Evil Hollywood

As I lay curled in a full fledge PMS (or maybe just MS) depression, my S.O. tried to understand what was wrong. I'm sure that I was barely intelligible between sobs, but I think my answer was something like "Why..." (sob) am (sob) I (sob) here?" ImeanwhatismypurposeherebecauseIjustcan'tfigureit
outandI'msotired
(sob)
offeelinglikeI'mafailureateverythingatbeingawife
amotherI'mfailingatmyjobI
(sob)
justdon'tunderstandwhatitisI'msupposedtobedoing
(this last part trails off into a really nice snot snort).

S.O.'s response: "Uhm...so...by "here" do you mean in this house, this city, this state, or...."

You see, this is the reason to be married. With that single question, my S.O. brought me out of my sappy existential funk, because at that point I sat up and thought to myself "leave it to my husband to put a completely pragmatic spin on my despair."

Because, obviously, if we could just pinpoint where "here" is, then we would have hope of finding a solution to the problem. Clearly, I just need the right tool--a socket wrench, perhaps.

Of course, the thing that matters is that he was willing to listen (albeit briefly, before launching into his usual soliloquy about his perspective on things--but he DID listen).

And the way I was feeling is not his fault. In fact I would like to take this opportunity to blame everything on the evil Hollywood people. I'm talking about the people who feed us the myth that every individual is born to fulfill a certain single-minded purpose in life. It was my S.O. who planted this seed--after he realized that "here" was not an actual location, his comment to me was "Does anyone really know why they're here?"

And after overdosing on TV in an effort to quell the last few stress nightmares I've had, I realized the truth of S.O.'s question. TV, movies...99% of those leading men and ladies are portrayed as having some kind of inner truth that "shines through" and reveals their purpose, their reason for existing.

Hollywood is just another form of crack.

Classic Quote for the Day

From the movie "Domino" (2005):

Claremont Williams III, Bail Bondsman: It’s very simple. The DMV is the de facto conduit for all humanity. And every human being that we track down has a record in the DMV database…So we have people on the inside that feed us the information.

Ed Mosbey, Bounty Hunter: Ahh. Shit. And who would know it. The gatekeepers of humanity turn out to be...a bunch’a sassy black women.

Socks
a few minutes of "The Devil Wears Prada"
panties (the kid)
drawhs (the husband)
underwear
A few more minutes of TDWP
pants (hers)
shorts (his)
leaning tower of towels and washclothes
then downstairs for double strong coffee

percolating
9:39pm
CSI: NY (Bruckheimer's throw-away scripts)
watch the last few minutes anyway

with double strong coffee
microwaved soymilk
three shakes nutmeg

Watch the first few minutes of "Domino"

Immediately: why are strong women invariably
portrayed as such dysfunctional bitches?

Maybe because we are. I'm sitting here mad at the world because I'm choosing between reading Bakhtin and sorting socks and underwear. My S.O., having just returned from a male bonding experience constructed from two parts deposition-taking with good-ole boy millionaire lawyers and one part binge drinking and playing poker with high school buddies at a blues-playing juke joint, spent a total of 80 minutes reflecting on how glad he was to be home before grabbing a fifth of Grey Goose and heading out to a party that he "got invited to a couple of days ago" and "just wanted to stop by."

Here's an interesting thought: imagine Bakhtin sitting at home at 10:32pm contemplating whether, for example, it would be a better idea to fold clothes that risked being permanently wrinkled or to put the finishing touches on the draft of ideas about heteroglossia, while his wife went out carousing with a bottle of vodka to keep her company.

Of course, this reeks of friedan-esque "old school" feminist bitching. And of course in theory "it" is not really about double standards. In real life though, that's what it seems to come down to for me.

I had a revelation the other day. Clearly, being married to an "I love my fraternity till the day I die" African American man raised in the Deep South who is now a lawyer at one of the only big (black) law firms in a town that, by the way, aspires to become a big city but just doesn't quite "get" the fact that you can't become a big city with out a TARGET...being married to such a man maybe is not the choice that (in hindsight of course) makes sense for a striving, career-minded Buddhist woman like myself.

There's just one complication: I can't seem to dislodge cupid's arrow from my left buttock.

And when it comes to Bakhtin's intellectual life vs. my pitiful excuse for one...Although he did write "several influential books" in five years' time, he also ended up using at least one of his manuscripts for cigarette paper after having been jailed for his ideas. So, I suppose it's not so bad to continually forget 98% of my potentially brilliant ideas as I wash dishes and fold clothes and sit here enjoying my two coffee caffeine high...

If the world ever acknowledges the skill it takes to keep up with housework, stay gainfully employed in several tenure-track positions, stay married without becoming a substance abuser (caffeine doesn't count) and raise a daughter who could possibly be the next Picasso...

then I will be the next fucking Einstein.

The Best Part of My Day

A. and I play this game--well, not a game really. Is it a routine? A special mother-daughter ritual? Yeah, a ritual. It's called "The Best Part of My Day."

At dinner, or while she's in the tub, or after I give her a hug and a kiss good night, I will say "So--what was the best part of your day?" She doesn't do it often, but sometimes if I'm lucky she will say "I think the best part of my day is right now." And then, other times she'll insist that the best part of her day is thinking about tomorrow.

Anyway. Then she'll ask me what the best part of my day was. It's a struggle sometimes, and I wonder what, if anything, it teaches A. when I say "hmmm...." and gaze off into the distance for several long seconds.

I didn't have to do that last night. S.O. and I had dinner at Captain D's and he gave me a glimpse into his thoughts about his future at the Law Firm. Everything is not roses and yet, standing there talking to him in the cool December air, cold enough at last to see our breath, I felt renewed. Maybe...maybe like a bored nine-year old who, while waiting at the bus stop, looks down and finds a matchbox car sticking out of the dirt.

After we talked, I decided to spend the rest of the money from a gift card I'd gotten at the December meeting of the Sassy Black Ladies' Book Club (a snazzy affair with a sit down dinner and gift exchange). I bought a pair of earrings (that at their original price would have cost more than most of my shoes) and a shirt to wear to the Law Firm boss's holiday party on Thursday.

Here's the kicker: as I was walking into the department store the guy ringing the Salvation Army bell turned and said "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

If I could capture the feeling I had at that moment and bottle it, I'd make a million bucks. Confetti and chocolate could have been falling from the sky. That whole thing--the conversation with S.O., the compliment and the shopping was, hands down, the best part of my day--even when the shiny compliment was tarnished a tad when the Salvation Army bell ringer added "If you could go back in time you'd be my girlfriend."

The Bitch Who Stole Christmas

Growing up, every year my father swore that this would be the Christmas that we would NOT be getting gifts. Of course, there was no room in the manger for a well-meaning idealist like him—bless his heart. Pitted against giants like the JC Penney and Sears Wishbooks—and later, the big daddy of them all, the sacred Toys-R-Us Toy Book—he was doomed to fail. And he did. Year after year, after year.

Ultimately, I fear that this Christmas failure was what sent him careening into spending the prime years of his life as a weekend alcoholic. He was a living irony. In trying to save us from the consumerism of Christmas, we branded him a long-haired hippy scrooge. What sane parent could stand up to that kind of abuse?

Which leads me to the subject of this post. Last night I told a dear friend that I had decided that I would not be sending cards, stringing up lights, getting gifts or putting up a tree. “It’s too stressful!” I tried to explain…And, failing that, I attempted to conjure my father’s rhetoric about commercialism.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Then: “You have got to be kidding me. Are you sick? In the head? No, seriously, are you all right? Do I need to come down there?” Admittedly, I was caught a bit off guard. Stammering, I told her that last year, due to some weird change-related anxiety, I had S.O. get a REAL tree, we put up lights and garlands, did the whole pine potpourri thing, played Christmas music, put up all of my cute little Christmas teddy bear knick knacky things, sent gifts to all of my family members, wrote cards, bought gifts for co-workers, acquaintances and all of A’s cousins…and…it wore me out.

I spent the month of December flinging myself between Walmart and Target and the Dollar Store and Family Dollar and the Grocery Store (aka the one Kroger in our town—capitalized because none of the other stores here can really hold a candle to it, even if they do carry every pork product known to man). So I attempted again to convince my friend.

Again, silence (albeit a more brief moment). This friend, imbibed with the Christmas spirit verbally flailed me, stopping just short of calling me an irresponsible mother. “Think of your child!” she implored, “Christmas will be magical for her for just a short while longer and when that moment has passed, you’ll be wishing you’d put up a fucking tree because you will have given her the basis for years of therapy.” It was like she was performing some kind of holiday exorcism. As she talked I felt an unnamed power coercing me into dragging out the gingerbread house that someone gave us in 1998. “The power of Christmas COMPELLS you! The power of Christmas COMPELLS you!”

Anyway. Long story short: in the end, I folded, just like my father did. I understand now the true meaning of guilt Christmas. Now if I could only find my Alvin and Chipmunks record…

So I haven't written in almost ten days. I've been busy counting the crumbs of petrified food that have accumulated under A.'s table. It's harder than one might think, since some of the food has been there long enough to take on the color of our carpet.

Just kidding...sort of.

Since my mother-in-law graciously watched my daughter every night last week, I am now in the netherworld of meal planning-- a delightful place--full of food fantasies and the excuses to make those fantasies real because "the kids will LOVE it" (these fantasies usually involve large amounts of cheese). I will soon be picking up my mother-in-law's other two grandkids from another magical world, the world of "aftercare." A. knows this place well, as she is often the last of her classmates to leave it.

I am THIS close to abandonment of all work plans and a complete surrender to my inner domestic goddess. Now that I think about, I doubt that I have ever possessed an inner domestic goddess. Frankly, I would happily settle for a toilet cleaning elf.

A Heavy Heart

So tonight my father-in-law called, he wanted to buy S.O. a shirt and tie set for Christmas. Hesitantly, I had to tell him that I doubted he’d be able to find one in S.O.’s size. He said “I thought he said he’d been losing weight.”

I started feeling emotional. Why?

S.O. called me a lot today—at 3:45 when I thought he was traveling the three hours back from his court appointment, turns out he was already at home. He’d called me at lunch time too, maybe before starting the drive home. When I walked in the door at 5:30, S.O. was watching TV, looking so sad. I asked if he wanted to talk about his day and he said “Not yet.”

So I made dinner (A is with Grandma tonight), we played two rounds of Tivo-ed Jeopardy. S.O. mentioned a few times how sore he was feeling from the physical therapy appointment he had yesterday for his back, and he asked me to put him to bed. We walked upstairs, I helped him into bed, gave him a hug and a kiss and turned off the lights. He told me how nice it was to have me in his life.

S.O. is struggling, and it makes me sad—for him and for myself. As I hugged him, touched his forehead with my lips, the thought passed through my mind—I need to look into life insurance. He was denied life insurance because of his weight.

I understand, now, that I’m sad because I know S.O. needs to have life insurance. Not in the way that every parent needs it. I am afraid that one morning I will wake up and he will have died from a heart attack, or a stroke. I’ve been resisting calling people to see if S.O. can get a policy because I’ve been in denial. Just like I’ve been in denial about how unprepared I am to have another baby.

A while ago, I had taped the fortune from a cookie to my computer: “Don’t let the things you love slip away.” I had been wondering what it was, exactly, that I love.

Tonight I realized how very much I love my S.O. Last night as I was cleaning the kitchen I also realized the extent to which I am in love with my family. There are times when I have wondered, especially when there is so much I want to accomplish in my work, what the meaning of my unending laundry and kitchen duty and cooking and vacuuming could possibly be.

So last night I was meditating on this while sweeping the floor, and it dawned on me that we’re creating something that I never really had growing up.

A dad and a mom and a kid, together through hard times and good. I know it was best for my parents to split, but I think it left me with a lasting desire for constancy...stability. Which might be why I have a tendency to be obsessive and why I’m feeling so afraid right about now.

Before I hung up the phone with my father-in-law, that same fear prompted me to ask if he and his wife could say a prayer for my S.O.

Not much more to say than that I suppose. Except that now my daughter is home and she has given me a kiss on the forehead, and taking my head in her hands, she told me "That is to protect you from tigers and lions and elves."

And fear.

Second Baby Blues

I would really like to smoke a joint.

Like a bookmark, this thought opens me to a familiar page, one with the word “escape” written at the top in capitalized, bold letters. I’ve been having this desire a lot lately, and since a physical escape seems unlikely…enter the illegal substance fantasy.

In any case. It’s 11:30pm on Sunday night and I should either be cleaning the kitchen or in bed. Instead, I’m thinking about a second child (perhaps another reason for wanting to fire up a doobie?) The realist in me says that if I can’t stop procrastinating about washing A’s hair, should I really be thinking about taking on diaper duty all over again? Another reality check: at a recent conference, I asked an un-tenured acquaintance of mine how in the world she manages, with a son who is almost three and a five month old daughter. Without a blink, she answered "we have a nanny and we've made peace with the fact that that's where my salary goes for right now." Looking back, I'm almost certain the thought bubble above my head containing the word "FUCK!" was actually visible.

So, truthfully, I know the answer to my second-kid question. I’m not ready. My husband is not ready. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I want so much to be ready. All Buddhist aspirations aside, it might not be a bad idea to start praying “to be ready” and stop trying to gather rationalizations. For example, I have a friend who has said that having a second child might be a good idea, if only for the simple fact that taking care of me and/or my husband when I/we get old is something no child should face alone.

There are other rationalizations, the principal one being age-related. I’m 36. Unlike other colleagues, I simply cannot wait until I make tenure, because I don’t want to have a child that is ten years old and another child that is 2 months old. I know there are women out there who may have kids a decade apart, but PLANNING to do it that way just seems insane.

Of course, this is taking a lot for granted. Like the idea that we can still easily get pregnant. And since I can’t remember the last time we had sex, I probably shouldn’t be making any assumptions. Yes, perhaps I am putting the cart before the horse. Perhaps I should be thinking about having sex.

Which just goes to show that personal revelations can happen at any moment: Thinking about having sex is way less stressful than thinking about having a second kid. I think I’m ready for bed now.

Coping with the Holiday Season Through Hollywood Versions of the Holiday Season

• A Christmas Story (1983)
• A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving
• Charlie Brown's Christmas (1965)
• Bad Santa (2003)
• Bishop's Wife, The (1947)
• Die Hard (1988)
• Die Hard (1990)
• Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas (1966)
• Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000)
• Elf (2003)
• Family Stone, The
• Frosty the Snowman (1969) (TV)
• Hannah and Her Sisters
• Home Alone (1990)
• Home for the Holidays (1995)
• It's A Wonderful Life (1946)
• Jack Frost (1998)
• Jingle All the Way (1996)
• Lethal Weapon (1987)
• Love Actually (2003)
• Look Who's Talking Now (1993)
• Man Who Came to Dinner, The (1941)
• Miracle on 34th Street (1947)
• Muppet Christmas Carol, The (1992)
• National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
• Nightmare Before Christmas, The
• Pieces of April (2003)
• Planes, Trains and Automobiles
• Polar Express, The (2004)
• Preacher’s Wife, The
• Santa Clause, The
• Scrooged (1988)
• Silent Night, Bloody Night (1973)
• The Snowman (1982)
• Trading Places (1983)
• Very Brady Christmas, A (1988) (TV)

Feel Good-ers

• The Preacher’s Wife
• Love Actually (Not for Kids)
• The Family Stone (Not for Kids)
• It’s a Wonderful Life
• Home for the Holidays (PG-13)

Good for Kids (and Adults Too But You Know What I Mean)

• The Snowman
• The Polar Express
• The Santa Clause
• The Muppet Christmas Carol
• Elf

Good for Kids (and Adults Too…) -TV

• How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• Charlie Brown Thanksgiving
• Charlie Brown Christmas
• Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer
• Frosty the Snowman

Best Comedy (Not for Kids)

• Trading Places
• Scrooged
• Planes, Trains, Automobiles
• Home for the Holidays
• Bad Santa

Action

• Die Hard 1
• Die Hard 2
• Lethal Weapon

Untitled

Selfishly, I hope that you find yourself thinking, "what is this life."
Last night I was searching for someone to listen to. Tonight, my daughter asked me why the moon follows us and I didn't know the answer. A told me that I know everything, but the only thing I knew then is that I would never again see that moment. I would not be (not even the next day!) that person I was for her tonight, as she stood with a towel wrapped around her, leaning against my chest, encircled by my arms.
I feel now as if my heart wants to burst, wants to shed its skin and become something more than I can imagine, expanding into an infinite space I cannot name.
I want to understand why I feel most at home when my husband and daughter are asleep and I am trying to make sense of my life at quarter to three on a Saturday morning.
I want to love the you that is me that is the world that is all that has yet to be reflected back to me from a reflection of a reflection of a reflection. I wonder if I keep writing if clarity will appear. I feel as though I should visit Eugenia, the almost 90-year old retired art professor who I met a year ago at a Christmas party.
I am afraid to even try to put into words half of what I feel and think and see and I wonder if I am alone in this.

As I was driving home, searching for someone to call, so that I could listen to a voice...I was rudely, sweetly interrupted by the moon. I craned my neck to the side, and leaving a greasy smear, bumped my head against the glass. I looked again and again at the sky, wondering what it was that made this feel so familiar. The rounded, glowing, misshapen bowl, visible through a ragged scrap of cloud. Was it familiar because this was the winter sky so much like the one I saw when I was seven, walking back through the woods with my mother and stepfather, still high from a dinner party with their friends? Was it real because I had seen it driving home to my father's house on one of those fall nights of my first semester in college?

Would you even believe me if I said that I recognized it because I felt God in me. Looking up, I felt that I was looking down at a celestial ocean. The veiled moon hiding beneath an ice floe, surrounded by other bits of ice clouds in a dark water so very close. The moon--a sweet, spooky, luminous eye, looking down/looking up, following me home.

My Day

5:14pm.

Started the day at 7:11am, when S.O. informed me that he had a physical therapy appointment at 8am (he may have actually told me this at 11:48pm the night before, but it didn't register until he woke me up--could it have been the fact that last night when he told me I was actually asleep? Anyway). I woke A up, hustled and bustled her to school. S.O. went to said appointment, came back with breakfast goodies from McDonald's. Had some nice hang out time with S.O. Used the car to go pay the rent for our home and the rent for the stuff that doesn't fit in our home while he was in the shower. Answered emails. Answered more emails. Looked up movie reviews on rottentomatoes.com. Answered more emails. Postponed meeting to discuss revisions that I had not yet done. Had a phone meeting. Watched the latest Tivo-ed episode of House over a late lunch. Had another phone meeting with the person to whom I was supposed to send the revisions about why I didn't send the revisions. Had another phone meeting. Had another phone meeting, which was interrupted by my cousin-in-law calling to tell me that her daughter's birthday party is TOMORROW. Continued phone meeting.

And now I'm sitting here, amidst the rubble of the day (empty coffee cup with nutmeg silt running up the side, empty McDonald's bags, junk mail, bill stubs, misc. very important work documents) wondering if I should use the last 10 minutes before hubby and sweetie pie get home to try to make my home look less like the hovel it is, or whether I should attempt to get to what I was actually supposed to work on today--a grant proposal that I had promised myself I would submit in November.

Or, I could rewash the clothes that I washed on Wednesday (probably now cemented to the side of the washing machine) and look at more movie reviews while I contemplate what birthday present I should get for my cousin-in-law's daughter.

I'm sensing a theme here.

Favorite Things--A Revised List

Time to write
Earl Grey Tea
Corduroy
LouLou Prada Perfume
Hearing my 2 ½ yr old daughter say "I love you mommy. I like hanging out with you." (She’s now 4 ½ and says things like “I didn’t respect that to happen!”)
Body Butter + Matching Pyjamas on sale from Walmart for $11.00
Short Stories
The PMS Peanut Butter Binge
A head massage/brutal scalp exfoliation facilitated by the acrylic nails of the shampoo lady at the Walmart Style Salon (yes, it seems like an oxymoron to me too)
Crème Brulee (so much so that I take pictures of the best with my cell phone)
Internet Window Shopping
Movies-action, kung fu, smarmy romantic comedy, drama, science fiction, sub-titled…
Walking waking at sunrise
A hug from my S.O. and/or daughter
Laughing at myself (luckily, I get multiple opportunities to do this every day)
Feeling attractive 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 (Well, okay. I don’t enjoy realizing how close-minded I really can be, but it’s like oatmeal with raisins—it’s good for you even though it looks yucky , and if you dig in deep enough, it’s pretty sweet…)
My mother. Had me when she was 19. Divorced my father when I was four. Wrote me wonderful letters throughout fourteen years of “joint custody” (now, maybe THAT'S an oxymoron). Was a stay-at-home hippy mom turned midwife while I and my brothers and sister grew up. Went back to school and became an Ob/Gyn at 50. Divorced my stepfather a few years ago. Has a heart bigger than Lake Michigan and laughs at my jokes.

Circa 1970

I became a 36 year-old on November 2nd, though my Big Birthday Plan had been thwarted by... the Congressional Elections. Forget Watergate, Whitewater, even scandals involving homosexuality and interns...The people running our country have this brilliant idea that government employees should not be able to travel to meet with lowly assistant professors like myself until AFTER we find out who is elected.

Of course, this meant that my scheme to meet professional goals AND have a weekend getaway in Atlanta met an untimely demise. I suppose it's all for the best, because if my plan had been discovered, I could have ended up at the center of the newest political debaucle: Birthday-gate.

Despite avoiding Birthday-gate, I was still depressed. My fantasies of staying in a hotel better than Red Roof, and being able to write off creme brulee as a grant development expense were shot to hell. It doesn't take much for me to wind up questioning the meaning of life and the universe. So that's what I was doing on the eve of my birthday.

But I prayed for inner peace, woke up, and had a brilliant idea (yes, prayer does work, even for Buddhists). Instead of trying to make my birthday all about ME, why not try to help other people have a good day? Just thinking about the concept made me feel all warm on the inside.

This fantasy was also doomed to a short life--upon descending the stairs, my S.O. greeted me with "Where are your receipts? How do you think we can expect to get our finances together if you don't keep track of things?" Confronted with the reality of our checking account balance, he had forgotten my birthday.

My biggest accomplishment of my 36th year was overcoming this moment and continuing my quest to help people around me have a good day. And I did. And S.O. remembered my birthday by the end of the evening. And we had dinner and two martinis a piece.

The End.

Life in Paradise

So, my day starts off with this gem from my S.O.:

u made me frustrated this morning.

A. should not be walking into school with a nasty nose. period.

YOU...were the person who got her ready. not me.

YOU...are the person who should check her out before letting her go out the door.

her nose was horrible.

all that you were talking about "maybe if you help me", etc etc etc - is just more of you changing the context instead of you admitting that you f*cked up by not checking her nose.

if you need me to help you with A. in the morning, let's talk about it and let's even come up with a schedule where on certain days i'll get her ready. we can do that tonight.

but that still doesn't change the fact that you were the one this morning that should have cleaned her nose.

so to get nasty at me when i call you frustrated, is the same o, same o and my day is now that much worse.

Kind of poetic, isn't he? It's quite the rare gift and one that I relish returning with as much bile as possible (this is my response, in its' entirety):

I apologize for not paying attention to A's nose to make sure it was clean. I didn't check it and it is my fault.

I guess having you call me in the middle of your frustrated state and having you go off on me is my karma. I apologize for getting nasty at you since your frustration was caused by me.

So, I guess that makes you a wonderful husband for following up by sending me this message. Thank you SOO much! Everytime I get something like this from you, whether in person or in an email, it gives me a lot of insight into what type of person you are. You may have my number in terms of how I react to things, but I know a thing or two about you as well.

And as far as you helping me get A ready in the morning? Yeah right. You can't even get yourself ready on time and don't think I haven't noticed that the whole "S.O. puts A. to bed on Thursday and Saturday night" has gone out the window.

Same o, same o S.O..

By the way, and not that it makes any difference to you, but I'm sick. I have a fever of 101.7. Maybe that's why I was so tired yesterday.

Have a great day Sweetie!

The part about being sick is true. It adds a nice touch don't you think? Ah, well...Such is life in paradise.

Weekend Resolution

Yesterday I bitched poetic about being caught between two social worlds; one of these worlds is quaint, country-fied and small town (as in, go to pay your cable bill, shop at WalMart, or rent a video and see someone who is either distantly related to you or who knows someone who is). The other social world? Same country-fied flavor, but dominated by the University's shadow, the ghosts of past quarterbacks and the belief that someday they will be one of those "cool Southern cities," despite the legacy of racism by which the rest of the world outside the city identifies it.

In the end, I stayed home, thanks in large part to my mother. She helped me realize that when I asked S.O. what he wanted to do Saturday evening and he replied "Nothing. Maybe just drink some tea, curl up in a blanket and watch a movie" the correct man-translation was: "F.E., please don't go out--stay home with me because I love you so much and I need to be close to you."

She's right. After all, when does S.O. ever talk about drinking tea (unless it's sah-weeet and on ice) and curling up under a blanket? That was a total nod to the things he knows I like to do.

So I stayed home. We spent some family time. I made a half-baked sweet potato pie that S.O. and A. ate because they know I tried. I shudder to think what might have happened if I didn't have Mrs. Smith's assistance. And then later that night, S.O. and I watched "Lucky Number Slevin" and crashed--a definite improvement over my first idea, which involved large amounts of vodka and my office couch.

Social Rocks and Hard Places

I can’t figure out what to do. Do I care enough about hanging out with Ted* and Margaret to go to Work City*; do I care enough about going to my friend’s big art festival weekend to ask Ed if I can go to Work City and spend the night, spend the money, and call my sister-in-law or call my work friend to see if I can stay the night?

That would mean that I wouldn’t be back until right before noon on Sunday. That would mean that I wouldn’t be back until later to do Asia’s hair, laundry, etc. I’d be impinging on sister-in-law’s and work friend’s time with their significant others.

And then there’s the Black Women’s Book Club tonight, that I’m not too hot on attending. I mean, I haven’t read the book. Who am I kidding--I’m not interested in reading the book. Confessions of a Video Vixen? No, not interested.

It’s all a part of this fucking schizophrenic thing. Not part of a community here. Not part of a community in Work City. At what point do I make a commitment to one or the other? Is there room for both? Do I become financial with the Deltas here? I keep coming back to that. Why?

Perhaps I’m getting closer to the real issue now. It’s not enough to have a friend on Gardenia Drive here in town. A set of colleague/friends in Work City. To have one connection with one person. Another connection with another person. Another connection with yet another different person. Why? No web unites these people. As a friend of mine would say, there is no social network, only a bunch of dyads and me trying to develop them all, absent an understanding of and participation in the networks that these other people belong to.

A funny thing, really. In thinking about my potential to become part of the relevant social networks that exist, I come up real short. As an aspiring Buddhist, I have very little interest in going to church on a regular basis. Family? The bonds of kinship as they are understood here are foreign to me—probably because they are so closely interwoven with going to church. And then there’s the whole deal with everyone knowing everyone else’s business and being pushed into the social role of being the “lawyer’s wife” that just makes me want to puke—mainly because it is predicated on the misconception that somehow S.O. and I are living life “high on the hog.”

And what of building myself into the networks of the “work friends,” the ones that I can most easily connect with? Since S.O. and I share a car and a life and a daughter, do I grow more distant from S.O., do I further deplete our resources by renting a car every other weekend and driving 75 miles away to feel “connected, do I drag A. to my social events, and risk inhibiting her own ability to be a part of the social network where we live?

Clearly, there is no easy answer to all of these questions. S.O. suggested making connections with people who work at the small university here in town, but doing that seems to be just another way to put another fracture in my life. When would I have the time to do that? It’s all just so fucked up. I find myself wishing that staring into the computer screen would open up an alternative universe—one in which there are people who are as consumed with the complexities of living a life in-between as I am…

I'm thinking the answer lies in driving to Work City, getting really fucking drunk, and crashing in my office. That sounds really healthy, doesn't it?
*Pseudonyms

These ARE the good old days...

Almost midnight. An hour earlier, after watching my tivo-ed episode of Heroes, I suggested to S.O. that we retire to the kitchen to recap the day while I cleaned the kitchen. I told hubby about my brilliant theory: DMX's rapping style is actually a positive way of coping with Tourette's. He told me about a client who asked if he could get her a two piece spicy chicken meal with macaroni & cheese and fried okrah from Church's (he sent his assistant for it). I told him about two friends of mine who revealed that they are pregnant. I told him that one of A's friends at preschool, a cute little tow-headed boy, told A. that "my mommy says I can't marry brown people."

If my eyelids were any drier I could probably start a fire with them, so maybe I'll call it quits for tonight...at least until S.O. falls asleep.

Before I started watching Heroes, A. came down in her nightie and implored me to hurry up and clean the kitchen, so I could go to bed--otherwise, how would she be able to get up early enough tomorrow morning to watch the Backyardigans?

All in all, life is complicated, but good.

Perpetual Organization

And so, it's ten till 4pm. I was able to get TWO things done that I didn't get done last Friday. Part of me wonders: should I be ashamed to say that it took me longer to get these two things done because I was watching an episode of The Wire and part of The Island as I was working? Perhaps. The other part of me just wonders why my S.O. can spend a total of about six hours playing Halo2 and not express the kind of guilt that plagues me. Who was it that said life was fair? Probably the one who said, "what's good for the goose is good for the gander."

But I've gotten organized today too--I have a list of twenty or so work-related projects & tasks, I call it my "Big Deal Loose Ends" list. Keeps me tuned into trying to make progress and wrap things up. The list is divided into (1) Short Term Big Deals (like a conference proposal due in two weeks, and a presentation and travel to do another presentation that happens next month); (2) Long Term Big Deals (like my plan for tenure and book development ideas; (3) Easy To Take Care Of Stuff (like emailing people to say, on second thought, I don't have time!); and (4) Long Overdue (speaks for itself). Sort of complicated, but it makes sense to me, at least for right now. But...after having completed this list, I was sickened to think of how the parts of my life that DON'T involve work could have similarly long and detailed lists of projects, especially since I opened a fortune cookie last week that said "Don't let the things you love slip away."

So, speaking of life beyond work--I had a good phone conversation with a friend this morning, she's got two boys and is preparing for a high stakes tenure review. At the end of our conversation, she asked if I'd thought any more about trying to have a second baby...Jokingly, and because S.O. was in the room, I told her that I'd have to get her a draft of an abstract for that project next week. Kindly, she gave me a tentative title to guide my thinking:

Motherhood the Second Time Around: Problems and Possibilities

It has potential, don't you think? And, conveniently, it fits all of the above-mentioned categories. It is a "short-term-long-term-easy-to-take-care-of-long-overdue" kind of project if ever there was one...

Silver and the Golden Scissors

This is a story I told A, early on Tuesday morning as I washed her hair. The day before she had cut out a picture of pumpkin so neatly that I honestly thought her teacher had done it.
___________
Once upon a time there was a boy named Silver who lived in a small city with his mother and father. His mother was a seamstress (that is what women who sew clothes are called) and his father was a tailor (that is what men who sew clothes are called). Silver loved his mother and father very much and wanted to grow up to sew clothes, just like his parents.
Silver’s Grandmother lived a few houses down; she was very ill. Everyday after school, Silver would walk to his Grandmother's house to sit with her and listen to stories about a pair of magic scissors that could do amazing things. On the weekend, Silver took chicken noodle soup, mangoes, apples, and bananas to his Grandmother to help her feel better. She would tell him more stories as he helped her cook and clean the house.
One day, as Grandmother was finishing a story. She turned to Silver and said, “You know, if you really want to be a tailor, you need to begin practicing how to cut quickly.” She told Silver that if he could learn to cut a sleeve from a piece of cloth before she could say “bobble kaboozle,” she would give him a special gift. Secretly, he hoped that it would be a green bicycle with red flames.
From that day forward, Silver practiced cutting cloth every chance he got. His mother and father had many patterns for sleeves—big poofy sleeves, long slender sleeves, medium sleeves with ruffles, short sleeves with points—all kinds of sleeves. Soon, his mother and father trusted him to cut out sleeve patterns they had pinned to pieces of cloth. Eventually, Silver began to pin his own patterns to cloth and cut his own sleeves. Every now and then he would take a piece of cloth to his Grandmother’s house and try to cut a sleeve before she could say “bobble kaboozle.” The first time he tried he had barely put his scissors to the cloth before she had said the word. Weeks passed, then months, then a whole year. Each time he visited his Grandmother, he cut more and more quickly. He got to be very, very fast.

One day, Silver told his Grandmother, “I think I am ready today. I think I can cut a sleeve before you can say bobble kaboozle.” He had his pattern pinned to a piece of cloth and his scissors open and ready. His Grandmother slowly sat down in her rocking chair. “Okay Silver. I’m ready when you are.” Silver looked at her. He looked at the cloth. Then he said “READY!” His scissors opened and closed so quickly that they buzzed. His Grandmother uttered the magic words:
“BOBBLE KABOOOOOOOOZLE!”
Before she had said “ooozle,” Silver was finished and holding up a long sleeve in his hand. He beamed with pride and his Grandmother did too. She asked Silver to come sit next to him. “Silver, I will not be here forever because I am very sick. You know that. You also know that you will be getting a special gift from me now that you have passed my test. And you know that even though I will be in heaven soon, I will always be with you—in your heart.” Silver felt sad and happy at the same time. His Grandmother gave him a hug and he gave his Grandmother a kiss and walked slowly home.
That night, when he walked into his bedroom, he saw a shiny red box laying on his pillow. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. He walked over to the box and opened it. On a little black pillow inside the box lay a pair of Golden scissors. Silver knew that his Grandmother had gone to heaven and that this was her gift to him. He put the scissors in the box and lay down to sleep.
That night he dreamt that he was in a tailor’s shop working on a shirt—it was hot, and he was very thirsty. Suddenly, a voice said to him, “why don’t you use your Golden scissors to cut out some juice?”
Silver woke up. “That was weird,” he said. “What could that voice have meant?”

Curious, he took the golden scissors out of the box. The voice said again, “Use your golden scissors…” He walked over to his desk. On it, he had drawn a picture of the green bicycle with red flames that he had been wanting forever. He opened the scissors and in a blur, cut the bicycle out. As the picture drifted to the floor, it got bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until finally it was the size of a real bike. Silver touched it. To his amazement, it WAS a real bike! He quickly drew and cut out a bike helmet and as it became real, he strapped it on his head and ran to tell his parents.
They were waiting for him in the kitchen. “Silver,” his mother said, “we know that your Grandmother has given you a very special present. She left it for you because you worked so hard at cutting out sleeves. Whenever you really need something or if you need to help someone who is in trouble, those scissors will work their magic for you. Now why don't you take that new bike out for a ride!”
As he rode down the street on his new bike, Silver felt a warm glow inside his heart. He smiled, and as he thought of his Grandmother, he whispered softly, “I love you Grandmother. Thank You.”

Empty Mind

When Buddhists talk about trying to empty one's mind, I'm not sure this is what they meant. Over the last month, I have been fortunate to finally finish my chapter (you know, the one I've been working on for a year), to finish my essay for my friend's book, and to hear back from a colleague regarding an article that we started writing--get this--six years ago. Yes, I'm third of four authors, but hey, it's a start. After four years at my previous job of close to no writing, I am encouraged by all of this activity.

But I am also oh-so tired.

I met with folks from a neighboring university today who might want to consult with me over my emerging academic speciality...and then right after, went to a meeting with a grad student whose dissertation committee I was on. And I am wiped out! Dare I try to muster the strength to wash A.'s hair? I must...

What was I was talking about again? Wait a minute--did I just manage to achieve a moment of "empty mind?" Mmm. No. I think that was just a caffeine-crash space out.
Anyway. A is ready to "play noggin on the inner-net."

$0.87

A week and a half ago when I thought I was doing good to be paying a bill on time (if you have to ask why this is good, and have a few hours you'd like to spend procrastinating, please refer to the past year + of posts), even though I was frustrated to be at a department store where there was only one cash register open and I couldn't make a payment with my bankcard because the card reader was broken and the cashier had to call over a manager to see if I could write one check for the carebear short set that was on sale for 5.00 AND my monthly payment of 25.00, and the manager couldn't figure it out and finally decided that I should just write two checks. ...Even though I thought I was doing good to have the presence of mind to thank the cashier for putting up with MY impatience (because, after all, it's probably not her fault that the card reader is broken), and even though I then practically break the sound barrier so that I could come home to rub spices over a half frozen chicken and almost literally toss it in the oven before being almost late to pick up A. from preschool (and of course, S.O. called me in the midst of the chicken rubbing to ask me what I'm sure he thought were relevant questions about why I was putting a chicken in the oven at 5:19 and didn't I know that it wouldn't be ready till almost seven... and shouldn't I be leaving already to pick A. up...) . Even though I looked back on that day with weariness and a sense of pride...

I still came up fucking short. Eighty-seven cents short, to be exact. Because, of course when I went to pay the bill at the store I couldn't find the most recent statement and decided that I thought I remembered that the minimum due was 25.00. Of course, I was almost right. It was 25.87. So I called S**** and kindly asked the customer service rep if there was anything I could do and he kindly told me to rush over to the nearest payment center and make the payment and then call to see about having any late fees taken off. Which I did.

And today I get the bill. Today, when I'm already feeling lonely and purposeless and all of the other premenstrual bullshit...I get the bill and see that there is indeed a late fee. And no, the kind other customer service rep informs me, no I cannot have the late fee taken off because we already cut you a break a few months ago ma'am and you've been delinquent more than two times in 24 months and by the way, your account is closed so there is no reason to expect that we would be able to assist you and really, even though it's only .87 cents, you are responsible for knowing what your payments are and making them on time.

It is times like these, when I am faced with the reality of my own incompetence, that I just want to quit everything and try something more manageable. Like being a lima bean. Or a rock.

Star Wars and the Meaning of Life

I talked with a friend yesterday who wondered how I ended up, after two prior academic tenure-track jobs, as “an assistant professor of qualitative research.” She’s not the first to wonder. Doesn’t really matter, she and I agreed—the most important thing is that I like it. I do.

And, if you feel that everything happens for a reason—finding a great job 75 miles from your husband’s hometown, connecting with people in that job and in that hometown that help you feel like you have a place no matter how much of an odd ball you are—then there’s no reason to search for a reason. But I do.

Why, though? It seems that everyday I’m nagged by incessant questions about meaning. Like last night—I found myself asking, “What is the POINT?” Perhaps it was just the ADD meds wearing off. But no, no. I still have these questions. What is the meaning of this –this life, this species, this job, this marriage, this parenthood, this world, this conversation, this blog? Maybe the answer can be boiled down to some t-shirt cliché, like “if you have to ask, you don’t know,” “just do it,” or “it’s a self-actualized person thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

I got up this morning and between 8 and 9am did more than I feel I’ve done all day. I took goods to the Salvation Army, dropped off dry cleaning, paid the rent, deposited boxes at our storage space, got A.ready for preschool, ate breakfast, did laundry and loaded and ran the dishwasher. I also completed a draft of a position announcement for a job search I’ll be chairing if the provost approves it.

And then…well..I ate lunch the vegan way by accident—let me just say BLECCCH! That was the worst cup o’noodles I ever had. I watched our tivo-ed episode of The Wire over my lunch. And then it was like I had a mental blowout. Honestly—I went up and took a nap until almost 3pm. What is that about?

Maybe it was hanging out with Asia and her cousin, minus my S.O. all weekend. Maybe it was the news that a friend who is pregnant may have lost her baby. Or perhaps it was the news that a whacko had killed 6 girls in an Amish schoolhouse.

I made a good recovery though—emailed next semester’s book orders to my admin assistant. Scheduled the car repairs for tomorrow and rescheduled a lunch I was supposed to have tomorrow. I walked to Sunflower for groceries for tonight’s dinner (a good 1.75 miles I suppose). And now I’m writing.

Could be worse. But I am aiming to find a way to stay on track and not get side tracked as much and for as long. There’s the grant writing that I was supposed to be emailing my research partner four hours ago, the emails from students from last week. And the finances. F***!

I made a deal with S.O. that by this weekend I would come up with a plan for this month’s bills so that we could finally get our income tax situation together. I feel like he wants me to fail. I feel like I’m going to fail. I haven’t even entered my receipts from last week, let alone looked at how to set a budget. Admittedly, he has a talent for catching me in grandiose moments. But--I will not succumb to the dark side. What is it that Yoda said to Luke?

Do or do not. There is no try.

Corny little motivational green bastard. He was always my favorite action figure.

Time for a New Forecast

I wrote this five years ago.

A woman divided

Continuing my half-assed attempts
At Buddhism,
I declare that in five years I will be
A full-time author, a full-time poet
And a full-time believer in my purpose
Here on earth.

Tenure?

Right, okay, then, in five years I will be
(insert all of the above)
and I will be tenured as an associate
professor, which means that I will have to start publishing yesterday which means that
I should be doing some research right now
Instead of writing, damn, and I need to learn how to teach my White students so that they
Will not crucify me in my evaluations and don’t forget
That I must be a good Black girl in the eyes of my colleagues.

That noise must be
My biological clock ticking
In a watch set strategically six minutes ahead.

The list grows

(insert all of the above)
and in five years I will have 2.5 children, one in kindergarten
one that’s terribly two and another ready to pop out, like
Athena, a girl genius who will manage better than I have.

One more thing…strike that. I think I should probably just
Make another list; they’re much more efficient
Given that I have to (insert all of the above)
Strengthen my marriage

Find religion

Shrink down two dress sizes
Plan for my parents’ old age
Save for my old age
Take that trip up to the mountains by myself that I’ve been dreaming about and…

Right. Start over.

In five years, I will be
a full-time author, a full-time poet
And a full-time believer in
My purpose here on earth.

BADD to the Bone

First came MADD, then SADD and now:

BADD!

It's brilliant, actually. This acronym could stand for "Buddhists Against Drunk Driving" OR "Buddhists with Attention Deficit Disorder" (my personal favorite).

The floodgates have opened...This could also stand for:

• Bitches' Alliance for Defensive Driving
• Blondes (united) Against Dumb Dudes
• Beekeepers Association of Dihil, Djibouti
• Boston Angelicans for Due Diligence

Admittedly, this has nothing to do with my task list for the day. But it has helped me to come down out of the intellectual stratosphere after an hour and 15 minute conversation with a grad student about the finer points of critical ethnographic methodologies and connecting theory to practice.

And, I should note, that I have now graduated to a higher dosage of my ADD medication. Normally, I would have questioned whether this was necessary, as I am still unsure of how I feel about taking the medication, period--both because of the risk of dependence and the impact on my bank account (80 bucks every month). In partial answer to my hesitations, yesterday I received this message from S.O.:

Hey--some dude "naylor"? called my phone and left a message for you i think regarding a 2pm meeting tomorrow. This is like the 2nd or 3rd person that has called my cell phone looking for you. is my cell phone listed somewhere in a directory or something?

As it turns out, on two (or three) seperate occasions last week, after encouraging people to use my cell number to contact me, I inadvertantly substituted my HUSBAND'S cell phone number for my own. Last week also marked the return of the sour laundry phenomenon (i.e., the discovery that you put a load in the wash three days ago and then forgot to put it in dryer. Which, of course, is only discovered upon your attempt to wash more clothes.)

So perhaps I should just get over myself and admit that this ADD thing is real and increasing my dosage will probably be helpful.

Inattentively Yours,

F.E.

Breaking 100

This is a landmark; my 101st post. As A. would say, hey mommy, let's celebrate with Christ wispies!

Alas, I am t-minus 11 minutes from a faculty meeting. So, perhaps a lukewarm diet coke would be a more feasible celebratory indulgence.

This has been the week of medical maladies. S.O. is at the doctor's office as I type, seeing about what's going on with his back. Most likely diagnosis: herniated disk. One student missed class because she hurt her eye. Turns out she has a degenerative disease. Another student got a cell call; she hurriedly left to see what was going on with her four-year old daughter, who was in the emergency room. I heard from a colleague--things with her were well, despite her son having chronic heart problems (been hospitalized many times), her father's death, and her mother's struggle with Parkinson's.

I, myself, am relatively healthy and I realize that is something to be thankful for. Just a little lonely, I suppose. But what else is new. Anyway. I'm thinking good thoughts and praying for the above-mentioned folks.

I may bring A. with me to a dance concert tomorrow. Sounds so high brow, right? That is, until I divulge that I got hooked on the reality tv show "so you think you can dance." The concept: incredibly cheezy. The dancing: surprisingly moving. The last day for the dance concert is Saturday, so I figure, let's choose reality over tv for a change.

And now I will indulge in the sacred solitary can of diet coke and take myself to the very last meeting of the week.

ADD, Part 2

Miss A. is upstairs napping. S.O. is playing Halo 2. At approximately 3pm, I have put the finishing touches on my "To Do" list for today:

• Plant Watermelon plants in pot
• Wash A.'s Hair (yes, Hair does deserve to capitalized)
  
• Finish AERA reviews due yesterday
• Work on Book Essay

Of course, there are other things lurking. Stuff in the trunk of the car that needs to go to Salvation Army; clothes that need to be put in a garment bag and stored till it actually gets hot enough down here to wear corduroy, wool and velvet; maybe a trip to the park later; perhaps a trip to Walmart to scope out bike prices for A.; prepare for meeting A, B, and C; get outside and move my body around...

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I believe the ADD medication is working. I've been prioritizing my ass off, and for a change, I actually feel like I'm getting things done. Before Concerta: at the prospect of all that I had to get done, I would get literally paralyzed and sit staring at a computer screen like a zombie. After Concerta: I sit staring at the computer screen...for a few minutes instead of an hour. I really don't care if the medication is primarily psychological. It's been worth it to be thinking more about the strategies that maintain my sanity: parsing out activities and time, planning in short transition periods between activities; forcing myself to take shorter amounts of time on things that really don't need to take hours, etc. Life is crazy, isn't it?. Ten years ago, I would have been quick to tell you that ADD is a load of horseshit. Now, I'm this close to getting a Tshirt that says "This is what ADD looks like."

Okay, not really.

On another note. I'm becoming acutely aware that raising a daughter with expansive ideas about spirtuality is not going to just "happen." With my current approach, I think she'll just end up rrreally confused. I mean, exactly how am I supposed to reconcile wanting to raise her with Buddhist beliefs while looking forward to videotaping her roles in Nativity plays and Easter speeches? Now that I think about it, that's the problem with Buddhists. They don't make kids dress up in cute costumes or sing songs about the reality of suffering. What's currently bothering me most is that her preschool teachers are starting to lay the God talk on pretty thick and I'm at a loss for what to say in response to all of it.

The biggest challenge is that I don't want to isolate her from the culture of her community. Most people in the South are Baptists. They go to church on Sunday for HOURS. They play basketball for Jesus, sing in choirs, have the Bible in the magazine stand next to the toilet. I can't, in good conscience, just take A. out for nature walks on Sunday and talk about oneness and hear-and-now, all the while knowing that her cousins and friends will someday consider her a freak and some sort of missionary project. Or can I?

It's okay with me that she go to church. After all, that's what I did, all the way from Vacation Bible School through my Lutheran Catechism and confirmation. I just want A. to know that spirituality is so much bigger than what people in this small Southern town do. I guess I should keep it simple, for now--for 4 year olds, that means about one sentence. How do these sound:

• "Sweetie, you should know that there are lots of different ways to know about God."
• Hey A., did you know that people in different places have ideas about God that are different than you?
• Honey, just so you know, your mommy thinks that Christianity, although it definitely has its strengths, is probably a tool of a patriarchal capitalist hegemonic majority. Don't tell your teachers I said that, okay?
  

ADD, Part 1

I'm working on a post about how I feel to be "diagnosed" as having Attention Deficit Disorder. But I have so many other things on my To Do List that it will have to wait till tomorrow.

I have been working on a list of "100 Things about Me…" and so far I've only gotten to twenty:

1. I believe I was a pastry in my previous life.
2. Although generally I’m a pacifist, I play Halo2 on the weekend with my S.O. and his dad.
3. I believe that the food pyramid should be built around peanut butter, coffee, garlic, donuts and cheese.
4. If I was reincarnated as a rock, I'd be okay as long as I had a view of the sky..
5. My favorite alcoholic beverages all seem to start with M…margarita, martini, mojito, modela (negra, that is).
6. My daughter is the greatest gift I’ve ever received.
7. I listen a lot and ask people questions to avoid talking about myself.
8. I’ll have a dark roast coffee with vanilla soymilk, splenda, and a little nutmeg, thank you very much.
9. Being a Buddhist in the Bible Belt is much harder to do than it is to say.
10. I've been married for ten years—known him for at least fourteen. I’m only now beginning to reveal my true self to him. I guess there’s just no truth in advertising.
11. Fart jokes have never gotten old to me.
12. I have a really hard time trusting people.
13. I wait for magical things to happen, and then when they do, I wonder "was that really magical, or was it my imagination?"
14. As a teenager, I once pulled the pillows-under-the-cover, sneak-out-of-the-window-to-get-out-of-the-house trick. I think my dad knew, even though I'd found a curly wig to put on my pillow...
15. A long time ago, I did inhale. Sometimes I fantasize about doing it again.
16. There is a room inside my brain devoted to the eighties. Word up.
17. I think it’s only, and always, a matter of time.
18. I am a mother and a masochist--I secretly hope to get pregnant with twins.
19. I believe that beauty is found in most ordinary moments.
20. I asked my daughter what she would tell someone about me. She didn’t quite get it, so I said, what would you tell your teacher about me? She said “My mommy can’t pick me up today because she had to go to work and my daddy is going to pick me up today. The End.” I wasn't as depressed as I thought I'd be. At least she's honest.

TGIF?

I wish I could describe to you the lunacy that I am witnessing from my third floor office window. It is 2pm. There is a woman, sitting on the lawn in front of my building. She is sitting in a rocking chair, reading a romance novel and sipping tea. On the TV tray next to here is her lunch. But she is not alone—no, for the number of individuals in chairs assembling themselves strategically across the quad is growing exponentially as I write. Can you guess when the football game starts?

TOMORROW. At 6:00pm.

I admit a complete lack of understanding of this cultural phenomenon. I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t want to know. Upon walking in to the college, the Associate Dean asked (incredulously) why I wasn’t wearing my Univ. of X t-shirt. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t own one and most likely would not wear one even if someone bought it for me. Perhaps if someone paid me I would consider it—and now that I think about it, perhaps I could pitch this as part of a new merit raise incentive!

Yes, I am a bit grouchy. It is now 2:23pm and I will have to leave in a little over an hour. The amount of work facing me this weekend boggles my mind even more than the antics of the species of pigskinickus tailgaterus outside my window. So what do you (I) do in this hour? I’m at a loss, frankly. I suppose it would be a good idea to get some work done but what? I feel like I can’t accomplish anything important in an hour. Not including this blog entry.

I took my first dose of Concerta this morning. It’s an adult ADD medication and I’m a little disappointed. I’m supposed to feel different a few hours after taking it, but I really don’t think it’s had an effect on me. The prescription insert says that many people need to have their dosage adjusted higher to see results, so I guess I’d fall into that category. At the same time I filled the prescription, I also turned in my scrip for Lexapro, an antidepressant. I came to the drive thru to pick that up and the clerk said cheerfully “Okay that will be 73.55.” Just a little bit dumbfounded, I told him that I’d have to come back later to pick it up.

I’m so cheap. Really. As I drove off, I thought to myself “Damn. I don’ t think I’m THAT depressed.” So, this morning I called my psychiatrist’s office to see if I could get the “generic alternative” to Lexapro—it’s cheaper and the copay is only 15.00 as opposed to 50.00 for Lexapro. I was told that the psychiatrist doesn’t change prescriptions over the phone and that I would have to make an appointment—of course, that counts as “seeing him.” Which means MORE money. Fuck!

Who would have thought that being happier could be so expensive.

Hold the press. Four black Adonis’s (Adoni?) just jogged by wearing nothing but Univ. of X shorts and their running shoes.

Maybe I could get used to tailgate Fridays after all.

Less Money, Less Problems?

I received my social security statement in the mail today. Is it just me, or is reading these things more and more like reading junk mail? Supposedly, if I continue working until I’m 70—okay, that thought alone just gave me the heebie jeebies—my payment from the government “would be about 2,278 a month.”

Yeah, right. This is especially bogus given the fine print: “…The law governing benefit amounts may change, because, by 2040 (when I’m 70), the payroll taxes collected will be enough to pay only about 74 percent of scheduled benefits.” So, like, if I work till I’m 80 can I get the other 26%? Or am I just better off sending in my Publisher’s Clearinghouse entry form? Because according to them, I may have just won the 10 million dollar grand prize!

Well, anyway. I had my second session with the out-of-town shrink. He said I sounded like I was doing better than last time. I have to admit that this was a little disappointing. I don’t think he understands me and how much the outer façade of my day to day existence belies the inner turmoil of my life. I tried my best to convince him that I really was unhappy and struggling. I don’t think he bought it. Crap! In fact, I had this weird feeling that after my session he might be going to a session with his out-of-town shrink, in which he would complain to her that his patient was doing better at coping than he was.

It’s this kind of feeling that makes me feel confident that there is some truth in reincarnation.

Interesting tidbit: After filling out an online car loan calculator, I was intrigued by the results:

Your Qualified Car Loan Amount*: $-70839.60

You’d think that loan companies would be a little more humane. At this rate...well, you probably guessed it: I’ll be eligible for a car loan in 2040.

Intellectual Posers Unite!

This is just a guess…but the astounding amount of naiveté I have concerning the probability of a pleasant outcome of my life activities HAS to be what keeps me from turning belly up and twitching like the monster cockroach I just caught trying to squeeze his way under the weather stripping in my door.

Whatever, the reason, I came home from the library yesterday with a two foot high stack of books on critical theory, critical ethnography, Foucault, Bourdieu, cultural studies, and visual ethnography. This is largely because, during my first year at this new job, I learned that there are certain areas of the Deep South that are intellectually magnetized to attract French and/or feminist Post-Structural theorists. You know, like Taos and Sedona attract New Age hippy types and aliens?

Trust me, there’s nothing like a French intellectual to make you feel like you are trés stoopeeed. Other than, of course, intellectual-er than thou colleagues who keep referencing French philosophers and using words like post-Neitzschean, transversalist, and ethicophilosophical. Please slap me if I ever start to talk like this in public.

In any case, I’m doing academic cross-training now. I ordered the comic book-style “For Beginners” books on Foucault, Derrida, Heidegger, Marx, Saussure. I’ll have to save up for the ones on Barthes, semiotics, and Deconstruction. I’ll work my way through these at home and use websites and more library books to begin to develop a passable level of understanding... I’m thinking of this sort of like night school for the custodian who dreams of becoming an architect. There’s an interesting symmetry in that analogy, since I actually used to be a toilet-cleaning custodian. If only I had been reading Nietsche in my spare time back then, instead of running to the mall with my check to buy clothes for the club. Question to self: How young is too young to begin introducing one’s daughter to existentialism?

I have to admit, there is something inherently sexy about being able to use “post-Heideggerian” in a sentence. I’m just aspiring not to make people shoot beverages out their nose when I do it.

Next Steps

To be doing something. I fancied myself thinking all sorts of romantic and passé thoughts, like “what does it mean to be a writer? A mother? An entity on this planet, in this space, in this time, looking out of the part of my kitchen window that is not obstructed by an unplugged beige refrigerator with wood trim?

I look out at the crusty concrete parking lot in front of my home, at the narrow street that runs by, at the hazy overgrown field beyond it. Two pine trees, one towering and the other squat, look back at me from across the street, with their toes poked gingerly in the asphalt. They wave vaguely in the wind. And this is how I pass my work days at home, with those trees peering at me typing away and me looking back and them and contemplating having peanut butter for lunch.

I finished my chapter yesterday. I’d hoped to be able to say that with the hint of confetti and martinis in my voice but instead I imagine telling my girlfriends and having them reply incredulously “GodDAMN! I thought you’d finished that last year!” However, I love the analogy that my cousin came up with last night—“So your chapter is five months late…that’s like being half an hour late for a meeting, right? At least you called first and you didn’t miss the whole thing.”

It’s 12:17pm. It’s quiet, except for the clicking of the keyboard, ambient music playing on the tv in the living room (I knew there was a reason for directTV), and the white noise of a fan upstairs trying valiantly to circulate air.

So, I’ve been looking at my list of “big deal loose ends.” Another conference proposal due in three days. Another final chapter draft due August 13th. This workshop I’ve been trying to arrange. Ordering books for myself and my students for classes that start in three weeks. The grant report that was due last year and the grant proposal that needs to be done in two weeks. And the emails, the horrid, neverending stream of emails. They are the tapeworm of my professional life.

One step in front of the other, small decisions and small actions. I’ll do some professional reading, some prioritizing of things that need to be done to turn big deal loose ends into smaller ones. I will email until my fingers are numb.

And I will have some bread and jelly with my peanut butter.

Mommy Interrupted

I made an important decision last week. After being away for seven years, I went back to see a psychologist. I’d been “threatening” S.O. with it for a while—testing the waters to see what he thought when I was really trying to figure out what I thought about the idea. The final straw? I remember driving S.O. and A. to their work/preschool drop offs. S.O. was talking with me about something and he asked me a question, something simple.

And I just couldn’t process it. I mean, I heard the words but my brain just wasn’t there. In its place was this heavy fog and I couldn’t see through it. After that I concluded (for the gagillionth time) that life is too short to not take an opportunity to be a better person. A healthier person. A better wife, mommy, daughter, sister, friend.

I’ve been making a lot of jokes over the last couple of years about PMS and being ADD and it finally dawned on me that maybe I should stop trying to make people laugh about my behavior and start listening to myself. So, I made an appointment and drove to the city I work in (there was no way in hell I would see a shrink where I live…)

The out-of-town shrink is interesting. He seems like the type that might dress up as a Klingon and go to Star Trek conferences in Vegas during the summer. Seriously. Dark blue plaid shirt, Slightly disheveled hair, a fairly neat beard and almost untied shoelaces. He scribbled furiously as I told him about my “issues,” filling up blank pieces of paper with notes and, as each filled, depositing the pages face down on the floor by his feet. I told him about the blue moccasins that I started but never finished, about feeling sad, about my perfectionistic and procrastinatory tendencies. I told him that I worried about early onset Alzheimer’s and he thought that was pretty funny. He asked me if I ever had to do something over and over again, like wash my hands and if I'd ever had serious thoughts about killing anyone. I thought that was pretty funny (I almost said that I wanted to strangle my imaginary friend that kept asking me if I turned off the iron, but I figured that would be in bad taste).

At the end of the conversation he gave me some homework—scales for depression, anxiety, ADD. Like a good student, I did them right away. The ADD scale had to be filled out by me and S.O. I was a bit worried about that, but he took it that night and filled it out right away. Cool.

I guess I can add “adventures in mental health” to the list of things that this blog is about.

A Good Day

What is the measure of a good day? For one, I woke up with a plan. A. had finished her last day of swimming class yesterday and I knew that this morning I wouldn't take her to preschool until lunch time, so that I could begin undoing her braids. I can't believe it's been almost two weeks since I've done anything to her hair. Absolutely blissful, and yet it's hard to express how much I miss having "hair time" with my sweet little girl.

So, starting off the day with her was a plus. I took her to school and took S.O. some lunch.

Came back home and for the next two or so hours tried in vain to get my Adobe software to load--last ditch effort, I unplugged the ethernet cable from the router and put it directly into the laptop (don't you love it when a girl talks dirty?). Nothing like a digital IV to get a download hoppin'.

That was another plus. Celebrated this minor technological miracle with a brownie and "cow's milk" (as we say in our houshold)...

Followed by a bowl of sugar smacks. Yes ladies, PMS is your friend.

After we got home, and while I was cooking, S.O. reminded me that tonight was his night to put A. to bed (last week we instituted a daddy-put-daughter-to-bed on Thursdays and Saturdays rule). All you for real feminists are saying to yourselves, "Uhm, shouldn't it be more like three nights, and uhm, isn't your daughter FOUR? And you just now came up with this rule?"

All I have to say is: Baby Steps.

And he cleaned the kitchen.

Amazing what a little early morning nookie can achieve.

Peanut Butter in Horrendously Large Quantities

I started off this particular morning trying, for the tenth time, to download Adobe software. After sitting mesmerized by the little green blocks that supposedly meant that something magical was happening in my computer, and after downloading all 537,235,321 bytes of data (which took no less than 2.5 hours of starts and restarts), I found after a single mouse click that I had downloaded NOTHING. I will not bore you with the details of how originally I mistakenly threw away the serial license and have been spending the last month debating whether I should make yet another call to Adobe or simply procure a copy of photoshop elements from a fellow academic that shall remain nameless.

After my failed download (and after my daughter’s early morning revelation: “I think somone’s breath stinks—and I think it’s YOU mommy!”) I was completely demoralized. So, I went upstairs to my bedroom, GMP (please email me for the meaning of this acronym, or don’t if you’re especially clever with acronyms) and laid there, contemplating the nature of life and the universe. I realized that although in general I suck, I would probably suck less if I kept myself busy. I mean, forget working smarter, making lists, all of that. I’m back at the bottom of the staircase. I just need to be doing SOMETHING.

So, I watched two episodes of House while whittling down ONE of my email accounts from 200 messages to forty. I then had two minicans of diet coke with my turkey and provolone sandwich (lettuce, tomato, onion, thin layer of mayonnaise and Edmund Fallot Dijon Mustard) and watched some of Woody Allen’s “Melinda and Melinda.” Once upon a time, shortly after he married his stepdaughter, I vowed never to watch any of Allen’s movies. Apparently the statute of limitations on that vow expired today at 1:12pm. Oh well.

I then decided to learn how to work one of my digital cameras (see picture above, of my "home office"). This, after directing a digital storytelling program for two years and having the kids (most under the age of 12) show ME how to operate the cameras. It’s about time, don’t you think? I mean, how long should a woman really go without moving beyond autofocus?

The purpose of this post is to prove that I am able to reach beyond my depression and actually do something productive. I think a martini is in order. Either that, or peanut butter in horrendously large quantities.

To Thine Own Self be True

I picture myself as this romantic, misunderstood heroine, when the reality is that I’m much more the frumpy, slightly overweight, often overbearing, overly critical, perfectionistic dork. I think that’s why sometimes I don’t mind so much being alone, since it’s easier to imagine myself as something other than what I am.

My tenth wedding anniversary passed last month, and as I sat down to watch the warped tape with A., I began to see myself, really see myself, in what was probably the most public performance of my identity that I will ever participate in (besides my death). In the moment when I was supposed to be the radiant bride, smiling broadly at my husband-to-be, glancing lovingly at my father, I was stiff and nervous. I had a vice grip on my dad’s arm, practically trying to will his non-rhythmic step to fall even with mine. Repeatedly, I looked downward at my own feet. You could almost see my lips muttering “we’re almost there, just keep up with me.” When the minister asked who it was that was giving the bride to be married, I should have kissed my dad on the cheek, squeezed his hand. Something.

I had stayed up until 4am the night before, hot gluing the rest of the cake topper, long after the bridesmaids had fallen asleep. I’d somehow managed to dislodge one of my fake nails in the process and despite repeated emersions in hydrogen peroxide it was swollen and throbbing.

Looking back on my wedding day, I realize that at that moment, I was completely trying to be something that I wasn’t. I was trying to be the glowing (sexy) bride who had it all together and succeeded only in a bad caricature. I didn't have it together. I was completely nervous and neurotically wacky and my "mask" repeatedly slipped off.

If I had to do it all over again, I would have kissed my father. I would have said “fuck the damn cake topper.” I would have looked at S.O. instead of the aisle runner. I would have let the inner dork in me shine through.

So Not Profound

Been thinking about LouLou a lot. I can't wait to make the coffee shop a better representation of her personality...and mine.

But until then, I have a need to do some documentation of life events. S.O. called to say that he left his wallet at the conference room where he had a hearing. The conference room is three hours away from home. Without skipping a beat, I called his stepsister to see if she would mind watching A while I continued working on my chapter. I have no shame. I'll bake her some cookies or take her boys to the park or something....

Yes, the infamous chapter. Writing HAS to get easier, doesn't it? I am hoping against hope that it will. The thought of laboring over the material evidence of my fledging intellectual life in a manner such as what has characterized the last FIVE + months of my life causes me to wince.

And I can't get Johnny Depp's Captain John Sparrow out of my head. Have GOT to see Pirates of the Carribean.

Until I finish the chapter, though...Yo Ho, Yo Ho, the writer's life for meee...

ARRRR.

Stop the press! Over lunch, the carport (see below) will NOT be empty. S.O. is coming home for lunch. I'm practically giddy. I set out lunch trays and I even brushed my teeth and put on deoderant.

Which certainly got me to thinking--especially in light of the recent passing of our 10th anniversary--there are not many times when I think about making myself "cute" anymore.

Oh--gotta go. He's here...

Working from Home

Must stay sane. Must stay sane. Must stay sane, must stay sane, must stay sane must-stay-fucking-stane. Stane? Fuck!

Hope is not lost. I can do these revisions. I can do these revisions. I can get this chapter in. Not to add any more pressure, but yesterday, S.O. sent me a very pleasant email, excerpted below:

“You constantly do not act in a way as if you respect me or try to help me in mutual goals. You focus directly on what you have going on and the rest is whatever. I understand you have a grant due. I understand you have a conference to go on. I understand you have a chapter to write. But guess what. You are also a mother and a wife. And supposed to be a partner. I have things going on every single day…Important to me and my career just like you have. You don't know what's going on with me and my work and my job and my stress. Your whole world consists of your work; A; work around the house; and semi-finances.”

I won’t try to lie, he’s pretty accurate in his assessment. However, S.O. has conveniently neglected to mention that his whole world consists of his HIS work, semi-fatherhood, semi-finances, .10 work-around-the-house and playing Halo2 at least two hours a night.

We’re quite a couple. What do you get when you put two procrastinating perfectionists in a marriage together?
Apparently, one great kid, a mountain of debt (half of which are loans from graduate and law school) and a marriage propped up by the aforementioned kid and debt.

I’m struggling mightily with these revisions, even though the grant that S.O. mentioned has fallen by the wayside for the time being, which took about 500 lbs of stress off my brain.

Part of the problem I think is the fact that it is very difficult and a very lonely thing to work from home when your office is also your kitchen. If you’ve never tried working from home and think it would be a dream come true, I would like to disabuse you of any romantic notions you may be cherishing. It is Lonely. It is difficult to keep from turning on the TV, from doing laundry, or from surfing the web, looking up graduate school friends and seeing their fabulous professional lives represented in living color and publications. Every now and then I get up and go stand outside by the carport, hoping to get inspired. Listen here for sound effects of v. loud birds outside the carport. It helps a little. Mainly, though, it’s just really hard.

However, I can definitely think of many other existences that are much more difficult than mine, and that also helps me to refocus on the blessings of having an S.O., a daughter, a home, a kitchen, and the ability to work from home. I guess all of this is neither here nor there. Just trying to express and make sense of my reality.

And now, back to the tasks for the day: working on my chapter, semi-finances, and attempting to stay sane.