Even Pets Make Friends

I have what can only be described as the world's most unpleasant cat.  To everyone else, that is.  I adore the thing, but she is rather...well...not nice to everyone else.  Ok, that's an understatement.  She hisses and claws at anyone who is unfortunate enough to walk through the door.  It's entirely my fault.  The first day I had her was the day I moved to Chicago, and she spent much of the first few years stuck in a studio apartment in the sky, with next to no human interaction.  I supposed technically I was human, but as I was a law student, that is a debatable point.  Anyway, when people did enter her life, she wasn't thrilled with it, to say the least.

Also not shocking,she is not a huge fan of change.  Each time I moved in Chicago, she went ballistic.  She even found her way up into a bathroom cabinet once, making me think that she had somehow Houdini-ed out of the apartment or that we had left her somewhere.  Ask my friend who was kind enough to help me move--I was ballistic, thinking she was somewhere between the Loop and Lincoln Park.  But a few days later, she eventually made her way down and out into the apartment.  Then, just as she was getting settled, we moved again.  Tragic.

So fast forward to the most recent, rather large, move.  Of course she was not a huge fan of the drive out.  I tried to drug her (and me), but neither worked.  So she sat, terrified, in a carrier in the back listening to me bawl and the baby yell.  When we got here, we had no furniture for a week, so there really wasn't anywhere for her to hide.  And man did she let me know it.  But eventually her stuff came and the other day we even unpacked her three-tiered scratching post (I believe in bribing family and friends with gifts).  So she's relatively happy.

But the kicker is that she has made friends.  Seriously. I have mentioned the screen doors that allow the baby to see out.  Well, they also allow the cat to see out.  And there are two neighborhood cats who roam around and have sensed the cat is here so they saunter into the backyard to say hi.  The cat stares at them and they stare at her.  I presume that there is some taunting--"ha, you can't come outside" versus "why do your humans make you leave the house."  But everyone seems to get along rather well, considering.  And she seems to like it.  It's their own morning ritual.  Classic.

Just goes to show you, I guess.  If this cat can make friends (particularly at this stage in her rather long life), maybe there is hope for all of us.

The Good Stuff

I will fully admit--I can be a huge sap.  While a decade of fighting with people for a living has knocked a bit of it out of me, I still tear up at movies, I still get a lump in my throat at some country songs (even, occasionally, when that lump isn't vomit), and I still go absolutely insane with joy when my friends are happy.  It's these times that remind me (and I need to be reminded) that there are some good parts of life.

This week a friend of mine gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  Everyone is doing well, and little baby Oopsie went home already.  I suppose I will have to stop calling her that before she is a teenager.  Her parents, clearly, had not intended to have kids, but from the second she was known about, that child was completely adored by both.  And I know with 100% certainty that they are going to be one of those families that you see out and about and envy.  In short, she is a true gift.

And I simply cannot get over the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, life is really good.  I'm not saying a baby makes things perfect, I'm saying that sometimes the unexpected can be the best thing about this insane, often anxiety-filled life.  And this is coming from the woman who hates it when her coffee unexpectedly is stronger than it was yesterday.  But when Oopsie was born and when our common friends were pouring in the congratulations, it really hit me how stupid the rest of it all is. 

I have thought this frequently over the course of my life, but only when things have been really frustrating have I fully understood just how cool some moments are.  When it comes down to it, who the hell cares whether Company X's attorney is stonewalling you?  How does it affect your life?  Sure, it helps you maintain a job and a roof over your head and food on the table.  But (and trust me on this one) those things can disappear and yet you still wake up every morning and you still go to bed at night.  And (trust me on this one, too), the frustrating things may follow you wherever you go and may not let up for a while.  But, again, you keep going.  And if you have friends or family or hobbies or pets or WHATEVER makes you happy, that's really all it takes to keep getting up.  Because good stuff happens.  Sometimes it's just harder to see.

My friend will now have sleepless nights and worries and feeding issues and problems associated with this kid, for the rest of her life.  But she will also know a love that she has never felt before and will know a joy that can't be pushed aside no matter what goes on.  And there are other good things out there--from winning (PLEASE) the lottery, to your favorite meal being served up at home, to tomatoes actually sprouting, to the Cubs (PLEASE, PLEASE) pulling the season out of thin air.  There are countless possibilities for good.  So I guess maybe that's what should be focused on.  That's the good stuff.  And it's everywhere.  We just need to learn how to see it.

So congratulations Oopsie and your parents.  Welcome to the world, little one.  You're the good stuff.

Well, S*&t

In the past, I have been known to utter the occasional swear word.  Ok, fine--when I worked at a large firm, it was a natural form of communication.  Those who still work there can back me up on this.  If you say "good morning" to another attorney without adding a "f*&king," you aren't part of the gang.  It became as natural as a glass of wine at lunchtime.  Serious situations and 5:00am flights to Nashville required the occasional swear word.

So, fast-forward.  My child has begun to mock everything I do.  It's awesome.  He steals my keys and I once found him using them to try to pry open the lock on a cabinet in my room.  Last night I was blinded by a mini flashlight that his aunt had given him and that he learned to turn on and swing like a disco ball--just like mom does.  So you see where I'm going with this.  I need to curb the swearing because it is a matter of time before "good f*&king morning, Grandpa" comes out of his little precious mouth.

For example (and forgive me if you have heard this story--it's one of my favorites), I have a friend who has a three year old.  They were driving through Chicago traffic one day, minding their own business, when my friend was cut-off.  Her reaction was natural:  she yelled "Mother...." but in unusual fashion she stopped herself!  She had managed to keep from uttering the unholy of all swear words.  She was feeling pretty proud for a split-second, until her three year old angel in the backseat, his face contorted into fury, his arms outstretched and fingers pointing, yelled at the car "F*&KER!!!!!!!!!"  She was mortified, particularly because the windows were rolled down and the woman in the car next to her was appalled.  She said it wasn't even the swearing that killed her, but the fact that he was doing it with such conviction--even pointing at the source of his dismay.  A thing of beauty, really.  But not so much on the battle of mom victories.

This story has stuck with me, both because I continue to find it hilarious and because I really do need to watch what I say.  And so I have decided to mind my "p's" and "eff-you's."  It's unnatural for me, but I do find myself uttering a lot of "gosh darnit"'s.  Like I said, it's weird.  But it's in the name of preventing random strangers from being appalled at my child, so I guess it all comes back to me in some way.  And so, my friends, have a frickin nice day.

Found the Seventh Circle

In case anyone was looking for it, I found the Seventh Circle of Hell.  It takes the form of an indoor playground.  I had the pleasure of seeing it for myself with some awesome friends last weekend.  And I'm pretty sure that we all agree--we will go back, and it is unequivocally horrible.

In fairness to this place, they are only open at limited days and times and as it has been raining nonstop here, the place was swamped.  Kids of all ages were running around screaming, and parents of all types were running after them.  Sounds basic enough for a playground, right?  Not so much.  I think the problem was that the parents spanned every life experience, making them unnaturally hostile toward one another.  The place was inexpensive enough that those of us with limited means could go, and was new enough that those who spent hours and hundreds of dollars in collagen treatments getting ready for playtime could as well.  There were young mothers and old fathers.  There were working parents and stay at homes.  There were singe and married and (speculating here) what looked to even be a polygamist.  And each and every one hated each and every other.

Need an example?  There were older kids in the baby section and scooters in the ball court.  The logcal response to both would be to either ask the 15 year old who appeared to be in charge to say something, or to say something yourself.  What really happened?  Dirty looks, whispers and the occasional parent getting creamed with a soccer ball.  I even saw a woman with a huge rock on her hand tell her little precious to go steal a scooter from an adult because the adult "didn't look nice."  It was fantastic.

Here's the thing--the kids loved it.  As they well should; they were more grown-up than the grown-ups.  But back to my original point: if you are looking for the seventh circle, I have found it.  I can give you directions.  Just be sure to bring a child and a chip for each shoulder.  No admittance otherwise.

Shark vs. Death Squad

I have, most unfortunately, recently learned that I am in fact a giant pansy.  That's right--the woman who is first to yell in a completely inappropriate manner is, when it comes down to it, a wuss.

This knowledge came with my first real garden battle of the season.  As you likely know, I recently planted a garden.  And, thanks to copious amounts of torrential rain, it has begun to sprout.  I am super, super excited.  There are little baby lettuce leaves and the tops of green onions and carrots.  AWESOME.  So last night I was wandering around the border of my supermarket destined to feed families throughout the city when I saw something weird.  It was like a giant worm, but much slower (really didn't know that was possible).  My grade school science made me rule out snail (no shell), so I had to deduce it was a slug.  Cool.  Never seen a slug.  Not so pretty.  But I did what any respectible city folk would do--I took a photo.  The slug smiled and kept on his glacial pace across my garden.  I went in to finish my glass of wine.

Hmmm...this is 2011.  Perhaps I should Google whether slugs are good or bad.  I did so and found, across the board, they are bad.  Very, very, very bad.  They, despite their seemingly slow moving lifestyle, are capable of mowing down entire rows of seedlings before you even put the iPhone back in your pocket.  They're evil.  Well, crap.  So, I did the next logical thing that any city person would do.  I went out with a fork and...don't bother to cover your eyes...I picked each of them up with the fork and flung them over the fence into the neighbor's yard.

Yep.  I was too weak to kill them.  I went through article after article about how to do it.  Most methods had to do with impailing them or setting out egg shells so that they cut themselves as they wander across the garden.  I was fully capable of doing so.  Hell, I was a shark for nearly a decade, I can totally take care of a slug or two.  But the problem is a moral one for me.  If you (bug, animal, person, etc) are in my home or endangering my family, then you will get pummeled.  End of story.  But here, I sort of felt like I was in his home.  This poor disgusting creature was just going about his business, and I was going to light him on fire and do a voodoo dance (one of the more obscure websites)?  So, naturally, I made my poor neighbor woman's life hell and made him her problem.  I couldn't be the death squad.  I am a weakling.

Sort of.  In the end, I actually went for a combination of methods.  I couldn't bear the thought of my beautiful little seedlings being taken out.  So I put out traps.  Made of beer.  Seriously--that's what is recommended.  You put a container (in this case, an empty baby food jar) of beer in the ground, and they run to it.  It's open bar night.  Then they drown.  And the reason I figure this is ok is because I am thinking some Darwinism is at play.  If you're too stupid to stop drinking before you drown, that's not my problem.  So happy drinking, my slimy little friends.

I may be cold-blooded, but I'm not a killer.  Today.   Who knows what another week in the wild will do to me.

UPDATE:  I originally wrote this post last night, as I was so amped up about the entire situation.  Well, as of this morning, my morality has changed.  There were slugs EVERYWHERE.  And, they were happily munching on my poor little seedlings.  Done.  I started dropping them into the vats of beer, without remorse.  I figure that's a decent way to go--drowning in rather expensive brew.  I have a new mentality.  To quote the character Billy Ray brilliantly played by Eddie Murphy in one of the greatest all-time movies, Trading Places, "We have to kill the mother-f*&kers.  We have to kill them!"  Guess it took less than a week.

Rescue Alert

Recently I (against my better judgment) watched the movie "Eat, Pray, Love," based on the book of the same name.  It was what I expected--not bad, not great, decent Friday night entertainment (particularly when paired with a glass of wine--fine, TWO--and a loaf of bread).  The funny part to me is that I have a very good friend who really did do that.  She decided her life was better spent traveling the world, so she quit her job and is doing just that.  Rock star.

But there is something nagging at me about the film.  At the end of the movie (if you haven't seen it and don't want me to "give it away" quit reading...go ahead, I'll wait...you gone?  ok) Julia Roberts' character, after months of debating what she will do when her "real life" resumes, runs off with the hot Brazilian.  Yay.  Very happy for her.  And in fairness, it wasn't an easy decision for the character.  Whatever.

So my question is this--is there a happy ending for women who DON'T get rescued by some guy?  Because if there is, I'm not seeing it celebrated.  It just seems to me that our reflection of the world doesn't include happy ever after, unless you are in a "perfect" relationship.  Well, I don't know about you, but I have yet to see that relationship in the flesh.  Moreover, as someone who would desperately love to be rescued out of the money hell in which I am currently finding myself, I despise the fact that the solution seems to be marrying the first guy on Match.com who is desperate for an adorable kid and a decent (the past years have been tough) looking wife.  My insurance problems would go away.  That whole "how do I feed my kid this month" thing would, as well.  So why is that the solution?  I hear you--it's not.  But then why is it celebrated as such? 

It just irks me that Julia Roberts is pushing the end-all solution of "find a guy"!  Excellent, I'll get right on that.  In the meantime, all of you married folks, congratulations on your lives being perfect.  Wait, what, they're NOT?  Better call Hollywood....

Time = Paranoia

Originally posted on
http://www.boltagain.ning.com/

One thing about having more free brain time, the paranoia really sets in.  I'm not going to pretend that I'm not paranoid about a whole slew of things.  It's one of my trademark personality traits.  For example, I refuse to log on and plug in one of my kid's toys that "learns" his name.  Why?  Because you do it online and I don't want the sinister people at the toy company to know his name.  Weird?  Definitely.  Paranoid?  Absolutely.  Me?  Without a doubt.

But the paranoia that sets in with free time is different.  I have become extremely paranoid that my Chicago friends have already forgotten me.  I spend hours drafting emails in my head about how, because you didn't email me without prompting over the course of the last week, you clearly want nothing to do with me and I wish you a happy life.  I happen to know for a fact (at least I think I do) that such is not the case.  Most of my friends are incredibly busy people.  Most have jobs and significant others and dogs or kids or hobbies--all of which (rightfully) take up more time than I deserve.  PARTICULARLY considering the fact that I completely suck at communication.  I am the worst at answering emails, and I don't even want to get into calls.  Yet when they don't answer mine, I sit and grow more and more upset that yet another tie to the life I loved is severed.

I told you--paranoid.  But I'm starting to see how people spend all day gossiping as though it were 1985 and someone told someone's sister that her boyfriend smelled like Diet Pepsi.  Because, when that's your focus, everything seems like a really big deal.  So please, dear friends, forgive the panic.  And please drop me a note once in a while.  It will save me from watching The View to get my paranoid fix.  Why are you laughing at that?  Do you hate me?  Is it what I'm wearing????

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

It has been a very, very rainy season here.  My understanding from the news and the app that I have that tells me the weather at six places I love the most (though not all--did you know it's been in the 60s and sunny in Dublin?) is similarly damp.  Totally awesome for my beloved garden.  Update:  there are tiny sprouts of lettuce and carrots coming up!  But not so great for the morale.  Especially for a one year old.  But like everything else, you figure out things to do, and life goes on.

My point?  Even the storms here are different.  I am pretty sure I have mentioned a few times how much lightening and thunder in Chicago freaked me out.  I was serious when I said I would stand over my baby's crib, arms outstretched, waiting to fend off lightening with my...what?...anti-lightening arms, I guess.  Anyway, they were loud, violent storms, as many of you can attest.  But what I had forgotten is that storms here aren't.  Yes, it has been raining for weeks.  And yes there has been some wind.  But I kid you not--I have had to go check the sandbox cover to see if there are pools on it, in order to determine whether I was making up the nighttime rain.  It's so...quiet.  Like everything else, it's creepy quiet rain.

I don't know why I find this so odd.  Don't get me wrong--there are tornadoes in eastern Montana and brush fires from lightening in the west.  The storms are here.  They just seem more...manageable?  Is that the weather or my state of mind?  Probably both.  Maybe all fears seem a bit more subdued after a whole heckuvalotta fear.  Maybe the less humidity thing makes the weather more mild.  Either way, I'm sure the kid appreciates me leaving him alone.  Either way, I appreciate the storm clouds leaving me alone for a bit.

Remember that?

I have the world's worst memory.  Seriously, the other day I got into it with my bank because they hadn't credited a check I put in last week.  Then I realized "oh, right, you have to actually deposit the check before you get credit for it.  Got it."  I like to think that this memory thing is a result of a lot of crap going on or better yet "mommy brain."  But let's be honest--I've always been awful.  Birthdays.  Forgotten.  What I did yesterday.  Can't remember.  The name of that guy.... Nevermind.

All of this said, being near where I grew up is making a veritable storm of memories come flooding back.  It's strange and uncomfortable and nice and surprising.  The other night as I was drifting to sleep, I could remember almost every detail of the house I grew up in.  I could remember the way the carpet in my room felt (soft green plush--classy).  I could remember a cupboard in the kitchen that I hadn't thought about in decades.  I could remember the smell from the back windows after my dad cut the lawn.  Memories of playing hide and seek with my babysitter and hiding in the bathroom cupboard (and how upsetting it was when I could no longer fit) were clear as day.  It was incredible.  It made me a bit sad, longing for simpler times.  But it was so nice to really be home for a few minutes.

And this isn't the only time, either.  When I go past my elementary school, I remember my first grade teacher (loved her).  When I go by the ice cream shop, I remember being there after a tee-ball game.  I even sent my incredible friend a photo of my son sitting in her driveway next to the pickup her dad has had for over 30 years.  Absolutely amazing.  I hadn't thought about the truck in years, and yet there it was, reminding me of the time we took her parents' car 4 blocks to my house, when neither of us had a license yet.  (Man were we rebels.)  Most of the memories have been great ones.  And that's nice to re-live.

On a side-note, just kidding about the car thing, son.  Mommy would never do that.  Anyway, you get the point.  It's very strange to be in a new place and even "stranger" to be in a new-old place.  It's also kind of nice.  I had changed so dramatically over the decades that followed and as a result had forgotten quite a few details.  I recommend spending some time remembering from where it is you came.  Literally, not in the "I'm Lebron James" sense.  It certainly puts things in perspective.  And, at a minimum, maybe you'll remember why hair crimpers should never be brought into the light of day again (I'm looking at you, Dr. J).  Maybe it will even help us see where we want to go from here.  Happy remembering.

Vacation Time

First, a giant thank you to all of you and your kind comments.  I love hearing from you so good, bad or indifferent--keep 'em coming!

Second, just imagine it--a white sandy beach...crystal blue waves lapping at the beach...bright yellow sun overhead...a guy named Armand who looks shockingy like George Clooney (or Giselle--I don't judge) bringing you booze all day long...Johnny Depp recreating the latest Pirates movie on a raft in the surf, simply for your enjoyment....

That's right--it's the world's second greatest vacation!  Why is it the second greatest?  Well, first, because it isn't going to actually happen.  Second, because the world's greatest vacation happens to be...wait for it...NAP TIME!  That's right, the most wonderful mini-cation (oh, I said it) is right in your own back yard.  Or front yard.  Or bedroom. 

Look, I love my kid.  I love spending time with him.  But, truthfully, I sort of suck at it.  By 9am I am completely exhausted.  And there are things that have to get done--bills to be paid (or properly ignored), showers to be taken (or properly ignored) and toilets to unclog (I don't recommend ignoring this one).  And this stuff only gets done during nap time.  Unless, of course, you are an ace at the art of walking with 30 pounds clinging to your right knee.  So is it really so wrong that I count down to nap time?  Is it a problem that, when he doesn't feel like napping, I weep along with him in solidarity?  Does this make me a bad person?

Don't answer that.  Just know that, like Dorothy, sometimes what you're looking for is right outside your own front door.  And right now what I'm looking for is my coffee and some time with ComEd.  I think this should also apply to Internet time at work.  Ahhhh, how desires change when you are an adult, or at least are pretending to be.  Happy travels, folks.  Happy travels.

The Greatest Grandpa

Easily the #1 best part of being here is the fact that my son and I get to spend time with my dad.  And while I love this, it doesn't come close to how much my kid does.

We currently have screen doors on both the front and the back of the house.  We also have Grandpa's office in the back.  So every morning, my son wakes up and runs to the back screen door and waits.  He takes his coffee and donut (ok, fine, his apple juice and waffle) and sits at his post until it is time.  As the sun comes up over the backyard fence, he gets more and more excited.  Soon, sure enough, his buddy comes up the back walk.  And my kid goes insane.  He is so excited to see Grandpa, he starts pounding on the door.

I happen to have (in my humble opinion) the world's greatest dad.  I also know that there are many who would agree with me.  So having this man in my son's life every day is pretty incredible.  And watching them wander around the backyard or play on the computer or fix the door brings tears to my eyes every time.  And part of it is shame.  I am ashamed to acknowledge what a baby I have been about all of these recent life changes.  Because, as it turns out, they are really, really good for two people that I love. 

Maybe I should just shut up.  Yeah, that's not going to happen.  But with each passing day, I do appreciate more and more how things out of our control can sometimes be good.  Sometimes.  I'm not saying that is the case for me.  Just saying.  Maybe, possibly, sort of, kinda, it is possible that I was wrong.  Maybe.

I Hate Walmart

Hi folks.  Sorry for the lack of posts last week.  The site was having trouble.  But we're back on track!

Before I continue, please let me say that people who shop at Walmart on a regular basis are far smarter than I.  The prices there are WAY lower than other stores.  And for the same things.  Not to mention, of course, the fact that most are now "superstores" of some sort, at which you can purchase everything from cat food to your child's first prom date.

I, however, hate Walmart with a vengeance.  Some of it has to do with once being denied much-needed alcohol on a Sunday in a state that does not sell alcohol on Sundays.  Not exactly Walmart's fault, but I hold grudges.  Part of it has to do with the fact that I am a complete snob.  Target is my haven.  I could spend weeks and billions of dollars there.  Were I Bill Gates (oh, sorry, I'm dating myself--I mean that Facebook guy), I would have one in my backyard, complete with $30 swimsuits and a half-crazed checkout girl.  But Walmart?  WAY beneath my standards.  Why?  No clue.  Could be the decor.  Could be the size.  Could be the old people.  No idea.  But the number one reason why I hate Walmart is that I have had to deal with their attorneys before.  And let's just say the store's policy on lawsuits isn't exactly the stuff worthy of admiration.  It makes logical sense, sure, but it isn't exactly what you want your kids to grow up to be.  So there you go.

So...what am I doing today?  I am going to Walmart to pick up a sandbox I ordered for my kid.  It was a style that I had admired in posh kids magazines for months now.  I am very excited.  But what kills me is that I am getting it for literally half the price of those other magazines and for even less than normal sandboxes.  At Walmart.  Same product--half the price.  I could say "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and all that.  But the truth is, I sold out.  My completely irrational "standards" have fallen.  Look out world, it's a whole new (though still bitchy) me.

The Willing Chef

I'm sure I have mentioned that I love to cook.  I love everything about it.  I love the mixing of ingredients, I love the use of fun kitchen tools, and, of course, I love the eating part.  I love it!

So, needless to say, as I was contemplating an undetermined time with more...well, time...I thought "ok, this will be a good opportunity to cook."  I envisioned making homemade tortillas for my son's lunches.  I thought of lavish dinner parties on the back deck for friends and family.  I considered tasty treats for playdates.  Ah, what a grand visionary I was.

The reality?  Yeah, we've had fast food for lunch most days.  And dinner has resulted in more frozen foods than I care to recount.  It's not that I haven't wanted to cook, it's that things just haven't worked out that way.  First, lunchtime sneaks up on us.  And I typically am running errands between morning and afternoon naps.  Second, my friends have crazy lives and getting them to come over from 4 to 5:15 for a dinner party is not exactly happening.  Third, it's been raining and cold so the deck is out of commission.  Fourth, I have found that the cookie dough that you break off into pieces (yes, I am even too lazy to scoop or mix) has received higher praise than I could get.  It's pathetic.

I haven't given up the dream, though.  Each week I buy stuff that would work for a great feast.  And I hold out hope that my veggie garden will some day produce a bountiful harvest.  Which will look nice on my counter before it grows mold and is tossed.  Sigh.  Great intentions, my friends.  Great intentions.

The Feminist Mystique

From http://www.sheknows.com/

The other night, I caught part of the brilliant film Tootsie on TV.  I hadn't seen it in years, but I remember thinking it was funny when I was a kid.  30 years later, I still think it's funny, but it really hit me this time around how avant garde the movie really was.

Sure, Dustin Hoffman dressing like a woman was somewhat "new" in the early 80s.  But this wasn't what surprised me.  It was the message that women working and being in charge was "new" that really set me off-kilter.  And I realized that it pretty much was new in the early 80s.  Sure, women had been in the workplace for decades, centuries even.  But because I am a child of the 80s, I hadn't really considered the fact that lots of women in high positions of power in the workplace has been something that has taken place within my lifetime.  That's totally surprising to me, because I was of the generation where I was taught that I could do anything and everything.  I assumed it was status quo.  So seeing how close in time things were different was a shock to me.  But perhaps I should have paid more attention as a kid.  Because what came as a big surprise later in life was that there are many who still disagree.  And what surprises me more is that I take no position on the subject.

A good friend of mine is brilliant.  She has a prestigous degree, does great things with her education and, without being overdramatic, she saves the world (literally) on a daily basis.  She also has an adorable, awesome kid and is thinking about staying at home with him for a while.  The problem?  The guilt.  She, too, was told she could do whatever she wanted.  And she set out to conquer the world.  May I add--she succeeded brilliantly.  So why is she made to feel guilty because she wants to focus on her family?  Why should she feel bad because she did it for 5 or 10 years instead of 30?  This one I can't figure out, but I feel it too.  The concept of either of us not working 24/7 (something we have been thrilled to do in the past) is distasteful to us because it is a HUGE change in mental focus.  Moreover, based on the responses of others, it is distasteful to those around us.  Sure, in my situation, I had no choice.  But it doesn't change the fact that, now that I spend time with my son on a daily basis, I get a lot of "when are you going back to never seeing him?"

Sounds a lot like "damned if you do, damned if you don't" to me.  Stay at home moms are skewered for not being "feminist" and working moms are chided for being horrible mothers.  Is there a middle ground?  For all of us, I certainly hope so.  Did we bring it on ourselves?  Probably.  But I wouldn't go back to the 50s, either.  I loved my job and loved working hard.  It's a strange quagmire that, if you really think about it, hasn't been present like this ever in the past.

I guess the answer is that life is long.  Maybe we should view it as a "work in progress."  At a minimum, we should do so to keep our sanity.  It's scary to think that there isn't full security-in a job, in a person, in a belief system.  But it's also freeing.  So, who do you want to be today?

Real Housewives of ___ County

One "Real Housewives" cast.
Or, my most recent backyard BBQ.

I don't know about you, but I find "reality" TV shows to be completely hilarious.  Particularly after a good friend and her then-fiance were on one of the cake-making shows, getting a cake that they didn't actually get and celebrating with people who didn't actually exist, I have been skeptical as to the "reality" of any of them.  Don't get me wrong--the cake was real, and it was tasty.  But she didn't actually own a Porsche smaller than the cake and it didn't actually serve as her engagement cake.  So I take the shows with a grain of salt.

Until now.

Perhaps you have had the opportunity to watch one of the Bravo Network's several "Real Housewives" shows.  They take place in areas around the country and focus on 4-8 women who are neither real nor "housewives" by the typical definition.  Instead, they are wealthy, often obnoxious women who run around and bitch at and about each other, their husbands, their kids and their plastic surgeons.  The shows are horrible.  And I have actually watched a number of them and, on occasion, enjoyed 10 minutes or so.  Typically I watch in small doses, though, because so-and-so making fun of the other blonde bimbo for crying over a hangnail becomes too much to take in one sitting.  But it's all fake, so why not.  Or so I thought. 

This weekend I caught a glimpse into the life of a family acquaintance and let me tell you, it was horrifying.  It was horrifying because it looked alarmingly like an episode of "Real Housewives."  And she was proud of this fact.  She was talking about how her friend had a party and people came just to see this friend's house and everyone was fake-mortified because someone didn't take her shoes off...and on and on and on.  And she was insanely proud of this fact and was talking about how I could be a part of it.  I was waiting for some sort of divorce drama or a Botox story to make its way into the tale (which, it ultimately did).  I was shocked and very, very afraid.

So here's the thing.  I am starting to think that maybe I am the one who is insane.  It is possible (just possible) that it is my view of the world that is skewed.  What if the world really is like a reality TV show?  What if there are people out there who race one another for no reason?  What if there are people who beat their relatives into submission in order to force them to lose weight?  What if the dating world really is like The Bachelor? 

If anyone needs me, I'll be in my house, hiding.

Where Does Your Garden Grow

One thing that I really looked forward to when it came to living in Montana was the ability to garden.  I have no idea why--I have never been particularly outdoorsey, at least by Montana standards.  But I was VERY excited about planting flowers and veggies and anything else I could come across to stick in the dirt. 

And it has been as great as I had thought.  I have spent many hours (and more money than the $2 I have) in Home Depot and area plant places.  The baby and I have picked up plants and dirt and tools.  We have loved every minute of it.  He even has his own plastic shovel that he totes around the backyard (on the sidewalk, of course), that he uses to poke at the weird foreign grass stuff.  My dad even just missed getting a picture of the kid where he had pulled up an empty plant container and used it as a seat while he pulled weeds in a flower bed.  He's a natural.  We even have a full veggie garden, where corn, strawberries, tomatoes, onions, and other stuff I can't remember right now will one day pop up suddenly.  It's awesome.

So what's the issue?  The "one day" part.  We have planted everywhere our budgets and the dirt will allow.  The backyard and front walk are gorgeous and awaiting their bountiful harvests.  So now what?  We seriously stand in the backyard and stare.  What the heck happens now?  You mean you have to WAIT for the vegetables?  What the heck?  Peapod will bring them 24/7 (unless you also have booze in the order, then no Sundays).  Where are the fruits of our labor?  And more importantly, what the heck do we do now?

I guess I need to learn to pace myself.  Doing all fun activities at once leaves no activities for future days.  Huh.  Good to know.  Guess I'll go watch the grass grow....

No Really, He Fell

My poor kid has had a time of it in the past few weeks.  While he is settling in fairly nicely and LOVES being outside (though no developments on the grass aversion), he has fallen a number of times onto the sidewalk.  The poor thing has road rash in varying states of heal, all over his head.  I feel awful.  Although I know there was nothing I could do about the falls, I literally sit up in bed at night, worrying that he has some unseen issues under the surface of his scalp.  Although I was sitting right there, I couldn't catch him as he rolled down the last stair and onto the concrete and I hate myself for it.  I worry that the noises he makes at night are him trying to tell me of the damage I have allowed to be inflicted that will show itself in ACT scores making him eligible only for a low-grade school such as Duke.  I'm horrified and guilty and generally feel awful.

This may be why, when we are in public, I freak out when people ask me about it.  Oh, and they do.  The checker at the grocery store:  "Oh, honey, what did you do to your head?"  The lady at the drycleaner's:  "Wow, that's quite the scrape.  What happened?"  My relatives:  "He looks like your dad did as a kid.  Ouch."  Everywhere we go, people ask.  And because of my guilt over the fact that I feel like I should have somehow wrapped him in bubble wrap before setting him on any hard surface, I look at them like deer in the headlights.  Which makes it look really bad.  Particularly because I then usually stammer "he f...fell."  This is where I usually get a strange look, followed by silence.  I know what I sound like--just like a victim or an abuser, afraid to tell the truth about how the bruises appeared.  It's horrible.  And I can't stop for some reason.  And it's getting worse.  So now, in addition to the poor kid looking like he uses his head to stop the Buzz Lightyear scooter, his mom's going to be taken away shortly in cuffs.

If anyone has any advice on getting rid of the guilt when your child is hurt and/or how to respond to inquiries about whether you are abusive, I'd love to hear them.  In the meantime, you can find me in jail cell 6.  Please send cookies.

Baby Ducks

We spend a fair amount of time here discussing the fact that I am a jerk.  But today I would like to discuss a guy I came across recently who, in my humble opinion, is a bigger jerk.  And, accordingly, my acting like a jerk in response (and enjoying it thoroughly) was justified. 

I was driving down a major street (35 is the speed limit on most city streets, which is nice) when I noticed that both the car in front of me and that coming the other direction were slowing to almost complete stops at a crosswalk.  I didn't see anyone crossing, so I was confused.  But I slowed and, as I got closer, I saw that they were stopped for a mommy duck and six little ducklings.  The abso-freaking-lutely adorable ducks were crossing--at the crosswalk, mind you--I can only assume to get to the other side.  It was completely precious.  So we all waited as the last of the little ones hopped up onto the sidewalk, smiled and began to resume our driving.  But as all of this was taking place, I noticed the guy behind me coming up, fast.  He clearly saw us stopped, I have to assume he saw why we were stopped, and his reaction was to try to swerve around us, directly toward the little duck family.  Fortunately for all involved, we were back and running before he could get around us.  But I was pissed.  They're baby ducks, for goodness sakes.  Again, I have my issues, but to the best of my knowledge I have never been in such a hurry I was ok with taking out baby ducks. 

So what did I do?  Well, when I went to make a right turn a few blocks up the road, and having this tool on my tail the entire time, I turned on my left blinker for about 5 blocks.  Then before he could start to go around me, I turned right very, very, very slowly.  He was pinned in and had to stop completely.  He was not the happiest of campers.  But here's the kicker.  It absolutely made my day.  I was super happy for hours.  It wasn't so much that I had irritated this guy, it was more that I felt like myself.  Like the me who used to call in cab drivers when they cut me off on the Kennedy.  Like the me who once started yelling "help, he's threatening my baby" out the window at a crosswalk because a guy walked in front of my car when I was turning, then stopped to give me a dirty look (I didn't have a baby at the time, by the way).  I felt like me.  Sometimes it's as little as being true to your nature that can make your day.  Well, that and baby ducks.

Common Ground

I have a good friend from high school who also recently moved back to Montana.  She, too, has a young child--just a few weeks younger than my son.  She, too, has a fast-paced career that she obtained after years of working toward it.  She, too, has a blog and a recent post similar to this one prompted me to publicly agree.  And she, too, moved back after several years in a large city with which she fell in love.

The similarities between our recent lives, however, end there.  Her beloved city believes strongly in recycling and cloth diapers and hybrid cars.  Mine, as those of you who live in Chicago know, tried recycling once and found that it inconvenienced us too much.  (But we do find the blue dumpsters add a splash of color to the city's alleys.)  She is naturally gorgeous and runs hundreds of miles every day.  I have been scouring the state for the nearest Sephora to cover the bags under my eyes and was winded walking 2 blocks to our mutual friend's house.  She believes in homemade baby food and I use my Beaba (overpriced baby food maker, to those of you unfamiliar) to steam cucumbers to make a fantastic cucumber martini.  You get the point.

But despite these seemingly glaring differences, we have both been astonished to find that, in addition to our pasts and our beautiful kids, we share another common bond.  We have both made big decisions that, while insanely tough, were for the best interests of our children.  And we both knew that, no matter how hard they may be on us (read:  no matter how unusual it is for us not to get exactly what we want when we want it), these decisions were the right ones.  And it's funny how this tie binds us.  And it's really nice.

And so I guess my point is (for the millionth time--sorry), each of us is not alone.  And finding those who share our struggles--from parenthood to career struggles to marriage issues--can be extremely freeing.  So ask around.  The life of someone you know may suck as much as yours.

Even Cinderella Scrubbed Toilets

My prior life.

I did something that most people will not find particularly interesting, but which I find absolutely fascinating.  I cleaned my kitchen floor.  Twice in one week.  Me.  Without guests or spills or other reasons to do so.  I cleaned because I could.

You have to understand how strange this is for me.  For much of my faster life I had a cleaning lady.  She was awesome.  She was super sweet and she was so good at her job, it made me cry (literally) when I walked in at night.  I would have written her into my will, had she not (speculating here) been deported back to Poland before I could draw up the paperwork.  I was heartbroken when she left.  She didn't really even mention it, she just sort of stopped coming over.  It was awful.  And, needless to say, the crap piled up in my house.  The worst part is, she stopped coming when I was pregnant, so the house really went downhill.  But I was too busy and too exhausted to even find someone new.  The handing over of keys to my place (particularly when one is as paranoid as I) is a huge deal.  So I left it.  And it got gross.

Sure, I would clean when necessary.  If someone was coming over, I sometimes would try to sweep things into another room.  But it wasn't good.  You could tell your import in my life, based on how messy things were.  The messier the house, the more I assumed that you love me regardless.  But now, things are different and it's WEIRD.  Yes, my house is much smaller, which really helps in the scheme of things.  But overall I do have a bit more time to focus on its well-being.  And I want to clean it, which is VERY WEIRD. 

Maybe this side of me has always been there.  I am freakishly organized when it comes to other areas of my life.  And maybe it's short-lived.  I have been here just a few weeks, during half of which I had no furniture.  But let's see what happens.  Can I keep things up?  Will I want to?  Or will I go completely insane and become the next star of the TV show "Hoarders"?  Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.  Place your bets.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

Ancient communicative device.

So I think I'm a dude.  Ok, not really--the whole childbirth thing pretty much solidified my chick status, had there been any prior concerns.  But I mean now that my life has slowed a bit, I see that some of my former traits are those more traditionally said to be male.

What do I mean, exactly?  I mean that these days I have (sometimes) more time on my hands than I had previously.  As a result, I have been able to focus on things like friendships and communication.  To the point where I am pretty sure I am driving people insane.  Constant emails and texts and even the occasional (gasp) call.  FROM me.  No, really.  And I think it's freaking them out.  My friends have always been a huge part of my world.  But, like most guys stereotypically, I have also sort of assumed they knew as much.  Sure I told them how much they mean to me, but generally that was during one of our every-six-month-lunches.  Oh. 

Last night I was talking to a friend who called me three times yesterday.  I should also mention, however, that she had called me about 30 times over the past year and I don't recall returning a call even once.  Yes, I am bad at telephone communication.  Yes, I have had a totally insane year.  But no excuse.  I love this friend completely and wanted to talk with her.  I just didn't think I had the time. 

Let me say that I am totally stereotyping guys.  But I do think that the communication thing is not most of their strong suits.  However, I also think that this is a focus thing.  I have been focused on my career.  It was my entire world.  I was focused on my kid.  Again, my entire world.  But when trying to balance the two, it was impossible to step up and make calls and say hi.  Now, I am able to.  And I am embarrassed at how much I sucked at it previously.

And so, if I am bombarding you with texts and emails, please do not think that I have gone insane (well, any more than I was).  And please don't think I'm that annoying person from high school that you told a million times you didn't want to date.  It's just me, letting you know that I was wrong not to let you know every single detail of every single day.  And look forward to me fixing that immediately.  Want to know what I had for breakfast?

Are You Mean?

Hi.  Hi.  Hello.  How are you?  Hi.

I very distinctly recall that, when I first moved to Chicago, I would walk down the streets looking passers-by in the eye.  Well, attempting to, anyway.  If they happened to look up from their intense study of the Chicago sidewalks, I would smile.  I think part of me was looking for someone I knew (let's call it habit) and part of me was simply reaching out to my fellow mankind for a connection (again, habit).  But it's not so much the making of eye contact that I recall as the looks on the faces of the people walking toward me.  They looked at me like I was an escaped mental patient.  And as the years went on and I became a fixture of the city, I started to think people such as my younger self were.

Eventually, I got to the point where I would seldom look up during my daily jaunts through the city.  Part of it was safety.  The sidewalks in Chicago are uneven and/or are covered in ice 12 months out of the year and you need to watch where you are going or you will wind up on your butt (as I did several times, and as Grandma did twice).  Part of it was ego.  If you are looking up at the skyscrapers you are clearly a tourist and (a) are a target for mugging and/or (b) are an idiot who is about to get run down by me the commuter because you are standing in the middle of the frickin sidewalk and I am busy and important and need to get past you immediately and walking the additional two feet around you would greatly inconvenience me.  And part of it was "personal space."  While connections with fellow man are good, when there are that many of you in a tiny area, it's way too many with which to connect.  Moreover, most are those with whom you don't want to connect.  You don't like their coat, or they're asking for money, or they just look "funny"--regardless of your reasoning, making eye contact would be way too personal for a Tuesday morning.  So no matter what the reason, by year ten plus, I barely noticed the several other million people I passed each day and was fine with that.

Fast forward to today.  I have had many a fast-food vendor react negatively because I don't look up into his/her face when handing over my cash.  I'm serious. The tone of voice changes and some even try desperately to get me to look up.  When I realize this, I'm shocked, usually into submission.  Oh, you're a person.  Hi.  But the worst was when my son and I were walking to the grocery store.  First of all, this in and of itself was weird.  He was in...wait for it...a stroller.  And I was pushing it.  A number of blocks down the road.  Such things are unheard of when parking is not the most prime real estate in the city.  Anyway, we were walking and a girl about 10 and her mother passed us, as they clearly walked the girl home from school.  As she passed the girl commented to her mother, "Why didn't that lady say hi?"  Her mother answered, "Maybe she's just having a bad day."  I felt horrible.  I was actually having a decent day.  The sun was shining and I was outside and about to spend money.  But I have been so used to minding my own way, I offended (and likely scarred for life) a little girl. 

I'm starting to think there is even more to this adjustment thing than I had thought.  Changing your everyday activities sort of entails changing who you think you are as a person.  Anyone know who the heck I am?  Apart from that horrible mean old lady down the street who growls at Girl Scouts, of course.  Are mean people really mean?  Or is it just that our perceptions of them are unrealistic, unwarranted judgments?  And did I really just accuse a ten year old of judging me?  Little snot....

A Day of Rest

Hi folks,
I have been told that Sunday is a day of rest.  I don't know that this is supposed to apply to me, but for now I will declare it should.  Have a nice, relaxing Sunday and we'll be back tomorrow.

Fast Lane