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.