Diet is my new four letter word

When I was in grad school, I gained a bunch of weight.  It was way too much-- long days, lots of Jack in the Box, driving 5 hours back and forth from College Station-- all of those things added up to me being rather pudgy.  And unhappy with that. So I went on a diet, lost 40ish pounds.  Got certified as an aerobics instructor.  Was muscled, bellydancing, and pretty fit.  It was kind of easy... calories in less than calories out-- lose 2 pounds a week.

Then I got pregnant.

It wasn't the pregnancy's fault-- I simply stopped exercising. Yes, I was asked to consume 3000 calories a day to help the twins grow well, since twins are often expected to be preemies. I did that partly by eating a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's every day (oh Heavenly Host that was fun!)

But, after the babies were born, I lost a bit, but have been up and down with that "extra 20 pounds" ever since. Last year, I decided to take it really seriously and diet and finally lose that last little bit.

I started working out every day.  I counted calories like a maniac. I lost 20 pounds. Yay!  Only ten more to go!  (It's always "just ten more pounds," though, isn't it?) Then summer hit, and I felt it was just too challenging to hit the gym while the kiddos were home.  So I gained some of that 20 back.  Lost some of it again in the Fall when they went back to school.  Had been trying, again, off and on, to focus on the calorie counting and really take that last few pounds off.  But, this time, in spite of really working hard and doing all the things I did the last time I easily lost those 40 pounds, it was NOT easy.  Those pounds kept coming back again!!

But recently I realized:  dieting makes me into a person who is not my best self.  I can be rather petty, sometimes even mean, about other people's weight (and weight loss) when I am overly focused on calories. I've said things that I really shouldn't have simply because I'm jealous that someone else finally did it, finally got themselves through hard work down to that goal weight. I'm a bit ashamed, but you can't take that level of "mean dieting girl" back, so I own it. I have a competitive streak that comes out occasionally in places like this, sometimes unexpectedly. I may try to hide it with it being a joke, but honestly, it really is just being jealous. I wish I could apologize to one person who I actually did say something too snarky to but an apology still doesn't fix it.

And seriously, it's not like I'm sticking to it enough for me to really have any grounds for being jealous.  It's my own "fault" if I keep a few extra pounds around my middle.  I like food, and I like wine, and I don't stick to going to the gym or running the way someone who likes caloric intake as much as I do ought to in order to be lean and fit.

But what I've realized is this:  I have a bad relationship with my body, with dieting, with food & calories.  I used to not-- but then, it's easy to have a good relationship when you're skinny and can eat at Burger King every day because you're 21 and work at a high calorie burning job and walk everywhere.  It's a lot harder when you have to make deliberate decisions.  I LIKED eating Whoppers and I like potato chips.  I like food!

I DON'T like counting calories, and (here's one of the biggest things) teaching my 8 year old daughter that "women count calories and worry about what they eat."  


My new resolution to stop punishing myself every time I eat a bag of chips has a lot to do with that daughter. She was asking me how many calories were in something, and I visualized the way, even at 18 when I was seriously skinny I thought I was fat and wore baggy clothes.  My mother never, as far as I remember, dieted, so I don't know exactly where my own obsessions with weight came from back then.

Anyway.  So now, I'm trying to re-educate myself. I'm eating food, without constantly trying to count calories. I'm trying to exercise deliberately, and with a goal towards long-term health, not weight loss.  I figure if I lose some weight, I'll be able to tell. But weight loss is not my goal.  And, while I plan to be aware that something has high or low calories, and make conscious choices because of that, I am NOT going to not eat something that I really want, when I'm hungry, because "it has too many calories".  Eat the damn bag of chips. Don't beat yourself up about it. Go running later or not, but stop thinking about food all the damn time!

And I'm trying to forgive myself for sometimes being petty or jealous of other people who have done a better job at their balancing act than me. I'm trying to genuinely love myself, for myself.  Not my skinniest self but me, the way I am, right this second-- messy hair, PJs, a little heavier than ideal, but able to run and catch up with my kids and strong as heck from all that weight lifting.

Why is that so hard to do?

Seen, not heard

So, because of a conversation with a friend who is trying to find a church where she can take her kids & focus on the church, not parenting her kids constantly, I was thinking of the old phrase "children should be seen and not heard."

Honestly? What a load of crap. This phrase has got to be a holdout from the days when middle to upper class folks all had nannys or servants who took their noisy kids away, and they saw them only on special ocassions, dressed pretty and told to be good. When people had a relationship with their nanny and/or maid and/or whatever you called it that was like what people should have with their mom and dad.

We took Sean & Maia to church this Christmas eve. We haven't really been to church since they were babies because the last time we tried, Sean was completely wigged out by the giant pipe organ. Too loud, too many people, too much. So we had skipped that Easter service (about two years ago now) and gone to the Riverwalk instead.

So on Christmas eve, we tried. Sean got a laugh when he "hooray"ed the bell choir and thought that was awesome, so kept making the "hooray" noise, even when it was time to not. Dad had to take him away. They had a good time driving around looking at Christmas lights and chilling while Maia and I stayed at church.

You know me-- I have about three minutes of tolerance for people staring at my son when he makes noises. He cannot help it, and I see every little glance, every frowny face, every whisper of "if he were my kid I'd whip him." You can glance at me once or twice, and then, if he's still making noise, yeah, it's STILL US. Thanks a lot for playing. And then I lose all concentration on whatever it is I'm supposed to be enjoying and focus only on every noise we are making, every wiggle, etc. I honestly am trying, usually, to keep him calm & quiet. But people don't notice that, they simply notice that their movie is not in perfect silence. I honestly wonder, sometimes, what it sounds like in their houses. It must be really, really quiet for our little noises to bother them so freakin' much.

And it really pisses me off that it's usually old ladies giving me the evil eye the most. Seriously woman? You're trying to imply that your kids (if you had them) were always perfect angels, who never made any noise, and we are just so rude to impose upon your perfectly orderly life for thirty seconds. What a load of crap. If one happens to have a naturally chill, naturally quiet kiddo who likes to be still and quiet, then consider yourself the exception. Usually, they want to do something FUN. And sitting quietly in some uncomfortable place, listening to some guy rant about something that doesn't make sense to us is NOT fun. (Why is it, actually, that we adults think it's fun? Maybe we've all been brainwashed....)

We have kids in this world for a lot of reasons. But mostly, we want to express our love for each other, to see a reflection of our spouses, our families, our love of humanity. And people, I hate to break it to you, but KIDS ARE NOISY. They don't know "the rules" and they sometimes can not hold still for five minutes. It doesn't mean they deserve to be hit, or punished. It means that you, the adult who is supposed to be intelligent and educated, need to chill the furgh out and remember that you were a kid too, and you probably wiggled. You probably made noise. You probably laughed too loud and cried when you were sad. You probably got bored easily. You might have danced when you were happy about a special food or a special something.

We should, as a general rule, not expect kids to act like grown ups. We grow up too fast as it is. Enjoying life should be what we do.

No one should be "seen and not heard." Using our voice and expressing our likes and dislikes should be what we all do. Yes, polite society should learn that there is a time and place for quiet. Yes, we need to teach our kids to behave in public situations. But we should also cut parents (and each other) some freakin' slack when it doesn't work. We've all been there. I know when the doctor's "appointment" is thirty minutes + past what it was supposed to be I want to scream and yell and roll around on the floor, too.

Anyway. This isn't about me-- nothing in particular happened to inspire this rant, but I challenge us all to be heard, sometimes. Not just seen. Having a voice, having a will of our own, is an important lesson. And I'd rather have kids running amok in my house, turning it totally upside down, every single day of the week. And if I forget that lesson as my children grow older and quieter, I hope someone smacks me.

Commercials

So for some reason, this note will not publish to my friends' feeds. I wonder why? I'm trying again by posting it to my blog.

So my kids have always been happy watching Nick Jr, upon which they do not show commercials (except maybe for other Nick shows, but not for STUFF.) Lately, though, they are too grown for the channel. Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, Max & Ruby, Olivia-- our staples for years-- just not cool enough for my big kids. Sigh.

Now, Sean wants "Cartoon Network". Maia just wants to watch things like Spy Kids (movie) and/or Alvin & the Chipmunks or Mr. Popper's Penguins. (And dear Spy Kids, thanks for teaching my aspie the phrase Butt Head. Love, Me.)
The problem with Cartoon Network is that they show a bajillion commercials for CRAP. Tub Goo that makes your bathtub into a swamp (I suspect it's some kind of gelatin...) faux Build A Bears, those stomper slippers... etc.

And on Cartoon Network they have this lovely little thing:
It's funny. I actually kind of like it. But add repetetive song to kid with Asperger's and imagine someone waking at 5 AM singing this song over and over again. Yeah. FUN!! (NOT).

And dammit, Barnes & Noble, I liked going to the bookstore because Yeah, I had to fight off a few book related toys, especially with Maia, who wants every stuffed animal on the planet. But now I have to fight an entire Freaking SECTION of toys before I get to the kids books. Toys they WANT NOW and MUST HAVE OR THEY WILL DIE!!!!!!!!!!!

Le Sigh. Le Wah. It's the battle of the modern parent, and I understand it, but I long for the innocent days of Nick Jr, and being able to blithely pretend that all those crappy toys out there did not exist.

Contentment

That is my word of the day.  Sitting on my back porch deck under the oh so green canopy of trees that are filled with happy songbirds, my kids playing nearby, the cat flipping his tail in challenge to the boychild who just avoided an annoyed kitty cat scratch.  It's hot, but every so often there's a slight cool breeze.  I've had one coffee and plan to get another soon. 

Our yard is pretty well screened on all sides by jungle-y vegetation-- a very large clump of bamboo, some vine-draped trees, a neighbor's very tall hedge.  In spite of being in a neighborhood known for small, close-together yards, we have quite the estate back here-- trampoline, pool, kid fort, my plucky fish ponds.  At certain cooler times of the year (or, as now, in the early morning) there's just no place else short of being on a white sand beach that I'd rather be. 

It's been a wild and crazy ride the last few years.  Things seem to be settling down a little bit, and I'm hopeful that we can continue to have moments like this of being purely happy with where I am. 

Reflections

Last year at this time, I was about to turn forty.  It's kind of felt that forty should be a "big year" but for me, it was kind of a hard one.  On my birthday, we spent a whole weekend at funeral events for one of Andrew's relatives-- a man I liked, and was sorry to see go, but three days on my birthday weekend felt a bit much.  It was rainy, wet, and cold in the Hill Country cemetery.  I spent a whole lot of time sitting in the car with the kiddos.  Not really all that much fun.

I was working at a job that felt increasingly like the wrong place for me to be.  My mother was still alive, but it would be very soon that I would lose her.  A few minor illnesses for me, as well, filled some of the year.  Those are under control, but it took a lot out of me during. 

Good things happened, too.  I finally gave up on the idea that somehow I could somehow change people who just didn't like me or respect me.  (I saw one of these people the other day out in town and felt so happy that I didn't have to do the obligatory greeting...just ignored said person and moved on with my day).  I quit feeling guilty about some of the professional things I just don't have the energy or inclination to do anymore.  I worked a bit on my novel-- got some great ideas which, hopefully, I will have time to work into it very very soon.  I've found a real and true love for fixing up/restoring the historic homes we've been buying, and made an almost 100 year old home that was falling into a sad state back into a true jewel, that we will offer as someone's dream home very soon. Found a real talent, there, which I enjoy.  My kids have grown and changed and I love them more every day; it doesn't seem possible but it is true.  Hubby and I have found more time to spend just "us" now that the kids are a little less work and that's been truly a blessing, also.

I have wishes and resolutions for the year ahead.  I need to spend more "Me" time-- go to the gym, lose the weight that is unhealthy, get strong and fit again.  Forty One years of life on the planet is only a trickle of what I want to have ahead of me, and I am going to consider this a bit of a "do-over" year.  I want less sorrow, please, and more joy ahead.  That is my biggest wish for the year.  So next year (and it may be that I don't write a formal blog until then with the way this thing has gone lately!) I want to have a year filled with my own choices.  We will see what time & tide do to that wish. 

Walkers: the same age?

This morning, as I was driving the boychild to school, I spotted several walking folks in my neighborhood who were awfully cute youngish men.  Among these were one adorable man with with neat chin length dreadlocks (I'm a sucker for good looking dreads) and one very clean-cut button down shirt & very short hair, looked like the guy who would carry your books for you home from the library, but secretly listen to the Talking Heads on his IPod.

What is significant about this is that people don't really walk in my neighborhood.  It's a strange few blocks that have no sidewalks (which is annoying as heck) and is kind of a busy street so it's not actually all that good of an idea to walk there.  So I thought about why the universe was throwing two cute walking youngsters my way. 

One thing these two very adorable young men revealed to me this morning is how old I am, at least on that front.  I didn't think of them in any sort of lewd manner, just thought of how cute they were, like puppies you just wanna adopt & buy a comfy doggie bed for. 

It's sort of like on American Idol, there's a cute finalist whom one of the judges (who is about my age and/or maybe a bit younger) was flirtatious with, and he quite naughtily sang Mrs. Robinson the other night to tease.  I don't think of that young guy (who is gorgeous, by the way, and super talented) as someone "on my list." 

I don't know what the point is here, but I just wanted to think about it a little bit.  I think it's a good thing-- there comes a time when you don't want to be Matthew McConaughey's character in Dazed & Confused. 

Poison Ivy

No, not the sexy Uma Thurman kind.  This Poison Ivy is NOT at all good with a leaf green outfit and mask.  Oy vey does it hurt!

Last Monday, boychild had a blotch on his face when picked up from school.  I assumed it was a mosquito bite cause after all, this is La, and mosquitos are the official welcome-bird of Spring, Summer, and anything short of nuclear winter.  I'm pretty positive it didn't happen at school-- most likely, it just took that time to set in from the previous day.  No big, right, one little splotch of scratchiness?
I also worked to clean up the garden bed of our new rental property and had a big piece of poison oak's woody vine pop up onto my left upper arm.  It instantly left a burn mark-- yes, a burn mark-- but it did not really itch.  I went and washed it off and figured I was safe. 

So since then, poor boychild's face has erupted in multiple itchy scabby bits and my arm itches so much I may cut it off.  It would be an improvement.  I have tried the various washes-- including the 30 dollar, "will get rid of that nasty poision ivy oil for you" stuff.  (Works a little, not a lot). 

We have a lot of Poison Ivy plants in this area because it rains a lot, and we have nice fertile soil & warm, sunny days.  The swampland is prone to growing things we don't want. 

I will never, ever, underestimate the dangers of this plant, and man oh man, to imagine how awful it would be if it were in more "awkward to scratch" areas. 

Silence

So I haven't blogged much in forever, I know. I can say I've been busy, and that is ridiculously true.  But also, part of it is that I have yet to post here my mother's obituary.  I wrote it.  I meant to send it to some newspapers where she was born (Elgin, Illinois) since that's the only place there are people who might not already know.  But in spite of writing some poems about it, I just haven't been able to post that here.

Is it because it makes it more final, more formal?  Maybe.  But mostly, I'm not not in a blogging about me sort of mood right now.  And that's okay.  I'm sure I'll be back eventually-- I've done this too long to really drop it forever.  And it's an addiction that doesn't fade easily. 

So for now, follow me on Facebook where I can handle short updates and here if you don't mind some pauses now & then.

Shadows

I deal with life by writing about it. This has been fairly well established and won't be a surprise to anyone reading this.

Right now, words are sort of failing me. I want to write so many things about my mom, who is not doing very well in the hospital after we had hoped she was rallying.  I'm not really ready to do so, and I'm afraid that writing too much will somehow jinx her, but I also know that my blog writing doesn't have anything to do with what is happening in that hospital room right now.  While I have handled my dad's death and other family members going so well I wondered about myself a little bit, I don't think I'm doing very well with this one. 

I remember once when I was a very little girl riding in a blue truck, nestled between my dad, who was driving, and my mom, who suddenly fell out of the truck door and rolled down the steep hill we were on.  I think it was kind of a parking lot of some sort.  It seemed like a long hill, and it seemed like she rolled forever while I watched her go.  My dad stopped the truck and she came back and was mostly fine.  She had scraped her arm pretty badly and never could wear any jewelry with nickel in it again because her watch had gotten into the scrape and she had developed some kind of traumatized allergy. I don't know why the damn door opened and she fell, and/or remember much else about that day. 

This feels kind of like that time, though.  Watching her rolling down the hill, helpless to stop it, not knowing what will happen-- will she get up or will she just keep rolling until she is out of sight for good? 

I also used to have this reoccuring nightmare of being in the trailer where we lived at the time.  My mother was asleep on the bed, and the whole place was on fire.  I kept trying to reach where she was with the water hose but it would not stretch, and she would not wake up and save herself.  Classsic anxiety of kids about losing their safety source, their mom.  Clearly about me, too, because I always try to save people, especially when they aren't trying to save themselves.  Sometimes to my own detriment.  

My trouble is, I'm pretty sure I know the answer to that question already.  It feels like a heavy sort of knowledge and it turns out, my ability to be unreasonably grief-stricken over a cycle, a natural part of life, in a way that my mom would scold me for, is just fine. 

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Incidentally, the picture above is my mom with my older sister, Dottie, not me.

Grief and Change

Online people, those like me who seem to share just freakin' everything with perfect strangers on our Facebook feed or here, probably boggle the minds of folks who feel more private.

But it's such a complicated thing.  I even read an article about how FB helps people deal with grief and loss, because of connections that were lost years ago but people who have shared the horrific experiences of life in ways that even your immediate friends may not have.  It's an understanding issue, in part, I guess, because everyone's bad times are their own, the first time they've lived them, and we never know how we'll handle it. 

When my dad died, I didn't really know him very well.  My sisters went to his funeral.  When Andrew's dad was diagnosed as terminal, that hit me hard, but it was still Andrew's family, Andrew's major grief, and I was busy with the kids, who were just a bit over one and it was a bit hectic. 

This Christmas, dragging my mother into the ER because if I hadn't, she would have died within a few days, was tough, but I felt like it was productive.  They helped her.  I was there, and if I wasn't, someone else was. 

Now, she's been in a rehabilitative home since then and she was doing much, much better.  But this weekend, something has happened and I don't know where it's going.  People usually don't die from a freakin' sinus infection, which is what she apparently has, but it's impeding the necessary oxygen, which her body, because of her severe COPD and 50 years of smoking cannot get on its own. 

They sent her to the ER yesterday-- something I was in the midst of trying to set up already from here after I had talked to her on the phone and was worried.  At some time during that, she crashed and they intubated her.  She's also sedated, but apparently, she's also been fighting the intubation so they've had to restrain her, too.  My neice, who has had to deal with this issue very recently with her own father, is the only person who was there.  My sister is on her way, and she will evaluate what we're going to ask happen next.

See, my mom has a DNR order.  And we all agree with it; but for some reason the hospital didn't have a record of it.  The respirator, apparently, is something they shouldn't have done based on that DNR.  While I don't believe my mom lost consciousness, I think she may have if they hadn't acted, and that's directly in violation of the DNR. 

So there you go.  I feel totally helpless and angry at the hospital and had to yell at my husband last night and my eyes are puffy and feel like they have sand in them.  I'm not really in a mood to do anything other than brood.  But writing helps, putting out the story a little bit.  I don't know how it ends, but if you extend any story far enough out, it's a tragedy. 

We'll see how this current act ends.

Warts and All

It is actually coming up on being with my husband for TWENTY years!  Seriously!  You know that scene in Groundhog Day where the insurance guy says "Ten Years!"  Now double that and the pitch just goes up even more. 

We haven't been married quite that long, but together, yes.  Just about twenty years.  And we're pretty darn happy, too.  I remember about six years ago, before we had our kids, someone was bitching about my biological clock (as if that was any of their business in the first place) and one of our family members said "Leave them alone.  They still LIKE each other."  YEAH.  Leave them alone!  

I'm not saying that there aren't bumps in the road now and then, days when I am furious at something stupid he has done, or vice versa.  I'm a perfect angel, though, so he never gets mad at me.  blink.  blink.  blink.  innocence and rainbows. 

So.  What makes this work?  What makes our relationship work, when so many others do not?  Especially after you have kids, when the tensions are ratcheted up a million times by waning hormones because of sleepless nights, whatever it is that makes those days after kiddos are born harder. 

What it mostly takes, for us, is accepting the warts as best as you can.  I always give this advice to people who are just getting married.  Figure out what you hate most about the person you're marrying and learn to love it because you're NOT going to change it.  (People do not "change if you love me."  Don't even ask).  A post by a blogger I don't read often enough, Stephanie Klein, reminded me of this because she said "what deadly sin are you willing to go to bed with?"  That's good advice, but my hubby's "sin" isn't as big as one of the Big 7. 

He's a flatulent man, honestly. Most of the time, it's not very smelly, but it's LOUD. I do not love this trait about him other than the fact that he is just so un-self-conscious about it. That unselfconsciousness I kind of do love because that makes him a sort of fearless person, and that's awesome. And it's not like he surprised me-- on our first date he snuck one out, and I thought he must be mortified (he was a little embarrassed, but not as much as most people would be).

So I laugh.  Even when it's kinda gross, and I need to spray him down with Lysol.  And guess what?  My kids do it a little bit too (Sean more than Maia).  And I actually DO kind of love that in the crazy way that mothers have of loving those little traits because they are little reflections of yourself. 

And laughing when it's kinda gross and yelling at each other HONESTLY without bringing up every fight you've ever had, forgiving each other sometimes, trying to forget, even, and not expecting the sun AND the moon.  And just dealing with the warts and all, every single day.  Some days are easier than others. 

All of that makes almost twenty years feel like just a start, and look forward to the next twenty. 

Autism Boy

Tomorrow is our yearly review of Sean's progress.  He's been in the special early class for a little bit under a year now, and his teacher, who is amazing & wonderful (all three of the teachers in his class are) called me this morning to give me a head's up as to what we'd do tomorrow.  She tested him this morning to have benchmarks, and apparently on a big number of things, he is doing amazingly well.  It's very good to see real progress.  I know it, but sometimes when you know something as a parent at home, it doesn't reflect at the school.  So that's the good parts.  It is VERY exciting that he is doing as well as he is.

Then, this week, when we were in San Antonio, we were at a restaurant/bar that has this kid's play area.  Sean & Maia & one of our friend's daughters were playing outside, where we could all see them through the windows.  Sean is generally a very sweet boy; when he IS aggressive or something, there's usually a really good reason for it.  He pushes back when people push at him, in other words, but he doesn't usually instigate problems.  (I can see that he might; I'm not saying he's a perfect angel or anything). This is the main reason why I felt fine about letting them play outside while we were watching not right on top of them.

But something happened with this other, younger kid.  I don't know what it was; one of my friends was there and Sean had bumped her daughter, and the other kid had started crying around the same time.  Then, this group of people brought their daughter inside.  Did they say something to me?  No.  They just sat at their table and complained loudly, and looked pointedly at our table like we should know something.  Well, I couldn't see EVERYthing that happened, so I didn't know, but I had my guess that somehow, something had happened.  If they had said something, I would have tried to make it right. 

So I knew they were talking about us, and Sean, and I pointedly apologized, told them that he's usually a good kid, but that he has autism and sometimes he can get into trouble when he doesn't understand something.  The mom of the group sort of waved at me and said something like "that explains it" and seemed to accept my explanation.  But then the whole group of them left, and seemed agitated still, as though we were those clueless folks who did something terrible to their kid. I was sort of confused.

Look.  It's not that I think Sean's autism excuses seriously bad behavior.  And I DO watch him as carefully as I can, and if I had thought there would be a problem I would have been out there.  I wish the woman would have explained to me what happened so I could understand it better. 

We're trying.  Super hard, to make him understand, to make him be the sweet wonderful kid I know he is, I know he can be.  But as I have said before, why can't we give each other (parents) a freakin' break sometimes?  Figure that it's not necessarily neglect and cluelessness but that there is something, a variable, that you don't know. 

Anyway.  One step forward, one step back.  At least we're mostly breaking even around here.

Closed Blogging: Why Bother?

A couple of years ago I closed off a former blog.  I had written so much pain and rage and frustration into that one and I couldn't see a way of rehabilitating it.  But I couldn't just delete it, either.  It's still there; I am the only person who can read it.  Sometimes that will happen to a blog I used to casually read; I'll go there and the writer has shut that valve, sometimes forever.

Blogs are funny things; they are journals for most of us who write them, ways of communicating with the self.  As I type, I don't usually plan out what I'm going to say, and often I just have an undefined something that I need to think about.  But they are public, and there is an illusion of privacy being breached.  I suppose that illusion can be pretty convincing sometimes.

I don't actually have any IRL*  who write blogs the way I do.  I know some online folks who write, but most people guard their secrets their privacy pretty carefully.   Which I respect, but it's amazing to me those folks who write all those details, their lives, their disappointments and personal issues.  I respect both types of folks-- those who write it all out, sharing the warts & all, and those who keep their privacy as close as they can.

I love that my friends and family can keep up with at least a little bit of what I'm thinking through this medium; I wish that I could, in turn, keep up with some of them, as well, in a similar fashion.  Since I don't know very many people who blog, for realz, the blogs I do read are folks who I "met online".  I love to read a story about their day, see a cool photo, step a minute out of my own head.

Lately, talking on the phone seems so invasive, so hard to do right.  I can't unsay something on the phone, highlight a phrase that didn't come out right and retype it better, so it's less painful, nicer. So I don't give away too much.  So that I do it right.  I find myself, with some people in phone conversations, not doing it right.  Screwing it up.  Wishing I could start over.

But I am also well aware that reading a blog entry does not mean I know anything about this person in more ways than superficially.  I know what they are writing, what they are telling me, but I don't know everything.  It's a kind of connection, and sometimes I have felt I know someone better through the blog world than I do some people in that "real life" that I speak to every day.  Just as when I write a blog, I don't say things that I don't feel like sharing.  What I share is honestly far more superficial than people realize, I guess.  It seems like there is nothing I won't write.  I've written about physical pain, emotional pain, love, life, hate, rage, disappointment.

I write things when I am trying to figure them out.  Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't.  I wish I could give this gift to others, the ability to share this or that detail but not too much.  Maybe it's kind of a form of meditative practice; trying to know myself well enough to make the things that are selfish or greedy or wrong over into something better.  It's like my Tarot card readings.  I don't pretend to KNOW through magic or con-artistry what the cards REALLY mean; I just lay them down, tell you what the traditional symbolism would be and let you figure it out for yourself.  What do you THINK the giant head with the body of a cricket from your dream really means?  Your interpretation there is more important than my own.

I want to reach out, to take you by the hand, to give some kind of comfort from grief when that is needed, some joy when that is the thing that is called for.  Something good.  Pull out the good crystal goblets and expensive champagne and chocolates and share joy.   

Sometimes, when I blog, I can do that and more.

But what I have here today is a winter blue sky, windy, isolated clouds that imagination cannot shape into anything other than cold cloud, and trees that are mostly bare and shadows playing on my neighbor's roof. 

annoying neighbors

Today, it is we who are the above.  I feel really bad about it, to tell you the truth. 

We are draining our swampy pool. 

We tried so hard this year to keep it from turning swampy.  We cleaned leaves and leaves and leaves.  Tried to keep the chlorine content working enough with all those damned (like, five trees worth) of leaves in it.  I managed til sometime in mid December to make it.  But then, it just got too hard.  And too cold. 

And it's been getting really green in the last week because it got warmer.

So we rented the drain and it's been spewing algae infested water all afternoon, and being noisy as all hell, and smelling like gasoline, too.  And it's getting close to being done, but not yet. 

We plan to buy a pool cover to try to combat this problem for next year.  We had meant to get one this year but it's harder than you would think to get one. 

But I'm really self-conscious about it and feel bad for our neighbors having to hear the "rrwawar" of the drain pump still going.  Hopefully it will be done soon so it will hush.  Sorry!  Sometimes, your neighbors are aware that they are being pains in the butt but there really doesn't seem to be any not irritating way to handle the issue.  And you don't want my pondy-swampy pool in your vicinity, a perfect breeding ground for many many mosquitos, either. 

Sigh.  Sorry!!

Is STILL Not Too Sensitive!!

Last winter, teaching the freshman seminar class I did, we worked a bit on the Meyer's Briggs personality spectrum.  I am, and have always been, an INFP.  When I was looking for info for the little slide show I did with it, I found this cool graphic. I've even written about it before, apparently, cause when I went to look for the graphic, I found a post about this, by me.  Duh!  :) 

It makes me laugh because I AM totally too sensitive.  I take things way personally.  It's not that I think the world revolves around me, not by any means, but I overanalyze EVERYthing.  I think "what did that guy mean, when he cut me off" or "what did she say about redheads" or whatever.  Everything has to be the universe attempting to smash my feelings. 

I know this is self-centered.  I think it's just the way I'm wired, to expect to be hurt by things that other people say "dude, get over it; it's nothing personal."  And the intellectual part of me knows this, but the emotional little girl in the picture does not believe the intellect.

So anyway.  I will go now and get some lunch and perhaps a new book and NOT obsess over slights that may or may not be directed towards me.  I am NOT too sensitive. 

Or maybe just a little.

Why Housewives Don't Write Good Poetry

Set aside for the moment Anne Sexton.  She was a terrible housewife, by all accounts, and a great poet much of the time.

Housewifey duties don't seem to bring out the poet in me.  Who wants to read about the applesauce I cleaned out of the fridge?  Maybe an Adam & Eve metaphor thrown in there?  Nope.  Me either.  I don't even want to THINK about what it would take to write that sort of poem.

It's similar to when I was in early grad school and was really pretty darn happy & only wrote poems about writing poems, which defined narcissism & solipsism and a few other isms about self-love (and not even the interesting and infinitely more poetic kind of self love, hubba hubba wink wink nudge nudge). 

And frankly, even I am kind of bored by this post.  I really need to get a good book to read. 

People I sometimes google

I think I've written about the phenomenon of googling old flames, old friends, lost to the water under bridges, before.  It's akin, probably, to drunk dialing except you don't have the number.  I've had people look me up on Facebook probably that way (more so, probably, now that I've added my maiden name to my profile.)  I've found a few folks from high school that way, too.  I sent out a few unanswered friend requests recently and wondered whether they did or didn't remember me.  If they did, what was it that made them click "ignore?" 

It's something to ponder after having had a couple of Mike's Lemonades. 

After a soul-searing argument I had this summer with someone, I've thought a lot about myself in a way of really trying to analyze.  Do I do this? That?  Am I empathetic or just narcissistic?  It's something some people never think about, something some probably think about too much. 

Especially after a couple of Mike's Lemonades.

40 years on a planet and I am exactly ten times my daughter's age.  Today, when I told her I was 40, her eyes got wide.  She finally understands enough about numbers and math to realize how many differences that is from her. 

Why do I feel an urge to google people I really do NOT want to reconnect with, and a sense of both relief and regret when it appears those folks are not really all that Internet Savvy (or maybe more than I am so that they hide their presence-- but I doubt it.)

I guess because my own life has been a series of losses; I've lost cities, friends, entire lives of things.  It's okay, because those losses made me the person I am. 

Or is it?

Time to have another Mike's Lemonade and think about it.

Simplify.

In "Where I Lived and What I Lived For," Henry David Thoreau wrote:  "Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify! ... Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose."  His mentor & freebie landlord, Emerson, wrote in response:  "Don't you think one 'simplify' is enough?"

Yes.  Enough. One simplify works just fine.

This year is, for me, a year of simplification.  Jobfront, lifefront.  I am, in January, cleaning house metaphorically and literally.  No need to wait until Spring for this cleaning; if it makes me sad, or angry on a frequent basis, it is gone. 

I'm done with saying "well, this etiquette is weird, I will understand and accept."  If it hurts my feelings, and it's not the first time, then there's a compatibility problem and "Simplify" will be the word of the day.

And, to end with a quote from Stuart Smalley* that sums it up too:   "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and, doggonit, people like me!" 

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*And yes, I'm quite aware that in many ways Smalley is an example of the 12 step ideals gone wrong.  I never said I was perfect.

Funny Thing

is that today, after having finally made it real to leave the Ivory Tower, at least my small place in the servant's quarters of it, I had a former student stop by to ask for some advice. He is thinking of changing his major to English from (shudders) Computer Science.

About a year ago, I would not have been able to feel very enthusiastic about counseling a smart young person to change to English as a major. It felt pretty hopeless to even contemplate getting a good job in the field that I have devoted much of my life to.

But today, I felt really happy for his thinking. I came up with a few options that might work for him, and was almost sorry that I am not going to be here next semester. That, coupled with a conversation with another bright student who wants to be a nature zoologist later in the day about food, and books, and seeing that beginning place they are at makes me happy.

Happy. I'm still anxious, for sure, but now my enthusiasms are closer to those of the ones starting their quest, instead of me feeling mired in a place where I am not going anywhere.

Bridges

So I just sent off a letter to interested parties (department head types) that I am no longer adjuncting, here or anywhere. I'm still a little freaked out by it because on the one hand, it feels a bit like leaping into the void.

I've always planned to work in Academia. However, standing on the outskirts as an adjunct after working forever to get a PHD is NOT an acceptable way to do it. If I don't go Tenure Track somewhere, I'd rather not do it at all. It's too much of a ghetto, too much of a "not good enough". Even at a school where people are nice, (and there are plenty who are) I just hate not being a real part of the department. Things I tried to do to contribute were seen as weird, or "pushy" so I quit doing them. Adjuncts just don't Do that sort of thing.

So I am done. I will work for Andrew & myself on our Real Estate empire (and let me tell you, the pay is better & I am desperately needed to do the work). I will also start in January on the five or six novels that I already have written out in my head. (One at a time, of course). I will be a little house-wife-y-- keep the place a bit cleaner. No matter how few hours a week one teaches as an adjunct, it's always just enough to make it hard to do the other work in your life. With a "real job" (read, tenure track) it would be different, in part, because I'd make enough money to pay someone to do the laundry, clean the floors. But adjuncting just doesn't cut it. One of my friends figured out that when she was working the way she should, she literally made 4 cents an hour. Nope. Not gonna go there.

So I am done. I don't plan to say I am never coming back to adjuncting, perhaps at another local school, perhaps even here (if I don't piss everyone off by leaving now--which I hope I haven't done, haven't tried to do...). But for now, this bridge is crossed. I don't know what's on the other side. Maybe literary fame and fortune, maybe teaching somewhere else someday (like Paris!) but for now, it feels pretty good.