Under the Boardwalk

The Pier at Old Orchard Beach Beach, August 23 2004

Old Orchard Beach, Maine has a pier with carnival games and food stalls and fake tatoo parlours tucked on top of a rickety wooden pier. One night, CD and I walked out to the pier and back. All I could think about were the hours that I've spent over the years, alone. Watching the waves reach in from the ocean and feeling the salty wind reinflate my soul. All I could think about were the minutes I'd stolen in long ago summers with boys, kissing up in the guard towers or holding hands on the piers. All I could think about were the seconds between the jump and splash in all those first jumps of the summer into the cold Atlantic.

Under the Old Orchard Beach Pier, August 23 2004

I took CD's arm and we walked in moonlight. He was in the moment, I was somewhere else.

In a quiet realization; that I had been too long away from the ocean. I need to come back more often.

Because

This is my thin skin, and it has no defensive properties. Sunday night, and the family has gathered. My cousin and wife make the announcement - they are expecting. I feel a jolt of joy, of absolute bliss for them. They are a happy partnership of two extroverts; they will be blessed with a child next spring. They say: "It's early, we're only 6 weeks along. Most people don't know they are pregnant at this point..." And finally the hurt is revealed. I shudder. I hold back all the words froth up to my mouth. I smile. I nod. I say: "Before we come out next year, let me know what you still need and we can throw it in the van for you." And I think to myself, how normal we are being. How generous. How calm. Deep breaths. And then someone says it: "Aren't you having more?" And I want to scream, no damn you no and why do you even ask? And my skin falls off my body and I stand there, with all my blood and my anger and my being spilled on the floor. And I say "Bear is happy as an only child." And within moments, my little lie, my little harmless lie that smooths it all over like butter on bread is melted away. The conversation drags slowly, agonizingly, on about babies and growing families and heaven only knows what... And Bear purses his cupid bow mouth and asks "Where is my brother? I need a brother." And I kneel. And I hold him. And I die inside.

3 Cheers for Munuvia!

While I was on vacation, a wonderful metamorphasis began. It will take some time - but CorporateMommy is moving to Munuvia ! In a happy coincidence, while I was a wannabe Munuvian, my husband acquired corporatemommy.com and corporatemommy.net. So I have a lot of pointers and migrating to do. (I still have about 4 years of archives to bring over as well). Also? Need to learn MT. Advice is welcome. And adored. ...Thank you Jim, RP, Helen, and, especially, The One: Pixy!

Set off the fireworks! (Old Orchard Beach, Maine, 08/26/2004)

Getting there is none of the fun

It took us about 30 hours to travel 1100 miles from Chicago to Boston’s south shore. That’s an average of 36.6 miles per hour. In reality, it was closer to 73.2 miles per hour and then an hour at a rest stop so Bear could release ya-ya’s. Never heard of ya-ya’s? Strap a preschooler into a 5-point harness in a minivan. Start driving. No matter how many DVD's, sing-alongs, sticker books or snacks you run through - eventually, the child’s head will start to spin in complete rotation while he screams the theme to Digimon over and over like a satanic chant. This, my friend, is ya-ya’s. Let me tell you, if the priest in Omen had just dragged that little girl to an Indiana rest area and let her run with the rest of the pack of rabid children, there would have been none of the spewing vomit. Take 20 minutes of wild hysterical rampaging, 3 trips to the potty and a big gumball from the machine and all will once again be right with the world. We slept for12 hours at my mother’s house then we were in the car again - making the trek northward to Maine. At this point, we almost had to knock Bear unconscious to get him back in the van. We promised him it would be a short trip. Maybe 2 hours. It took closer to 4. This kid is going to be dunning us for his therapy deep into our retirement. It was cold, and wet, and dim when we got to the rented house. Bear had his shovels and pails and toys and sat, disappointed. You haul a kid through at least 3 layers of Inferno promising him a beach at the end of it and you know what? You better have a beach waiting when you get there. Thank the stars, the next morning dawned clear and sunny. We eagerly made our way down the block and through the path bordered in sea grass and roses out to the beach. Glorious. Absolutely glorious. Bear raced around with a big grin. “Nana! Nana!” He shouted to my mother, with a thousand treasures to share... Getting here? Hell. The memories of this week, tucked into my son’s childhood? Heavenly. If only, if only…. We didn’t have to drive back.

Pssst

Well, we're back from our week on the beach in Maine: pink with sun, sandy between the toes, tummies full of delicious food, and never so grateful to be back in central air conditioning with hot and cold running appliances. It felt strange to journal for 9 days the old-fashioned way: without connectivity. Heh. Like being back at camp with my old diary with the fake gold clasp that never really locked. I've got loads of stories to transcribe & upload. For the next week, we're based at my mother's house. Corporate Mommy's Mom is wired with a cable ISP that is 4 times faster than our DSL back home. Wicked. Thank you all SO much for the comments and good wishes! Off to catch up with everyone...

Night Driving. Day 2. (08/20/2004)

Sunset in the rearview mirror. Eastward bound. (08/19/2004)

Sunset on the side (08/19/2004)

We left on Thursday in late afternoon. First stop, the prettiest rest area you have ever seen. I mean it. You Indianans do roadside stops like NO ONE's business. Take a bow. (08/18/2004)

Hiatus

ATTENTION, PLEASE: This post will remain at the top of the blog until I return from vacation around September 6, 2004.

Following the tradition of the sparrows to Capistrano - CD, Bear, and I are ready for our annual trek to the hinterlands of New England. We are taking a laptop on our trip, so there's a chance there might be some free ranging access to Blogger. But just in case let's make a date to meet back here, OK? I'll bring the cupcakes. With sprinkles.

Oh, man, I am SO totally going to miss you. Nameste.

P.S.

By the way - if I can't get into Blogger, then I will definitely post in my comments. Definitely. And there's some Bear stories (new! improved! better formula!) just below. Don't get me wrong, I dig Paul Mahoney. REALLY DIG Paul Mahoney. He'll stay up. (ahem) But if there's Bear stories to be told - well, a girl has to have priorities don't you think? Also? *BEEP* Oh, man, I'm already missing you. If a blogger blogs in a minivan without any connection - will anyone hear her? Wait! Don't go yet! I'm not ready! Just, pull away slowly, OK? Please?

The Bear Makes a Nest

Bear crawled into bed with me pretty early this morning. I tried to convince him he was still tired, but he wasn't having it. He squirmed and poked and whispered. Resigned, I got up and went into to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and so on. When I got back, Bear had made a "nest" out of almost every pillow on our bed. And we have a lot of pillows. A veritable motherlode of pillows. And at the center of them all, he sat. Like a coppery Big Bird, in a circle of white pillows stacked 2 feet high. Except one. He cooed happily, and snuggled. He whispered a secret to me "I made a nice nest". Then he announced loudly "I LOVE my nest". He pointed to the ONE pillow remaining at the head of the bed and told me: “That’s for you, Mommy. I saved it for you." I layed down in my assigned spot, head on my pillow. I pulled the sheet over me and tried to go back to the twilight resting place a parent can go to with a chattering preschooler in a big pillow nest 2 feet from her tummy. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him peering at me. Then at my pillow. Intently at my pillow. He asked, "Do you like your pillow?" I said I did. Bear looked at the pillow he'd left for me. It was a king-size one, in a soft pillowcase. He asked again, "You like your pillow?" I burrowed into it closer. Now, anyone could see that this pillow was weighing on him pretty powerful. Here he had this big, puffy nest. But it was clearly one pillow short of being done. Because there was a pillow, right under my head. Not in the nest. NOT. On the other hand, he'd made the sacrifice. That was to be the special pillow. For mommy. Oh, the drama of it all! You could see him worrying the situation. His blue eyes furrowed in concentration. He mouth puckered in thought. I had to make another quick trip to the bathroom, and when I got back our Hero had solved the problem. In the nest? ALL the fluffy pillows from our bed. Where my head went? A little gold pillow off the couch. "Uh, Bear?" I demanded, trying to keep a straight face. "Where's my pillow?" "Oh, I got you a NEW pillow," he answered from deep inside Pillowdom. "It's special, just for you. It's your favorite color." "No, it's not. Blue is my favorite color. And you have me special pillow in your nest. Can I have it back please?"

His head pops up, like a tentative gopher. "You see... " he tells me. "You need to try the little pillow. Mommy, the little pillow is special," he informs me. "I got it just for you!" So I rested my head on the flimsy little pillow, recognizing that I had just been hoisted with the very same argument I used to get him to try green beans. I squirmed and tried to get comfortable. And then, out of the corner of my eye, it happened. The little eyes peered out of the nest. And came to focus on the little pillow. You could see what he was thinking....

Dear Paul Mahoney

Dear Paul Mahoney, I bet you're surprised to see your real name on the internet. True, I usually follow my own rat rule in these things, which can be summed up in the words "first, do no harm". The thing is, they are not releasing the name of the bus driver who abandoned the little girl on the side of a road. They released the name of the little girl, sure. Branded her a victim for life. No harm there. Well, I gave that some thought. And I realized, I could counter the dark corner of secrecy by outing YOU. I hope you don't mind. You are a real person, and you did something noble at an age when nobility and kindness are almost out of reach. I thought that deserved the credit of your own name. You won't know me by this name. So let me help you. You went to Jr. High school in Fairfield County, Connecticut during the late 70's. Your house was second to the end of a long bus route, kind of in the woods, and for the last 15 minutes each day it was just you and me. You were popular. You looked like a young Paul McCartney, a little. You were comfortable in your skin, with a quick sense of humor and a big heart. You were known for being a flirt, but a good guy. You were into music, and as soon as the bus was a little emptied you'd convince the bus driver to turn up the radio. I thought you were the coolest person I knew. Conversely, I was pretty beat up. The kids bullied me something fierce for a while. Over the months, it softened to a dull roar; I made a few friends and had someone to each lunch with. But I hated school, Paul. Counted the days in between the holidays. At the beginning of the year, you were strictly a "back of the bus" guy and I was at the front. I would curl up behind the bus driver for safety. You'd expand, somehow. Taking up the entire bench seat with your arms and legs and white smile. One day, in the crisp end of autumn, you yelled to me. It took you a week to convince me that it was all right for me to move to the back of the bus once it was just us and the driver. You were a bit of the firefly, you liked the attention. You liked having someone to talk to. You made me laugh. I had girls in my life. Neighbors, cousins, girlfriends at school. I'd had crushes. But you were the first guy to ever hold a conversation with me without your mother forcing the relationship. Did I mention you made me laugh, Paul? You used to use your hands to tell the stories. I never saw so much happy personality tied up in so much testosterone before. I wrote about you in my diary. Then I destroyed the pages because I had no privacy back then. But I didn't forget your name. One day, in the spring, someone had really gotten to me. I couldn't face you, because I was crying. Huddled behind that chain-smoking bus driver, staring doggedly out a window that only opened from on top, and pretending not to notice that my cheeks were chapped. And wet. You tapped me on the shoulder, and I still couldn't face you. You'd moved. To the front of the bus. For me. And it only made things worse. You said "Come on, now". You said "What's wrong?" You sat behind me. Until it was time for you to get off. The next morning, you got on. You took my hand and led me to the back of the bus. You sat me against the window and took the aisle. And as the stops piled up, and disbelieving kids punched your shoulder, and you didn't move from my side until we got to school. Then you silently exited, melding into your crowd. So for a few weeks until school ended, I sat at the back. Everyday. With you. No one said a word. That was a lot of power you had in the Darwinian ooze of adolescent political structure. Why were you so kind? I guess it doesn't matter anymore but at the time, it mattered a lot. It was a domino that got knocked in the right direction, and my life was better for it. The last day of school, you squeezed my hand and didn't look back. You said goodbye to the driver. I never knew what happened to you. I always kind of wondered. Dear Paul Mahoney, You were the only good thing that ever happened to me on a bus. I hope you're having a splendid life. Thank you.

Back to Christina's World

Christina's World by Andrew Wyeth

Jay and Philip have written about the poor 5-year old girl who was left in the middle of nowhere because the bus driver was at the end of the route and kicked her off the bus. I showed the story to my husband, we held each other's hand, thought of our son and of that little girl and of all the little kids. We shivered in fear. We both felt all the things Philip and Jay wrote so eloquently. When I was 4, I too got on the wrong bus. The driver took me back to the school and the teacher called my house. My grandmother came and got me. This is one of those "walked a mile, uphill, each way" stories. We were living at the edge of a penninsula and making my way TO school took all the courage I possessed. To get to the school bus, I walked out of my grandparents house:

1. Up the gravel drive onto the paved drive
2. Up the paved drive next to the marsh about a quarter mile
3. Turn right at the mess of mailboxes at the top of the drive
4. Find the walking path in the grass between the 2 driveways at the end of the cul-de-sac
5. Walk through the woods up the hill about 100 yards
6. Then it would open to a house on a hill, and a golden hay-filled yard like the one in Christina's World, a painting by Andrew Wyeth that my mom kept over the fireplace. At the top of that hill, I felt safe. I would open my arms and run through the hay down to the bottom where a new road dead-ended
7. Follow the road (along the water line) about 50 yards to the intersection
8. That's where the bus picked me up. In front of the white house with another kid

(You don't even want to know the directions to getting TO the house, they'd take all day to write and included "Go right at the fork in the road past where Whirly the dog used to be".)

But even at 4 and 5 years old, I could and did make my way to that far-off bus stop.

It was getting back on the bus at the end of the day that was impossible. I got lost in the horde of exiting children. I fought not to get flattened. I tried not to wet myself in sheer terror in the crowd.

And I REALLY did try to identify my number bus. But you know what? THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME. No shit. So I'd miss the bus. After the first time, I learned to just turn around and go back into the building. No more joy rides to nowhere. The school would call home. It drove my poor Grandmother batty. She, in turn, drove my mother batty. It was all good in our little circle of life. We were living together, generations of women in anxious proximity, in a tiny coastal town on Cape Ann, in Massachusetts. It was rough winds and tidal charts; it was thick sweaters while reading by the thin sunlight. It was the kindness of tired bus drivers and teachers, who probably understood that a 4-year-old is going to make many, many mistakes. Who probably knew my grandparents, and my parents, and our neighbors as well. It was the frustrated patience of a grandmother who was set in her ways but set them aside to make room for family. It was the compassion of my mother, who tried to broker peace around a difficult situation living in a borrowed home. It was everyone, under stress, trying to do the right thing by each other. Back when people, as a rule, tried to do the right thing by each other.

Back when, it seems, dinosaurs ruled the Earth and I was young.

Naptime, anyone?

I am so fricking exhausted that I just sprinkled sugar on my noodles. Help.

...And a good time was had by all at the Block Party

"Go play in the street, Bear."

T.G.I.F.

Without any ado, 5 who seriously brought the funny this week:

1. Not Donna Reed at American Mom, in a post about a toddler using all the facilities bathroom at the same time. Excerpt: I giddily recalled how my husband's grandfather, who served in WWII, said that, if you're ever stuck in the desert, you can drink your own pee. I thought, If you can drink it, surely there's no need to freak out about it being all over the floor.
2. Melissa at Suburban Bliss, in a post about how the newest hurricane is rightly named... after her mother. Excerpt: On the other hand, if this tropical storm is anything like it's namesake, it will not have a clue how to operate 'Call Waiting'. So if Bonnie gets a little overly enthusiastic, two people just need to call the storm on it's cell phone.
3. akeeyu at herveryown, in a post about why Koko the Gorilla is an honorary member of the Barren Bitches Brigade. Excerpt: The most significant qualification, of course, is the fact that she recently complained of a toothache and ended up getting a pelvic exam.
4. Kim at Catawampus, in a post about Jay breaking his ass. Excerpt: Jax and I stood stunned, not sure whether it was okay to burst out laughing yet. Finally, Jay eased himself up, grabbed his ass and moaned, "I think I broke my ass!"
5. Kira at Kiwords, in a post about the various antics of her kids one day. Excerpt: I could hear him muttering to himself as he struggled to pull down his shorts. She NOT come in wif me. She stay OUT DERE oh, man! Now ah got pee on my foot.

• A "Hey, wow" mention in the category of "Beautiful words" - Allison at WomanChild/Journal, in a post about two strangers, kissing in the rain. Excerpt: Her skirt was green and soaking wet and sticking to her legs. Everyone waiting for the light to turn was not watching the light or the traffic or the pouring rain. Everyone was watching this couple sitting on a bench kissing in the pouring rain.
• A "Hey, wow" mention in the category of "Compelling personal story" - Angela at aMusings From the Express Lane, in a post about her history with her mother. Excerpt: Her idea of getting back at one of the people who hurt me, for instance, was to steal his dead wife's wedding rings. Thanks, Mom. I feel healed with all the justice.
• A "Hey, wow" mention in the category of "Paid to Bring the Funny" - Zach Braff from his Garden State blog, in a post responding to his reader's comments. Excerpt: But if I began to write to everyone individually, I'd never have time to wash myself. It's not that I fear that we'll get close, have an affair and then you'll freak out and boil my rabbit on the stove.

Holy Crap, I'm a state

Well, I gotta stop googling during teleconferences. Especially on Friday the 13th. Because on top of everything else, I've discovered I'm not only a state, but I'm also in decline... WallStreet Journal Reporters were offered a new contract in April and responded by picketing the newspaper. The following is an excerpt (emphasis mine) of the full article here. Ask many Journal reporters what's going on there, and you'll not just get the rundown on a contract that was rejected by 85 percent of the union's membership in January.... 'When it came time to deal with the tough business climate of the last couple of years,' says Tom Lauricella, a 'Money and Investing' reporter active in the union, 'people looked around and said, "We're doing our jobs, we're winning Pulitzers, we're not the ones screwing up. Why are we the only ones sacrificing?" ' In short, they were being treated the same way that rank-and-file white-collar corporate America has been treated for the past decade, with the decline of the corporate mommy state.

More on the war for At-Home Dads

My husband, CD, joined the Chicago At-Home Dads' group while he was a stay at home father. You can imagine their reaction to the recent diatribe from Ms. Seipps. With their permission, I am publishing a letter from one of their members, Dave L. Please feel free to email your support. Here's Dave's letter, in its entirety: Date: Wed, 11 Aug 2004 20:27:00 -0500 Cathy, While I am sure that left coast dads are probably more interested in saving the whales and such and while you are correct about the facial hair, the article that was just forwarded to me "Meet Today's Dad" could not be more of a mis-representation of my life as a stay at home father. Myself and the 30 plus guys in the Chicago area that I know do not seem out of place at all and are never expecting any adulations for their position in the hierarchy of their family unit. In fact, my reaction to the usual "Wow, you are doing a great job" comment over the last 5 years has been to wonder aloud whether a female parent with 2 well behaved small children would be getting the same attention in a restaurant. Sadly, she would not. Do I get more females observing my every move...sure. Grandmothers are the first to make a comment. I really don't think that any parent takes well to unsolicited advice from a stranger. Sure, if there is imminent danger and advice is given, I am happy to hear it and am quick to offer thanks. If it is just advice for something petty and is being offered just because I am a male and therefore cannot possibly do anything right concerning the raising of children, you are correct to expect a nasty response. Your example of the supermarket observation can just as well (and has been oh so many times) be reversed by gender. I can't tell you how many times I have seen moms oblivious as to what their children are doing at playgrounds...they are too busy catching up with friends. In fact, my favorite was in a restaurant with outdoor seating and a small play area. I was waiting to sit and I w! as watch ing my 2 guys play on the Little Tykes equipment as a small toddler (probably about 14 months old judging by the unstable gait) went right past me, turned left and went right out the gate onto the sidewalk. I started to pursue as the child got past the sidewalk and caught up as he passed between two parked cars aiming for a thankfully empty street. I swooped up said child, brought him back into the seating area and yelled "Who's is this?". I had to repeat myself 3 times until a mother managed to look away from her friend and notice that a strange man was holding her child. She came walking over and talked, in baby talk, at her child to the effect that he was a bad boy for leaving mommy. Not a word to me was spoken. This happened in Winnetka, IL.... a pretty nice suburb of Chicago. I am sure that everyone has examples of bad parenting and lapses of judgment by parents of all types. I just wish more stories of observed good parenting made their way into the public media. Sadly, that wouldn't make for good TV or print. Sincerely Dave L.

Sweet Home, Blog-abama

Honey? You don't sound so good. I've been stuck in rush hour traffic... Aww, Elizabeth, He commiserated For TWO HOURS! I moan. Did you know I was wearing two different earrings today? You left before I was up, he reminded me. Also? No more bare feet with these slides... I had to keep moving away from the guys in the meeting. The stink was heinous. They were beginning to take it personally. Although, I don't think that one guy would care. You know what he said to me after as we were driving into the office from his hotel? No - We passed a poor roadkill raccoon and he said 'I hit one of those last week; it wasn't flat yet, either'. I mean, ewww. How - Plus? He kept playing that sound clip on his laptop. The one from Jerry Maguire, it ends with "You had me at hello". It was beginning to creep me out. I mean, he's cool and everything ..and I guess iwth my stinky feet and black tongue, I'm no prize. But... Wait! How'd the meeting go? Awful. I'm surprised I still have a job. The Boss hated everything we showed him. I should have grown up to be a firefighter or ballerina. Oh, honey. Do you want me to pick up some fish & chips for you on the way home? Would you do that? I think it's going to take a lot to make me human again. And it did: 1 snerklebutt Bearchild, happy to see me and cuddly as kittens 1 cleaned house (sainted babysitter) 1 long, long hot shower 1 frisky and sweet husband 1 plate of almost British-tasting fish & chips (although, you need a proper chippy to get the chips right) 1 hot toddy (equal parts brandy,water,honey and dashes lemon and cloves. HOT) 8 comments from the coolest people in the blogisphere while I was locked in the on-site meetings 1 Lynyrd Skynrd tune, cranked It only gets better. Tomorrow I get to to sleep in and then troll for this week's funniest blog entries... Shh now, there's no place like...

You, too, can be in Senior Management

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to reach the peak of mediocrity; to attain that loftiest of all goals in Corporate America? Well, just take this simple test to see if you, too, could be suited for life as a ... uh... suit. A. You wake up and realize you're already late. Do you:

1. Do the minimum necessary to be presentable, and hit the road
2. Do the usual ablutions, and speed (safely) to the site meeting to make up time
3. Do the usual, discard the planned outfit, iron a new one, forget your laptop and have to turn around and come back, and end up missing your own conference

B. You're about to miss your own conference. Do you:

1. Put on your cordless headset in the car and attempt to facilitate while navigating rush hour traffic
2. Put on your cordless headset in the car, deputize someone else to facilitate, and offer commentary when needed between dead spots on the expressway
3. Blow off the whole thing, roll down the windows, crank the Rolling Stones "Waiting on a Friend" while singing your fool head off

C. You've just poked yourself in the eye with your mascara because of the damn wind from the freaking open windows, and you need to get across three lanes of traffic to make your exit. Do you:

1. Roll up the windows, put down the mascara, use your indicator and smoothly exit the expressway
2. Roll up the windows, make the next available exit and make your way back to where you'd meant to go in the first place, and finish the mascara at the stop signs.
3. Leave the windows open, causing your hair (whipping around from the wind) to become permanently cemented to your wet eyelashes, forget it's mascara and not a pen and put it in your mouth to hold, scream in frustration, pull over into a shopping mall parking lot and wash entire face with a bottle of water and an old pile of Dunkin Donuts napkins, attempt to cover black smudges on lips with gloss, fail, realize tongue is black, try and wash with soggy napkins, accidentally pour some water on pants, run heater in car on high aimed at pants with windows STILL open and finally finish applying in the ladies room.

D. It looks like rain. Do you:

1. Grab a raincoat, just in case
2. Grab an umbrella, just in case
3. Grab nothing. Wear a silk shirt. And a white bra. And wiggle your ass at the rain gods while climbing in the car

And yes, they actually let me be in charge. Boggles the flipping mind, doesn't it?

You can't beat town hall

This was the lovely view we had upon arriving at Town Hall tonight. We were there to make sure that we got the permit approved for next Saturday's block party. Please don't ask me how CD and me and the Guys got roped into planning this thing AGAIN. Suffice to say that we live on a fabulous block full of fabulous people - none of whom could plan their way out of a paper bag. But hell on wheels if you give them assignments to make 3-bean salads and buy Bingo supplies. So there we were, CD, Bear and me. Trudged up to the top floor, sat in the pews. Stood up, said the Prayer of Allegiance (what, like YOU never said "Amen" at the end of that thing?) and then had a moment of silence. After which, I shit you not, the mayor led us in PRAYER for people around town - someone was in hospital, someone died (they actually stopped and had a little conversation - was it the Father in Law or the Mother in Law that passed?) ok so we prayed for both. Good Holy Heaven. Did I mention, PEWS? Honest to God pews??? I LOVE me some small town politics. The difference between it and a Baptist council meeting? Absolutely nothing. Some guy stood up at the beginning. He was really pissed about an injustice. Told the Mayor he should be ashamed of himself for some graft and stuff. Seems that the council levied a whole bunch of fines on a guy who happens to be a opposition mayoral candidate in the next election. And then the council slandered him, or something like that. The guy yelled and waved his papers. The Mayor nodded and asked his secretary, "Is this old business or new?" "It's old business, from last week." "OK, then," said the mayor, allowing the guy to finish his rant. When the guy was done, the Mayor asked for a vote accepting the Old Business. And all the nice white men said; "Aye". The steam was pretty much curling out of my ears. Good to know I haven't lost my liberal Yankee outrage. I took Bear out to play with the water fountains in the hallway before I went Norma Rae on everyone's ass and screwing any chance of getting our permit.

After it was approved, the Aldermen all wrestled to have their picture taken with our adorable Bear (future voter!).

Smile. Smile.

Run.

In which I let loose with my trusty flamethrower

Hey, this one's PG-13 for language. You've been warned.

**************************************

I'm a hybrid. I was born to a McCain Republican and a Obama Democrat. Which is kind of like saying that my mom was an alligator but my dad was a crocodile. If that leaves you scratching your head and asking what the fuck's the difference? Yeah, I'm with you there. I like McCain. I like Obama. I'm a pro-choice, pro-family independent Christian. I like you, even if you're the opposite of all those things. I like people trying to have smart ideas. I like people who take the high road. I like tolerance, respect, and good listening skills. I like the conflict of arguments looking for the greater good. I'll go face to face with you screaming about the issues, and know all long that neither of us will budge. And it will be cool. Conversely, I am a fierce clawed predator who puts the vegomatic to the crap spewed by the bastards who make it personal. Who take debate to its lowest common denominator. So Cathy Seipp. One day she's at a grocery store, sees a stay at home dad's attention drift from his kid in the grocery cart, and turns it into a treatise on all stay at home dads. She took her bully pulpit via the National Review Online, ranted at the use of the word "parent" versus the word "father", mixed in some examples from the TV show Everwood, and voila! came up with: stay at home dads are woosie suckwads who are incompetent at best. Like women trying to parallel park. Her example, not mine.

Then she went on the radio to defend her position. Then she blogged about going on the radio. Then she quoted her friend blogging about her going on the radio. She called her article "making fun" and sheathed her claws while shouting "look at me!". Wait. Doesn't that sound like Nellie Olson on Little House? Heh. Seriously, as Rebel Dad said, you don't even want to sanctify this shit with a mention in your own world. On the other hand, well, the truth is that there aren't that many stay at home dads out there. I know and love some stay at home dads. In fact, the ones I know are so cool they make my eyes water. And when I paid attention, I realized with outrage that Cathy's argument has nothing to do with stay at home dads, really. It has to do with propagating disgust with the non-traditional simply because it's non-traditional. So here's my say:

1. It takes two people to make a kid. 3, if you're counting the gestational surrogate. Maybe 5 if the child's going to be adopted. Do we count the doctors? Here's the point: NO ONE GETS TO BE THE ONLY "RIGHT" PARENT. Right out of the chute, there are lots of people deeply invested in that child. Personally, I think introducing my 2 year old son to beef jerky was insane. But my husband thought it was fine. Welcome to reality. Stay at home dads parent differently than their wives. The differences? They're gender. They're cultural. They're personality. But they are just differences, not "wrongnesses". Let's remember this students, there will be a quiz later in the form of a grown child. DIFFERENT does NOT equal WRONG.
2. Everyone gets to be an asshole, sometimes. Cathy talks about a kid maybe almost falling out of a cart. Hell, I was in a grocery store once and ran into a stay at home mom and we got to chatting. She cooed over mine, I wanted to coo over hers. Figured she'd been left at home. Nope, she'd been left to chill, playing with her feet on top of a stack of frozen pizzas. She'd crawled out of her seat and fallen (not hurt) into one of those open-topped freezers and yes, her frazzled mother didn't notice until I asked about her a few moments later. That's because ALL stay at home mothers are over-tired martyrs who can't parallel park. Right? RIGHT? Here's something to have tattooed in backwards writing on your forehead. It will make the world a better place if you do: Never judge anyone by their worst day or moment. Better yet, don't judge at all - unless you wear a swirly black overcoat and were elected to do so.
3. If we don't value men who nurture, we will continue to raise boys who value war. 'Nuf said.

You can tell everybody, this is your blog...

The blogisphere is full of some of the coolest people on the planet. And a couple of them have sent me some emails lately asking for a little more information about my "regular" life. I made attempts at this in emails back. Then I cam to the astounding conclusion (trumpet flare, please) that maybe this would be easier in a blog post. Duh.

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FRIDAY We have a standing babysitting arrangement with a neighbor (we have the best neighborhood in Chicagoland, I'm sure). While Bear was next door, I worked for about 5 hours (Half-day Friday). Then he came home and we had a nice nap. My friend (and Bear's Godmother) Dee came over and CorporateDaddy (CD) came home and we had takeout from Noodles and More. Afterwards, some more neighbors came over and we had an old-fashioned Amish pergola lowering. Never had one of those? It's when a wife (that's me) tells a husband (that's CD) that a 10-foot pergola would be just grand over the patio. CD said "Honey, let's make it 8 foot" but I would not be swayed. And thus, CD built a wooden airplane hangar in our backyard. The neighbors scratched their heads and said "Gee, that's tall. What's it supposed to be?" and I threw up my hands in despair. CD allowed as how, even with eleventy billion clemetis plants, ain't no way this thing would ever actually provide any shade over the patio. So he cut about 2 feet off each leg and with a huff and pull, the lot of us moved the thing off its pilons. CD made more adjustments and we moved the freshly cut legs into brackets. And suddenly, the neighbors all said... "hey! that's an arbor thingy! for shade! Looks swell, man". Me? I just got funny looks. After Dee left and Bear went to sleep, we caught up on the StarGates and canoodled.

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SATURDAY We did some housework and then loaded up in the van for our weekly chuckwagon of errands. The truth is, the 3 of us LIKE spending time together. Shhh now, don't ask me how we pulled that off. I have no clue, myself. There's a wheel of stuff that has to be done, and we do it in no particular order. "Roll the dice, Bear! Evens we go to the Library, Odds we hit the dry cleaners!" "Come on.... Evens!" We hit Trader Joes and overheard one of the shoppers talking about a carnival. So as we were leaving, we asked a cop, who radioed to dispatch, and got directions. It was a grand hour of yummy fair food and little rides for Bear. After our nap (wait, have you caught on to our sleep addiction yet?) I gussied up for my date with Dee. We headed off to Piper's Alley area in Chicago for a nice Italian dinner (Wine! Linens! Goat Cheese!) followed by that Zach Braff movie - which was actually quite good. Couldn't help but yelp "Queen Amidalah!" when Natalie Portman first appeared. Heh. I put his blog temporarily in my blogroll if you're interested.

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Sunday

CD was feeling sick, so I tucked him into bed and made a valiant attempt at doing some of the yardwork myself. Before you get the wrong idea, let's be perfectly clear - I am a tough chick. I weed and garden and sweep and help build retaining walls. But with Handy Andy for a husband, power tools generally are under his operation while I am cooking something up.

Look, I'm ALL about Free to Be You and Me and I get that I'm responsible for my own orgasm. The work delineations in our household didn't default to the traditional. It's on purpose. We do the things that suited our interests and strengths. And, honestly, when the occasion calls for it (like CD beings sick and this needing to get done before we go on vacation), we each will do whatever is needed.

That said, I wacked up half the damn yard trying to use the edger thingy. I left ruts that make it look like someone peeled out in a Camarro across our lawn.

It must have been really bad, because about 20 minutes into my desecration of CD's green oasis, I got a tap on my shoulder that made me jump 10 feet in the air. It was one of the Guys, our neighbors across the street, holding a contraption.

"Give me your power cord," he demanded with a roll of his eyes. I did as I was told. This thing made these gorgeous edges up and down the sidewalk and driveway in like, no time. 10 minutes, tops. Other Guy, his partner, crossed the street with a bemused smile.

"This is the hardest I've seen him work in 10 years," he confided in me as the 3 of us (O.G., Bear, and me) watched Guy go to town with his contraption.

"I'm really grateful," I gushed.

"You know, you're gonna have to fill in those ruts you made and really pack it down before you reseed," O.G. told me. "Or else it will always dip down."

I nodded agreeably. Mental note: tell CD to stomp on dirt before reseeding. Got it.

Once CD was up and about and bemoaned my yard wacking and thanked the Guys and hung out with the neighbors talking about next weekend's block party (we're co-captains with the Guys for planning), he worked on the pergola for a couple of hours.

Then it was time to decide about dinner. Sunday Dinner is a Big Deal. It was growing up. It was living in England. And it is with my family now.

I've become experimental in past months, veering from the roast and Yorkshires habit. Yesterday, I'd bought some wonton skins and jasmine rice with plans for making an Asian meal (pot stickers, stir fry...) but CD broke the bad news: his softball game (the Last of the Season! Is it possible summer is fading so fast?) was moved up. Glove and bottle of water in hand, we waved him goodbye.

Bear and I eventually settled on ramen noodles and broth with veggies. Bear actually was feeling pretty poorly himself - a fever of about 101 - so I ended up giving him ice cream as the main course. Hey, like you've never done it. Sha.

We took a walk around the block and got some air. When we got back we terrorized a coven of local fireflies and interrupted a local game of football toss.

Missions successful, I swaddled Bear on the couch with a sippy cup and a blanky and Digimon reruns. Then it was usual Sunday night stuff: fresh sheets on the bed, a load of dishes, straightening up, talking on the phone, tucked Bear in with songs and stories, hit all the updated blogs in my blogroll, check my work email, and, finally, curled up watching "Cold Mountain" (good movie, btw). Waiting for CD to come home so we could go to sleep.

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Monday Morning

Found out I was a finalist in Jay's Blogging for Books. Peed my pants. Called everyone I know. Took a shower. Made Bear brush his teeth, too. Gave him chocolate for breakfast. Picked up his babysitter and let her deal with the post-sugar fallout. Cackled evilly. Checked Jay's site again. Boggled again. Actually started working, counting down the minutes until lunchtime -when I am "Officially" allowed to blog.

So, that's my average little life. It may not suit some, but it sure as hell suits me.

Thanks for the emails, and the comments.... I'm a slut for feedback. I love you, man.

Updated: The counter! It says 5010! I missed 5000?! I was going to get that person something from their wish list. Aww man. Well definitely for 6000. Definitely.

Last night is the night I will remember you by*

You and I have memories longer than that road that stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats standing solo in the sun You and me chasing paper getting nowhere on our way back home We're on our way back home We're on our way home We're going home

Two Of Us from "Let it Be", 1970 The Beatles

If you were to make the soundtrack of your life, what songs would you choose? What was the song playing during your first dance? What was the song on the radio when you had that last fight - sitting in the car, parked in the driveway? The first song at your wedding? The one you're listening to over and over, blasting from the stereo? For me, any soundtrack would have to include the Beatles. It's funny, but I didn't even like the Beatles until my mid-20's. Their music was just stalking me, until I gave in and learned to appreciate them. And, eventually, love them. My husband was working on the infamous pergola today. I set my system speakers in the window facing in the backyard, and created an auto playlist of Beatles tunes. And the next 2 hours were spent with wisps of the past stinging me as we worked. In a good way, as my husband would say. In a good way.

But of all these friends and lovers There is no one compares with you And these memories lose their meaning When I think of love as something new Though I know I'll never lose affection For people and things that went before I know I'll often stop and think about them In my life, I love you more

In My Life from "Rubber Soul", 1965 The Beatles

* from The Night Before by The Beatles

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Mindy at the Mommy Blog is off on Lampoon's European Vacation and has, in a trusting experiment, opened her blog up to anyone who would like to guest blog. No Kidding.

From the: "Things You Don't Want to Hear From Your Preschooler" file

Coming out of the shower, there's Bear holding out a baby carrot. Here! Oh, thank you Bear. Yummy Yummy carrot. Where did you get it? From the Fridger-Eight-Err. Is it good? Yes, thanks. I made it hot. Uh, you did? How did you do that Bear? In the oven, silly. (Stop here. Panic. Look child up and down for radiation poisoning or burns. Peer at carrot frantically.) What color oven? White like the stove or black like the microwave? Color? Color of oven? Yes! PINK, Silly! (*whew*)

10 days until we are on vacation and my toes will be in this sand....

Random 5 for Friday

Look. It's like Lyle Lovett said in that song, or sang in that song. We've got to be honest, you and I. The relationship just won't work if we're not. So please, hold my hand, and tell me the truth. My little idea for last Friday fell with a "THUD" didn't it? You can tell me. Was it like that infamous lead balloon? But.. But... I blew my creative wad on Jay's Blogging contest. I'm DRY I tell you! So, - hey! Are you still holding my hand? Oooh! - So I'm going to try again. Because we need a little sunshine with our Saturday jones. So can we try again? Just once more? Please? Just a little farther now.... 1) The week's Funny Ones:

• Weevil, in a post about disappearing socks and underwear. Excerpt: I've bought him three packs in the last six months. We should be smothered in the damn things. Every morning, Tallboy should be surfing down the stairs on a multicoloured wave of cotton undies.
• Sarah at Que Sera, in a post about finding a roach during dinner at a local restaurant. Excerpt: ...my brain kept saying things like, "Surely your eyes are deceiving you...," while my eyes kept saying things like OH MY GOD IS THAT A THORAX?
• Charlie at Where The Hell Was I, in a post about antiperspirant. Excerpt: Is it just me, though, or does it seem like a bad idea to name your antiperspirant flavors after the sorts of things that would make you shit your pants in terror?
• Weetabix, in a post about she needs an immediate exorcism from... Stress. Excerpt: I wasn't exactly sure what Harold wanted me to do with my pretty pink putter. Certainly he wasn't suggesting that I actually piss directly on marauding foursomes?
• Beth at And the fish said, in a post about her new pretend celebrity boyfriend. Excerpt: ...his voice is so amazing that sometimes when I hear it I have to go lie down for a few minutes to recover. (That's why) I don't listen to him on the treadmill anymore. Don't lie down on the treadmill people, take it from me.

2) MY new celebrity boyfriend, Jason Issacs. 'Nuf said.

Thank you, Minx at Sequined Sensation

3) The weather report. Again. Whoever's kissing Mother Nature's ass? Keep it up. Send for me if you need reinforcements.

4) I discovered Technorati. And? They like me!! I like them and They.Like.Me!!

5) Karma. Look how it took care of the asshat from work yesterday. The one who talked to me about his new US$750K house in the suburbs. The one who said to me, with a straight face, "I don't know how people can raise children without a master bathroom." The one who confided that he'd rented a van to cart the new furniture home to save on shipping charges. ("They really screw you on those," he confided. "It's a real scam.") THAT asshat. The one who asked me which diets I'd tried (Skinny people TAKE NOTE. Do NOT ask this question of anyone. EVER. Thank you.) and recommended an illegal substance known to make people dead. ("You should try it. Don't like the drama queens frighten you off. It worked great for my cousin") The one who was hanging out in the parking lot as I pulled away in my dusty minivan. Waiting for AAA. Because his battery was dead. And no one was helping him. (I offered, he said "I don't think your battery would be compatible with mine, because I have this foreign car.") Heh. Karma? I think I LOVE you....

The Only Job I Ever Wanted

Note: This is my entry for Jay Allen's cool Blogging for Books contest. The assigned topic: best or worst experience you've ever had working for someone else. I picked "all of the above". Jay has said that for this we should get our funny going. And I tried. But I have written, instead, what my husband is calling "A funeral hymn for a dream". I hope you forgive me. For a more light-hearted look see one of my earliest posts about my job, this -a "Day in the Life" look at being a WAHM. ************************************** Late at night, I'm holding on for tomorrow. My son woke up this morning, and came looking for me. I wasn't there. He asked my husband "Mommy not home yet?" Because he hadn't seen me in a day. Because I came home so late last night and left so early this morning. I told myself, when I heard this with a flinch at lunch, that I would make it up to him. I left the customer's office at 3PM but it took 2 hours to get home. I found my son, wired from watching TV all day. His teeth still unbrushed. I found my husband, writhing with the flu and a fever and hanging on by a thread. I meant to help. I meant to. But I had to collapse for a few hours before I could even remember my name. I've become the kind of parent that I can't look in the eye. I cringe to think how easily I sometimes unplug from my son's life. This isn't how it was supposed to be. Growing up, I knew my life's ambition was to be a mom. I played teacher. I played author. I played rock star. Inside I knew being a mother was the one true thing I wanted to do with my days and my nights. Knew it like some people know they want to be astronauts, or doctors. I also knew that paying jobs and me, well, let's just say that we didn't get along so well. My first job? Babysitter. 13 years old. Let the popcorn catch fire and their kitchen was never the same. Paint took care of the most of this discoloration but the smell lingered for about 5 years. My second job? Grocery store. Cashier. I stank. The manager was a family friend and he would regularly key into a register with my code and work it, in order to bing up my all-important "Items Per Minute" average. Then my uncle died and I took off some time for the funeral. Then I asked for some more time off to go to his funeral again. Naturally, they had to fire me. I actually felt bad for them when my father went in and demanded they expunge my records. How could they know that the shipping company had temporarily lost my uncle, necessitating an actual second funeral? Even I thought it sounded like I was making it up. My third job? At a restaurant. On my first day, I succeeded in committing a series of errors that, cumulatively, was nothing short of felonious. But even after using a paper cup on the shake machine (to save time) instead of the metal one and spraying an entire line of customers with chocolate shake. Even after dropping the cash register tray on the floor, causing a scramble for money all over the restaurant. Even after exploding the top of the iced tea dispenser. Even after spilling the oil from the fryer and causing a nice cook to head to the the hospital with a possible concussion... ...Even after all that, they made me keep coming back. Like my own "Twilight Zone" meets "Groundhog Day". The manager was my English teacher. Clearly on some kind of a Yoda trip. I, however, am no kind of a Luke Skywalker. My first job in college? Campus tour guide. Accidentally led a group of alumni into a wedding in progress at the campus chapel. My first job out of college? File clerk at a factory. Walking around and around a table collating a handout. And around. In nylons. In summer. In a break room. In a factory. With, you know, beefy men around. Taking LOTS of breaks. And trying to pat me. My next job? As a temp in a trucking company, as a receptionist. I was fired after 4 days and called into my Temp Manager's office. "Elizabeth," the woman said sternly. "Don't wear your skirts so tight. Or so... yellow. And only one button undone on your blouse." "Can it be the bottom button or does it have to be the top?" I snarked. She fired me on the spot. Eventually, I became a chaplain. The kind of warm fuzzy job that didn't include me being near money, electricity, food or food by-products, or hornball truckers. I regularly worked projects with other charitable agencies. One time a group of us was making our way into one of the Projects here in Chicago, when a big guy tackled me to the ground. He covered me with his sweaty body and kept telling me to shut up. I screamed and never noticed the rest of our little group huddled nearby. "Quiet!" He ordered in my ear. "Stay still for God's sake. Can't you see we're being shot at?" It wasn't for another 10 years that I finally "fit" somewhere. I intuitively understood MegaCorp. It was like all these bizarre half-skills that I'd acquired all my life suddenly knit together to make me really good at something. Hard? Yes. Crying in the bathroom, hoping no one notices me. That kind of hard. Learning to swim with the corporate sharks, I had a few bites taken out of me. But I am good at this. I am better at this than anyone I know outside my corporate life. I want to sing the chorus from Handel's Messiah. I love this job! I LOVE this job! And looking back, I would have done it for a decade, maybe a lifetime, happily; stuffing my first dream away. Then Bear came along. And in an instant, I remembered why I was put on this Earth. I was born to be his mother. And I dropped Mega like a hot rock. Once he was in my arms, I knew certainly what I had known as a dream growing up. Motherhood was the only job I want as a full-time occupation. Luckily for me I had 8 months. 8 months where our plans worked and my job description was two words: Bear's Mother. There isn't a word for how my soul felt. Happy is the pastel wannabe of the word. Amazing is a dim cousin. Then circumstances changed and I was suddenly scrambling to nail down a paycheck job. Thank God, Mega took me back. Thank God, I do well at Mega. Thank God, Mega pays me well in return and set me up to work from home. But there are days when I have to leave before he wakes. Days I am still gone when he goes to sleep. And I don't get to pick the days. Sometimes those are the days when Bear really needs me. One time it was the day he took his first steps. This is not Mega's fault. These are my choices. Even though it's the only job I ever wanted, it's not my only job. That means after doing dozens of jobs really, really, really badly I find myself torn between 2 jobs I love. Well, maybe "torn" is not the right word. "Torn" implies that I am tugged between knowing which one I should do. I know I should be with my son. What has me "torn" is the work. Ripped up inside over increments of hours, when my ability to prioritize is hog-tied. When the almighty dollar comes first and I twist in agony waiting to get back to who is really important. God help me, I have not turned out to be the mother I could have been or the mother I wanted to be. I am trying, instead, to be the best mother I can be. I'm making decisions in the creases and sometimes? Too often? I am getting it wrong. Those are the times, like right now - like at this very moment in the deep of the night -that I just pray and hold on. Hold on for tomorrow and try again.

You can see how it would happen, right?

Well, it's official. My husband is the most understanding guy in the world. I called him from the car last night about 5 hours after I had thought I would be home. Hi, honey...? Where are you? On my way to a restaurant, I'm following the vendors over. What? You were supposed to be home at - ? Here's the thing. It was do or die today, so we just worked 8 hours straight. No food, no real breaks. And we have to decide a strategy. But - ? Here's the thing. They're the vendor. They want to discuss strategy while buying me a big steak, don't you think...? Sure, it's just -. I'm really sick. It's OK. Oh, honey, I am so sorry. This whole thing went wobbly pear-shaped, and - No, I understand. How did you - Here's the thing. You remember those underwear I had on? Uh.. no. Uh.. had? Well they were like made of rubber. Like a girdle. I swear. Uh...? And all day, well they were making me sick. We really need to do laundry. Making? Well, yeah. I had to get rid of them. I was unable to breathe. My legs were turning blue. You don't want me blue, do you? No, but ... does that mean? So, I just wanted to explain. Before I got home. Why I'm stampede, as it were... A few minute later my cell phone rings. It's my girlfriend from out of state. First words out of her mouth? Hi. Why are your underwear in your purse? You can see how it would happen, right? Right? Yeah, I thought so.

Another Bear story: "Mommy? Where's your penis?"

Bear's a strong candidate for attention span theater. One of his favorite speed topics is still his 3-year-old's fascination with genitalia. Last night there was a huge rainstorm. I was working late, preparing for a big meeting with a vendor today. I looked up and jumped, surprised to see Bear standing there silently. He was in his pullup and carried a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I don't like storms, he said softly. Such a sad and frightened look on his sweet face. So I saved my PowerPoint dreck and scooped him up and took him to our bed. He cuddled between Corporate Daddy and me, stroking arms and faces. The lightning was like a strobe light through the window. What's that like? I asked Bear. I don't know, he answered. Nana says it's for counting. So we counted between the lightning and the thunder. That made things only worse since the storm was getting closer and closer. Change in tactics: It's like God taking your picture! I hope he has enough batteries, I tease. No, Bear giggled. No, It's God playing flashlight. See? And the thunder is the clouds bumping into each other, I say. No, No! Bear said. God is taking pictures and He's playing the drums and He's taking your picture. Oh, I laugh. Busy God! Bear amused himself so much that he kicked Corporate Daddy. OOF! CD moaned. I kicked Daddy in the wee-wee, Bear confided as CD continued to groan. Penis, I corrected automatically. Ok. Boys have penises and girls have penises and breasts. Not so much, I offered. Girls don't have penises. Yes they do! No, they don't. They have vag- No! Penises! Know why? Why? Because how else do you go potty? Well.... girls have something else to go potty- Wait! What, Bear? I think that there's no more drums. God is hungry. God is having chocolate milk. It goes in his tummy and then out his wee-wee. Well - I like chocolate milk. It's my favorite. You know what? What? God wants spicy chicken too. Maybe tomorrow we have spicy chicken. Maybe next weekend, Bear. We talked about special restaurant food and how it costs money. I know, I know. Maybe tomorrow. Wait! God is taking your picture again! A few minutes later I look over and Bear is sound asleep. I nudge CD gently. Honey, I beg. Honey please carry him back to his bed. I'm exhausted. CD, knew he had two choices: 1) Carry Bear back to bed or 2) Equip himself with a protective cup for the night. He carried him. Peace reigned. And I was able to get 6 hours of sleep before getting up to head out for the big meeting. Before I left, Bear surprised me with a visit while I was in the bathroom. Mommy!? Where's your penis? Sweetie - we talked about this.. Mommy! Where's! Your! Penis?!

How soon do you have "the talk"?

Hey there. Hey, yourself. Where is the - ? Television. Well. So, Good morning... Is now. *splash* *splash* *slam!* Mommy?! Yes? Daddy?! Yes? Uh, what you doing MommyDaddy?! Taking a shower, Bear. TOGETHER?!

The old apartment

Broke into the old apartment This is where we used to live Broken glass, broke and hungry Broken hearts and broken bones This is where we used to live - Barenaked Ladies
This is my old apartment. Third floor (walkup) on the left. Drove past it the other day. Other than new windows, it is exactly the same. - This is where my other cat fell out of the window and died - This is where a marriage ended - This is where I lived alone - This is where I started smoking again - This is where my brother and I parted ways - This is where I painted the walls blue and green - This is where I slept on the floor, with no furniture - This is where I slept with my friend and crossed the line - This is where I acted obnoxiously mature - This is where my faith came under challenge - This is where my neighbors introduced me to jasmine rice - This is where I discovered Bonnie Raitt and Stevie Ray Vaughn - This is where he came to,looking for a warm welcome - This is where we started traditions - This is where I left the ghosts of Christmas past - This is where we had all those parties - This is where I left, when it was time to move on

Everyone in the Pool

Blame Kalisah . It's the bad 70's picture post here at Corporate Mommy. This is me and an uncle. My mom made the dress. Yes, MADE it. That just blows me away. I loved it so much that I wore for every special occasion for over 2 years. That makes dating the pictures a bit of a challenge, actually. Kalisah is MUCH cooler in her picture. Very "bad to the bone, Rebel Girl" Heh.

Hello, this is the Pope...

I just got the strangest phone call. The caller ID said "John Paul II" Ok, even a lapsed Episcopalian pauses at THAT one. A voice said "Oh, sorry, you're the wrong number." *click* Gah. UPDATED on 8/3 TO ADD: Last night we had a group of my girlfriends over and I was telling them about the Pope calling. Because, let's face it - if the Pope crank called YOU wouldn't you bring it up over pizza and wine spritzers? We all shuffled into the kitchen and peered fuzzily at the Caller ID. "JOHN PAUL II CA" it says on the kitchen phone. "It's a cathedral," said one. "Or a church," said another. "It's freaking wierd," I announced. We all agreed and shuffled back into the dining room for more food.

The Path to Supersecret Government Clearance, or; Dance, even if I'm fat

In this post 9/11 world, government clearances have become more commonly required and harder to obtain for many jobs for or in partnership with the government. The GAO reports some of the FBI's progress in dealing with the now-infamous backlog this heightened demand has created. But, for those of us for whom it could ever be a possibility there is something more nerve-wracking than the long waiting period. It's called a "lifestyle polygraph" test. I was talking with a guy, Leif, who has already been through it. Leif said: You might fail the first time. Most do. I did. Nerves. Me: OK L: Really. Me: I heard you. L: The thing is, they ask you about everything. They have this risk criteria, and it involves... Me: Makes sense. L: You're not afraid? Me: Are you kidding? I'm already shaking. I'm thinking of buying some Depends for the occasion. But it will be fine. L: I want to warn you, most people don't pass, Elizabeth. It took me two times. There is some prep you can do, internally... it helped me. But it's not something you want to go through if you think that you might fail for some reason. Me: Look, Leif - are you asking if I've stolen, lied, been slothful, envious, wrong, careless, broken the law, had speeding tickets, been incarcerated, broken a promise, left a debt unpaid, or betrayed a confidence? Me: I have, all of them. Leif: Then we should discuss alternatives to this - Me: But Leif, I don't think the United States Government is going to withhold clearance because I burned some picture CD's after hours at work or discovered years later that one of my doctors was still owed a balance. Me: I can be trusted; that's proven that over a lifetime. The rest of it? Penny ante crap. I don't have a deep dark secret life. My biggest shame is out there for the world to see. Leif: What do you mean? Me: Well, I'm fat. Leif: I don't understand. Me: My whole life, I've been afraid of being fat. Actually, until I was 18 I never was - I have a soft look but was always a normal weight and size. Throughout my 20's I battled losing and gaining about 25 pounds. Between a size 8/10 through a 12/14. I lived in terror, though. My whole family had been warning me about my genetics since I could remember. Leif: Look, this is none of my - Me: I remember dancing in the North Sea with my British soldier boyfriend. Feeling gorgeous and free. Leif: Really, this - Me: Then when I was 31, I met Corporate Daddy and well, love and a good steak and no more nightly swims in the hotel pool. When I got pregnant, I was a size 16. It was frightening. Leif: OK, I have to - Me: But it was the 7 months of bedrest that did me in. After Bear was born, I actually weighed less than when I got pregnant. Because I had lost all my heavy muscle. Me: I couldn't walk up the stairs without breathing hard. I didn't realized how many calories I was burning while breastfeeding, so when I - Leif: TOO MUCH INFOR - ! Me: The point is, that I am struggling into size 20's. I am 70 pounds over my target weight. I look in the mirror and scare myself. And that's my cross and my challenge but it's not going to get in the way of government clearance. Leif: OK. Can I ask you something? Me: Sure. Leif: What are you doing about it? They've got this surgery... Me: No, I'm not there yet. I have faith still that I can manage my weight into acceptable parameters without taking that risk. So I work out, at a place called Curves. I eat sensibly. I'm learning what foods I crave and what foods I need. I've lost 2 BMI points in the last few months. Leif: So why so hard on yourself? Me: I am very connected to my body. It's hard to have fat be in the way of how I move. It's hard not to be pretty. It's hard not to have the stamina to do the things I love. Leif: But you can still do them? Me: Yes. Yes, I still swim with my son and make out with my husband and run around the playground and meet with my customers and fly for work. Me: And I still dance.

Leif: OK, then.

Me: Yeah, OK. Hey, Leif - ?

Leif: Yes?

Me: Thanks.

Leif: No problem.

Another Beautiful Day in Chicago

If only my garden looked as good as the medians on Michigan Avenue :sigh: (Don't ask how much in tax dollars this cost, La La La La) (08/01/2004)

Humanity. In two easy lessons.

Honey? What are you doing up? I just read this: Father drowns sons, self. Now I can't sleep. (Hugging me) Please don't cry. Come to bed... I'll just see it in my head. I'm going to listen to happy music for a while. Famously in the Blogiverse, a few weeks ago Getupgrrl wrote a post in response to an email that she got. Getupgrrl was being urged to help convince Dooce to continue breastfeeding. In case you were in a cave listening to Captain and Tenille that week, Dooce weaned her 6 month-old daughter so she could go on anti-depressants. Yeah. No-brainer. Let's not forget the part where Getupgrrl was chosen as the target of the email because, as a woman fighting infertility, Getupgrrl would be clearly a poignant voice of "be grateful for the child". The email said, in part: Maybe it would help her to hear from someone who can't even have what she has and she takes for granted! Kind of like having Getupgrrl tell Dooce to eat her stinking beets because children in Getupgrrl country are starving for yummy yummy beets. An hour with a Jesuit in a locked room with a whiteboard and, trust me, this argument quickly becomes so much shredded words. Plus? You'll find yourself rabidly craving a glass of scotch. But that's off the point. But Getupgrrl took this 7 layer salad of insulting ignorance and made a fine, intelligent response. And funny. But mostly? Intelligent. Like a gong echoing throughout a temple, Getupgrrl made two incredibly good points that resonated deep into my soul. 1) If you truly love children, then you must love their parents. Actually, Getupgrrl made the reverse point - "be suspicious of people who claim to love Motherhood but who always seem to hate actual mothers". But I'm a proactive kind of gal. This means: if you wanted children to grow up well then you must want for their parents to have the means of raising them well. Safety, sanity, self-respect, air, laughter, food, love, kindness, health, empathy are not just the needs of children - they are also the needs of their parents. To tend to its leaves you must look to the tree. Years ago when I was working at BigTeleCo, as a single woman I often got to work holidays and overtime with a group of likewise single people that included a man from India, Sri. Sri was often thought of as too polite and self-effacing because he was always the first to raise his hand. One night, late, one of the other single women, Strident, exploded at Sri: "Why did you volunteer for this crap assignment AGAIN? Just because you're single? Why should Guy-with-kids get special treatment? Tell me that!" And I remember Sri saying, ever so gently, to Strident: "Because Guy's children are my responsibility, too." 2) Parents, put on your own air mask first. Do what you need to do to be a functioning adult, capable of caring for others. By making sure that you are all right, you are tending to the lives of your children. The axiom can be bent by sociopaths who want to justify partying all night while their kids sleep alone locked in a closet. "Hey, I'm a better parent when I'm happy and my kid doesn't mind sleeping with a vacuum cleaner." But those same people can also bend "Don't step on the grass" into justification for cooking marijuana highs into their kids' brownies so let's not debate the finer points of crazy, m'kay? It's just practical to know that if you make sure your kids have air first and then pass out and die before you can get your own air mask on, you're not exactly exhibiting good parenting skills. Seems obvious, but I had to learn this on the slow train. When I was nursing my son, Bear, my milk was just not as plentiful as he needed. I did everything. Every remedy, every suggestion. And the more I stressed, the less milk I had. It began to feel like a tale from Brothers Grimm. It was only when I started letting my husband and friends help me that I began to relax. And of course, the cycle was then reversed. Well, wasn't life grand to drop this lesson so neatly in my lap? The better I take care of myself, the better parent I can be. Well. Wasn't this exactly the point that Dooce was taking to heart in making sure that she got the help she needed to combat her illness? Truthfully? I have no easy words of summation. I am haunted by this story about this father who let the black get him and didn't reach out for help. I am haunted by the faces of his lost sons, what they went through watching their father prepare them for death. I am haunted about a stranger causing anguish to Dooce. I am haunted that they attempted to skewer Getupgrrl's pain to the purpose. I can't sleep tonight for my waking nightmares. I don't see any kindness in any of it. I don't see a shred of the best of us. I just don't freaking get it.