A romantic idea:
our own childhood memories
should be unfiled
and laid on the floor when
mother’s guilt waves its rusty sword.

See this: this is when I tried to catch a bullfrog
in a glistening summer stream with my friend.

And this, this is the story I wrote,
under step-dad’s desk
and after being marinated in lots of storybook fantasies and
a little Christianity
for years and years.

Here is a small collection of uncertainties
and pain that look rather pretty when they catch the light.

And all of these, right there, are the moments of solitude
in cars and woods and busses and libraries and orchards and snow
that enable a woman
to think that she can live a life of the mind.

Like a hand that polishes
a banister’s knob
she will touch this life’s days so quickly
and only mostly remember the feel of some curious artifacts
as she comes down the stairs
to her new day.

This is just one idea.

Home

I'm sitting here, watching the Interpreter and my mind wanders. I've been driving around here, in the "Old Downtown" area, with its pre-Emancipation houses and Victorians. I told S.O. when we first got here that I'd rather live in a new house--less maintenance and all that. But I know now that's not true. What is it that prevents me from knowing my own truths for so long.

What is it that I love about people spaces that are slightly funky? A little unkempt, maybe smelling a bit like damp earth and wood? Obviously, my past, the places I think of when I think of the home of my childhood. I know also that I like old houses because in some sense the decoration is already done, without putting a single picture or painting on the wall. The knowledge of lives is already contained in the nicks in the baseboards, the skewed door, the seventies tiles in the bathroom. Of course, the question is, how much is one willing to pay for this? When the furnace goes out? When the roof and windows need to be replaced? When you find out how much lead paint or asbestos is all around? When S.O. disagrees for perfectly valid reasons?

Another of my reasons for old rather than new can be very easily twisted. Old is a reminder of the impermanence of homes...and lives. A reminder of the necessity of not wasting your only life or putting too much emphasis on couches, curtains, pictures on a wall. Maybe if I was stronger in my beliefs, new or old house wouldn't matter so much. Maybe if I was stronger in my beliefs, I would be living my beliefs instead of playing them out in my head. I think about that a lot when it comes to A and living in the South. I'm no longer a Christian (haven't been for a long while) but not quite a Bhuddist. I need something stronger than a partial spiritual life to be a good mother for her.

This blog is perhaps a start at the living I had hoped for, and yet it's still filled with irony. A plays at my feet, having gotten up early from her nap. She is waiting for me to finish.

Sub-subtext

Driving home yesterday in the light and shadows created by the November sun; car air freshener tapping gently against the University parking tag on the rearview mirror. Stainless steel coffee mug, empty, in the cup holder on the dash. Can of diet coke, empty, in the cup holder between the seats. A school bus turned off the highway, lurching awkwardly down a dirt road. I found myself wondering if old No. 2 pencils and school buses are supposed to complement each other—both yellow, trimmed in black. Ubiquitous symbols of…what? Freedom and control, I suppose.

It’s often that I find myself wondering what it is that pulls me off of my axis, and then I get some not-so subtle clues. For example, I went into Enterprise Rent-a-Car this Tuesday, the place in which I have, in the past, mistakenly given expired credit cards. The place in which I have, in the past, thought I had all the necessary paperwork to use my debit card (utility bills, cable bills, pay stub—all of which is extremely anxiety producing—everyone knows everyone’s business here anyway, even without documented proof), only to find out that to rent a car, I need a driver’s license for the state. Upon relaying this information to me, they allow a driver take me to the DMV, and upon getting an awful picture taken, I find out they don’t take debit or credit cards, and the driver gives me a twenty that I pay him back as he gases the car up across the street from Enterprise. There’s a fine line between luck and embarrassment here. Needless to say, everyone there knows who I am when I walk in the door. The morning I went to pick up the car, S.O. told me something about our Visa—all I remembered was “credit available.”

The new incompetent woman, heavy set, with thin blonde hair, sprayed into an unnatural and spiky geometric shape, asked me repeatedly –didn’t I just want to use a credit card instead of going through the hassle of using my debit card, with all of the required paperwork? So I pull out the Visa. She swipes it. Looks confused. Swipes it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. No, seriously—and again. With each. Consecutive. Swipe. My anxiety level rachets several notches. She calls over another agent—you know, the one who waited on me during the DMV episode? That agent swipes the card (again). Then she looks at the screen and says in slow mo: “It says that your card has been declined and that we have to confiscate your card.”

The top of my head blows off from the pressure of all the blood that has accumulated in my face. I can smell the onions dripping in my armpits. I call Visa. They tell me that no, I don’t have any credit right now and that I need to speak with the woman who has been helping us make payment arrangements. And by the way, she’s gone for the day. So, I tell the Incompetent and the Confiscator that I will (as I should have done in the first place) use my debit card. I go out to the car and try to find some bills that I just happened to have with me that will suffice. The only ones I can find have OVERDUE on the first page. They make copies of my overdue bills. They swipe my debit card.

It is declined. At this point, you are probably, like them, about to doubt what I have to tell you. But believe me when I say this. I had money in the account. I had just gotten paid. They swipe my OTHER debit card. It is declined. The Incompetent drives me to the ATM, and inexplicably, my card works. She then drives me to the gas station (you know, the one where I got the money to pay back the driver for buying my new driver’s license?) so that I can get a money order. To this day I do not know why my debit cards did not work. What was God/Goddess trying to tell me? Don’t answer that. We go back to Enterprise and I drive off in the car.

Things like this take me off my axis (or should I say, knock me on my ass?). For the rest of the week it was like the world was too small, or unexpectedly lopsided. I dropped things, stumbled up steps and over words, bumped my head getting in and out of the car. It’s taken a while, but I’m finally getting to the point where I can walk steadily again.

Enterprise-Rent-a-Car is a symbol of…what? Freedom and control, I suppose. And like kids need buses and pencils, I need them. That is, until we get a second car. Then I’ll drive by Enterprise in my new (used) car. And like teachers who’ve had poor kids give them the finger upon graduation, the Incompetent and the Confiscator will just smile and wave.

Calm

Calm. There are some people who say "fake it till you make it." But you can't fake serenity. Well, I can't. It's something I have to work hard for. Some times more than others. The difficult times are the times when I know I need to strive for serenity, rather than rising up into the storm and chaos that seems to swirl above me.

Okay, this is way too cheezy and dramatic. I have to stop listening to new age music while I work. I hope my class goes well tonight. Please let me make it through feeling good instead of overwhelmed with failure and disappointment. Either way, I will have a glass of wine upon my return.

Coming Down...

Allrighty then. Definitely coming down off of my birthday high. I finally had the opportunity to take back the bra I bought in August that didn't fit. I mean, what else says "Cut loose and treat yourself like the queen you are" like exchanging a bra? I pull out my wallet and promptly realize that I have left my debit card in the ATM machine. Again. Lest you misunderstand my use of "again"--this is the second time I have left my debit card in the exact same ATM machine, which is, coincidentally, right next to the Mexican place where I got my lunch burrito. Clearly this is a sign that I must stop eating food laced with cilantro. Or maybe that I need to, as S.O. frequently says "pay more attention to detail"?

Naaaah.

It’s my birthday and I’ll write if I want to, write if I want to, write if I want to…
Forget cake and ice cream, presents and martinis—November 2nd has become THE day on which I live my most complete (admittedly self-centered) self. The day within which I guiltlessly do those things that make me feel happy, vibrant, and alive.

I started the day off smelling good (Kudos to S.O. for the Gucci perfume, bath gel and body lotion).
I reveled in the GREAT sex I had with S.O. for the past (count 'em) TWO nights and danced in the car on the way to work. As Austin Powers would say, “Yeaah Baby!”
I had an enormous chicken and rice burrito with sour cream and cheese--that I scientifically counteracted with a large diet coke.
I read an article that was NOT on the reading list I required for my course. Imagine that.
I had a wonderful conversation with a good friend, my mother, and another one with my boss.
I’m posting in this blog.

And to top it off, joy of joys, I don’t have to teach tonight so I can actually work on this chapter I’ve been trying not so successfully to make headway on.

Of course, all this begs the Holy Grail question of working mothers everywhere: How can I do this more often and with less guilt?

Hand on hip, Grande coffee raised to the heavens, she solemnly intones:

On behalf of myself and women everywhere I shall make living the answer to this question my sacred quest.

LouLou Triviata

I need to go to the grocery store (spray starch, jelly, water, laundry detergent, pantyliners) AND pick up A early so that we can have some dinner and go to the Skating Rink, where her preschool is having Halloween activities. So. Here are my thoughts in no particular order: Why do I feel so guilty for buying shoes and a velvet jacket when the last thing I bought were a pair of shoes that hurt my toes, a bunch of clearance crap? I went away with A for the weekend and he didn't even load his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Why did I even waste my time cleaning the kitchen before I left? My fellow-professor girlfriend called me, lamenting about how she spent 60 hours at work last week and hasn't gotten her article done that's two weeks late. I counseled her while I was at the department store. It's Monday. Why can't I respect myself enough to spend the day working instead of running around getting tires for the car, getting sidetracked by shoes, and worrying about what will happen if relatives come over and the bathroom is funky? I loved spending time with A at the retreat this weekend. That's "her" face above. From her pen to our pumpkin! I realized today that I love nutmeg and the smell of barbecue smoke. The only people I have talked to today are A, my S.O., Chuck (our mechanic), my girlfriend, and the salespeople at the coffeeshop and the shoe checkout...and myself. What would it take to make this day happy? I went walking this morning out of sheer willpower--1.8 miles! It felt good, but it was unplanned, and I feel like it made the rest of the day go to shit. I made myself a really good salad for lunch--spinach, romaine, radicchio, feta, apple, and almond with raspberry vinagrette. I had steamed shrimp on the side and a small square of chocolate for dessert. I want my life to be like that meal.

Two days till my birthday. I am going to make this day happy! It's a choice. I will go into my 35th year on this planet in a positive way, and it's not about having it ALL together. It's not, because that's not real, for anyone. I have to keep telling myself that! It's about having an ambitious AND realistic plan. It's about being okay with falling short WHILE redoubling one's efforts. It's about taking time at the beginning AND the end of the day to be with myself and get centered. It's about speaking what is good about a day and imagining the next day in a positive light.

Uncertain Terrain

I'm not disappearing. Just in a weird space. It's possibly just that time in the semester when things speed up. Or maybe the reality that I have not spent much time working on who I am in this new job. Whatever the case may be, I haven't felt much like writing. I am working on conceptual things, though. Like the concept of time as a gift rather than time as an enemy (marching on and all that).

I think it is precisely at moments like these that I will try my damned-est to push on through whatever is making me feel lethargic, whether a cold (as currently) or pms or general disappointment about the state of how much I have not accomplished in my life up to this point....

And there it is. Damn! I knew there was a reason I was staying away from writing. I guess I haven't wanted to deal with the fact that I'm depressed about turning 35. I'm not sure where I was supposed to have gotten to by now, but I sure feel like I didn't get there.

The thing I will focus on most in these coming days is making peace with who I am and knowing that time IS a gift. As long as I have another day, another minute on the planet, I have more time to do better, be better and contribute more.

Desparately In Search of Conversational Partner...

There are those of us who are the epitome of social grace and wit—and then there are the rest of us. You, know, the ones who can count the number of times (on one hand) when we actually said the insightful, droll thing in the moment. More often, this repartee comes to me days later upon completion of a long hot shower or as I’m driving to work re-replaying the scenario in my head.

I felt like that yesterday, while at lunch with my soon-to-be-leaving boss. The conversation started out well enough. I restrained myself from saying the goofy shit that was playing in my head and kept with the basic, which is always a good thing. And then, something snapped. Maybe it was when he laughed at a little joke I made, or gave me a compliment on the eloquent way I had commented on my assessment of living in the South as a Yankee.

I couldn’t stop myself. Really, like a 200 lb gorilla on a tricycle barreling down the tallest hill in town. The goofy me took over while Ms. Sophisticate watched from the corner of the room, eyes closed, shaking her head in disbelief.

There are times when being an academic is really cool, but this is not one of them. The solitary hours we spend writing, thinking, and reading have dire consequences for our social lives. The bottom line is that I desparately need immersion in a social setting so that my conversational ability does not continue to atrophy. But who? Where? I’m a used to be Lutheran turned pseudo-Bhuddist, so the Black Baptist church won’t exactly work. Other preschool moms won’t cut it either. Racial politics at A’s preschool are obvious—although other moms are friendly, we probably won’t be invited to any birthday parties (an issue for another post, another day).

The one thing I wished for before we moved is to find a kindred spirit with whom I could establish a friendship. Time has shown me that I should give it a year—or two—and put myself in places where this could happen. Until then? I won’t cut myself off from other opportunities to practice not making a ditz out of myself in conversation.

Looks like I’ll be shopping for a church dress. But I’m not straightening my hair. And definitely no hat. At least not till Easter.

What Is It All About?

Blogs can be dangerous. Quality is often determined by the blog's ability to speak to a certain subject in a creative, elegant and concise way (insert sentence of self-deprecation here) while speaking to other things through that subject, For example--A blog about walking across the United States can be entertaining and a commentary on fitness, will power, American Life, etc. But besides all you obsessive compulsives out there, who wants to spend time just writing about ONE thing? Don't answer that. Obviously a lot of people do and I am in the minority. Again. Damn!

The other kind of blog--the diary--is just too revealing for many people although the good ones tend to act like a buillion cube--a lot of flavor in a itsy-bitsy cube.

So here's the issue: How does one find a middle point (if that's what one wants, which this one does) between the two above? Can you fit your blog's purpose into one pithy sentence? I've tried, to no avail.

Viva...

Las Vegas. S.O. is leaving today to go on his biennial trip with friends and frat brothers. I told him he could go--if he took A or me. Limp posturing on my part, really. He did pass the bar.

Sooo....A and I are on our own till Monday (she says with an evil cackle). More posturing. I mean, what trouble could we possible get into that would be as much fun as betting a hard six while sipping on your fourth martini? Well, let's check my array of equally pitiful, wholesome family fun activities:

1. Chuckie Cheese with the cousins
2. Plant flowers with A (an excuse to go to Lowe's and buy flowers, potting soil, pots and a doormat)
3. Leave A with Grandma, stash a diet coke and trail mix in my purse and go to a movie, followed by a compensatory dinner with said Grandma
4. Internet window shopping. Oh wait--I do that all the time anyway.
5. Get pissy off margheritas after A goes to bed, wake up with a hangover and sleep the morning away while Oobi, Dora and Little Bear keep A from noticing my horrid breath

A slow spiral downward into self-pity quickly goes into a nose dive. No. 2 has possibilities though. Real shopping trumps fake shopping anyday, and what's not to love about spending time with my daughter? Throw in an all out carb n'sugar fest and we've got one hell of a party, belly pooch be damned.

Worst Case of Static Cling--Ever

Forgot to tell you. Every Friday the parents at A's preschool are to take their kid's blanket and pillow home, wash them, and bring them back on Monday after the weekend. Before I tell you about this, I have to ask--Have you ever been so proud of yourself that intuitively, you should know something awful is about to happen?

I was so proud of myself. I actually ran back to grab the Downy fresh pillow and blankie from the dryer right before leaving the house. A and I even got there right when the kids were sitting down to breakfast! I gave A a quick kiss and, head held high, made for the door. As I put my hand on the door, an older woman walking down the hall called to me, saying "Excuse me, ma'am, did you drop something?"

Slowly I turned. There, on the floor by the breakfast table, was something satin and emerald green. Oh. My. God. I'm thinking, I know those aren't my panties. Then, okay, those are definitely my panties. F&^*! Without making eye contact with any of the teachers (you know the rule--if you don't see them, they can't see you), I walked quickly down the hall, said a quick thank you to the woman and scooped up the undies.

Mental note: shake blanket after removing from dryer.

At least they were clean.

Eureka!

I bought my cousin a card yesterday that said "If I worked in a lab I'd yell Eureka every once in a while, just to boost morale."

I may not be thinking brilliant thoughts, i.e., our friend here. BUT--I AM writing! I worked on one section of my chapter that is due sometime before I present it in April. And thus begins the ritual of the painfully slow academic writing process of me. I don't care if it's too early to celebrate, I actually wrote something! Now if I can just do it tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that...and so on for the rest of my life. And I washed three loads of clothes and the dishes from yesterday and cleaned out my closet so that I can actually enter it without stepping on dirty, soggy things.

So there. Cue the wind to raise my cape and ruffle through my hair. Now if only I could find my utility belt. Must have loaded it into the dishwasher by accident.

Justified Flake Out...?

Women who work outside their homes must have a love/hate relationship with academia. One one hand, you're always guilting about not doing more. Case in point? As I type this, my bedside reading is staring at me (Bakhtin's Speech Genres and Other Late Essays) and I'm trying to figure out how it is going to be possible to clean the house, do laundry, go grocery shopping, exercise, write out bills, go to the bank, buy a trash can with a raccoon-proof lid, eat something AND get my reading done for class on Wednesday AND fit in writing time. (Please don't mention the fact I'm blogging. I can't afford therapy). Oh yeah, and get coffee too. That's a must.

On the other hand, academics often have relatively flexible schedules, even if we fill those schedules with all kinds of professional activities . So, at least I have the option to stay home on a Monday and pretend I can do all of the things listed above, even if it means I have to stay up till two, or get up at 3am to get the work done that I didn't do during the day.

The down side of this thought process is that I'm really fooling myself. While I'm going through these convoluted rationalizations, there are the "traditional" academic folks (i.e., men with wives who do the traditional gender role thing, OR women with husbands who do the nontraditional gender role thing, OR gay and lesbian couples who ventriloquate the traditional gender role thing, and/or men/women with no spouses--but also no families and thus a life unencumbered by excuses that can be put on other people. Tends to make one more productive...). So these people--and I know they are out there, they are some of my best friends--are thinking not about laundry or how they can make up work time after the kids go to bed. They were at their offices at 8 this morning thinking deep thoughts and drinking their coffee. They'll be there till this evening, putting the finishing touches on their brilliant manuscripts. Interesting thought just crossed my mind--I more or less chose my life. Hmmmm...

So how does one have an organized home, well-adjusted children and a brilliant manuscript? If you will send me the do-it-yourself kit, I will gladly pay you 19.95--as long as you throw in the "365 Days of Healthy, Tasty, Quick Dinner Recipes" for free. I know I am a broken record. Pick up the needle and put it down a little later and I'm sure to be on to a different tune, one called "gratitude for the good things in my life." Hopefully sometime soon I can put out a record with more than four songs! Here is the current play list:

1. Woe to the commuting, academic working woman with a small child living in a small Southern town (Traditional Blues Song)
2. I've found my life is wonderful now that I've stopped bitching and opened my eyes (Upbeat Club Tune)
3. My social life is quite gimpy and my love life is none to great either (Alanis co-wrote this one)
4. When, oh when, will my fantasy writing life appear and my stomach pooch disappear?
(One of Joni Mitchell's lesser known songs)

Relatively Speaking

What kind of relationship am I supposed to have with my in-laws? Don't answer that. Keep in mind that EVERYONE and their mama is an in-law somehow or another in the South ("she's my auntie's third cousin on her mother's side").

I had hoped to fly under the radar, or maybe not even fly at all when it came to the politics of being "the up-and-coming Black laywer's professor-wife" here. It's bullshit to me. But, it's funny how things sneak up on you. One of S.O.'s mother's second cousins called and invited us to dinner tonight. Me, being the socially-starved person I am, jumped at the chance. I mean, last night I came this close to asking S.O.'s mom if she wanted me to get a DVD and watch it at her house. Not that there's anything wrong with that, necessarily, but...it strikes me as a little desperate.

Anyway. Turns out the woman lives a mile away from this other woman who is S.O.'s mom's first cousin, who has been asking when we're going to come over for dinner ever since we got here two months ago. "How was I supposed to know?" I ask the court of Southern Family Hospitality and Gentility.

To this, the judge says in a booming voice "ignorance is not an excuse for breaking the law." Your sentence? Probation and community service lasting not longer than it takes to have dinner, tea, lunch, and picnic with all those who may claim to be family, excluding play cousins.

As Florida Evans would say: "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

Night Cap

Is it wrong to long for love in the way you used to experience it? You know, before you were married for nine years and had a three year old daughter? Realize that this is the stuff that desperate housewives are made of--although I've never watched the show I think I have the gist.

I suppose that having a great body that men/women still swoon over even though it's going to be thirty-five next month, a fierce n'sexy haircut, an astounding intellectual mind, artistic talent and a biting wit is just too much to ask for. Damn it! Well, just give me the hair cut and the mind...and a spouse with enough loot for me to get a personal trainer. You know the kind. Face like Denzel, juicy bunz, perfect pecs and the ability to show a woman how to...work the hell out of an exercise ball.

Thoughts about Identity

Commuting is wonderful if you're driving through the country. If I end up staying at my present University for too long, I may end up not enjoying my commute as much, as we will inevitably become increasingly suburbanized, even in the semi-rural South. Anyway, what a great opportunity to think. On today's drive, I was trying to understand what my passion is as an academic and an aspiring public intellectual. I realized that I am greatly consumed with questions of identity. I'm sure S.O. and my friends realized this long ago but it's taken me much longer. Isn't that always the way?

...I keep coming back to a few central questions. Who am I? This question, for me, is more about desired or hypothesized qualities than an essential character--when we ask ourselves this question, our answers quickly move away from the social roles that we fill/occupy/inhabit and gravitate toward adjectives. At least for me, they do. Compassionate, loving, strong, etc. Secondarily, I begin to think about roles because once I know what qualities I aspire to or think I have, I can imagine how those qualities play themselves out within the roles I inhabit. There is a temporal aspect of roles and qualities--both may change or be altered over time. The roles I inhabit may change prominence--mother to grandmother, for example. The qualities I aspire to or hypothesize myself as having may live within these roles or change but time is always there wielding influence and shaping our thoughts. There is a final question that seems to me to be important--who is it that I want to become? Do people who don't ask this question miss out on something? In moments of draining domestic activity, I lose sight of this question and feel resigned to being a captive washer-of-the-dishes. I suppose in some way, like Betty Friedan originally suggested. Individuals whose work exists within the home or exists as unvalued service to others (minimum wage earners, child care workers...) and who, to use a bit of Marxist ideology, have been alienated from their work, also may not ask this question or find it relevant. Perhaps it is like my former colleague says...identity is a luxury of the middle class.

Which raises another interesting question. Since I enjoy doing research in urban, poor and minority communities, am I implicitly forcing yet another deficit upon individuals within these communities and reinforcing the idea that "their lives would be better if only they would think more like the middle class? Hmmm....

A Little Arm Chair Philosophizing

Yesterday as I cruised up and down rolling hills and felt good to have the sun shining down on me instead of rain (gotta love the South for that!) I started to think. Who am I as a person? Who do I want to be? I came up with a list of adjectives that I made into a prayer, though I'm not particularly religious. Help me to be compassionate, loving and positive to myself and others; open-minded and welcoming to my family, friends and people I meet; help me to bring order and serenity to my life and to people who I come into contact with; cultivate my sense of humor so that I can live a more joyful life and deal with things beyond my control.

Last night things started to go downhill after two trips to the supermarket (one to get salmon to cook for dinner and another to get the stuff I would need to make salmon taste less like chipped carboard). I had a glass of wine. Probably not a good idea. One of S.O.'s relatives called and asked if we would like to come to dinner on Saturday. I said could talk to S.O., but that I also didn't mind lying to my husband. That didn't come out right. What I MEANT to say is that if I told him we were just going to visit instead of coming for dinner, it might make him a more willing participant. But she didn't need to have all that information, especially prefaced with a statement about how willing I am to be untruthful to someone I've lived with for the past nine years. DAMN! I started to feel really tired when A and I drove up to pick up S.O. at his office. His boss, teasing S.O., said that I needed to get an older man in my life, as he hugged me (I'm thinking: I hope he doesn't smell the wine on my breath...and did I have garlic for lunch?). I swear the boss is really slimy sometimes. I asked A what she thought about what S.O.'s boss said, and she said "I don't THINK so!" High five to A!!!

After we ate a late dinner and S.O. asked me if I wanted to clean the kitchen before I went to bed (is that a trick question?) I felt really blue and fell asleep. Woke up feeling low. Is it a question of getting better organized? Maybe if I got clearer about how to do all the things I want to do, I would feel better about myself and my life. I have this grant report hanging over my head. This chapter that I haven't started writing hanging over my head. The prospect of teaching two graduate classes next semester (on the heels of a superstar professor) hanging over my head. The reality of having to co-chair a search for a new faculty position since the superstar professor is leaving (in January) hanging over my head. Time to get my ass up and do something so that everything can quit hanging over me and I can start presiding over my life in a more authoritative way. Blogging is a helpful tool for making one realize that shit only gets managed when you stop thinking about how much you have going on and just get moving. The power of words on a page!

So, S.O. is on his way to get sworn in. I'm here in the kitchen baking chicken and corn pudding in a feeble attempt to impress mother-in-law who watches A on Wednesdays while I drive to campus and teach my class. A department colleague of mine who fell asleep during my interview job talk wants to have coffee with me this afternoon. She's taken a liking to me, and I'm not sure why. Maybe while I was giving my presentation she dreamt that I knew what the hell I was talking about. But, until this afternoon, and until this pudding come out of the oven, I'll get some work done. I'll let you know how the day turns out. Compassion, love, positivity toward myself and others. Compassion, love, positivity. Compassion, love...

Stress Dreams

If dreams are movies, what plays in your mind theatre when you're stressed? Selfishly, I'm asking because I just had the most awesome stress dream. Sort of a cross between... Ocean's Eleven and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. We were in some major city with lots of water--a cross between Vienna and someplace in Japan? (Old Italian architecture plus bamboo grass. Go figure). My consciousness of being in a cool dream began as we were in a WWII transport boat turned supercharged houseboat (See the show Small Space, Big Style--a show I watched yesterday). We were dressed in tuxedos and gowns and being chased by the Vienna police. The ring leader was a Rupert Everett (the movie star not the media mogul) type guy and we were speeding through the waterways, jumping police boats, careening wildly, splashing slower moving boats and gondolas carrying American tourists...finally coming to rest in a boat garage mascarading as a chinese food restaurant. No one spoke for a moment. Then two moments passed. Then we all started laughing hysterically. We were all law students who were in one way or another on the outs with "The Man."

The last scene in the movie was me, in another chase. I don't know if I was by myself but it certainly felt like it because I was now driving the houseboat. In order to drive it I had to lay on my stomach in the front of the boat and manuever it with what looked like an old Atari joystick, supersized. It was a lot less fun than the first chase, given that the police were now shooting to kill, having been looking for our "gang" since the first chase. Picture: machine guns, rocket launchers, etc. After narrowly evading a super explosion in which my vehicle emerged from a ball of fire, I found myself just ahead of the police, and around a bend in the river. I turned sharply and ran the boat up on a steep embackment and started running, then dropped and hid in the long grass as police moved within inches of me. When I thought it was safe, I started crawling through the grass to an alley that led to a tall building, climbed up the fire escape, in through an impossibly small window, and I began descending a back set of stairs that was at times really wide, then really narrow, then ceased to be stairs at all and became an M.C. Escher-esque splayed, crooked, downward ramp, then eventually became stairs again and ended it up in some small-time Italian officials' cramped secretary's office. I snuck by her and into a great hall, shoes clicking on the marble. There were tables of people all talking in the excited hush that happens before a big moment. A man in a kiosk was selling last minute emergency robes. I was at a law school graduation. I made a left and headed out of the building into the sunshine. As I looked out on the city, I felt as if someone was watching me. I turned slowly. A slightly pudgy, short white guy turned as if he was looking for someone but didn't see them and went back inside. I followed him, a few steps behind, as if I was looking for a restroom. He led me to the end of the hall and at ten different tables I spotted each of my friends chatting with nondescript movie-extras. One by one I caught their eye and they gave me an almost inperceptible nod, or a wink, or a half smile, and continued talking. It's funny--none of us were as glamourous as any of the Ocean's Eleven crew--an older white lady with big eightie's glasses and feathered hair, me, an older, balding man, an Asian chick with glasses and a ponytail, etc. I realized where we were at, then, and was impossibly happy that we were all going to graduate without going to jail. A policeman walked casually up and down the rows of tables, looking for us, I assume. "Rupert" was sitting casually on a table, now fully bearded and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. The policeman stopped, Rupert looked at him and smiled and then continued talking to his conversation partner, and the policeman smiled back and kept walking. We entered the great hall and took our seats as the ceremony began. We were scattered through the crowd of hundreds and even though I sat alone, I felt at peace knowing I was there, in the same room with my partners in crime. And then I woke up.

Guilt Strikes Again

Confession: I should feel guilty for that last post. After having not posted for a while, I skipped straight to ungrateful wife mode. I have heck of a lot to be thankful for. My S.O. passed the bar! Now he actually has the opportunity to be "super attorney." And I'm all for it. Yeah, somehow I forgot to mention that accomplishment. It's a great thing. After a decade of collectively working so that each of us could reach our educational goals, we finally made it. It feels good to be a two-wage earning family, and to have the prospect of good credit somewhere on the horizon. The alternate negative realities to my life are endless. I just hope to be able to walk that line between recognizing the good things that exist in my life and being mindful of the ways I want to change what could be better. That said, I will now skip off into the sunset to the smell of burning chicken and overcooked Lipton shells.

Thanks to Katrina, Lou Lou's coffee shop is now just "Shop." If anyone out there can help me figure out how to put this picture in my header, please feel free to let me know. S.O. just called me to see if I could pick up A early so that he could drop us off and come back to work. Oh, how quickly the tide changes. I remember a day not so many years ago before we had a child, when such a request would be summarily DENIED by S.O. because "it's not safe for you to be up at your office late at night." Sigh. But, because he's a man, and he's become "duh-duh-da-da SUPER ATTORNEY!" he now understands what it means to be really excited about your profession. I wonder sometimes if he's forgotten how driven I am to be successful at my own job. I know plenty of professors out there who either stay in their office till the wee hours of the morning or arrive in the wee hours. I mean, true, bad things do happen to little women. (No, I'm not a little person. Just short. Really. If I was a little person I'd be proud of it, damn it.)

Still, there are principles involved here. I mean, I'm working from home today, trying to do laundry in the middle of getting some writing done, in the middle of writing out bills, in the middle of answering emails, in the middle of...okay, so it's slightly hypocritical of me to be complaining through a blog about how little time I get to work. Maybe I should be writing instead of blogging? ...Damn it! I'm going to get a t-shirt that says "guilt is a tool of capitalist patriarchy." I'll wear it while I'm blogging. Until then, back to work.

Passive Aggressive or Pacifist?

My 3 year old daughter is being hit, in private, by her 5 year old cousin. Last week they were riding the cousin's electric-powered VW Barbie-mobile. I was around the corner on the patio. A comes running around the corner, crying--which is relatively unusual. Mommy-mode in full effect, I scoop her up and confront K, the cousin. "What happened?" I ask. Both are silent. I ask again. A few more seconds pass and K says that A was upset because she wanted to push the horn button on the car. I ask A if this is true and she nods, not speaking. Classic domestic violence scene, I later think to myself, because something was just not right. A few days later, I question A and she tells me that K had hit her in the face. A went over to K's to get her hair braided on Sunday and yesterday (Tuesday) she told me that K had hit her while they were in the back playing in K's room. I tell her that she should tell K in a loud voice "DON'T HIT ME! IT'S NOT NICE!" and that she should come and tell me what happened. S.O. overhears and I explain. He tells A that if someone hits her she should hit them back and then come get one of us.

My hopes for raising a peace-loving daughter go out the window. But then I start thinking. Are many pacifists just confrontation-loathing passive aggressives? I mean, what do you do with all of that negative energy when someone hits you and you turn the other cheek (which, admittedly, is not what I adviced A to do)? I reached the conclusion that I want to raise a daughter that is a pacifist but can kick somebody's ass right quick if she has to.

And thus we have a living breathing example of how a so-called feminist rationalizes agreement with her man. What to make something of it?

Living Things Are Good

I was in Walmart the other day, with the intention of JUST getting keys made to our new home. I wonder if I should say MY new home yet? When does that transition officially happen? Anyway, I wound up with a 64oz container of handsoap (you can never have too much), four small pots of yellow mums, one hanging Pothos and a small pothos with a climbing vine, a pretty blue flowerpot, amazing microfiber car washing towels, a belated birthday card, hair detangler and a diet coke.

A house is just not a home unless there's something living in it. So it's good that I got some plants, I suppose. I'm still not yet sure if I'm actually living, here.

Did I ever tell you about the story of how I started writing S.O. rather than "__________"? (S.O. as in Significant Other). He found my blog by accident one day after I'd been posting for about a month and while we were upstairs in our bedroom, he casually said "I'm not sure why you're doing this, although I'm sure you think it's cute, or cool--but from now on, please keep my name out of your fucking blog." That may not be exactly right, but it's a close paraphrase.

Here's to you, S.O. I kind of like the generic moniker anyway.

By the way, I never did sell the fridge or the furniture. I may actually like working from home a couple days a week. Decorating the house will probably help me to feel like I have something to hold onto that is "me"--or I can at least make it appear that way.

Heaven...I'm in Heaven

With the unpacking firmly underway, it's been a week and a half since I've had any substantial time to myself, for myself. A's first day of preschool was today. After a short foray into the wilds of the Walmart Supercenter, I immediately came back home, fired up the coffee pot and rescued a lone biscotti from the bottom of my purse. How sweet it is. Got to call about getting reimbursed for damaged items, take comforters to be washed, research for A's new doctor...call the U. and fax them my documents for payroll, keep unpacking, get the last load of books ready for transport to my office, oh yea, and uhm, get ready to teach class next week. Damn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I knew it was only a matter of time before I found something to completely stress me out...But for now, I will try to salvage this moment of solitude and enjoy some more blog surfing...

More...

“Looking for a new place to call home? Finding a home has never been easier. To find a home you want fast, just go to www…” sounds like a parody of my life. I’m on hold, waiting for a customer service rep to take my ad for the fridge and living room furniture. Starting in a new place has always been difficult when the move is connected more to other people’s desires than to mine. But I guess that makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s easy to feel helpless when you don’t feel in complete control of the situation. I do desire to put down roots, at least I think I do. But now that the move is a week away, I’m not so sure. Honestly, it’s been a really long time since I’ve felt this unsure, insecure and small. Instead of me packing things into boxes, I feel like each time I come home somebody’s been steadily stealing things from my space and I’ve just now noticed that there are no pictures on the walls, nothing in the cupboards and closets, no toiletpaper on the roll in the bathroom. Should I go pick up A now, or wait? I’ll wait. Maybe try to clean up a little so that her three-year old façade of normalcy can be halfway maintained. And daddy’s coming home tomorrow! For three days she’s been telling me things about him. That he likes milk. That he likes to watch Dora, just like she does. That he likes to sing. I wonder if they’re both hoping equally hard for the love they’ve been missing.

Five Things

I'm thinking a change in focus could be good. Don't you just hate it when people blog about being afraid to be happy? If you said yes you suck. Anyway. Five things that I like to do.
1. Kiss my daughter good night
2. Have enough time in my head for thought knots to get untangled so I can start knitting
3. See beauty in the everyday. I saw a water tower yesterday at Safeway that was robin's egg blue, and really shiny.
4. Not be depressed.
5. Did I say not be depressed already? Damn. Well, then, I'll try this again later when my mood is in an upswing.

Regressing

Wash dishes. Wash clothes. Sweep/mop floor. Clean upstairs bathrooms. Wash and vacuum car. Pack for Saturday and Sunday. Place ad in paper selling fridge and couch, chair and loveseat. In one week, the movers will be here. The day after, we will be headed down South.

I have zero desire to do anything. I’m thinking that if I didn’t have to pick up A from day care I think I could manage on the food left in the house for about a week. Got Cheerios, Apple Jacks, a can of tunafish, spaghetti and spaghetti sauce. Grape Juice. Stale bread and peanut butter. Frozen chicken thighs. 6 biscotti sticks. I’d close the shades, turn up the air conditioning and just go back to the way it used to be when I was one (eat, sleep, pee and poop).

It’s funny how when you’re depressed you know in the back of your mind that things can always get worse. You just don’t give a damn. Maybe I could dig one of my old Cure tapes out of a box and wallow. Too much effort. I’ll just pretend to buy things on the internet. The virtual equivalent of going to Neiman Marcus and telling the saleslady that you’d “like to put this on hold.”

Variations on a Theme

I'm tired. There's so much shit going on in my life that if I stop to contemplate it I'd be constipated until the sun went out. I fantasize about living in a sensory deprivation tank.

Nothing Going On But the Rent

And I paid it yesterday, although it pained me greatly. I don't feel like writing, but I feel like I have to. I was getting a kick out of writing for a while, but it's losing its luster, or maybe, like a snake, I'm shedding this skin so that I can grow a little bit more. After taking the digital storytelling class for the second time, I realized that although it's been fun to write here, this blog has been more like a journal that my friends and family read. And, honestly, I visit this page more than anyone. I think I'm ready to move on to the next iteration, which is spending more time writing and less time talking about my life. Of course, the more I write, the more I'm sure I'll notice how my life works its way in to my writing.

Pre-Teen Angst

So, I came up with an idea for my story with the help of a friend and a 4X6 notecard. Just thought I'd let you know that. I don't really want to talk about the subject of the digital story because it's still quite a scar. Let me just say it involves everything bad about the 80's and a really embarrassing junior high moment.

Writing About Not Knowing What to Write About

I have signed up for a digital storytelling class (my second) in large part so that I will force myself to keep writing and keep working on something I love. It's really pitiful how externally motivated I am. So...What should I write about? I keep wanting to write about the pedestrian bridge from the housing projects to the park being closed, a big old chain and sign across the entrance. I want to write about the housing projects being abandoned. Well, not about them exactly, but more about why it strikes me and what it means to me--why, when I drive past, I am drawn first to first the projects, and then to the bridge...
Then, there's the highway. And then there are these girls, out of school for the summer and completely out of control...playing 50 cent's song on their ring tones and rapping along with it.
And then there is this whole transition thing that my family is going through...moving down to the Deep South. And then there is how much of the time I spend inside my head is spent thinking about myself. How selfish I am! But then, to write about that would be the ultimate narcissism. Funny.
And then there is also this thing about looking backward and looking forward. Looking at my young self, braided up and walking to the bus stop through the orchard, looking forward at myself as 50yr old woman, finally having her shit together. And being in the middle and being this and that and both at different times and what this means to me as an African American woman who considers herself to be a feminist. And there's me not wanting to wear my heart on my website and come off all hokey-corny, simplistically liberal and all of that. And then there is the part that has to do with my blog and is there anything in this thing that is worth making a digital story about?

Sigh. Somewhere out there is a website made just for me. A website for pre-tenured African American moms of Norwegian ancestry who are married to Southern men and who are in constant need of quick and easy recipes and inspiration to continue trying to become writers.

Moments of Calm

Almost 9am, A is downstairs in her preschool room, I’m sitting here in the computer room at the community center. A humming noise comes from the six or so Pentium 2 computers around me and like conversation pieces, they draw attention, but don’t really do anything. A friend told me that what I’ve set up here for the kids looks great. Unfortunately, only 10% of it is actually functioning. I’ll keep this in mind for next time (note to self: when designing a computer-based program for adolescents, be sure to get computers that work). But that’s not really the point.

Time seems to stop here. There’s the white noise of the air conditioning, the faint shish, shish shish of a custodian sweeping outside my closed door, and the clicking of the computer keys. I’m reminded of (1) how seldom the moments are when things are relatively right with the world and we can be alone with our thoughts—when concerns about finances, food, our children, etc. seem so far away, if only for a while and (2) how much of a blessing it is to have any of these kinds of moments. Why is it that I continually alternate between these kind of dreamy, romantic posts and posts that convey my utter and complete hysteria at the chaos of my life? Absolutely disgusting, really. Oh well. In any case it is helpful, I’ve found, to try to discern what creates calm moments like this. I think it comes down to good decisions. Getting up at 6am instead of sleeping in till 7. Actually having time to shower. Leaving the kitchen almost clean and vacuuming the living room before we go. Giving A time to get ready with out literally pushing her from bed, to bathroom, to booster chair, to car seat. Making pancakes, as requested by A, and having some myself. Sometimes I’m rushing so much I think if I had the option of feeding A a smoothie intravenously in the car I would. Sippy cups are not too far from this, I fear. Other good decisions: emailing S.O. to tell him about my day before I left the house. Consciously trying to relax on the way in to the daycare. Remembering to bring A’s green things (a cucumber and a Granny Smith apple) for her preschool homework. These good decisions led to a certain amount of togetherness that makes sitting here and having a moment of calm, possible.

Of course, the fact that I was driving like a madwoman to get A to preschool on time, had to swerve wildly to avoid a truck merging unexpectedly into my lane (he probably wasn't expecting me to come zooming up beside him)…just water under the bridge, that if we think too deeply about would destroy this fragile peace that currently exists.

It occurs to me that most of my moments of calm involve some kind of distant noise (computers humming, wind through trees, water) and writing. What are your moments of calm like?

Burnin' a Hole

Woooooo! Let's see...what should I do with this wad of cash. First, not lose it. That would be bad. Wishlist? Already started (see previous post). Add to that Boston Market for me and A tonight, a NEW BRA is absolutely critical!!!!; a bottle of wine (or two); a cute summer skirt from Old Navy and some t-shirts for the summer. Underwear and socks for A in addition to summer clothes already on the list...a non-Walmart hair cut (apologies to all the Walmart devotees out there), an eyebrow, chin AND leg wax....

And with the 1.07 left over, I'll look on the internet and see if you buy new brakes and an axle for a 2000 Infiniti.

2 Hours to Go on Thursday

Two hours before I need to get my butt on the highway to the community center to meet with the kids. I don't want to go. I would much rather get myself together--sort the papers that have to be graded; sort the laundry that has accumulated in misc. piles and baskets around the house; run the dishwasher; vacuum the living room; surf the internet for a good salmon recipe for tonight's dinner; compile a shopping list that will last A and I for the next week on thirty dollars; vacuum out the car, actually put on some makeup and iron some clothes (i.e. stop walking around like I'm either to preparing to or have just run a 5K (depending on if you're close enough to sniff my pits. Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but still admittedly gross).

Instead, I'm stuck on the phone with the DMV, trying to find out how to sell the Honda. For 275.00 I can get rid of it, baby--broken door locks, busted water pump, cracked head gasket and all. S.O. Asked if I was going to call around to see if I could get a better price. Uhhmm...No. In my face is the option of getting rid of the car today, vs. calling around, shelling out money to advertise in the paper, and still having the car hanging around like a rusty doppelganger...What would you do? Don't answer that. I should know how to sell the car but I don't...I mean, I know it involves a transfer of the title but beyond that I'm basically ignorant. However, with the phone lodged between ear and shoulder (15 minutes and counting), what better opportunity than to check in here?

I'm already thinking about how to spend the money. Summer clothes for A., a trip down to visit friends without having to take the cheap option for everything (i.e., "Ah, let's not go to Chuckie Cheese--the McDonald's playland is right across the street!")...some cash to get drycleaning done so I don't think I need to buy new clothes...and maybe a pair of cheap sandals. Already, that's stretching things a bit. But, I've just got off the phone. Take the title, the notice of security interest filing, and a bill of sale, get the cash, take the tags back to DMV, cancel the insurance.

I'm on my way. Chuckie Cheese and Payless here we come.

Changing Who You Are

Think about the thing about you that you secretly hate the most. Not your gut, your hair, etc. A character trait (if there is such a thing, which, contrary to postmodern theorizing, I think there is, based solely on a study of my own neuroses...or perhaps my bad character traits are simply a story whose fiction I have come to believe--which suggests these flaws do "exist," if only in the conversations I have with myself...okay, I'm truly going off the deep end. ANYWAY).
Once you are an adult, how do you go about changing the most important things about yourself that you don't like? Jung says that we should create a new reality for ourselves, deliberately, through language and action. Of course, the issue is the difficulty in embarking on these activities. I propose that we...me...I have a love/hate relationship with my bad character flaws. They are really bad for you, say, like tequila...but indulging in it feels...comforting? No, it's always bad (think: slapping yourself on the hand constantly), but you can't stop...so maybe it's more like nicotine...

We CRAVE those flaws because when we do, we....Damn! I crave my flaws because when I do, I can fall back into comforting routines and rituals, that, although really self-destructive and negative, are familiar. A person I know talked about the physical and mental withdrawal from smoking cigarettes, how she just stayed in her apartment, staring, hugging a pillow. Thinking about trying to change what's really not healthy in my relationships with my significant others is sort of like that. Because, hugging the pillow and staring, I have to face the ugliness of my behavior. And who wants to do that?

As you can see, I'm trying to talk myself into change. Mother's Day was yesterday and I feel like a crappy mom, a crappy wife. I suck at saving, so instead of the cool helium and banner party I wanted to create for A.'s third birthday, I had to settle for some dollar store party hats, bubbles and eight Spongebob party cups. But that's only the material part of my failure. The time is now to proactively deal with why she follows me from room to room. Why I tell her things that I know her little brain is construing as somehow being her fault. It is slowly breaking my heart to hear her say "Can I come with you?" "Stay with me..." "Are we all going to stay there together?" Please God, let me not through my bad character traits, sap her of her joyful spirit. Please don't let her hate me or herself because of my choice to be more than just her mommy, and PLEASE let me stop aiming negativity at her because the intellectual work I also love seems so far away, or because things in MY life aren't the way I would like. She deserves so much more than that. Phrased more positively: How can I make her proud of the woman that I am continuing to become? Phrased more intimately: How can I make myself proud of the woman I am continuing to become?

Exercise

I got up this morning and walked ALMOST three miles. There's a nice spring chill in the air that I know I will miss once we move down South. Or, maybe it will just be displaced a few months. As we all know, I've been trying to get my life organized. It's my life's work. I have put everything into a little homemade booklet that, now that it's relatively complete, I hardly look at (mental note: look at my little book every morning). One thing that I wrote, however, is that when I write I'm healthier, mentally and emotionally. At this point, that statement is little more than a hypothesis, since I don't actually write on a consistent basis. Despite this, I'm interested in testing it out. What can it hurt? I don't want to get too far into an answer to that question since guilt is just waiting in the wings to tell me all of the things that I SHOULD be doing besides sitting here at the computer.

I have GOT to get into shape and lose my gut. I've resolved to go walking every morning from now until ...A. is up. Got to get her to day care. :)

Sunday Morning Blues

I've been depressed lately. Probably has something to do with the continuing theme of my life. Too much laundry, not enough time. Too many papers to grade, not enough time. I'm thinking about how to make time a friend, rather than an enemy. But that image doesn't really work, because time is more like...

Time is more like God. It just is. It just exists. It is constant. Always present. Both indifferent and wonderfully giving.

A. needs to have a bath and hair washed. But it is an accomplishment to return to this blog.

Defining Time

A. is sleeping on the floor in a "sleeping bag" she made for herself out of a comforter. She's moderately sick--a little fever, congested, tossing and turning. Though I'm completely stressed about the job interviews I have this week, I laid down next to her till she went to sleep. Lying there, I was conscious of how important it is to calm myself down--I could feel her heartbeat her breathing, she could feel mine. I wanted to give her peace through being next to her, not anxiety. I breathed more deeply, slowed my breath. I relaxed my tight jaw, my almost unconsciously pursed lips. I tried to completely relax. A. snuggled up next to me and held my arm. Through helping her, I helped myself. Isn't it always the way?

I was thinking the other day about death and definitions of self, again. My life is undeniably built around my family, but is it weakness to focus on that? Maybe I'm hedging my bets too much, and it's just another way to prevent myself from being hurt. Does loving another person completely mean that there is no thought beyond that fulfilling that love?

I'm fairly certain I need to attempt to live in the "here and now" much more than I do. After all, isn't it through being more "present" that we build a stronger future? I think I may also be too caught up in avoiding pain. No joy without sorrow, and all that.

Well, regardless of all that, here's what I came up with the other day. Some qualities that I want to try to build--BEING...thoughtful (meaning empathy as well as flexing intellectual muscles more), nice, honest. BEING organized, productive, creative, focused.

I'm Still Here

Life goes on. Profound, right? A is in the living room watching the end of the teletubbies. In the kitchen, the fix-it woman's tools are left--she's gone to the hardware store to get some pieces to fix our sink. And in the kitchen, here I am typing away, two stacks of books and papers piled a foot high. Haven't heard from the woman with whom I'd been working to try to get an interview for a job next year, but I have heard from what I thought was the "long shot" job and I have an interview for later this month. I'm now perched on the corner of the chair as A has joined me. She sees the scissors with which I facilitated the repair of S.O.'s suit coat button and promptly goes to the kitchen closet to retrieve her own scissors. She's back at the table now, speaking partly to herself, partly to me. "Don't cut mommy's papers. Don't cut this book, don't cut that book...

The fix it lady's back. A and I are on our way outside to enjoy the 60 degree March weather (tricycle ride and maybe even a couple times around the block with the baby jogger so I can get some exercise).

The sun is shining. My car has been towed somewhere and I'm waiting till later to hear the bad news about how much it will cost to get it fixed. I have a mental list of all the things I'm going to do in the magical two hours during which A is asleep (of course, it's about a full day's worth of work). But the sun is shining. We're going outside. I love my daughter so much.

Untitled No.2

Hypothesis:
In love,
opposites attract.
It is important to be
exact
in such a scientific endeavor.

The null is that they don't, or
is it the other way around? Well,
what I'm saying is vice
versa--on the other hand,
it probably just
depends

on what opposites are of issue;
the hair, the shoes, the food,
the state, how late, the urges
followed, the passions expressed.

Maybe
it's the tiniest of things
that catches our ire,
like the tadpole with four eyes
or the dirty canary,
the answer is provided to those
for whom these details
matter most.

More likely, however, that chaos
rules the lives of the loved.
Bruised and warmed, we rush blindly
onward
through walls and light.

Copyright 2005 F.E. Wright All Rights Reserved.

Witching Hour

Night person I am not. So how I have managed to stay up this late and be alert without coffee, I have no idea about. I wish that I could sit, staring at this laptop, in a different time-space, while the world around me rushed by. If I can muster it up, I'd like to write about the good things that happened today. I "bonded" with my fellow search committee members over a really weird candidate interviewing experience. I had a good talk with my friend S. I felt connected to something larger than myself in looking at photos of Ossie Davis' funeral and in helping my advisee to write a personal statement in order to get a fellowship.
Those are some good things. But I've fallen down with my parenting...I've been so short tempered and irritable.

I just need some time to myself. Some rest. Time to exercise. Time to just get MY shit together, basically. So what do you do when you don't have that? This blog is getting ridiculously repetitive: "Oh, poor me, overworked mom." If I can't think of anything different to say, you won't be hearing from me for a while.

What Suzy Did at School Today

I asked A. what she did at preschool today as I was setting up my laptop and getting ready for the big push to get a second application in for a job but she wouldn't tell me. She would tell me what "Suzy Did." Hmmm...Here's an excerpt:
"And then what did she do when she sat at the table?"
"She at a snack, like this. And she ate some apples and some crackers and some fruit, and she ate it all!"
"And then what did she do?"
"She read some books and she took a nap."

Sounds good to me. I would love to take a nap. What is it that I most want to do today? I would really like to have ANOTHER peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or a Dunkin Donuts number 1 special. But, I keep reminding myself that I want to look good when S.O. graduates, and when it gets to be summertime. I want to look good when I can afford to buy some new clothes and shoes. *Sigh.* Dunkin Donuts=immediate gratification. Looking good three months from now...you do the math. I suppose if I was exercising now, I could get the psychological lift from that right now...but I would still want some donuts. So would the exercising cancel out the donut eating? Not unless I exercised for about five hours...this is the type of meaningless decision making that I wish I could cut out from my brain. OR I could just take a pill to get rid of my donut dependency and that would be that.

"Mommy Madness" (Newsweek Article).

When you get a chance, check this out: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6959880/site/newsweek/page/7/

We DO have to find a way to managae things for ourselves as working women and mothers. This, I feel, is the biggest and most easily identifiable struggle that self-proclaimed feminists (whether first, second or third wave) have to undertake. We can't keep taking on more and more--the housework, the children, our jobs, ourselves, being politically active, community-oriented, involved in our churches, extended families and on and on and expect that we will remain sane and not work ourselves into real or mental early graves....

The Push

It's already started, and only a week of the semester has passed. My face is breaking out. The dishes from last night are unwashed. There are clothes that are probably mildewing in the washing machine as we speak. Worst is the sense of hopelessness. I told my mother that if I could just take ONE of my professional responsibilities off of my plate, I think I could be sane. But of course that's not possible, so my only choice is to try to manage myself such that others don't realize I've completely lost my mind. This weekend my absolutely-have-to-do list included:
My fourth year appraisal form completed (at least 2 hours of work)
Work for Dianne (everyone in the project contacted, plus a draft of materials for the conference workshop or at least an outline, location of grants and contacting of people in the government)
Syllabus for my undergraduate class done and ready to be copied, website updated and current, postings to web in response to students...
Emails to all recommenders for the position I'm applying for (that one is actually DONE)
Responding to Ann's draft
Finish cover letter
Complete readings for both classes (approximately 150 pages)
Email advisee about grant application due in two weeks, and his recommenders
Email faculty affiliated with my course, set meetings for the semester
Significant work on my article
Significant work on my chapter (due at the end of the month)
Planning for next week (next week is actually today)--including, research project, research writing time, and plans for classes

And so, all of that is supposed to be done by midnight tonight, and it's 7:48am, which means that A. has already given me some unanticipated work time. But how to do all of this? When I try to work while A. is awake, she comes and stands next to my computer. She stares into my eyes (this alone is torture). She puts her hand on the laptop as if by touching it, she can absorb some of the magnetic energy that keeps me attached to it, clicking away. I feel so sad about that, most of all. What am I doing to her 2 1/2 year old brain? What teenage angst is being cultured? It would be less painful if she didn't look so much like me. I showed S.O. some of my kid pictures and he said it was like looking at A. at 7, 10, 14.

I know, already, that damage has been done. It doesn't take much to know that if your kid watches tv when they wake up (1 hour), tv when they come home from day care (anywhere from 1 1/2 to 3 1/2 hrs during the day, plus 2 hours of what grownups are watching), tv on the weekend (5-7 hours of the tv being on, although she plays after about 2 hours and stops to stare at the tube intermittently) that there is something wrong. So, as a "test" I turned the tv off 1 hour after she'd gotten up from her nap yesterday. It took two hours before both of us were in tv withdrawal. Fifty times, at least "Mommy I wanna watch some tv. I wanna watch tv, I wanna turn the tv on."

Me: "no."
A: "Yes!"
Me: "No."
A: "Yes!!!"
Me: "A, I said NO."
A: "YESSSS!! I wanna watch tv!" (tears and snot commence).

And the kicker? I wanted SOOO badly to turn it on. Not for her, but for myself. There should be a cigarette-type warning etched into the screen. But, I didn't turn it on...One small step for overworking mothers everywhere, one giant step for F.E.Wright.

Untitled No. 1

That cracking noise?
The sound so slight it is
now mostly memory
of something you thought
you heard

That was my world shifting
off its axis as I realize
I am not the person I once was
to you

Like the wandering lines
of ceilings or walls
that mark what seems to be
a home's settling
later known as its demise

I exist without really being
there until I make my move and
am marked, condemned.
Uninhabitable by anything except
the possibility
of what could have been.

Two Good Things

I was SO glad to hear from my friend Enya today! It was a good omen, because I was on my way to teach a graduate course I’ve been wanting to teach for the longest, and I was also nervous because a colleague told me that she recommended the class to some students and she said it and looked at me in this “so don’t fuck up” kind of way. Maybe it was my imagination? Anyway. I was also nervous because there’s this graduate student taking the class who is an absolute superstar and simply exudes positive vibes like a frickin' plant light. And who wants to disappoint a person like that? If he was an asshole, maybe. But he’s not.

The class went really well considering that I constructed the syllabus in a total of 8 hours, tops. I know what you’re thinking. “F.E., you’re such a SLACKER!!!! If all professors were like you, the United States higher education system would fall to pieces!” Well maybe you're thinking that or maybe it’s just my internal cynic speaking. But this semester I am DETERMINED to make this class and my other class absolutely phenomenal. It’s an effort to get rid of the “bad-class-karma” I accumulated from last semester when the semester was over before I gave my students back their final projects. And…if I teach my classes well this semester, it will be some kind of consolation prize if I don’t manage to make my goal of publishing 50,000 articles in every top tier journal known to wo-man (which is what I said I would do in my fourth year review if they would pretty please with shugar on top give me a chance to make tenure).

The other cool thing is that I have this guy from New Zealand in my class and I’m thinking…I wonder if he knows C. (which is the only other person I’ve ever met from New Zealand)…but I’m also thinking “this is a graduate multicultural education class. How stereotypical and lame would it be if I said ‘hey, do you know C?’ as if ALL New Zealanders know each other). So I’m sitting there, and I start to ask, and then I stop, and then I start, and the guy just says, “C said to tell you hi.” It was another good omen and I’m just going to take it and keep on steppin. Do you ever feel like thanking your higher power and saying to that higher power “I know you know that I am a worthless piece of mole dung, but you keep giving me these chances to make good and I just want to let you know that I am going to try my hardest to get reincarnated as, say, Siamese cat dung, just to let you know how happy I am to have another chance at living a worthwhile life?” That’s sort of how I feel tonight. And even though it’s getting harder to think of things to write without really writing about some of the things that matter most in my life, I still can’t get enough of this stupidly great blogging thing. I’m self-loathing nerd, that's what I am. I just need to learn how to claim my nerdiness without apology.

Limbo

Downstairs in the living room. Upstairs A is saying good night to her dad. The hum of heat from the register is a pleasant white noise and I only wish I felt more alert than I do now, otherwise I'd be working on that article that is little more than skin and bones. But I'm not a night owl. So, I'll probably stay up "late" watching tv and then be too tired to get up early in the morning. But, I AM looking forward to pancakes....

Snapshot No. 1

Sitting in the kitchen playing dueling laptops with my significant other. The snow is starting to melt and the thought of washing the cars while its hovering around 50 degrees has been flitting through my mind today. Retracing my steps...I got my international travel award application turned in--I gave it to the secretary, feeling all proud that I had gotten it in RIGHT before it went to the committee. She looks at it, looks at me, and then says "I think you're supposed to submit three copies." After I tell her I had no idea she says "Well, it's right on the instructions on the website." Okay, make me feel even more incompetent, right? So I sigh, and start to head home, wanting to call first, but, oh, I've left my cell phone in my office.
I get home, make burgers. Feel exceedingly funky since I haven't taken a shower and decide to take a shower. While in the shower I start to feel super positive about "life." I can DO this! The odds are against me/us, but I am NOT giving up! We're (my significant other and I) going to make it, we have to, for ourselves and for A!
So, after the motivational shower, I come downstairs, clean the bathroom, the living room (including A's potty chair left over from this morning's mad dash to the day care, misc. crayons, books, stickers, combs and brushes, blankets, remote, cell phone charger, blah blah blah), clean the kitchen, drink some ice water and sit down to start getting my self together.
And then I realize: (1) my 2004-2005 performance appraisal is due TODAY (2)the director of the community center was asking if I'd be back today not because he just wanted to chat but because I was supposed to have drafted a grant that's due next week (3) I still don't have my classes together for next week (4) I probably have 2 hours before I should pick up A from day care, (5) I have 88 messages, whittled down from 157, and all 88 really do require that I DO something (read and respond, write a draft of something, etc., file the attachment because "it's important," etc.).
So what do I do?
Make plans to handle as many emails as possible and leave early so I can drown my sorrows in a Dunkin Donuts number one special. By the way, one of the women who teaches in a classroom at A's day care asked me last week if I wanted a pair of pants that were too tight for her. I'm wearing them today and was slightly weirded out to know that although I consider myself a size 6, these size 10 pants fit pretty darn good. Now talking with my alter ego (Ms. Pre-C Section "Still-Thinks-She's-Twenty-and-Super-Fine") --I don't care what you say, I'm still going to Dunkin Donuts.

Quickly, Quickly

Oh my God, I can't believe that Dora the Explorer is over already, which means I need to find something else for A to do while I make hamburger patties and cook them. Maybe she can come into the kitchen with me and play with play doh. Or, maybe the alphabet puzzle I got from the School of Education library will keep her busy. Nope, here she is, in the kitchen...oooh, what do you know, she's heading straight for the play doh. GREAT!! Go with it, girl!

In any case, I just wanted to say that I turned in my review. I actually turned in the last piece of it today, because I realized I hadn't included my abyssmally (spelling?) low teaching evaluations from the graduate class I had last semester. It was a Freudian omission. That was, without a doubt, the worst teaching experience I've had since my FIRST semester ever teaching. I got feedback on the research statement I turned in with my review--from one of the "star" assistant professors who just made tenure at the associate level. He basically equated me to a human snowball in hell in terms of my likelihood of getting reappointed or making tenure. AND, if I don't make all of my overly ambitious writing goals for the semester, and even if I DO, I may not have a solid case for tenure, because my carefully defined research area is too narrow and doesn't have an impact on the larger fields to which I belong. F#$%!!!!! Oh well. I have more important hamburgers to fry right now. I have to try to hold my life together in the face of what is undoubtedly the most emotionally and mentally challenging set of issues I've ever had to face.

No Clue

No idea what to title this entry, but I feel a need to write SOMETHING to mark the day before I have to turn in my dossier to a community of my peers. I have approximately 24 hours (32 hours, minus a few for sleep, a few for eating, taking care of A and driving back and forth from home to daycare to work, etc.) Wouldn't you know it--as a more subtle woman would say, "my monthly visitor arrived today."

I was thinking on the way home from daycare this morning--I just want a future and a schedule that I think I can manage. If I can get that, I probably still won't be able to manage it, but at least I'll be in the ball park. When I look into the next few months, I don't see manageability. After I get past this review, that will be my task. Making concerted efforts to see and create manageability in my life. Ebb and flow baby. Talk to me next week and I'll probably be talking about how I just HAVE to add one more thing to my plate. I'm out to prove myself wrong about that.

Wanna Get Away?

Do you ever feel like not existing for a just a little while? No, not that way. I said a LITTLE while. I guess I'm talking about not existing in the meditational sense--an absence of self. Or maybe what I'm thinking of is more like that semi-comatose sleep I had when I was pregnant. Or maybe it's a combination of both of those things. Whatever. I just want a few hours of it right now.

Sometimes I feel like the windshield of my '95 Honda. After a decade of dirt and debrit and all manner of insects and pebbles being thrown at it, it's all scratched up and pitted. Last year a big stone cracked it and I had to get the whole thing replaced. The new windshield was amazingly clear, and I couldn't figure out how I'd gotten used to looking through the old one. So maybe that's what I want for my life, but I hate all the cliches: "a new lease on life," "a fresh start," "tomorrow, tomorrow, I love yaaa, tomorrow..."

In a sense, this blog is giving me what those cliches are talking about. No Blue's Clues or Sesame Street. No laundry. No paper grading or email sending. And a small degree of clarity about my life. It's ultimately very ironic --I have this problem letting other people in to my life but through this blog I am revealing in detail all of the stupid things I do and that I obsess about, and in doing so I feel released, even if temporarily. By revealing that I exist I am achieving that non-existing thing I was wishing for. I absolutely hate how corny that sounds and I hate that it's true. Maybe if I can make it into a snappy cliche other people will have to say it too. That would be funny.

Playdoh Moments

A just got a package of mini containers of playdoh from her Aunt. She's using one of those plastic creatures that sprouts playdoh "hair" by pushing down on its arms. Black, yellow, orange and green were quickly mashed together and squhz out the creature to make some psychadelic looking dreadlocks. By the time she finishes, she will have made one color: toxic brown.

Never mind the fact that I should be working on my review. The morning disappeared, I folded laundry, and took a shower. I went out with the intention of going to my office for tabs for my dossier and somehow ended up making a trip to my Mary Kay lady's house for a restock of purifying freshner no. 2. I stopped first at the Dunkin Donuts drive thru. It's not my fault.

It's quarter to two. A will be napping soon, and I will commence to a simultaneous dossier-work AND stress out session for the next two hours. The house is a mess--toys everywhere, dishes piled up. I didn't even manage the pancakes. For breakfast, A had yogurt, a pineapple cup, and some somewhat stale homeade banana bread which turned out to be pretty tasty once I slathered a generous amount of butter on it and put it in a frying pan for a minute on each side.

I'm looking for a magical door that, after stepping through it, I will emerge looking like I just got a "what not to wear" makeover and feeling like the brilliant social scientist I wish I was. Until then, I'll have to make do with being the sweatpants and t-shirt wearing couch sloucher who works feverishly, hoping to meet the minimum requirements for squeaking through with a renewed two year appointment to the University.

Saturday Morning Pancakes

It's Saturday morning, which can only mean one thing. It is my parental duty to make pancakes and eggs. F$^*! Can I just go to McDonalds? They're so much better than mine anyway. No. A absolutely must have my slightly rubbery Aunt Jemima's or it wouldn't be Saturday. Okay, so damn, that's not true either. A loves McDonald's and so does mommy. But in what can only be termed a herculean effort to stick with what could only loosely be termed a family tradition--and to save money--I will commence with Saturday breakfast as regularly scheduled.

What If...Morbid Thoughts That We Don't Admit To

This is for all the moms out there. Especially those with one child. Do you ever think about what would happen (heaven forbid) if your child died? There's actually a rule that says we're not supposed to talk about this or even think it in order to ward off this potential reality. But we do think about it. I have told myself that every day, every moment with Ais a blessing not to be taken for granted. But...if this fledging blog is in large part about the trials and tribuluations of being a career-oriented wife and mother...then what would happen if she was suddenly not there? Would I have some sad-sack message about the lovely being that she was and keep the links I collected for working moms who were still lucky enough to have their children safe and sound? Would I abandon the blog all together, sign off and never be heard from again? Or what about an alternative reality in which I did the slightly weird thing of commenting every now and then about how old she would be and what she would be doing at "X" age? I suppose I wouldn't think it was slightly weird if I was doing that, it'd just be rationalized as a coping strategy that others might find helpful. NOT. So forget that last option. I guess the bottom line is that in thinking about any important person in my life in this way, I don't know what I would do, think, or say. The only option for me is to keep on with what I'm doing and not speak of this again. Except to say that an idea behind this writing is that it is a healthy thing to recognize the things you've been blessed to have and it is also a good thing to try one's hardest to embrace the changes that life brings. Seeing life changes as opportunities for growth, learning, and becoming more "beautifully human," and all that. I don't think I have to say (though I am about to) that this would probably all be thrown away by me as a load of pollyanna crap if something bad were to happen. But maybe, hopefully, not. Here's to hoping that I won't have to see the opportunity in that kind of change.

My Favorite Things...

I know, I know. It sounds junior highish (nothing wrong with that for anyone reading this who is in junior high...but I'm 34. A line has to be drawn somewhere). Sometimes I need to remind myself that I DO know a little bit about who I am. And maybe when my early onset Alzheimers kicks in, I can come back to my blog and get a reminder about myself. That is, if I remember my web address.
*Sigh.* Anyway, here it is...

Writing
Earl Grey Tea
Corduroy
Coffee
Donuts (Dunkin Donuts, to be exact)
LouLou Perfume
Hearing my 2 1/2 yr old daughter say "I love you mommy. I like hanging out with you."
Body Butter
Reading Short Stories
Sitting in my car at the park listening to "This American Life"
Peanut Butter
Getting my hair done
Internet Window Shopping
Pillows
Good Sex
Going to the movies
Mexican Food and/or Margheritas
Walking at sunrise
A good hug
Being funny (on purpose or otherwise)
Feeling sexy despite unshaved legs and a belly pooch that sticks out almost as far as my boobs
People who make me think about things more deeply or in a different way
Garlic
And of course, my mother.

I did it.

Four in the morning, you know what I'm saying? Hard core. On the grind. Doing what I need to do. Unfortunately, my brain is acting like my 1995 Honda in this cold weather--takes a good while to warm up....
Yesterday I went to Rite Aid and bought my daughter's day care teacher a birthday present. Standing at the cash register, I did a double take and recognized the mom of a girl I used to mentor. We exchanged hugs and I asked her questions about what's going on with TiTi. She's as tall as me now, at eleven, wearing a size 61/2 shoe...they're buying a house and her mom is working at TiTi's elementary school. It was just really nice to talk with her. It was nice to feel as if some of the things I do in this world mean something. Trite but true.

One End of the Candle Went Out

So much for burning the candle at both ends. I have maybe forty five minutes before my mommy day starts so this is just a short post to officially document the fact that I have only that amount of time to finish my statement, take a shower, dress, clean the kitchen....

It's Alive!!!!!!

Well. So much for "extended work time." I'm just getting back to writing a statement of what I've done over the last four years at the University (my internal cynic has conveniently paraphrased this as "not much")...and...I hear a voice from upstairs: "Is it timetowakeupfrommynap? Is it time to get up Mommy?" Gotta love it. (Seriously. She's my world). I yell up to her the usual, "ComeondownSweetiePie!" And just like that, I guess I'm back to the stay-up-till-midnight-get-up-at-four-in-the-morning plan. Hey--don't knock it till you try it. It's been time tested over three generations. Grandma Wright used it, living in Detroit with four daughters, a son, and a job as a seamstress (on and off the books). Mom used it...studying for medical school while we were teenagers. And now, it's coming in handy for me. We should write a manual and make the proverbial million bucks. There'd have to be disclaimers of course: "use of this work method requires a life time dependency on at LEAST three cups of coffee per day (more for optimum success), which may in turn lead to unhealthy dependencies on Dunkin Donuts." Side note: Blogging is THE preferred method of procrastination for professional procrastinators. And now, back to that statement. To all you pre-tenure mothers out there...wish me luck cuz I'll need it...See you at midnight.

Potty Chairs and Tenure Angst

A potty chair and a well-worn baby doll stroller. Winter trees against a white winter sky. Increasing panic over the week I have left to turn in my fourth year review at the University. I hope that further blogs will get much better than this first one. I hope that my daughter stays asleep for just a little while longer...Her two and a half year old self seems to want to sleep less and less but I'll keep going with the nap, baby! I hope I can stay awake till midnight and get up at 4 a.m. for the next few days...The illusive ideal--tenure bound super mom. Can I just be that for the next few days? It's a prayer, a plea, a hail mary.