I contained to the hours the girls were asleep, which was SUPER fun for H. Thyroid surgery and the stabilization of my reproductive hormones finally ended these dark days, but when I became pregnant with Little Man I was terrified they might return. I was determined to prevent that, so I got a list of therapists from my insurance company in an attempt to find and develop a relationship with a therapist before his birth. It’s interesting the very nice people they put on the mental health phone lines. Guess they don’t want to drive anybody to suicide with bad customer service.
This was not my first time at the Therapy Rodeo (where all the clowns are crying, or manic-depressive). No, that was way back in 1993, after my mom died. Suffering from crippling stomach problems, the school doctor recommended “counseling”, which I began. In this particular circumstance, I had no choice of providers, so the middle-aged man who stared blankly at me while I cried, was not, perhaps, the best match. It beat annoying the shit out of my roommate though, locking her out of our room so I could sob in private. So this time around, I was going to find someone who I felt I really connected with. Someone I could tell all my deepest, darkest thoughts and fears without feeling judged, and who would have some helpful insight.
Finding a new therapist is a lot like finding a mate. Your first appointment is a one-sided first date – if your date was scribbling on a legal pad while you talked. You tell them your personal history and they ask probing questions – but no alcohol or awkward kiss goodnight. The first woman was a dud. Rail thin, prim and cold, she insisted we begin our “work” together by delving into my “unfinished” relationship with my mother with weekly appointments. First of all, the word “work” was not what I was looking for. I wanted to chat and kvetch. I have enough “work” in my regular life. As for my mother, I refuse to believe every issue in my life stems from the fact that my mother died when I was young. Sure, it affected me, and still does at times, but at some point you need to get over it. I have accepted what this loss has done to me mentally (control issues, difficulty allowing others to help me), so let’s just deal with the practical ways of managing that goody bag of neuroses, huh? And WEEKLY appointments? That is not going to happen. I’m looking for a tune-up when I’m having a tough week. I have three kids to raise, lady. She got the “it’s not you, its me” letter explaining I didn’t think we were a “good fit”.
The next woman, SV, was just what I was looking for. Soft and motherly, in appearance and personality, she suggested we make a list of the behaviors I wanted to change and move forward from there. She suggested we start out meeting weekly for four weeks, so she could really get to know me, and then we could taper down to fit my needs. I had found my perfect match!
My talks with SV are like having coffee with a friend, except I’m the only one who brings coffee and the only one who talks. I have almost suggested we meet at a Starbucks since I’m not dealing with scary issues, but there have been times tears have taken me by surprise, so maybe that’s not the best idea. Sure, I talk about big things like my mom (OK, it comes up more than I thought), what I’m doing with my life, etc., but I also do mundane bitching about the kids, the house, and H. I bounce ideas off her about how to deal with difficult situations with the kids and she offers advice, occasionally telling stories about when her boys were little. Sometimes just one sentence from her can alter my thinking. I was crying one time about some bad decision I felt I have made with #2, scarring her for life, when SV asked me, “Mary, do you think you are a good mother?” I started to deflect and she asked me again, forcing me to answer and, just saying out loud, “Yes, I am a good mother” shifted my thinking. Now any time I doubt myself I remember that feeling. We mothers say so many negative things about ourselves, that saying something positive out loud, without worry about feeling like a braggart, is very powerful stuff. She also tells me how, in the grand scheme of things, I am so mentally healthy, which, coming from a professional, who sees it all, is very reassuring. I leave her office feeling like I’m doing pretty good, and my life is pretty great. H LOVES me after I come home from therapy. Why wouldn’t I suggest this to all my friends?
So this is why I bang the therapy drum. It’s something I do for my well being and is just for me and about me. Like getting a massage for your psyche. Some people say, “My friends are my therapists.” No, not really. You can unload on your friends, but then you have to reciprocate which, maybe you don't have the energy to do that at the moment, so you don't talk to anyone. Sometimes, we all just need to emotionally vomit on someone who isn’t involved in your relationships and won’t judge you for saying, “Sometimes I hate (insert person or situation here)” and doesn't require you asking, "So what's going on with you" after you're done crying. Leaving a lot of my stuff SV’s* office means less time spinning in my own head and more time enjoying my life.
Isn't that worth a twenty dollar co-pay?
*email me if you want her number, Bergen County residents!
Monday, December 12, 2011
Don't look back, look forward
Earlier in the fall I was at the park with Little Man on a beautiful day, doing our usual thing of taking one lap around the bike path, where I, bicycle-less, chase after him on foot*, followed by us throwing stones in the pond and eventually falling in. Wet shoes necessitating our departure, we made our way back to the van, when a red convertible pulled into the spot next to us. Watching the couple in it get out in their biking gear, and start unloading the two mountain bikes on the car's rack, I was so jealous. "Ugh, how nice would it be to be them?", I thought. The woman tied back her gray hair into a pony tail and they took off. That's right. This couple was about fifty-five.
I have realized, dear readers, that while I enjoy my life currently, when I do fantasize about a different time in my life, it is not my twenties I miss, but my fifties I dream of. When we first had kids, H and I would look back longingly at the child-free days early in our marriage. Sleeping in, going out to dinner, our clutter-free existence, all seemed pretty enticing to two sleep-deprived new parents. But when I really look at the details, what do my twenties have to offer me now? I drink, but not to excess, so the bar scene holds little charm. OK, I so miss the ability to dance in a public space, that is not a wedding venue without looking like an ad for Cougar Life**, but being married, bars are not the source of fun they once were. Career. In your twenties, you are still trying to prove yourself and are riddled with insecurities, while probably not getting paid all that much. Yes, my current career pays nothing, but I at least feel I have mastered it and have gained a confidence in my abilities that will make any future endeavors easier. And speaking of getting paid little, in your twenties you are probably living in some adorably shabby apartment, barely big enough for you and your spouse. H and my first bedroom was ten feet by seven feet. We had a full-sized bed, one Ikea end table and dresser in it and nothing else. Poor H had to put his alarm clock under the bed on his side, with mere inches of space to get his hand under the bed to run it off. Why do I want to go back to that exactly?
Your fifties on the other hand, are perfect. THink about it. I chose the age fifty-five specifically because that is the age I will be when Little Man goes off to college. While I do expect some boomerang years when the kids return home for brief, let me say it again, brief, periods of time, the house will be empty for the first time in twenty-three years. Sure, they'll be some tears shed, but nothing a spur-of-the-moment road trip can't cure. H will be riding out the end of a successful career and be able to spend more time away form the office (or so is his plan), and having sent my children off into the world, my life will be a little less frantic as well***. In your fifties, you have time and, hopefully, good health and a little money. You have developed tastes and interests over the years that you now have the means and ability to pursue. That couple at the park, for example, I can see H and I doing that. Going for a long bike ride on a lovely fall afternoon and then having a late lunch at an outdoor cafe, and having a a glass of wine because I can take a nap after lunch. Maybe we'd even see a movie after. Weekend away? Sure! We don't need a sitter and no one has a hockey game for us to freeze our asses of at on Saturday morning. Lets' go! New exhibit at The Met? Wait out the rush hour traffic and we're there! Stayed too long and now it's rush hour again? Aw, too bad, looks like dinner in the city.
The fifth decade seems like heaven, doesn't it? Ok, so maybe you're a little wrinkly, and you have to start (or continue) dying your hair. but if you feel good, who cares? This time is payback for all the hard work you've put in raising your kids, and is probably before the grandkids start arriving, necessitating returning the good karma and babysitting - which, apparently is fun after you have forgotten how hard it was to raise your own kids. I'm doubting that, but it's what I'm told.
So you won't see me passing the young chippies in the city, wishing I were on my way to some hot club, in a short skirt I bought at Forever 21, looking for love. Instead, I will look with longing at the stately woman, in the Burberry sheath, on her way to dinner at Le Bernardin with her husband. I bet they'll dance at home later.****
*Bikes for the parents have moved high on the to-buy list, as I am going yo drop dead of exhaustion one day at the park
** I saw a commercial for his service while I Houston and almost died. Sadly, I qualify age-wise, but not looks wise, unless there's a category for "haggard".
*** But perhaps I will be on a book tour...
****Kitchen dance party. Try it. You'll like it.
I have realized, dear readers, that while I enjoy my life currently, when I do fantasize about a different time in my life, it is not my twenties I miss, but my fifties I dream of. When we first had kids, H and I would look back longingly at the child-free days early in our marriage. Sleeping in, going out to dinner, our clutter-free existence, all seemed pretty enticing to two sleep-deprived new parents. But when I really look at the details, what do my twenties have to offer me now? I drink, but not to excess, so the bar scene holds little charm. OK, I so miss the ability to dance in a public space, that is not a wedding venue without looking like an ad for Cougar Life**, but being married, bars are not the source of fun they once were. Career. In your twenties, you are still trying to prove yourself and are riddled with insecurities, while probably not getting paid all that much. Yes, my current career pays nothing, but I at least feel I have mastered it and have gained a confidence in my abilities that will make any future endeavors easier. And speaking of getting paid little, in your twenties you are probably living in some adorably shabby apartment, barely big enough for you and your spouse. H and my first bedroom was ten feet by seven feet. We had a full-sized bed, one Ikea end table and dresser in it and nothing else. Poor H had to put his alarm clock under the bed on his side, with mere inches of space to get his hand under the bed to run it off. Why do I want to go back to that exactly?
Your fifties on the other hand, are perfect. THink about it. I chose the age fifty-five specifically because that is the age I will be when Little Man goes off to college. While I do expect some boomerang years when the kids return home for brief, let me say it again, brief, periods of time, the house will be empty for the first time in twenty-three years. Sure, they'll be some tears shed, but nothing a spur-of-the-moment road trip can't cure. H will be riding out the end of a successful career and be able to spend more time away form the office (or so is his plan), and having sent my children off into the world, my life will be a little less frantic as well***. In your fifties, you have time and, hopefully, good health and a little money. You have developed tastes and interests over the years that you now have the means and ability to pursue. That couple at the park, for example, I can see H and I doing that. Going for a long bike ride on a lovely fall afternoon and then having a late lunch at an outdoor cafe, and having a a glass of wine because I can take a nap after lunch. Maybe we'd even see a movie after. Weekend away? Sure! We don't need a sitter and no one has a hockey game for us to freeze our asses of at on Saturday morning. Lets' go! New exhibit at The Met? Wait out the rush hour traffic and we're there! Stayed too long and now it's rush hour again? Aw, too bad, looks like dinner in the city.
The fifth decade seems like heaven, doesn't it? Ok, so maybe you're a little wrinkly, and you have to start (or continue) dying your hair. but if you feel good, who cares? This time is payback for all the hard work you've put in raising your kids, and is probably before the grandkids start arriving, necessitating returning the good karma and babysitting - which, apparently is fun after you have forgotten how hard it was to raise your own kids. I'm doubting that, but it's what I'm told.
So you won't see me passing the young chippies in the city, wishing I were on my way to some hot club, in a short skirt I bought at Forever 21, looking for love. Instead, I will look with longing at the stately woman, in the Burberry sheath, on her way to dinner at Le Bernardin with her husband. I bet they'll dance at home later.****
*Bikes for the parents have moved high on the to-buy list, as I am going yo drop dead of exhaustion one day at the park
** I saw a commercial for his service while I Houston and almost died. Sadly, I qualify age-wise, but not looks wise, unless there's a category for "haggard".
*** But perhaps I will be on a book tour...
****Kitchen dance party. Try it. You'll like it.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
My letter to God, and his response, circa 1991
Dear God,
Hey there. College is going pretty well. Even though I'm not so psyched about the cute, blonde roommate you sent me. Not so fun answering the door a thousand times for Sigma Chi guys who are so not there to see me.
So speaking of guys, I've sort of been thinking about the kind of guy I need you to send my way. I finally broke up with the last dud you threw across my path. Very religious parents and a speech impediment? Even if he did go to Cornell, come on.
I've put together a list of the attributes I'm looking for, so if you could find this guy and have him be single, I'd really appreciate it.
1. Cute. Preferably very tall. You made me tall, and, granted, I only wear bucks currently, but what if some day I have to wear high shoes? Also, red hair is a plus.
2. Very gregarious and funny. I am a big personality, so I need someone who can match my volume and intensity. But not a drunk, OK? No one wants to marry that guy.
3. Smart. Maybe if he was into science too that would be cool. Then we could go to the lab together. Yeah, yeah, I know I have to actually leave the lab to meet a guy.
4. Not that close with his family. Again, that last guy was a nightmare. Dinner with your parents where they quiz me about how often I go to mass? No thank you. I don't need all that hassles.
5. Expressive. You know, flowers, poetry, all that jazz. The last guy was pretty good, but did he have to be so lame about it? Also, the new guy can not have a penchant for nick names. That last one loved the word "Angel" and I had to get used to the taste of my own vomit at the back of my throat.
Um, that pretty much sums is up. Any time before winter break would be great.
XOXO,
Mary
Mary,
I received your list. No, I'm not busy at all with war and famine and such. Your dating life is really at the top of my list. Regardless, I do have a response. Here's what I'm sending you:
1. He is cute. Very much so. He is, however, only slightly taller than you. Do you really think, with your personality, you'd like to feel small? I don't think so. He doesn't have issues with height though, so your future obsession with heels (trust me on this) will not be a problem. The red hair is not going to happen. Do you want to look like you're dating your brother? He will be dark complected. Think of it this way, less sunscreen at the beach and the children you have might have a chance of safely existing in the sun.
2. Personality - again, your request is denied. You take up all the oxygen in the room, you don't need competition. The guy I'm sending you is quiet at first, but really very funny. He's confident enough that he doesn't need everyone knowing his business or thinking he's awesome, which they do any way after talking to him, rather than listening to him drunkenly shout the lyrics to "Welcome to the Jungle". He's happy to have a real conversation at a party, not make a spectacle of himself on the dance floor. You can, and will, learn from him the benefit of taking it down a notch once in a while.
3. Yes, he's smart, but he's into foreign affairs and history. A fellow science nerd? Why are you trying to date yourself? Jesus! (Ooops). No, you can't have a guy whose into science. You'd be the most boring couple ever and not learn anything from each other. He might even be able to teach you where China is on a map, you dunce. You will, however, be the best Trivial Pursuit team in history.
4. And the family? Listen, sister, you have some hard times coming your way and these people are going to have your back. You will thank me for them later. Plus, they babysit the kids (again, trust me on this) .
5. Expressive guy? You don't want this, really, you don't. This guy is expressive when it counts. He will take your breath away with his sincerity when he does express his emotions. You will know how he feels by the way he cares for and respects you, and works hard for you and your children (OK, you have three, but I'm not telling you what gender). He doesn't need Hallmark to do this for him. I sort of wish I hadn't let that place get invented, btw. Created so much drama.
So to sum up. This boy will make you a better person and help shape you into the woman and mother you will become. He will be your rock and your court jester, all at the same time. He will be an attentive husband and a caring father. I am sending you, not what you want, but what, as the Rolling Stones so aptly put it, you need.
So go to the basement of the dorm tonight. There's a party. That's all I'm going to say.
Oh, and don't fuck it up.
-G
Dear readers, I did go to the party and met H. Twenty years ago today was our first date. Obviously, I didn't fuck it up.
Hey there. College is going pretty well. Even though I'm not so psyched about the cute, blonde roommate you sent me. Not so fun answering the door a thousand times for Sigma Chi guys who are so not there to see me.
So speaking of guys, I've sort of been thinking about the kind of guy I need you to send my way. I finally broke up with the last dud you threw across my path. Very religious parents and a speech impediment? Even if he did go to Cornell, come on.
I've put together a list of the attributes I'm looking for, so if you could find this guy and have him be single, I'd really appreciate it.
1. Cute. Preferably very tall. You made me tall, and, granted, I only wear bucks currently, but what if some day I have to wear high shoes? Also, red hair is a plus.
2. Very gregarious and funny. I am a big personality, so I need someone who can match my volume and intensity. But not a drunk, OK? No one wants to marry that guy.
3. Smart. Maybe if he was into science too that would be cool. Then we could go to the lab together. Yeah, yeah, I know I have to actually leave the lab to meet a guy.
4. Not that close with his family. Again, that last guy was a nightmare. Dinner with your parents where they quiz me about how often I go to mass? No thank you. I don't need all that hassles.
5. Expressive. You know, flowers, poetry, all that jazz. The last guy was pretty good, but did he have to be so lame about it? Also, the new guy can not have a penchant for nick names. That last one loved the word "Angel" and I had to get used to the taste of my own vomit at the back of my throat.
Um, that pretty much sums is up. Any time before winter break would be great.
XOXO,
Mary
Mary,
I received your list. No, I'm not busy at all with war and famine and such. Your dating life is really at the top of my list. Regardless, I do have a response. Here's what I'm sending you:
1. He is cute. Very much so. He is, however, only slightly taller than you. Do you really think, with your personality, you'd like to feel small? I don't think so. He doesn't have issues with height though, so your future obsession with heels (trust me on this) will not be a problem. The red hair is not going to happen. Do you want to look like you're dating your brother? He will be dark complected. Think of it this way, less sunscreen at the beach and the children you have might have a chance of safely existing in the sun.
2. Personality - again, your request is denied. You take up all the oxygen in the room, you don't need competition. The guy I'm sending you is quiet at first, but really very funny. He's confident enough that he doesn't need everyone knowing his business or thinking he's awesome, which they do any way after talking to him, rather than listening to him drunkenly shout the lyrics to "Welcome to the Jungle". He's happy to have a real conversation at a party, not make a spectacle of himself on the dance floor. You can, and will, learn from him the benefit of taking it down a notch once in a while.
3. Yes, he's smart, but he's into foreign affairs and history. A fellow science nerd? Why are you trying to date yourself? Jesus! (Ooops). No, you can't have a guy whose into science. You'd be the most boring couple ever and not learn anything from each other. He might even be able to teach you where China is on a map, you dunce. You will, however, be the best Trivial Pursuit team in history.
4. And the family? Listen, sister, you have some hard times coming your way and these people are going to have your back. You will thank me for them later. Plus, they babysit the kids (again, trust me on this) .
5. Expressive guy? You don't want this, really, you don't. This guy is expressive when it counts. He will take your breath away with his sincerity when he does express his emotions. You will know how he feels by the way he cares for and respects you, and works hard for you and your children (OK, you have three, but I'm not telling you what gender). He doesn't need Hallmark to do this for him. I sort of wish I hadn't let that place get invented, btw. Created so much drama.
So to sum up. This boy will make you a better person and help shape you into the woman and mother you will become. He will be your rock and your court jester, all at the same time. He will be an attentive husband and a caring father. I am sending you, not what you want, but what, as the Rolling Stones so aptly put it, you need.
So go to the basement of the dorm tonight. There's a party. That's all I'm going to say.
Oh, and don't fuck it up.
-G
Dear readers, I did go to the party and met H. Twenty years ago today was our first date. Obviously, I didn't fuck it up.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Yes, #1, there is a Santa Claus
Don't hate me, dear readers, but with the exception of one gift, I am done with my Christmas shopping. KA-POW! Take that holiday season!
I ask you not to hate me because of the reason behind my early birdiness. I am going to need all of my energy to focus on Operation Santa is Real.
My eldest has reached the age where many children stop believing in Santa Claus. Jaded hoodlums in her class, tapping Facebook updates into their iPhones, will sneer with derision as she and her equally innocent gang discuss what they included in their letters to Santa. So far, she has not come home with any tales of schoolyard revelations courtesy of the class cool kid (read: asshole) and, for that, I am thankful, but I am afraid this might be our last year.
Santa belongs to that realm of childhood magic also inhabited by the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. Admittedly, both of those characters have come under intense scrutiny over the last year, mostly due to mistakes made by H and me. The Easter Bunny almost met his untimely demise when #1 opened my bedroom door as I was assembling the baskets for the next morning. Had I not dive-bombed across my bed, slamming the baskets to the floor behind, Peter Cottontail would have gone up in smoke. And the Tooth Fairy. Obviously invented before television or the internet, giving parents something to do in the small hours between their children's and their bedtime, other than make more children, she is on the endangered list, as H and have forgotten more times than we have remembered, to put some cash under our offspring's pillows before they arise at the crack of dawn. Cries of, "SHE DIDN'T COME!", have been met with such lame excuses as "maybe she's sick" and the shamefully blame-shifting, "you stayed up too late". But Santa, he gets done right. Even though we are bone tired from The Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, we wait until the kids are dead asleep, doing numerous checks, before the presents are taken out of their hiding places, with one of us standing guard in the family room doorway all the while.
#1 has not ever asked if Santa is real. I think I may have prevented that with my answer when she questioned the Tooth Fairy's existence. "John in my class says your parents leave the money" is what I was faced with one night at dinner.* To which I responded, "He's right." Cue horrified stares. I continued, "Once you stop believing, she stops coming and I will leave the money." I am lucky she is such an innocent and desperately wants to believe. But I have been helping her along with Herculean efforts when it comes to to proving the Big Guy is legit. Last year, thanks to my mother in-law's purchase of a "Santa Kit", we used a boot-shaped template to leave sooty footprints on the crappy family room carpet (the torn pice of his jacket was too much and looked like it had been made in a factory in China, rather than created by Mrs. Claus' deft hands). The carpet having been replaced, and no longer available as a canvas for proof of mythological holiday figures, I went commercial, and bought the Elf on a Shelf my children had been discussing. Cute, concept. The Elf, with his flimsy felt body and creepy, sideways glancing eyes, flies off to Santa each night to give a daily report, returning to a new spot in your home each morning. I am determined not to miss a night. I foresee a lot of middle of the night excursions back downstairs for myself, as H is tapping out of this one, having not been consulted on this purchase, stating, "This is the dumbest thing ever. It's the Tooth Fairy times infinity."
I don't care what it takes, I will fight to keep #1 a believer as long as I can. Once it's over, it will be like a veil has been lifted and she has crossed over from the fairy land of childhood, into the wasteland of adolescence. That wide-eyed wonder Christmas morning is one of the joys of parenthood. It is all the hope in the universe distilled into one moment. It is innocence and joy in its purest form.
I am lucky in that #1 does not want to be enlightened. I know she must have her doubts, but is not willing to speak them aloud. What exactly do I tell her when that time comes? My plan, thus far is to ask, "What do you think?" And if she has her doubts I will tell her, "As long as you need him, Santa, and all his magic, will be there."
Sounds like someone else in her life, doesn't it?
*Again, no warning. Parenting: The Pop Quiz that Never Ends.
I ask you not to hate me because of the reason behind my early birdiness. I am going to need all of my energy to focus on Operation Santa is Real.
My eldest has reached the age where many children stop believing in Santa Claus. Jaded hoodlums in her class, tapping Facebook updates into their iPhones, will sneer with derision as she and her equally innocent gang discuss what they included in their letters to Santa. So far, she has not come home with any tales of schoolyard revelations courtesy of the class cool kid (read: asshole) and, for that, I am thankful, but I am afraid this might be our last year.
Santa belongs to that realm of childhood magic also inhabited by the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. Admittedly, both of those characters have come under intense scrutiny over the last year, mostly due to mistakes made by H and me. The Easter Bunny almost met his untimely demise when #1 opened my bedroom door as I was assembling the baskets for the next morning. Had I not dive-bombed across my bed, slamming the baskets to the floor behind, Peter Cottontail would have gone up in smoke. And the Tooth Fairy. Obviously invented before television or the internet, giving parents something to do in the small hours between their children's and their bedtime, other than make more children, she is on the endangered list, as H and have forgotten more times than we have remembered, to put some cash under our offspring's pillows before they arise at the crack of dawn. Cries of, "SHE DIDN'T COME!", have been met with such lame excuses as "maybe she's sick" and the shamefully blame-shifting, "you stayed up too late". But Santa, he gets done right. Even though we are bone tired from The Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, we wait until the kids are dead asleep, doing numerous checks, before the presents are taken out of their hiding places, with one of us standing guard in the family room doorway all the while.
#1 has not ever asked if Santa is real. I think I may have prevented that with my answer when she questioned the Tooth Fairy's existence. "John in my class says your parents leave the money" is what I was faced with one night at dinner.* To which I responded, "He's right." Cue horrified stares. I continued, "Once you stop believing, she stops coming and I will leave the money." I am lucky she is such an innocent and desperately wants to believe. But I have been helping her along with Herculean efforts when it comes to to proving the Big Guy is legit. Last year, thanks to my mother in-law's purchase of a "Santa Kit", we used a boot-shaped template to leave sooty footprints on the crappy family room carpet (the torn pice of his jacket was too much and looked like it had been made in a factory in China, rather than created by Mrs. Claus' deft hands). The carpet having been replaced, and no longer available as a canvas for proof of mythological holiday figures, I went commercial, and bought the Elf on a Shelf my children had been discussing. Cute, concept. The Elf, with his flimsy felt body and creepy, sideways glancing eyes, flies off to Santa each night to give a daily report, returning to a new spot in your home each morning. I am determined not to miss a night. I foresee a lot of middle of the night excursions back downstairs for myself, as H is tapping out of this one, having not been consulted on this purchase, stating, "This is the dumbest thing ever. It's the Tooth Fairy times infinity."
I don't care what it takes, I will fight to keep #1 a believer as long as I can. Once it's over, it will be like a veil has been lifted and she has crossed over from the fairy land of childhood, into the wasteland of adolescence. That wide-eyed wonder Christmas morning is one of the joys of parenthood. It is all the hope in the universe distilled into one moment. It is innocence and joy in its purest form.
I am lucky in that #1 does not want to be enlightened. I know she must have her doubts, but is not willing to speak them aloud. What exactly do I tell her when that time comes? My plan, thus far is to ask, "What do you think?" And if she has her doubts I will tell her, "As long as you need him, Santa, and all his magic, will be there."
Sounds like someone else in her life, doesn't it?
*Again, no warning. Parenting: The Pop Quiz that Never Ends.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Anatomy of a Monday run
This is an example of my internal dialogue each Monday as I slog my way through my morning run. Mileage, soundtrack and attitude may vary.
Mile 1. I emerge from the house, begrudgingly. "GOD, it's (insert weather extreme here)! I hate this. My sports bra feels weird. Ugh, these are the wrong socks. I already have a wedgie. I'm never drinking wine on a Sunday again. When did I decide running to Coldplay was a good idea?"
After warming up for a few blocks, I pass a local bus stop. "Thanks for smoking, bus guy. Nothing I enjoy more than feeling like I'm running through a bar circa 1998....Oooh, Ke$ha!"
Running in our neighborhood around dawn is like being Snow White in a Disney film, with woodland creatures threatening to alight on every limb. "Jesus Christ! You almost gave me a heart attack, stupid friggin' rabbits! Where the fuck did all these rabbits come from?? When did I move to Watership Down?....C+C Music Factory, you make me sweat indeed."
MIle 2. First traffic light. "It's called a red light, garbage truck driver. I'm sure looking at your iphone is distracting you from noticing the rather tall woman covered in reflectors. Not wanting to join Teddy Ruxspin as a hood ornament, I will let you have the right of way. I hope a bag full of old diapers opens on you today....Can I go home yet?"
Approaching other runners, running side by side coming form the opposite direction, "Guess I will dangerously hop into the street to pass you since you can't stop your conversation long enough to have one of you fall behind for three seconds. PS, if you can talk, you're not running fast enough....Y'all gon' make me lose my mind. That's right, DMX."
"Gotta return those library books. Where did I put my library card? Put milk on the grocery list. Blergh. Never eating brownies on a Sunday night again either. Would it be terrible if I threw up in the street? Remember to buy birthday present for party next week....No, Will Smith, your parents understood, they were just to broke to buy you Adidas, you insensitive prick.""
Mile 3. Approach the house of Old Running Guy. Old Running Guy is about a hundred and has the veiny, knobby legs of a long-time runner and seems to lie in wait for me each Monday when I am my slowest, to emerge and begin his run. He blinds me every morning with the headlamp he insists on wearing and shames me with his ridiculous pace. "Why are you up this early??? You have to be too old to work. Can't you do this later in the day and stop shaming me? Are you bionic?....This new Kelly Clarkson song is not all I dreamed it would be."
"Hi Snotty Bitch!" I actually do say "Hi" out loud, in a very aggressive manner. Running at this hour is like belonging to a club. We are all miserable, yet determined. I'm not looking for a long conversation, but we all give each other a little finger wave as a show of solidarity. Three months it took me to get this bitch to finally acknowledge me. I don't know why I care, I just do.
Mile 4. The Big Hill. This hill seems to go on FOREVER. If forever were a quarter mile. "OK, ipod Shuffle, what you got to get me up Big Hill? Neil Diamond? Come on! I can't stop to screw around with you, here. Enrique Iglesias? Was I drunk when I bought this song? Sade? OK, someone obviously stole you while I slept and LOADED YOU WITH CRAP!"
Mile 5. Running down Big Hill's other side. "MAKE 'EM GO, OH! OH! OH! AS YOU SHOOT ACROSS THE SKY-AY-AY!!! BABY YOU'RE A FIREWOOOORK! I love Katy Perry, I love running, why don't I do this more?"
Mile 1. I emerge from the house, begrudgingly. "GOD, it's (insert weather extreme here)! I hate this. My sports bra feels weird. Ugh, these are the wrong socks. I already have a wedgie. I'm never drinking wine on a Sunday again. When did I decide running to Coldplay was a good idea?"
After warming up for a few blocks, I pass a local bus stop. "Thanks for smoking, bus guy. Nothing I enjoy more than feeling like I'm running through a bar circa 1998....Oooh, Ke$ha!"
Running in our neighborhood around dawn is like being Snow White in a Disney film, with woodland creatures threatening to alight on every limb. "Jesus Christ! You almost gave me a heart attack, stupid friggin' rabbits! Where the fuck did all these rabbits come from?? When did I move to Watership Down?....C+C Music Factory, you make me sweat indeed."
MIle 2. First traffic light. "It's called a red light, garbage truck driver. I'm sure looking at your iphone is distracting you from noticing the rather tall woman covered in reflectors. Not wanting to join Teddy Ruxspin as a hood ornament, I will let you have the right of way. I hope a bag full of old diapers opens on you today....Can I go home yet?"
Approaching other runners, running side by side coming form the opposite direction, "Guess I will dangerously hop into the street to pass you since you can't stop your conversation long enough to have one of you fall behind for three seconds. PS, if you can talk, you're not running fast enough....Y'all gon' make me lose my mind. That's right, DMX."
"Gotta return those library books. Where did I put my library card? Put milk on the grocery list. Blergh. Never eating brownies on a Sunday night again either. Would it be terrible if I threw up in the street? Remember to buy birthday present for party next week....No, Will Smith, your parents understood, they were just to broke to buy you Adidas, you insensitive prick.""
Mile 3. Approach the house of Old Running Guy. Old Running Guy is about a hundred and has the veiny, knobby legs of a long-time runner and seems to lie in wait for me each Monday when I am my slowest, to emerge and begin his run. He blinds me every morning with the headlamp he insists on wearing and shames me with his ridiculous pace. "Why are you up this early??? You have to be too old to work. Can't you do this later in the day and stop shaming me? Are you bionic?....This new Kelly Clarkson song is not all I dreamed it would be."
"Hi Snotty Bitch!" I actually do say "Hi" out loud, in a very aggressive manner. Running at this hour is like belonging to a club. We are all miserable, yet determined. I'm not looking for a long conversation, but we all give each other a little finger wave as a show of solidarity. Three months it took me to get this bitch to finally acknowledge me. I don't know why I care, I just do.
Mile 4. The Big Hill. This hill seems to go on FOREVER. If forever were a quarter mile. "OK, ipod Shuffle, what you got to get me up Big Hill? Neil Diamond? Come on! I can't stop to screw around with you, here. Enrique Iglesias? Was I drunk when I bought this song? Sade? OK, someone obviously stole you while I slept and LOADED YOU WITH CRAP!"
Mile 5. Running down Big Hill's other side. "MAKE 'EM GO, OH! OH! OH! AS YOU SHOOT ACROSS THE SKY-AY-AY!!! BABY YOU'RE A FIREWOOOORK! I love Katy Perry, I love running, why don't I do this more?"
Thursday, November 24, 2011
One Purple Balloon
Shameful, I know, how long it's been. But you will all be glad to know the dreaded student directory has been printed and is being distributed Monday (which is when I begin fielding calls about mistakes and I begin drinking heavily), and I rewarded myself with my annual weekend away in Boston with B. Best quote of the trip? "We'll take two white wines and two shots of whatever is in that skull bottle."
So it's Thanksgiving. The children are engrossed in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, H is cooking sides to bring to his brother's, and I am contemplating my entry in the Thanksgiving book. These entries used to be no-brainers. There was always a new baby or new something to take the spotlight in that year's entry, but now each year I get to really explore what has happened this specific year when deciding what to write about. This year, it is all based on a balloon.
Yesterday afternoon, I decided to brave the rain and the crowds solo, as H has another Brazil* trip coming up and needed to work late, to take the kids into the city to see the Macy's balloons being inflated. The traffic was madness and parking a nightmare - #1 heard me say "shit!", which now that she knows that is the real s-word, and not "shut up", makes her crack up with mature, 4th grade glee - but once we got there it was incredible. The Macy's staff was giving out free balloons, which makes any event more fun, no? Except when you have pushy parents trying to cut you in line. Um, sorry, my license plate might say Jersey, but my fist will say Da Bronx if you don't back it up. We walked along in the crowd, being given wide berth because of our extra wide jogger stroller, laughing, while "New York, New York" played, and we watched the Energizer Bunny and Snoopy rise up before our eyes. All was right with the world.
Until #1's balloon, which was tied to her wrist, as were all the offspring's balloons, untied from the string at the top end and floated away. There is nothing more heart-breaking than watching your child watch their balloon float away. Seeing her see the balloon stand was closed, I watched #1 want to burst into tears, but she held all but a few back and sighed sadly. #2, on the verge of tears herself, held out her string and chokingly said, "Here , have mine.", and Little Man started sobbing, saying, "(#1) is saaaad!!!!" This, dear readers, is what I am most thankful for this year. I am thankful that my children are all becoming kind, giving people. Yeah, yeah, it might sound like I'm tooting my own horn, but I'm not. I truly feel you can teach kids all you want about kindness and sharing, but it's they that have to do the hard work. You can lead a horse to emotional water, but you can't make it drink. I am thankful that the time I spend talking about doing the right thing and thinking of others is paying off. That the knocks they take now because they are so sensitive are not changing who they are. I am grateful my kids are good kids.
So #1 got over her balloon sadness and the night went on wonderfully. OK, after her brave reaction, I promised her that crazy cracked nail polish she's been wanting. I couldn't let the day end on a down note right? Yes, I am a sucker and, no I don't care. Life's hard enough. I walked around wanting to shout, "Look at my nice kids!!!"
So Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I hope your day is full of love and gratitude and that you are surrounded by your blessings. An no one's balloon floats away.
*I can finally name where it is he's been going now that his company's project is public knowledge. Every time I wrote about his being away I had to tell him, "Calm down, Jack Ryan, no one's gonna know." (points if you got the Patriot Games reference)
So it's Thanksgiving. The children are engrossed in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, H is cooking sides to bring to his brother's, and I am contemplating my entry in the Thanksgiving book. These entries used to be no-brainers. There was always a new baby or new something to take the spotlight in that year's entry, but now each year I get to really explore what has happened this specific year when deciding what to write about. This year, it is all based on a balloon.
Yesterday afternoon, I decided to brave the rain and the crowds solo, as H has another Brazil* trip coming up and needed to work late, to take the kids into the city to see the Macy's balloons being inflated. The traffic was madness and parking a nightmare - #1 heard me say "shit!", which now that she knows that is the real s-word, and not "shut up", makes her crack up with mature, 4th grade glee - but once we got there it was incredible. The Macy's staff was giving out free balloons, which makes any event more fun, no? Except when you have pushy parents trying to cut you in line. Um, sorry, my license plate might say Jersey, but my fist will say Da Bronx if you don't back it up. We walked along in the crowd, being given wide berth because of our extra wide jogger stroller, laughing, while "New York, New York" played, and we watched the Energizer Bunny and Snoopy rise up before our eyes. All was right with the world.
Until #1's balloon, which was tied to her wrist, as were all the offspring's balloons, untied from the string at the top end and floated away. There is nothing more heart-breaking than watching your child watch their balloon float away. Seeing her see the balloon stand was closed, I watched #1 want to burst into tears, but she held all but a few back and sighed sadly. #2, on the verge of tears herself, held out her string and chokingly said, "Here , have mine.", and Little Man started sobbing, saying, "(#1) is saaaad!!!!" This, dear readers, is what I am most thankful for this year. I am thankful that my children are all becoming kind, giving people. Yeah, yeah, it might sound like I'm tooting my own horn, but I'm not. I truly feel you can teach kids all you want about kindness and sharing, but it's they that have to do the hard work. You can lead a horse to emotional water, but you can't make it drink. I am thankful that the time I spend talking about doing the right thing and thinking of others is paying off. That the knocks they take now because they are so sensitive are not changing who they are. I am grateful my kids are good kids.
So #1 got over her balloon sadness and the night went on wonderfully. OK, after her brave reaction, I promised her that crazy cracked nail polish she's been wanting. I couldn't let the day end on a down note right? Yes, I am a sucker and, no I don't care. Life's hard enough. I walked around wanting to shout, "Look at my nice kids!!!"
So Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I hope your day is full of love and gratitude and that you are surrounded by your blessings. An no one's balloon floats away.
*I can finally name where it is he's been going now that his company's project is public knowledge. Every time I wrote about his being away I had to tell him, "Calm down, Jack Ryan, no one's gonna know." (points if you got the Patriot Games reference)
Friday, November 11, 2011
"Pick color"
Last week, I attempted to make another stand for myself, dear readers. About ten years ago, along with not wearing clothes intended for exercise when not exercising, I used to get my nails done every Saturday. I had been coveting a fellow mother's neatly manicured fingertips, nails coated in a rich fall brown and I thought to myself, "This wearing real clothes thing is working out quite well, why not start getting my nails done again?" So after cleaning out the attic all day Saturday, I decided to reward myself and hot-footed it to the local nail salon before they could close, ready to re-enter the world of nail art.
Those of you on the east coast will be familiar with the Korean nail salons that pepper every town and hamlet, usually managed by a middle-aged woman who speaks the most English of the crew. You walk in and search the row of faces, covered by surgical masks, trying to catch the eye of The Boss who will ask what service you want, nod, scream out something in Korean, then instruct for you to "pick color" and you sit down and wait. The timing of my decision was not great. Any woman over the age of eighteen knows when you go to the nail place within and hour of closing, it's going to be you and all the other schmucks who put it off until the last minute, waiting almost an hour, vying for the most recent Us Weekly and the last bottle of Ballet Slippers. I almost laughed out loud when a teenager walked in after me saying she had called ahead and made an "appointment". Sure, and I have a bridge you might be interested in buying. You can call these salons, and if you can decipher the heavily accented English, you will be told the wait is "not long" or you can come at a specific time, but no matter what you've been told, you're waiting with the rest of us, sister. These places are all about high volume. You want an appointment, go somewhere where they pay their workers a living wage and there's not a rice cooker in the bathroom.
I had brought two library books with me, so the wait was not an issue. Thirty minutes later, I was called and taken over to the pedicure chair, or as H call it, "the throne". Back in the day, H once had to bring my the car keys while I was getting my nails done. He crept in like a thief, so terrified was he of this foreign-run, female oasis, but got enough ammo in that two minutes to call me "your highness" for a month after seeing me in an elevated chair with a tiny Asian woman working on my feet. And speaking of men and nail places, H did it right. He ran in and ran out. I find men in nail salons so intrusive. They throw off the entire energy of the place. Whether they are in there getting their nails done, which is WEIRD even if the guy is a hand model, or even worse, paying for their female companion to get hers done, like they can't just hand her the cash and take a walk around the block, instead of sitting there propriertarily, like a pimp, men do not belong. And it is so awkward when a guy works there. You can see all the women trying to place themselves out of The Bosses line of sight when the male technician becomes available hoping to dodge that bullet. I don't want to hold hands worth any man but my husband, thanks.
I remove my shoes and climb into the massage chair, hoping the woman doesn't grimace at the state of my feet. Running develops quite a thick layer of calluses so my feet could pretty much be called hooves. Also, my lack of pedicure time, coupled with my penchant for open-toed shoes, requires a lot of at-home jobs. This lack of time also extends to doing my nails myself, which become a crisis every other Saturday night when I have, yet again, forgotten to freshly paint my toes, and not wanting to alter my shoe selection, am forced to slap yet another coat of polish over the existing chipped one, creating several strata of polish of varying colors for the technician to remove.
Eight hundred cotton balls and a gallon of acetone later, my naked tootsies are plunked into the tub. Now, maybe it's been too long since I had my feet done, but I thought the packet of green powder this gal poured into the water was to disinfect it, but instead it was some kind of aloe gel and my feet have been submerged in what I can best describe as feeling like a tub of fresh vomit. Am I supposed to be enjoying this sensation? Mercifully, she adds another packet a minute later that dissolves the puke bath and returns it to liquid state. Then another surprise. Just when I am expecting the gal to start rubbing in what I thought was lotion, and start the heavenly calf massage, she starts scraping the skin of my shins with this grainy scrub instead. Do some women have ridiculously rough skin on their legs? I'm going to leave with road rash! Eventually we do get to the rubby part, but GODDAMN, that hurt.
There is scraping and clipping, and the most humiliating - having someone dig out the nasty shit under your toe nails, which you know smells like death and you swear you will begin to clean this area daily from this point on. Not going to happen. Then the gal separates and wraps my toes in their little toilet paper muffler, that I can never seem to get duplicate at home, to keep them separated during painting, and finally, we get to the shellacking part which, thankfully, does not involve humiliation of any kind. Next, I am whisked off to the manicure station.
The pedicure station is rife with the weirdness of having someone work closely on what can arguably be described as one of the dirtier parts of your body that is not an orifice. Manicures, however, are awkwardness defined. Imagine sitting across from someone, holding hands with them, in fact, and not speaking a word or making eye contact. The last time I did that I was in eighth grade and we were watching Back to the Future. I used to feel rude maintaining this silence, and would try, in vain, to engage the nail tech in some light banter. I quickly figured out this was as much of a pain in the ass for her as it was for me. She would much rather cluck to her neighbor in Korean, probably about me ala Elaine on Seinfeld, than talk to me about the weather. Also, it felt false to me. Like, let's pretend earning three dollars an hour and possibly working off some kind of indentured servitude, is your life's calling and you want to hear all about me and my suburban problems. I always imagine the workers who have to listen to the ladies who don't have a clue, and keep babbling about their lives, have a fantasy about stabbing them in the throat with a cuticle clipper. Sure, there are regulars who have developed relationships with their usual gal, but those ladies are typically getting acrylics, which seeing how long that process is, I'd have to crack too and learn Myung's family tree too.
Regardless of conversational status, come manicure time, the ladies are always horrified by how short I keep my nails. I had some serious talons in high school, but now with three kids, long nails are only another area for feces and random grossness I touch daily to get trapped so they had to go. They always half-heartedly file my nails, as if they're not even worth the effort. My cuticles, on the other hand, are a job and a half. Bathing kids and wiping asses causes some pretty raggedy hands. As my gal begins to snip away with the clippers, I, once again, wish I had remembered to bring my own tools, so I don't wind up with one of those hideous staph infections from dirty nail tools I read about in magazines. I'm not fooled into believing two minutes in that light box cleans these tools any more than I am that swishing them around in that blue water they label as "disinfectant" does the job.
I wise up when I see my tech wielding a squirt bottle with that same gritty shit they put on my legs. Knowing I will not be bale to hide, red, raw forearms, as I will my abraded legs, I quickly stop her and ask her to use regular lotion instead. This is the best part of any manicure - the hand massage. I try not to let my head hit that piece of foam covered in wrapping paper and packing tape that my forearms are resting on, as I almost doze off, only to have to pull myself into instant alertness to stay awake for the polishing. One errant hand movement can totally screw up your gal's handiwork, causing much Korean muttering.
I make the lumbering walk to the drying station in my paper slippers, as the nail tech follows behind, clutching my car keys (which I have, for once, been smart enough to take out of my bag, preventing the mortifying experience of having a stranger rummage through Goldfish, broken crayons and unraveling tampons in the bottom of my purse), shoes and coat. More uncomfortable non-conversant time, as I sit face-to-face with a fellow client, where we briefly make eye contact, smile and both agree to pretend the other is not there and stare into space.
After a few minutes, I am bored, since I can no longer read my books, and starting to wonder if H knows to feed the kids dinner, or if our offspring are starving because of my vanity. I paint on the ingenious nail oil these salons use to create a slick barrier on your nails to prevent any nicks on the way out the door. FYI, this is an east coast thing apparently, since in California one time, they looked at me like I had three heads when I asked where it was. Seeing me preparing for departure, my tech runs over with a roll of plastic wrap. She paints my toes with the same oil and swathes my feet in cellophane, like bizarre leftovers, and shoves my shoes back on.
Thrust back into the world, I am half-effective. I turn the car key gingerly in the ignition. I walk slowly for fear of jamming my feet into the front of my shoes. Once home, I can't open juice boxes or wash a dish without thinking about wrecking my nails. This goes on for two days. By the third day, I give up and return to my nail destroying ways, and my polish looks like I've stuck my hands in a Cuisinart. Sadly, I think this new leaf is not going to stay turned over.
I see weekly manicures as somewhat akin to Chinese foot binding - a symbol of a woman's ability to not participate in household labor. I don't mean this as judgement, I'd LOVE to participate, but right now, it's just not going to happen. I can't find the stay-at-home equivalent of dialing my phone with a pencil (which I am always fascinated by) to save my nails. Sure, I will still get my nails did for special occassions, and enjoy the forty-eight hours they actually look good. I will put well-kept nails in the same box as blown-out hair, to be unpacked when everyone is in school full time and able to wipe their own asses. But I'd I'll probably break a nail using my bare hands to open it, rendering them unpaintable.
Those of you on the east coast will be familiar with the Korean nail salons that pepper every town and hamlet, usually managed by a middle-aged woman who speaks the most English of the crew. You walk in and search the row of faces, covered by surgical masks, trying to catch the eye of The Boss who will ask what service you want, nod, scream out something in Korean, then instruct for you to "pick color" and you sit down and wait. The timing of my decision was not great. Any woman over the age of eighteen knows when you go to the nail place within and hour of closing, it's going to be you and all the other schmucks who put it off until the last minute, waiting almost an hour, vying for the most recent Us Weekly and the last bottle of Ballet Slippers. I almost laughed out loud when a teenager walked in after me saying she had called ahead and made an "appointment". Sure, and I have a bridge you might be interested in buying. You can call these salons, and if you can decipher the heavily accented English, you will be told the wait is "not long" or you can come at a specific time, but no matter what you've been told, you're waiting with the rest of us, sister. These places are all about high volume. You want an appointment, go somewhere where they pay their workers a living wage and there's not a rice cooker in the bathroom.
I had brought two library books with me, so the wait was not an issue. Thirty minutes later, I was called and taken over to the pedicure chair, or as H call it, "the throne". Back in the day, H once had to bring my the car keys while I was getting my nails done. He crept in like a thief, so terrified was he of this foreign-run, female oasis, but got enough ammo in that two minutes to call me "your highness" for a month after seeing me in an elevated chair with a tiny Asian woman working on my feet. And speaking of men and nail places, H did it right. He ran in and ran out. I find men in nail salons so intrusive. They throw off the entire energy of the place. Whether they are in there getting their nails done, which is WEIRD even if the guy is a hand model, or even worse, paying for their female companion to get hers done, like they can't just hand her the cash and take a walk around the block, instead of sitting there propriertarily, like a pimp, men do not belong. And it is so awkward when a guy works there. You can see all the women trying to place themselves out of The Bosses line of sight when the male technician becomes available hoping to dodge that bullet. I don't want to hold hands worth any man but my husband, thanks.
I remove my shoes and climb into the massage chair, hoping the woman doesn't grimace at the state of my feet. Running develops quite a thick layer of calluses so my feet could pretty much be called hooves. Also, my lack of pedicure time, coupled with my penchant for open-toed shoes, requires a lot of at-home jobs. This lack of time also extends to doing my nails myself, which become a crisis every other Saturday night when I have, yet again, forgotten to freshly paint my toes, and not wanting to alter my shoe selection, am forced to slap yet another coat of polish over the existing chipped one, creating several strata of polish of varying colors for the technician to remove.
Eight hundred cotton balls and a gallon of acetone later, my naked tootsies are plunked into the tub. Now, maybe it's been too long since I had my feet done, but I thought the packet of green powder this gal poured into the water was to disinfect it, but instead it was some kind of aloe gel and my feet have been submerged in what I can best describe as feeling like a tub of fresh vomit. Am I supposed to be enjoying this sensation? Mercifully, she adds another packet a minute later that dissolves the puke bath and returns it to liquid state. Then another surprise. Just when I am expecting the gal to start rubbing in what I thought was lotion, and start the heavenly calf massage, she starts scraping the skin of my shins with this grainy scrub instead. Do some women have ridiculously rough skin on their legs? I'm going to leave with road rash! Eventually we do get to the rubby part, but GODDAMN, that hurt.
There is scraping and clipping, and the most humiliating - having someone dig out the nasty shit under your toe nails, which you know smells like death and you swear you will begin to clean this area daily from this point on. Not going to happen. Then the gal separates and wraps my toes in their little toilet paper muffler, that I can never seem to get duplicate at home, to keep them separated during painting, and finally, we get to the shellacking part which, thankfully, does not involve humiliation of any kind. Next, I am whisked off to the manicure station.
The pedicure station is rife with the weirdness of having someone work closely on what can arguably be described as one of the dirtier parts of your body that is not an orifice. Manicures, however, are awkwardness defined. Imagine sitting across from someone, holding hands with them, in fact, and not speaking a word or making eye contact. The last time I did that I was in eighth grade and we were watching Back to the Future. I used to feel rude maintaining this silence, and would try, in vain, to engage the nail tech in some light banter. I quickly figured out this was as much of a pain in the ass for her as it was for me. She would much rather cluck to her neighbor in Korean, probably about me ala Elaine on Seinfeld, than talk to me about the weather. Also, it felt false to me. Like, let's pretend earning three dollars an hour and possibly working off some kind of indentured servitude, is your life's calling and you want to hear all about me and my suburban problems. I always imagine the workers who have to listen to the ladies who don't have a clue, and keep babbling about their lives, have a fantasy about stabbing them in the throat with a cuticle clipper. Sure, there are regulars who have developed relationships with their usual gal, but those ladies are typically getting acrylics, which seeing how long that process is, I'd have to crack too and learn Myung's family tree too.
Regardless of conversational status, come manicure time, the ladies are always horrified by how short I keep my nails. I had some serious talons in high school, but now with three kids, long nails are only another area for feces and random grossness I touch daily to get trapped so they had to go. They always half-heartedly file my nails, as if they're not even worth the effort. My cuticles, on the other hand, are a job and a half. Bathing kids and wiping asses causes some pretty raggedy hands. As my gal begins to snip away with the clippers, I, once again, wish I had remembered to bring my own tools, so I don't wind up with one of those hideous staph infections from dirty nail tools I read about in magazines. I'm not fooled into believing two minutes in that light box cleans these tools any more than I am that swishing them around in that blue water they label as "disinfectant" does the job.
I wise up when I see my tech wielding a squirt bottle with that same gritty shit they put on my legs. Knowing I will not be bale to hide, red, raw forearms, as I will my abraded legs, I quickly stop her and ask her to use regular lotion instead. This is the best part of any manicure - the hand massage. I try not to let my head hit that piece of foam covered in wrapping paper and packing tape that my forearms are resting on, as I almost doze off, only to have to pull myself into instant alertness to stay awake for the polishing. One errant hand movement can totally screw up your gal's handiwork, causing much Korean muttering.
I make the lumbering walk to the drying station in my paper slippers, as the nail tech follows behind, clutching my car keys (which I have, for once, been smart enough to take out of my bag, preventing the mortifying experience of having a stranger rummage through Goldfish, broken crayons and unraveling tampons in the bottom of my purse), shoes and coat. More uncomfortable non-conversant time, as I sit face-to-face with a fellow client, where we briefly make eye contact, smile and both agree to pretend the other is not there and stare into space.
After a few minutes, I am bored, since I can no longer read my books, and starting to wonder if H knows to feed the kids dinner, or if our offspring are starving because of my vanity. I paint on the ingenious nail oil these salons use to create a slick barrier on your nails to prevent any nicks on the way out the door. FYI, this is an east coast thing apparently, since in California one time, they looked at me like I had three heads when I asked where it was. Seeing me preparing for departure, my tech runs over with a roll of plastic wrap. She paints my toes with the same oil and swathes my feet in cellophane, like bizarre leftovers, and shoves my shoes back on.
Thrust back into the world, I am half-effective. I turn the car key gingerly in the ignition. I walk slowly for fear of jamming my feet into the front of my shoes. Once home, I can't open juice boxes or wash a dish without thinking about wrecking my nails. This goes on for two days. By the third day, I give up and return to my nail destroying ways, and my polish looks like I've stuck my hands in a Cuisinart. Sadly, I think this new leaf is not going to stay turned over.
I see weekly manicures as somewhat akin to Chinese foot binding - a symbol of a woman's ability to not participate in household labor. I don't mean this as judgement, I'd LOVE to participate, but right now, it's just not going to happen. I can't find the stay-at-home equivalent of dialing my phone with a pencil (which I am always fascinated by) to save my nails. Sure, I will still get my nails did for special occassions, and enjoy the forty-eight hours they actually look good. I will put well-kept nails in the same box as blown-out hair, to be unpacked when everyone is in school full time and able to wipe their own asses. But I'd I'll probably break a nail using my bare hands to open it, rendering them unpaintable.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The definition of love
The posts have been a little sparse, dear readers, and due to an influx of local readers, as of late, I have been reticent to explain why at the risk of sounding like a bitchy whiner. But if you are friends enough with me to know about my blog, then you will quickly learn I can be a bitchy whiner and you will either break up with me or learn to deal, as my non-locals have.
So remember last year when I signed up for the PTA? Remember how easy I thought it would be with al those committees in place and all? Well, I was seriously wrong. It seems every four years, each school gets a turn putting together the almost 200 page district directory and who gets the booby prize this year? Me? Of-fucking-course. In the defense of the woman who talked to me about this position, she had no idea either, but it doesn't make gathering the personal information of every student, from kindergarten to senior in high school, and all the faculty and Board of Ed info, converting it from Excel to Word to pdf any easier. Especially since I'm almost computer illiterate.
When I took on this job I was asked if I was familiar with Word and Excel. Um, yeah, sure. I can do a numerical and alphabetical sort. Well fast forward nine months, and I'm having to do things like multiple sorts, that I didn't even have to do when putting together my senior Chemistry thesis in college, and things called "mail merges". Cue panic and call in my IT department.
As you all know, H is the computer expert around here. I lack the skills and interest and he also claims I'm a witch, being able to crash any piece of electronic equipment in a five foot radius. Many's the time I have called out to H from the computer desk, "MAKE THIS WORK!", practically banging my fists on the keyboard like a perplexed orangutan. So over the past three weeks, the poor guy has come home from work, thrown down food down his throat and spent two hours with me working on this beast. He has saved me countless hours by teaching me how to use search functions in spreadsheets, rather than combing through data. He has taught me how to auto-fill cells instead of using the computer like a glorified type-writer and doing everything manually. Basically, he made this thing work.
As we approached the end of this tortuous ordeal, I finally merge all the documents we have worked on and gotten from various people, and the document crashes. Neither of our home computers will allow us to make any more changes (which H chalks up to my evil powers). H can't figure it out, which means it is seriously NOT GOOD. So what does the guy do? He has me email it to him at work, and in between board meetings and conference calls with the CEO, he has been making sure the night custodian's name is spelled correctly and that the mother with a four-term hyphenated last name fits into the fourth grade spread sheet. And not just once - FIVE times, this thing has gone back and forth between us in the last two days.
And not a peep of complaint out of him.
I have written before about the under-appreciated male expressions of love, but this one takes the cake. I have never felt so loved, my friends. To go the extra mile when you yourself are exhausted and stressed, for no benefit, other than to help the one you love, who sits next to you rocking, in tears, asking "why isn't it working?"(which is, I'm sure, very helpful when trouble shooting software), is better than any card of gift I have ever received*. H knew how much was riding on this project, as no one likes to complain more about how a project at school was done, than the 90% of parents who do absolutely fucking nothing**, so he didn't question me when I forced him to do another exhaustive proof with me at ten thirty on a Wednesday night*** to prevent me being chased down by some irate mother whose kid's name I spelled wrong (even though it was "Jak", instead of "Jack" which I thought HAD to be a typo.). His reformatting the table of contents was like a love poem, reminding me, love is not in the grand gesture, but in the daily grind. And I have that in spades.
So H, let me put it out there. You are the most incredible husband, and I am a lucky woman to have you. Bacon for dinner and you get the remote for six months. Ok, not really about the remote, but the pork products are a go. You rock my world.
*AND he sent my flowers two weeks ago. Really!
**Hence my reticence about the locals. All y'all keep your traps shut about my bitching. I dont need any school-yard confrontations.
***Also adding to my addled mental state is the fact I am sleeping only six hours a night, not my minimum required-to-function eight, putting me seriously in sleep deprivation and giving me the mental and emotional stability of a schizophrenic. The kids really enjoy playing "which Mommy do we get today?".
So remember last year when I signed up for the PTA? Remember how easy I thought it would be with al those committees in place and all? Well, I was seriously wrong. It seems every four years, each school gets a turn putting together the almost 200 page district directory and who gets the booby prize this year? Me? Of-fucking-course. In the defense of the woman who talked to me about this position, she had no idea either, but it doesn't make gathering the personal information of every student, from kindergarten to senior in high school, and all the faculty and Board of Ed info, converting it from Excel to Word to pdf any easier. Especially since I'm almost computer illiterate.
When I took on this job I was asked if I was familiar with Word and Excel. Um, yeah, sure. I can do a numerical and alphabetical sort. Well fast forward nine months, and I'm having to do things like multiple sorts, that I didn't even have to do when putting together my senior Chemistry thesis in college, and things called "mail merges". Cue panic and call in my IT department.
As you all know, H is the computer expert around here. I lack the skills and interest and he also claims I'm a witch, being able to crash any piece of electronic equipment in a five foot radius. Many's the time I have called out to H from the computer desk, "MAKE THIS WORK!", practically banging my fists on the keyboard like a perplexed orangutan. So over the past three weeks, the poor guy has come home from work, thrown down food down his throat and spent two hours with me working on this beast. He has saved me countless hours by teaching me how to use search functions in spreadsheets, rather than combing through data. He has taught me how to auto-fill cells instead of using the computer like a glorified type-writer and doing everything manually. Basically, he made this thing work.
As we approached the end of this tortuous ordeal, I finally merge all the documents we have worked on and gotten from various people, and the document crashes. Neither of our home computers will allow us to make any more changes (which H chalks up to my evil powers). H can't figure it out, which means it is seriously NOT GOOD. So what does the guy do? He has me email it to him at work, and in between board meetings and conference calls with the CEO, he has been making sure the night custodian's name is spelled correctly and that the mother with a four-term hyphenated last name fits into the fourth grade spread sheet. And not just once - FIVE times, this thing has gone back and forth between us in the last two days.
And not a peep of complaint out of him.
I have written before about the under-appreciated male expressions of love, but this one takes the cake. I have never felt so loved, my friends. To go the extra mile when you yourself are exhausted and stressed, for no benefit, other than to help the one you love, who sits next to you rocking, in tears, asking "why isn't it working?"(which is, I'm sure, very helpful when trouble shooting software), is better than any card of gift I have ever received*. H knew how much was riding on this project, as no one likes to complain more about how a project at school was done, than the 90% of parents who do absolutely fucking nothing**, so he didn't question me when I forced him to do another exhaustive proof with me at ten thirty on a Wednesday night*** to prevent me being chased down by some irate mother whose kid's name I spelled wrong (even though it was "Jak", instead of "Jack" which I thought HAD to be a typo.). His reformatting the table of contents was like a love poem, reminding me, love is not in the grand gesture, but in the daily grind. And I have that in spades.
So H, let me put it out there. You are the most incredible husband, and I am a lucky woman to have you. Bacon for dinner and you get the remote for six months. Ok, not really about the remote, but the pork products are a go. You rock my world.
*AND he sent my flowers two weeks ago. Really!
**Hence my reticence about the locals. All y'all keep your traps shut about my bitching. I dont need any school-yard confrontations.
***Also adding to my addled mental state is the fact I am sleeping only six hours a night, not my minimum required-to-function eight, putting me seriously in sleep deprivation and giving me the mental and emotional stability of a schizophrenic. The kids really enjoy playing "which Mommy do we get today?".
Monday, November 7, 2011
What were we thinking?
I was talking to an, as of yet, child-free friend the other day, when the question came up, "When did you know you wanted to have kids?" A pretty personal question.
Most people have a rough estimate of the time period such as, "Oh, around our second year of being married", but not me. It was October 28, 2000. I was 27 and H and I had been married for three years. It was a beautiful October Sunday and we had spent the day doing various harvest-y things that child-free people can do like go for long quiet walks enjoying the fall foliage and having a leisurely outdoor lunch. It’s strange really. I always thought that the desire to have a baby would just hit me like a lightning bolt one day, that I would become a woman possessed with baby lust, walking into the Baby Gap to check out the latest in pint sized bomber jackets. It hadn’t happened yet, and I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever want children. I had been around babies my entire life, coming from an extremely fertile Irish Catholic family. Babies are cute and all, but before that Sunday I could take them or leave them. I thought that someday, probably around my thirtieth birthday, I would feel that lightning bolt come searing through me. It didn't happen that way. It was more like having a craving for Chinese food, "You know what I could go for right now? A baby."
The bigger question though, is why? What drove me, on that particular day, to decide I was ready to be a mother? Well, eleven years, and three kids later, I still don't know. When you think about it, parenthood, on paper, has very little to recommend it. When you choose to become a parent, you are selecting to give up most of your free time, sleep and disposable income. You are choosing to create for yourself a gaping whole of need that, hopefully, will be filled in eighteen years, but more likely never.
H and I went to see The Change Up, a "body-switch" movie about two male friends, one married with three kids and one single. During the film, there is a "happy montage", where we see footage of each man enjoying the perks of the life he does not lead after he has gotten the hang of things in his new situation. We see the single guy in his married pal's body killing it, changing diapers and successfully bathing and bottle feeding twins, and slinging healthy items into his cart at the grocery with swift accuracy. We then see the married guy in his unattached buddy's body cheering at a baseball game on a beautiful day, drinking a beer, rollerblading through the city and reading at a cafe. If a good diaper change and not forgetting to buy milk are the high points of Door #1, um, I'll take Door #2 please. Who would choose to do this?
On its surface, it seems incredible that any of us willingly become parents (some of us have been surprised, if the results of not using a condom can be called a "surprise"). OK, maybe the first time you can blame on those Johnson & Johnson commercials. They are pretty persuasive. But times two, three, and what-the-hell-were-you-thinking four - what can explain it? Really, try without sounding like a Celine Dion song. Can't be done. To have someone to love unconditionally, for H and I to expand our love for each other (and stretch it to its breaking point). Makes you kind of nauseous, no?
I choose to think of this indescribability as a trait all too-good things share, like God, and why good bagels can only be made in New York. They are just because they are. I wanted to have a baby because I wanted to have a baby. I can never explain why, I just know I'm so glad I did.
Most people have a rough estimate of the time period such as, "Oh, around our second year of being married", but not me. It was October 28, 2000. I was 27 and H and I had been married for three years. It was a beautiful October Sunday and we had spent the day doing various harvest-y things that child-free people can do like go for long quiet walks enjoying the fall foliage and having a leisurely outdoor lunch. It’s strange really. I always thought that the desire to have a baby would just hit me like a lightning bolt one day, that I would become a woman possessed with baby lust, walking into the Baby Gap to check out the latest in pint sized bomber jackets. It hadn’t happened yet, and I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever want children. I had been around babies my entire life, coming from an extremely fertile Irish Catholic family. Babies are cute and all, but before that Sunday I could take them or leave them. I thought that someday, probably around my thirtieth birthday, I would feel that lightning bolt come searing through me. It didn't happen that way. It was more like having a craving for Chinese food, "You know what I could go for right now? A baby."
The bigger question though, is why? What drove me, on that particular day, to decide I was ready to be a mother? Well, eleven years, and three kids later, I still don't know. When you think about it, parenthood, on paper, has very little to recommend it. When you choose to become a parent, you are selecting to give up most of your free time, sleep and disposable income. You are choosing to create for yourself a gaping whole of need that, hopefully, will be filled in eighteen years, but more likely never.
H and I went to see The Change Up, a "body-switch" movie about two male friends, one married with three kids and one single. During the film, there is a "happy montage", where we see footage of each man enjoying the perks of the life he does not lead after he has gotten the hang of things in his new situation. We see the single guy in his married pal's body killing it, changing diapers and successfully bathing and bottle feeding twins, and slinging healthy items into his cart at the grocery with swift accuracy. We then see the married guy in his unattached buddy's body cheering at a baseball game on a beautiful day, drinking a beer, rollerblading through the city and reading at a cafe. If a good diaper change and not forgetting to buy milk are the high points of Door #1, um, I'll take Door #2 please. Who would choose to do this?
On its surface, it seems incredible that any of us willingly become parents (some of us have been surprised, if the results of not using a condom can be called a "surprise"). OK, maybe the first time you can blame on those Johnson & Johnson commercials. They are pretty persuasive. But times two, three, and what-the-hell-were-you-thinking four - what can explain it? Really, try without sounding like a Celine Dion song. Can't be done. To have someone to love unconditionally, for H and I to expand our love for each other (and stretch it to its breaking point). Makes you kind of nauseous, no?
I choose to think of this indescribability as a trait all too-good things share, like God, and why good bagels can only be made in New York. They are just because they are. I wanted to have a baby because I wanted to have a baby. I can never explain why, I just know I'm so glad I did.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Dear Utility Workers,
I just wanted to write to say thank you for all of your hard work over these last few days, since that freak snow storm that knocked out everybody's power, including ours, forcing H and I to eat enough brie and short ribs for eight people, after our dinner party had to be cancelled. It was rough, let me tell you. Plowing through all that wine wasn't easy either.
What I realized, when I was drunkenly ruminating about all the work that would have to be done over the next week to put everything right, is that we have quite a lot in common, your purveyors of energy, and we mothers. Like us, you make everything work. Without you, we are are cold, dirty and hungry. There is no dinner, no clean underwear, no baths. There are no parties or play dates when there are no lights. And also like us, if you are doing your job right no one notices. We don't all walk around marveling, "Well look at all this nice lamp light", or "I sure do love this all heat and hot water." Just like in my life, when no one notices the carefully packed school lunches or clean socks until I go on a trip or am half-dead with illness (although, unlike you, I do not get sick days and would still be cutting out dinosaur-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while coughing up a lung). Our existence goes completely unnoticed and unappreciated until something goes wrong and then, we are met with a chorus of complaints. Of course, there is no resultant tidal wave of praise and new respect for all that we do once everything is put right. It's just life as usual for the multitudes we care for.
So my hat is of to you, you hard-hatted angels. I see what you do and, since I made the realization, will now offer up a silent prayer of gratitude every time I need twenty-three minutes of peace in the form of Super Why, press the button on the remote and the TV actually turns on.
Best,
MM
What I realized, when I was drunkenly ruminating about all the work that would have to be done over the next week to put everything right, is that we have quite a lot in common, your purveyors of energy, and we mothers. Like us, you make everything work. Without you, we are are cold, dirty and hungry. There is no dinner, no clean underwear, no baths. There are no parties or play dates when there are no lights. And also like us, if you are doing your job right no one notices. We don't all walk around marveling, "Well look at all this nice lamp light", or "I sure do love this all heat and hot water." Just like in my life, when no one notices the carefully packed school lunches or clean socks until I go on a trip or am half-dead with illness (although, unlike you, I do not get sick days and would still be cutting out dinosaur-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while coughing up a lung). Our existence goes completely unnoticed and unappreciated until something goes wrong and then, we are met with a chorus of complaints. Of course, there is no resultant tidal wave of praise and new respect for all that we do once everything is put right. It's just life as usual for the multitudes we care for.
So my hat is of to you, you hard-hatted angels. I see what you do and, since I made the realization, will now offer up a silent prayer of gratitude every time I need twenty-three minutes of peace in the form of Super Why, press the button on the remote and the TV actually turns on.
Best,
MM
Monday, October 24, 2011
"Mom, where's my..."
Any query that begins with those three words makes my blood boil, dear readers. Unfortunately it happens with stunning regularity, that one of my offspring, or H, loses something vital and they think it's my job to "help" them find it, aka, find it for them.
Ask my kids, "What is Mommy's least favorite part of being a mom?", and they will answer, in unison, "Finding other people's stuff!" It seems once you have passed a human out of your body, you develop the uncanny ability to find Polly Pocket shoes, Matchbox cars and lost umbrellas. More accurately, this skill starts to truly develop when your first little on becomes mobile, so it's been close to ten years for me that I've been digging under couches and searching through the kitchen garbage to benefit someone other than myself. And after all these years, I have decided two unavoidable facets of motherhood work together to turn mothers into the blood hounds of their households.*
First, you are around most of the time. You know that Little Man had his purple one inch-long purple dinosaur from the A&P vending machine when he went down to the basement, so you know where to start looking for it when he refuses to go to bed without it. You can, as Steve from Blues Clues says, ""Go back, go back, go back, go back to where you were". Second, as a mother, you are so used to anticipating the needs of your family, (whereas your husband is completely reactionary, waiting until the children are comatose with hunger before feeding them, instead of anticipating most children eat lunch between the hours of eleven and one), you can think pretty well like them when you have to. So while you could send your hubs to the basement in search of the dinosaur, he would not be able to read the clues left behind to have a successful search and rescue. If it's not lying in the middle of the carpet, he has no chance. There is no way he will see the half-eaten bowl of Goldfish next to LM's garbage truck and think to himself, "He probably put it in the back of the truck." Elementary, dear Watson! Instead, he will sigh beleagueredly, and tromp back up the stairs claiming, "It's not ANYWHERE!" It is imperative to think like your subject. Manys the time I have been crawling around on the floor trying to get a toddler's-eye view to find an absolutely indispensable toy.
And it is the indispensability of these lost items that really gets me annoyed, dear readers. With the exception of Little Man, whose reasoning skills are rudimentary right now, the other three people I live with can connect the dots enough to think, "If something is important, I'd better keep track of where I put it." Library books, flutes and American Girl eyeglasses. Healthcare cards, iPad chargers and car keys. Why are these things MY responsibility? It's also the lack of looking that drives me mad. My family's search for items basically consists of walking into a room , spinning in a circle, and leaving, then coming to me so I can ask them where they were the last time they had the item, where did they last see it, etc. H, sometimes tries harder. Recently, upon my return from Texas, when H had been driving the van for three days, H could not find the keys. He thought he could throw over his shoulder, "I couldn't find them, I'll be late for work" and hit the bricks. No fucking way. I told him he was not leaving until he found my keys, you know, with my having to take Little Man to school three towns over and all. "I've looked everywhere!" he sighs. Then, like a toddler, I had to ask him when he drove the van last, and to where. What was he wearing? Where did he go afterwards? "I went to work after, and I already looked in my bag!!!" I told him, 'Well, it looks like you're working from home today, as I will be taking your car." Another, more extensive search of his work bag results in the found keys. Funny how that works.
So while I do not expect any member of my family to have such extensive knowledge of the location of every item in the house, I do expect them to at least TRY, when it comes to finding shit. I know this is a war comprised of many battles, but I have to keep trying. If I don't go through this exhausting exercise, I'll be fielding phone calls, helping them find resumes and birth control pills.
*To be fair, I'm sure there are some dads who also have this gift, but I have yet to meet any one with a penis who could find the Lego firefighter's hat in less than a week.
Ask my kids, "What is Mommy's least favorite part of being a mom?", and they will answer, in unison, "Finding other people's stuff!" It seems once you have passed a human out of your body, you develop the uncanny ability to find Polly Pocket shoes, Matchbox cars and lost umbrellas. More accurately, this skill starts to truly develop when your first little on becomes mobile, so it's been close to ten years for me that I've been digging under couches and searching through the kitchen garbage to benefit someone other than myself. And after all these years, I have decided two unavoidable facets of motherhood work together to turn mothers into the blood hounds of their households.*
First, you are around most of the time. You know that Little Man had his purple one inch-long purple dinosaur from the A&P vending machine when he went down to the basement, so you know where to start looking for it when he refuses to go to bed without it. You can, as Steve from Blues Clues says, ""Go back, go back, go back, go back to where you were". Second, as a mother, you are so used to anticipating the needs of your family, (whereas your husband is completely reactionary, waiting until the children are comatose with hunger before feeding them, instead of anticipating most children eat lunch between the hours of eleven and one), you can think pretty well like them when you have to. So while you could send your hubs to the basement in search of the dinosaur, he would not be able to read the clues left behind to have a successful search and rescue. If it's not lying in the middle of the carpet, he has no chance. There is no way he will see the half-eaten bowl of Goldfish next to LM's garbage truck and think to himself, "He probably put it in the back of the truck." Elementary, dear Watson! Instead, he will sigh beleagueredly, and tromp back up the stairs claiming, "It's not ANYWHERE!" It is imperative to think like your subject. Manys the time I have been crawling around on the floor trying to get a toddler's-eye view to find an absolutely indispensable toy.
And it is the indispensability of these lost items that really gets me annoyed, dear readers. With the exception of Little Man, whose reasoning skills are rudimentary right now, the other three people I live with can connect the dots enough to think, "If something is important, I'd better keep track of where I put it." Library books, flutes and American Girl eyeglasses. Healthcare cards, iPad chargers and car keys. Why are these things MY responsibility? It's also the lack of looking that drives me mad. My family's search for items basically consists of walking into a room , spinning in a circle, and leaving, then coming to me so I can ask them where they were the last time they had the item, where did they last see it, etc. H, sometimes tries harder. Recently, upon my return from Texas, when H had been driving the van for three days, H could not find the keys. He thought he could throw over his shoulder, "I couldn't find them, I'll be late for work" and hit the bricks. No fucking way. I told him he was not leaving until he found my keys, you know, with my having to take Little Man to school three towns over and all. "I've looked everywhere!" he sighs. Then, like a toddler, I had to ask him when he drove the van last, and to where. What was he wearing? Where did he go afterwards? "I went to work after, and I already looked in my bag!!!" I told him, 'Well, it looks like you're working from home today, as I will be taking your car." Another, more extensive search of his work bag results in the found keys. Funny how that works.
So while I do not expect any member of my family to have such extensive knowledge of the location of every item in the house, I do expect them to at least TRY, when it comes to finding shit. I know this is a war comprised of many battles, but I have to keep trying. If I don't go through this exhausting exercise, I'll be fielding phone calls, helping them find resumes and birth control pills.
*To be fair, I'm sure there are some dads who also have this gift, but I have yet to meet any one with a penis who could find the Lego firefighter's hat in less than a week.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Cast off those rags!!!!
I am about to make a bold statement, dear readers, prepare yourselves.
I pledge, from this day forward, I will not wear my Yankee hat or yoga pants after 10:00am on weekdays.
Well, actually, I made this pledge, to myself, two weeks ago, but I didn't want to write about it until I had taken it out for a test drive. I know. Wasn't I the one who had written so many times about accepting my lot in life as the haggard mother of three with no time for grooming? Yes, I was. Why this radical change, you ask? Well, after I had the annual Return to school Mini-breakdown, around mid-September, I realized part of what makes me so miserable in the fall is the fact that throwing on a tank top and shorts is no longer an option, and I constantly feel disheveled in my athletic gear. I decided, with Little Man turning four, I had had enough, and this would be the year I stop envying those put together women at school drop off and become one of them. The would be the year I got my "me-ness" back.
So I went shopping. I bought some new khakis and jeans, some cotton tops with cute details. Nothing too nuts. I bought a lot from Land's End Canvas, who market a J.Crew-type wardrobe, not the high-waisted slacks and shapeless twinsets of their parent company. I bought some scarves to jazz things up a bit, and finally invested in a cute pair of flats. I permit myself to throw on the old uniform in the mornings, when I'm trying to get the kids out the door, but once I return from dropping Little Man, the bangs get blown out, I throw on a coat of mascara and a pair of pants that actually have a button and zipper. Every single day. Not just on the days I have school board meetings or doctor's appointments.
The change has been miraculous. I feel like a real person. I thought my old, athletic gear was liberating me from the worry of putting myself together, but in reality, it was sending a different message to the world and, more importantly, to my psyche. It said, "I don't matter." I never thought I would fall into the category of women who put themselves last, I mean, I go on girls' weekends and make time to work out every day (at this point B would point out that I do it before sunrise, so it doesn't exactly qualify as quality "me time") Isn't "putting everyone else first" what all those moms on The Biggest Loser use as their excuse? But by not even giving myself the basics, twenty minutes to get myself dressed each day, I was giving away a part of myself that I damn well want back.
I still marvel at those moms who have their hair blown out, or even down, and wear clothes that definitely look "dry clean only", but now I get why they make the effort. it puts a little pep in your step, that has nothing to do with whether someone pooped in the potty or got an A on their counties of New Jersey quiz*. It only has to do with you and how you feel about yourself.
There are some glitches in the system, which I have not worked out yet. For example, how do I do laundry and clean out the closets wearing khakis, or finger paint with Little Man wearing a drape-y cardigan? So I have had to invent a sort of "house coat" outfit. I usually keep on the top I'm wearing and throw on the ol' yogas. And whatever happened to housecoats, by the way? Or non-ironic womens' aprons? I plan on bringing both back. It can be very frustrating for me to have H see me in those pants upon his return home, when I had been wearing really cute Lucky jeans two hours prior. It would be so handy to whip off whatever covering garment I have on and have him see my ensemble, which, to be fair, I'd probably have to point out since my sweet guy digs me in whatever I'm wearing, and wouldn't notice. But then, what choice does he have?
So fellow athletically-clad-but-have-no-intentions-of-working-out-in-the-forseeable-future mothers, hear my cry! You deserve twenty minutes to beautify yourself! You deserve to wear clothes that couldn't double as pajamas in a pinch! You deserve to look at yourself in the mirror and instead of resignedly sighing, think to yourself, "I look cute today." Because you are not just someone's mother, and the work horse that keeps this grist mill turning, you are you. Awesome you.
And don't you forget it, 'cause ain't nobody else gonna remind you, but you.
*Between my non-native status and my complete lack of geographic knowledge, I am NO help at all. When #1 asked where our county is I said, "Um, near the top somewhere?"
I pledge, from this day forward, I will not wear my Yankee hat or yoga pants after 10:00am on weekdays.
Well, actually, I made this pledge, to myself, two weeks ago, but I didn't want to write about it until I had taken it out for a test drive. I know. Wasn't I the one who had written so many times about accepting my lot in life as the haggard mother of three with no time for grooming? Yes, I was. Why this radical change, you ask? Well, after I had the annual Return to school Mini-breakdown, around mid-September, I realized part of what makes me so miserable in the fall is the fact that throwing on a tank top and shorts is no longer an option, and I constantly feel disheveled in my athletic gear. I decided, with Little Man turning four, I had had enough, and this would be the year I stop envying those put together women at school drop off and become one of them. The would be the year I got my "me-ness" back.
So I went shopping. I bought some new khakis and jeans, some cotton tops with cute details. Nothing too nuts. I bought a lot from Land's End Canvas, who market a J.Crew-type wardrobe, not the high-waisted slacks and shapeless twinsets of their parent company. I bought some scarves to jazz things up a bit, and finally invested in a cute pair of flats. I permit myself to throw on the old uniform in the mornings, when I'm trying to get the kids out the door, but once I return from dropping Little Man, the bangs get blown out, I throw on a coat of mascara and a pair of pants that actually have a button and zipper. Every single day. Not just on the days I have school board meetings or doctor's appointments.
The change has been miraculous. I feel like a real person. I thought my old, athletic gear was liberating me from the worry of putting myself together, but in reality, it was sending a different message to the world and, more importantly, to my psyche. It said, "I don't matter." I never thought I would fall into the category of women who put themselves last, I mean, I go on girls' weekends and make time to work out every day (at this point B would point out that I do it before sunrise, so it doesn't exactly qualify as quality "me time") Isn't "putting everyone else first" what all those moms on The Biggest Loser use as their excuse? But by not even giving myself the basics, twenty minutes to get myself dressed each day, I was giving away a part of myself that I damn well want back.
I still marvel at those moms who have their hair blown out, or even down, and wear clothes that definitely look "dry clean only", but now I get why they make the effort. it puts a little pep in your step, that has nothing to do with whether someone pooped in the potty or got an A on their counties of New Jersey quiz*. It only has to do with you and how you feel about yourself.
There are some glitches in the system, which I have not worked out yet. For example, how do I do laundry and clean out the closets wearing khakis, or finger paint with Little Man wearing a drape-y cardigan? So I have had to invent a sort of "house coat" outfit. I usually keep on the top I'm wearing and throw on the ol' yogas. And whatever happened to housecoats, by the way? Or non-ironic womens' aprons? I plan on bringing both back. It can be very frustrating for me to have H see me in those pants upon his return home, when I had been wearing really cute Lucky jeans two hours prior. It would be so handy to whip off whatever covering garment I have on and have him see my ensemble, which, to be fair, I'd probably have to point out since my sweet guy digs me in whatever I'm wearing, and wouldn't notice. But then, what choice does he have?
So fellow athletically-clad-but-have-no-intentions-of-working-out-in-the-forseeable-future mothers, hear my cry! You deserve twenty minutes to beautify yourself! You deserve to wear clothes that couldn't double as pajamas in a pinch! You deserve to look at yourself in the mirror and instead of resignedly sighing, think to yourself, "I look cute today." Because you are not just someone's mother, and the work horse that keeps this grist mill turning, you are you. Awesome you.
And don't you forget it, 'cause ain't nobody else gonna remind you, but you.
*Between my non-native status and my complete lack of geographic knowledge, I am NO help at all. When #1 asked where our county is I said, "Um, near the top somewhere?"
Thursday, October 13, 2011
My kind of town (sorry, NYC)
Reasons I love Houston, TX:
Barbecue
Shoes
Indian pizza
Ear piercing
Dolly Parton
7 foot tall trannies
The House of Pies
Houston, you have won my heart. I have just returned from three days in the great state of Texas visiting my sister, KK, (which, along with the fact that I was sick last week, explains my absence), and let me say, Houston can give NYC a run for its money. OK, so Houston doesn't have monuments to architecture like the Empire State Building, and the Houston Museum of Fine Arts might not be the grand dame the Met is, but Houston does have a mall so big it has not one, but TWO Macy's, and, in this city, every eating establishment, from pizzerias* to burger joints, serves wine and beer. The motto of Houston, according to KK, is eat, drink and shop. And that we did. KK and I spent more time in the mall than we have since 1989. Which included getting her ears pierced at Claire's at the tender age of thirty-five.
Then, of course, there was the Dolly Parton concert, which was the catalyst of this weekday trip. I have seen U2, sat in the tenth row to watch Eric Clapton perform, as well as various other artists, and I can say with complete certainty, that Dolly Parton, with her overly injected, clownishly made-up face, platinum blonde wigs, sky blue satin, capri jumpsuit covered entirely in six inch-long rhinestone fringe, was the single best performer I have ever seen. She played eight different instruments during the show, including a dulcimer and a harmonica. She sang her classics, of course, but not to be hemmed in by the country genre, she also played Tina Turner's "River Deep mountain High" and Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" Stairway to Heaven! On a banjo! And I was sitting next to a seven foot tall drag queen dressed as Dolly. Had I died and gone to heaven?
Needless to say, my return to regular life has been bumpy, although I missed the kids and H a lot, the lack of barbecue, wine, sleep and pie, is making me a little cranky. What is making me even more cranky is missing my sister. We realized during breakfast at The House of Pies (see below), over huevos rancheros, and slices of both sweet potato and Texas pecan fudge pie (all of that was my breakfast, after which the tiny, Mexican waitress asked me, "You always eat like this?"), we had not spent this much time alone in almost ten years. Between the spouses and the kids, it seems there's always someone around which, while adding to the fun, also changes the dynamic.
For those of you with siblings you are close with, you know what a wonderfully complicated relationship exists between brothers and sisters. This is the person who has been there all your life and knows your deepest, darkest secrets, your strengths and weaknesses - like the fact you hate feet or minor chords (KK, and me respectively). You are probably pretty different, even though you came form the same household, and you appreciate those differences. One of you is balanced and relaxed, annoyed by the "pressure to move fast" after the other returns from a morning run, hopping around the hotel room flipping through guidebooks. I once read the sibling relationship is so important during childhood because these are the people we try out different personas on before we take them out in public, like Guns and Roses metal head, or suburban goody-two-shoes trying to become a hippie by buying peace sign earrings at Claire's and a baja at Spencers (again, KK and me). Our brothers and sisters helped shape you into the person you've become by their reaction to your unfortunate Joey Lawrence cap, and having seen all the struggle, are proud of you (and the fact that you ditched the chapeau).
Now that the girls are old enough to have had long-term friendships, the term "best friend" is being bandied about the house. While I am glad they have made close connections, I know the fickle nature of childhood friendship, and the same girl you split a BFF locket with from Piercing Pagoda in third grade, could be calling you a bitch by the sixth, so I don't encourage such exclusivity. I tell them, "You were born with two best friends, your sister and Little Man." In my experience, your siblings are the best friends you can have. You may be pissed she ripped your New Kids on the Block poster, but she's gonna be there for the good and the bad for the rest of your life, like it or not, which tends to encourage some kind of warm feelings, or at least a resigned peace.
When I am alone with K, I'm not a mother or a wife, I'm just me. The me I was before all these other relationships started rubbing against my edges and changing the shape of my personality. Being alone with my sister is like refocusing a fuzzy image. I leave with a renewed clarity about who I am and what's important to me.
So maybe make a plan with you brother or sister(s) for a night away, or dinner, or just an uninterrupted phone call. You can gain a new perspective spending time with the people who knew you when you were still becoming you.
And if you can do it while singing "Backwoods Barbie", that's even better.
*Indian pizza? I thought this was going to be a schizophrenic culinary nightmare...until I tasted saag paneer on flatbread.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Dear Wall Street Protestors,
I am writing to see if I can give you a a bit of advice to improve the effectiveness of your protest. I have three points.
1. Representation. I realize your group is diverse, which is appropriate, since you claim to represent the rest of America, not a part of the white-male-oppressor greed machine. But I propose you be a bit more selective about whom you choose to allow camera time. The sweaty, shirtless, one-armed, midget drummer I saw on the news this morning, was not, perhaps, the best choice of visual to coalesce an army of the financially downtrodden. Many people might have a problem aligning themselves with someone they would cross the street to avoid rather than be harassed for spare change in exchange for the mad beats he's banging out on that spackle tub. Not that I have any issue with his being sweaty (who am I to judge?), one-armed, short in stature, or a drummer. But, generally having your spokespeople be clothed is a good first step.
To quote on of your reps*, "I actually quit my job and got a one-way ticket out here for the protests. I just felt like it was really - in a lot ways, this was the last hope for some sort of real change." You quit a job, to protest that there are no jobs? Interesting. I especially enjoyed the young woman who said, "I'm talking about people who have master's degrees, in a lot of cases, who have to work $8-an-hour jobs because there are just no jobs. My generation - I'm 23 - my generation is really like the lost generation." Isn't an $8-an-hour job a job? Hence, negating "there are just no jobs". She and I need to have a come-to-Jesus about what "paying your dues" means. Or did she think getting a Master's degree in Comparative Lit was going to earn her a corner office right off the bat?
2. Handshake. Some of you feel moved enough to speak to the group at large, or loudly rail against the financial monsters and, wisely, you have decided to conserve your energy and not shout your agreement, but use a hand gesture. Let's look at history, shall we? Some of the most memorable social movements had very strong hand gestures. Look at the Third Reich, and the Black Panthers. Very strong, powerful arms movements there. When you agree with what is being said, you raise your hands above your head and waggle your fingers. You guys picked "jazz hands" as your gesture? I'm starting to see a pattern here. Arm gesture = social movement run by lunatics. Hands down, I think.
3. A clear goal. It helps, I think, to know exactly what is is you want to achieve. Protesting against "greed and corruption" in this country, without having and endgame is like protesting against "people being jerks". Is there specific legislation you have in mind? Certain individuals whose actions need to be addressed legally? In addition, painting all individuals who work on Wall Street with the same brush, is like everyone in this country calling you all lazy, unmotivated, jobless losers who want to blame their lack of success on others, rather than the fact they would prefer to sit in a park and compare tattoos. I'm just sayin'.
Don't let that fact that H works in the industry, or that I believe everyone loves Wall Street when the fast, cheap deals are allowing them to buy shit they can't afford, without reading the fine print, and once the market goes south, and the cash dries up, those same morons are in the streets screaming for blood, filming it all on an iPhone they bought using credit, dissuade you from taking my advice. Look past my belief that demonizing big business is the privilege of living in the wealthiest country in the world and that big business provides many of the jobs you all complain about not being able to get. Is that a cup of Starbucks in your hand? And that fact that I was raised by "have nots" who turned themselves into "haves" by the sweat of their own brows and night school, will not color my views at all.
So if you have any interest in getting organized and not just being the lyrics of Billy Joel's "Angry Young Man" come to life, drop me a line. I run a Girl Scout troop of twenty girls. I figure if I add up all of your motivation, it might equal their energy and we can get some work done.
Sincerely,
MM
*PS- When NPR can't even put a positive spin on this train wreck, you are in serious trouble.
1. Representation. I realize your group is diverse, which is appropriate, since you claim to represent the rest of America, not a part of the white-male-oppressor greed machine. But I propose you be a bit more selective about whom you choose to allow camera time. The sweaty, shirtless, one-armed, midget drummer I saw on the news this morning, was not, perhaps, the best choice of visual to coalesce an army of the financially downtrodden. Many people might have a problem aligning themselves with someone they would cross the street to avoid rather than be harassed for spare change in exchange for the mad beats he's banging out on that spackle tub. Not that I have any issue with his being sweaty (who am I to judge?), one-armed, short in stature, or a drummer. But, generally having your spokespeople be clothed is a good first step.
To quote on of your reps*, "I actually quit my job and got a one-way ticket out here for the protests. I just felt like it was really - in a lot ways, this was the last hope for some sort of real change." You quit a job, to protest that there are no jobs? Interesting. I especially enjoyed the young woman who said, "I'm talking about people who have master's degrees, in a lot of cases, who have to work $8-an-hour jobs because there are just no jobs. My generation - I'm 23 - my generation is really like the lost generation." Isn't an $8-an-hour job a job? Hence, negating "there are just no jobs". She and I need to have a come-to-Jesus about what "paying your dues" means. Or did she think getting a Master's degree in Comparative Lit was going to earn her a corner office right off the bat?
2. Handshake. Some of you feel moved enough to speak to the group at large, or loudly rail against the financial monsters and, wisely, you have decided to conserve your energy and not shout your agreement, but use a hand gesture. Let's look at history, shall we? Some of the most memorable social movements had very strong hand gestures. Look at the Third Reich, and the Black Panthers. Very strong, powerful arms movements there. When you agree with what is being said, you raise your hands above your head and waggle your fingers. You guys picked "jazz hands" as your gesture? I'm starting to see a pattern here. Arm gesture = social movement run by lunatics. Hands down, I think.
3. A clear goal. It helps, I think, to know exactly what is is you want to achieve. Protesting against "greed and corruption" in this country, without having and endgame is like protesting against "people being jerks". Is there specific legislation you have in mind? Certain individuals whose actions need to be addressed legally? In addition, painting all individuals who work on Wall Street with the same brush, is like everyone in this country calling you all lazy, unmotivated, jobless losers who want to blame their lack of success on others, rather than the fact they would prefer to sit in a park and compare tattoos. I'm just sayin'.
Don't let that fact that H works in the industry, or that I believe everyone loves Wall Street when the fast, cheap deals are allowing them to buy shit they can't afford, without reading the fine print, and once the market goes south, and the cash dries up, those same morons are in the streets screaming for blood, filming it all on an iPhone they bought using credit, dissuade you from taking my advice. Look past my belief that demonizing big business is the privilege of living in the wealthiest country in the world and that big business provides many of the jobs you all complain about not being able to get. Is that a cup of Starbucks in your hand? And that fact that I was raised by "have nots" who turned themselves into "haves" by the sweat of their own brows and night school, will not color my views at all.
So if you have any interest in getting organized and not just being the lyrics of Billy Joel's "Angry Young Man" come to life, drop me a line. I run a Girl Scout troop of twenty girls. I figure if I add up all of your motivation, it might equal their energy and we can get some work done.
Sincerely,
MM
*PS- When NPR can't even put a positive spin on this train wreck, you are in serious trouble.
Stop touching the fucking buttons!!!!!
Sorry you were exposed to a post in the making, as LM can not keep his sticky fingers of the friggn's keyboard if I leave it for two seconds. Good thing the banking website wasn't up or he might have wired money to Switzerland.
A complete version of that post coming soon. Annoying....
A complete version of that post coming soon. Annoying....
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
When does it stop feeling like pretend?
I just got off the phone with Skip, the manager of the local garage and body shop in town, where I dropped the van off to be detailed this morning. Having improved upon the Extra Butter version of the van I had been driving since August, by adding an ocean of dog vomit to the mix when Reilly had a stomach bug last week, I decided it was time to call in the professionals. There are only so many rolls of paper towels and bottles of Febreeze I can go through before I have to wave the white flag, as much to surrender as to wave the stink away from my face. I think Skip was being a tad dramatic, though, when he called to ask if they could keep the van overnight to continue working on it since it was the "worst case they had ever seen". It's not like I left my car in long-term parking at JFK for three months with a package of raw chicken in the trunk, or had two stolen six packs of Bartles and James wine coolers explode in the back seat after being left in the heat and toppling over. Roll up your sleeves, Skip, and get to work.
I trust Skip, though, since he's done a bunch of work on both cars, including jumping both repeatedly, and after I hung up with him I thought how weird that I'm in that stage in life where I have a mechanic whom I know by name. I also have a plumber, an electrician and a contractor. When the hell did that happen? Once upon a time, when faced with a household emergency, H and I called the "real grown-ups", aka, one of our parents, to give us guidance and provide a trusted source of help. Now I'm the one giving out numbers to new neighbors in town. When did H and I become one of them? Sure, I might look like I should have a mortgage, a 401K and a will, but there are many times when it still feels like pretend and someone is going to come along and say, "I'm sorry. This life was reserved for an actual adult. You can leave now."
It seems with every milestone in my adult life I have felt, at times, like I am playing a role in a movie. As a new teacher, the very first day of school, I was quaking in my stacked loafers and almost peed my brand new, bought-with-anticipated-paychecks Banana Republic trousers. TROUSERS, I tell you! No more khakis and corduroys for me. I had a name plate on my desk and kids were calling me Mrs. H and shit. I had my own chalkboard and overhead projector*! I thought, look at me, all teacher-y, calling roll and correcting homework! Now as long as I could hide from the people from the Board of Ed who were sure to come take my license away and ensure I ruined no young lives.
The coup de gras of this "role" phenomenon though, has been parenthood. Minutes after #1 came screaming out of me I was apparently supposed to be perfectly comfortable with her latching herself to me like a remora. This was my first lesson in faking it. Look at me, perfectly comfortable with someone eating from my body! No discomfort here! Got this lactating thing complete under control! That night in the hospital was comedy, as our eldest woke every hour and H and I stared at each other, wondering if we should ring the call bell, admitting our ignorance as to the needs of our hours-old progeny, or pretend we had even a shred of a clue as to what our kid might want. We chose the latter and slept not a wink**. It didn't get much better the rest of our stay. I remember being wheeled out the doors of the hospital upon discharge, precariously balancing the infant carrier I barely new how to buckle, which contained a child I barely knew how to keep alive, sure at some point somebody would yell, "STOP THAT WOMAN! SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING!!!" But no, I probably looked like any new mother, off to start life with her new baby, which is what I was desperately trying to feel like.
So basically, that's been the gist of the last nine years. I look like "Mother of Three" right out of Central Casting. Hastily scraped back hair, check, peanut butter-proof outfit, check, minivan, check. I see myself doing things like going to PTA meetings and running Girl Scout trips and I think to myself, this such a cliche. It's not that I don't love my life, in fact, it's quite the opposite. Walking the girls to school*** on a sunny fall morning, when my life looks and feels like a scene out of Pleasantville, as I wave to other moms and our clean, happy children run off to school while the sun shines brightly on the fall foliage. It's an incredibly enjoyable cliche that I adore (mot days), but I still can't get over the fact that it still feels like smoke and mirrors a lot of times and that the other mothers must really know what they're doing. Maybe their vans aren't the "worst case" Skip has ever seen.
Maybe that's the case with any job or stage in life. Maybe new grandparents feel it, new hairdressers, new baristas at Starbucks, even the President feels it. He must sign a bill once in a while and say, look at me being all Presidential, while worrying he looks awkward with the way he holds a pen and all****.
*They had only recently gotten rid of the slates and the dunce cap.
**Note to new parents: ALWAYS let them take the baby to the nursery the first night. You are so tired after labor, should you get behind the wheel of a car, you'd probably be pulled over for drunk driving. Handling an infant is probably not a good idea until you get four consecutive hours of shut eye.
***Back when I had to do that - woot!
***Props to my fellow southpaw.
I trust Skip, though, since he's done a bunch of work on both cars, including jumping both repeatedly, and after I hung up with him I thought how weird that I'm in that stage in life where I have a mechanic whom I know by name. I also have a plumber, an electrician and a contractor. When the hell did that happen? Once upon a time, when faced with a household emergency, H and I called the "real grown-ups", aka, one of our parents, to give us guidance and provide a trusted source of help. Now I'm the one giving out numbers to new neighbors in town. When did H and I become one of them? Sure, I might look like I should have a mortgage, a 401K and a will, but there are many times when it still feels like pretend and someone is going to come along and say, "I'm sorry. This life was reserved for an actual adult. You can leave now."
It seems with every milestone in my adult life I have felt, at times, like I am playing a role in a movie. As a new teacher, the very first day of school, I was quaking in my stacked loafers and almost peed my brand new, bought-with-anticipated-paychecks Banana Republic trousers. TROUSERS, I tell you! No more khakis and corduroys for me. I had a name plate on my desk and kids were calling me Mrs. H and shit. I had my own chalkboard and overhead projector*! I thought, look at me, all teacher-y, calling roll and correcting homework! Now as long as I could hide from the people from the Board of Ed who were sure to come take my license away and ensure I ruined no young lives.
The coup de gras of this "role" phenomenon though, has been parenthood. Minutes after #1 came screaming out of me I was apparently supposed to be perfectly comfortable with her latching herself to me like a remora. This was my first lesson in faking it. Look at me, perfectly comfortable with someone eating from my body! No discomfort here! Got this lactating thing complete under control! That night in the hospital was comedy, as our eldest woke every hour and H and I stared at each other, wondering if we should ring the call bell, admitting our ignorance as to the needs of our hours-old progeny, or pretend we had even a shred of a clue as to what our kid might want. We chose the latter and slept not a wink**. It didn't get much better the rest of our stay. I remember being wheeled out the doors of the hospital upon discharge, precariously balancing the infant carrier I barely new how to buckle, which contained a child I barely knew how to keep alive, sure at some point somebody would yell, "STOP THAT WOMAN! SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING!!!" But no, I probably looked like any new mother, off to start life with her new baby, which is what I was desperately trying to feel like.
So basically, that's been the gist of the last nine years. I look like "Mother of Three" right out of Central Casting. Hastily scraped back hair, check, peanut butter-proof outfit, check, minivan, check. I see myself doing things like going to PTA meetings and running Girl Scout trips and I think to myself, this such a cliche. It's not that I don't love my life, in fact, it's quite the opposite. Walking the girls to school*** on a sunny fall morning, when my life looks and feels like a scene out of Pleasantville, as I wave to other moms and our clean, happy children run off to school while the sun shines brightly on the fall foliage. It's an incredibly enjoyable cliche that I adore (mot days), but I still can't get over the fact that it still feels like smoke and mirrors a lot of times and that the other mothers must really know what they're doing. Maybe their vans aren't the "worst case" Skip has ever seen.
Maybe that's the case with any job or stage in life. Maybe new grandparents feel it, new hairdressers, new baristas at Starbucks, even the President feels it. He must sign a bill once in a while and say, look at me being all Presidential, while worrying he looks awkward with the way he holds a pen and all****.
*They had only recently gotten rid of the slates and the dunce cap.
**Note to new parents: ALWAYS let them take the baby to the nursery the first night. You are so tired after labor, should you get behind the wheel of a car, you'd probably be pulled over for drunk driving. Handling an infant is probably not a good idea until you get four consecutive hours of shut eye.
***Back when I had to do that - woot!
***Props to my fellow southpaw.
Sex Ed, Preschool Edition
Contrary to my usual bath policy, I let Little Man take a leisurely bubble bath the other day since it was a dreary, rainy day and I had to clean out the closets anyway. Yes, I am a bad parent and left my four year-old in six inches of bubbly water while I was fifteen feet away putting away his summer clothes. With all the singing and such, I had a pretty good barometer as to his not having drowned.
I came in to the room to check on him, and noticed he was pretty seriously investigating his junk. Thank God it was not “bouncy” or I would have had to throw up. It seemed to be more of an exploratory mission, since when I asked him, “What’s goin' on down there, boy-o?”, he asks, “What are these bumps?”
And here we go again.
Explaining you body’s intimate parts and their functions is one of the most stressful, pressure-filled aspects of parenting. One wrong answer and you’ve just cost your kid thousands in therapy, trying to get over their crippling sexual anxiety.
The girls have a pretty healthy view of breasts, I think, since their exposure has only been to them in their functional role. Little Man, not so much, as he pats my chest and asks, “Why you have these bumps?” What is it with this kid and bumps? But while reproducing and the subsequent nursing are handy ways for kids to develop an appreciation for the practical uses of the reproductive bits, it also can bring up topics of discussion waaaay before you’re ready as a parent to go there. And you don’t get a study schedule either, so you can be all prepared and shit. There’s no warning as to when Junior is going to ask where baby comes from, and it’s usually in front of an audience, or when you’re unloading the groceries. It's basically like One of the World's Most Important Pop Quizzes.
The girls had an early intro to The Human Body 101, as I was pregnant with Little Man when #1 was age four and #2 was age two. At that point though, it was pretty easy to satisfy their curiosity with the basics, which became my philosophy – only give them enough information to answer their question. For example, when four year-old #1 asked of my pregnant belly, “How did the baby get in there?” I told her that daddies have seeds they put in the mommies belly and the baby grows in there. That was enough for her, or maybe she heard me muttering under my breath, “Please don’t ask how it gets in there.” She saved that for later. At seven she asked, at the dinner table in front of the other two kids, how the daddies get the seed in there. Arm in the air, dishing out the broccoli, I break into flop sweats. Where is their damn father? Why is it always me getting caught in these situations? I had two seconds to come up with an answer. “You know how Daddy has a penis*, and Mommy has a vagina? Well they fit together like a puzzle and the seed comes out of the daddy and goes into the mommy’s uterus, which is a special part of a woman’s belly and the baby grows there.” And...crickets. Thank God, no bonus round, like "what does the seed look like?"
The words penis, vagina and uterus also bring up the point of what the hell you are going to call everything. H and I have gone the entirely clinical route. I read somewhere once that using the anatomically correct terms could help, God forbid, if your kid ever needed to tell you about a problem in the area. Personally, I just find it weird. Sure, “vagina” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, but I don’t want to be talking about her hoo-hoo when #1 gets her period, and I find all nicknames for the male genitalia demeaning. Talk about creating issues. How masculine can you feel, growing up calling it a winky?
Now before you start congratulating me on my wisdom, let me admit, I have made mistakes. The most notable of which, is scarring #2 with my tales of my accidental, drug-free labor with her. I was pretty matter-of-fact about it, but I think the surprising information that there is a third hole down there, coupled with the fact that she is pretty chronically constipated, produced the tears when she asked, "Do you have to have a baby?"
And no matter how careful you are, and how neatly you think you've tied it all up with a bow, your kids will throw a zinger your way that will cause stammering and panic. #1 pretty much knows all the ins and out (no pun intended) of intercourse and birth, etc. , so I thought I was done. Then, snuggling up watching an episode of Gilmore Girls, she blurts out, "So how do people who aren't married have babies?"
Again, H? Nowhere to be found.**
*Thank God we had a small house with one bathroom when they were little, so the girls know what the male equipment looks like.
**One could argue he will be in charge of LM's sex ed class, but I was the one explaining what a scrotum and testicles were during the aforementioned bath.
I came in to the room to check on him, and noticed he was pretty seriously investigating his junk. Thank God it was not “bouncy” or I would have had to throw up. It seemed to be more of an exploratory mission, since when I asked him, “What’s goin' on down there, boy-o?”, he asks, “What are these bumps?”
And here we go again.
Explaining you body’s intimate parts and their functions is one of the most stressful, pressure-filled aspects of parenting. One wrong answer and you’ve just cost your kid thousands in therapy, trying to get over their crippling sexual anxiety.
The girls have a pretty healthy view of breasts, I think, since their exposure has only been to them in their functional role. Little Man, not so much, as he pats my chest and asks, “Why you have these bumps?” What is it with this kid and bumps? But while reproducing and the subsequent nursing are handy ways for kids to develop an appreciation for the practical uses of the reproductive bits, it also can bring up topics of discussion waaaay before you’re ready as a parent to go there. And you don’t get a study schedule either, so you can be all prepared and shit. There’s no warning as to when Junior is going to ask where baby comes from, and it’s usually in front of an audience, or when you’re unloading the groceries. It's basically like One of the World's Most Important Pop Quizzes.
The girls had an early intro to The Human Body 101, as I was pregnant with Little Man when #1 was age four and #2 was age two. At that point though, it was pretty easy to satisfy their curiosity with the basics, which became my philosophy – only give them enough information to answer their question. For example, when four year-old #1 asked of my pregnant belly, “How did the baby get in there?” I told her that daddies have seeds they put in the mommies belly and the baby grows in there. That was enough for her, or maybe she heard me muttering under my breath, “Please don’t ask how it gets in there.” She saved that for later. At seven she asked, at the dinner table in front of the other two kids, how the daddies get the seed in there. Arm in the air, dishing out the broccoli, I break into flop sweats. Where is their damn father? Why is it always me getting caught in these situations? I had two seconds to come up with an answer. “You know how Daddy has a penis*, and Mommy has a vagina? Well they fit together like a puzzle and the seed comes out of the daddy and goes into the mommy’s uterus, which is a special part of a woman’s belly and the baby grows there.” And...crickets. Thank God, no bonus round, like "what does the seed look like?"
The words penis, vagina and uterus also bring up the point of what the hell you are going to call everything. H and I have gone the entirely clinical route. I read somewhere once that using the anatomically correct terms could help, God forbid, if your kid ever needed to tell you about a problem in the area. Personally, I just find it weird. Sure, “vagina” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, but I don’t want to be talking about her hoo-hoo when #1 gets her period, and I find all nicknames for the male genitalia demeaning. Talk about creating issues. How masculine can you feel, growing up calling it a winky?
Now before you start congratulating me on my wisdom, let me admit, I have made mistakes. The most notable of which, is scarring #2 with my tales of my accidental, drug-free labor with her. I was pretty matter-of-fact about it, but I think the surprising information that there is a third hole down there, coupled with the fact that she is pretty chronically constipated, produced the tears when she asked, "Do you have to have a baby?"
And no matter how careful you are, and how neatly you think you've tied it all up with a bow, your kids will throw a zinger your way that will cause stammering and panic. #1 pretty much knows all the ins and out (no pun intended) of intercourse and birth, etc. , so I thought I was done. Then, snuggling up watching an episode of Gilmore Girls, she blurts out, "So how do people who aren't married have babies?"
Again, H? Nowhere to be found.**
*Thank God we had a small house with one bathroom when they were little, so the girls know what the male equipment looks like.
**One could argue he will be in charge of LM's sex ed class, but I was the one explaining what a scrotum and testicles were during the aforementioned bath.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Quit yer bitchin'
"Little Man is complaining that his tummy hurts, and is lying on the rug during circle time."
This is the phone call I got from the preschool while enjoying coffee with a friend today, during the one, non-family-benefitting event on my schedule this week, and I had to leave and go pick up my sick child. I thought, "He can't help it if he's sick though." Ignoring the fact that I was planning on grocery shopping and taking the dog to the vet after coffee, I race over to the school.
The moment I set foot in the classroom, I know I've been had.* Little Man, henceforth known in this post as Little Asshole, literally can not keep a straight face while telling me, "My tummy hurts." We get in to the hallway and he breaks into a joyful run, asking me where his Lightning McQueen is. Once out side, I sit him down and ask him, "Are you really sick, buddy?" His reply? "No, I just pretending." Grrrr.
After a serious talk about lying, and informing LA that not only will he not be eating any treats or drinking any juice today because of his bullshit tummy story, he will also be taking a nap and going to bed early. Oh, and there will be no playing with Mommy, as she has shit to do that she normally gets done when you're at school, freeing her up to play with you afterwards. Having The Most Boring Day Ever tends to nip the faking-sick-thing right in the bud, just ask #1 and #2. For I will not have that shit.**
So this is an appropriate beginning to what was supposed to be a post about my efforts to stop complaining, which were tried mightily today. Don't worry, I will still save all my bitching for you guys, hopefully spinning it into comedy, but what I mean is, I am really trying to stop the thoughtless whining I seem to do pretty regularly. Like today, instead of calling H, then S, and possibly my sister, to share my outrage, I just let it go.
It all started after an argument with H, where I was claiming he wasn't supporting my work at the school and with scouts, etc. Yes, I had PMS at the time, and yes, I realize how ridiculously touchy-feely that sentence is, but I wanted him to stop rolling his eyes when I told him about another meeting I have to attend. H asked me a question during our too-long-progesterone-fueled discussion of this topic that really got my wheels turning. "How can I be supportive of something that makes you so miserable and you choose to do it? Do you get anything out of this at all?"
What? I almost gasped in disbelief. I'm doing this for the kids! I love spending time with #2 and her troop, and raising money for the school! Was he serious? But when I really thought about it, all he really hears is kvetching when I talk about the PTA and Girl Scouts, so why would he think I love all this stuff? Why would he be psyched for me to do more of it? That would be insane.
I started thinking about complaining, in general. We all do it. It's a national pastime. We are tired, stressed, overworked - in the office or at home. Think about the last time you asked someone how they were. They probably said "fine" but then your discussion progressed to your both complaining about work or the kids' soccer schedule***. When's the last time someone told you they were "great". If they did, you'd probably tink they were medicated or annoying. It seems we commiserating is the easiest way for us to relate. Why do we feel more connected to others sharing their troubles? I know there's some biological, Darwinian explanation about empathy, etc., but wouldn't it be a whole lot nicer if we all shared our good news without worrying like the other person thinks we took some X with our Wheaties?
Complaining also takes a lot of energy physically and emotionally. Think about an annoying incident you've had recently and retell the story to yourself. As you go through it, you experience the same rise in blood pressure and negative feelings you did the first time. Why do you want to feel that twice? Is another person saying, "Boy, that really sucks", worth it? Unless it involves them making you feel not crazy, which I often do, asking H if my reaction was appropriate to a certain annoying stimulus (the answer is no, more than I think probable). After looking at it though, just every day chatting-while-picking-the-kids-up griping, is really sucking the life out of me.
So my plan is to radically cut back on the day to day moaning. Sure, it might be harder to come up with a positive topic of conversation during my daily interactions, when groaning over the math homework is such comfortable common ground, but perhaps sharinging, instead, how great the Girl Scout camping trip**** was will leave both myself and my conversational partner feeling a little more upbeat.
Will this work? We'll see. So far this week, I feel a lot happier. Plus, as I disclaimed before, I will still keep bitching up a storm here. Don't change my name to Mary Sunshine just yet.
*I posthumously apologize to my mother for the time in second grade I found a quater on the playground and used it to call her office and leave a message for her to come get her daughter at school. In my defense, didn't my mother, or the secretary, think maybe they should call and speak to an actual adult before she came and got me?
**Oh, Tina Fey, how I love thee.
***We are on the field Saturdays from 9-1. What the hell are we going to do when LM starts playing? Build a yurt and live on the field?
****Thankfully, my troop did not stay over as was one of my fears being a troop leader. It was exhausting and awesome. I can barely lift my arms to type though, after rowing a boat full of seven year-olds across a huge lake.
This is the phone call I got from the preschool while enjoying coffee with a friend today, during the one, non-family-benefitting event on my schedule this week, and I had to leave and go pick up my sick child. I thought, "He can't help it if he's sick though." Ignoring the fact that I was planning on grocery shopping and taking the dog to the vet after coffee, I race over to the school.
The moment I set foot in the classroom, I know I've been had.* Little Man, henceforth known in this post as Little Asshole, literally can not keep a straight face while telling me, "My tummy hurts." We get in to the hallway and he breaks into a joyful run, asking me where his Lightning McQueen is. Once out side, I sit him down and ask him, "Are you really sick, buddy?" His reply? "No, I just pretending." Grrrr.
After a serious talk about lying, and informing LA that not only will he not be eating any treats or drinking any juice today because of his bullshit tummy story, he will also be taking a nap and going to bed early. Oh, and there will be no playing with Mommy, as she has shit to do that she normally gets done when you're at school, freeing her up to play with you afterwards. Having The Most Boring Day Ever tends to nip the faking-sick-thing right in the bud, just ask #1 and #2. For I will not have that shit.**
So this is an appropriate beginning to what was supposed to be a post about my efforts to stop complaining, which were tried mightily today. Don't worry, I will still save all my bitching for you guys, hopefully spinning it into comedy, but what I mean is, I am really trying to stop the thoughtless whining I seem to do pretty regularly. Like today, instead of calling H, then S, and possibly my sister, to share my outrage, I just let it go.
It all started after an argument with H, where I was claiming he wasn't supporting my work at the school and with scouts, etc. Yes, I had PMS at the time, and yes, I realize how ridiculously touchy-feely that sentence is, but I wanted him to stop rolling his eyes when I told him about another meeting I have to attend. H asked me a question during our too-long-progesterone-fueled discussion of this topic that really got my wheels turning. "How can I be supportive of something that makes you so miserable and you choose to do it? Do you get anything out of this at all?"
What? I almost gasped in disbelief. I'm doing this for the kids! I love spending time with #2 and her troop, and raising money for the school! Was he serious? But when I really thought about it, all he really hears is kvetching when I talk about the PTA and Girl Scouts, so why would he think I love all this stuff? Why would he be psyched for me to do more of it? That would be insane.
I started thinking about complaining, in general. We all do it. It's a national pastime. We are tired, stressed, overworked - in the office or at home. Think about the last time you asked someone how they were. They probably said "fine" but then your discussion progressed to your both complaining about work or the kids' soccer schedule***. When's the last time someone told you they were "great". If they did, you'd probably tink they were medicated or annoying. It seems we commiserating is the easiest way for us to relate. Why do we feel more connected to others sharing their troubles? I know there's some biological, Darwinian explanation about empathy, etc., but wouldn't it be a whole lot nicer if we all shared our good news without worrying like the other person thinks we took some X with our Wheaties?
Complaining also takes a lot of energy physically and emotionally. Think about an annoying incident you've had recently and retell the story to yourself. As you go through it, you experience the same rise in blood pressure and negative feelings you did the first time. Why do you want to feel that twice? Is another person saying, "Boy, that really sucks", worth it? Unless it involves them making you feel not crazy, which I often do, asking H if my reaction was appropriate to a certain annoying stimulus (the answer is no, more than I think probable). After looking at it though, just every day chatting-while-picking-the-kids-up griping, is really sucking the life out of me.
So my plan is to radically cut back on the day to day moaning. Sure, it might be harder to come up with a positive topic of conversation during my daily interactions, when groaning over the math homework is such comfortable common ground, but perhaps sharinging, instead, how great the Girl Scout camping trip**** was will leave both myself and my conversational partner feeling a little more upbeat.
Will this work? We'll see. So far this week, I feel a lot happier. Plus, as I disclaimed before, I will still keep bitching up a storm here. Don't change my name to Mary Sunshine just yet.
*I posthumously apologize to my mother for the time in second grade I found a quater on the playground and used it to call her office and leave a message for her to come get her daughter at school. In my defense, didn't my mother, or the secretary, think maybe they should call and speak to an actual adult before she came and got me?
**Oh, Tina Fey, how I love thee.
***We are on the field Saturdays from 9-1. What the hell are we going to do when LM starts playing? Build a yurt and live on the field?
****Thankfully, my troop did not stay over as was one of my fears being a troop leader. It was exhausting and awesome. I can barely lift my arms to type though, after rowing a boat full of seven year-olds across a huge lake.
Friday, September 16, 2011
First steps
“Don’t cry, don’t cry. Breathe...smile...wave.” That was my internal dialogue this morning on the porch, dear readers, as I watched both girls leave to WALK TO SCHOOL ALONE. I was not at all prepared for this. I knew #1, being in fourth grade, would be able to walk the quarter mile to and from school by herself, in fact, she did so yesterday, asking me at pick up, “Can you drive #2 and LM home, and I’ll meet you there?” But when the principal answered my inquiry as to whether #1 would be able to walk #2 home in the affirmative, I was blown away. I also realized that even I am not immune to helicopter parenting.
Helicopter parenting, where parents “hover” over their children, helping in every aspect of their lives, is a modern phenomenon so pervasive; it has rendered our children essentially helpless when not with their parents. I have seen its affects on my own children, who although intelligent, I now realize, have been ridiculously sheltered. I thought I was immune to this shit. I don’t do #1’s homework, LM isn’t wearing a life jacket in the 18 inch deep kiddie pool (yes, people actually do that), but when #1 asked, over the summer, if she could walk to and from school this year alone my first, internal, reaction was, “Have you lost your damn mind???”
I blame the media, with their messages of doom and danger, making us think pedophiles lurk around every corner waiting to snatch our children away the minute we dare to take our eyes off of them. It’s part of the alarmist nature of modern parenting where only the power of our own worry can prevent the unthinkable from happening, from swine flu (that never really amounted to much, but I was at my CVS at 5:30 in the morning with the kids regardless) to head injuries (remember that baby helmet?).
Realizing what a choke-hold I had on my girls’ burgeoning independence, I tried my best to back off a bit this summer. They started walking the dog together in the evening, following the same route they take to school. They began ordering their own food at the pool snack stand, and going to the bathroom, without me, on our field trips. Baby steps.
But nothing could prepare me for the sight of my girls walking away, laden with backpacks and lunchboxes, happily chatting away like actual, real people who exist apart from me. That’s the crux of it, dear readers. These little people were, literally, a part of my body, or attached to it, then completely dependent upon my care for so long, how can it not be difficult to see them as their own separate entities? Modern life gives us the luxury of not, you know, sending our kids to lose appendages in the local mill at the ripe old age of four, but at some point we need to cut the cord, even if every talking head on the TV and parenting rag offers me nothing but advice to the contrary. I know in my bones it’s right.
But it still didn’t stop me from grabbing Little Man’s Diego binoculars from the car and watching them for as long as I could.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
"We're Off Cupcakes and Back to Doughnuts"*
I'm sweaty, my kitchen is a mess and everything is stained red. No I didn't kill anyone, although I'm sure that was your first thought, but I had to whip up a batch of red velvet cupcakes. I'm officially a "Mom" now since I recently purchased one of those snazzy, Tupperware, double-decker, cupcake caddies that safely totes twenty-four little cakes, rather than what I had been using - ratty gift boxes reinforced with packing tape. But even with this new purchase, I AM SO OVER CUPCAKES.
Cupcakes have been a fad for quite a while now, starting with the now-famed Magnolia Bakery in Manhattan in the 90's, then Sprinkles in Los Angeles circa 2003, with the idea spreading over the past ten years like a sugary Ebola virus, until every town, city and hamlet had its own cupcake shop. Some of these places are great. Magnolia, in NYC, has wonderful cupcakes, which can be purchased from the sullen staff, bloated with their own hubris at having landed a minimum wage job that entitles them to yell at tourists who just want to eat a cupcake on the non-existent bench out front and talk about Aidan ala Carrie and Miranda. But many of the shops you are lured into these days, with their adorable displays and pun-based names, like Babycakes, serve what can best be described as lumps of sickly sweet dough, topped with equally nauseatingly sweet lard. Crumbs, a chain trying to be the Starbucks of cupcakes, with their marble-topped tables and black and white photos, is a prime example. Although their classics are good (I even sent KK a giant red velvet one for her birthday), in an effort to outdo the everyday cupcake, they have come up with such tooth-rotting combinations as the BaBa Booey** - chocolate cake filled with peanut butter frosting, topped with peanut butter and chocolate cream cheese frosting and rimmed with peanut butter chips. You all know I love sweets, but this is even too much for me. Sure, they're assholes at Magnolia, and you're forced to eat their goods sitting on the Bleecker Street curb, while some fashionista on the way to Cynthia Rowley lets her Maltese takes a piss on you, but at least you can taste more than sugar.
It seems everyone is ready to ride this frosting wave until the bitter end. Can't figure out what to do with your life, but have decent credit? Take out a loan and open a cupcake shop!!! Stay-at-home moms, empty-nesters, former tattoo artists, name your niche and there's a shop for you. It seems if you can operate an Easy Bake oven you qualify. And speaking of former tattoo artists as bakers, when did cooking school become the new tech school? Have you watched any reality cooking shows recently? I don't know about you, but these were the same guys hanging out at the smoking wall at my high school and now their making French meringue? Odd.
The chefs' attire and body piercings aside, I think cupcakes are just inherently wrong. They are cake's lazy, ne'er do well younger sister - trying to achieve all the results with half of the work and failing miserably. Real cake has layers of cake and frosting, so that each bite can have some of each. Try to get a bit of each while eating a cupcake, and you wide up covered in crumbs and butter cream after it collapses when you have to unwrap it in order to gnaw at it from the sides and bottom. Watching my kid eat a cupcake makes me want puke. Little Man takes the entire glob of icing off in one giant mouthful, forcing me to imagine his little arteries hardening at the sheer volume of saturated fat entering his system at once.
As a mother, I can not cut cupcakes completely out of my life. They are, after all, the end-all-be-all of elementary school class parties*** - quite handy not requiring utensils or plates, and children do love them (even though their mothers avert their eyes in horror when they are consumed). I need not be worried though, as apparently, cupcakes' time in the sun is almost over and they are about to be eclipsed by French macarons, which are beautiful to look at, come in interesting flavors, and are less likely to be nicknamed after a giant-toothed, big-lipped radio sidekick. Not sure if I'll be eating many of them though, since I don't have access to a high-end bakery these days and they haven't made it to the 'burbs. Also, they're French, and French women annoy me. I'd be effortlessly thin too if I had government-funded babysitting. When your kids are around all the time, so are their cupcakes.
*One of the best 30 Rock quotes ever. Play the bottom one.
**Sure, some of the proceeds of this cupcake go to charity, but a tie-in with Howard Stern's (who I surprisingly kind of like) crony might not be the best marketing tool.
*** I love that my kids' school is so old fashioned we can still bring in cupcakes. Because there is no more half-assed way to celebrate a six year-old's big day than individual packs of mini-muffins.
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