Long as God Can Grow it

You haven’t heard from me in a while, I know. I should write some kind of treatise about work-life balance, about making time for creative pursuits, about this completely messed-up capitalist system that we have all been suckered into, or I might even write about six bad work habits and how to correct them so you can streamline your day, maximize your time, reach optimum productivity and all kinds of hooptedoodle.

Okay, well, not doing that today. I have serious problems.

I used to have a giant mane of curly unruly hair:

  

It took years for me to learn how to deal with it, to embrace it as uniquely mine. But every now and then (every five years or so) I get tired of dealing with it. There is SO MUCH of it. I could knit a sweater for a cat with all the hair I shed every day, which would be a completely pointless exercise, but honestly, sometimes I get tired of dealing with the sheer bulk of it. And then I find myself thinking about cutting it into a bob, or even (lured by pics of Halle Berry or Eva Pigford - oops now Eva Marcille), a cute little curly pixie, like so:

 

 
 
So last fall I cut it all off, right before Thanksgiving. And I liked it. And here’s the thing:  I have a lot of hair, and it grows really fast. If I wanted to have short hair, I had to commit to a regular schedule of haircuts. That quickly grew tiresome, and I missed being able to put my hair up, or back, or whatever.

Now I am growing it out. And I have middle-aged mom hair. And I hate it.

The standard advice here when you’re growing out your hair and are in the unhappy middle stage is to do something fun like coloring it. Oh, but that would be too easy. At the same time I cut my hair, I committed to no longer coloring it. I turned 45 a couple of weeks ago, and you know what? I think it is perfectly reasonable for someone my age to go gray.

The combination of the silver coming in and the hair growing out means I am doubly unhappy with this middle stage. My hair does not lie down until it gets long and the weight of it stretches the curl out a bit, so right now it is just growing up, stretching toward the sky, and it won’t be tamed. It is long enough to look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

or maybe this:  

 

And yet it doesn’t look like that, not anywhere close.  I am not a high-maintenance person. I am a big fan of the “five minute face,” and my hair styling routine pretty much takes about five to ten minutes in the morning. I am struggling with hair bands and headbands and little clips and such. All this to say: not feeling quite the kickass glamour goddess these days.

Poor little me, I know. But we’ve all been there. I am trying my best. A wise person once said it’s not what’s on your head but what’s underneath. I’m working on that, too.

 

 

 

Digging Out

First off, apologies for the misleading post title. It’s not about digging out from the snow, and as a native of New England, my sympathies to all of you out there across the land who are neck-deep in drifts and anxiously surveying the overcast sky. Believe me, more sympathetic I could not be. I’ve been there. Unpleasant.

No, what’s on my mind is digging out from under all kinds of clutter—emotional, mental, and of course, the actual tangible stuff that threatens to swallow my house. I’m on a simplicity kick for the new year. I haven’t made a resolution about it, since that’s not my thing, but I have this overwhelming urge to fix everything. You could read a lot into this. Here, I’ll get you started: my husband has been laid off now for ten months. We are fortunate that (a) he got a severance package; (b) he is eligible for unemployment benefits; and (c) we had a pretty good cushion of savings built up before this happened. We have been making it work. Every avenue that he has looked into in hopes of getting paid employment has taken far longer than we hoped. It doesn’t mean none of these leads will pan out ever; but it is stressful knowing that (a) his eligibility period for unemployment will run out in a few months; and (b) we are going to have to move out of our rental home in September and we had been hoping to buy a house at the end of this lease. Since our savings are dwindling, I can’t see how that would happen. The owner of the house, who moved out of state for a job offer, got laid off and now wants her house back (but is honoring the lease, so at least we have until September). Moving requires a significant outlay of cash, so I am not liking that. Oh, and (c) Miss Ceeya has to move from daycare to preschool. Still looking for a preschool and dreading the thought of having to put down a deposit. Keeping her out of childcare is not an option, as ironically Sweet Dub is busier now than he was when he had a job—he is literally working day and night on various projects he’s trying to get off the ground.

So things are feeling a bit out of control, and that is not a feeling I like all that much. Hence, the urge to undertake some project where I can create the illusion of some kind of order. I have been reading a couple of books lately about simplifying one's life and they are calming me down and inspiring me. Maybe at some point I will even review one (or both!) of these books here. Yes, that could happen. Anyway, moving on…

Is it wrong that one of the main messages I take away from both books (neither of which I have yet finished) is that I must cut the number of toys in my house by half? Is it also wrong that I hold in my head a completely unattainable vision of an organized, clutter-free home office/exercise room/back entry that doesn’t contain IKEA bookshelves, various pieces of sporting equipment and random power cords belonging to who knows what?

Now if only I could stay awake after the kids are in bed to get some of these projects going while simultaneously sublimating my anxiety…stay tuned.

Sleep: The Last Unicorn*

People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one.
- Leo Burke

I was reading about sleep deprivation last night. And although I was reading a book** about child development, the book mentioned as part of its chapter on children and sleep that studies performed on adults who were averaging about 6 hours of sleep a night functioned similarly to individuals who had not slept in 24 hours.

I can’t remember the last time I had a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. I feel that I am irritable, prone to weepiness, and not ever functioning at optimum capacity. Not surprisingly, it’s not a good feeling.

One of the best ways, I have read, to ensure that you get enough sleep is to establish a bedtime for yourself. Before I became a parent, I pretty much just went to bed whenever I felt sleepy. This meant that some nights, I could get ten hours of sleep, or, if I was feeling particularly peppy, that I could stay up late and get by on five or six hours. Right now, with my sleep debt, the concept of eight full hours of sleep seems like the most heavenly thing imaginable. I told Sweet Dub last night that we need to get to bed by 10 PM. He thought that was really hilarious, and not really helpful, since we are being awakened every night in and around the 2 o’clock hour by Miss Celie. It takes at least 20-30 minutes for her to get back to sleep in the middle of the night, so even so we will not get a full eight hours of sleep.

We are the Crabby Blah Blahs. Hear us whimper.

P.S. it looks like Miss Celie may have another ear infection, so we’re heading back to the pediatrician this afternoon. (The screaming you hear is just inside my head.)

* By which I mean: it's rumored to exist, but has proved elusive. Have you ever read that book? I went through a Peter S. Beagle phase when I was about 15, but that is a tangent which I am cutting short --hmmm, right now.

** The extremely popular NurtureShock! Read it and weep! No, actually, it’s really fascinating, in the “I know I should go to bed but I just got sucked in to read the next chapter” kind of way. It pokes holes in a lot of assumptions we have about modern parenting. I’ve been wanting to read it for months, was waiting for it to come out in paperback, and finally just gave in and bought the hardcover. I regret nothing!

The Next Chapter?

I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but one thing that seems to be a constant in the Blah Blah world is Change. We seem frequently to be adjusting to some major life upheaval, and sometimes more than one at the same time. This has been a pattern pretty much since I met Sweet Dub, lo some nine years ago. (We met, I started a new job, I hated the new job, I quit the new job, I moved in with him, he proposed, we got married. And that was just the first year! In year two I had a cancer scare, surgery and then got pregnant! )

Now, we’ve just moved for the second time in a year. And you’d think I’d just want things to simmer down and be status quo for a bit. But I have to tell you: change is in the air.

I’m not enjoying what I do right now. Hm. How to explain it. Do any of you remember a children’s book called Beyond the Pawpaw Trees*? The heroine of the book, Anna Lavinia, misses her father, who is a dreamer and is missing for part of the book because he is off chasing rainbows. (I know, it sounds horrible and treacly, but truly I loved it and even as a kid I had no patience for pap, so bear with me as I am not doing it justice.) At any rate, at one point Anna Lavinia is eating oatmeal and juxtaposing in her mind how most people would say “Eat because you are hungry,” while her father would say “Eat because it is fun!” and she looks at her bowl and decides she is finished eating because once her spoon (which stood up in the oatmeal) had fallen over, the oatmeal wasn’t fun anymore.

Well, that’s how I feel. It’s not fun. And the things I want to do are so different from what I am doing, and I’m feeling kind of ecch. And blah. And blech. And all kind of how do I get there from here, and where do I find the time, and by the way I have bills to pay and kids to raise, and what about that husband of mine, maybe I should pay attention to him just a little bit so he doesn’t run off into the night, and honestly what are you thinking anyway, work is work and no one said it would be fun, and yeah.

Furthermore, and just to put it all out on the table, I hate all my clothes and I’m considering cutting my hair (this is partly because I’ve been unable to find my hair accessories since we moved, except for one lousy ponytail holder that was wrapped around the gear shift in my car).

Yeah, a little bit of existential whining here. What is it all about, what does it mean, why is my stomach so flabby? How is it possible that Ben & Jerry’s could create something that I don’t like**? And what about…Naomi?***


* Holy crap, it’s out of print and the cheapest used copy I can find is $129.99! One seller is listing it at $399.00. WHAT?! (I regret to inform you that my copy was lost when my mom donated all my childhood books after I left for college. Sigh.)

** It made my stomach hurt.

*** The tagline of the classic soap opera parody "Love of Chair" from The Electric Company. I just found out that “Naomi” turns out to be the mother of actors Jake and Maggie Gyllenhall. (According to Wikipedia – so it must be true!)

Decidedly Unfunky

I am in the midst of a clothes funk. Ecch, my clothes. Why are they all so hateful?

Added to that, the family has booked a trip to Maui in June. I know, I know, all I should need is two pairs of shorts, a few T-shirts, some flip-flops and the sunscreen. And a hat. Wait, I just re-read that sentence and realized I didn’t even think to include bathing suits. What does that tell you?

Summer is coming! I want to spend the entire summer looking fabulous in cute little sundresses all in bright citrus-y shades. With adorable little strappy sandals! Alas, my budget does not allow for this. I need to buy clothes for my children. They insist on growing, which is completely inconsiderate of them and certainly something which I will never let them live down.

I have a friend who always looks completely fabulous. (Maybe it’s you!) I always want to ask where she gets her clothes. She is at least 10-12 inches taller than I and always wears amazing high-heeled shoes. I mean, her shoes are like a party in and of themselves. She can rock short hair or she can rock cornrowed braids (the look she is currently rocking). She could probably shave her head and look abso-fricking-gorgeous. She is just one of those peeps who has a presence. I have a little bit of a girl crush on her.

She, like me, has two small kids. I don’t know how she does it. I love her, and while I’m all about the self-acceptance I do occasionally feel kind of short and frumpy around her. Now, I do own a mirror and I am aware that most people of the adult sort are, indeed, taller than I am. I embrace my shortness. I just don’t embrace feeling frumpy dumpy.

I realize there are more important things to worry about. So many more important things to worry about – and I do. But I feel the need to jazz myself up a bit. And maybe that will make me able to tackle some of those more important issues. Like, Viva telling me last night that she was mad at God. My 6-year-old is having existential angst! Is it any wonder that I just want to fixate on my closet?

Talking to Myself

Note to self: when it is 3 am and your baby is wide awake and lying next to you gurgling and smiling and staring into your eyes and not by any stretch of the imagination going back to sleep, remember that she will not be this small forever. Smile back at her and cuddle close. And that baby puke smell on the towel you’ve laid out under her on the bed? With the wet pukey spot close to your face? It’s sweet, is all it is. Repeat that like a mantra as the baby tries to grab your nose with one clammy (clammy? From spit-up? Best not to think about it.), chubby hand.

Note to Cily: yes, it’s sweet the way you want to rest your head on Mama’s shoulder all the time. But could you maybe not spit up on her shoulder every single time she picks you up from daycare? Because at home, it’s fine – she’s usually wearing something she can just throw in the wash anyway. But when she’s getting you from daycare, she’s generally wearing something that’s dry clean only, and honey, it’s getting expensive.

Note to Viva: I love your – how shall I put this? – “spiritedness.” You have a very strong personality, and I applaud how firmly you assert yourself. However, sticking your tongue out at Mama when she says something you don’t agree with is a sure way to find out the meaning of “there’ll be hell to pay.” And saying you’re really, really sorry does not negate the rudeness. Thus, you will be going to bed with no story. That’ll learn ya! Also: in general, please keep singing. The sound of your voice, coupled with your enthusiasm and complete lack of self-consciousness, brings me joy. Even when I have a headache, I still love it. As long as it is not accompanied by the sticking out of the tongue mentioned earlier. (I really hate that.)

Note to husband: we are ships that pass in the night. I love you. What was your name again?

Note to self: perhaps deciding to get your black flats repaired while in your eighth month of pregnancy, at a shoe repair shop that is not located in the flow of your regular life, was not the best decision. I would place a bet that your shoes are no longer there. Console yourself with cyber window shopping at Zappos. Mmmm, shoes.

Note to Neutrogena: your hand cream rocks.

Note to crazy mom at Viva’s school: Friday at 5 pm, in a ridiculously congested and densely populated part of the city, is not a good time or place to have your child’s birthday party. Calling me three times to try to convince me that Viva really wants to go? Makes me want to accommodate you even less. And for the record, a Dora the Explorer electric toothbrush has to be one of the weirdest goody bag gifts ever.

Note to Riley, the dog next door: Why do you keep trying to escape from your house? Why do you always run to our house? Your people genuinely seem to like you, since every time we call them to tell them you are with us, they dutifully drop whatever they are doing (generally having the nerve to have dinner! Without you! Somewhere outside the house on a Friday or Saturday night!) and drive home to get you. Please, Riley. The last time you escaped you really almost hurt yourself. Try and summon up some survival instinct and stay inside your yard.

Note to the movie industry: Wow. DVDs and pay-per-view are really chapping your hide, aren’t they? Um, here’s the thing. I took my kid to a matinee this weekend and between the tickets and popcorn and such? I spent THIRTY-ONE FIFTY. For real. So not cool. Get with the program.

Note to self: Yes, you know that you don’t have it so bad if that’s your worst problem. Over and out.

Looks Like Someone Has a Case of the Mondays

Viva has a stye. Her pretty little sparkling eye is swollen and there’s a red lump on the inside of her eyelid.

Someone came into my office today, in a hurry, and after slamming themselves* loudly into a chair, proceeded to cough (without covering their mouth) in the general direction of, and maybe 18 inches away from, my open (half-full!) bottle of vitamin water. The bottle is still sitting there and I still really want to drink it, but I won’t.

Sweet Dub went home for lunch and called to tell me that I just received a $380 ticket in the mail for “failing to stop” in an intersection at 7:58 AM on a Sunday near the drugstore near my house. Since I was turning right on red, and there is no “can’t turn right on red” sign at that intersection, I am completely mystified by this. How can they argue that I didn’t even stop?? I don’t understand how they would judge that. I received a ticket for this many years ago, and I have since been very conscious of making a full stop before moving again. I am really skeptical that this even happened, but this goes down as “yet one more thing I have to appeal,” along with all the ridiculous crap my health insurance company refuses to pay for as part of a normal pregnancy.

Over the weekend, Sweet Dub said, “I can’t wait for this pregnancy to end!” No, he really said that. In the meantime, I have developed a varicose vein in my left leg, my hips are killing me, and the only way for me to sleep is propped up by 6.8 pillows. Please, tell me more about how much this pregnancy is bothering you. Love you, babe!

Oh, and also, my hips? Deserve a separate paragraph, because they really hurt, like on the morning when I woke up 5-plus years ago to pee and said, “Ow, my hips are really killing me” and my water broke two hours later. Yeah, it’s like that, except my water hasn’t broken and I don’t want it to because the baby isn’t ready yet.

Lunch time: I went to the break room and pulled out my frozen spanokopita and lovely green salad. Looked at the directions for the spanokopita: “Do not cook in microwave or toaster oven.” No, yeah. Since those are my only options for cooking my entrée, cursed soundly and then prevailed upon one of my co-workers for part of a Chinese mooncake. Salad and mooncake. Not quite gonna do it. Baby’s reaction seems to be, “Yeah, right.”

I always have to ask myself on days like this, “What was the bright spot in this day?” And when I can’t think of anything else, I know that at the very least, it could be worse. So much worse. I have a lot to be thankful for. Like, for instance, the fact that I can afford to buy vitamin water and spanakopita. And stye medicine. For the moment, anyway.

* Sorry, trying to be gender-neutral.

Anti-Social

So, last week the Blah Blah Family was on vacation, or as we like to call it, "staycation." I intentionally did not read email or blogs or for that matter, return phone calls if I didn't feel like it. And it was glorious. During this time, I: had my sister and her family over twice, including a sleepover on the 4th of July; went to the supermarket approximately 43 times; had a mani/pedi; bought a new car; went to the beach; saw a Sparks game in the skybox at Staples Center;

went to a pool party; read two books in their entirety; lounged around in the backyard drinking lemonade and eating Popsicles and watching Viva splash about in the pool; and I don't remember what all. The days just kind of blended together and that was just fine with me. I got to nap!

Okay, I admit it. With this pregnancy, I just can't be bothered with people. I get easily tired and thus easily irritated, and when people want to do things that aren't easy for me, I have actually begun to say no. I think the last straw was a few weeks ago, when I had agreed to a playdate with one of Viva's classmates. Her mom is sweet but a bit high maintenance, as in, she will call me every couple of days normally, but when we are having a playdate she will literally call me every five minutes before we get there. But first, she will call me the day before the playdate to confirm, then call the morning of the playdate to confirm again, then ask me to call her when I am leaving the house. This is not because I have ever been late to a playdate. I understand how kids are, and mine is just as hyper about getting to play with your kid as your kid is about getting to play with mine, so I am pretty much out the door when I say I'm going to be.

The problem with this mom is that I agreed I would meet her at an indoor playground in an area of Los Angeles County which is inland, and extremely hot. I actually live closer to this area than she does, but I left the house earlier than she did, because, as I explained to her, I needed to get gas and then pick up a gift for my grandmother's birthday at the same mall where the playground is. "You're leaving NOW?" she said.

"Yeah," I said. "I just have to do these two things and then if we get there before you, that's fine. We'll just meet you there." I was leaving about 10 minutes before she was, and she lives about 15 minutes further away. She proceeded to call me when she left, again when she got on the freeway (at which point, on hearing I was already in the parking lot, she screeched, "You're already THERE?"), and then every two minutes thereafter to determine where exactly we were. At one point, I had just hung up the phone with her and it rang again before I even put it down. What?? I almost threw the phone out the window. It was 98 degrees and I could not find a parking space and I was muttering not very nice stuff under my breath and Viva kept asking me what I was saying and I wanted to run someone over.

I just have no patience for stuff like this. I realize this is her issue, her anxiety, whatever, but it makes me not want to deal with her at all. She called me again while I was on vacation (despite the fact that we'd just seen her at a pool party three days earlier) and left a message wanting to get together. I haven't yet called her back. (I know, I know, I'll call her today.)

It's not that I don't like her. When we finally get together, I have a good time. But seriously, this woman calls me more often than my own sister does. (And I actually like to talk to my sister!) But I had other friends before I met her, friends who I love dearly who I don't get to talk with as much as I'd like. If I'm going to be talking to anyone, I'd rather be talking to them. (Note to friends: this doesn't mean that I'm actually going to call you, although you know I love you and think about you constantly. Kiss kiss!)

Sweet Dub said to me this weekend, "You are really anti-social these days. We both are."

"Viva doesn't want to go anywhere," I said. This is true. We had tried to lure her out of the backyard with promises of the park, the zoo, even heroin, but she just wanted to lie in the shade and paint watercolors with her dad and then splash around in the pool.

"But I wonder if she's getting that from us," he said. "We need to schedule some more playdates so she's not just around us all the time."

I glared at him.

"It doesn't have to be with just [Constant-Phoning Mom's kid]," he said. "Do she and Viva really get along THAT well?"

"They play together fine," I said. "But Viva never mentions her or asks to go play with her. She asks about [kid whose parents we like] and [other kid whose parents we like] a lot more often, so I've talked with them about doing a kind of a regular thing. We just haven't gotten it together."

"Well, get it together," he said, making a face at me.

"Whatever, get it together yourself," I said.

God! Why must I be so put upon? Me and my petty little problems.

So anyway, I am going to attempt to be more sociable. Wish me luck. Oh, and look upon me in all my anti-social hugeness:

P.S. Also, very short new post up at Belly Overwhelmed. Because I'm back from vacation, but why work? (ha ha, heh heh, that was a joke, I've been very busy today, really)

Fashion Crisis

Oh Lord. I have to go to a cocktail event tomorrow night and I don't know what I'm going to wear. I have two maternity dresses but they are very much more business-y than dressy. Since I left this until the last minute, I can't order anything online and I fear I'm going to end up spending an outrageous amount of money for something I'll wear only a couple of times. Crap.

I really dislike myself sometimes.

Updated to add: Okay, so I ended up looking pulled together, if not glam. I bought this quite non-dressy dress at GapMaternity:



And I spruced it up with a pretty sheer apple green wrap, some dangly multi-colored chandelier earrings, a couple of green and gold bangles, and these A. Marinelli peep-toe pumps:



I also wore my hair down and finger-curled little ringlets into it. Since I didn't take a picture, you're going to have to take my word for it, but I think I cleaned up pretty good.

Weird And/Or Random

Okay, Janie tagged me and I'm meme-ing, if somewhat belatedly. My mission is to reveal 7 weird/random things about myself and tag 7 other bloggers.

(1) In high school, I was in an advanced art class through which I was selected to help create a float for a Disney-themed parade (why on earth?!?) through downtown Boston. My team was chosen to design the Fantasia float. I spent a ridiculous amount of time helping recreate the Dance of the Hours sequence with an oversized dancing hippo in a tutu and an alligator in a cape. Chicken wire, papier mache, tissue paper, and paint, for weeks after school, with all the usual high school bitchery. When we finally got to ride on the float, waving at the crowds, I laughed hysterically through the whole thing. The absurdity of it was just overwhelming.

(2) I have seven moles on my body (three on my neck alone). When Viva was younger, she thought they were extra nipples. This was, thankfully, once she was past the age of breastfeeding.

(3) If I could eat ice cream every day, I would.

(4) When I was in elementary school in Boston back in the day (1970s!), one year near the end of the year they had each kid self-identify racially on one of the standardized forms we were filling out. This was back in the day when you could only check one box. I think there were maybe four options, which even at the time was baffling. Because we are "mixed," I checked black, and my sister checked white. The next year, my sister was assigned to 6th grade at a middle school a mile or so from our predominantly white working-class neighborhood. I was bussed (!!) to 5th grade in a more diverse school (great mix of black, white, Asian and Hispanic, to my great relief), about 5 miles away. So few of us came from that neighborhood that we were bussed in on the short bus! To this day, with all the fuss over bussing in Boston, I do not understand why, as the "black" kid, I was bussed OUT of my white neighborhood. Wasn't the idea that the schools were suppoed to be more integrated?

(5) The following year, I was bussed even further away, to a predominantly black middle school. I got in more fights that year than I can count - none provoked by me, and all involving a group of mean girls, in my grade but not in my class, who insisted that I "thought I was cute." Since at 11 I was already wearing glasses and never knew what to do with the unruly mass of frizz on my head, nothing could have been further from the truth. It was completely bewildering.

(6) The first movie I ever saw was Benji, when I was 6. I was a complete freak about dogs and yet to this day, except for a two-week stint with a puppy that my parents later gave away (!! child abuse!!), I have never owned one.

(7) Speaking of dogs, when I was 25, I was mauled by my dad's Akita. Today, if I shaved my head, you would see the scars from four bite marks on my skull. I did not have a great relationship with my dad before this happened, and strangely, this did not improve things. Perhaps this is because he kept the dog despite its penchant for biting people smaller than it (the dog outweighed me by at least 20 pounds). Whenever I would call him, even years later, I would ask, "Is your dog dead yet?"

I think he resented that.

So those are my seven things. I rarely comment on other people's blogs - I know, this is really bad blog etiquette. So I feel a bit awkward and shy about tagging anyone to do this meme! Instead, if you would like to post seven random/weird things either here, in the comments, or on your own blog, please do. No, really, please, because I do find you fascinating. I have really enjoyed other people's lists. These are the things that make you, you.

Won't you share?

Distracted!

I have been online for much of today and have not bought one damn thing. So much for Cyber Monday or whatever they're calling it.

A week from today I will be back at work. Gah.

Janie tagged me for a meme (Hi Janie! I'm not being anti-social, really), and I don't think I'll get to it until tomorrow because I have errands to run before picking up Viva from school and there are still dirty dishes in the sink from this morning.

In an ideal world, the idea that I only have one "free" week left would make me focus, but evidently it's having the opposite effect. Bear with me.

Let It Go

Eeps! Despite having forgotten about NaBloPoMo until a few days after it started, I am trying to participate in my own charmingly forgetful, ass-backwards way. I've been posting every day since I realized that was what we were supposed to be doing. Yeah, whatever.

At any rate, I just started reading the blog Flawed But Authentic, and one of the recent posts by Jessica was about forgiveness (sorry but I can't figure out where the permalink is, or I'd link to it...it's the Nov. 7th, 2007 post). When I was lunching with my dear friend MG yesterday, she mentioned that an old mutual friend had called her several years ago to announce that when they were roommates, she was struggling with bulimia and anorexia and that part of her program was to contact people she had wronged somehow with behavior related to that. So she rattled off a list of ten things she wanted to apologize for. Evidently MG was quite gracious and empathetic, but, as she confided to me, "I honestly didn't remember most of the things she was apologizing for! But then I didn't want to say that, because she has clearly been carrying around all this guilt about it, which I felt guilty for, and then I thought she might feel worse if she realized she'd been so worried about it -- I mean, she must have really had to buck herself up to call me in the first place if she felt this bad about it. And really? I probably was drunk for most of these incidents anyway!"

So I guess our old friend was asking for forgiveness for these actions which she perceived as wrong. And yet, MG certainly was harboring no ill will toward her at all. It made me ponder about how many things we all internalize and carry grudges and worries over -- things which may not really be all that important in the grand scheme of things.

In my own family, recently, more drama has arisen over things that took place in the past. My sister Lola and I had a conversation this week in which she referenced the way I had behaved in the past toward my mother, which is evidently impacting my relationship with her now. Since my mother never ever directly explains what is bothering her to the person she has a problem with, I have never fully understood what I have done. However, my mother has given Lola an earful. My sister won't share with me what my mother has said because she thinks it is between my mom and me.

Pause.

Yes, how I am not completely mental from these passive-aggressive twists and turns is truly beyond me. I feel we are at an impasse. It always seems to me, when dealing with my mom, that there has to be a better way, yet no matter how I try, it always devolves into something completely unproductive.

I know I can only do what I can do. I accept that I am a flawed but well-meaning human being. So for the moment, I am concentrating on being good to myself, protecting myself from the bad vibes, and hoping that understanding may ultimately flow from that. And trying not to wonder what I did that I have clearly glossed over (evidently, it is not just one thing) and fervently swearing not to continue this same pattern with my own lovely and amazing child.

Happy Friday, and if you can't make amends, make brownies or something.

You Look FABulous!

Today was "get pretty" day for no other reason than that I had a hair appointment already scheduled. I gave myself a facial and a partial manicure (didn't have time for polish) and then tootled over to the salon. They spent two hours coloring my hair, first with the base color, then the highlights. I went directly from there to a nearly three-hour lunch with an old college friend -- we had a great time getting caught up and talking about how much beer and vodka we drank and how little sleep we survived on back then. Then we laughed about our shitty GPAs. Ah, college.

It was a wonderful, very self-indulgent day. I highly recommend!

Brevity is the Soul of Wit

About this whole Working Full-Time Dealio: I don't remember if you asked me how I feel about it, but quite frankly, it's not all that it's cracked up to be.

I just wrote a whole long post about it and I was boring even myself, so bleep that.

I just wish I had more time.

Farmer in the Dell

Have I mentioned that we at Casa de Blah have become gardeners? The cold winter (cold by Los Angeles standards, that is) killed a whole strip of pretty purple rushes we had going on in our backyard, so we pulled them out and planted food. Okay, maybe that's not quite right. I think what I meant to say was that my next-door neighbor, who is retired and has some time on her hands, volunteered to come over one day while we were at work/school and she not only singlehandedly ripped out all the reeds or rushes or whatever the hell they were, but also planted three tomato plants, a zucchini plant, and some string beans. Inspired, I also planted some strawberries. Through this process, I've learned that I really like gardening. (I know, hardly earth-shattering, but for someone who grew up around a lot of concrete, a pleasant realization.)

Here's the patch:















And now we are inundated with zucchinis. The strawberries are coming in slowly (we eat one at a time), the tomatoes are taking over the yard (though not ripe yet), and the beans? Well, the beans have not been looking so good. We keep debating what to do about them, but not doing anything, because that is our way.

This afternoon, while I was working from home, Sweet Dub came home for lunch. "We might have to pull out these beans," he said, walking around them. And then: "Oh my God, a bean! Hey, another one!"

Hey howdy hey, we have beanage. It's all very timely because I have been reading that Barbara Kingsolver book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle about how she and her family spent a year trying to eat only food that was produced locally. Now, it does help that they were able to move to a farm that they conveniently already owned, so they were able to grow a lot of food themselves. We don't own a farm. We merely rent a little house with a yard. But it's an interesting concept nonetheless, and if I ever finish the book and have the time or inclination to do so, maybe I'll review it fully here! in this very space!

The Cheese Stands Alone

Ever since we got back from Hawaii, Viva has had trouble sleeping by herself. We made the mistake of letting her sleep with us in the king-sized bed in our hotel room. This was perfectly okay because (a) there was plenty of room; and (2) we were in a suite, so if we wanted to get up to any shenanigans while she was asleep, we had a separate room (with a door!) we could go to. Now, at home, Sweet Dub and I sleep in a queen-sized bed. We sleep in a queen-sized bed because we like each other and like to be close to each other. It works for us unless there is a skinny four-year-old draped in between us, kicking her father in the back and poking me in the face with her elbow while sleeping.

The first week we were back, Viva made it known repeatedly and loudly, with much whinage, that everyone else had a brother or sister to sleep in their room with them and why didn’t she and we were horrible parents who were scarring her for life with our insistence that she sleep on what amounts to a splintery plank raised up off the floor with only the rats for company in her drafty attic room where the snow drifts in and her filthy handkerchief-sized blanket doesn’t quite cover her enough, ALONE, ALONE, ah the agony. And so on and so forth.

We finally got her off of this tack by numerous explanations that even if she had a brother or sister, they might not share a room, or even want to, and that if she had a brother or sister, she would definitely have to share us with him or her, and that would mean less time and attention for her, which, as the ultimate drama queen, you know she is not going for. And so we were saved.

And then there was Pee-Wee.

While channel-surfing recently, Sweet Dub came across Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, and knowing of Viva’s love of the dance, he recorded the portion of the movie where Pee-Wee dances in the biker bar in the high-heeled patent white loafers. If you haven’t watched the movie 500 times, you might not remember that after that scene, Pee-Wee takes off on a motorcycle (or should I say hog?) loaned to him by one of the bikers. He immediately crashes through a billboard and gets rushed to the hospital, whereupon he sleeps fitfully, and you see that he is having nightmares of what has happened to his own bike. These are nightmares featuring scary clowns doing unspeakable things to the bike and leering horribly at the camera. I didn’t remember this part of the movie, unfortunately.

Thanks, Pee-Wee! This scene is now seared into Viva’s hefty braincase, where it has marinated in the splendiferous goop of her imagination and now takes over almost every brain function after the sun goes down. What I am saying to you is that Viva is now terrified not just to sleep in her own bed, but to pass by an open closet or even take a bath for fear that scary clowns will come up out of the drain.

Once again, my “Good Parent” badge is hanging a bit askew. And she doesn't want to go to bed.

(I honestly didn’t remember that scene. Why would I deliberately torture my sweet bobblehead so?)

Scatterbrained. What?

I am working from home today and barely know what to do with myself. We welcomed a new VP to our department three weeks ago and since then I have been even more insanely busy than usual - mainly because we are approaching the end of one fiscal year and the beginning of another and we have been working together to create a work plan for our department. The new VP is a great addition to our department - very positive, lots of great ideas and follow-through - and we are all very excited. However, I'm finding it difficult to get other work done.

My blog looks like crap and I want to fix it but have not made the time.* Has anyone out there used Listal.com? I like the look of Shelfari for cataloguing my library but I'd also like to include music I'm listening to, where it updates automatically on my blog as I add it to my online account.** It would be wonderful to be able to do both things on one site rather than having to either update manually on my blog template or update two separate sites. Since I'm barely posting to my blog these days, I need to find something that is fairly quick and easy.

I am also trying to figure out how I can make my blog a little more specialized. When I post, my thoughts tend to be all over the place, depending on what I'm interested in that day. Now some might say I'm a dilettante, but some might say I have a bit of attention-deficit going on. What? Where was I? Oh, you!

I guess what I am resisting is the idea that I might be pigeonholed in some way depending on what I write about. But even reading back over that sentence makes me want to smack myself - I mean, just frickin' write something, for God's sake.

Here's what I want to write about: family dynamics (I had a great Mother's Day post in my head, but hey, that was days ago), children's welfare issues, race and gender issues, parenting in general, parenting in an environmentally responsible way, real estate, clothes, and shoes. And I'd like to reserve the right to occasionally post about politics, religion, philosophy and pop culture. You know, I'm just multidimensional, is all. I'm embracing that in myself because I am a strong woman warrior who needs answer to no one.

Okay, I no longer know what the hell I'm talking about, so I'm signing off. Love and kisses!

* "Our perception that we have 'no time' is one of the distinctive marks of modern Western culture." - Margaret Visser

** UPDATE: Never mind, I found a Pandora widget. Now I just have to figure out how to bookmark what I'm listening to. Whee!

Land of Opportunity and Traffic

The people have spoken. At any rate, Cee in SF has spoken, calling me out on my slackerness: "New post! New post!! We want a new post!" her comment shrieks. I wish I could tell you I've been doing something exciting, but in fact, I've been working a lot (yes, even weekends). Ugh, no good.

Happy May Day, my peeps. If you are here in Los Angeles, you know that we are in the midst of immigration rallies which are expected to immobilize downtown and Koreatown, although turnout is anticipated to be much lower than last year. Anecdotally, I know that some folks who marched last year are discouraged that the march didn't seem to have much of an impact – i.e., that immigration reform hasn't made much progress in the legislature.

I realize that immigration is a hot-button word these days. The message boards on all the immigration stories are particularly nasty. My opinion on undocumented immigrants and all the issues surrounding them is not fixed in stone, and the more I learn about it, the less I think that there's an easy fix. The U.S. has not secured its borders, provides free emergency healthcare and public education, and let's face it, supports a capitalist system that makes a bigger profit when it uses low-wage workers. It seems pretty clear what the draw is, so now what?

But, I digress and I only have a second to write this*. Since I work in Koreatown, the site of the second demonstration of the day – one which will start mere blocks from my office building at 2 pm and then travel south and east to reconvene for a 5:30 pm rally – is of concern to me, primarily because I have to drive straight through that area during my evening commute. I have a 3:30 meeting and I really want to bail. I wish I had been able to work from home today. Yes, it's all about me. Viva la self-absorption!

* I've already been interrupted twice. You see how it is.

Note to My Future Self (First in an Occasional Series)

Dear Self,

We (You of the Future*, and I of the Now) have this problem. Rarely do we use our printer to print anything other than an 8.5 by 11 standard letter-sized document. About once or twice a year, usually at Viva's birthday and Christmas, we try to feed odd-sized paper into the machine to print out invitations or Christmas cards. Inevitably, the format is all screwy. Inevitably, we have forgotten since last time how we got the damn thing to work. It's a silly thing, but it's annoying.

The problem is that the paper is non-standard size, and the computer for whatever reason is not communicating to the printer that are feeding it non-standard paper, even though we have typed in the measurements in page setup. So it goes through as if it is printing on letter-size paper. Which is to say, it will print halfway across the (test**) page and lose half of the intended message. Why is it that this sort of thing never works to my advantage? Like, doesn't it seem to you that if I have to experience some sort of technical snafu, couldn't it be of the electronic banking variety, in my (our) favor? I'm just saying.

Here is what I have discovered, Future Self: you have to trick the computer. Ooh, tricksy. Tell it that you are printing on paper that is 8.5 inches wide. Measure the difference between 8.5 and the actual paper width. Add the difference to the margin in page setup. Try it, try it, you will see. Future Self, it will work. And there will be much rejoicing across the land.

Of course, it is after midnight and although I've figured this out, I haven't tried it yet because our husband is sleeping scant yards away and he will undoubtedly wake up if I make even the slightest sound, aside from tapping on the keyboard. Have you noticed he's a really light sleeper? Have you trained him to sleep more than 5 hours at a stretch, Future Self? Does he still say things like "I'm going to tattoo a blog across my body so maybe you'll pay attention to me"? Oh, you forgot about that?

Good luck, Future Self. Especially with the ozone and all that.

Muchos smoochos,
Me of the Now

* Hey, by the way, Future Self, what is it like there? Can cars fly? Can pigs fly? Has an asteroid hit the earth? Hello? Are you there?

** I never never use the actual "snazzily pre-printed, limited number of pieces" paper on the first go. I always start with a sample on the basic Office Depot multipurpose paper. Learn from my mistakes, Future Self (and any other poor souls out there).