Just a song before I go

It's an unspoken rule. Weekends are for pancakes and bacon, for the cuddle-tickle-squeal, for the hammer and nails adventures of being a family. It's just the three of us; we hang on tight. We try and turn off the computers, the books, the televisions, the things that put walls between us... We try and turn up the music, and dance. That said, it's late and Corporate Daddy is pulling an all-nighter at work. Bear's asleep. I'm alone, trying to catch a breeze from the window by my computer. I was stewing earlier, but I'm settled now. Is there anyone who still believes that relationships should be easy? That love should be effortless? That somehow, there really is a fairy tale out there? Because, really, we know it's not true. We know that the exquisite moments captured in a Kate Bush song only come along a handful of times. We know that much more familiar is the blood and sweat, the angry swipes at each other's egos, the stubbornness that comes from fear, tiredness, that feeling that your sacrifice was somehow deeper today than theirs. Sometimes it's so damn hard. And sometimes, we give up and love ends, and becomes something that resides in the past and not in that first breath of awakeness every morning. See, I'm a Scorpio, which many people call a lusty sign and I won't deny it. I crave love, and passsion, and loyalty. And I'm also a loner, by nature. Put those together and you got to know that I am hell on wheels in a relationship. I can probably get some testimonials, but what with the therapy and the witness protection programs... well, all right, just take my word on it. There are times that I get so frustrated with living life so intimately, completely entwined with other human beings, and I dip into anger. It's like trying to make my way down the road of life, except now I'm doing it in a 3-legged race. Yeah, I signed up for it. But, to mix a whole hell of a lot of metaphors, every once in a while my brain gets a kung fu chop from my emotions and suddenly rationality isn't behind the wheel any more. There's this song that helps. From a relationship long ago. It had been a passionate partnership, but not happy. We'd been friends of a kind, but we weren't kind to each other. Then, deep in the dark of a long ago night, we ended it. We shared one of his cigarettes, passing it back and forth as we pretended that there would be some better time for us. He tried to soften what was happening with poetry. He quoted the lyrics to an old 80's song. Suddenly I knew. I knew listening to him use words of love that it was lost to us. I began to deeply doubt that we'd ever had it. By the end, we both felt like we were being taken advantage of - which is a neat trick. But it isn't love. And when morning came, he'd made his decision and I had made mine. And for the very first time, we agreed. So now, when my husband and I wrap ourselves in stubborn and stare each other down, I can come in here and turn on that old 80's song. And somehow my heart relents. It earns my husband's bemused look sometimes. I get that it's hard to understand. But that song, the guitar lilting. True, it's no "Sweet Home Alabama" - but it really does make me smile. Because as hard as it gets now - as deep as we need to reach down into ourselves to solve the problems that tumble into our path -I look at my life today and know unequivocally that this is love. Love the noun and love the verb. I am better for being married to him. With him, my dream of family came true. With him, my life is richer and my purpose is anchored. Together with Bear, we go for long walks in the sun. Yeah, all that from a song. Good night, and good weekend.

The best laid plans of mice and Elizabeth

Bear and I were hip for a little "Mommy & Me" time today, so after his nap we hung out in my office and had a good ol' time playing with scissors and binder clips. He sang "No more work Mommy no more work Mommy" you know, until my ears bled. I happily made him pancakes and sausages for dinner and set a place for him in the "little room" (really a big hallway off the kitchen) with Superfriends on the boob tube. Was I bucking for Mommy Goddess OR WHAT?! I'm thinking, we're in a groove, we're having a blast. Daddy's working late and we don't mind because la la la it's Mommy & Me time. Then I come out to hang with my boy on the couch and I start asking questions like "Who's that?" and "Do you really think Wonder Woman's superhero outfit is appropriate for that blizzard she's in?" My sweet, freckled preschooler takes me by the hand and leads me back to my office. He said, so solemnly: Mommy, I need a time out. You stay and do some work. And then he left. And closed the door behind him. Well. So much for Mommy & Me. :sniff: Bear?! Is your time-out done yet? I want to watch TV with you! Five more minutes, Mommy! Do your work!

5 Reasons To....

Remember the Friday Five? It went down in May, and I admit - I've missed it. Not only did it put a nice structure around the week's end but it was a cheery blast floating around looking at everyone's answers. I love me some structure.

(Note: I'm clearly not the most original of women. In fact, I'm downright derivative. So someone else certainly must have come up with this idea first. If you know who, will you PLEASE comment or email me so I can give proper credit and slobber where it is due? Thanks!)

So without further ado - 5 reasons I am am thankful today is Friday.

1) Giddy bloggers at the end of a long week who write posts that make me laugh Diet Coke out my nose. Especially: Jay's son's "Heinie of Doom"; Silly Old Bear's Tie Dyed Poodle, and Helen's tarty conversations ("I think I have the encephalitic lethargia" "Right. No more medical documentaries for you"). And you haven't lived until you've seen a preschooler bouncing around to the TGIF "Peanut Butter Jelly" song from Kalisah's site.

2) My son, loudly singing along with "Send lawyers, guns, and money!" from one of my mixed CD's as we negotiated traffic home, excited that it was "Mommy & Bear" time.

3) Today, Kerry is officially the "Democratic Nominee for President". Hurrah.

4) It's a payday.

Sure, I'm at that grown-up point in life that "payday" no longer has the zing-zang-whoopee feel that it did once upon a time. But Monica (our family bookkeeper) told me we're not as tight as we thought - just in time to hit the farmer's market tomorrow morning! So there's a little sizzle of zing.

5) We're all healthy and have nothing planned for the weekend. That's like the UNICORN of summer weekends. Unstructured, with a great weekend weather forecast! So you know what I'm thinking, right? 2 words: Nude. Motorcycling.

So, what about you?

Things cubby dwellers never have to worry about

Talking on my speakerphone this afternoon: J (My Vendor's Account Executive): Elizabeth, we can certainly have those reports for the meeting tomorrow. If you want the blah blah report, the data will be from Monday unless you want to wake up the guys in the UK to do another data dump for us... A knock sounds at my office door, as it simultaneously opens. Bear leaps to my side, hugging me. Bear: Hi! Hi! Phone! J (Laughing): Hi! Bear: Mommy you have beautiful breasties!!! J: Pardon? Beasties? Are there beasties? Me: Sorry, J - I'm just gonna mute this for a sec and... Bear: NO! Breasties! Where she has baby milk! YUMYUM!

Follow the bouncing brain: The guy on the bicycle, the chicken kiev, and a clock from Aldi's

This morning, I was in the middle of my weekly smackdown from the grumpy VP when my doorbell rang. Luckily, someone else was on the hot seat for a moment so I ran and answered it. It was an older gentleman, his bicycle resting in my driveway. He was looking for Rev, my neighbor. Rev's in Michigan most of the time in the summer, so I couldn't help the guy. Him: I really need to talk to Rev.  He knows a lawyer that can help me. Me: I don't have a number for him. Maybe you could stop by Rev's church - where he used to be the pastor? He still helps out there. So I gave him directions, which he wrote down on the back of one of those dark yellow government envelopes. Then I shut the door. And locked it. An hour later my doorbell rang, again. It was the gentleman, again. He said: I rode my bike up and down that road. There's two churches - one is a Baptist, and the other is United Church of Christ. But you said Lutheran. So I got a phone book. There's no Lutheran church on that street. I ran to the van, where I keep a copy of the phone book (the maps, don't you know - and the coupons). I fumbled the pages, acutely aware that I was dressed in flannel softy pants with a rip in the fanny and a pink izod with insufficient foundation apparel. That I hadn't had a chance to do more than brush my teeth. I realized he was right - I had no idea where or what Rev's church was. That made me feel foolish, on top of feeling uncomfortable and jumpy to get back to my work. But this gentleman in three layers of clothes, complete with a lumberjack shirt, was looking to me to help. I sighed. I said: Rev's son comes by about twice a week. You can leave a note for him, he'll know how to contact his dad. Do you know the son's name? No. But I can get you paper to leave a note. So I fetched him paper, and an envelope. Then I wished him luck and locked the door and went back to my office. A little while later, coming out of the bathroom, I caught sight of the retro Timex alarm clock we bought last week at Aldi's. Corporate Daddy and I love Aldi's. We love a bargain, love knowing we saved money on something we needed. I smiled when I looked at the clock. It's a really cool clock and we got it for about $15.  Then I remembered that we also got boneless, skinless chicken breasts at Aldi's and maybe I should make some Chicken Kiev this week. Chicken Kiev is one of my family's favorite meals. When I was growing up, my mom made it for special occasions. She served it over FarEast rice pilaf, and everyone always loved it. It was a "big deal" meal, for guests. I stood there, in the doorway to our bedroom, looking at that cool clock. Remembering the effort my mom would go through, for people she wouldn't hardly know, on a meal she didn't hardly like. How she made a gentle fuss, the kind that made you feel warm inside. That's who my mom is to everyone she meets - nice. Both she and my dad are the types to treat a waiter at a restaurant the same as they would the owner.  And you know? I once thought I was a little like that.  With horror, I suddenly realized what I hadn't done and who I hadn't been. I  ran to the front door and looked for the guy.  But both he and his bicycle were gone. And I sagged in overwhelming disappointment. With myself.  Oh. Damn.

The Barack Brigade (Or, excuse me, pardon me, I'm just trying to find a seat on the bandwagon)

My mom was with us at Memorial Day when we traveled to a parade in Elmhurst, IL (because we're parade connoisseurs). There was a contingent of Obama supporters (the "Barack Brigade") who were loud and noisy despite Obama's then rival, Ryan, being there in person. My mom leaned over, as Ryan was shaking all our hands (which was kind of a waste, considering  I am the only registered Illinois voter of the bunch) and whispered: Does Obama have a chance? I whispered back: I hope so. I'll be watching the DNC tonight. Although, it my humble opinion, we saw the future last night.   It's that fundamental belief — I am my brother's keeper, I am my sister's keeper — that makes this country work. It's what allows us to pursue our individual dreams, yet still come together as a single American family. "E pluribus unum." Out of many, one. :sniff: For the last 6 months, this man has been wearing his heart on his sleeve and shining the beacon of his intellect on every gathering that would have him. Run-down Elk Halls with 25 senior citizens? He was there. Children's Museum with 100 kids running around? Yep, there too.  It was a savvy approach, and all the more successful because this guy really believes what he's saying and may just have the energy and intelligence to do something about it. This is what has inspired so many of us Illinoisians to pull for him so hard. Last night, he showed the polish all the past 6 months has brought him: our man was flawless. Completely sincere. Believeable. And the speech! (I don't CARE who wrote it, so don't start with my flag-waving self, OK?).... Fuggedaboutit.

Wow, really? 

Instant Gratification, a lunchtime post

Dream Mistress asked (in a COMMENT! Gimme a Wooo and a Hooo, people!) how I even found a job like the one at Mega corp. She probably meant it as a throwaway comment, bless her cool soul, but I'm all about the slobbering love and the instant gratification and the positive reinforcement. So here it is, in 10 easy steps: 1) Finish High School. Notice I didn't say "Graduate". Graduation is the frosting. If you can reach that peak, power to you. I didn't. My husband didn't. In my case, my high school stamped my transcripts "graduated" at the end of summer school after my senior year because my parents threatened to sue them if they weren't allowed to ship me off to college immediately. 2) Go to a University. In my case, in Washington D.C.. I partied a lot, dated some Hoyas, got a lead in a play, got into all kinds of pain and trouble, spent hours flirting in our shared bathroom with my punk lesbian suitemate, and lingered over Mimosas during brunches at Clydes. Wait, study? Did I mention study? No? Well then... 3) Go to a Community College. Have a really bad couple of years. Move out on your own. Start wearing azure eyeliner. Wreck the car by running over some traffic cones and never pulling them out of the engine block. 4) Finish Community College. Notice that I, again, don't say "graduate". Heh. 5) Get married to a guy who makes you drool. Pay no attention to his long-term goals. Or your own. That will get hashed out in the divorce. 6) Teach. This is important. Teaching is a way to never stop learning. To connect with the planet. To create bonds of knowledge and history. Teach something, even if it is the growth cycle of a moth to an inquisitive preschooler. Oh. crap. My soapbox just broke... but wait! You get the idea, right? 7) Go back to College. Learning is important. See above. 8) Suck up your courage. Go back to University. I chose Loyola, in Chicago. I have a thing for Jesuits. But that's another story. 9) Finish University. Still avoiding the "G" word. If graduation will signal you that it's time to walk away from all-nighters and move into the grown-up world of whatever comes next - cool beans. My signal came another way. 10) Temp. That's right, temp. I did it off and on for about 10 years. You'd be amazed at how much coaching you get as a temp, and how much you see about the companies you work at. Eventually you learn how to look adoptable, and when to turn that on. When I liked a company and wanted them to think long-term about me, I made myself indispensable. I pretended I was already an employee. No not in a scary, stalker way. In a good way - like dressing like the rest of the team and like paying attention the company's stock and not watching the clock or using "I'm a temp" as an excuse for not knowing where the men's bathroom was. OK. Maybe a little stalkerish. But just a little. 'K? Over time, I had several job offers. When the right one came along, I took it. Yes,  with Mega. I had kissed A LOT of corporate frogs, so I had a pretty good internal barometer for crappy jobs. Oh, who am I kidding? I temped all the crappy jobs, so I knew from crappy. Mega smelled pretty good. It was time. And luckily for me, it's worked out. So far.  

People, I just can't work under these conditions

Bear had malaise today. He's three freaking years old, he gets malaise. No, not sick. Just bored with summer. He misses the evil YMCA program. He's addicted to Digimon. It's a lot for a little boy to handle. He spent the late morning sitting on the couch, cuddled by Niñera, his babysitter. (And for the multilingual, yes, I just pseudonymed my Spanish babysitter with the Spanish word FOR babysitter. Clever, ain't I?) Nin was feeding Bear. Poor dear was too malaised to actually spoon his own Cheerios into his little rosebud mouth. The same Bear who, as a baby, was known affectionately as the "Velociraptor" now can hardly eat for his own pickiness. It's a toddler thing, and I feel for him there. But the "Woe is Me" thing got old FAST. Determined to kick us all back into gear, I swooped him up after Nin left and took him to the playground by his Montessori school. Sure enough, there were some kids he knew, and he immediately perked up. We raced around for an hour, and dagnabbit it felt good. His gusty laugh melted my ears with happy. Whole Foods has a sale on raspberries, so I bought a pint and we came home. I made a dinner that would have us all gathered around the table, animatedly sharing and bonding like real families. On a weeknight. You know, like the ones in the movies. Menu: Grilled Chicken and Sausage kabobs, marinated in rum, crushed raspberries, olive oil, paprika Tomato salad with raspberry vinaigrette White rice mixed with veggies sauteed with Chinese herbs and red wine We gathered. We said Thanks. We dug in. Bite. Chew. "OK," announced Bear. "I'm done now. May I be excused?"

I'm a Muck

The reality is - I'm a comment slut who's living on the thin. You'd think I'd be getting some with these fishnets and the little red garters and all that love I spread around like Johnny Appleseed... But, hey, I've decided to revel in my feedback any way I can get it. My new slogan is "Emails ROCK!" Thanks for taking the time. Please, let me slobber on you. Therefore I shall respond to the lovely, lovely questions:  1) Yes, Mega Corp is indeed a pseudonym for a Fortune top 250 corporation.  I don't actually work for a company called "Mega" - although, how cool would that be? 2) No, my company is not all virtual. It really depends on what job you are doing. 3) I am a program manager (Stop yawning, it's not polite).  4) No, I was not hired as a "virtual employee". When I started with Mega, I had to be on site everyday in business dress. Yes, honey, I'm talking blouse, slacks, pumps, and foundation garments: pantyhose, 18-hour bra and, occasionally, underwear. I'm talking earrings and blow-dried hair and reapplied lipstick. By the time I was promoted into the chewy center of Mega Corp, I was well-set in my home office. Yes, I travel when needed. I probably go on-site once a month. My team is built specifically for each program I have, which generally runs about a year. My staff are all over the world, with teams of their own.  We stay in contact by instant messenger, email, phone, and lots of teleconferences. Mega is pretty fluid, being project based. Org charts change monthly. It takes a while for people to figure out the corporate Darwinian dogpile.   My biggest assets most days are a sense of humor and flexibility. Since I work mostly upward facing (oh your mind, the place it goes... wheee), I lose track of the rest of my division pretty easily. Like today, I got an email that had me perplexed. I didn't recognize the sender's name, Sally, so I gave her a call: "What is this about?" "You need you to blah blah blah for me, by August first," Sally informed  me. "I do?" I asked. "I think you have the wrong person. Why don't you check into it?" A few hours later I got a call from Sally. "Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I was confused. It was for a different Elizabeth," she said. "All's well," I replied, preparing to hang up. "Um, I just wanted to say. I didn't realized it before. But I work for you. Well, my boss does. So, sorry for bothering you." "Oh," I laughed. I had no idea who this woman was, but that happens. "No worries." At the same moment I was hanging up, I got an instant message from her boss, Marie. MegaMarie: Don't worry, I have her studying an Org Chart so she'll know who the muckety mucks are in the future   Me: Probably a good idea. And I think I'm just a muck, actually.   For the rest of the afternoon I had this song in my head, to the tune of Officer Krupke from West Side Story: I'm a muck, I'm a muck, Almost a muckety-muck, Like inside, I'm a Mega Muck! Heh. 5) Yes, sometimes Mega IS hiring but probably not people who are "looking for a job (they) can do nekkid".  Good luck, though.  Well, I hope that answers your questions.  You know where I'll be if you have any more. Yep, at your back door with a smile on. Don't be shy, now...

In which Bear smokes the Firefighter

It occurs to me that I haven't spent much time on the "corporate" or the "mommy" part of my life recently, so let me address that grievous situation. Recently my  kidlet, Bear, evidenced his deep and innate understanding of the Socratic method. He proved his skills by downing a 250lb firefighter in a single conversation. It was a proud moment. A couple of weekends ago, Bear and I went to a festival held in a local park. It looked interesting. There was an event where rubber ducks were pushed down a creek via a FIRE HOSE. No, I am not making this up. The firefighters took aim from the center of a bridge and let 'er rip on the whistle. Ducks found themselves jet-propelled to the end of the creek. Yeah, I've got no clue on the point of this, other than the obvious phallic nature of the fire hose. (Oh, is that just me? Sorry.) It also provided full seconds of joy to dozens of children. Afterwards, my Bear raced over to help the firefighters stomp the water out of the hose and roll it up. B: Why are we doing this? FF: To get the water out. B: Why? FF: So we can roll it in a coil and carry it back to the truck B: Where's the truck? FF: Over there, see? That's my captain right beside it B: What's your captain do? FF: He gives the orders B: Like Commander Waters and the Rescue Heroes? FF: Yes. We have a Commander, too B: Why aren't you wearing your hat? FF: Because there's no fire. We wear those when there is a fire B: Did you lose your hat? FF: No. It's in the truck B: Are you sure? FF: Yes. B: Do you want me to go check? FF: No. B: I could go check. I'm going to be a police officer. FF: That's great. B: What do you want to be? FF: I AM a fire fighter. B: You could be a police officer if you go to school. FF: I already went to school. Hey, kid, where's your mom? B: Right there. Where's yours? Final Score: Bear 1, Firefighter 0.

Dear Blogger, You're giving me the spins

Dear Blogger, There is something wrong. I do not know if it is just with the Douglas Bowman series of blog templates or if it is all templates that have a right-hand sidebar. What I DO know is that my sidebar has been missing all morning. I want it back. I have given my poor readers the spins trying to restore my sidebar. Here is what I have discovered in my revolving door of templates: my sidebar is not missing if I use that dotty template that makes my eyes hurt. It is also not missing if I use the Digimon template that my 3 year-old thinks is way cool. I, however, am not 3. I do not like Digimon. I do not like Digimon with spots. I do not like spots without Digimon. I like BLUE, sam-I-am. I like blue and I like my blogroll and I like my comfortably built reclining sidebar, complete with all my words and links that I carefully spell-checked and tested and everything. Give IT BACK NOW. Please. Thank you, Corporate Mommy postscript: Well, turns out there may have been some wonky code in one of my posts. Well. How about that. *whistle* Umm, ok. Sorry Blogger. Thanks, smart readers. *cough*

Get up, Grrl

Warning: if you know me in real life please ask yourself if you really want to read this. This is a "Too Much Information" day at Corporate Mommy. Less brutal and still fresh: A cool shot of Sears Tower and another of Wacker drive and a little bit about Sunday . ******************************************

This week, Getupgrrl at Chez Miscarriage discovered that maybe being pregnant and giving birth is not the way she will become a mother. And my heart, like so many others, aches for her. Hundreds of people from around the world, who have been touched by her abundance of faith and humor as she has written about her journey to parenthood have reached out to her. In sympathy, compassion, and love. Funny to think of it. Hundreds of people. Hundreds. Posting words of encouragement and sadness, spurred by love. How do you love someone you have never met? Ask any parent. It is simple. To slip into love with the idea of someone. And then have it be overwhelmingly confirmed from the first shared breath. Getupgrrl, her self-given moniker. It gives you an idea of how she faces life. She's got grit, as my grandmother would say. Moxie. Getupgrrl, I believe that motherhood comes to every mother. Maybe not when or how we would always wish. But that's my belief, and what comfort is it to you? Does it help to know there are others? Others that have shared their stories because you shared yours? Others who gave up and then had miracles bloom in their lives? When I gave up, I was alone.  Until that day, I thought I would be a mother the moment I decided I was ready. Heh. I was a total dumbass. Back then, I counted on my talent for getting pregnant. Hadn't yet sunk in that I didn't have one for staying that way. The spring I was 27, I had a miscarriage. Not my first. Not my last. Definitely the worst. Actually, there were three of us, friends, pregnant at the same time. 2 of us miscarried. I sat alone at the doctor's office, after. The nurse came in and tried to be kind. She said, "Almost all miscarriages, the fetus wasn't viable" and she said, "there was nothing you could have done." And I nodded. The doctor came in and I asked her, "Was it because, when I was younger, I..." and she said, "No." and I said, "... but I don't think you understand. I did horrible things, I was a horrible woman. I don't deserve...." and she said "No. No, this wasn't your fault." And I nodded, and I tried not to cry as I walked back to my flat. And I didn't believe her.  I sat for days, staring at the walls. I bled for days, and felt somehow that it would never end. God was gone, and I didn't want the Church's platitudes. I was alone, in many ways. I was alone. I listened on the phone to the one friend who'd stayed pregnant. It was so hard on her. She was so sick. Everyone was worried. I hated myself for writhing inside, for screaming in my head. How I wanted her hard road for my own. I didn't speak to my other friend. At all. We didn't have anything to say to each other. We stayed wrapped in our privacy. I paid scant attention to the city around me, the people suffering much worse than I could know. There were cruel realities all over the world, but I didn't see them. I had a well of violence against nice people who told me their nice words.  They didn't understand. I felt like I'd invented pain. I was in a selfish, bitter cave. Badly decorated with images of how things were supposed to be. If you doubt it, let me reassure you. 5 minutes of impending parenthood is more than enough time to see, in your mind's eye, an entire lifetime. It is enough time to build hopes and spin fantasies. And to pin your entire heart to them. Enough people pushed, so I went back to the doctor. I was a ghost of the woman from the week before. I was lightheaded and soul-crushed. The doctor looked me over, her forehead wrinkled in concern. "You're not eating like I told you. You're not drinking enough fluids. You're not taking the vitamins." She stroked my arm. I was cold in that cotton gown. My socks were dirty. Her kindness broke me. I began to cry in great snotty wails. I heaved, like I was going to vomit. "What is it?" the doctor asked. "I want my baby back," I screamed. "Please...." I begged. She let me spill it out, waves of it, anger and mourning and self loathing and fear and longing, yes - desperate longing.  Panting for air and sick. Then the doctor squared my shoulders to her and looked me dead in the eyes. "Listen to me," she commanded. "You will be a mother. Do you hear me? Not today, and maybe not this way. But you will be a mother. This is not the end." And then I was able to breathe again. Eventually, I packed myself up and went for a long walk. Across a continent. Or two. I forgave myself. I forgave God.  Eventually, I came home. And years later, my motherhood beget a child. But if you'd have told me what was ahead the spring that I was 27, I wouldn't have believed you. The hurt went bone deep. It needed the healing.  God speed, Getupgrrl.

It's beautiful day...

I've been trying to get this picture for 20 years. Sears Tower, looking straight up from Wacker drive on our way back from the beach. And how did I fianlly do it? I just rested the camera on the dashboard and pressed the button as we drove past (and no, I wasn't driving.)   Copyright: Elizabeth (07/25/2004) Have I mentioned that we live in the Chicago area? We do. I moved into the city to go back to school about 15 years ago (Loyola, if you're wondering. Ad Majorem, baby!) I stayed in the city, eventually stumbling onto and loving an area called Roscoe Village. I lived in the same apartment building for about 7 years. Then Bear came along, and well... yeah. We sold out. But on a beautiful day like today, the car naturally took us into the city (a very short drive). Found some street parking, got a cup of joe from an independent coffee house (remember those?). Then we hit a park on the beach, frolicked in the water and helped Bear enjoy the slides at the playground. We finished with lunch at a cafe by the "El" train.  Bear began drooping by then, so we headed home. Why did we leave the city? This I asked my husband, stretching out in the car. 10 seconds later we slammed into bumper to bumper standstill traffic.  All he did was turn to me and raise an eyebrow. Oh, I hate it when he's smug. LIke a cabbie with a big tip on the line, he turned into the city's business section - which was, of course, deserted. My brilliant husband. Hard to believe he grew up in a place where a herd of horses crossing the road was considered a traffic jam.   Copyright: Elizabeth (07/25/2004) So, this is Wacker Drive. A split road that stretches on two levels like a snake through downtown. This level has cool reflections of the sun from all the glass highrise buildings. The lower level has the distinction of a starring role in a Blues Brothers movie. On a weekday, both levels are complete mayhem - cars, cabs, pedestrians. On a Sunday? It's a flipping ghost town. We were able to cross its full length from one end to its terminus near Sears Tower in about 3 minutes. Even with some red lights. That's like a landspeed record. Also? A little spooky.

Get off that damn computer

My husband just said: Get off that damn computer! Well, actually that's what he meant. The conversation goes something more like this: He says: It's a 11:15 a.m. and a beautiful day, we should be outside. I say: We were just outside yesterday. We camped out. We toasted marshmallows. We worked on the pergola. And we need to get back out there. Have some fun with the Bear. Outside? YES. Away from the inside? YES. Away from the computer? YES! ... o.k.

Wind beneath my wings (cough, snort, grin)

Husband and son  - I could just gobble them up (05/2004)

Here's my husband's recipe for alleviating moron-induced head banging:   1. Call wife 2. Tell her how smart she is and how the rest of the world is just lucky to share her air 3. Whisper a few sweet nothings, maybe congratulating his own fine self on any and all recent prowess 4. Causing wife to blush and laugh and be glad she's alone 5. Remind wife that Bourne Identity will be out in 48 hours 6. Pretend there is ready babysitting available (lie to me baby) 7. Remind wife that it just doesn't matter, in a bad Bill Murray impression 8. Remind wife that, really, it just doesn't matter. We're all OK. The rest is fluffernutter in the sandwich of life 9. Repeat as necessary So far this month this approach has alleviated:  - Guilt over leaving Bear, our kidlet, with the YMCA morons  - Anger at the expense process and HR Morons at Mega Corp  - Frustration with employees (who are also, on occasion, morons)  - Meltdown when I discovered my "Merit Increase" which amounted to.... yes, here it is, $17/week  - Hysteria. The multi-colored hair incident  - Wimpering blubberiness during the drive to meet Grumpy for the first time, after I accidentally shaved off half of one of my eyebrows  - Sadness  - Withdrawal from Dawson's Creek. (Yes, Dawson's Creek. Like you didn't.)  - Insanity induced from the crazy childcare/work juggling act  - Sore boobs from practicing golf  - Anxiety over launching a new blog

Morons. I'm surrounded by Morons (and a post script to the YMCA disaster)

1. Morons at work. My favorite flavor. Underling Project Manager: Elizabeth, I have a really big problem that needs your attention Me: (Lost in fantasy of Corporate Daddy and myself on a deserted island, with no kids, no clothes, and ...) Hmm? Snerkle-who? PM: Please help me. I have a really big problem. I have a major deployment this weekend and my equipment procurement was DENIED. Me: Was the equipment in your approved budget? PM: Uhhhhhh, I think so Me: Did you find the cheapest price among at least 3 quotes? PM: Uhhhhh, I think so Me: Did you call the approver and make sure they knew to approve the request and why? PM: I'm supposed to do that? Me: When is your Go/No Go meeting? Do you have time for a workaround? PM: Guh? and then.... 2. Morons at the YMCA, who walk the edge of justified homicide: Peppy: Hi, Elizabeth? This is Peppy Deputy? I'm calling to follow up on your complaint? Me: Are you sure? Peppy: Uh, huh. Well, I just want you to know that we looked into it and we're going to be following up.  Peppy: Our schedules show that we will have and did have enough personnel to comply with all state and insurance regulations.   Peppy: I don't want to get into a He Said-She Said here, so I just wanted to thank you, as a parent myself, for giving us the opportunity to take a long look at our program and think of ways we can make it even better. Me: (In an outraged voice) He Said-She Said? Peppy: You know, there are always two sides to every story and we want to be fair. Me: What is the defense? That there were magical invisible counselors in that room? Peppy: It's possible you just missed the other 2 counselors, but they were in compliance. Me: MISSED THEM? IN A LOCKED RACQUETBALL COURT?  Are you trying to say that we can't look at a group of people in a tiny white space and properly count the big ones? Or are you saying that neither me nor Ms. Official with the State, can't count past "1"? Me: Lady, ask yourself - why the hell did I go through all the bother of pulling my kid out and paying an outrageous hourly babysitter? Peppy: Uh? Me:  Shit. This is like talking to a wall. Did you know that Budha once sat in front of a wall and was enlightened? I guess that's too much to hope for here. So, look. My kid is not coming back, and you're going to refund my money. Other than that, I have no control. Me: I just... please think. What could happen, because that counselor has no back up. What if those kids get hurt or GodForbid harmed? I have told you that you have too many little kids tucked away in a soundproof room that they can't get out of, with insufficient supervision. It's the best I can do. What happens next is on you and your conscience. Peppy: Ummmmm, well. So have we addressed all your concerns today? Is there anything else we can do to improve your experience of the YMCA?  3. Morons at the Human Resources, who take it to a new level:   Me: Hi, I was transferred to you by the other lady. She couldn't find the answer to my question. HR: Well I am definitely here to help Me: Great. Here's the question: are my husband's eyeglasses refunded as part of my cafeteria plan? HR: Cafeteria plan? Me: The money you have of mine, pre-tax? HR: Pre-tax? Me: Yes, the money I have withheld from each paycheck for child care or medical expenses? HR: Like health insurance? Me: Uh, is this Human Resources? HR: Yes. Yes. This is Human Resources! Me: For Mega Corp? HR: Yes, indeed! Mega Corp! Me: OK, well I am employee  987654321. I need to know if my husband's new glasses fall under the accepted definition of medical expense for a refund from my cafeteria plan. I submitted the paper work and haven't heard anything HR: Cafeteria? This is not a food plan? Me: OK put me on with your manager HR: No that is not possible Me: And why not? HR: My manager is asleep Me: Uh? Gru? Wha? HR: You must call back Me: I - Click .......Dial Tone

I hate our new mortgage company

They sold our mortgage in January.   Bastards.   To some piddling company that calls us CONSTANTLY. We got screwed when we refinanced (cuz we are clearly too stupid to be handling our own finances) and we got screwed again when they sold our mortgage.   The new company will call us every 30 minutes on the 11th day of the month. Their late fees are twice what the old company's were. They start charging late fees on the 11th even though our old due date was the 10th. Their fees have fees. They have a line item in the bill for "Misc. or Fees" that you have to CALL them to get them to explain.   I'm pretty sure they are a storefront next to a nudie bar in Cincinnati.  They don't or won't change the amount of our escrow payment to accommodate the Homeowner's Exemption. They send us a monthly bill instead of a coupon book. The bill is ALWAYS WRONG. They do not take online payments.   If they get the check after 2PM, they don't "credit it to your account" until the next business day. No, wait... they don't credit it to your account until the next business day after the check CLEARS.   Even if it is a bank check.   They did not tell me any of this. They did not send me a plain language explanation. They sent me a tiny wallet-sized booklet in 4 point type. I've learned it the hard way over $700 in charges. Most of which I am appealing.    And let me remind you, their fees have fees.   They made our new bookkeeper cry.   They SUCK ROCKS AND PROBABLY PEBBLES TOO. (Insert dirty comment here. I know you want to.)   I hate hate hate hate hate our mortgage company. I am counting down the days until next spring, when we will be refinancing again in order to complete the rehab.    Until then, no one sell me a gun. Cuz some people just need shooting.

The week from hell, part 2

I think I'm ready to talk about it. The week from hell, part 2:   Until last week, my summer childcare consisted of a very flexible work schedule and a preschool day camp at the YMCA, overlapped with the services of the babysitter we've used to varying degrees since Bear (my kidlet) was 8 months old.    So last Tuesday, Dee came over at lunch on a whim. Bear was at the camp, and she was looking to cheer me up because the day before we found out we weren't having another baby.   Dee and I headed to the mall - got manicures and strolled around. Something I haven't done in... ack, I can't remember. Not this year.    We were heading home, feeling good, Dee asked if we could stop in and see Bear at his camp and say"Hi". She hadn't seen him in, like, a week. So we dropped in at the "Y" unannounced at about 1PM.   The preschooler camp room is at the front of "Y", attached to a little playground. We could see it was empty before we got there.   The "Preschool Camp Director" was sitting alone, in front of her computer. She didn't hear us approach and jumped when I called her name.   "Hey, PCD, where's my son?" I asked.   She told us that it was too hot for the kids to play outside so she'd sent them to let out some steam in the racquetball courts.   So Dee and I headed off to the racquetball courts at the back of the building. PCD quickly caught up with us, telling us that it was nice and cool in there yada yada yada.   We got to the racquetball court and peeked in the little window.   The kids were not moving. They were quietly seated in little clusters in the corners. In the center of the room, a teenaged boy was instructing one of the kids how to use a little toy basketball hoop. Dee and I scanned the room. The were no adults.   We watched for about 1 minute, watched my son yawn three times. The teenaged "camp counselor" kept playing with the one kid. The other 21 kids, including Bear, sat. Drooped.  Sitting against the walls. Not allowed to talk with each other. With - did Imention this? - no ADULT in the soundproof, locked, racquetball court.   If ever there was a moment when I felt like all my standards as a parent had been failed, it was that one. Fury whipped in me like a sudden storm.   "Are you taking him home?" PCD asked me.   "YES" Dee and I answered in unison.   Dee happens to love children as an active career; she is an advocate, witness and counselor to the children in the State's care. She's the one who instinctively counted the adult:child ratio. When Bear saw us through the window, he came running. The teenager let him out of the room and Dee picked him up  and we left.   I know what we saw wasn't torture. I'm not trying to make too much out of what was, legally,  just a lapse in childcare standards and the care ratio. Sure, it was a bad situation that could have been a disaster in one easy motion. But mostly I'm just  pissed with myself - my gut told me long ago that Bear wasn't getting good care there and I didn't do anything.      Bear was just relieved to be having fun with Dee back at home. Meanwhile, I called and eventually had a meeting with the executive director of the Y. My concern was those other kids who were also locked up in a racquetball court with a 200lb teenager. What other operational lapses are occuring and what's being done to fix them and address the risks?   I forgot to mention it, but I'm probably also gonna want a refund.   Come to think of it, that's probably why PCD called me to "sort this out" and beg Bear to return (oh yes, yes she did).   When hell freezes over, PCD. Bear has left the building and he's not coming back. You're just lucky that I know it's me that's more to blame.  You're just lucky that I KNOW I'm an overly sensitive mother. Trust me when I advised you to take your medicine quietly and be grateful I'm busy with the self-recrimination.    Because, in your own small careless unthinking way,  you fucked with my kid. And there is no measure to the level of fury I can unleash if I dwell on that.   *ahem*   So, anyway, that's why I suddenly don't have enough child care.

The writer regrets...

You're not imagining things. I did something that I haven't done in years.... I redacted 3 blog entries. There were morose, maudlin, sentimental and even sad. But they didn't talk about why. I don't think I can do that, yet. Although there is a lot of it in Moons, Junes and ferris wheels. The only truly honest thoughts I have right now are these: 1) Thank God for summer interludes with friends who knew me when. Ones who share memories of the big moments and little ones and ask us to stay for dinner and play along when my son makes a train out of their lawn furniture 2) Marshmellows, in the microwave, explode   My friend's sunflower garden, taken before dinner last night (07/18/2004) .

Hello, Psychic Friends Network? I need a refund...

Well, you would of thought today would have sucked rocks but it turns out that the afternoon was actually the stuff of summer memories.   Bear, my kidlet, and I shucked the husband and teenaged house guest for a petting zoo set up as part of a fair at the local park. We saw baby sheep (aww) and baby goats (aww) and baby horsies (aww) and baby alligators (wtf?).  Yeah, turns out they let a freak plan the petting zoo.   No, bear, you can't pet the alligator. Bear, don't get so close.  It's a muzzle, it isn't hurting him. You can ask, but they aren't going to take it off. Because I said so. Get back here, OK?  Want to go see the duckies? Pretty duckies...   We met firefighters, police officers, and saw a miniature train that they had set up around a tree. Kidlet had a spiderman ice cream treat and then he played in the park with our neighbor boys. There was even a really cool breeze.   I turned to my neighbor and said "can you believe what a beautiful day it is?" and she squinted and looked at me and said "yeah, everything is gorgeous in this light. Hey, your hair looks good, too."   Did I mention that this is the neighbor whose salon turned my hair purple? OK, yeah. But all is forgiven because she gave me back my money and my hair is blonde again and our kids like each other. Even though her kid is a non-sharing whiner but you didn't hear that from me.   So we were feeling pretty good when it got time for bed tonight, me and bear. After dinner I had dug out some cups and funnels and water and let him have at it - pouring and measuring his little heart out while we watched some of his favorite anime. By 9PM, he was sleepily wiping up.   We were talking about nicknames, and about a friend of his calls his mommy "honey". I said - did you want to call me something different or do you want to call me mommy?   I want to call you mommy because you're my mommy, silly. And I'm your baby bear. Thank you for making water for me mommy.   You're welcome, bear.   Mommy? Did you like the zoo?   I liked the zoo. Did you like the zoo?   I liked the zoo and I liked the alligator. But you were scared.   I was anxious. That's different. I need to know that you are safe. I need to protect you from things, like alligators. It's my job.   Because you're my mommy.   Yes, because I'm your mommy. It's my absolutely favorite thing.   Me too.   And I thought today would be no sunshine. Bah.

Quit my bitching

The laundry list of thorns in my attitude paw:   1) It is currently cooler outside than it is inside. This is perverse to all natural laws of summer. How the HELL can this be? I am sweltering. Even with an air-conditioner and $4000 worth of new windows as well as several fans including one so powerful it will blow the enamel off your teeth. But I just stuck my face close to a window and ooooohhh, wow. That's nice. Why is all that good stuff OUTSIDE and not in my house?   2) Kidlet has a small rash at the tip of his yaknow. "Mr. WeeWee" as it is known around these parts. Poor guy.   3) Kidlet's rash means that every so often, I have to digimon myself into a creature with 8 arms that can hold his thrashing body still while I wash and then put neosporin his yaknow. While he screams in an octave that shatters glass and makes cats lose their fur.   4) Furthermore, kidlet's rash meant no Pull-up last night. Which meant wet bed this morning.   5) We have a teenaged houseguest.  I have not been grocery shopping this week. We are out of all fluids except water and we're closing in on acceptable snack foods. Bad hostess. I am a very bad hostess.   6) We promised houseguest a day on the town, and we haven't delivered because   7) Husband misunderstood his work schedule   8) and got drunk last night with the folks after work and   8) Didn't get in until 4AM even though   9) He'd told me around 11PM that he'd be home in an hour so   10) We planned the day around thinking that we'd all be rested and able-bodied. He's groaning in bed at 2:30 in the afternoon looking for tea and sympathy (which, as you can see, we need to pick up at the store cuz we are ALL out)   So we got a kid with an owie on Mr. WeeWee, a hungry bored teenaged houseguest who, while as sweet and incredible as a teenager (or most adults, for that matter) can be - doesn't know me from Adam, an exhausted wife, and an incapacitated husband.    It's a recipe for joy and rainbows. Trust me.

Shhhh, be very very quiet....

Despite not having any childcare this morning, and working until 2AM on the presentation, I managed to pull off a really big meeting. Grumpy... complimented me. Shhhh. Just sit with me a moment. Feel the glow. Ahhhhhhhh

Actually, I suck at this

My whole life, I've been writing. Usually badly. I wrote my first story at 9 years old. It was illustrated and bound with the finest staples in all the land. It was called "The 4 W's" about 4 friends all with - yes, you guessed it - "W" names. It was a mystery. (Curious? The 4th "W" was the guilty one.) I write because I have to, because the words will echo over and over again in my mind until I let them out. I started young - the oldest journal I have is from 1979. The pages are now dotted with black mold. So not only were my words poorly organized, they've now become toxic. From 1979, realizing that I was no longer as close to the people I'd known when I was little: It feels like After all we've shared We aren't friends I was so outwardly shallow, boy-crazy, and hyper that when real stuff would happen I couldn't actually get a sympathetic ear to help me sort things out. Journals were my thought trampolines. From 1982, after Danny (a boy I liked) died: Sometimes he'd hold my hand, Sometimes he'd buy me lunch, just sit and eat with me even though I was sitting with other freshmen that he probably thought were juvenile Sometimes I would go down to Lower Field and watch him play and he'd wave to me as he ran by Relinquishing my childhood was like 15 years spent in the 5 stages of grief. I journalled using prose, poetry, movie quotes or song lyrics that resonated. It was so often frustrating trying to find a voice - mine or anyone else's - that could really speak my heart. From 1986, when I was first in my group to live "on my own": What about, they ask, the parties? the all-nighters? Doing what you want, when you want? Sure, we have them We order in a pizza and we play trivial pursuit From 1987, after finally closing the door on a bad relationship (assume the cringing position before reading this one): The empty spot beside me is no longer a burden but a freedom no longer alive for you but rather, for myself Wow, I read that and I'm pretty sure that I actually suck as a writer. It's probably best that I've destroyed so many of those old journals over the years. They weren't time capsules. I was just exhaling in words the crowded thoughts in my head. You'd think that practice would make perfect but in my case it only makes prolific. Ah, if wishes were fishes I'd be an author. But I'll take writer, and plug on.

When life gives you 500 dead pigs, make piggy banks...

I'm not above the gatituitous go-here-see-something post. See? I'm NOT. The question of the day: Is it still called beastiality if it's cross-species or does a human have to be involved?

Town kills 500 pigs for mating with dogs

(Thanks,"Exploding Cigar")

Sometimes free is not so good

 
I give my babysitter rides to and from my house. She's a 30 year-old Mexican woman who doesn't drive. She'd take a bus, if I wanted. But it's no big deal for me to chauffeur her around. I say bring it on. Tell me how to pander and I will pander like no one has pandered before. My brain is so freaking linear. Kidlet = most important responsibility and blessing life. Therefore those who tend to kidlet = insanely wonderous humans. If they are doing it for money, then they will do it for AMPLE money, honey. They will find their favorite drinks in my fridge and the air conditioning on "High". I treat people the way I would have them treat my child. So today was babysitter day on the roulette wheel that is my summer childcare schedule. We're driving home and kidlet, upon seeing the Dunkin Donuts near our house says "Mommy! I NEED a chocolate donut!" So I slow down, thinking about (after correcting his manners) getting him one because this is the first time he has called it a "donut" and not a "chocolate bagel" and I think that kind of higher thought process ought to be rewarded. But I'm undecided until I ask babysitter if she wants one, too and she quietly says she does. Smoothly executed a 90 degree turn across 2 lanes of traffic and into the drive-thru and made my order - food for them, decaf iced frappy thing for me. I'm not going to say I hit this DD a lot but they did greet me by name at the window. Then the guy starts handing over bags and trays - too much stuff but he only charged me for the original order. Sometimes he does do that. I've long suspected the guy in the window wants to marry me. Get home and realize that they added my regular order (decaf regular coffee, lo-fat muffin) to what I bought. Heh. Score. A couple of hours after that, I realize that the coffees? Not so much with the decaf. Boing. Boing. Boing. Babysitter looked me over as I was washing the same dishes over and over and said... "Next time, no more coffee. Maybe just juice for you." "It was free," I admit. "Oh. Sometimes free is not so good," She said. Yeah. Like I said. Only better.

Moons and Junes and ferris wheels

I was dreaming about you in 1988. That's when you started to become real, when I knew in my heart that I would see you soon. You'd be the first of many; a loud, chaotic, affectionate bunch that I was in training to manage. Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians were singing "What I Am" on the radio as I made vanilla potpourri or some other homey craft and fantasized about non-alliterative family-friendly furniture that wasn't criminally ugly. I was dreaming about you in 1991. The cats and I moved into Chicago so I could go back to college. That summer, I was cleaning homes for cash and living in an empty, gusty apartment. I would sit on the fire escape with my dinner and watch the alley in the twilight. I would sleep under the window: the bedroom always smelled like peaches and there was a little breeze. I had to get used to the occasional wail of sirens as I laid quietly, rubbing my belly and feeling you slipping farther away from being real. I stopped dreaming about you in 1993. Curled up in a bunk, clutching a plane ticket, and mourning. You already know that I don't cry pretty. My eyes turn red, my nose runs, and my face creases. Oh, honey. It was like I couldn't wash that sweaty sad hospital scent off me. No one could help and it was such aloneness. Alone, as it slipped away. And then, I slipped away, too. It was over a year before I exhaled and came home. It was a long time before you were dreamed of again. I dreamed of you again in 1998. Music by Goo Goo dolls and Savage Garden and Sugar Ray on the radio. A new job with Mega Corp. A new love, with your Dad. And suddenly, you were there again. Clear in my dreams and my waking hours. You and your siblings, and a home for us all. I walked in sunshine, chewing peppermint gum and grinning like I had the secret of life. You were real in 2000. We'd joked about a millenium baby and then, suddenly, we had one. Bright coppery tufts of hair and clear curious eyes. I was singing Joni Mitchell to you in my arms, feeling "The dizzy dancing way you feel, When every fairy tale comes real." We whispered, the three of us deep in the night, about all our dreams. There would be sandy summer days with relatives. Wind chimes and dragon tales and soccer balls. There would be homework and snowball fights and band-aids. We designed tree forts, planned car trips, and imagined big Sunday dinners and holiday traditions that we would invent and carry into the future. I wanted you to be able to share all this - your childhood - with other children. Siblings to grow up with and against, challenge and enjoy, hate and love. In my dreams of you, there were always more. But it doesn't seem like it will be a blessing we'll have. And I'm sorry. I've thought about this so much over the last few weeks and you should know, it isn't for lack of wanting or trying. I'm not normally a quitter. But the miracle of you took the dedication of an entire group of doctors, the bedrest of your stir-crazy mom, and the bedrock belief of your dad. Somehow, now, I feel it in my bones. Lightning is only going to strike this particular spot once. It is what it is. For all the lonely times you may have in the years ahead, know we will be doing everything we can to saturate your life with the comraderie of others. For the times when there will only be your parents on the other side of the dinner table, know that we will do everything in our power to expand your view of your world. No, this wasn't the original plan. But that doesn't mean that the reality will be any less amazing. If ever there was a child who was dreamed of, and then came true - it was you. You are loved, you are enough, we are enough. We are a family.

Yes, honey, I'm webbed. Oooh. Ya got me.

Because you can't imagine what it's like to live with a Spidey geek... until your son becomes one, too. Oh, and to all the people out on Moody's patio last night who were innocently eating good burgers and minding their own business until my kidlet came racing up to their table and "webbed" them while shouting "I got YOU Goblin!"? ... Thank you for playing along and pretending to be captured. Yeah, the lady standing behind him with the smile both apologetic and entranced was me - his mom. Frankly I was a little tired of going "Oh! You got me!" for the 100th straight hour in a row. So, good of you to take up the Goblin staff. Everyone should share in the Spidey love. Bet you count yourself lucky my kidlet picked YOU. Feeling the glow? Yup. That's what I'm talking about. Now shush while I corral him back to our table, because if you keep encouraging him then he'll never settle down. Oh, and enjoy your burger.  

Do you fly? Do you dream you fly?

I was pretty melancholy today. The thing that really got me was a neighbor's graduation party. "E" is off to the Marines in a few weeks and who knows after that. When we moved in here, this boy was so young. E was 15 and saving for a car. We were desperate for a break one of those first weekends and his mom sent E over to babysit. Time has passed in a blink of the eye. E's parents are only just in the 40's, not much older than me. They're thinking about where E will be posted, what his career will be like, and even eventual grandchildren. Grandchildren. Will I know my grandchildren? I miss my grandmother every day, and she's been gone almost 3 years. She never met my kidlet, and I ache for that loss. It took me so long to have a baby, to start a career. I feel like I've done things out of order and now... will I have the time to be a part of it all? Every day I feel that I am part of things, learning things, growing in ways that maybe could have happened 15 years ago. When I was in high school, I tried out for a play called the Rimers of Eldritch. It was a precocious piece; there was this whole soliloquy about flying and dreaming of flying above the trees. Yeah, freaky. But stay with me here - that's not the point of the story. I remember a bunch of us huddled in the back of the theater waiting to audition. The directors put out a sheet and asked for volunteers to sign in the order they wished to go. Thus this big discussion - is it better to be first, last, or somewhere in the middle? There were points made one way or another. Discussion of birth orders, of being first, of blooming late. And it was like 15 minutes of this - with no one signing the freaking sheet - when finally the directors got fed up and just started calling our names as they recognized us. The first guy they called was actually a very popular jocky type who was, famously, one of 8 kids. Another guy yelled to him, "Hey, if you don't want to go first - I'll go for you." The guy yelled back, as he climbed on the stage, "Nah, it's cool. Better for me to just go when I'm called." As much as I embrace free will - and I do, deeply - there's a part of me that holds on to this. For whatever reason, THIS is when I was called to be kidlet's mom. This is when my career became a career. No sooner. No later. Whatever the drawbacks, whatever the benefits. It is what it is WHEN it is. There has to be a way to have a great peace with that.

Oddities in Indiana (From the "Be careful of using big words" file)

What IS a trash reciprocal? Does it mean that strangers get to come to my house and throw away their ice cream in my kitchen can? Does it mean some random Tuesday, the trash I put in there is going to come flying out of the sky and bean me on the head? What? WHAT?! (07/10/2004) 

Show me the money! (please?)

Never has there been a tale of more woe than that of Elizabeth and her expense accounts. Right now, my company Mega Corp owes me around $1200. Follow the bouncing ball: $700 for a recent business trip. $150 for last month's local phone. And around $350 in refunds from a pretax plan that I have for medical and childcare expenses. Before we get out our foam bats and start beating the crap out of Mega Corp, I need to make the following caveat: they don't KNOW they owe me the money. I haven't found a way to get any of my requests far enough into the system to be approved. Despite 6 years with the company. Despite my lofty position in senior management. Despite, like, 27 years of higher education. Despite my long career with computer systems. Yeah, my bad. Many years ago I worked for PoorNonProfit. I was OUTSTANDING at processing expenses back then. It was easy. Why? I was starving. My regular pay was like $100/week. I was so hungry I considered free ice from the soda machine to be a food group. I was so poor that I had to save up to go to GoodWill and buy some "new" clothes. Those quarterly expense checks, meager as they were, were all that stood between me and wearing grocery bags for underwear. Then came the darks days at GlobeTrotting Corp when I was travelling 90% of the time. GT was a very, very CHEAP company. They made Scrooge McDuck looklike Oprah. The policy was this: the EMPLOYEE paid up front for travelling costs (except plane tickets) and then put in for a refund. A Byzantine process guaranteed to kick back the WHOLE expense report at least once. For reasons like stapling at the wrong angle. So I hired a part-time assistant to assemble them for me. Fabulous. He would get on the phone and hassle GT while I stood behind him jumping up and down (silently) cheering. But my uber-assistant died suddenly. 9 months later I had to quit GT because their tab with me had hit $10,000. I was making the interest charges while arm-wrestling for every dollar. Basically, I was PAYING to work. This is a very bad, no-good thing. Good news awaited at the next gig. Mega Corp. I was a new employee, gun shy of expenses, skittish to say the least. They were so easy with me. Here's a corporate card. Here's a piece of paper. Send your receipts and we'll pay the card directly. Oh life was GOOD. And then... not so much. First, a "travel ban" (HA!) and then no more corporate card. But worst of all...Mega went "online" with all their expense reporting and refund requests with a non-Gui interface. With NO INSTRUCTION MANUAL. Just an "shortcut" card that works well as a coaster. A system that regularly times out in the middle of a session but DOES.NOT.SAVE partial reports. Based from home, no kindly admin to help me. And you KNOW the "Helpline" doesn't. It wouldn't be so shameful, except these kind of systems are part of what Mega does as a commercial service. It's hell. It's rage. It's me against the machine - er, process. And I'm losing.

I am an Evil Genius. Do not Mess with me.

Go. Take the quiz. Discover yourself.

Me: Wackiness: 34/100 Rationality: 50/100 Constructiveness: 50/100 Leadership: 50/100 You are an SEDF--Sober Emotional Destructive Follower. This makes you an evil genius. You are extremely focused and difficult to distract from your tasks. With luck, you have learned to channel your energies into improving your intellect, rather than destroying the weak and unsuspecting. Your friends may find you remote and a hard nut to crack. Few of your peers know you very well--even those you have known a long time--because you have expert control of the face you put forth to the world. You prefer to observe, calculate, discern and decide. Your decisions are final, and your desire to be right is impenetrable. You are not to be messed with. You may explode.

Woke up this morning...

I like music a lot. I like all kinds of music. I like Arethra, Lyle Lovett, Santana, Aerosmith, John Denver, the Beatles, Rosemary Clooney, Coldplay, Fleetwood Mac, Yo Yo Ma and a thousand names more. Music takes up half my hard drive. I burn CD's like some people brew coffee. I burned one last night for my husband and I to listen to over a backgammon game (heavy on the Macy Gray and Los Lonely Boys). I burned another one yesterday to listen to in the car for my lunchtime errands. Spurred by a spin on a radio station, I included "Woke Up This Morning" (from 'The Soprano's'). Beautiful day, sunglasses on, found that cute Jane lipstick with the sparkles in it, the hair was being decent. Bright, breezy, I rolled down the windows and cranked the music. The tune begins a spray of synth into a "Thud Thud Thud" on the bass that shivers the woofers so hard that rearview mirror vibrates. Louder, louder, as I merge into a steady stream other minivans and SUV's. I'm doing the "head jerk" up and down with my jaw. I'm cool in my pink Izod and my khaki capri's. Suburban Mamma gone bad. You see you woke up this morning The world turned upside down, Lord above, Thing’s ain’t been the same Since the blues walked into town. I rolled into the bank, waved to the skateboarder kids cutting through lane beside me. Hit "repeat" because I wanted to go around one more time. I'm pretty sure it was the thrill of the day for the teller. But you’re But you’re looking good, baby, I believe that you’re a feeling fine, shame about it, Born under a bad sign With a blue moon in your eyes. So sing it now My cell phone rings, it's my boss' admin. Pause the song. Quick confirmation of a meeting. I've got the bass thumping again before she even hangs up. Rolling now, down the Avenue to my kidlet's summer camp. In the door, out the door with him chattering like a magpie beside me. Restart the minivan. Woke up this morning Got myself a gun, Got myself a gun... *CLICK* Everybody wants to be a cat, because a cat's the only cat who knows where it's at. Everybody's pickin' up on that feline beat, 'cause everything else is obsolete. Yeah, I'm hip; I'm cool. I'm a Suburban Mamma gone bad.

With all due respect to Bill Murray

Because it isn't enough that I spin my brain on a self-preservationist riff for a few days, I had to devolve into this whole right-to-privacy thing and my mind stalled at 30,000 feet. When I was in high school, there were these two guys. It could be said I dated one or both of them. Depends on your definition of dating. They were buddies and the subsequent chill ('cuz there HAD to be drama) between them and me? It never fully warmed. They got the last laugh, though. As they were graduating, the H.S.'s art magazine published a short story they wrote. About a rat. A nice rat, who gets caught and dies. Maudlin, sad, oh! What of my poor rat family?! And they named the rat after ME. No, not my first name. There can BE NO CONFUSION. My LAST name. Yeah. They won the "last word" contest there. So even if I had a head thicker than mahagony, I'd still have been sensitized to what is done in writing. Some bloggers leave the glass window between their lives open and clear. Some use 20 layers of thick fabric (like velvet, lined with felt). It's a new world and there needs to be new rules. Until universal ones emerge, I'll have to have some of my own. Glib, sure. Sentimental, pedestrian, even trite. But not careless. Sometimes, it just doesn't matter. Sometimes, it does. I'll do my best to figure out which is which as I go along. Onward.