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.