Conversations

To Husby

hey honey -


I was just making dinner and got into the spices - I saw the container of Dill Weed and thought of you.


I hope you're having a good day.


(bwah ha ha ha snort ha ha ha ha)


His Answer:

I saw a homeless lady pushing a cart along the river walk shouting profanities....and I thought of you.

Hope you're having a great day.

(burrrrrrrrrn)

Check the temperature of hell, please...

Because perhaps it has frozen over?

I find myself in the unbelievable position of agreeing with our erstwhile candidate on the GOP ticket. Sarah Palin, for the first time since her inexplicable arrival on the political scene, has said something that actually makes sense.

I find myself taking her side in the tiff with David Letterman, who sparked a debate by making what even he admits to be a tasteless joke about one of her daughters. It wasn't funny, and probably would have drifted off into the wilderness, except that Sarah was paying attention. (Insert snide remark here - as a big fan of the "gotcha media", I don't have a lot of credibility when it comes to objective analysis of her character.)

Ms. Palin made her argument on the Today show this morning, to an incredulous Matt Lauer who taunted her with raised eyebrows during the interview. He took great pains to insist that Letterman was just joking, geeze, nothing to get your long underwear in a knot over. You slutty flight attendants are so touchy...

Not so fast, buster.

Sarah's argument centers around the idea that our words actually matter. Letterman's joke about her youngest daughter getting "knocked up" by the third baseman for the Yankees wasn't just unfunny, wasn't just rude or in poor taste. This kind of crap, these stupid jokes, these reaffirmed stereotypes of women get slowly burned into the collective, cultural consciousness. Stupid women, stupid girl, stupid blonde. Stupid, slutty, trampy, trashy women.

Now, I recognize that we've come a long way, baby. I see how facial expressions go from interested to flat when I go off on my tangents, get up on one of my soapboxes. Boo, hiss, shut UP already, Jaime. Yeeaaa, no. Sorry.

The words we choose to use represent our thoughts, our feelings, our fears. The words we select out of the vast language options are indicative of what we believe. These words send signals, spoken and unspoken, that communicate the fundamentals of our belief systems.

For example, when I hear someone say "Merry Christmas", I hear the following message: I believe in Jesus, and you should too. If you don't believe in Jesus, you're an outsider and don't belong here. As a result, I say "Happy Holidays" to everyone, even once to my pastor on Christmas Eve. (That got an eyebrow raise, lemme tell ya.) Other phrases, like "Do you work?" send another message. "Are you important? Or do you just sit at home and change diapers all day?" Hell, yes I work. I work inside the home, outside the home, all around the home, and I can kick your ass if you don't get out of my way.

It is my firm believe that our words indicate who we are, what we believe, and how we think. Our words create the relationships between people, and our relationships with people result in our society at large. So our little "jokes" about girls, women, gays, blondes, and even the "stupid husband" characters on sitcoms like Raymond and The King of Queens represent our true societal beliefs.

David Letterman apologized, sincerely this time, for his bad joke. Sarah used his apology as a chance to take one last swing, saying that she hopes men that make sex jokes about women "evolve". I am surprised to hear that word from her, because that word carries other connotations than just to grow and change. But I do agree with her, that it is time for the entertainers in society to rise above the lowest denominator and to quit repeating sexist, unfunny jokes about girls and women. It is time for us to chose our words more carefully, to create a better society, one relationship at a time.

Meet me at the 'Brary...

A notice popped up in my inbox a few days ago, reminding me that my library materials were due. Silently praising the internets for making my life easier, I clicked "renew materials" on the website. Out of curiosity, I wondered when I had checked out the books in the first place...I've renewed them twice, so they've been in our house for about six weeks. Heh.

I remember that day, six weeks ago, when I gathered up my courage with both hands and loaded Frick and Frack into the car for an adventure to the library. I attempted to fit the baby carrier into the stroller, but found that three years of motherhood have left gaping holes in my memory...I couldn't remember how to put all the pieces together. Add to this MaeMae's howls of injustice, because she realized that I wasn't planning on letting her ride in the stroller. The cold, wet wind was blowing my unwashed hair around, both kids were crying, my shirt was covered in mud from trying to get the stroller into the trunk of the car. I finally put the carrier back in the car, put MaeMae back in her seat, closed all the doors and leaned against the car to reevaluate.

It had been a monumental effort to get everyone out of the house, and it made sense to press on. So I abandoned the idea of putting the baby carrier into the stroller, and grabbed one child per hand. The baby carrier, for those that have blocked it out or have never experienced it, weighs about one zillion pounds and has to be carried at an awkward angle about two feet away from the body. It grows exponentially heavier with each second. A screeching three year old tugging on the other arm should theoretically balance out the weight of the carrier. It doesn't.

So, I'm working my way through the parking lot, explaining to MaeMae why I can't carry her and Spike at the same time. I have to keep hitching up the carrier against my hip so I don't drop it, and then add the corresponding shoulder jerk to get the diaper bag back into place. Hitch, jerk. Hitch, jerk. Marchmarchmarch, No, I can't pick you up and don't make me turn around and leave 'cuz I'll do it don't test me you know I'll do it.

Now, at this point, I was still in maternity pants. The charming elastic panel had begun to break down, and to my horror, had begun to slip down with each hitch of the carrier. Because I was dragging MaeMae with one hand and hitching the baby carrier with the other, I didn't have a free arm to hitch up my pants. Lower and lower the panel rolled, threatening the integrity of my outfit. Seriously? After all that, my freakin' pants were about to fall down? Yeah. Awesome.

I made it, glory be. I was able to get the kids into the kid section before MaeMae could disrupt the grownups with a shouted "Mom, is THIS the library?" I had run the gauntlet of the parking lot and made it to the safety of the kids section. There were people here that understood exactly what it takes to get out of the house. We shared exasperated smiles and heavy sighs.

The Library is a Mom's singles bar. We evaluate each other for signs of similar backgrounds, parenting styles, age of children. If we think there might be enough in common, we might approach someone and ask a generic question..."How old is yours?" That breaks the ice a bit - if Mom is friendly, we might ask something a little more personal.

"Hard to get out of the house, isn't it?" The answer to that question speaks volumes about the individual's Momtra.

"Why, whatever do you mean? It's really easy for us, I'm a very talented and good mom. I make cookies from scratch, have implemented a Montessori curriculum, and am in denial about my addiction to Oprah and diet coke."

Er....on to the next.

"Do you come here often?" Roughly translated, that means...do you come here a lot? Like, if you are friendly, can I count on seeing you here again next Wednesday at 10:00? Do you do storytime? If you don't come here often, what do you do with your kids and can I come too?

If a mom looks appealing, you might strike up a conversation. If the conversation goes well, you might hope to see them again next week, or if you're incredibly bold you might ask for her phone number or give her yours. (To date, I have never been that bold.) Some moms choose to go with a Wing Mom, to lessen the appearance of desperation. I don't need friends, this mom says, because I already have them. Some moms are shy and sit in the corner, some moms are loud and outgoing and are full of bravado.

I personally throw in a few key words to let the Moms know what kind of Mom I am. Yes, I come here when I can, but I'm meeting my friend for a drink tonight. Yeah, a mom I know from church has that problem with her kid. Yes, I love my children but sometimes...(eye roll)...

So the dance goes on. Moms milling around our new version of a night club, scoping out the other moms and wondering if any of them could be "the one". The lights are brighter, it is less smokey, and there are a lot more children than at Boogie Fever, but it is a place to see and be seen nonetheless.

So, really, do you come here often?

Sisyphus Shmishaphus

Sisyphus has been on my mind lately. For those readers who aren't complete and total nerds like myself and haven't read Edith Hamilton's encyclopedia of Greek Mythology, Sisyphus is the poor bastard condemned to an eternity of fruitless labor. He was found to be guilty of having a huge ego and thought himself more clever than Zeus. He was sentenced to an eternity in hell, pushing a massive boulder up a mountain just to watch it roll down to the bottom.

Can you see it? Up the mountain with the boulder, pant pant, whew! Finished! Then...

Wait...stop...someone stop that boulder...oh, crap. Trudge down the mountain, perhaps kicking a few pebbles out of the way while you go, get behind the boulder again and puuuush it up the hill.

Repeat. For all eternity.

Sisyphus has gotten a fair amount of air time since the story broke a jillion years ago. Many scholars with sharper minds than mine have used him to illustrate the finer points of the absurdity of humanity. Some liken him to the sun, which rolls from one side of the sky to the other in an eternal cycle of light and dark.

Personally, I have stormed around the house declaring that Sisyphus has nothing on a mother of young children. My boulders are laundry and mealtimes, toy cleanup and bath time. Grocery store runs, diaper changes, dishes. Repeat. For all eternity.

You want dinner again? Didn't we do that yesterday? Didn't I wash this plate, microwave that bag of frozen vegetables, make you sit in your chair until you finished, and force you to ask politely to be excused from the table?

MaeMae told me yesterday that it wasn't naptime and she didn't need to lay down. I reminded her that she has taken an afternoon nap every day since the dawn of her little baby life. (This is excepting the first six months of her life which we will not get into here.) When I finally did convince her to lay down, I stepped squarely into her laundry basket full of dirties. And then bumped into the dog that needed to be fed, medicated, brushed and yelled at for being a worthless mongrel. Don't forget the poop...

Sisyphus, a regular on the cast of my daily complaints, made a surprise appearance on my spiritual stage this morning. For the last few weeks I have been cheerfully pushing my boulder of skepticism, disbelief, doubt and frustration up to the top of Mt. Spiritual Hangup. I was so hoping I was getting enough momentum to throw the boulder off the top, setting me free from the forked stick of twin desires to be more "Christian" or to be done with the whole mess and go out for a drink.

I was making progress. I...was...almost...over...the tricky spot...

Not so fast, sparky. I'm not sure when I lost my grip on the boulder but it rolled right back down the hill. So today's church service sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher; waa waa waaa. This can also be referred to as the "Ginger Factor", immortalized by Gary Larson's FarSide comic:


Blah blah blah, indeed. I've heard the words, I know the song, I can even do the hand motions. For a few weeks I had this burgeoning seed of hope that maybe this time it would make sense to me and I would break out of this fourth stage crap. Ffft. That seed of hope got smushed by the boulder as it careened down the slope.

I've tossed out expletive filled explanations of why Sisyphus has nothing on a Mom. Now I'm seeing him in other areas of life, and I'm not his biggest fan. He reminds me that laying down in traffic for your children isn't what is required - instead it is a constant stream of "use your inside voice, say please, pick up your toys, you can't talk to me that way and you're getting a time out". Not once, not twice. Always, for eternity. Apparently he is no longer satisfied with illustrating the futility of my domestic agenda. Now he's showing me all the other absurd cycles of growth and destruction.

So there. And don't try and cheer me up, either. I'm obviously quite fond of my spiritual boulder or I wouldn't be dragging it around like a blankie for twenty years. And that, my friends, is a psychoanalytic article of it's own; that will have to wait until my allergy medicine kicks in.

Overheard very early this morning...

"I think someone woke up on the right side of her big girl bed..."

"ME! Mom, it was ME!"

Yeah, honey, we know.

Life's a bitch...

For the second time in a week, I found myself in a dead sprint to Rite Aid, in search of the perfect baby formula. I had a brilliant idea last week to switch to generic baby formula, which would save us approximately one jillion dollars per month. Spike appeared to be on board with the Kroger brand for a day or so, then changed her mind. She expressed her displeasure by yarking on me and screaming uncontrollably. Our previously serene existence was no more.

So I raced to Rite Aid, pulling out my hair as only a new mom with jangled nerves can. I got the trusty Blue formula, and Spike returned to her previously calm state. Almost. So I got a bright idea that we should try soy formula to see if that would bring us all the way back to Zen Baby.

Fffft. A full day of soy formula brought us back to barfing, yelling and general mayhem. At the end of my rope, I raced over to Rite Aid again to get more of the Blue Stuff. They were out of the powder Blue, so I bought the liquid Blue, hoping it would be the right kind. The cashier, taking in my ensembe of a ratty t-shirt and pajama pants, astutely observed that I must have a "hungry baby at home, raising all sorts of holy heck." And how.

It's been a rough day, what with Darling breaking out of her crib and me still being too wide in the hips to get into a decent sized pair of pants. Howling Spike was a bit of a last straw. I was keeping a running log of complaints in my head, as if to prove somehow that I've taken my fair share of lumps for one day and deserved a spa vacation as a reward.

I was remembering fondly the days before children. The problem, as devoted fans will remember, is that I'm a bit of a pessimist. The good ole' days weren't all great, you know. Husby and I lived in Colorado for many years, and I remember the exhiliration of having a mountain range in my backyard and the freedom of non-commitment. The endless blue skies, the clean dry air of the high desert, the view from the parking lot at school...I miss all of these things. But I also remember the lonliness, the fear of not knowing what the hell I was going to do with a bachelors in Psych, the co-worker that threw post-it notes at my head. I remember being too far from my family, breaking the coffee pot at work on my first day back from vacation. I remember driving home from campus for lunch becuase I didn't have anyone to sit with.

And so it goes. I remember Michigan State, which was a pretty good time while it lasted. I think about high school, a time of freedom and rent free living. I remember the year I lived in New Jersey, the time I went to community college, the first time I tried to make spagetti. There is a good side and a bad side to everything, a time of growth mixed with the fear of not being prepared to handle the transition. I refuse to be romantic about the past.

So, where does that leave us? Our lives are full of crisis, from infancy to the grave. (I didn't make that up, that comes from Erik Erikson, neo-Freudian at large.) We must resolve these crisis in order to move forward in the game, in order to gain the skills to get to the next level. So I don't look back with glazed longing to be the person I was before, to go back to a time in my life when things were different. At least, I don't do that for very long.

We're faced with the challenges that are appropriate for our develomental level. Darling is faced with figuring out how to sleep in a bed instead of a crib. I'm pretty sure it is very uncomfortable for her not to be penned in on four sides. In five years, she might wish that was her biggest challenge. Spike is learning how to express her needs in a way that her big people can understand. I have no desire to be in her booties - how frustrating it must be to have to lay in one spot and scream until someone figures out that you've pooped yourself? Sure, it seems like a blissful life, to drink yourself silly and fall asleep in the middle of a meal and take another nap...but what if you didn't like what was on the menu?

So I'm back to day one, lesson one. Life, dear readers, is a bitch. No matter what stage you're in, your problems are big and scary. Even if the outside world thinks you've got it made in the shade.


Update: Spike was sound asleep by the time I got back from Rite Aid, and Darling was up wandering around because the baby had "woked" her up.

Smells

Our house is a brick ranch, built in 1955. I'm pretty sure there has been a cat peeing in the basement every day since the thing went up. We moved in about 18 months ago, and I've been fighting the old person/cat piss smell ever since.

I've tried everything short of fire to alter the smell of the house. I draw the line at scented candles and incense because I have a healthy fear of unattended flames developing a mind of their own and proving the existence of sentient candles by burning down my house. So I'm restricted to those goofy plug-ins which are arguably more dangerous than candles and smell pretty bad anyway. I'm threatening to rip up the carpet in the family room and replace it with laminate flooring, but until our giant mutt goes to the great dog farm in the sky, we're stuck with the stank.

A few days ago, I cooked up an amazing dinner with green, yellow and orange peppers, chicken, cheese and a whole lot of pats-on-the-back. The good part about this combination is the versatility - add green chilies, and you've got a Mexican feast. Take out the cheese, add the soy sauce, and you've got a stir fry. Forget the whole thing and order a pizza, and you've got my dream dinner. But my cooking abilities are increasing, and I didn't burn any of the ingredients during this attempt to feed my family something everyone would eat.

This successful dinner yielded a hidden bonus - it made my house smell great for about a day. It took me a minute to figure it out, but the smell of peppers, chicken and cheese reminds me of our pre-child camping trips to Canyonlands, in Utah. We used to make hoagies on a Coleman stove, drinking beer out of cans labeled "BEER" (love state-run liquor stores). We would play gin rummy, and feel smugly grateful that we had chosen a college in such close proximity to the desert.

I was reminded of the time we constructed a shelter with tarps, using rope and every ounce of Husby's carpentry skills. We dragged a picnic table under the roof in time to escape the torrential rainstorm, and were terribly proud of ourselves. We could see a pair of campers across the sand that didn't fare as well in the storm. They were huddled over two mugs of coffee, drenched and miserable.

I scampered over in the pitch dark to invite them to come and hang out with us under our shelter. They were not expecting me, and I was lucky they were hippies, and not hunters. (Sneaking up on hunters is not a good idea.) I scared the crap out of them, but they were greatly cheered by the prospect of getting out of the rain.

They came over and sat with us under our tarp tent for a few hours, telling us about their adventures in camping across the country. They had their mugs, they explained, and ate most meals out of the mugs. If you make oatmeal in a mug, they told us, everything that you eat from that mug will taste faintly of oatmeal. They seemed good natured enough, despite the fact that rain really was following them around the country like Linus's dirt cloud. This was good news to us, because we thought it was our presence that brought rain to the desert...

For a moment, my kitchen waved out of focus and was replaced with the memory of flaming red rocks against a brilliant blue sky. All it took was a whiff of the peppers/chicken/cheese combination to break out of the brick ranch in the Midwest and go to the desert for a few moments.