Welcome to the Ends of the Earth

My postman, George.

I admit that I am a bit old-fashioned.  I actually use mail (you know--the form of communication that involves pieces of paper, a stamp, and postmans...er, postpeoples).  I do so, understanding that this particular form of communication takes quite a bit longer than normal.  Or, at least, that was my "understanding" when I lived in Chicago.

Here?  Said form of communication takes anywhere from a bit longer than normal, to FOR-FREAKING-EVER.  And I'm not just talking about the government's operation.  They're actually one of the best.  I'm also talking about private courier services.  I have ordered a handful of things online, particularly diapers and a slider grill pan that was 80% off.  Anyway, previously when I placed a diaper order, I could expect to get my shipment within 2 days.  I understood that we're a bit more...well...nowhere, here, so it would likely take longer.  Try 5 times longer.  I wish I were kidding.  It's like even the couriers just wait until they get a certain number of packages going out this way before delivering, so that they can save the horses.  It's driving me nuts.

The worst part is that generally one only orders things online here when there isn't a particular store within, oh, 5,000,000 miles.  Ok, diapers are a bad example.  But, still.  Diapers at http://www.diapers.com/ are considerably less expensive than at the stores here.  Even in Iowa, they get the diapers within days.  Here, it's weeks.  So I end up paying more for a necessity, just because nobody wants to come out to the ends of the earth.  What a racket.

If anyone is looking for a sure-bet money maker, I say find a way to get stuff to people in the boondocks who need them.  Because, this is insane.  And dammit, I may have gone half a football season without a square hamburger, and THEN where would I have been??

I Like My Kid

I believe that, unless you are a total psychopath, you love your kids no matter what.  (On a side-note, I believe one should love his/her significant other's kids, too, but this is a conversation for another day).  Whether or not you like them, however, can be another story.  Did Hitler's parents like him?  I suppose that depends on a number of factors.  But you get the point.  Love your kids.  Hope to like them.

Yeah, well, after getting to know him the past few months, I genuinely like my kid.  And I find this awesome, primarily because I also fully understand how little I get to do with his personality.  Let me state for the record that I am a believer in nature and nurture--one's genetics, along with one's circumstances can dictate a whole heckuvalot.  But what cracks me up on a daily basis are all of the little traits of my son's that I know for certain I didn't teach him.  It's awesome.  He's his own little person.

I happen to find this kid funny, sweet, determined, smart and absolutely kind.  Today I had a lunch date and was gone for a few hours.  And I MISSED HIM.  How awesome is that?  I truly enjoy being with him.  And not just because he's my kid.  I like his little personality and think he's the bees' knees.  What an unexpected bonus!  I know that makes me sound totally insane, but I just never really contemplated thinking like that.  How cool.

We are all really lucky to have certain people in our lives without whom life would be a little bit...less.  Some of these people are shorter than others.  I hope all of your days are filled with the tall and the short variety--blood relatives or not.  What's the point in spending time with people who suck?

Plane Error

I desperately want to travel again.  I dream and dream about future days, when I can hop on a plane and go...well, anywhere, really.  I can't wait to hit the road and see things and places and people.  I can't wait to taste foods--new and old--and feel sensations that have only been in my mind.  There are several obstacles to my doing so right now.  Money, of course, is a biggie.  Family considerations is another.  But one of the biggest has to do with my irrational issues, and nothing more.  I want my son to come with me, and the thought of my child on a plane makes my head explode.

I recently had a conversation with a good friend who lives in California.  We would love to see one another, and would love to have our kids meet.  Sounds simple enough, right?  Um, no.  There are the above considerations.  But the biggest hurdle for both of us is the idea of a plane ride with toddlers.  We have agreed that, should we meet up, it will be a maximum of one plane ride each, to be under 2 hours.  Even then we will have to bring entire bottles of booze and gift cards in apology for everyone else on the plane.  And this is my problem with the issue.  Why do I care so much what everyone else on the plane thinks?  Unless the flight is ungodly early or late, why should I apologize for my one year old being a one year old?  Well, because I used to be one of them (the glare-rs).  And because I know they hate me.  And I hate it when people hate me. 

Crazy, right?  Yet I still can't even explain how my head starts to throb when I think of him in a tiny area for hours.  He won't even sit at a kitchen table for more than 10 minutes.  Movies can distract him for about 5.  Toys?  Not going to happen.  Sleep?  Forget it.  Basically, there is nothing for him to do but get up and down and run up the aisle and kick the little old woman next to me who smells like feet.  Even describing it, I get sweaty palms.  I truly think it is a phobia.  Maybe we should name it:  Ilovemytotbutcanonlytakehimintopublicforfiveminutesobia.  Too long?  I'll work on it.

Like most people I fantasize about winning the lottery.  However, unlike most people, I desire this most so that I can charter planes.  The idea of my kid flying around the flying machine makes me smile.  He can kick and roll and squeal and scream, and nobody cares because I am paying them not to.  Ahhhhh.  Peace. 

Sigh.  I know I have asked the question before, but when it comes to travel, it takes on a new spin.  How much should we care what other people think?  And if we do care too much, how do we stop?  Ok, fine, how do I stop?

The Social Situation

I think my kid is a good combination of cautious around strangers and sociable.  This is my perpsective based upon absolutely no evidence whatsoever.  But on the one hand, he's usually pretty quick to stay close to mom when there are new people around.  On the other, once he is comfortable he will be as chatty as Regis, particularly if the audience includes a pretty girl.  Not bad.

BUT.  I freak out about my choices as a parent and how they will affect this kid's social development.  I worry that I spend too much time with him.  I worry that I don't spend enough time with him.  I worry that he doesn't see a lot of other kids.  I FREAK at the idea of him spending massive amounts of time with other kids.  I worry he will be a bully.  I worry he won't.  It's a never-ending stream of worry, all centered around something that I most likely have absolutely no control over.

The biggest question is what happens when (please, God) I find a job.  Do I put him in daycare?  Do I find a sitter?  We moved here so that such choices are easier, and they are.  But unless my dad wants to quit his job and work full-time for free as the baby's b*&ch, the social question still must be posed.  The kid is 15 months.  Does he need interaction with other kids?  Will he be ok without me around every day and still know that I haven't left him?  Does he even give a crap?  Probably not.  Nonetheless, it is something about which I will worry until he is safely in kindergarten, where I am legally obligated to let him do his own thing.

Biggest. Sucker. Ever.

I was always a bit sad, living in high rises and walk-ups, that I never got kids coming around selling things.  On Halloween, it killed me that I never (NOT ONCE) had trick-or-treaters.  I always bought the candy, mind you, but that was dealt with in proper form.  My friends had it right--they would hide on their living room floor when little kids rang the bell (you know who you are, and you were totally justified).  But I missed the peddlers.

So.  I have already pushed this longing to the back of my mind.  Why, you may ask?  Well, because it is perfectly clear to me that every single person in this town who is selling something has targeted my house and has chosen approximately 3 minutes after my kid has gone down for a nap, to ring the bell.  Repeatedly.  They have learned that this house is THE house, by word of mouth.  Got cookies?  Oh, check out that chick on the corner.  Selling magazines?  The corner house will buy, no matter how insanely expensive the magazines are.  Pushing religious materials?  Yeah, that broad is so in need of conversation, she will actually act interested.  Stop by.  And be sure to wake the kid, just to really drive home the remorse she will feel later.

I have always been a sucker.  I over tip.  I talk to people I shouldn't.  I say "yes" without considering whether I should.  But when one has minimum spending cash on hand, being a sucker hurts a bit more.  Yet I CAN'T STOP.  Anyone who rings the bell is treated to the sale of the century.  And I just can't make myself turn them down.

I like to pretend that this is a good trait of mine.  I am perfectly aware that it is not.  Maybe some day I will learn to push away those asking me to pay them to compensate for their crappy childhood as evidenced by the fact that their parents are sending a 5 year old door to door without checking on them.  Hopefully not.  Regardless, if you need me, I will be lying on my living room floor, hiding.  Actually, that's my motto from now on:  when all else fails, hide.  Then they can't find the suckers.

Country Girls

One of the most surprising things for me to learn upon going to the big city was that, for the first time in my life, I faced blatant sexism.  I very much remember the first time well.  I was sitting in Constitutional Law class when a guy my age made some comment to the tune of how 50% of the class (guess which half?) belonged in the kitchen.  He was totally kidding, right?  Nope.  He was provoking people?  Nuh-uh.  The kid (and several others who sided with him) believed that those of us missing Y chromosomes (and various body parts) had no business being lawyers.

The worst part is that he wasn't alone.  Both intentional and wholly unintentional bias is rampant throughout the legal profession.  By the time you get to the top of most firms, particularly large firms, you can usually count on one hand the number of women.  Some of it is the choice of women--when faced with ivy league college tuition costs for preschools versus staying home with the kids, something has to give if it can.  Some of it is that law schools weren't 50/50 until about my generation, so maybe they're making their way to the top.  I doubt it.  A lot of it really is that there is a wide-spread belief, among peers and more often among clients, that the woman can't cut it. 

I'm not preaching today about the situation.  It is what it is.  But what absolutely SHOCKED me is that it really doesn't seem that way here.  I had come to assume that it was my experience that was unique.  I was surrounded by incredible people who never once questioned, nor let me question, my abilities because I am a woman.  And over the past several years, I figured that these people were just special.  Well, they are.  But I also really do think that things are just different out here.  When you think about it--it makes sense.  Life here is primarily about survival.  Particularly for those who came from farm and ranch backgrounds.  The women typically had/have a heckuvalotta kids and raise them while branding cattle and shooting deer.  Those without such histories simply need to be able to hold their own (and typically can--my advice is to pick bar fights in Montana with guys).  Or maybe I am painfully stereotyping.  Regardless, unless they are women with too much money and way too much time, the chicks out here are badasses.  And the people out here love them that way.

There's some relief in this realization for me.  I felt pretty down about the entirety of the world, based on some of my experiences.  I just couldn't fathom that the world really is a place where women are secondary.  And I started to think that I was the freak because I didn't think that was right.  Well, gentlemen and particularly ladies, I am here to tell you that I may be a freak, but the belief that women are anything lesser ain't the "way of the world."  So don't buy it.  And if it comes to it, get yourself a horse and come on out to the wilderness.  We could always use another badass or badass supporter.

Vacation Time

Recently, I had an absolutely blissful vacation.  Seriously, it was amazing--the rest and relaxation, the overeating, the beautiful landscape.  You see, thanks to one of the world's kindest women, I was given the afternoon off from my life.  I went to a movie.

First and foremost, let me say that I love the people in my life as well as many aspects of it.  And particularly when it comes to my kid, I am grateful for each and every minute that I have with him.  But as we all know, there are days when you just need a break from your life, even if you are rich and famous like Rupert Murdoch.  Ok, bad example.  But my point is that every once in a while, escapism is fantastic.  And if you are a parent without reprieve at all, well, those moments are vital.

I used to get paid to travel the world.  I had clients located throughout the world and was blessed to get to spend days in Milan, Brussels, New York and Dublin.  And I loved my job.  So back then, even my working travels seemed like vacations.  When I did go on vacation it was to romantic destinations like the Caribbean (with my mother, mind you, but it was still fun--more fun, actually).  I knew how to vacay.  And I was VERY particular about how vacation time was spent.  Even if I was able to shop or eat well or have an occasional spa treatment, it all had to be the best.  I had absolutely NO reason for being such a snob, mind you, apart from the fact that I could. 

Let's just say things are different.  I can't possibly leave the city right now, let alone the country, for a number of reasons.  And relaxation sort of goes out the door when you worry 24/7 about things like food and shelter.  That said, when you have guardian angels, miracles can happen.  The other day, my aunt (with appearances by my dad) watched my son for an entire afternoon.  Knowing how much I needed to just get away for a few hours, she gave him an afternoon of bliss.  And I disappeared into air conditioned pretend land and for the first time in a long time, it wasn't me making up the stories.  I was a little disheveled after I came out into the sunshine, but I was calm and happy.  And was very much ready to see my kid.

Don't get me wrong--I would love to wake up tomorrow in Hawaii.  But now I would prefer that my family be with me.  I don't think having a kid or moving changed me, so much as it brought me back to me.  I still love nice stuff, and would do almost anything to win the lotto.  But in the meantime, these little respites make me about as happy (if not happier in some ways).  I don't recommend having your life turned upside down.  But if it does go all topsy-turvy, it may take you to the people who matter most.  The ones who are there for you when you need them.  And maybe you might be lucky enough to find yourself out there in vacation land, too.

The "Real" Me

See? Madonna forgets too

I have been doing something lately that I find offensive.  First, let me say that I don't find it offensive in others, by any means.  Just me.  And if you see me wandering around the Home Depot or Albertsons lately, you would see why.  For the first time in about 25 years, I am leaving the house without makeup.

It's not really the fact that I'm doing it, so much as the fact that I don't even notice.  I literally forget to try to look nice. Today, for example, I walked in the house, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room, and almost had a heart attack because I thought I was being visited by my long-passed great-grandmother Lucille.  And, please don't haunt me Lucille, but toward the end there you weren't that much of a looker even when alive.  But my point is, I had absolutely no idea that I had gone into public like that.  I even had some stupid barrette hanging off of the side of my head, that I had put in so that I could see where I was aiming the hose when the kid and I were playing water wars.  So sad.

In Chicago, as you can imagine, it's not normal for anyone to go anywhere without full makeup.  You are allowed to pretend that you don't have any on, only if you are coming from your yoga class and are "glistening" with sweat and chic beauty.  But even then you still have on 3 inches of concealer and mascara.  I even stopped going to the grocery store after I had a baby, just so I didn't have to put my face on.  Sure, I said it was so that someone else could climb stairs with 12 jugs of formula water, but in truth it was because I didn't have the energy to look decent.

Fast forward.  Now not only do I not have the energy, I apparently don't have a clue.  This has gone on for multiple days.  If those who "talk" here had seen me, I'm quite certain I would have been the talk of the party circuit for months.  Not pretty--neither literally nor figuratively.

So, am I losing my mind or my inhibitions?  This one is a toss-up.  Sure, it's sort of freeing to literally not care.  But it's also disturbing.  Shouldn't we want to look good for our fellow mankind?  Or as a single, jobless mom, have I just completely stopped caring?  Sigh.  Gladly accepting Sephora samples and Maybeline rejects.  If not for me, send them for the good of the city.

Too Soon?

Reprinted from
http://www.elisemyers.wordpress.com/
And I am sorry if this photo
offends you.  It makes me
feel better about my parenting.

As you are likely aware, I am a huge sports fan.  There are very few sports that I have come across that I don't like, love, or at least tolerate enough to have on TV during the day (perhaps curling...).  For example, this weekend I was in heaven watching the British Open golf, the World Cup soccer ("football" to some of you), and, well, watching the Cubs suck.  Pretty standard, really.  All I needed was some football (sorry, "American football") and I would have been set.  It was great.

I spent many hours when I was pregnant worrying that my son would not like sports.  It wasn't that I was worried that he wouldn't want to play--I will absolutely pretend to support him if that is his decision.  But I was afraid that he wouldn't tolerate them.  And, as they are almost always on in my house, that could be a huge problem.  I still worry about it.  But now I'm also starting to worry another way....

I am starting to become afraid because of my kid's obsession with sports.  He says a few choice words these days, but the biggies are:  "hi," "up," "ball" and "go, Cubs, go."  No, really.  And "ball" means any and every round, possibly bouncy object AND basketball hoops.  When we go for a walk, it's all I hear, because there are so many hoops in my neighborhood.  He got so excited this morning at finding a new hoop in the hood, I thought I was going to have to tackle him.  At which point he probably would have bounced up and yelled "touchdown." 

The other night, we were reading his formerly favorite book, "Boy of Mine."  It's about how awesome he is and how much I love him.  But he literally smacked it out of my hand and made me pick up a book his aunt Kate gave him called "Chicago Cubs, 101."  Thanks Kate.  It teaches the history of the Cubs, as well as the basics (bat, ball, Ron Santo, etc).  He made me read it over and over and over again.  And by the fourth time, I sort of started to freak out.  Really?  You don't want to read "Goodnight Moon"?  Should we watch The Wiggles?  How about a nice game of peek-a-boo?  Nope.  The kid wants to read sports books.

Don't get me wrong--I love this.  I will tell anyone and everyone around that he is a sports nut with a pride that really should be reserved for actual accomplishments.  I'm thinking of having him sing the Bears fight song into a recording, so that we can be rich and famous.  BUT...isn't it a bit...much?  The kid is one.  I don't want him to burn out.  He'll be hating all things "ball" by the time he's in preschool. 

So what do you think, public?  Do I have a budding first baseman, or a kid who will never talk to his mother again because he hates all things sports by the age of 5?  And am I Mother of the Year (though I have no control over his likes) or is child services coming for me soon?  Don't answer that last one.

Ouch.

My ex and his new wife.

As a handful of you can attest, I was not very nice to my college boyfriend.  It most certainly wasn't intentional, but you could probably say that I was downright horrible.  It is something that I have felt awful about for years.  I was young and commitment phobic, he was mature and looked toward the future.  All in all, I was a huge jerk.

I have tried, intermittently, to apologize to him.  But it's going on over 15 years, and my apologies still haven't been accepted.  As I mentioned, we were all a very tight-knit group and still try to keep in touch as much as possible.  Sadly, though, when I say "we," he's not really included.  I think R in Idaho may have had some contact, but other than that, it's been radio silence.  But in the past few weeks, I have had the VERY great pleasure of talking with a handful of our clan and it has been a great tonic.  So, I thought, it would be fun to try to track down college guy and try again to mend the friendship.  So I did what all sane, adult people do these days.  I cyber-stalked him.  It took about 5 minutes, but I found him.  Photo and everything, on a blog his sister writes.  He has changed professions and states, but looks to be doing well.  And then I saw it.  Last fall he got married.  Ouch.

Before you get all indignant, I'm not upset that he married someone other than me.  As I said, it was 15 years ago, and I was...mean.  But it's just seeing it there, all in cyber-reality.  The photo of him with his wife at some party, looking all happy.  I realized that I was never going to get a chance to apologize.  He wouldn't be joining our email chats.  He would be coming to Vegas with us and our kids (when they're older, of course.  Is 5 too young for Vegas?).  He had gone and made a huge life change without telling any of us.  He had walked away.

I guess I forget that my closest friends are allowed to have lives without me.  That's shocking to me.  What do you mean, you don't want my opinion or good wishes?  Or, in this case, what do you mean you don't want my apologies?  I guess I need to learn to let things go.  AND to be nicer to people.  Because you never know when you might lose them.

Do As I Say...



From http://www.derekjeter.com/
And if you are getting
life lessons from Derek Jeter,
you may be in worse shape
than my kid.

 Easily one of my biggest, and most annoying faults is my exceedingly low patience level.  I say annoying and I mean both to others as well as to myself.  It's seriously irritating how quickly I can go from "cool" to "what the...."  And we are talking 24/7 here.

One of the nice things about Montana is there isn't a ton of waiting.  Sure, people are slower, but there are fewer of them and they generally don't get too uptight much.  So the entire stress level in public places is much lower.  Unless I am there.  I cannot begin to comprehend what the problem is, when someone can't bring me the stupid soda I ordered.  If you're driving too slow in front of me?  I sit about 5 inches from your bumper and glare into your rear view.  And I literally have no place I have to be.  If I asked you for a job?  I can't comprehend why it's be 5 minutes and I haven't heard anything.  I drive myself insane.  Those around me can comment as to how pleasant this aspect of my personality is to them.  But I'm guessing there are few who love it.

But the worst part is that I see it in my kid.  He'll hold his hand up for another bite of food and while I am cutting whatever our feast happens to be, he will let out a squeal and will grab the entire meal off of the plate anyway, because I am too slow.  If he wants his shoes on, there is no finishing the dishes--he wants them on NOW, dammit.  It's hilarious.  And I get that I am the parent so his poor life really is "do as I say, not as I do."  But there is a part of me that feels incredibly guilty about it.  Yet I can't decide whether I want to change my ways as a result of the guilt, or go easier on his.  As the latter seems less invasive to me (and quicker), probably that one.

There are so many things that are lessons we teach our kids but don't follow.  I have to wonder where we went astray.  Clearly we know about the right path, or we wouldn't be teaching it.  So we were likely taught the good stuff.  So how in the world did we fall off and how do we keep our kids from doing it?  I'm guessing there is no way.  We know too little about this whole process.  And THAT is annoying.

If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them.  Now.  Right now.  I want to hear them NOW.

A Wrinkle in the Plan

My female relatives are incredible.  This statement is true in many contexts, but in one particular area, they really stand out to the general public--their skin is gorgeous.  My grandmother is model-beautiful at 150 (she would kill me if I actually said her age).  My mother is stunning.  My aunts glow.  They all look terrific.  And this is a particularly incredible feat considering the fact that half of them spent a lot of time on a farm, sans sunscreen.  But it's true.  Barely a wrinkle in sight.

Because I refuse to do a self-analysis, I will just contend that my skin is ok.  It's relatively normal, I would say, particularly for my age.  Lately, I have seen the deepening of some wrinkles on the forehead, but what do you expect when you are constatly squinting at a toddler, trying to figure out his next move.  But there is one issue that sort of bothers me, and I have no idea why.  I don't have laugh lines.

For those of you who don't watch daytime TV, laugh lines are those little "(" and ")" lines around your mouth.  It is very popular for men and women, alike, to use various forms of toxins to remove these lines.  Most people hate theirs and spend good money to get rid of them.  So why, in the name of Dr. Dre, am I feeling weird about not having any?  Because I wonder whether I have laughed enough.

I know--freakish.  But the thought crossed my mind the other night.  What if I don't have these annoying little wrinkles because I don't smile and laugh enough.  Don't get me wrong--the entirety of my childhood and a good chunk of my adulthood was absolutely blissful.  I think I generally have a good time, even when things are bad.  But I'm wondering if all of this joy/ smiley-simle stuff is just in my head and I walk around glaring at everyone all of the time?  I'm not really sure that I care, if this is the case, because I also dislike people in my head a lot and it really saves time if we just get that out in the open right away.  But what am I teaching my kid??  What if he doesn't think mommy smiles?  What if I raise a kid who thinks it's bad to show happy emotions?  What if he pierces his eyebrow at the age of 3 and asks to be called "Prince Dark"?

I know--I know.  Lay off the vodka.  But when you have very little adult conversation time, these are the things that pop into your head.  Maybe I'll draw the lines in every morning.  Has a makeup company come up with a liner for this yet?  If not, I should pitch it.  I can't be the only Debbie Downer out there.  Heck, the entire East Coast would totally buy the stuff.  I'm all over this idea.  In the meantime, dear readers, know that I am generally trying to smile.  Even if I can't prove it.

And hi Grambo.

A Common Thread

Apparently, it is me.  There is a very familiar occurrence happening here.  And sadly I am not talking about any of the millions of really great things Chicago has to offer.  I'm talking about inconsiderate, insanely loud neighbors.  And it's possible that this "little bit of home" will send me over the edge.

I had the wonderful fortune of having neighbors in the city who decided to convert a residential garage into a venue for rock concerts.  No, really.  I'm actually not just being snarky here--they charged people and everything.  About the only questionable part of my statement is the term "rock"--their music generally sucked.  And the true joy was that the garage was located three stories down, but 5 feet across from my bedroom.  It was fan-freaking-tastic.  My mom stayed over one night and we couldn't hear each other talk, it was so loud.  Plus, bonus--people would come out into the alley way and smoke and drink and yell at one another (or whatever it is that sociable people do). 

Being me, I of course handled the situation in a completely adult, non-emotional manner.  I cried.  A lot.  And then I emailed and called the Alderman.  Constantly.  I basically threatened to personally begin a campaign to unseat him if he didn't fix the problem.  Sadly, I had no idea he wasn't planning on running for re-election.  BUT in a rare act of generosity rarely seen in Chicago politics, his office put a (sort of) end to the concerts.  Took pretty much the summer of 2010, but my newborn was finally allowed to sleep.

So....here we are.  The first few weeks of being in Montana, it was so quiet at night, it completely freaked me out.  It was just strange.  No sirens.  No yelling.  No bar across the street.  Very, very weird.  And then I got used to it and it was heavenly.  And then my neighbors started rennovating their house.  For some reason that defies logic, they decided that between 11pm and 3am is the best time for working.  I'm not kidding.  They are pounding and sawing and blaring Guns N'Roses (yup, we're in Montana) all night long.  It's as though the thousands of miles never happened.  But this time, if I call the cops they will be very confused and likely laugh at me.  If they're even up at that time of night.

So what do I do?  Well, I tried walking over in my slippers to have a polite discussion with them.  After all, unlike in Chicago, I was fairly certain that, though they probably had guns, they likely only used them to take out furry things.  But nobody answered the door.  That happens a lot here (remind me to tell you about the kids selling things--man, I'm a sucker).  Anyway, so then what did I do?  I cried.

Blissfully, it seems that they are about done with the HGTV show over there.  But I guess it goes to show you that some things never change.  You can be miles from where you were, and still you experience frustrations that make you want to scream.  I guess there is some comfort in that, though.  Like maybe we take our crap with us wherever we go.  I don't know about you, but that sort of makes me feel better.

But maybe I am just sleep deprived.

Re-Jected

I am most certainly no stranger to rejection. No.  Let me rephrase that.  I have been rejected by everyone and everything from Dusty Cladis to Tylenol.  And, trust me, neither of those examples was pretty.  I have been rejected by boys, by men, by jobs, by friends and (most frequently) by alcohol.  You get the picture.

So lately my kid is going through a phase.  I have learned from my friends who have older children, as well as various NBC shows, that my child will go through many phases.  During this particular phase, we are experiencing crazy highs as well as lows so insane, they make Lindsey Lohan look like Hillary Clinton on the respectful citizen level.  He has molars coming in, he can't quite talk, he can't quite keep up and all of this is both exciting and really, really frustrating for him.  As a result, about 15 times per day, I get the most delicious hugs and kisses and smiles and giggles that make my life worth living.  And about 10 times per day, I get rejected faster than Gretta Van Sustren pledging to be a Tri-Delt.  The kid swings so fast, I have learned to simply look at him like he's nuts and walk away.  This, of course, results in a flood of tears (his and mine) followed by the pulling on the pant leg which I will take for "I'm so sorry mom" until he can say otherwise.  In short, I'm used to it.

But my poor dad isn't.  As I have mentioned, he LOVES being Grandpa, and the kid couldn't love him more.  The baby toddles out to peek into the back parking and see if Grandpa's truck is there, the first thing every morning.  He adores the guy (but, really, who doesn't).  The two of them are inseparable.  But.  Because the baby is going through his...thing...there are the rare occasions when Grandpa gets the brunt.  Case in point?  The other day the kid tried for Grandpa's glasses.  This happens a lot--he is obsessed with glasses.  Maybe he'll marry Tina Fey; who knows.  Anyway, Grandpa said loudly "no" and took them away.  You would have thought he had smacked the kid (which, for the record, he would never, ever, ever do).  The baby screamed and cried and when Grandpa tried to hug him, he received a big old smack himself and the baby ran to me.  Ouch.  Rejection at its finest.  I seriously think it hurt my poor dad's feelings.  I felt (feel) awful.  I tried to explain that the baby doesn't mean it, and my dad clearly understands.  Plus the kid was toddling after him again within 3 minutes.  Seriously, to him, nothing ever happened.  But I could tell it bothered Grandpa.

These kids.  Man, are they a head trip.  I don't care who you are or how secure you may be--if a child you love gets into your head, you're a goner.  Not even your high school soul mate sleeping with your math teacher can equate to that kind of rejection.  And it can hurt.  A lot.  But the nice part is, nobody you have ever met can love you the way they can.

The Secret Desire of All Adults

A good friend and I were recently discussing that #1 desire of all adults.  Well, it is the top of the top on the list of wants for all adults living with another human being.  And absolutely it is the numero uno wish of anyone living with a child.  I am discussing, of course, the yearning to pee alone.

Put much more elegantly, my friend mentioned that all she wanted in life is to "pi$$ in peace."  We were discussing the fact that her beautiful daughter is going through a "mommy is best" phase.  Which is awesome for the ego--not so awesome for the ability to do anything.  Anything at all.  And this, sadly, includes using the restroom.  I had a similar experience the other day.  I was very excited to have the bathroom all to myself (no hurrying, no diving to save the Kleenex brand tissues from the full bathtub, no retrieving the toothbrush from the litter box...you get the picture) when the stupid cat started scratching on the door until she had finally pushed her way in.  I was completely, irrationally irate.  I actually yelled at the intruder "WHY WON'T ANYONE LEAVE ME BE FOR 5 ***** MINUTES!"  The cat just looked at me like I was clinical (which I deserved) then scratched on the cupboard in which her own litter box is located.  I had shut it so that the baby wouldn't get into it.  Ah.  My bad.  I was mad because I couldn't pee in peace, and she was mad because she couldn't pee.  Advantage, cat.

But, seriously, this is an issue many people have to live with daily.  And I'm talking about people with kids, with spouses, with siblings, with roommates--it never ends.  Yes, I admit I am particularly touchy about the subject, as I am an only child and have space issues.  But come on.  Particularly if you have kids, and particularly if you have kids and no kind sentry post outside the door to run interference, here are your options:  (1) have him/ her climb all around the bathroom as though it were the Magic Kingdom and you Space Mountain, all while you hurridly attempt to do your business without making it weird or icky (potty training--straight ahead), or (2) listen as he/ she screams outside of the thin bathroom door and sobs as though the cat had a special taser that it brings out the moment any door in the house closes.  Not very promising, either way.  So unless you have 15 bathrooms and 22 nannies for your one child (if this is the case, call me--we could totally be BFFs), you've had to deal with this at one point or another.  And my understanding is that spouses are no different.  Except in that scenario you're the Indiana Jones ride.  Nevermind.

And so, dear readers, it seems that we have unearthed the greatest desire of all adults since....well, since ever.  If you ever achieve the incredible feat of alone bathroom time, please don't tell your friends to brag.  They may close off your litter box out of irritation.  And you will be stuck on It's a Small World over and over and over again.  Nevermind.

The Myth that is "Baby-Proofing"

Sorry we have been a bit off-air, folks.  Sadly, we have been experiencing the funfest that is the wholesale destruction of all things electronic.  For example, did you know that when a one year old sits on your laptop for an extended period of time, the screen dies?  Just a little FYI....

When I had a baby, I bought no fewer than THREE books on baby-proofing the house.  I learned all kinds of tricks on how to close off cupboards and lock up all goodies.  I bought packages of door locks and toilet securers and outlet coverers.  And they worked great.  Until, of course, he could walk.  And until he became much, much smarter than I.  Which didn't take long.

I like to think of toddlers as mini-King Kongs.  They're smart, they're crabby, they have a ton of strength, and they don't really get that smashing buildings isn't the most productive way to spend a morning.  In fairness to my kid, my electronics smashfest was started by myself.  I dropped my phone and shattered the screen.  Yay me.  But he quickly took up the slack.  The computer was next.  Followed by the DVD player.  And then the camera.  In short, if it has a battery or plugs in, it was targeted this week.

Which brings me back to my point--there is no such thing as "baby-proofing" anything.  You can try to "baby-repel" but really you're just drawing attention to the good stuff. Case in point:  my kid was fascinated with trying to drop things in the toilet when I had a child lock on it.  But after he demolished the lock (AND, I might add, flushed pieces of it), he really didn't care.  No lock = not interested.  Empire State building destroyed.  Mission accomplished.  King Kong happy.

I'm starting to wonder what other "parenting advice" nuggets are huge myths.  Don't get me wrong--I completely agree with the need to try to protect our mini-monkeys as they go on their warpaths.  But the idea that they can be stopped altogether is terrifyingly insane.  Unless, per usual, it's just me.  Has anyone out there succeeded in stopping your child from destroying your house?  If so, please call.  If not, I wish you the least destroyed house on the block.  And if you don't have kids--go buy a bunch of stuff and enjoy it.  Because if you ever change your mind, prepare to battle.  And to lose.

Hoping for Hope

Have you noticed a slight lack of hope lately?  Do you find yourself straying from the "everything's going to be ok" to the "f*7k it" side of the spectrum?  If so, I am quite certain that you are not alone.  And so I find myself hoping for hope, for all of us.

I have a good friend who is generally on the sunny side of things.  He can get extremely emotional and have outbursts of the-world-is-ending-ness, but for the most part when things get down, he is relatively up.  He has been through some pretty horrible stuff and yet he just keeps going and keeps up his faith in others (sometimes to the shock and misunderstanding of those watching).  But he just keeps plugging along, trying to get through the days.

But the other day, we were talking about unimportant daily droll, when he said something to the tune of "that will happen if they're lucky.  Not that I believe in luck any more."  It was horrible.  This person who I had taken for granted to always look for the silver lining was admitting that he (like many) sees nothing but gray.  No other part of his demeanor or conversation betrayed this undercurrent of despair.  But that solitary comment made me really, really sad.

I, too, have been unable to see the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  And when opportunities come, lately I have been afraid to let myself hope for the best.  I used to be the most irritatingly cocky person in the world--I somehow knew "the secret" (puke) and knew that things would work out.  But after a few years of being smacked around, it's hard to dare to hope.  For ME.  But hearing that sort of emptiness out of others makes me want to fight.  I want to beat the heck out of anyone and anything that dares stand in my friend's way of happiness.  He deserves so much good, and I can't bear that he doesn't see it coming his way in the future.  We all do.

And so, my valliant cohorts in life, if you have any suggestions on keeping the faith, I'm all ears.  And with all of my might, I will hope for you to be given the most elusive of gifts these days--I will hope with all of my might that you can see lights at the end of your tunnels and sunshine through your clouds.  Because if the Cubs can come back from an 8-0 defecit as they have tonight, anything is possible.  Sure, they'll lose the game by 1 in extra innings.  But at least there was a small sliver of hope and it was enough to keep the TV on.  And in the hours, days and months ahead, may you have your own glimpse of a bright side.

UPDATE:  The Cubs won 10-9, without need for extra innings.  Have faith, ye faithless.  Have faith.

My Life Sucks More Than Yours

As you are well aware, I have been having one hell of a pity party for quite some time now.  I have wallowed, I have wailed and I have wept; sometimes accomplishing the incredible feat of doing all three at once.  And as we have discussed, there are plenty of people out there with crap going on as well.  In fact, I quite literally am not aware of any friend or acquaintance who ISN'T going through something big.  Call it "life," call it "the recession," call it "George"--whatever it is called, there's a lot of stuff going down.

That said, there is a growing trend that is starting to drive me insane.  It's the "my life sucks more than yours" contest.  And this whopper of a competition is taking place all over the country--likely, the world.  I have been absolutely dumbfounded at some of the comments I see people making to one another.  We're talking about "no, you can't possibly be as sad as I" comments, in the middle of conversations about nail polish.  The zingers come from all over. Stay-at-homes stake their claim to having it worse than working parents who demand that they have it worse than the rich who have it worse than the ill who have it worse than the medicated and so on and so on.  I completely GET feeling like you have it worse than everyone around you.  Heck, like I said, my self-pity party rocks 24/7.  But to tell others that their pity parties don't have the beautiful decorations that yours sports?  That's insane.

First and foremost, none of us has any clue what is really going on in someone else's life.  It would baffle you to know that the head of the PTA was arrested a few months ago for vandalism.  You would be shocked to learn that your colleague is on a cocktail of anti-depressants that make Judy Garland's medicine cabinet look like a Baskin Robbins.  And it would blow your mind to know that the beautiful baby your neighbor won't shut up about is actually the mailman's kid.  I'm only partly joking--you just never, ever know what someone else is going through.  Even when he or she does the occasional (or frequent) sob story, you're rarely getting the entire picture.

Second, do the comments really make the speaker feel better?  I know how scary things are right now.  But by trying to let everyone know that you're "superior" in your misery, do you convince yourself?  I doubt it.  I can't believe that by explaining to the woman at the grocery store that the fact she worked the Fourth of July doesn't compare to your uncle's drunken admission that he has a love child, you feel better about the family secret (true story, actually--the woman in front of me had this conversation with the checker yesterday).  I just can't see the purpose of trying to rain on someone else's thunderstorm.

I am 100% guilty of doing the above.  But I have also been noticing it a lot lately in people who are far better humans than I.  Maybe we can all cut each other some slack?  I'm going to try to assume that every person I come across has a life that sucks more than mine on that particular day.  In which case, welcome to my party.  Please bring beer.

Harry Potter, My Friend

It is with only the slightest bit of shame that I admit that I am obsessed with Harry Potter.  I think the books are absolutely brilliant.  I enjoy the movies because they (for the most part) embody the books very well.  But lately I have been thinking about Harry Potter more in terms of its placement in my life.  Bear with me.

As many of you fellow dorks know, the final film based on the books is coming out in a few short weeks.  And for the first time in the history of Harry Potter, I will not be experiencing it with a very distinct group of my family.  This has caused me to think back on how much things have changed for all of us since Harry Potter, the wizard who lived, entered my life.

I was in law school when a younger cousin lent me one of the books.  I personally became obsessed.  I loved getting lost in the world of wizards and general wonder.  It was a great respite from the rather boring world of law school.  And, much to my delight, a number of my friends eventually admitted they found the same release.  Over the years, we became Harry Potter groupies.  Midnight book releases, hours-long lines for the latest films, possibly a costume or two (you know who you are, J) were all part of our bond.  The occasional member of our group disappeared--some from the obsession, others from our lives.  But together we shared this crazy, child-like joy for these fictional characters that we had embraced as our own.

As I sit now, miles away from this little family that I will always have, I can think of nothing but pure joy for having them in my life and for these awesome connections.  And I have to say thank you to Harry.  To say that each of us has been through a lot is like saying Voldemort is a bit crabby.  Marriages, kids, illnesses, losses (some indescribable), joys (also some indescribable) and so many ups and downs have entered each of our lives.  But the constant that has remained, and that always will no matter where we may be, is "us."  This fictional world has reached out of pages and film and has joined us for eternity.  Every glimpse of Daniel Radcliffe makes me think of how happy we all were at K's gorgeous wedding.  Every page I read that mentions Dobby brings a smile to my face because I remember laughing with S as we sat on the beach and burned ourselves to a crisp.  Every time I pick up a glass featuring Voldemort, I tear up with happiness at memories of Venice with J.  The others are all there, too--BBQs and laughing with L and fights and heartbreak with B. 

Wrapped up in this "childish" world of fiction is my reality.  And I am grateful to the boy wizard for each and every second of it.  In imagining his fictional life, I have lived my very real one.  And through it all has been my own group of Gryffindors (and Hufflepuffs and...you get the picture, or you think I'm insane).  The best part is that, though the movies may be concluding (for now, anyway), this connection that brought us even closer will remain for the rest of our lives.  And who could ask for more magic than that?

Is Sense of Humor Geographic

I have a somewhat whacked sense of humor.  If you have read a number of my posts, you are aware of this fact.  But I am growing concerned that the good people of Montana don't think I'm funny.

The other day I was with a group of people and we were talking over a serious topic.  I tried repeatedly to lighten things a bit by cracking little jokes.  Nothing.  Even people who hated me in the Midwest at least laughed when I made stupid comments.  And it's not just these people.  Even my friends here don't think I'm funny (you know who you are).  It's like I am 100% native here, except my sense of humor.  Sarcasm isn't welcome. 

The lack of response from most Montanans doesn't generally upset me, but it does make me uneasy.  What if I was physically born here, making the lack of humidity perfect for me, the open sky awesome, the grass tremendous, but my sense of humor was born in NYC?  This makes me generally acceptable as a person--provided I don't actually interact with anyone else.  Which is pretty much fine, because I generally don't.  But I suspect that I will have to one day leave my house and this could make things tricky.

And so, if anyone knows where I can find a Rocky Mountain sense of humor, please let me know.  I am guessing it's on the shelf next to the ability to mountain climb and to look good after running, which I also lack.