Insane in the Membrane - I Remember High School -- Writing Things

So my first two weeks post-weaning are over, and now is the time when my hormones are supposed to level off and I return to the land of the living. Or the land of the not choking down Zoloft and wine and wishing I could go to sleep for three weeks. I have my fingers crossed. Zygote ended up with a double ear infection, so what would have been a trying couple of weeks anyway, have been peppered with baby tantrums and screaming and non-stop whining.

Things not to do when you are feeling like the above: watch the sobfest that is My Sister's Keeper. I really have no idea if this movie is actually good or just Lifetime good, but dying children and family dramas? Not the right day for that kind of stuff.

So I moved on to music. Or more specifically, I moved on to The Smiths and blog trolling. Have I mentioned my love of Fatshionista? It's one of my daily reads, and I love the clothes, and the other topics, and then I found out in the Globe that the blogger lives in the area, and I had one of my 'omg, we should totally be BFFs and you're going to think I'm really funny and we'll hang out and I'll love your clothes' inner monologues.

Anyway, Lesley wrote this great post “Spitting in a wishing well”: On music and adolescence and memory, and it was just the right read at the right time, and I spent some time doodling about all those weird high school memories. Her pull quotes followed by my stream-of-consciousness ramblings.

"There is backstory: when I was sixteen I decided that nearly everyone who went to my high school was terribly boring, not least because no one knew about the music I liked (never mind, for now, that I liked the music I liked to some extent because no one else knew about it) and the music I liked was, at the time, the single most important thing in my life. In retrospect my taste in music was hardly distinguished so much as it was intentionally obscure. At any rate, I went to every all-ages show I could afford — someday I’ll tell you the story of realizing a guy in the mosh pit at a Bad Religion show was in my class, and the devastating dismissal I received when I attempted to chat him up about the show in the hall at school the following day — searching for someplace different to belong. I was too soft and brainy for the punks; I wasn’t angular or awkward enough for the goths. What else was there?"

Right? I was so proud of myself for owning Nirvana's Bleach BEFORE THEY WERE COOL. Can you see me rolling my eyes? And the fact that I got to wear my cool, older boyfriend's Dead Milkmen concert t-shirt was too cool for school. Yeah, that boyfriend? He worked at a record store. You can't get much cooler than that. AND he went to a different school. Editorial note: he was actually a real person, not one of those "I have a girlfriend that lives in Canada" deals. When I went to college, I ran into someone from my high school (and by ran into, I mean, got really drunk with) who said, "What WERE you? I mean, you dressed like a punk. You listened to music. But you were in the smart kid classes." Story of my life.

"One of these friends was a year or two older than me, and she published zines about music. Remember zines? Midnight sojourns at Kinko’s making copies? Casual competition over who could discover the best new music first, and get credit for spreading it around? . . . . .Wednesday nights were open mic nights. I read poetry. Yes. I read high school poetry, embarrassing, trifling, self-righteous, loud. I did! "

Wait for it...I had a zine. Called 'The Sphincter.' Oh God. It was totally going to "be discovered." Kind of like my blog! And this wasn't high school, but in college, at Zopies, I read a really bad poem I wrote titled "Boy in The Yellow Sweater" about a guy that I drooled over, who was a poet with his own zine. And holy shit -- Zopies has a Facebook page! When I got married the first time, my mom threw me a shower and gave me this scrapbook that she made for me with a bunch of my poems that had been published in the school literary magazine. It was really sweet, but I am mortified that my fifteen-year-old self could take herself seriously enough to pen the following opener, "she sits in the silent darkness. Contemplating? Death." The shame.

"I also remember the newfangled girl-fronted music that was cropping up around then, and even today when I hear some of those songs, that forgotten teenager wakes up a little. I remember hearing Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know” for the first time in the parking lot of a Miami Subs at 2 o’clock in the morning, the radio DJ announcing it as a new song that was “probably inappropriate” to play during the day. I remember seeing Morrissey for the first time in the video for “The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get” on 120 Minutes (thus began a long and predictably tragic love affair with Morrissey and The Smiths). That teenager persists, when these songs materialize over the speaker systems in department stores or reworked as television-commercial soundtracks."

120 Minutes! Seeing Babes in Toyland, who still sort of rock my running playlist. And Liz Phair before she got crappy. And How Soon Is Now, and playing these lyrics

There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet someone who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die

over and over ON A CASSETTE. And then like a hundred years later (also known as, two years ago), DS and I went to see Morrissey at The Bank of America Pavilion and he did 3 songs before cancelling the show and it sucked!

"He was surprisingly happy to see me, and after we exchanged the basics of what we were up to, he said, “Wow, man, I always thought you were so cool in high school.” I was astonished and blew past the compliment to get the hell out of there. I couldn’t imagine that anyone in my class thought of me as “cool”; at school "

This has happened to me on multiple occasions. Given how I would have/would cut a bitch to be cool, it's always a nice surprise, but also a little sad, because really, HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS? All that time wasted thinking that everyone thought I sucked. I could have maybe made more friends, been more confident, I don't know, not listen to the Cure so goddamn much.

It was an interesting trip down memory lane. I'm working on a number of different writing exercises where you have to do character studies of yourself at different ages (this lead to a panicked text to my brother asking for the name of our middle school Language Arts teacher, a woman who I could describe in great detail and who gave me an award for 'excellence' and who had a son with a motorcycle and whose name I totally forgot). You see, while I'm having no trouble describing everybody and everything else around me, I'm having a hard time locating myself in the middle of it. And if you can't write yourself, you're kind of fucked as a writer.

I don't know where I'm going with all this, but I had a kick reading Fatshionista today, sort of like the thrill of remembering high school and Sassy when I read How Sassy Changed My Life.

Coming Up

1. Books that I am reading.
2. Lost finale (otherwise known as Matthew Fox is still hot, hot, hot)
3. Recap of closet project. New pics are up.

Confessions: I May Run, But I Love My Fried Foods

There was quite a dust up in the Fatosphere this week, after Jezebel republished an essay, titled As Fat As I Wanna Be, by Tasha Fierce. The essay itself is pretty brilliant, and this is the quote that is getting reposted in a number of the usual places I frequent:

"When someone is fat shamed, the person doing the shaming often justifies it as them being concerned for the fat person's health. Of course we know that's bullshit. Fatphobia has nothing to do with health, if someone was really concerned they wouldn't harp on it to the detriment of fat people's self esteem. And a ton of fat people can attest that they eat healthily and exercise. I however, cannot. So is the health argument justified in my case? Well, no, because fat also has nothing to do with health. It's the food I eat that's the issue. It's the fact that I eat when I'm definitely not physically hungry. It's my lack of exercise."

When I read this, I got goosebumps, thinking back to my horrible run in with Evil Nutritionist in 2007. That story was the basis for my still-unpublished-but-not-for-lack-of-trying essay on breaking up with dieting.* The seriously, seriously abridged version: I finally decided to stop yo yo dieting and to see a nutritionist to essentially re-learn how to eat. Said nutritionist told me that I was very overweight** and put me on a diet, after giving me a lesson with plastic food toys on proper portion size. And we know where this goes, right? I feel like shit, try the diet, can't stick to the diet, and hate myself because I can't do anything right, and then I start binge eating again. So yeah, thank god I got your help, EVIL BITCH.

Anyway, there was the usual kerfluffle in the comments section, and Tasha Fierce wrote a second brilliant response, My Fat, Your Issues. Again, you should read the whole thing, but this is the bit that's been rattling around in my head all week:

"NOWHERE did I ask for praise, hi-fives, compliments or “you go girl” statements for eating like shit. I don’t need validation regarding what I choose to stuff in my mouth. I’m sorry if you feel like my wanton gluttony is making your fat friends look bad because they exercise and eat right and here I am, blowing it for them, being the stereotype they try so hard not to be. My point was that, again, FAT PEOPLE SHOULD NOT BE EXPECTED TO OUTLINE THE WAYS THEY’RE TRYING TO NOT BE FAT, OR THE MEASURES THEY TAKE TO COUNTER THE ILLEGITIMATE CLAIMS THAT FAT = UNHEALTHY. "

Thunk. I do this. A LOT. I'm immeasurably proud of being able to say that I am not fat. It only took about thirty years, but progress -- that's good. However, I can really bore you with the insane details of what I eat and how much I exercise and all of my food "beliefs" in the event that you felt the need to comment on my size or even look at me the wrong way. I am a good yuppie and I'll tell you all about organic produce and my love for Michael Pollan and how processed food is making us all disgusting. This should sound familiar if you've been around the blog for a while. The "look at how many ways I am trying to be healthy (i.e. not fat)" list making is so ingrained in me that I didn't even realize I was doing it so much.

And the worst part is? The worst part is that I don't really eat that great. I've always liked working out and now running is sort of religious, so I can't critique my exercise, but my food habits? They really suck. While I may BELIEVE that processed food is shit and that we should all eat less sugar and fat, I would choose fried chicken strips and a bucket of fries over anything green any day. While I may feel crappy after, there is nothing quite as tasty (to me) as a mound of pasta with sauce and a hunk of Italian bread on the side. And bacon? Everything tastes better with bacon. Things I also love include: Ring Dings, Diet Coke (oh, dear sweet lord, do I fucking love Diet Coke), potato chips, fudge, beer, white rice. Things I am not so hot about: salmon, green vegetables, tofu, sushi. To be fair, there are a ton of "healthy" things that I do like, but I can make it seem like I am eating those things all the time because my inner monologue says, "If I tell them that I had a milkshake and olive bread for dinner tonight, then they will look at me and take note of my not-so-thinness." Bullshit. Total bullshit.

We, and by we, I mean me, need to stop demonizing people because of how they treat their bodies. I don't expect smokers to list out all the vegetables they're eating and how much they exercise. Why the fatties? Because it's not about health.

Big, big sigh.


* Seriously, I think it's good. Yes, I'm probably biased. But there is worse crap out there getting published.
** Numbers at the time: 5'7" and 178 lbs. Overweight according to the BMI, but dudes, I was running like every day. Evil bitch said "not enough."

Random Things That Make Me Smile

Malt liquor makes me smile in that "like, omigod, remember all those 40s we drank in college?" way. This is awesome.

Who needs champagne when you have CHAMPALE?

I have to wonder what "makes your mouth feel like it's Saturday night" means to people who are not hookers.



Thanks to the lovely Tenille for the image.

Parenting: The Awesome and The Absurd

Awesome

I received my first purposeful, slobbery kiss from Zygote today. She was laying on the bed with YG and I, and I said, "Give mama a kiss" and she leaned her face in and put her slurpy, slobbery, germ warrior little mouth near my lips. Then she did to YG. And then she giggled like a crazy person. It was exhilirating.

Absurd

About a week into weaning, I made the first trip across the street to buy a cabbage. To put in my bra. You read that right. Google it.

Recap: Look Your Best Week

Look Your Best Week was not exactly a raging success, but it wasn't an epic fail either. It did force me to think about what I was wearing, try to put together different things, and think about WHY I wear the things that I do.

I have a tendency to "save" clothes for special occassions that may or may not happen. I'll think to myself, "oh, it's Monday. Nobody works in the office that day so I can look sloppy" or more often that I care to admit, "I'm not going anywhere so why bother." Then I wear the same jeans and t-shirts and save all the cute dresses and skirts for some other time. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea of wearing something special-ly lookin' to buy groceries. I have yet to step on that slippery slope toward wearing gym clothes all the time I'm not at work, but I can see how it happens.

Anyway, you should check out some of the other posts.

My favorite outfit of the week was this one. If you're following along, you can see that I have a bit of an obsession with wrap dresses (defined waist, big jugs -- what's NOT to like?) and who doesn't love leopard print?

Uncomfortable Much

There are some things that I don't like talking about and some things that you should not talk about because you are bound to piss somebody off or weird somebody out.

Church-y Things
I've mentioned before on this blog that YG and I are very involved in our church. It's a great church, and Congregational and in Cambridge so it's about as open and affirming (read: big, gay) as you can get. We stumbled across it when we both realized we wanted to go back to church, and I've been grateful ever since. We were married there, we volunteer there, and we had Zygote baptized there. It's a home of sorts.

Still, I have struggled with feeling like I gave up on the Catholic Church. Or not the church, but the "culture." It seems like it's hard to be an Italian American without being Catholic -- everything is intertwined, and many things that I consider part of my weird "heritage" are probably more church-related than ethnic (the nativity, the feasts on Christmas Eve, praying to all the saints for any number of problems, etc). Sometimes I feel like I am rejecting where I came from. Add to that the fact that most of the people in our Church share common faith backgrounds, and it's sometimes like I'm speaking another language. I had/have no idea what all the political differences between Methodists and Presbyterians and Baptists and blah, blah. I mean, for Catholics, Protestants are Protestants. Period.

But then I remember. I didn't reject anything. According to the "rules," I am going to Hell because I'm divorced. From www.religioustolerance.org (bolds are mine):

The trap that some Catholics find themselves:

Couples that obtain a civil divorce and remarry without first obtaining an annulment are denied access to the Sacraments of Penance (a.k.a. Confession) and Holy Eucharist. (Catechism 1650). They are caught between a rock and a hard place:

If they continue in the new marriage, then they cannot repent of and confess their sins through the Sacraments of Penance, and return to Communion. Meanwhile, their sins are accumulating. Because the church does not recognize their new marriage, it considers every sexual act within the marriage to be a new act of adultery -- a mortal sin. According to the church's teachings, this means that they will not attain Heaven when they die. They will end up being eternally tormented in Hell. There are only two ways of avoiding this state:

To be fortunate enough to not die suddenly (e.g. to not die instantly in a car accident or from a massive heart attack). This way, they might be able to receive the Last Anointing by which their mortal sins are forgiven. Needless to say, this is a risky route to take.

To make an "act of perfect contrition" instead of Confession. But this requires the individual to repent of what the Church considers their sins of adultery, and sincerely intend to never engage in "adultery" in the future.

If they separate from their new spouse, and live alone, and sincerely intend to remain separated unless a annulment is granted, then they can resume their access the Sacraments of Penance and Holy Eucharist. But that would require them to violate their new marriage vows, and terminate their marital relationship. This option often seems profoundly immoral to the couple, particularly if there are children involved.

But then I remember. Some of my friends and my FAMILY are not welcome to receive communion either because of who they are.

But then I remember. The sex abuse scandal. A hierarchy that didn't protect the smallest victims.

This might be the final straw for me. A Catholic school in Massachusetts withdrew the acceptance of an 8-year-old boy because his lesbian parents' relationship was "in discord" with the teachings of the church. Since the story broke, the Superintendant of the Boston Archdiocese has offered to help find a place for the kid, but too little, too late.

I guess I'm just done. I hate rabid anti-Catholic sentiments, and I like to point out all the good work that Catholic Relief Services has done around the world (Kristoff did too). But I'm tired. You can only do so much. And when the Church continues to do bigoted shit like this, you (read: I) just lose all desire to try and find the positive.

It's time to leave that behind, and accept that I am part of a new church* where I just fit better.

* And now I can spend the time that I used defending Catholicism to explain the differences between my church and the crazy, nutso Evangelicals.

Jugs, Or More Specifically, Mine

I could spend all day talking about boobs and bra sizing and hooters, as long as they don't belong to me. I've been reluctant to talk about nursing the Zygote because people have very specific ideas about what is and isn't appropriate with regards to breastfeeding. If I talk to one group, I am an evil harpy because I have been giving my kid a bottle of formula every day since she was 6 weeks old and I introduced her to bottles at 2 weeks. If I talk to another group, I am some crazy earth momma hippie that wears hemp clothing and is really into composting because 11 months in, I am still nursing.

Or was. A few days ago, Zygote just decided she didn't want to nurse anymore. She's never gone on a nursing strike before, and we've kept the same schedule (nursing in the morning and night, and on weekends/bottles during the day) since I went back to work 7 months ago. I had been doing a lot of research about weaning, so in some sense, I was prepared for this. And I know it might also be a phase -- kids her age rarely self-wean this early.

I never expected that I would be doing this this long, and I never thought I would get so emotionally attached to it. I heard that the depression following weaning could sometimes be as bad as postpartum depression, and considering I spent the first month after Zygote was born wishing I would get hit by a car so that someone more competent could take of her -- this freaks my shit all out.

I've been following her lead, giving her the bottle, but following the rest of our routine: reading her a story, rocking her, letting her play with my hair. She's fine. And I know I'll be fine, phase or not, but it's very bittersweet. I feel grateful to have part of my life back, but I also can't believe my little baby is growing up.

How's that for barfy? And if I really wanted to be gross, I would now post a cute picture of my kid.



Oh, look. I just did.

What? I Can't Hear You

It's been a year since YG lost his hearing. He participated in a study last summer, but his hearing never returned. With physical therapy, his balance did return and he's able to ride his bike again. I don't talk about this much because it really isn't my story to tell, and you deal with the hand you've been given and handle the situation in front of you. YG and I are not the type of people who let themselves break down. Or grieve. Or be off our game. Or take break. But that's a whole other blog. And we never really had time to think about what happened -- Zygote was born a few weeks later, the MG got sick, his career took off, I went back to work, etc. etc.. I am profoundly grateful that YG didn't suffer a more serious disease, but that doesn't mean I still don't feel a sense of loss, and the usual "the world is so unfair" crap. YG has dealt with some major shit in the course of his young life (yes, YG, you read that right -- young), and I hate that he ended up with another turd in the shit sandwich. He's dealt with it with grace and calm, as is his way, and I'm just thinking about it on this unfortunate anniversary of sorts.

Look Your Best Week

The ladies over at Academic Chic are doing this again this year, and I think it's awesome. It plays nicely into my whole 'shop from the closet' experiment.

Speaking of which, I found this blog entry describing why and how people tune into outfit posts. I admit that I am a bit obsessed with them, and I love how people present them. Photography draws my eye a lot, and I feel slight mortification that my photos are all taken with our old digital camera in our very crappy bathroom. But I am not a fashion blogger, so cut me some slack.

While reading through all of these blogs this morning (okay, well, reading the links from Already Pretty), I came across this awesome Margaret Cho quote:

"And I have a lot of self-esteem, which is amazing, because I’m probably somebody who wouldn’t necessarily have a lot of self esteem, as I am considered a minority. And if you are a woman; if you are a person of color; if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender; if you are a person of size; if you are person of intelligence; if you are a person of integrity, then YOU are considered a minority in this world. And it’s going to be really hard to find messages of self-love and support anywhere, especially women’s and gay men’s culture. It’s all about how you have to look a certain way, or else you’re worthless. You know, when you look in the mirror and think, “Ugh, I’m so ugly, I’m so fat, I’m so old.” Don’t you know that’s not your authentic self? That is billions upon billions of dollars of advertising: magazines, movies, billboards, all geared to make you feel shitty about yourself, so that you will take your hard-earned money, and spend it at the mall on some turn-around creme that doesn’t turn around shit. If you don’t have self-esteem, you will hesitate before you do anything in your life. You will hesitate to go for the job you want to go for. You will hesitate to ask for a raise. You will hesitate to call yourself an American. You will hesitate to report a rape. You will hesitate to defend yourself when you are discriminated against because of your race, your sexuality, your size, your gender. You will hesitate to vote. You will hesitate to dream. For us to have self-esteem is truly an act of revolution, and our revolution is long overdue. I urge you all today, especially today in these times of terrorism and chaos, to love yourselves without reservation and to love each other without restraint. Unless you’re into leather, then by all means, use restraints. Thank you."

That was sourced back to this blog that I immediately added to my favorites.

Her stated mission:

"Size 14+ women are desexualized, infantilized & prematurely aged by commercial apparel designers, given insanely few choices for covering their bodies, and made to pay double for half the quality.
Egregious sequins, boatnecks, 3/4 length sleeves, bad graphics, thin polyester:
I, for one, am outraged.And you are too.NonPlus looks into the toxic world of “Plus-Sized Fashion” and teases out the interesting & incredible from the insulting."

AND, she's local. Cool.

What JM Talks About When She Talks About Running

I finally finished reading Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I've been meaning to write about what I thought about the book, along with other thoughts on running/writing and a confluence of events, including some really good weeks at work.

The book is classified as a memoir, but it is equal parts training log, travelogue and writers' manual. Or could be classified under the broad category of Books I Read At Exactly The Right Time. I picked this up a few years back at City Lights in San Francisco, when I first picked up running. I really don't know what my impetus was to start running at that particular time. It seems like a fairly dumb sport to pick up in your 30s when you're overweight and not particularly fast. But for as long as I could remember, I had "run a marathon" on my list of New Year's Resolutions, even though I never actually, you know, RAN. Pipe dreams. I had tried biking because YG was into it, but I'm too competitive and it bothered me to know that I would never be as good at biking as he was/is. I guess I needed something for myself, and I had a few friends that had success with Couch to 5K, so there you go. As with most things in my life, I kind of fell into it.

And now a few years later, I feel pretty confident about my half marathon training and eventual marathon dreams. So off the bookshelf, Murakami's book came. I had no idea he ran the same routes I do. Right out of the gate, I was hooked:

"It doesn't matter what field you're talking about -- beating somebody else just doesn't do it for me. I'm much more interested in whether I reach the goals that I set for myself, so in this sense long-distance running is the perfect fit for a mindset like mine. ...In long-distance running the only opponenet you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be."

As I've mentioned before, I'm slow. Really slow. On a good day, I can run between a 10:30 and 11 minute mile. On a regular day, that's more like 11:30/12 minutes. I'm not going to win any races, and most of the time, I'm near the back of the pack. I've had to deal with snide remarks by "real" runners who think that us slowpokes should stay out of the way, but it doesn't matter. I have my own goals, and most of the time, I am able to meet them. I follow my training plans and I feel good. I KNOW that I will finish this half marathon, and I know that I will run a marathon someday.

I was out running on Friday and I wiped out good. I felt my sneaker hit the lip of the sidewalk, and I knew I was going to tumble. In slow motion, I saw this sweaty Gatorade bottle I was holding go hurtling in the air, and I heard myself yell before I hit the ground. My initial reaction was fear that I had broken something, only fueled by a bunch of people who got out of their cars and came over to make sure that I was okay. I rolled over and checked my knees and palms (both bleeding) and let out this stream of "motherfuckerjesusgoddamitshitfucker." Next reaction was pure RAGE. Falling was NOT in my plan, and I knew it was going to screw with my time. I killed the last mile, but was still irritated. And three days later, am still sore AND irritated.

Murakami relates this to writing this way:

"In the novelist's profession, as far as I'm concerned, there's no such thing as winning or losing. . . . What's crucial is whether your writing attains the standards you've set for yourself. Failure to reach that bar is not something you can easily explain away. When it comes to other people, you can always come up with a reasonable explanation, but you can't fool yourself."

Ouch. So here's where it gets difficult. I'm not sure I've set any standards for myself. I said that I was going to be a writer when I was 10, and that's the only thing I really ever wanted/want to be. But I'm not even sure what that means anymore. Because that was my only goal, I never really developed any other career plans and just fell into what I'm doing. It's okay, but I always feel like I am displaced and the only reason I do well is because I'm competitive, not because I really want to excel.

I have to figure out what success writing is going to mean for me. I don't think I'm going to be "discovered." 1. Because that rarely happens. And 2. Because one would need to be writing fairly regularly or writing SOMETHING for that something to be discovered. When I'm not taking classes, my writing is very disjointed and without purpose. I would present this entry as Exhibit A. I have the time to write now on Fridays and just like I came up with a training plan for the half and future marathons, there needs to be some sort of defined goal for me to work toward. My writing teachers have all said I should pursue this, and even the random creativity workshop that I took at work ended with an awkward heart-to-heart with the hippie teachers who also noted that I "have something and should pursue it." Not about you, about me, blah blah blah.

"If you're going to while away the years, it's far better to live them with clear goals and fully alive than in a fog, and I believe running helps you do that. Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that's the essence of running, and a metaphor for life -- and for me, for writing as well."

Amen? Let's see where I can take this.

I like running because all I need to do is concentrate on running. Nothing else. One foot in front of the other. I had described that feeling to a friend from church and described myself as being in love with the blankness of my mind while running. I thought I had come up with a particularly brilliant observation, a way to get away from my near-constant inner monlogue, but Murakami uses the adjective "blank" throughout his book. I guess everyone feels this way. I listen to music most of the time, but I don't really hear it. I just concentrate on moving, and (most of the time), not falling.

"Maybe it's some pointless act...but at least the effort you put into it remains. Whether it's good for anything or not, cool or totally uncool, in the final analysis what's most important is what you can't see but can feel in your heart. To be able to grasp something of value, something you have to perform seemingly ineffecient acts. But activities that appear fruitless don't necessarily end up so."

I guess we'll see.

No Repeats

Week two.

This Week in Running -- Photo Edition

Injury at Mile 11



First 5K of the Season -- Mom's Run

Start



34:35 Finish -- Not terrible considering I was still recovering from the 12 mile two days earlier and have a gross, bruised knee.

Jugs

Another untapped market opportunity.

Why Designers Refuse To Make Bigger Bras.

But how much of a "risk" is it to make and advertise a product you know many women are clamoring for, unless you know your company is only capable of making cheap, flimsy bras that would never support larger breasts? Is designing a bra that can do some heavy lifting really so complex that it's more profitable to add a bow and some lace to last season's 34Bs and shun millions of potential customers?

Note to designers: If you build it, I will come.

Internets Crush

I put this up on Facebook too because it's totally awesome and I hope it gets a lot of link love.

You Can't Bully Me Out of My Skinny Jeans.

LOVE.

It amazes me that there is a group on Facebook dedicated to being dick faces, but then again, there was that "No Chubbies" guy in Denver a while back too. So really, I should never be amazed by just how dickish people can be.

The word of the day is, apparently, dick.

Hastily Written Late Night Reasons to Love Cambridge

1. We were spared during the Aquapocalypse.

2. Beautiful weather runs along the Charles. I've logged twenty miles since Friday. I am that awesome.

3. The Paper Raincoat at Club Passim.

Clothes Horse

My first batch of outfits is up. I am slightly weirded out, yet fascinated, by the number of views on the pictures. Are people really that interested in clothes? Or is it a fetish/stalker thing? People find this blog by googling "swinging testicles" so I should not be surprised by anything on the Internets.

In other clothes news, I like this blog. I read a lot of fashion blogs, but given my day job, it's not like I can really wear a lot of the super stylin' hip stuff people are blogging about. Never mind that I'm neither stylin' nor hip. The stuff at Corporette combines cool clothes with things you can wear to a white dude office.

They Said It Better and More Lists of Shit I Am Doing

1. The Fairy Tale of Weight Loss -- I read these ladies' blogs. Very cool.

2. Are you listening to my friend Amy's podcast? You should be.

3. I took this workshop today. You know me. You know how I react to mandatory fun at work. I was approaching this and the upside down 'A' with the same enthusiasm as I might approach dental work or a trip to the ob/gyn. As usual, I am a dick. It was great and I did more writing exercises today at work than I have on my last two months of "writing" Fridays.

4. I am going to the Simmons Women's Leadership Conference tomorrow. I am not going to harass Tina Brown.

5. Immigration is a feminist issue. Much better articulated than my 'Fuck you, Arizona' sentiments.

6. Cape Wind Pros and Cons. The cons seem very much of the 'not in my backyard' variety. Very 'we, the rich white liberals of New England very much support green energy as long as you put the turbines someplace else, preferably where poor people live, because they don't have sailing or views of the ocean or anything visually pleasing like that.'

7. Big tits are inappropriate for television, but only if they are on fat chicks. There was a big brouhaha over the censoring of Lane Bryant's lingerie ads. Check it out yourself. Any difference between this and a Victoria's Secret ad? I don't get it. The model's reported measurements are 36-34-47 and a US Size 12. This is around my size, so I for one, am thrilled to see real jugs on a regular-sized person in an underwear ad that doesn't feature granny panties and lots of beige. BEWARE THE JUGS.



8. My brother likes today, Poem in Your Pocket Day. I pick
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls by E.E. Cummings for my adopted town. Also, I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone. Because a little Rilke never hurt anyone.

Anniversary #2

April 26, 2008



April 2009



April 2010



Good run, so far.

Reading, Watching, Other Stuff

1. Waiter Rant -- I didn't really read this one. I listened to it in the car, and it lent itself well to that medium, meaning I probably would have been bored if I read the actual book. It starts off slow, but got better, and for a brief moment in time made me appreciate my boring office job. Sometimes I experience weird nostalgia for the crappy jobs I had in high school and college, because, hey, at least you could punch out at the end of the day. But then I remember the bag full of dicks you end up sucking in food service and get over it. I'm curious about this dude's blog now, as usual, about two years after it was cool to care.

2. No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories by Miranda July -- I confess to wanting to read this book because of its shiny yellow cover. And I liked the weirdness that was Me and You and Everyone We Know. This was on the clearance rack at Borders so I picked it up to have something to read in the Pumping Room, other than Parents magazine from 3 years ago. Verdict is still out. It was fascinating, and I had some definite favorites, but I guess my sieve-like brain craves more linear stories right now. I'd like to have a drink or play Jenga with Miranda July. She's a fucked up little oddball.

3. The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism -- Because we needed another reason to hate rich, whitey businessmen. It took me two months to read this, and I feel like I missed some of the stats because it was just so dense. The main premise is that politicians use the shock of natural and other disasters to push through unpopular economic policies while the general population is disoriented and reeling from the disaster's impact. It takes on post-Katrina New Orleans, post-911 USA, the collapse of the Soviet Union, among others, and talks about Milton Friedman's legacy of shit. You also get a whole host of new reasons to hate Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld, if you needed that. What I liked is that Naomi Klein is a journalist, so this reads like a *really long* magazine article without the usual boring economic jargon. What I didn't like is that it's very biased, and I think there are probably examples of leftists participating in the same sort of shenanigans.

4. Away From Her -- I actually haven't finished watching this yet, because it's sort of hard to psyche yourself up for an Alzheimer's flick. Sort of like saying, "Hey guys, let's have a party -- I've got Schindler's List and Hotel Rwanda. Woot!" I've been watching it in dribs and drabs, and it's beautiful and honest and depressing as hell. And much realer than that shit in The Notebook. Sarah Polley of Go (one of my favorites) and The Sweet Hereafter (another not-for-a-party movie) and a bunch of other great movies directed it. My grandmother had Alzheimer's disease. It was horrible to watch, and the scenes in the nursing home (especially one where the character, Grant, says that his wife would never wear a sweater that "tacky") just chilled me. Brilliant acting, but don't watch it alone.

5. Party Down -- For when I'm not watching tearjerkers. I just discovered this, and my first thought was, "It's Louie! I wanna dip my balls in it."* And Stifler's Mom. And Karen. And that lady from Glee and all the other movies I like and that really bad commercial for frozen dinners with Julia Louis Dreyfus. Pretty hilarious shit. And again, semi grateful for my office job.

* For shits and giggles, you should Google "Dip my balls in it." People are fucked up.

6. I only have a few weeks left of training for the half. I'm sore, but starting to imagine actually finishing. YG has been telling me to think about what I want to do after, so I signed up for this to keep things moving. 7.5 miles seem really NICE right now.

7. Lost: The Final Season -- I think I am too dumb for this show. They kill me. Every week I think I am going to learn something new, but end up drooling in confusion. Then I read Diva for explanations. Only slightly related: Matthew Fox and his new haircut should call me sometime.

8. New project -- I saw a link to this project, A Compendium of Dresses, on Already Pretty, and spent a not-insignificant portion of this weekend drooling over this girl's fabulous dresses. I'm also in the middle of my annual closet swap/cleaning/whatever and am excited to wear some of my older clothes. I didn't get to wear dresses last summer because of the post-baby weight and nursing, so it's almost like having a new wardrobe. Of way too much stuff. In the spirit of keeping myself busy and not spending money on clothes that I don't need, I am bringing back Outfits I Have Enjoyed.* Thirty one days in May, and hopefully thirty one outfits I have enjoyed.

* In looking back at those photos, I probably should change the tense to "had." Wow, I was off on some of those.

Brief Hiatus

Our nanny is away on a two-week vacation. That is the kind of phrase that strikes fear deep, deep, deep in my soul. My work is a mess, our house is a disaster, and I am vaguely aware of this person called my husband. Lots of blogs in the head, but not on the screen. Stay tuned.

Things I Like: The Situation Meets Mr. Hottie Met

David Wright and Mike, "The Situation." This kind of makes me want to go out and get a Vitamin Water. I believe my favorite comment on Youtube was, "the only thing he's fist pumping this year is your mom."

Ah, baseball season is back again!

Poem for a Rainy Monday

Dogfish by Mary Oliver.

Dogfish
Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.
If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,
which was rough
as a thousand sharpened nails.
And you know
what a smile means,
don't you?
*
I wanted the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,
whoever I was, I was
alive
for a little while.
*
It was evening, and no longer summer.
Three small fish, I don't know what they were,
huddled in the highest ripples
as it came swimming in again, effortless, the whole body
one gesture, one black sleeve
that could fit easily around
the bodies of three small fish.
*
Also I wanted
to be able to love. And we all know
how that one goes,
don't we?
Slowly
*
the dogfish tore open the soft basins of water.
*
You don't want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don't want to tell it, I want to listen
to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.
And anyway it's the same old story - - -
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.
Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.
And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.
*
And look! look! look! I think those little fish
better wake up and dash themselves away
from the hopeless future that is
bulging toward them.
*
And probably,
if they don't waste time
looking for an easier world,
they can do it.

The Good Die Young

There are so many things that suck about getting divorced that it's hard to start a post with "One of the worst things about getting divorced is..." Still, some things qualify as really bad. Like when you like your ex's friends or family, and you suddenly don't see or talk to them anymore. It's not like you stop caring about them. You do, but you can't just call somebody up and be all, "hey, remember when we used to be related? Fun!"

My former brother-in-law died yesterday after a long battle with cancer. He was 50 years old and leaves behind a wife and two young children, along with his mother and three siblings, including my ex-husband. I am finding it hard to put into words how sad this makes me feel.

I hadn't spoken to him in about four years, around the time that my marriage was disintegrating. I met F and his wife when I was 23 and they were in their late thirties. At the time, I thought I was so old and mature. Now I realize that I didn't know jack shit, but the family was never condescending and they welcomed me and hung around with my just-graduated-from-college friends and invited me to lots of things at their house. It was my first foray into the world of the suburban family with kids (other than my family of origin) and good practice -- I had fun helping with puppet and magic shows for the kids, hanging out in the backyard barbequing and playing volleyball. F was pretty hilarious and had a wicked sense of humor, and he and my ex played off each other really well. His whole family adored him -- sometimes jealous, sometimes irritated, but they knew he was a good guy. Even though things eventually went to hell, I give F and his wife lots of props for at least trying to understand, or at least ask me questions about how bad things were for me back then. There is a lot more I can say about him, but I know that this information is semi-public and it's not my story to tell -- it just seems unfair to lose someone who battled through so much shit and so many other terrible things throughout the course of his life.

I was there when their father died. I was there when F had a relapse of cancer. I was there when F and his wife adopted their second child. I think the last time I saw him was at his daughter's Communion. I'm not there now, nor would it be appropriate for me to be. But I am thinking of the family and those kids and just wishing, vibing, whatever, HOPING that they have the strength to make it through this.

Because You Care What I Think About Healthcare

So the bill is signed, and Armageddon has not yet arrived. I straddle two very, very different worlds in that I have worked for big, white corporations for over a decade now with lots of big-business types, but I live in The People's Republic of Cambridge and seem to be the centrist one among my hippie, trippy, lefty pinko friends. When that gavel hit, Facebook exploded and depending on what friend was posting, I could assume that either Fidel Castro was going to become the next President or all the world's ills would soon be solved by the new Virgin Mother, Nancy Pelosi.

So I give my friend, Steve, credit for posting the following:

"Raise your hand if you fully understand the supposedly "historic" health care bill and the ramifications it's going to have on our country. Putting Facebook, Twitter, New York Times, Wall Street Journal editorial/opinion pieces aside--and even your own political opinions/agendas--do you truly understand? If I only had a dollar for everyone who could explain the overhaul in 100 words or less."

The posts that followed were actually civil, and wide-ranging. Imagine that. I checked out the various "What Healthcare Reform Means For You" graphics on the New York Times and Washington Post, but I suspect that my feelings about this bill being passed would not be that different even if those graphics told me, "hey, take a good look, whitey, you're going to have to pay a shit ton more taxes now."

Do I want to pay more taxes? No. Do I believe in big government? No. Am I happy about all the back-door deals and strong arming that went on to pass this? No. Do I think that the bill is seriously flawed? Yes.

Still, I am extremely happy that it passed. To me, this is a moral issue more than anything else. How can the richest country in the world justify not taking care of its sick? How can we seriously believe that if you lose your job and get sick that you somehow deserve to bankrupt yourself and your family to get better? It doesn't jive with all those American values that we think are cheesy when used in statements about VALUES but secretly believe strongly in. It doesn't work. You take care of the sick. That's...just what you do. Right?

I could make more arguments about how we'll save money in the long run (preventative care, blah blah), but I really don't give a shit about those arguments. You take care of sick people because it's the right thing to do. It's not socialism.

The church I go to had a lot of good stuff to say about healthcare, and through them I found Faithful Reform. I really liked what their vision statement (bolds are mine). The language is a bit 'o divine merciful blessings on this beautiful godly day' for my tastes, but the message resonated strongly.

Vision ~ Inclusive: Health care is a shared responsibility that is grounded in our common humanity. In the bonds of our human family, we are created to be equal. We are guided by a divine will to treat each person with dignity and to live together as an inclusive community. Affirming our commitment to the common good, we acknowledge our enduring responsibility to care for one another. As we recognize that society is whole only when we care for the most vulnerable among us, we are led to discern the human right to health care and wholeness. Therefore, we are called to act with compassion by sharing our abundant health care resources with everyone.

Vision ~ Affordable: Health care must contribute to the common good by being affordable for individuals, families and society as a whole. We believe that in the sacred act of creation we are endowed with the talents, wisdom and abundant resources necessary to meet the needs of one another, including the health care needs of all. Therefore, in our calling to be faithful stewards, we understand our responsibility to use our health care resources effectively, to administer them efficiently, and to distribute them with equity.

Vision ~ Accessible: All persons should have access to health services that provide necessary care and contribute to wellness. We believe humanity is sacred and that all persons should benefit from those actions which contribute to our health and wholeness. Therefore, we are called to act with justice and love, to ensure that all of us have access to the health care we need in order to live out the fullness of our potential both as individuals and as contributing members of our society. We must work together to identify and overcome all barriers to and disparities in such care.

Vision ~ Accountable: Our health care system must be accountable, offering a quality, equitable and sustainable means of keeping us healthy as individuals and as a community. We believe that as spiritual and sacred vessels, we are responsible for the care of our bodies to the best of our ability and for the care of one another regardless of individual circumstances. Therefore, individuals, families, governments, businesses, and the faith community are called to work in partnership for a system that ensures fully-informed, timely, quality and safe care that treats body, mind and spirit.

I can't raise my hand and say that I know what the bill means for me, but I can say that I'm happy about it, and that whatever price I have to pay, I do think it's worth it.

Thanks Steve for the topic! :-)

I Need A Motherfucking Project

Because otherwise, I am not going to write. Seriously, this is just not going to happen for me if I don't have a deadline, so comments/suggestions/etc are welcome. I did great in writing class because there was a due date, and I do well if I commit to these "one entry a day, week, whatever" things. On my own, though? Not so much. My brain is just one long run on sentence.

What have I been up to?

* First there was the lead up to San Francisco. Long work hours, work drama, wanting to spend any minute left with Zygote and YG.

* And then there was San Francisco. I practically had a stroke leading up to this trip. I couldn't imagine being away from Zygote that long, and I was panicking about her starving to death and/or loathing me when I got back. Or worse, forgetting me. I also over-planned a bit, trying to imagine what it was going to be like dealing with the TSA and a cooler full of breastmilk.

As usual, my imagination was far, far worse than reality. It was fine. The TSA gave me no problems at all. The pumping sucked, but I expected that, and I can now cross "pump at 35,000 feet" off my life's to-do list. Sadly, I will probably never be a member of the mile-high club, but pumping? Aw, yeah. Rock!

I suffered from WILD mood swings the entire time I was gone. I could go from "woo hoo, I can do whatever I want. Let's go get fucked up!" to "I am going to steal your baby and suckle it" in a matter of seconds. And then I got a sinus infection and spent a day in bed. And then some bitch told me that I didn't know how to do my job, and I actually called YG and cried and said "I want to come home" like a kid calling his mom from summer camp. And then one of my work BFFs got some shit news. And then I ate nothing but cookies and bacon and alcohol for four days. And then I got ripped a new asshole by someone super senior. And....EXHAUSTING.

And, oh yeah, and then I took a red eye home, managed to get a cab from the only white, English-speaking cabbie around who also happened to be a talker and Glen Beck hater and 'the world is ending' kind of dude, and at 7:30 a.m. , opened the door to my wide-awake baby, overtired husband, and my parents, sleeping on an air mattress in the living room of our very-small apartment.

* For the past few weeks, I have just been digging out, and getting into near fist fights at Shaws. I'm still training for that half marathon, and the runs are getting longer and more intense, and the rest of my time is spent with Zygote.

So, yeah, I need a motherfucking project.

Happy Birthday, YG!

Happy birthday to the bestest of the best people I have ever known.
San Fran is not quite the same without you.

Animal Planet

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Black Ops Edition

Sometimes you end up having conversations about things you really never imagined you would have conversations about. Like, you know, what you would name your own butthole.

To set some context, I bought YG the first two seasons of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia for Valentine's Day. We were discussing our favorite episodes, and I mentioned that my all time favorite episode is the one where Dee wants to have a Sex&The City girls night out, and they are all drinking cosmos and Artemis shouts out, "I have a bleached asshole!" Hilarity ensues.

Multiple tangents later, we get to this conversation:

Me: Ha, ha, ha. "I have a bleached asshole!"

YG: Your asshole is named Blanche.
Me: Blanche, the bleached asshole.
[editorial note: I still do not quite get the whole bleached asshole thing. If you don't either, I suggest you resist the urge to
Google Image Search]

Me: What should we call your asshole?

(YG ponders)

YG: Black Ops.

Me: Black Ops?

YG: Yeah, Black Ops. Beyond top secret military missions.

Me: Ok.

YG: In the defense budget, there's a whole line item for Black Ops, but nobody really knows what it is.

Me: Okay, so your asshole is Black Ops.

YG: Get it? Double entendre.

Me: Yeah, got it.

YG: You are not sufficiently laughing.

Me: Funny.

YG: Black Ops IS funny.

Me: I GET YOUR DOUBLE ENTENDRE.

YG: But you are not laughing hard enough.

YG: I turn a deaf ear to you now. Literally.

Me: Now THAT's funny.

The Universe Conspires

Against my blogging. I had this wonderful post in my head last night about how things have been going pretty good here for a while, or not going well, but I am pretty mellow, thus the appearance of things going well. And then Zygote woke me up at 5 this morning, and it was snowing and cold and this fucking conference and business travel and school vacation blows when you're working and blah, blah, blah. Woe is me.

So no long post on how mellow and Simply Abundant I am. Just more lists:

Recently read: Everything Is Illuminated -- Again, about five years after everyone else did, but lovely and heartbreaking and funny.

Reading: Confessions of an Economic Hit Man by John Perkins -- Fast, interesting read. At some points not believable, and at others, grotesquely so. Also, horray, I am not in the most soul sucking profession. It could be worse.

Listening: The Away We Go soundtrack -- I liked the movie. I really like the soundtrack. Such a good hipster. Plus, now I can stop saying that I discovered Alexi Murdoch from a Zach Braff movie.

Watching: LOST. I'm not salivating with excitement, but I do end most episodes thinking 'what the fuck just happened?' and that is why I love me some LOST. Diva recaps so that I don't have to.

Watching: Big Love. Mormons are fucked up, yo. I loved the gay Albee story line, and feminist Margene. Could do without the campaign.

Watched: Julie and Julia. I was meh about the book, but it was the first thing I read post-Zygote, so I found it entertaining. Meryl Streep was fabulous, but I could have done without so much of Julie's twentysomething angst. Even more irritating is the fact that my mother saw this movie, loved it, and told me that the Julie character reminded her SO MUCH of me. Please refute. Thank you.

Enjoying: The Best Life Ever. Have I linked to these folks before? I found them through some link love, and have read them weekly ever since. They make me happy when I am feeling grumptastic like the morning I described above. And then manage to write about being happy in a way that is not all barfy, simple abundance style.

Upcoming: San Francisco. Five nights away from Zygote. I can count on my hands the number of times I have not put her to bed since she's been born. I anticipate this being tough. I also anticipate finding my strength in good food and mixed drinks (aw yeah, pump and dump).

Little Artiste

JD's Dead

J.D. Salinger died last week. I still remember reading Catcher in the Rye for the first time out in Long Island. The copy was my dad's and it's still out there -- maroon covered and yellow paged. I was in middle school, and I thought I had stumbled across me in print. My high school quote was from Catcher, and I just assumed that I was the ONLY ONE that really got Holden. We were both sooooo misunderstood.

And then I found out that every frat turd in the world also thinks he is Holden Caufield, and I had a glimpse of my future corporate life. Sigh.

Erin Shea wrote a really lovely post about Salinger's death that you should go check out. Especially poignant is this bit:

"It’s funny to me now that I requested such a non-conformist book for such conformist reasons. I cut myself a modicum of slack, obviously, since I was all of 12, and when you’re 12 you desperately try to locate that secret space in the world where you’re unconditionally accepted by everyone for being staunchly, fiercely not like any of them at all. That place doesn’t exist, of course, but it takes years, many regrettable decisions concerning your hair, both its length and color, and the sheer exhaustion that comes from trying to fit in before you stop caring as much.

I wanted to read Catcher in the Rye because that’s what someone like the person I thought I wanted to be would read. It’s that simple. And I read it. And it changed everything.

Hyperbole aside, books like these for kids who lean towards awkwardness, like me, are game changers. This is how it happens for us. We know we’re supposed to like what everyone else likes, and for the most part we really do, but something else in the universe is calling us, moving us toward it, moment by moment, until we’re almost there. Books like Catcher land in our laps and it’s the first of many of those moments. Without it, we’re not ready for the next one when it comes along. We needed the first to unlock the rest."

I was so desperate to escape my middle-class suburban life and my perfect classmates and my parents that didn't understand.
And I escaped reading my DAD's old book.

Sometimes Our Coworkers Are Funny (Even Funnier Than Me)

I told my coworker that I was planning to just put "Fuck You" on my email signature at work and out-of-office autoreply. His funnier out-of-office autoreply is as follows:

Thank you for your email.

As there is a 98% chance your question or request is stupid or fucking annoying, please do not expect a reply.
It is also quite likely that I won’t answer your phone call or return your messages.

You can especially fuck yourself raw if your note is:
- Just a “thanks” or “heads up”
- If you are reminding me to buy tickets to your event. Your event SUCKS, and I hate you.
- Has ANYTHING to do with [insert name of trade show that drives us batshit every year].

Don’t bother calling another member of the snot-nosed, uncooperative PR team.
We all hate you.

All media inquiries may go to [insert PR agency name].

I hate you.
[Insert name]

THAT is a thing of beauty.

Good Reads: The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How It Has Undermined All Women

I'm keeping with my tradition of reading controversial books about five years people have stopped talking about them. I just finished The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How It Has Undermined All Women, and while it's a few years old, I still found it relevant.

Or maybe these perfect mommy/insane momism/superwoman books are appealing to me right now because they meet me where I am. Very much in the middle of trying to make sense out of this whole parenting, career, want-more-now thing.

"The new momism is not about subservience to men. It is about subservience to children. And there's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide."

What Was Awesome

* The look at how government has played a role in creating the conundrum that almost all women find themselves in is fascinating. I learned way more than I ever knew about the history of the childcare debates, the original hearings on FMLA and just how shitty the Reagan Administration really was.

* Similarly, the chapter on welfare mothers was also fascinating. Just a few quotes

"Through , conservatives kept the coals of misogyny warm without offending the politically prized 'soccer mom.' And they succeeded. The poor mother no longer represented the failings of American society to take care of its own. She represented the failure of individual women to take their maternal responsibilities as seriously as possible."

"One of the most important trends that we found during this period was that the attacks on the maternal qualifications of welfare mothers increased, over the years, in direct relationship to the increased emphasis on the new momism. There is little doubt that for working mothers, espeically white working mothers, these highly negative portrayals of welfare mothers enhanced our own self-esteem at a time when we, too, were very much under attack...In other words, the stereotype of the lazy, irresponsible, neglectful, and promisicous welfare mother became so important in the 1980s and beyond because however insecure we felt in our identities as 'mothers,' we suddenly (if briefly) felt very confident and virtuous when juxtaposed to this other, bad mother."

* The chapter on marketing to children is chilling, especially when I look back on my own childhood and remember the toys that I begged my parents for. My childhood was when target marketing was really taking off, and it's frightening to see how I, and all of my friends, fell and continue to fall for it.

* Given that I was pregnant not that long ago, the chapter on parenting trends and the commercialization of pregnancy are riddled with underlines. I LOVE that they describe that fuck Dr. Sears as the Dr. Laura for the high-achieving, educated set (fell for that shit too), and describe how different parenting "fads" have changed in just the last decade.

What Was Sort of Meh About It:

* The book is billed as a pop-culture critique of new momism in the media, but I found the chapters on media fairly boring and lackluster. This may have more to do with the time lapse (does anyone even remember thirtysomething?), but the television and advertising critiques weren't in depth and the authors didn't really explore WHY women are so susceptible to these images.

* Very long and dense. I started this on Thanksgiving weekend, and just finished. It's not exactly a page turner.

* The tone is pretty snotty and arrogant. It sounds like me, and not in a good way.

* Like most critique books, the "so what do we do about it" question remains largely unanswered. There's a rah rah ending about confronting the new momism when you see it, but given all the interesting information on how our government plays such a HUGE role in devalueing women and children, I would have liked to see more about how to get involved.

Writing Fridays

I spent most of my morning avoiding writing like the Plague, lingering at the babysitter's house, grocery shopping (a task I normally loathe) and even venturing into someplace named "The Creativity Craft Store." Clear avoidance. But then I broke out my exercise book and spent a few hours writing, and it feels awesome -- with a minor stopover in Guilt land because everybody else at work is so busy.

And then I remembered: I DO NOT GET PAID TO WORK ON FRIDAYS.

Anyway, I loved this:

So we're all floating around in a state of confusion and insecurity, looking for publication as our only real measure of success and validation. And because so few people get published, and even fewer then go on to making any real money, are we all failures? Are none us writers? Are we all wanna-bes?

Tricky question. I have long defined myself as a writer, before I got anything published, before I got an agent, before I made a dime. I have known I was a writer since I was twelve, maybe even before that. And how? Because I didn't want to do anything else but write. All I wanted to do was write, ever, always, and amen.

I guess that we are writers if we write, if we write all the time, if we improve, and if we want to do it more than anything else. I'm not absolutely positive, but I believe that I am a writer. And today, if you are writing and not looking back over your shoulder too often, you can be one, too. -- Caroline Sharp

Well, then.

Grateful

For these mornings.

Stories I Like

Our pastor friend, Dan, told this story in a sermon on Sunday. He was having food and drinks with Peter Gomes, and he asked Gomes what he thought the key message of the Gospel was. Without missing a beat, Gomes said, "you do not have to be as you are."

Regardless of your faith or nonfaith traditions, there's got to be something comforting about not always having to be "as you are," no? That you can be who you were intended to be.

I like this very much this week. I've got a bunch of work piling up and I am trying very hard to not be me, and to spend my time not there very much here with this cool kid I've got.

Plagiocephaly -- Zygote's Flat Head

Supposedly one of the benefits of having a c-section is that your baby ends up with a perfectly round, cherub's head. Well, our little cherub has inherited YG's big noggin and has developed a flat spot. We had her scanned at Children's Hospital this morning for a helmet (I KNOW), and she took it remarkably well.



We pick up her skull & crossbones helmet in two weeks. On the good side, bad parents that we are, I guess we don't have to worry so much about her banging her head now.

In My Language -- David Foster Wallace On Getting By

I'm nearing the end of Lit. I totally forgot that Mary Karr dated David Foster Wallace, and reading the brief part about their relationship made me go digging up that commencement speech he gave -- the one everyone was reminiscing about when he unfortunately died.

About as far away from the language of Simple Abundance as you can get. My favorite parts:

"And I submit that this is what the real, no bullshit value of your liberal arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out. That may sound like hyperbole, or abstract nonsense. Let’s get concrete. The plain fact is that you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what day in day out really means. There happen to be whole, large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine, and petty frustration. The parents and older folks here will know all too well what I’m talking about.

By way of example, let’s say it’s an average adult day, and you get up in the morning, go to your challenging, white-collar, college-graduate job, and you work hard for eight or ten hours, and at the end of the day you’re tired and somewhat stressed and all you want is to go home and have a good supper and maybe unwind for an hour, and then hit the sack early because, of course, you have to get up the next day and do it all again. But then you remember there’s no food at home. You haven’t had time to shop this week because of your challenging job, and so now after work you have to get in your car and drive to the supermarket. It’s the end of the work day and the traffic is apt to be: very bad. So getting to the store takes way longer than it should, and when you finally get there, the supermarket is very crowded, because of course it’s the time of day when all the other people with jobs also try to squeeze in some grocery shopping. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing muzak or corporate pop and it’s pretty much the last place you want to be but you can’t just get in and quickly out; you have to wander all over the huge, over-lit store’s confusing aisles to find the stuff you want and you have to maneuver your junky cart through all these other tired, hurried people with carts (et cetera, et cetera, cutting stuff out because this is a long ceremony) and eventually you get all your supper supplies, except now it turns out there aren’t enough check-out lanes open even though it’s the end-of-the-day rush. So the checkout line is incredibly long, which is stupid and infuriating. But you can’t take your frustration out on the frantic lady working the register, who is overworked at a job whose daily tedium and meaninglessness surpasses the imagination of any of us here at a prestigious college.

But anyway, you finally get to the checkout line’s front, and you pay for your food, and you get told to have a nice day in a voice that is the absolute voice of death. Then you have to take your creepy, flimsy, plastic bags of groceries in your cart with the one crazy wheel that pulls maddeningly to the left, all the way out through the crowded, bumpy, littery parking lot, and then you have to drive all the way home through slow, heavy, SUV-intensive, rush-hour traffic, et cetera et cetera.

Everyone here has done this, of course. But it hasn’t yet been part of you graduates’ actual life routine, day after week after month after year.

But it will be. And many more dreary, annoying, seemingly meaningless routines besides. But that is not the point. The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don’t make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I’m gonna be pissed and miserable every time I have to shop. Because my natural default setting is the certainty that situations like this are really all about me. About MY hungriness and MY fatigue and MY desire to just get home, and it’s going to seem for all the world like everybody else is just in my way. And who are all these people in my way?"

Followed by some more DFW stuff, and then this gem:

"It just depends what you what to consider. If you’re automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won’t consider possibilities that aren’t annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.

Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that’s capital-T True is that you get to decide how you’re gonna try to see it.

This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn’t. "

And then he ends with:

"It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world day in and day out. Which means yet another grand cliché turns out to be true: your education really IS the job of a lifetime.

And it commences: now. "

Brilliant. Tangent: I also somehow blocked out that DFW wrote most of Infinite Jest when he lived in Syracuse.

By way of contrast, the commencement speaker at my graduation was Robert Fulghum, who gave a totally charming speech, but still, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Night time Edition

SG: Can you stop snoring?
YG: You need to stop moving the blankets around. You're letting the cold air in.
SG: I can't sleep. Because of all the snoring.
YG: I'm not snoring.
SG: You are snoring.

(pause)

YG: Will you please stop bumping into me?
SG: I'm not bumping into you.
YG: Shut up, or I'll stick my big dick in you to shut you up.
SG: Are you going to stick in my ear? Because that would keep the snoring out.
YG: Bitch.

End scene.

Choking Down Some Simple Abundance, Hoping Not to Barf It Back Up

I'm going through a lot of old books, trying to find one that might help me with my get-out-of-high-tech-find-something-else-to-do plan. If you read this, I'm assuming you know me and will reassure me that people do not think ill of me for owning the following titles among many of the same ilk: Learned Optimism, Zen and the Art of Making a Living, What Color Is Your Parachute, The Artist's Way at Work. Really.

This doesn't include the small books, those tiny books like Women Who Do Too Much that I guess you're supposed to carry around in your bag and read when you're having a bad day instead of threatening to stab your cab driver. I have an entire drawer of these, either bought during some apparent time of wanting to turn over a new leaf or given to me by well-meaning friends and back in the day, fellow 12 steppers, that thought I was an angry bitch. I read them sometimes.

Digging through the pile, I found Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy. You just threw up in your mouth. It was given to me by Abby, this seriously cool woman with a great job and charming husband and nice clothes. She had a lot of cats, but there was nothing about her screaming RUN or Howling Wolf t-shirt! She said it was helpful, and I believed her.

My first reaction, upon reading the first few entries, was that it was quite possibly the gayest shit I have ever read. Tea! Flower sachets! Dream journals! OMFG, SLEEPLESS IN SEATLE! I imagined the Delicious Dish ladies sitting around discussing the book and how their "authentic selves" had baked gingerbread cookies and had cocoa on a snowy winter's day. Barf. Plus, the suggestions were so mundane and almost insulting to women -- everything involved cooking or cleaning (discover the real you by reorganizing the spice rack!), setting the angry feminist radar on high alert. There's even a website that greets you with some breathy music chanting, I shit you not, "the gift of love." Not for me.

Or so I thought.

I picked up the book the other night, and after getting through all the new age hippie crap, I found myself almost liking the central premise: that you have everything you need to be happy, you just need to find it. I believe she says, "discover it," but...ew. Maybe it's the baby. Maybe it's the meds. Or maybe I've tried to think of everything that will help me figure out how to change careers, and I've hit such a wall that a glittery dream notebook and a pink pen seem like plausible ways to do this.

So, I'll be reading one of these meditations (even the word makes me cringe) each morning and attempting to follow through, blogging about my..choke...journey to peace and plenty when I can. Humorous, probably. Enlightening, maybe.

You now have my permission to laugh out loud.

Exit Strategies or Quotable Quotes

"Ask not what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive... then go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

Howard Thurman

New Year 2010 Procrastination Stream of Consciousness

I have been dying for some uninterrupted time to do some writing for weeks now, but when it comes to me by way of a sleeping baby and a husband watching the Hitler channel (Military Channel, I believe, for those not into weaponry television), I pretty much do everything in my power to dick around and not get down to it. And then I complain about not having enough time for myself. Yep.

And now the baby is crying so I could conveniently forget about this if I really felt like it. I forgot to give her vitamins today, so I could go and do that. Note: I forget vitamins a lot, but only when the administration of the vitamins will get me out of something do vitamins truly become important. Or I could return to my obsessive compulsive project of cataloging and hanging all of her new clothes in appropriately-labeled bins in the closet. See Exhibit A: Attack of the Aunts and Grandmas.



Or I could get another beer. Or go back to reading my book. But it was reading the book that got me to thinking about projects for 2010 and what to do with my writing Fridays, so I might as well just suck it up.

2009 was momentous for a number of reasons (do I really need to tell you about Zygote? The smartest, coolest kid in the world?), but one of the cooler things was having the opportunity to read the right books at just the right time. I don't really understand people that don't read. I'm sure they have their reasons or their other ways of engaging with the world, but is there anything better than reading something and obsessively underlining because 'OMG, THIS IS SO MY LIFE RIGHT NOW'?"

Anyway...I'm reading this book. I was obsessed with Liar's Club when it came out, and read it twice. I liked Cherry well enough, but I LOVE this one. Because of the earlier books, I obviously knew a little about Mary Karr's life, but I literally dropped the book when I read that she had been toiling away in FUCKING TELECOM before the first books of poem was published. Telecom! I am the only person in high tech who dreams of being a writer. Obviously. Eye roll.

This, of course, got the brain spiral going and I wondered why the fuck I didn't take a class with Mary Karr when I was at Syracuse? Why didn't I take a class with Tobias Wolff? Or Junot Diaz? I read (past and present) pretty much everything these people write, and they were right there -- right within my grasp. Shit, I even served these people at Bruegger's, but I never spoke to them and I didn't dare try to register for a creative writing class. At the time, I'm sure I had legitimate reasons for doing so like a double major and a job and whatever else I was "soooo stressed out" about when you live with your friends and drink on the couch watching 90210 every night. But in retrospect, this seems really stupid. Actually, totally fucking retarded. I'm sure I didn't take those classes because I didn't want to actually TRY writing or get critiqued or face the possibility that the pseudo image that I created for myself (misanthropic writer chick with appropriate hairstyle and glasses to match) was way off base. Dumb.

And now we're 12.5 years from college, and I have been toiling away at this bizarre career, dreaming of my other career, but always putting it off. And now I have the time. I have the husband who thinks this is important and has helped us finagle our finances so that I have one day a week to face the page, and I have a bunch of friends encouraging me and the validation of my recent teachers that I'm pretty good and funny for more than my allotted 15 minutes a day. The only thing getting in my way is me.

So I don't have a lot of resolutions for 2010 other than the usual crap about losing weight and saving money and finding a good red lipstick. But I do want to try and stay out of my own way and out of my own head and see where this writing thing takes me. I don't know how I'll define success, but I'm going to try. Trying to control every facet of my life has obviously not worked out well in all areas, so I will attempt to follow all of these cheesy sayings: go with the flow, let go/let God, blah blah blah.

And please dear god, if 2010 isn't my last year in high tech, please let me have an exit strategy.

Favorite Zygote Stories

I was out to dinner the other night with a bunch of work colleagues, and a lot of the people with children were sharing horror stories about poopy diapers and smeared baby food and middle-of-the-night wake ups. Another sans-child friend said that one of his favorite questions to ask people with kids, since they tend to commiserate on the horror stories, was what their favorite recent kid moments were.

In no particular order:

1. Zygote sleeps through the night now most nights, and she sometimes even skips the 5 a.m. feeding which is nice in some ways, but sad in others. When she does wake up at 5, we bring her into the big bed, feed her, and then let her sleep with us for the rest of the morning. She makes baby noises and holds my hand, and when she wakes up and realizes I'm there, she gives me this big grin as if to say, "Cool. You're here. I am happy that we are hanging out."

2. She's finally gotten into the bath routine. Now that she knows how to splash, she screeches and laughs and swats at the water. Other time, she lounges back on the tub pillow and crosses her feet and signs. Ah, the life.

3. When she nursed when she was little, she would kick and swat around and generally be very wiggly. She still does this to some extent, but at her last feeding of the night, she puts her one arm on my chest and her leg curled around my other arm and calms down. It's like getting a great glass of red wine at the end of a shitty day.

4. She screeches and pants whenever the cat comes into the room. If he's feeling it, he will rub up against her and she laughs like crazy.

5. She likes my renditions of Christmas carols.

6. When she wakes up in the morning and she's not in our bed, I can hear her gooing and gahing and generally keeping herself entertained on the monitor.

7. She loves the MG. She gets the biggest smiles.

Why I'm Not Blogging: Or Things I've Done in The Past Month

In no particular order:

* Bought a new car
* Not driven new car much because registration is hung up somewhere between MA and NJ. Long, boring story.
* Spilled entire bottle of breastmilk on insurance agent's desk while relaying this tale of woe
* Started Zygote at daycare
* Zygote's first cold
* My bad cold
* Dropped Zygote on floor. Twice.
* Allowed Zygote to eat laptop cord. Inadvertently.
* Pumped in weird places. Twice.
* Attended useless meetings. Multiple.
* Christmas shopping.
* Christmas cards.
* Thank you cards. Again.
* Thought about writing. Lots.
* Wrote. None.
* Thanked God for Zoloft. Multiple.
* Wished for lottery ticket. Multiple.

Today Was Hard

Nothing in particular went badly. I just found myself, more than once, thinking, "What the hell am I doing here?" Or "I'm leaving the kid for THIS?" I really don't want to use Zygote as an excuse, but all that job disatisfaction from before has become so much more...pronounced now.

Sometimes I really just wish somebody would tell me what to do. An oracle or something that just appears and says, "I've been thinking about your life, and this is what you need to be."

I try and remember that it is not the job (it's a fine job), and that it's me. And that in the grand scheme of things, I am a happy person with a good life and nice husband, cats, children, family, things, etc.

But when pumping is the best part of my work day, something needs to change.

I have applied for four jobs in the last week. I just want an interview.

File Under: Things That Make Me Feel Old

Every job that I want requires "knowledge of social media." What does that even mean? I use Facebook. Does that make me knowledgeable?

Anyway, I'm attending these social media brownbags in the hopes that I will become a hipster doofus with a job title like "Social Media Expert." We watched this today. Interesting, but made me cringe too.