So, as it turns out, Erica had an excellent reason for drenching herself in perfume.
She needed to hide the smell of the marijuana and cigarettes she'd been smoking at lunch.
I wish I was kidding. My eighth grader has been leaving campus with a group of friends at lunch time (not allowed) and getting high. (SO not allowed.)
I've known about this for a few weeks now. I dropped off Twitter and blogging and the internet in general because I was so angry and frustrated and sad. I needed to vent, but every time I tried to write it down, I just got so caught up in it that my writing became a tangled mess. I'm a little bit calmer now, so I'm gonna try to get it off my chest.
Part of why this is such a big deal is that I quit working outside of the home back in November in order to provide more safety for Erica. There was a spate of crimes against children in our area, targeting two of the local schools, one of which was Erica's. There was a man who tried to grab a girl, (that was particularly scary as she was with one friend and in sight of several others when it happened, but the man was not deterred by witnesses.) but she was able to break free and run to safety. There was a man found in a car, masturbating while watching the kids walking to school. He was less than a block from the school--he could see the front door of the building from where he was parked. There was another case on the same street of a man trying to lure a girl to his car, and when she glanced at him, he flashed her. Again, within sight of the school, at a time of day when the area is quite busy. Then, finally, on our street, a girl was snatched and raped in the restroom of the park. A girl from my daughter's school. A 13-year-old girl, walking home from school, on our street.
Other than the masturbator, who has an alibi for the times of the other crimes, no one has been apprehended.
Since she started middle school, we've always dropped Erica off in the morning, and she walked home. As incidents stacked up, Husband and I decided we couldn't take the chance. We can get by (juuuuust) on his income and the tiny bit of freelance I get for helping out a former coworker with clerical work for his business. I started staying home so that I could pick her up in the afternoon. I'm looking for a job that will let me work just mornings and early afternoon so that I can both work and chauffeur, but no luck so far.
To sum up: The world around us suddenly seemed dangerous for our child, so we made an enormous financial sacrifice to keep her safe.
Which she repaid by leaving the school, walking down the street where a girl was almost grabbed and another was flashed, cutting through the park where a classmate was raped, and to a local shopping center, where she and her friends sought out abandoned nooks and crannies and got high.
We have no idea how often she's done this. She admitted to six or seven times over the last three months, but quite frankly, I no longer believe a single word that comes from her mouth. You know, I've never been the type of mother who got all bent out of shape when someone reported bad behavior from one of my children. I check out the situation, assess the justness of the accusation and go from there. But Erica is so smart, and has always seemed so level-headed, that if anyone, anyone in the world, had called me up and told me that they saw her smoking pot, I would have laughed. Sorry, you must be mistaken. No way would Erica do such a thing. And I would have been wrong.
That's the worst part of it to me. My own sense of judgment regarding my child, my own sense of what kind of person she is, is totally wrong. What's my problem, that I couldn't see that she is clearly not who I thought she was?
It was pure luck that she got caught. A teacher happened to look out his window and see the three girls returning to school. He called me, and when he mentioned who she was with, a bell rang in my head. I remembered talking to another parent about that girl, and the other parent saying that she wouldn't let her daughter sleep over with (let's call her) Jane, because Jane had been suspended after being caught with a joint. So, when I confronted Erica about leaving school, just on a long shot I said "So what were you doing, anyway? Getting high?" She gasped and her face turned white. "You were, weren't you?" I said, my stomach dropping. She nodded. A search of her room turned up a pipe.
So, her smartphone was confiscated, iPod and Nintendo DS taken away, passwords on the home computer changed, so she can no longer access the internet. She had tons of skype sessions with Jane, and text messages between the two talking about whether to leave on a given day or not. We made her write down the names of every kid who skipped school and got high with her, which we are basically holding ransom, and here is where people are going to find controversy with the way I'm handling this. The school doesn't know about the drug use. So, neither do the other parents, unless they also managed to wring a confession. I was torn on this, because I felt like I should let the other moms know, but once I thought about how I would have reacted to an unknown parent calling to tell me my kid was getting high with theirs, I couldn't see it doing any good. More importantly, there is a kind of rough element at Erica's school, and I have very real concerns about her getting hurt if she's tagged as a rat. When I told Erica I wanted names, she panicked. She was terrified of being labeled a snitch. We're using that fear to our advantage. If she leaves school again, we will let the school know the whole story, and we will contact the other parents, and things will be very difficult for her.
After a very long evening of lecturing, arguing and crying on everyone's part, Erica was sent to bed. I took her to school the next day, and spoke with the Dean of Discipline. She was given lunch detention for two weeks, meaning she had to check in with the detention monitor within five minutes of the lunch bell, and then had to sit at the detention table until lunch was over. She was warned that if she was ever late, let alone failed to show up, I had more than enough time in my day to drop by the school at lunch time and sit with her. Can you imagine anything worse for a middle-schooler? I wanted her in detention the rest of the year, but the school balked at that, which honestly annoyed me. They didn't know that three to five of the 13 year olds they're responsible for during the day have been leaving at will for god knows how long, but they're gonna get fussy about extra monitoring of one of the guilty? Fine, whatever. Now, every day at 11:55 I leave the house and drive to the school, and watch the exits. God help that kid if I see her leaving.
Paranoid? Yeah, a bit. Because the very next day after this all went down, Erica skipped a class. It was the class right after lunch, and she was angry about the lunch detention, and angry that her friends weren't being punished the same, and so she and Jane hid out in a bathroom for all of fifth period. Which I found out because if a child is absent, tardy or marked absent in one class but not another, the school calls. The only good thing about Erica's attempt to be a delinquent is that she folds immediately upon questioning.
I have no idea what to do with her. I'm so angry at the lack of judgment she's displayed, at the blatant disregard for our rules-I just don't know what to do. If the whole debacle is mentioned, Erica gets all eye-rolly and whips out what Sundry recently referred to as audible italics--"What? You guys are STILL mad about that? Jeez." (Second paragraph of a fantastic post. Go read it, I'll wait.) I'm not a corporal punishment kind of parent, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't flat out fantasized about smacking her across the face when she does that.
I know there are a bunch of you reading right now, wondering what this kid is acting out about and the answer is...nothing. She says she liked the group of girls that were doing this. Apparently they are cool. She wanted to be part of the action.
Yes, her father and I divorced, but we managed to keep all the assholery way under radar, and to even be friendly with each other post-divorce, let alone civil. Both of us have remarried, to people who never had kids of their own and have been happy to be instant parents. She gets tons of time at both households, and lots of time with extended family. His family does all the Americana sort of things-Easter egg hunts, Memorial Day at the lake, Fourth of July barbecues, big family parties. Our household does the zoo and aquarium at least once a year (I love the zoo, and will use any excuse to go there.) We try to see one theatrical production a year, though we were foiled this year when the only show we were interested in sold out before I realized tickets were one sale. We try to do some kind of "high culture" thing every month, whether it's a fine dining restaurant or a visit to an art museum, or just picking a cool neighborhood and exploring its coffee shops and bookstores.She wants books or art supplies? We buy them. Between the two households, we've tried to give her a very well-rounded human experience, and there is more than enough love and affection to go around. I have no idea what she could possibly be rebelling against.
So here we are. I have no idea where to go from here. Once the school year ends, she's going to spend a couple of weeks with my mother, and then a big chunk of the summer at her dad's. She's going to be supervised every minute of the day for the time being, but other than that, I don't know what to do. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Teenager
The biggest mistake I made, when embarking on this parenthood journey, was not thinking through the biggest consequence of having babies, which is that babies grow into teenagers. I was a FABULOUS birth to age 5 parent. No small children were as snuggled and adored as mine. I wasn't too bad in the 6-12 range either: At that age, my lame jokes were still funny, and I had the knack of knowing when a hug or a hair ruffle would be appreciated and when to play it cool.
Thirteen however, is when it goes off the rails. Now, I had, rather cleverly I thought, birthed my two children five years apart, so I always had one in the "easy" birth to 12 range.
But, like all good things, on a sunny day in early May, preadolescence came to an end. My baby, instead of remaining a child, followed in her older brother's footsteps and became a teenager.
At first, it wasn't too bad. She's into fashion and makeup, and I found I really enjoyed talking about makeup with her, comparing looks, commiserating over tightlining, and it was really fun to have someone in the house for whom purple and green eyeshadow could be bought. (Our coloring could not be more different. I yearn for purple eyeshadow, but am stuck with browns and coppers.) She also began developing a more mature perspective on (some) things, and became an actual contributor to family conversations about society and politics and social justice and whether we should watch Firefly again, or Doctor Who.
Then little annoyances began to creep in. Like the way she refuses to look at, let alone try on, pants that are not skinny enough. Like the way she tries to convince me that she needs a fifty dollar hoodie which differs only from the seven dollar hoodie I offered to buy her in the addition of giant letters stitched across the chest, spelling "aeropostale." (Which, how is that pronounced? Every time I have to say it, I feel like she's judging me.)
Still, despite the eyerolls when I say "Oh, there's a clearance rack over there, let's go look for some jeans!" I generally like her and would rather have her around then otherwise.
But now? Now she has started a sinister new phase: Perfume.
She doesn't own any perfume, so the suppliers must be girls at school. She got into the truck at school pickup the other day smelling like a rose. A big rose. A GINORMOUS rose.
Eyes watering, I managed to suppress the cough trying to burst from my lips and speak past the tightness in my throat. "Hi sweetie! How was school is that perfume you're wearing?"
She affirmed that it was, saying that a "bunch of us" were swapping perfume and makeup during lunch.
"It's nice," I croaked. "Maybe a little heavy?"
She looked at me, as though I had something bewilderingly stupid, like "Flared jeans are really cute."
"What's the point," she said, slowly, as though I afraid of confusing me, "of wearing perfume if no one can smell it?"
Touché. Point, Erica.
Husband asked me that evening if she was wearing a little perfume.
"No, she's wearing ALL the perfume. There is no one else, ever, who can wear perfume, because she has it all."
He was quiet for a moment. "Mom thing, " he decided. "This one is all yours."
I'm going to have to do something about this, and pretty much immediately, because this morning Husband asked me to sniff the air, and to my horror, I smelled patchouli.
I despise the smell of patchouli, though not as much as Husband does. "Get rid of it, today." He gritted to me, before leaving for work.
So now I'm wondering what to say to her. I mean, the patchouli issue is easy--the two people who pay the rent don't like it, it's not going to stick around. I'm thinking more about the fragrance issue in general. I love perfumes in theory, but only a few in practice. The Grace series by Philosophy and Gucci Guilty are the only ones that spring immediately to mind, and I like fun scents like the body sprays at Bath and Bodyworks. However, she is DRENCHING herself in these, and worse, she's choosing scents that don't actually get along with her body chemistry. I don't want to outright ban her experimentation, but rather to set limits on it, but it's hard to quantify "too much." The line between enough perfume and ohmygodwaytoomuch is fairly fine, and if I don't define it for her, she'll keep crossing that line, and if there are many more scents as bad as patchouli, her stepfather will eventually issue a decree banning perfume (for her, anyway. Just try to decree ME, buddy) and she will file this injustice in the same place she stores the fifty dollar hoodie incident.
And the fifty dollar hoodie incident is brought up every time we go shopping. EVERY TIME.
This was simpler with her brother. Except for the brown sugar incident and the fire, his teen years were easy.
Thirteen however, is when it goes off the rails. Now, I had, rather cleverly I thought, birthed my two children five years apart, so I always had one in the "easy" birth to 12 range.
But, like all good things, on a sunny day in early May, preadolescence came to an end. My baby, instead of remaining a child, followed in her older brother's footsteps and became a teenager.
At first, it wasn't too bad. She's into fashion and makeup, and I found I really enjoyed talking about makeup with her, comparing looks, commiserating over tightlining, and it was really fun to have someone in the house for whom purple and green eyeshadow could be bought. (Our coloring could not be more different. I yearn for purple eyeshadow, but am stuck with browns and coppers.) She also began developing a more mature perspective on (some) things, and became an actual contributor to family conversations about society and politics and social justice and whether we should watch Firefly again, or Doctor Who.
Then little annoyances began to creep in. Like the way she refuses to look at, let alone try on, pants that are not skinny enough. Like the way she tries to convince me that she needs a fifty dollar hoodie which differs only from the seven dollar hoodie I offered to buy her in the addition of giant letters stitched across the chest, spelling "aeropostale." (Which, how is that pronounced? Every time I have to say it, I feel like she's judging me.)
Still, despite the eyerolls when I say "Oh, there's a clearance rack over there, let's go look for some jeans!" I generally like her and would rather have her around then otherwise.
But now? Now she has started a sinister new phase: Perfume.
She doesn't own any perfume, so the suppliers must be girls at school. She got into the truck at school pickup the other day smelling like a rose. A big rose. A GINORMOUS rose.
Eyes watering, I managed to suppress the cough trying to burst from my lips and speak past the tightness in my throat. "Hi sweetie! How was school is that perfume you're wearing?"
She affirmed that it was, saying that a "bunch of us" were swapping perfume and makeup during lunch.
"It's nice," I croaked. "Maybe a little heavy?"
She looked at me, as though I had something bewilderingly stupid, like "Flared jeans are really cute."
"What's the point," she said, slowly, as though I afraid of confusing me, "of wearing perfume if no one can smell it?"
Touché. Point, Erica.
Husband asked me that evening if she was wearing a little perfume.
"No, she's wearing ALL the perfume. There is no one else, ever, who can wear perfume, because she has it all."
He was quiet for a moment. "Mom thing, " he decided. "This one is all yours."
I'm going to have to do something about this, and pretty much immediately, because this morning Husband asked me to sniff the air, and to my horror, I smelled patchouli.
I despise the smell of patchouli, though not as much as Husband does. "Get rid of it, today." He gritted to me, before leaving for work.
So now I'm wondering what to say to her. I mean, the patchouli issue is easy--the two people who pay the rent don't like it, it's not going to stick around. I'm thinking more about the fragrance issue in general. I love perfumes in theory, but only a few in practice. The Grace series by Philosophy and Gucci Guilty are the only ones that spring immediately to mind, and I like fun scents like the body sprays at Bath and Bodyworks. However, she is DRENCHING herself in these, and worse, she's choosing scents that don't actually get along with her body chemistry. I don't want to outright ban her experimentation, but rather to set limits on it, but it's hard to quantify "too much." The line between enough perfume and ohmygodwaytoomuch is fairly fine, and if I don't define it for her, she'll keep crossing that line, and if there are many more scents as bad as patchouli, her stepfather will eventually issue a decree banning perfume (for her, anyway. Just try to decree ME, buddy) and she will file this injustice in the same place she stores the fifty dollar hoodie incident.
And the fifty dollar hoodie incident is brought up every time we go shopping. EVERY TIME.
This was simpler with her brother. Except for the brown sugar incident and the fire, his teen years were easy.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Mea Culpa, Skinny Hippies.
About 15 years ago, I bought a Yoga DVD. Every day for about a week I would circle the thing, warily eyeing it, and thinking about popping it in. But knowing how inflexible and clumsy and generally uncoordinated I am, I was too afraid to try it. At the time, I was fairly broke, so the 20 bucks it cost represented a huge amount of money for me, so I was unable to throw it away. It moved around with me, getting packed and unpacked over the years, always relegated to the bottom shelf of my DVD case.
Over the years, I heard about ways to make yoga safer and easier for beginners, so I purchased a yoga mat, a yoga brick, and a yoga strap. Still, I never quite got around to trying it out, and the equipment lived in the darkest corner of whatever closet was least useful to me.
Then I met Husband, and became a bit of an exercise snob. Husband, a 6'4, 300 pound boxer, was into weightlifting in a big way. He followed a program called Heavy Duty, developed by a professional weightlifter named Mike Mentzer. (Check it out, it's actually a pretty cool program.) We both did Heavy Duty for a few months, until life interfered: A job change for both of us, and a move, ended up costing us our gym membership. The muscle gym we liked was just too far away, and we couldn't find another affordable one near us. Husband has free weights, and has kept up his training, mostly. I don't have the nerve to do reps to failure on free weights--I want the safety factor of a machine, so I eventually lost everything I'd gained from the program. Anyway, I told you all that, to tell you this: In my mind, strenuous exercise is hard cardio followed by Heavy Duty. Yoga? That's for skinny hippies.
So, flash forward to now, where I am very heavy and out of condition and trying to claw my way back to good health. I decided to give the yoga dvd a tryout. This particular dvd features four people. One does straight-up yoga, one does slightly modified moves, one does slightly more modified moves, and one does VERY modified, beginners-look-here moves. Despite my assumption that yoga was an easy workout, I figured my lack of coordination and flexibility warranted a slow approach, so I did the fully modified workout.
You guys. I was so very wrong about yoga, and I apologize. Fifteen minutes in, my feet were cramping. I kept having to stop for a few seconds and wiggle my toes and flex my feel to soothe them. Twenty minutes in, and I was struggling to keep my breathing at the pace the dvd wanted. I needed MOAR AIR. At the thirty minute mark, I turned off the heater in the living room. By the end, 45 minutes later, I collapsed gratefully into the relaxation post (rolled blanket under my spine, head supported, just breathe) and seriously considered never getting up again. I was exhausted. I spent the rest of the afternoon, fighting the urge to take a nap, and finally forced myself to hit the treadmill for half an hour. That gave me enough of a boost to get through the rest of the evening, and by nine-thirty, I was ready for bed. My head hit the pillow, and that was that. I don't think I moved, let alone woke up, at any point until Husband's alarm went off.
Today, I am sore, but not in a bad way. In fact, I feel really, really good today. Still kind of tired, but good. I'm trying to decide what to do today. Part of me really wants to do the dvd again, but I'm afraid of overdoing it. I'm thinking I might just do a treadmill routine today, and do yoga tomorrow. Then again, a repeat of yesterday also sounds really appealing. I seriously cannot make up my mind here.
I also feel weirdly taller, but I think that's just from hearing the instructor talk about lengthening my muscles on every move.
Over the years, I heard about ways to make yoga safer and easier for beginners, so I purchased a yoga mat, a yoga brick, and a yoga strap. Still, I never quite got around to trying it out, and the equipment lived in the darkest corner of whatever closet was least useful to me.
Then I met Husband, and became a bit of an exercise snob. Husband, a 6'4, 300 pound boxer, was into weightlifting in a big way. He followed a program called Heavy Duty, developed by a professional weightlifter named Mike Mentzer. (Check it out, it's actually a pretty cool program.) We both did Heavy Duty for a few months, until life interfered: A job change for both of us, and a move, ended up costing us our gym membership. The muscle gym we liked was just too far away, and we couldn't find another affordable one near us. Husband has free weights, and has kept up his training, mostly. I don't have the nerve to do reps to failure on free weights--I want the safety factor of a machine, so I eventually lost everything I'd gained from the program. Anyway, I told you all that, to tell you this: In my mind, strenuous exercise is hard cardio followed by Heavy Duty. Yoga? That's for skinny hippies.
So, flash forward to now, where I am very heavy and out of condition and trying to claw my way back to good health. I decided to give the yoga dvd a tryout. This particular dvd features four people. One does straight-up yoga, one does slightly modified moves, one does slightly more modified moves, and one does VERY modified, beginners-look-here moves. Despite my assumption that yoga was an easy workout, I figured my lack of coordination and flexibility warranted a slow approach, so I did the fully modified workout.
You guys. I was so very wrong about yoga, and I apologize. Fifteen minutes in, my feet were cramping. I kept having to stop for a few seconds and wiggle my toes and flex my feel to soothe them. Twenty minutes in, and I was struggling to keep my breathing at the pace the dvd wanted. I needed MOAR AIR. At the thirty minute mark, I turned off the heater in the living room. By the end, 45 minutes later, I collapsed gratefully into the relaxation post (rolled blanket under my spine, head supported, just breathe) and seriously considered never getting up again. I was exhausted. I spent the rest of the afternoon, fighting the urge to take a nap, and finally forced myself to hit the treadmill for half an hour. That gave me enough of a boost to get through the rest of the evening, and by nine-thirty, I was ready for bed. My head hit the pillow, and that was that. I don't think I moved, let alone woke up, at any point until Husband's alarm went off.
Today, I am sore, but not in a bad way. In fact, I feel really, really good today. Still kind of tired, but good. I'm trying to decide what to do today. Part of me really wants to do the dvd again, but I'm afraid of overdoing it. I'm thinking I might just do a treadmill routine today, and do yoga tomorrow. Then again, a repeat of yesterday also sounds really appealing. I seriously cannot make up my mind here.
I also feel weirdly taller, but I think that's just from hearing the instructor talk about lengthening my muscles on every move.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Footsie
When I look back on 2013, it's gonna be remembered as the year my feet sucked nonstop.
First, there was the ingrown toenail of January, caused, I am certain, by my going on a running kick for three weeks. As evidence, I present the fact that by February, both my urge to jog and the ingrown were both gone, and neither has recurred. Science, bitches!
Then came the long, drawn-out drama of the plantar wart. One day in early March, I noticed a pain in the ball of my left foot. Upon examination, I found a tiny red dot. That's it. Very insignificant looking for the amount of irritation it was causing, but it was right on that part of the sole that one's weight rolls onto as one walks, and directly on the spot where all pressure from walking lands if one is wearing heels. When I brushed my finger over the dot, the feeling was very reminiscent of having a splinter. I thought this was odd, as I am not a go outside barefoot kind of person, but then I remembered that I had dropped a wineglass the previous weekend. I had cleaned up afterward, of course, but whose to say I got every tiny little splinter and sliver of glass? Since I couldn't actually see anything under the skin, my assumption that it was a tiny piece of glass was bolstered, and I assumed it would work its way out on its own.
I have rarely been more wrong.
A callous developed over the site, and the pain increased to the point where I was always limping. I couldn't wear any shoes other than Keds, and even with those I had to add extra insoles to cushion the callous. I consulted Dr. Google and discovered it was a plantar wart. I spent the next six months alternating between surprisingly painful cryosurgical treatments at my doctor's office (IT BUUUURNSSSS!!) and treating it with salicylic acid at home. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was this: I couldn't get a pedicure all summer. I couldn't stand the thought of anyone touching that foot, for one thing, and for another, I felt it would not be a good citizen-type move to risk exposing others to the virus that causes this type of wart. This is a big deal to me, because I don't like my feet unless they're dressed up, and I am terrible at doing my own nails. I hate having hot feet, and because of the combo of no pedicure plus limp-making pain in non-sneaker shoes, I spent my summer wearing close-toed shoes. I am a girl who loves her strappy sandals and peep-toe pumps. Then, about two weeks ago, I was walking the dog and realized my foot didn't hurt. Over the last few days, the callous has completely gone and I have no more pain.
In that foot, anyway.
Suddenly the plantar fasciitis that I've had off and on over the years in my right foot flared up again. Now I can only wear shoes that my orthotics will fit into. I've also had to step down my cardio routine a little bit, which is annoying, because now I feel caught in a trap: I need to lose weight to stop the fasciitis, but I can't exercise as much because it causes the pain to flare up. Very frustrating.
I told you all that to tell you this: I got a pedicure yesterday, and I was so happy! I cranked the massage chair up to eleven, settled in with a People magazine and blissed out.
Until it was time for color, and no one, including me, in the entire salon could get the top of my color unscrewed. And it was the last bottle of that color in the shop.
Well played, feet.
I went with an inferior color and could only laugh in agreement when Erica said "Man, these first world problems are so hard!"
That's alright, though. Inferior color or no, my feet are looking pretty damn cute right now.
First, there was the ingrown toenail of January, caused, I am certain, by my going on a running kick for three weeks. As evidence, I present the fact that by February, both my urge to jog and the ingrown were both gone, and neither has recurred. Science, bitches!
Then came the long, drawn-out drama of the plantar wart. One day in early March, I noticed a pain in the ball of my left foot. Upon examination, I found a tiny red dot. That's it. Very insignificant looking for the amount of irritation it was causing, but it was right on that part of the sole that one's weight rolls onto as one walks, and directly on the spot where all pressure from walking lands if one is wearing heels. When I brushed my finger over the dot, the feeling was very reminiscent of having a splinter. I thought this was odd, as I am not a go outside barefoot kind of person, but then I remembered that I had dropped a wineglass the previous weekend. I had cleaned up afterward, of course, but whose to say I got every tiny little splinter and sliver of glass? Since I couldn't actually see anything under the skin, my assumption that it was a tiny piece of glass was bolstered, and I assumed it would work its way out on its own.
I have rarely been more wrong.
A callous developed over the site, and the pain increased to the point where I was always limping. I couldn't wear any shoes other than Keds, and even with those I had to add extra insoles to cushion the callous. I consulted Dr. Google and discovered it was a plantar wart. I spent the next six months alternating between surprisingly painful cryosurgical treatments at my doctor's office (IT BUUUURNSSSS!!) and treating it with salicylic acid at home. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was this: I couldn't get a pedicure all summer. I couldn't stand the thought of anyone touching that foot, for one thing, and for another, I felt it would not be a good citizen-type move to risk exposing others to the virus that causes this type of wart. This is a big deal to me, because I don't like my feet unless they're dressed up, and I am terrible at doing my own nails. I hate having hot feet, and because of the combo of no pedicure plus limp-making pain in non-sneaker shoes, I spent my summer wearing close-toed shoes. I am a girl who loves her strappy sandals and peep-toe pumps. Then, about two weeks ago, I was walking the dog and realized my foot didn't hurt. Over the last few days, the callous has completely gone and I have no more pain.
In that foot, anyway.
Suddenly the plantar fasciitis that I've had off and on over the years in my right foot flared up again. Now I can only wear shoes that my orthotics will fit into. I've also had to step down my cardio routine a little bit, which is annoying, because now I feel caught in a trap: I need to lose weight to stop the fasciitis, but I can't exercise as much because it causes the pain to flare up. Very frustrating.
I told you all that to tell you this: I got a pedicure yesterday, and I was so happy! I cranked the massage chair up to eleven, settled in with a People magazine and blissed out.
Until it was time for color, and no one, including me, in the entire salon could get the top of my color unscrewed. And it was the last bottle of that color in the shop.
Well played, feet.
I went with an inferior color and could only laugh in agreement when Erica said "Man, these first world problems are so hard!"
That's alright, though. Inferior color or no, my feet are looking pretty damn cute right now.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Cicada Parenting
I'm pretty sure I saw this somewhere else online, years ago. It has more of the ring of memory about it than of original thought, but anyway: Cicadas have the right idea. They bury their young in a hole until they turn 17.
Erica is thirteen. For the most part, she is a pleasant, fun child to be around. She's a huge foodie, she loves anime and weird Korean robot singers called vocaloids. She likes Doctor Who, and has been known to sneak up behind me and trill "Are you my mummy?" in a faux British accent, making me shriek and flee the room. Doctor Who fans know why. (OMG. Those gas masks! Eeeugh!)
However.
She is a firm believer in the idea that once she's gotten an inch, she really does deserve a mile. And if I don't agree with her, it's because I'm stupid and unfair, not because she's wrong. Take Halloween this year as an example. Erica wanted to go trick or treating with a few of her girlfriends. That's fine, I said, but you have to do it in our neighborhood. Our neighborhood isn't great, but it beats the one these particular girls live in. I wouldn't walk around that block after dark, let alone turn a bunch of thirteen-year-olds loose there. I told her that the girls could come by after five, because I didn't want to deal with a bunch of kids at dinner time, not knowing who likes what and who's allergic to this or that. I would be happy to take everyone home, they just needed a ride to our place. After a few days, it was apparent that none of the other parents were interested in driving kids to my house, so I amended the plan to allowing the girls to walk home with Erica, and be here all afternoon. I told Erica to inform the girls and their parents that we would leave our house to take people home at 8:30, since it was a school night. Erica was furious. "That means we have to be home by 8:15! That's not fair! We only have one more day of school after Halloween, it doesn't matter if we're tired! I want to stay out til nine!"
We went back and forth on this for a couple of rounds, with me pointing out that it's not just about it being a school night, although that's the biggest part of it. It's also about the fact that everyone will be amped up, both on sugar and the high of hanging out with friends, and costumes, and being out alone after dark, and will need some quiet time at home to come down. It's about the fact that I am tired, and I will be the one cooking and providing entertainment for people until it's time for trick or treating. It's about the fact that I get up early on school days, too, and if I drive everyone home at 8:30 it will be 9:30 before we're home, and I like to go to bed around 10 on weeknights. I pointed out that my entire afternoon, evening, and night are being given over to her, and she should be grateful this is happening at all. She said, "I don't see why that matters. I never get to do anything, it won't kill you to be tired on a Friday, either!"
Seriously? That pissed me right off. By now, we were parked in front of her school. (Oh yeah, this conversation occurred during school dropoff, because nothing beats arguing in the morning.) I put the truck in park, took off my seatbelt and turned to face her. I could see by her face that she knew she'd stepped in it. In a deadly calm voice I said, "Well, that's it, then. I'm done with this whole thing. Your friends can find somewhere else to trick or treat, and you can plan on staying in on Halloween. Go to school." She stormed out of the car, and I went home and suffered guilt for several hours.
You see, she doesn't do a lot of socializing. She has these three good friends, and one of them has very strict Tiger-mom parents. Tiger Kid never gets permission to come out, so the fact that her parents had unbent enough to allow her to walk home with another kid, go trick or treating, and come home after 8 on a school night was a big deal. The other two kids are siblings, and spend every other weekend with their non-custodial parent, like Erica does, and usually their weekend away doesn't match up with Erica's so it's tough to schedule fun stuff with them. We finally had a night where it all works out, and I quash it because a teenager got a little attitude-y. Plus, I know she's acting up because she's nervous and excited about this night, plus PLUS she is very rarely a difficult teen--I really should be a little more patient. And at the bottom of it all was this: I am tired, and I didn't really want to do this. In some ways, I'd almost been hoping she'd step out of line so I had an excuse to cancel. I felt a bit small.
So I backed off my righteous anger and allowed the event to go on. It wasn't fun, because there were four thirteen-year-olds in my house at once, but it went well. I made a dinner which all the girls ate eagerly (in fact, they didn't leave any leftovers) they giggled and watched movies and adjusted their costumes until it was time to leave, and they returned home precisely on time. They were all polite and thanked me for driving them, and they laughed whenever I told lame parent jokes.
The whole thing left me a bit nervous, though. I'm not very patient when it comes to being argued with, and teens LOVE to argue. This was just a tiny little skirmish. How will I manage full-on battles with Erica? Right now, at 10:23 on a Saturday, I can feel my blood beginning to simmer, because I asked Erica to get out of bed 45 minutes ago, because I want the dishes done and the floor swept early today, in case the power goes off (it's stormy here)and we have to spend the day huddled around the only fireplace in the house with a stack of board games. I know she's out of bed; however, her bedroom door is still closed, and the dishes are still on the counter. If I call her out here right now, she's going to drag herself out, and when I tell her again to do the dishes, she's going to spend ten minutes pouring cereal and making tea, and then twenty minutes to eat, and ARGH!!! My head will explode, and so will my voice. And this is just a dispute about doing chores in a timely manner and getting up before noon on the weekends. What am I gonna do when it's about a baggie of weed found in a pocket, or sneaking out to see a boy?
I'm doomed.
Erica is thirteen. For the most part, she is a pleasant, fun child to be around. She's a huge foodie, she loves anime and weird Korean robot singers called vocaloids. She likes Doctor Who, and has been known to sneak up behind me and trill "Are you my mummy?" in a faux British accent, making me shriek and flee the room. Doctor Who fans know why. (OMG. Those gas masks! Eeeugh!)
However.
She is a firm believer in the idea that once she's gotten an inch, she really does deserve a mile. And if I don't agree with her, it's because I'm stupid and unfair, not because she's wrong. Take Halloween this year as an example. Erica wanted to go trick or treating with a few of her girlfriends. That's fine, I said, but you have to do it in our neighborhood. Our neighborhood isn't great, but it beats the one these particular girls live in. I wouldn't walk around that block after dark, let alone turn a bunch of thirteen-year-olds loose there. I told her that the girls could come by after five, because I didn't want to deal with a bunch of kids at dinner time, not knowing who likes what and who's allergic to this or that. I would be happy to take everyone home, they just needed a ride to our place. After a few days, it was apparent that none of the other parents were interested in driving kids to my house, so I amended the plan to allowing the girls to walk home with Erica, and be here all afternoon. I told Erica to inform the girls and their parents that we would leave our house to take people home at 8:30, since it was a school night. Erica was furious. "That means we have to be home by 8:15! That's not fair! We only have one more day of school after Halloween, it doesn't matter if we're tired! I want to stay out til nine!"
We went back and forth on this for a couple of rounds, with me pointing out that it's not just about it being a school night, although that's the biggest part of it. It's also about the fact that everyone will be amped up, both on sugar and the high of hanging out with friends, and costumes, and being out alone after dark, and will need some quiet time at home to come down. It's about the fact that I am tired, and I will be the one cooking and providing entertainment for people until it's time for trick or treating. It's about the fact that I get up early on school days, too, and if I drive everyone home at 8:30 it will be 9:30 before we're home, and I like to go to bed around 10 on weeknights. I pointed out that my entire afternoon, evening, and night are being given over to her, and she should be grateful this is happening at all. She said, "I don't see why that matters. I never get to do anything, it won't kill you to be tired on a Friday, either!"
Seriously? That pissed me right off. By now, we were parked in front of her school. (Oh yeah, this conversation occurred during school dropoff, because nothing beats arguing in the morning.) I put the truck in park, took off my seatbelt and turned to face her. I could see by her face that she knew she'd stepped in it. In a deadly calm voice I said, "Well, that's it, then. I'm done with this whole thing. Your friends can find somewhere else to trick or treat, and you can plan on staying in on Halloween. Go to school." She stormed out of the car, and I went home and suffered guilt for several hours.
You see, she doesn't do a lot of socializing. She has these three good friends, and one of them has very strict Tiger-mom parents. Tiger Kid never gets permission to come out, so the fact that her parents had unbent enough to allow her to walk home with another kid, go trick or treating, and come home after 8 on a school night was a big deal. The other two kids are siblings, and spend every other weekend with their non-custodial parent, like Erica does, and usually their weekend away doesn't match up with Erica's so it's tough to schedule fun stuff with them. We finally had a night where it all works out, and I quash it because a teenager got a little attitude-y. Plus, I know she's acting up because she's nervous and excited about this night, plus PLUS she is very rarely a difficult teen--I really should be a little more patient. And at the bottom of it all was this: I am tired, and I didn't really want to do this. In some ways, I'd almost been hoping she'd step out of line so I had an excuse to cancel. I felt a bit small.
So I backed off my righteous anger and allowed the event to go on. It wasn't fun, because there were four thirteen-year-olds in my house at once, but it went well. I made a dinner which all the girls ate eagerly (in fact, they didn't leave any leftovers) they giggled and watched movies and adjusted their costumes until it was time to leave, and they returned home precisely on time. They were all polite and thanked me for driving them, and they laughed whenever I told lame parent jokes.
The whole thing left me a bit nervous, though. I'm not very patient when it comes to being argued with, and teens LOVE to argue. This was just a tiny little skirmish. How will I manage full-on battles with Erica? Right now, at 10:23 on a Saturday, I can feel my blood beginning to simmer, because I asked Erica to get out of bed 45 minutes ago, because I want the dishes done and the floor swept early today, in case the power goes off (it's stormy here)and we have to spend the day huddled around the only fireplace in the house with a stack of board games. I know she's out of bed; however, her bedroom door is still closed, and the dishes are still on the counter. If I call her out here right now, she's going to drag herself out, and when I tell her again to do the dishes, she's going to spend ten minutes pouring cereal and making tea, and then twenty minutes to eat, and ARGH!!! My head will explode, and so will my voice. And this is just a dispute about doing chores in a timely manner and getting up before noon on the weekends. What am I gonna do when it's about a baggie of weed found in a pocket, or sneaking out to see a boy?
I'm doomed.
Friday, November 1, 2013
NaBloPoMaybe?
Back when I first started this blog, one of the things I looked forward to was NaBloPoMo. After all, it was my favorite time of year as a blog reader, so obviously I would love it as a blog author, right?
Hahahaha. Oh, my sweet summer blogger self! Fast forward a few months to my paltry store of published posts, and it's obvious that I can barely post once a month, let alone once per day. Still, I'd like to give it a try. I can't swear that you're gonna get thirty high-quality posts--hell, I can't swear you're gonna get thirty posts, of whatever quality. But, one must try.
The nice thing about being such a slacker is that the first post back almost writes itself. I spend a bit of time updating previous posts and handing out excuses for why I haven't written. Easy! So without further ado...:
Nothing But a Family Thing, Part Two: Aunt Violet has made a complete recovery. Like, she's so recovered that I find myself wondering if my cousins exaggerated the seriousness of her condition. I'm not the believe in miracles type, so that's really the only explanation I can come up with as to how one goes from comatose for nearly a week with an almost non-existent EEG to a few weeks of physical therapy to back on Facebook pestering me with game invites and posting Inspirational Jesus quotes on my wall. It's weird. I should call her myself. After all, her suicide attempt/accidental overdose (depends on which version of events you believe) caused a slight Tragic Blue Screen of Death to happen in my brain, as I flashed back to awful things best forgotten and her kindness during the awful things. Unfortunately, I've had to build a wall around myself, in order to shut out the people responsible--and since she stays in close, happy contact with those people, I have to keep her at arm's length as well. I've worked too hard to be the just barely functioning human I am today. I can't let the wall wobble. It's not safe. Besides, how awkward would that conversation be? "Hullo, there, Auntie. So, was it suicide or what? Also, were your kids full of shit when they told me that they might have to unplug you and leave it up to Jesus? 'Cause you seem pretty damn healthy for someone they were about to send into the light?" Yeah, no. Can't do it.
Depression, Yet Another Update Upon: Eh. Still feel exhausted every single day. Still have to force myself to hit the treadmill. Still manage to be very healthy til about 6 p.m. when I realize I am STARVING and proceed to eat all the food. I'm doing a lot better though, since leaving the Temp Job From Hell, where I was simultaneously stressed out and bored to death, resulting in some EPIC emotional eating. I managed to cold turkey the need to eat chocolate from 2:30 p.m. to 4:56 p.m. every single weekday, and am now weaning myself off my pre-bedtime bowl of cereal. As to exercise, I've discovered a new way to motivate myself on the treadmill: NETFLIX. I suddenly remembered that I have Netflix on my Kindle Fire. Twice a week, I cue up a 45-50 minute show on the Kindle, and walk briskly up and down simulated hills for the entirety of the program. I'm at nearly 3 miles in that time, which for legs as short as mine, especially considering how heavy I am right now (see EPIC emotional eating, above) is actually a pretty good pace. In the next few days I plan to add in basic body weight stuff like squats, pushups, planks, etc. into the routine. I alternate the 50 minute workouts with 20-30 minute workouts two or three times a week, courtesy of Songza. Which program I cannot say enough nice things about, so thanks again MariaMelee for introducing me to it.
Speaking of the Kindle Fire, the first show I picked for workout viewing was Orange is the New Black, about which I have many, many things to say, but for now will just mention this: I watched it through once and loved it. LOVED. I got pretty tired of Piper pretty quickly, but with such a big, awesome ensemble (Crazy Eyes! Poussey! Captain Jane-Er, I mean, RED!!! Love!) it's pretty easy to ignore Piper. Then I read the book. And I really, really liked the real-life Piper. She's nothing like the character Piper. Now, on re-watch, I find the show less wonderful. After seeing the depth and dignity of the real-life people, the show characters seem shallow and cheap. And show Piper is INSUFFERABLE. I swear to god, she mentions Barney's one more time... Anyway. It's still a good show, don't get me wrong. But it was a very striking example to me of the way TV (or Streaming Media, in this case) will alter things for the sake of drama, and it made me feel a little small to realize how eagerly I had consumed that drama, much--most--of it untrue. Still, I highly recommend reading the book.
Hahahaha. Oh, my sweet summer blogger self! Fast forward a few months to my paltry store of published posts, and it's obvious that I can barely post once a month, let alone once per day. Still, I'd like to give it a try. I can't swear that you're gonna get thirty high-quality posts--hell, I can't swear you're gonna get thirty posts, of whatever quality. But, one must try.
The nice thing about being such a slacker is that the first post back almost writes itself. I spend a bit of time updating previous posts and handing out excuses for why I haven't written. Easy! So without further ado...:
Nothing But a Family Thing, Part Two: Aunt Violet has made a complete recovery. Like, she's so recovered that I find myself wondering if my cousins exaggerated the seriousness of her condition. I'm not the believe in miracles type, so that's really the only explanation I can come up with as to how one goes from comatose for nearly a week with an almost non-existent EEG to a few weeks of physical therapy to back on Facebook pestering me with game invites and posting Inspirational Jesus quotes on my wall. It's weird. I should call her myself. After all, her suicide attempt/accidental overdose (depends on which version of events you believe) caused a slight Tragic Blue Screen of Death to happen in my brain, as I flashed back to awful things best forgotten and her kindness during the awful things. Unfortunately, I've had to build a wall around myself, in order to shut out the people responsible--and since she stays in close, happy contact with those people, I have to keep her at arm's length as well. I've worked too hard to be the just barely functioning human I am today. I can't let the wall wobble. It's not safe. Besides, how awkward would that conversation be? "Hullo, there, Auntie. So, was it suicide or what? Also, were your kids full of shit when they told me that they might have to unplug you and leave it up to Jesus? 'Cause you seem pretty damn healthy for someone they were about to send into the light?" Yeah, no. Can't do it.
Depression, Yet Another Update Upon: Eh. Still feel exhausted every single day. Still have to force myself to hit the treadmill. Still manage to be very healthy til about 6 p.m. when I realize I am STARVING and proceed to eat all the food. I'm doing a lot better though, since leaving the Temp Job From Hell, where I was simultaneously stressed out and bored to death, resulting in some EPIC emotional eating. I managed to cold turkey the need to eat chocolate from 2:30 p.m. to 4:56 p.m. every single weekday, and am now weaning myself off my pre-bedtime bowl of cereal. As to exercise, I've discovered a new way to motivate myself on the treadmill: NETFLIX. I suddenly remembered that I have Netflix on my Kindle Fire. Twice a week, I cue up a 45-50 minute show on the Kindle, and walk briskly up and down simulated hills for the entirety of the program. I'm at nearly 3 miles in that time, which for legs as short as mine, especially considering how heavy I am right now (see EPIC emotional eating, above) is actually a pretty good pace. In the next few days I plan to add in basic body weight stuff like squats, pushups, planks, etc. into the routine. I alternate the 50 minute workouts with 20-30 minute workouts two or three times a week, courtesy of Songza. Which program I cannot say enough nice things about, so thanks again MariaMelee for introducing me to it.
Speaking of the Kindle Fire, the first show I picked for workout viewing was Orange is the New Black, about which I have many, many things to say, but for now will just mention this: I watched it through once and loved it. LOVED. I got pretty tired of Piper pretty quickly, but with such a big, awesome ensemble (Crazy Eyes! Poussey! Captain Jane-Er, I mean, RED!!! Love!) it's pretty easy to ignore Piper. Then I read the book. And I really, really liked the real-life Piper. She's nothing like the character Piper. Now, on re-watch, I find the show less wonderful. After seeing the depth and dignity of the real-life people, the show characters seem shallow and cheap. And show Piper is INSUFFERABLE. I swear to god, she mentions Barney's one more time... Anyway. It's still a good show, don't get me wrong. But it was a very striking example to me of the way TV (or Streaming Media, in this case) will alter things for the sake of drama, and it made me feel a little small to realize how eagerly I had consumed that drama, much--most--of it untrue. Still, I highly recommend reading the book.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Nothing but a Family Thing
I gave the bare bones on Twitter, but I need to get this out.
I had a horrible childhood. My mother was distant, my father absent, my uncles and older cousins were predators.
My dad's younger sister was a sweet, loving woman, born to the wrong family. She deserved better. All of the sweetness and tenderness I remember from my childhood came from her.
We drifted apart in the last few years--there's a lot of miles between us, she became foster mother to two of my second cousins when their mother died, and as an adult, the pain my dad's family caused me pushed me to become very aloof toward my relatives.
We talked on Facebook sometimes. Not often. She'd had some health problems. Something wrong with her lungs...it wasn't emphysema (not yet, anyway) but she'd been a two pack a day smoker for years. Now she carries an oxygen tank, and can't really draw a full breath. She had some knee and hip problems, she has fibromyalgia.
On Monday night, her daughter called to chat around nine. They talked for a few minutes, Aunt said she was tired. Her son called just after ten, and got no answer. He assumed she'd gone to bed. He went over to her house around 8 on Tuesday morning, and found her barely breathing, unconscious, face down on the floor of her room. An empty six pack of beer was beside her, as was a prescription bottle. It was her muscle relaxers, and they believe she took about 90 pills.
She meant to die.
She has not regained consciousness. She will have an MRI either later tonight or tomorrow morning. We will find out then if she gets her wish. If there is no brain activity, the family will withdraw life support.
This hurts. I wish she'd called me. I wish I'd called her. I wish she didn't hurt so much that she thought this would help.
Please send good thoughts. Her name is Violet.
I had a horrible childhood. My mother was distant, my father absent, my uncles and older cousins were predators.
My dad's younger sister was a sweet, loving woman, born to the wrong family. She deserved better. All of the sweetness and tenderness I remember from my childhood came from her.
We drifted apart in the last few years--there's a lot of miles between us, she became foster mother to two of my second cousins when their mother died, and as an adult, the pain my dad's family caused me pushed me to become very aloof toward my relatives.
We talked on Facebook sometimes. Not often. She'd had some health problems. Something wrong with her lungs...it wasn't emphysema (not yet, anyway) but she'd been a two pack a day smoker for years. Now she carries an oxygen tank, and can't really draw a full breath. She had some knee and hip problems, she has fibromyalgia.
On Monday night, her daughter called to chat around nine. They talked for a few minutes, Aunt said she was tired. Her son called just after ten, and got no answer. He assumed she'd gone to bed. He went over to her house around 8 on Tuesday morning, and found her barely breathing, unconscious, face down on the floor of her room. An empty six pack of beer was beside her, as was a prescription bottle. It was her muscle relaxers, and they believe she took about 90 pills.
She meant to die.
She has not regained consciousness. She will have an MRI either later tonight or tomorrow morning. We will find out then if she gets her wish. If there is no brain activity, the family will withdraw life support.
This hurts. I wish she'd called me. I wish I'd called her. I wish she didn't hurt so much that she thought this would help.
Please send good thoughts. Her name is Violet.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Summing Up
Depression: Obviously, still there. I mean, if you don't really do anything about depression, it will settle in and get comfy, and I haven't really done much to address it. I am forcing myself to be active, to go outside a bit more, and to get at least one thing (laundry, change bed sheets, wipe down sink, etc.) done every day, and that has been surprisingly effective. The sense of satisfaction derived from doing something, anything, versus wallowing has been helpful. Now, if I can get my eating behaviors under better control, I may be able to fix one of the main contributors to my sense of worthlessness: my weight. Baby steps, right?
Rats: Mostly eradicated. The rat guy came out, rolled his eyes at my landlord's griping, and did a rock-solid job of closing off all the openings that the rodents were exploiting. He also set several traps in the attic. After ten days, he came back, double-checked that no one had gnawed through his work, and cleared several dead rats from the attic. He warned me that since we hadn't signed up for the maintenance plan (landlord unwilling) we would need to be conscientious about walking around the house every few days to make sure that there were no new incursions. He also added, almost as an afterthought, that we may occasionally hear sounds from the rats trying to get back in. Sure enough, last night, we hear the weirdest noise. I can't even describe it. Almost a grinding. It was in the same place where the original rat hole was, so we realized it was a rat trying to chew through the metal grates that now adorn our soffitts. Since we are survivalist nutjobs, we happen to have some very powerful pepper spray on hand, so we crept out to the backyard and doused the area the rat had been chewing with the spray, then scurried back into the house. Back in bed, we smugly congratulated ourselves on outsmarting Mr. Rattus rattus, and settled down to sleep. I can now attest to the fact that rats are not deterred by pepper spray. I shall have to do some more research to figure out something that will repel them.
Job: Still don't have one, but I've updated my resume pretty much all over the internet, and I continue to apply to several jobs a day. I've dropped my minimum salary requirement a little bit, and am hoping that will help. Ideally, I would find a way to be paid to troll Facebook, write tweets, and play Candy Crush, but that job does not seem to be hiring.
Food: We signed up for a CSA share, and I've been enjoying the challenge of using all the veggies every week. So far, I haven't been super creative; a lot of veggies end up in a broiler pan underneath a bunch of chicken thighs, or sauteed in some olive oil and served over pasta, but hey...gotta start somewhere. We keep getting these tiny, tiny beets with greens attached, and let me tell you, you roast those under some chicken for 45 minutes at 475, and they are UH-mazing.
I also tried a recipe I had never heard of, but which is apparently quite common: Beans and Greens. I found this while searching for uses for Escarole, which I had never cooked with before. This recipe allows a lot of customization, so I'll share my version:
1 lb Bacon
1 head Escarole
2 cups of fresh Spinach you still have from last week's CSA, and really need to use up
2 cans White Beans with liquid
ALL the garlic
3-4 bulbs spring onions, finely chopped (also in my CSA share this week, you could probably sub shallots or white onions)
Dash or two (or more if you like) Dried Red Pepper Flakes
Splash of Half and Half (totally optional)
Chop bacon into bite size pieces. Fry over medium heat in large skillet til crispy. Set bacon aside on paper towels. Move one or two tablespoons of bacon fat to another skillet, and set over medium heat. Remove bacon fat from original skillet, leaving one to two tablespoons. Add beans to bacon fat in original skillet, along with garlic, onions, and pepper flakes. Stir to combine, and allow to come to a gentle boil. Reduce heat to simmer. While this is happening, chop escarole and spinach into bite size pieces, and add to second skillet. Toss leaves to coat, and allow to wilt for seven to ten minutes, tossing frequently. When escarole is done, add it to bean mixture, along with reserved bacon pieces. Season to taste with salt and black pepper, and add a splash of half and half, if desired. Allow to simmer another five minutes for flavors to combine. This is a good time to slice up a loaf of crusty bread. Serve beans and greens with bread. You can probably skip the spoons, the bread is fabulous for scooping. Inform husband that he will have to find his own food, as you do not wish to share this.
Rats: Mostly eradicated. The rat guy came out, rolled his eyes at my landlord's griping, and did a rock-solid job of closing off all the openings that the rodents were exploiting. He also set several traps in the attic. After ten days, he came back, double-checked that no one had gnawed through his work, and cleared several dead rats from the attic. He warned me that since we hadn't signed up for the maintenance plan (landlord unwilling) we would need to be conscientious about walking around the house every few days to make sure that there were no new incursions. He also added, almost as an afterthought, that we may occasionally hear sounds from the rats trying to get back in. Sure enough, last night, we hear the weirdest noise. I can't even describe it. Almost a grinding. It was in the same place where the original rat hole was, so we realized it was a rat trying to chew through the metal grates that now adorn our soffitts. Since we are survivalist nutjobs, we happen to have some very powerful pepper spray on hand, so we crept out to the backyard and doused the area the rat had been chewing with the spray, then scurried back into the house. Back in bed, we smugly congratulated ourselves on outsmarting Mr. Rattus rattus, and settled down to sleep. I can now attest to the fact that rats are not deterred by pepper spray. I shall have to do some more research to figure out something that will repel them.
Job: Still don't have one, but I've updated my resume pretty much all over the internet, and I continue to apply to several jobs a day. I've dropped my minimum salary requirement a little bit, and am hoping that will help. Ideally, I would find a way to be paid to troll Facebook, write tweets, and play Candy Crush, but that job does not seem to be hiring.
Food: We signed up for a CSA share, and I've been enjoying the challenge of using all the veggies every week. So far, I haven't been super creative; a lot of veggies end up in a broiler pan underneath a bunch of chicken thighs, or sauteed in some olive oil and served over pasta, but hey...gotta start somewhere. We keep getting these tiny, tiny beets with greens attached, and let me tell you, you roast those under some chicken for 45 minutes at 475, and they are UH-mazing.
I also tried a recipe I had never heard of, but which is apparently quite common: Beans and Greens. I found this while searching for uses for Escarole, which I had never cooked with before. This recipe allows a lot of customization, so I'll share my version:
1 lb Bacon
1 head Escarole
2 cups of fresh Spinach you still have from last week's CSA, and really need to use up
2 cans White Beans with liquid
ALL the garlic
3-4 bulbs spring onions, finely chopped (also in my CSA share this week, you could probably sub shallots or white onions)
Dash or two (or more if you like) Dried Red Pepper Flakes
Splash of Half and Half (totally optional)
Chop bacon into bite size pieces. Fry over medium heat in large skillet til crispy. Set bacon aside on paper towels. Move one or two tablespoons of bacon fat to another skillet, and set over medium heat. Remove bacon fat from original skillet, leaving one to two tablespoons. Add beans to bacon fat in original skillet, along with garlic, onions, and pepper flakes. Stir to combine, and allow to come to a gentle boil. Reduce heat to simmer. While this is happening, chop escarole and spinach into bite size pieces, and add to second skillet. Toss leaves to coat, and allow to wilt for seven to ten minutes, tossing frequently. When escarole is done, add it to bean mixture, along with reserved bacon pieces. Season to taste with salt and black pepper, and add a splash of half and half, if desired. Allow to simmer another five minutes for flavors to combine. This is a good time to slice up a loaf of crusty bread. Serve beans and greens with bread. You can probably skip the spoons, the bread is fabulous for scooping. Inform husband that he will have to find his own food, as you do not wish to share this.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Unedited, uncensored, unhappy
I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how much longer I can keep waking up, keep putting one foot in front of the other. I've never been unemployed more than a couple of weeks, and the lack of solid routine is killing me. I'm not even kidding. First I stopped doing all the deep cleaning. Then I stopped doing laundry. I'm still managing dishes, shopping and cooking, but that's largely because I need to do those things in order to eat, and eating is what I do when I can't do anything else. Husband lectured me this morning about the fact that I've stopped exercising, that I'm spending too much time in front of the computer, and that I can't let myself (Let myself. After seven years, you would think he would get the most basic thing about depression, but no)get in to such a deep funk, that I have to pull out of it. Then he left without really saying goodbye, which is the kind of thing that drops my mood even further. Despite his lack of depression empathy, he is a good husband, he's a good friend, and I want to be with him, but in the state I'm in right now, I find myself wanting to run away from home. If only I had the slightest idea where to go. If only I wouldn't still be me when I got there.
Depression lies. Depression lies. Depression Lies. Keep saying it, keep thinking it, cry when you have to, do whatever it takes to keep yourself from lying down and never getting up again. Drink more coffee, take the dog on a longer walk. Try that new peach lemonade thing at Starbucks. Fuck it, eat a goddamn pastry while you're at it, too. Sugar feels good for a little while, the sadness, the emptiness all falls away along with the crumbs, at least until the guilt sets in again.
The guilt ALWAYS sets in again.
Troll Craigslist, write cover letter, send resume. Smile prettily and charm as hard as you can through the interview. Spend two days manic, thinking of how this job will fit your life, what time will you get up in the morning, maybe the budget can stand a new outfit, or just a new top, even, to wear on your first day. Plan the grocery list so you have good stuff to take in lunch. Put on your best smiley, professional voice when you see their number on the caller ID. Keep up the professional tone as you say "Oh, well, I'm sorry to hear that, I was very impressed with your company. Yes, good luck to you as well." Hang up, try to breathe. Go back to the first sentence of this paragraph. Allemande left and start again.
See my doctor? Take some pills? Well, I can't. I was uninsured forever, so I couldn't go then. Then I finally got insurance, but work was so busy, I never quite got around to making that appointment. Then Husband's employer screwed us. They switched providers, and the new guys started the pre-existing/major waiting period over again. With my luck, when the waiting period expires, the bastards will switch again. There's also the fact that we are soon going to lose the ability to afford the horrific premium, and will drop my coverage. Even if that doesn't happen, the last time I talked to a doctor about depression, I ended up on a merry-go-round of pills that didn't work, pills that made me sick, and pills that made me feel as if I was legit losing my mind. I don't want to try it again. I'd rather feel this than feel crazy.
It lies, it lies, it lies. La la la la la la I can't hear you, depression. Go away. Let me be.
Write a blog post, send a tweet. Try to reach out in the world, try to feel part of something. Make yourself be funny on facebook. Play Candy Crush. The bright colors, the ridiculous sound effects.
I'm not having fun. I just want to cry, but tears won't come. I watch sad videos to try to make myself cry. I get a few trickles, but can't seem to manage the soul-tearing ugly cry that I'm sure will make me feel better.
Go to bed early, so I can feel better tomorrow. Lie awake from 1 to 4, staring into the darkness, fighting the urge to elbow his snoring ass in the ribs with all your might. Close your eyes, wish they would stay that way.
I don't know what to do anymore.
Depression lies. Depression lies. Depression Lies. Keep saying it, keep thinking it, cry when you have to, do whatever it takes to keep yourself from lying down and never getting up again. Drink more coffee, take the dog on a longer walk. Try that new peach lemonade thing at Starbucks. Fuck it, eat a goddamn pastry while you're at it, too. Sugar feels good for a little while, the sadness, the emptiness all falls away along with the crumbs, at least until the guilt sets in again.
The guilt ALWAYS sets in again.
Troll Craigslist, write cover letter, send resume. Smile prettily and charm as hard as you can through the interview. Spend two days manic, thinking of how this job will fit your life, what time will you get up in the morning, maybe the budget can stand a new outfit, or just a new top, even, to wear on your first day. Plan the grocery list so you have good stuff to take in lunch. Put on your best smiley, professional voice when you see their number on the caller ID. Keep up the professional tone as you say "Oh, well, I'm sorry to hear that, I was very impressed with your company. Yes, good luck to you as well." Hang up, try to breathe. Go back to the first sentence of this paragraph. Allemande left and start again.
See my doctor? Take some pills? Well, I can't. I was uninsured forever, so I couldn't go then. Then I finally got insurance, but work was so busy, I never quite got around to making that appointment. Then Husband's employer screwed us. They switched providers, and the new guys started the pre-existing/major waiting period over again. With my luck, when the waiting period expires, the bastards will switch again. There's also the fact that we are soon going to lose the ability to afford the horrific premium, and will drop my coverage. Even if that doesn't happen, the last time I talked to a doctor about depression, I ended up on a merry-go-round of pills that didn't work, pills that made me sick, and pills that made me feel as if I was legit losing my mind. I don't want to try it again. I'd rather feel this than feel crazy.
It lies, it lies, it lies. La la la la la la I can't hear you, depression. Go away. Let me be.
Write a blog post, send a tweet. Try to reach out in the world, try to feel part of something. Make yourself be funny on facebook. Play Candy Crush. The bright colors, the ridiculous sound effects.
I'm not having fun. I just want to cry, but tears won't come. I watch sad videos to try to make myself cry. I get a few trickles, but can't seem to manage the soul-tearing ugly cry that I'm sure will make me feel better.
Go to bed early, so I can feel better tomorrow. Lie awake from 1 to 4, staring into the darkness, fighting the urge to elbow his snoring ass in the ribs with all your might. Close your eyes, wish they would stay that way.
I don't know what to do anymore.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Rant Aftermath
If you follow me on Twitter, (and if you don't why not? I almost never tweet, I won't take up much space in your stream) you saw the ranty rantyness of my day yesterday, specifically about the rats in the ceiling, and my landlord's lack (to my outraged eyes) of suitable action. I was very ranty. I didn't quite come right out and call him a slumlord, but I was hovering around slumlord territory. Now, with the passage of time, and the reduction of righteous adrenalized outrage, I am feeling apologetic. One hundred forty characters will not suffice for that, so I decided to clear the cobwebs from my blog, dust off the keyboard, and say some stuff.
So, just to catch everyone up, here is the story. About three weeks ago, I heard a scratching sort of sound. Just very briefly, and very quietly. Quiet enough that I only noticed it because my snoring husband hadn't come to bed yet. I didn't really think anything of it. Though we live in the city, we live between a greenbelt and a sedge bog/wildlife preserve park. There are A LOT of raccoon, possums, coyotes, feral cats and largish insects in the neighborhood. It's not uncommon (I've seen it happen, in fact) for the local racoons to run up the tree at the corner of my house, out along a branch, drop onto my roof, and sprint across the roof to the chimney. From there, the crazy bastards leap onto another tree branch and from there, I don't know where they go. The point is, it's not unusual at all to hear things running across the roof. I heard the scratching, but I thought it was something smaller than a raccoon.
A few days later, I made a rare visit to the backyard, intending to deal with a blackberry bush that was threatening to undermine the neighbor's fence, and which had entwined itself around a rosebush I rather liked. I was checking out the roofline as I went, because it's the time of year when wasps build nests, and if there were any ambitious wasps out there, I wanted to know about it now, since it would take at least a week of whining about it to get Husband to go out there and deal with it. (What? I don't DO wasps. If I wanted to deal with insects, I would have stayed single. I acquired a husband to avoid these things. I also don't take out the garbage or the recycling, but I will pull the bins up after pickup. Marriage is about compromise, people.) No building activity, but there, between the roof fascia and the soffitt, a small hole. Slightly bigger than a 50-cent piece, with edges that seemed rather...chewed. "Huh." I thought. "I wonder what that's about?" But I promptly forgot about it, as the blackberry turned out to be a rather formidable foe.
Fast forward to five days ago. It is one a.m. We are trying to sleep. But instead of sleeping, we are staring up at the ceiling above our heads as the sounds of many, many tiny feet scamper about, and as weird, scritchy, chewing sorts of sounds occur, again, directly above our heads. On the cheesy, I-doubt-it's-very-strong acoustic tile that makes up our ceiling. I don't say it out loud, but I am certain that at any moment, dust motes will come sifting down at us, and a tiny, rodent nose will appear, and then a cascade of squirrels will rain down on us, and I will simply die.
Wait--Squirrels? I thought it was rats.
Well, it is rats. At the time I'm telling, though, I was thinking squirrels. For some reason, squirrels seemed less offensive. And I've always heard that rats and squirrels don't occupy the same ecosystem, because they compete for the same resources. Apparently, I have always heard wrong, as my frantic internet research the next morning showed. Squirrels would have been good neighbors. Still not something you want in your ceiling, what with the urine, feces, and chewing of electrical wires, but at least diurnal. We would have been able to sleep if squirrels were living with us. No, the nocturnal activity meant either rats or raccoons, either of which made me want to strike a match, and toss it over my shoulder as I walked away. A bit more research confirmed that I did not want to do this myself. For one thing, access to that space would be difficult, if not impossible--the attic doesn't extend over our bedroom, which was added on several years after the house was built. For another, I was not going to live trap and release the rats, because I didn't want to be anywhere near live rats, and I wasn't going to snap trap them, because I didn't want to be anywhere near dead rats. Poison was out, because no way was I going to have dead rats in my ceiling over the summer. That would render our bedroom truly uninhabitable. So I called in a pro, who would dispose of the rats, seal off all the little openings they had chewed, and would guarantee a rat-free environment for two years, all for the bargain price of 684.38.
Now, some landlord background. We moved in to this house in December 2007, so we've been here awhile. My husband works in the building trades and once owned a contracting business, so he's pretty handy. We like our privacy, and we HATE the guy that does maintenance for the landlord. He's weird and tweaky, and we suspect him of being a meth head. We only call our landlord, let's call him Mike, for maintenance/repair of the roof, which leaks at least once a year. Husband has done his share of roof work, and hates it, and I'd rather not worry about our sole provider falling off the roof. Everything else that happens, we deal with. Mike never even knows about it. Door frame needed fixing, we fixed. Faucet needed replacing, we replaced. Mike decided on his own to paint the house last summer, but that and buying roofing materials for the tweaker is the only money he's spent on this house since we moved in. Because we've been such profitable tenants, I assumed this rare request for him to act like a landlord would be cheerfully assented to.
Boy, was I wrong. Mike wanted to purchase poison, and have the tweaker deal with the rats. I pushed back, pointing out that some of the access points the rats were using were caused by Tweaker's poor workmanship on the roof. (This was according to the Rat Guy.) I didn't want to have to worry about this next year when the rats were looking for nesting sites. It was a health hazard, it was ruining my peace of mind and enjoyment of my home, and I wanted it handled professionally. Mike objected to the expense. I put him on hold, and told Husband what was going on. He sighed. "Cheap bastard. Tell him we'll pay half." Mike didn't like it, but he assented, and supposedly, a check is in the mail. (Why he didn't just have it taken out of the rent, I don't know.) Since my internet sleuthing has revealed that he bought this house VERY cheaply (he bought juuuuuust before the Seattle housing market EXPLODED, and before this was a desirable neighborhood) and that he paid off his mortgage long before we moved in, and that his property taxes are only about $2000 a year (versus the more than $13,000 a year we pay in rent) I felt cheated. So I ranted.
Now, I'm wondering how fair that was. Yes, we've been inexpensive. But, in a neighborhood where most houses rent for 1400 to 1600 a month, our rent has been 1100 a month since we moved in. He's never raised the rent, and since we are month to month, he could do so. When we moved in, we had one cat, for whom we paid a deposit. My kids were living with their dad at the time, so the lease terms were Husband, me, and Original Kitty. Since then, both kids have moved in, (Donovan moved out again) one dog has come and gone, another dog took his place, and a second cat has joined us. None of which we cleared with Mike, and no further deposits were paid. The original lease reverted to month to month after a year of tenancy, but still, we are probably still bound to abide by those terms, ethically if not legally. Furthermore, while Mike is required by law to deal with the rat situation, his original offer of having his maintenance guy deal with the problem does fulfill his legal obligation. He is required to get rid of the rats; he is not required to do so by the methods I prefer. So my ranting was out of place, and childish, and unfair to him. I called us "great tenants" in one of my tweets. Dishonest tenants are not that great, really. Although I do have to stress that we have done no damage to the house, my kids were always well behaved, my cats have never been scratchers, and there was only one unfortunate incident with the dog, which I cleaned very, very, thoroughly. Still, given that I haven't behaved in an exemplary fashion, I do feel as though I should retract the rant.
I have such a bad temper. And I am bad about owning up when I'm wrong, and I think I'm wrongish in this case, so, sorry Mike. You're still not a great landlord, but I'm not such hot stuff either.
So, just to catch everyone up, here is the story. About three weeks ago, I heard a scratching sort of sound. Just very briefly, and very quietly. Quiet enough that I only noticed it because my snoring husband hadn't come to bed yet. I didn't really think anything of it. Though we live in the city, we live between a greenbelt and a sedge bog/wildlife preserve park. There are A LOT of raccoon, possums, coyotes, feral cats and largish insects in the neighborhood. It's not uncommon (I've seen it happen, in fact) for the local racoons to run up the tree at the corner of my house, out along a branch, drop onto my roof, and sprint across the roof to the chimney. From there, the crazy bastards leap onto another tree branch and from there, I don't know where they go. The point is, it's not unusual at all to hear things running across the roof. I heard the scratching, but I thought it was something smaller than a raccoon.
A few days later, I made a rare visit to the backyard, intending to deal with a blackberry bush that was threatening to undermine the neighbor's fence, and which had entwined itself around a rosebush I rather liked. I was checking out the roofline as I went, because it's the time of year when wasps build nests, and if there were any ambitious wasps out there, I wanted to know about it now, since it would take at least a week of whining about it to get Husband to go out there and deal with it. (What? I don't DO wasps. If I wanted to deal with insects, I would have stayed single. I acquired a husband to avoid these things. I also don't take out the garbage or the recycling, but I will pull the bins up after pickup. Marriage is about compromise, people.) No building activity, but there, between the roof fascia and the soffitt, a small hole. Slightly bigger than a 50-cent piece, with edges that seemed rather...chewed. "Huh." I thought. "I wonder what that's about?" But I promptly forgot about it, as the blackberry turned out to be a rather formidable foe.
Fast forward to five days ago. It is one a.m. We are trying to sleep. But instead of sleeping, we are staring up at the ceiling above our heads as the sounds of many, many tiny feet scamper about, and as weird, scritchy, chewing sorts of sounds occur, again, directly above our heads. On the cheesy, I-doubt-it's-very-strong acoustic tile that makes up our ceiling. I don't say it out loud, but I am certain that at any moment, dust motes will come sifting down at us, and a tiny, rodent nose will appear, and then a cascade of squirrels will rain down on us, and I will simply die.
Wait--Squirrels? I thought it was rats.
Well, it is rats. At the time I'm telling, though, I was thinking squirrels. For some reason, squirrels seemed less offensive. And I've always heard that rats and squirrels don't occupy the same ecosystem, because they compete for the same resources. Apparently, I have always heard wrong, as my frantic internet research the next morning showed. Squirrels would have been good neighbors. Still not something you want in your ceiling, what with the urine, feces, and chewing of electrical wires, but at least diurnal. We would have been able to sleep if squirrels were living with us. No, the nocturnal activity meant either rats or raccoons, either of which made me want to strike a match, and toss it over my shoulder as I walked away. A bit more research confirmed that I did not want to do this myself. For one thing, access to that space would be difficult, if not impossible--the attic doesn't extend over our bedroom, which was added on several years after the house was built. For another, I was not going to live trap and release the rats, because I didn't want to be anywhere near live rats, and I wasn't going to snap trap them, because I didn't want to be anywhere near dead rats. Poison was out, because no way was I going to have dead rats in my ceiling over the summer. That would render our bedroom truly uninhabitable. So I called in a pro, who would dispose of the rats, seal off all the little openings they had chewed, and would guarantee a rat-free environment for two years, all for the bargain price of 684.38.
Now, some landlord background. We moved in to this house in December 2007, so we've been here awhile. My husband works in the building trades and once owned a contracting business, so he's pretty handy. We like our privacy, and we HATE the guy that does maintenance for the landlord. He's weird and tweaky, and we suspect him of being a meth head. We only call our landlord, let's call him Mike, for maintenance/repair of the roof, which leaks at least once a year. Husband has done his share of roof work, and hates it, and I'd rather not worry about our sole provider falling off the roof. Everything else that happens, we deal with. Mike never even knows about it. Door frame needed fixing, we fixed. Faucet needed replacing, we replaced. Mike decided on his own to paint the house last summer, but that and buying roofing materials for the tweaker is the only money he's spent on this house since we moved in. Because we've been such profitable tenants, I assumed this rare request for him to act like a landlord would be cheerfully assented to.
Boy, was I wrong. Mike wanted to purchase poison, and have the tweaker deal with the rats. I pushed back, pointing out that some of the access points the rats were using were caused by Tweaker's poor workmanship on the roof. (This was according to the Rat Guy.) I didn't want to have to worry about this next year when the rats were looking for nesting sites. It was a health hazard, it was ruining my peace of mind and enjoyment of my home, and I wanted it handled professionally. Mike objected to the expense. I put him on hold, and told Husband what was going on. He sighed. "Cheap bastard. Tell him we'll pay half." Mike didn't like it, but he assented, and supposedly, a check is in the mail. (Why he didn't just have it taken out of the rent, I don't know.) Since my internet sleuthing has revealed that he bought this house VERY cheaply (he bought juuuuuust before the Seattle housing market EXPLODED, and before this was a desirable neighborhood) and that he paid off his mortgage long before we moved in, and that his property taxes are only about $2000 a year (versus the more than $13,000 a year we pay in rent) I felt cheated. So I ranted.
Now, I'm wondering how fair that was. Yes, we've been inexpensive. But, in a neighborhood where most houses rent for 1400 to 1600 a month, our rent has been 1100 a month since we moved in. He's never raised the rent, and since we are month to month, he could do so. When we moved in, we had one cat, for whom we paid a deposit. My kids were living with their dad at the time, so the lease terms were Husband, me, and Original Kitty. Since then, both kids have moved in, (Donovan moved out again) one dog has come and gone, another dog took his place, and a second cat has joined us. None of which we cleared with Mike, and no further deposits were paid. The original lease reverted to month to month after a year of tenancy, but still, we are probably still bound to abide by those terms, ethically if not legally. Furthermore, while Mike is required by law to deal with the rat situation, his original offer of having his maintenance guy deal with the problem does fulfill his legal obligation. He is required to get rid of the rats; he is not required to do so by the methods I prefer. So my ranting was out of place, and childish, and unfair to him. I called us "great tenants" in one of my tweets. Dishonest tenants are not that great, really. Although I do have to stress that we have done no damage to the house, my kids were always well behaved, my cats have never been scratchers, and there was only one unfortunate incident with the dog, which I cleaned very, very, thoroughly. Still, given that I haven't behaved in an exemplary fashion, I do feel as though I should retract the rant.
I have such a bad temper. And I am bad about owning up when I'm wrong, and I think I'm wrongish in this case, so, sorry Mike. You're still not a great landlord, but I'm not such hot stuff either.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Makeup Monday: Lip Edition, and Kera Breaks the Fourth Wall
In my previous Makeup Monday post, I mentioned that I rarely wear lipstick. Although I adore lipstick, I am not the type that pays attention to my makeup once it's on, so lipstick lasts until I start drinking my tea. At seven-thirty. In the morning. By the time it occurs to me that I should touch-up my lips, it's three o'clock and I figure, why bother? I may have to change my ways after what happened this last Friday, however. I was wearing kind of a dressy black top to offset my jeans (hooray for casual Friday!) and on the spur of the moment put on a dark red lipstick. I never, NEVER wear red to work, because with red you really have to stay on top of it. It's such a dramatic look, and dominates one's appearance so much, it just seems tacky to not keep it neat and fresh-looking. But this Friday I was feeling a little pale and tired, I'd been in a hurry and only had time to put on a light coat of mascara, and with the black top, I looked even more pale, so I redded things up.
I am not kidding, I had people asking me all day if I had special plans after work, because I looked so nice. So maybe there is something to this whole lipstick thing. Maybe making the effort to keep things pulled together isn't such a bad idea after all!
Despite my lipstick laziness, I am a sucker for buying new lipsticks, and therefore have a ton of them. I keep them in a basket near the front door, so I can decide which one to wear right before I go. It's a complicated decision-I factor in what I'm wearing, the amount of makeup I've already applied, (basically pairing more dramatic shades with lighter makeup, and more natural shades with heavier)and even the kind of lighting we have that day, choosing brighter shades in summer, and deeper ones in winter. In theory, the lipsticks are neatly arranged in the basket, with the color indicator stickers facing up, so I can see them all at a glance. In actual practice, the basket looks like this:
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| A jumble of lipsticks |
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| Included are three lipglosses that I never, ever wear. I can't stand the stickiness |
Here's another view, showing off the color indicators:
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| For whatever reason (*cough*cheapskate*cough*) I seem to favor Revlon and Maybelline |
Today I'm wearing Pink Peony, which is the lowermost and rightmost of the open tubes. It's from the Maybelline Colorsensationals line. Their ads, featuring a drizzle of honey falling over flower petals, convinced me to try them, and the quality of the color made me scurry right back to Target and buy several more. They are very creamy-feeling, and highly pigmented, so the color lasts a long time without feeling heavy or drying. I even like the way they're displayed in the store-they're sorted into color groups, Reds, Nudes, Pinks, and Plums. I like that, because I'm usually not looking for a specific color when I browse lipsticks--I'm thinking "Hm, I could use a nice bright color for wearing with summer dresses." With this display, I can ignore plums and nudes, and know that I'll find something in reds or pinks. That's how Coral Crush, up there in the top left corner, joined the family. My only real beef with this line, is that they have a somewhat strong scent, and it's very ...lipsticky. It's sort of a heavy cosmetic odor, not really good or bad, just very, very present. It reminds me of being a kid and looking through my grandmother's lipsticks.
Also appearing, two of the the Revlon Just Bitten stains. These are fairly awesome. They are not as long-lasting as they claim to be, but you can get away with only touching up once or twice a day with these. The color end is like a Sharpie, which makes application super easy, and the other end has a lip balm, which keeps the stain looking smooth and moist, rather than dry or sticky. The color goes on sort of translucent, but deepens as you build it.
At top right, you will see that I have joined the cult of Honey. This is a stain/balm in crayon form, and if you try to take it from me, I will cut you. It's the perfect pink for me, it's longwearing, it's creamy, it even smells good.
Now, with no further ado, but with trembling hands, I present to you what I look like today:
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| In real life, I promise I am not quite so cheesy-meets-psychotic looking. |
Monday, May 6, 2013
Makeup Monday! Kinda.
I LOVE MariaMelee's idea of doing weekly makeup posts. I don't love the fact that these will by necessity be photo-heavy posts, and I am currently having camera issues. Well, camera user issues, mostly. I have a camera on my phone, which takes pictures that can only be called okay-ish, but I fail at getting cameras from the phone to the computer. I will eventually figure it out, but until then, I will make do with pictures from the internet. So you are not seeing my own personal products in this first post, and instead of showing all my makeup, I am going to focus on my daily routine.
First up, skincare:
For cleansing, I use the Olay Total Effects line. It's creamy and nice-feeling, rinses clean, and makes people gawp at me when I tell them I have an eighteen-year-old:
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| Photo: Walmart.com |
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| Photo: Amazon.com |
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| Photo:Target.com |
As I mentioned before, I almost never wear blush, so once I get my skin sorted out, it's eye makeup and done. I recently learned how to tightline my eyes, and I can't recommend it enough. You get all the benefits of wearing eyeliner, without looking like you are wearing a ton of makeup. It takes practice, it takes a steady hand, and it takes some experimentation to find the right type of eyeliner for you. I found all of my pencils to be too creamy to stay put that close to the waterline. I bought a gel eyeliner in a little pot, but couldn't seem to load the product onto the brush correctly, so it wouldn't go on smoothly. Then I stumbled onto this:
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| Photo: Maybelline.com |
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| Photo: Ulta.com |
Much like my eyelashes, my blonde eyebrows are also near invisible. I keep them plucked (sometimes waxed) into a basic thick-on-one-end, thin-on-the-other, slightly-arched shape. I use the Anastasia Brow Duo from Sephora and an angled brush to define them:
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| Photo: InStyle.com |
The whole process takes about ten minutes, start to finish, a bit more on days when I try to hurry and end up with mascara smeared beneath my lower lashes. I rarely wear lipstick, because I forget to reapply it, so it's gone the first time I eat anything. However, I am a sucker for buying new lipsticks, so there will probably be a Makeup Monday post covering lipsticks in the nearish future.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Opinions Expressed May Not Be Those of Management
I had an interesting experience yesterday. I went to lunch with a high school classmate. We weren't really close in school, but we were involved in some of the same activities, and our class was so small (36 kids) that you knew everyone no matter how much you liked them, disliked them, or were indifferent to them. Anyway, we have both since married and had children and jobs and all the other adult stuff that makes you realize how silly high school really is, so I was looking forward to the lunch, figuring that at this point in our lives we would be a lot more similar than different. I had reason to think this: our 20 year class reunion was this past summer, and that was overwhelmingly the experience, at least from my perspective. We were all older, we were all wiser, and even though we were a fairly diverse group in terms of politics and opinions, our shared history created a kind of sameness or kinship that was much stronger and much more obvious now than it was back in the days when we spent 40 hours a week or more together. Weird, but true. I left the reunion feeling a much more genuine sense of family and friendship and regret that it would probably be another 5-10 years before we all saw each other again than I felt at graduation.
Now, when I was in high school, I was in possession of the most massive inferiority complex ever known in the realms of humanity. I thought I was ugly, I thought I was fat, I thought I was ridiculous looking, I thought I was boring and awkward and strange. Looking back, I know none of this was true. I was actually quite pretty, I was lucky in terms of acne, and at 5'1 and 95 pounds I was definitely not fat. I was stocky and round-faced, and because I was so short, I always read that as silly-looking. My family was poor, so I never had good clothes, which is a big deal at that age, so that made me less secure in myself. Add to that the problems I had at home--abuse history, broken home, being the oldest of six with an exhausted mother and an indifferent stepfather--and I was not a happy-go-lucky perky type of kid. I was pretty good at hiding the misery, because I had learned early on that letting the misery show just resulted in a lot of awkward attention from teachers and social workers, and I wasn't interested. I just wanted to live my life, ignore my problems and hope they went away once I moved to the big city. (Spoiler Alert: They didn't.)
I was a smart kid, so I joined the Quiz team, which is kind of like competitive trivial pursuit, eventually becoming captain of the team. So now you have a short, poorly dressed nerd. Bully bait, right? Well, I got lucky there, too. While there was some picking on me, mostly by older boys, I was spared the mean girl bullshit, which, at that age, is usually much worse. Also, despite my height, I was a good athlete. I played three sports a year, so I had some jockyness to protect me. I had a boyfriend for a big chunk of my school years, so I didn't have boy anxiety to deal with. Overall, I've always thought I was kind of a middle of the road kid. Not popular, but not unpopular. Not bullied, but not completely unscathed by the social pecking order.
Now, Let's-call-her-Joanie had a slightly different experience. She was extremely religious for one thing. Her family was part of a very small, very strict protestant fundamentalist movement. She was very smart and very driven--she was obsessed with becoming valedictorian, and even when we were freshman this goal was very clear in her mind. She was pretty, but not in a way that counts in high school--she wore glasses, and because her family wasn't any richer than mine, they were cheap and unflattering and she dressed as badly as I did. She was disdainful of the rest of us, and borderline rude about her intellectual superiority. She didn't play sports, because they would interfere with schoolwork. She did participate in Quiz, which was a never-ending source of frustration to her, because she simply wasn't as good as it as she thought she was, and she was consistently passed over for a seat on the main team. She was also deeply conservative, while most of us were rather liberal, thanks to the idealism of youth, and she would say anything to win an argument. Today, she's a tea-party republican, so that should give you an idea of her conservatism. I'm a left-leaning moderate with some conservative ideas, so I can generally get along with people of any political stripe--I just keep turning the conversation in another direction.
So, there were some differences between us, but I had always felt that our high school experiences were more similar than they were different. I saw as both as outsiders, both as girls who were not quite pretty enough, who were too smart and too socially awkward.
Apparently, I was wrong.
All through lunch, though I tried to talk about work and families and present day life, she kept turning the conversation back to high school. She commented about the slideshow we watched at the reunion, which one of the guys had put together from our graduation video and various snapshots taken our junior and senior year, mixed in with yearbook photos. It was fun, and there were a lot of jokes about our 90's era big hair. But at lunch, Joanie said she thought it kind of sucked, because it seemed like the same few people were in all the pictures. I said I could see feeling that way, that it was just like the yearbook--there's always certain people that always seem to be in the candid shots more than anyone else. She laughed and said "Well, in the slideshow you WERE one of those people. You were in a ton of the shots." I felt like this was kind of an odd statement-she was laughing, and acting like hey, no big, but there was a bitterness in her tone that made me uneasy. So, I tried to laugh it off, saying "Well, I hung around the pretty people as much as possible. I'm like some kind of photographic collateral damage-they couldn't avoid getting me in the shot." She shook her head. "No. You were one of the pretty people." Now I'm really ill at ease, so I made some kind of throwaway joke about having insecurities you could see from space.
"No. You shouldn't have. You were the smartest person in our class. You dominated Quiz, you were good at sports, you were pretty and popular and everyone loved you and you DANCED your way through high school. It was like 'The Kera Show.' "
Uh.
Um.
What? No, really. What the actual fuck? Because I swear to you: IT WAS NOT LIKE THAT.
An awkward silence descended on our table. I finally said: "Well, I don't remember it being quite like that, but I do know that I was fairly self-absorbed. I look back now, and I wonder if everyone around me was in the same position. I know I said and did things that I feel bad about now, but didn't feel bad about then, because I just couldn't comprehend that anything I said or did would be important enough to affect anyone. I know I've been very forgiving of things that hurt me then, because I've assumed since then that the people who hurt my feelings were just like me...unsure, unhappy, and just trying to get by. I didn't think high school was the high point of my life, but I didn't dislike school either. Most of the time, I kind of enjoyed it."
She snorted. Yes, she did. "The popular ones always do."
Me: "Huh. Well. Like I said, I had my own issues that I was focused on, so..."
Joanie: "Like what? What problems could you have had? "
Me: "That's really personal. I don't want to talk about it."
I was on the verge of saying well, nice to see you, good luck in life and running the fuck away, but the food showed up at that point, and Joanie suddenly changed topics, chattering about her child and her job and her husband, telling me about a funny episode of "The Middle" that she had watched, and it was just so bizarre, that I found myself making small talk and trying to act like this was a normal, fun-filled lunch with girlfriends. I left as soon as possible, citing school pickup. At my truck, she asked me to message another of our classmates and try to set up a group activity. I said "Yeah, sure, sounds like fun, (SUCH A COWARD, OMG) well, I'll see ya later!" And then I got the hell out of dodge.
I feel really odd about the whole thing, and vaguely guilty. I can't even explain the guilt. I just feel like I should feel bad about something, but what? I'm sorry if her high school experience sucked. Maybe I should have reached out more, but I really don't think it would have mattered. She routinely batted away any friendliness that came her way. She was too busy striving for that perfect GPA, and too busy imagining all of us sinners burning in hell while she and her father stood on Jesus' right side shouting "Yeah, Jesus!! Smite those evil bastards!! Smite 'em good!" I know this, because she didn't imagine it silently. She was pretty free with her religious opinions. When I think of her in high school, I always picture her with a haughty expression--all of my memories of her involve her looking down on people.
Fuck, I don't know. I don't know if I did anything wrong back then. Maybe, maybe not. But really, I don't care anymore. Maybe our weird, bitter lunch yesterday got something off her chest and she'll move forward, happy and secure in the knowledge that she took me down a peg. I don't know. I do know it will be a cold day in hell before I socialize with her again.
Also, she didn't make valedictorian. She was salutatorian.
Now, when I was in high school, I was in possession of the most massive inferiority complex ever known in the realms of humanity. I thought I was ugly, I thought I was fat, I thought I was ridiculous looking, I thought I was boring and awkward and strange. Looking back, I know none of this was true. I was actually quite pretty, I was lucky in terms of acne, and at 5'1 and 95 pounds I was definitely not fat. I was stocky and round-faced, and because I was so short, I always read that as silly-looking. My family was poor, so I never had good clothes, which is a big deal at that age, so that made me less secure in myself. Add to that the problems I had at home--abuse history, broken home, being the oldest of six with an exhausted mother and an indifferent stepfather--and I was not a happy-go-lucky perky type of kid. I was pretty good at hiding the misery, because I had learned early on that letting the misery show just resulted in a lot of awkward attention from teachers and social workers, and I wasn't interested. I just wanted to live my life, ignore my problems and hope they went away once I moved to the big city. (Spoiler Alert: They didn't.)
I was a smart kid, so I joined the Quiz team, which is kind of like competitive trivial pursuit, eventually becoming captain of the team. So now you have a short, poorly dressed nerd. Bully bait, right? Well, I got lucky there, too. While there was some picking on me, mostly by older boys, I was spared the mean girl bullshit, which, at that age, is usually much worse. Also, despite my height, I was a good athlete. I played three sports a year, so I had some jockyness to protect me. I had a boyfriend for a big chunk of my school years, so I didn't have boy anxiety to deal with. Overall, I've always thought I was kind of a middle of the road kid. Not popular, but not unpopular. Not bullied, but not completely unscathed by the social pecking order.
Now, Let's-call-her-Joanie had a slightly different experience. She was extremely religious for one thing. Her family was part of a very small, very strict protestant fundamentalist movement. She was very smart and very driven--she was obsessed with becoming valedictorian, and even when we were freshman this goal was very clear in her mind. She was pretty, but not in a way that counts in high school--she wore glasses, and because her family wasn't any richer than mine, they were cheap and unflattering and she dressed as badly as I did. She was disdainful of the rest of us, and borderline rude about her intellectual superiority. She didn't play sports, because they would interfere with schoolwork. She did participate in Quiz, which was a never-ending source of frustration to her, because she simply wasn't as good as it as she thought she was, and she was consistently passed over for a seat on the main team. She was also deeply conservative, while most of us were rather liberal, thanks to the idealism of youth, and she would say anything to win an argument. Today, she's a tea-party republican, so that should give you an idea of her conservatism. I'm a left-leaning moderate with some conservative ideas, so I can generally get along with people of any political stripe--I just keep turning the conversation in another direction.
So, there were some differences between us, but I had always felt that our high school experiences were more similar than they were different. I saw as both as outsiders, both as girls who were not quite pretty enough, who were too smart and too socially awkward.
Apparently, I was wrong.
All through lunch, though I tried to talk about work and families and present day life, she kept turning the conversation back to high school. She commented about the slideshow we watched at the reunion, which one of the guys had put together from our graduation video and various snapshots taken our junior and senior year, mixed in with yearbook photos. It was fun, and there were a lot of jokes about our 90's era big hair. But at lunch, Joanie said she thought it kind of sucked, because it seemed like the same few people were in all the pictures. I said I could see feeling that way, that it was just like the yearbook--there's always certain people that always seem to be in the candid shots more than anyone else. She laughed and said "Well, in the slideshow you WERE one of those people. You were in a ton of the shots." I felt like this was kind of an odd statement-she was laughing, and acting like hey, no big, but there was a bitterness in her tone that made me uneasy. So, I tried to laugh it off, saying "Well, I hung around the pretty people as much as possible. I'm like some kind of photographic collateral damage-they couldn't avoid getting me in the shot." She shook her head. "No. You were one of the pretty people." Now I'm really ill at ease, so I made some kind of throwaway joke about having insecurities you could see from space.
"No. You shouldn't have. You were the smartest person in our class. You dominated Quiz, you were good at sports, you were pretty and popular and everyone loved you and you DANCED your way through high school. It was like 'The Kera Show.' "
Uh.
Um.
What? No, really. What the actual fuck? Because I swear to you: IT WAS NOT LIKE THAT.
An awkward silence descended on our table. I finally said: "Well, I don't remember it being quite like that, but I do know that I was fairly self-absorbed. I look back now, and I wonder if everyone around me was in the same position. I know I said and did things that I feel bad about now, but didn't feel bad about then, because I just couldn't comprehend that anything I said or did would be important enough to affect anyone. I know I've been very forgiving of things that hurt me then, because I've assumed since then that the people who hurt my feelings were just like me...unsure, unhappy, and just trying to get by. I didn't think high school was the high point of my life, but I didn't dislike school either. Most of the time, I kind of enjoyed it."
She snorted. Yes, she did. "The popular ones always do."
Me: "Huh. Well. Like I said, I had my own issues that I was focused on, so..."
Joanie: "Like what? What problems could you have had? "
Me: "That's really personal. I don't want to talk about it."
I was on the verge of saying well, nice to see you, good luck in life and running the fuck away, but the food showed up at that point, and Joanie suddenly changed topics, chattering about her child and her job and her husband, telling me about a funny episode of "The Middle" that she had watched, and it was just so bizarre, that I found myself making small talk and trying to act like this was a normal, fun-filled lunch with girlfriends. I left as soon as possible, citing school pickup. At my truck, she asked me to message another of our classmates and try to set up a group activity. I said "Yeah, sure, sounds like fun, (SUCH A COWARD, OMG) well, I'll see ya later!" And then I got the hell out of dodge.
I feel really odd about the whole thing, and vaguely guilty. I can't even explain the guilt. I just feel like I should feel bad about something, but what? I'm sorry if her high school experience sucked. Maybe I should have reached out more, but I really don't think it would have mattered. She routinely batted away any friendliness that came her way. She was too busy striving for that perfect GPA, and too busy imagining all of us sinners burning in hell while she and her father stood on Jesus' right side shouting "Yeah, Jesus!! Smite those evil bastards!! Smite 'em good!" I know this, because she didn't imagine it silently. She was pretty free with her religious opinions. When I think of her in high school, I always picture her with a haughty expression--all of my memories of her involve her looking down on people.
Fuck, I don't know. I don't know if I did anything wrong back then. Maybe, maybe not. But really, I don't care anymore. Maybe our weird, bitter lunch yesterday got something off her chest and she'll move forward, happy and secure in the knowledge that she took me down a peg. I don't know. I do know it will be a cold day in hell before I socialize with her again.
Also, she didn't make valedictorian. She was salutatorian.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Blowin' in The Wind
So, it's been a nice, quiet couple of weeks, not much going on around here. Oh, except for the way I totally quit my job with nothing to fall back on. That happened.
I shouldn't say "nothing." I'm married, and my husband has a job, we have savings, we live fairly simply and could actually get by on those savings for a couple of months if we had to. We're not in crisis mode, at least not yet. Still, I don't think anyone would argue against the idea of lining something up before you tell your boss, "No, I can't wait around for you guys to decide if it's my word or his. I can't come in every day wondering if this is the day I get sent home at noon with a box of my stuff. This is my notice. Friday will be my last day."
Yeah. It was fun. The situation was weird, complicated in the way work stuff can be when you have a small office. The word betrayal was used several times by me, and the line "Don't forget to take the knife from between my shoulder blades before you go--you may need it again someday," may also have been delivered, also by me. It was unpleasant that last day.
But it's over, and I'm on the next phase of my life. I re-signed with a temp agency I worked with previously, and they've got an interview lined up for me next week. I found a couple of free-lance writing assignments to take on. I know, if you read this blog, you are thinking right now "Really? Someone is PAYING her to write?" It's true. I actually write pretty well when I have an assigned topic and rigid rules to follow. Husband and I decided to take advantage of the new situation. We are going to cut expenses, and strive for part-time work for me. The idea is for me to start taking some classes spring quarter, and to be more present for Erica. She's turning thirteen in a few weeks, an age at which girls become vulnerable to losing their damn minds, and I'd like to be around more, spend more time with her. When she was informed that Mom would be spending more time at home, she said "Oh, I'm just gonna LOOOOOVE that" with this dry, British sitcom delivery that was rather amusing. You should have seen her, though, yesterday afternoon when she spotted me coming up the sidewalk toward her on her walk home from school. Amber was with me, and nearly knocked Erica down, so excited was she to be taking a mid-day walk. It was nice.
Right this second, I am in the middle of the "Will I or Won't I" half-hour, the period between 8:30 and 9:00 when my agency rep could call me with a job assignment. I'm not a huge fan of not knowing whether I'm going to work on a given day, or whether I can make plans to get things done around the house and run errands, but it's better than not having any prospects at all. And it's probably only for this week. I tend to do well in interviews, so the odds are very good that I'll be back on a regular schedule soon.
I can't lie, I'm really looking forward to only having twenty to thirty hours a week. It's been nice having time to exercise without having to rush around to fit it in, it's been nice to fix dinner at a leisurely pace, and the house is cleaner than it's been in the last five years. Which is still not VERY clean, but hey, drops IN the bucket, right? Like anything else, I'm sure part-time stay at homing will start to feel like a grind, and if I add school into the mix, I'll be just as busy, if not busier, than I was with a full-time job, but I'm really enjoying this, right this second, and I refuse to wreck this moment of peace with worrying about what may be.
It's 8:59. I think I'm gonna be staying home today.
I shouldn't say "nothing." I'm married, and my husband has a job, we have savings, we live fairly simply and could actually get by on those savings for a couple of months if we had to. We're not in crisis mode, at least not yet. Still, I don't think anyone would argue against the idea of lining something up before you tell your boss, "No, I can't wait around for you guys to decide if it's my word or his. I can't come in every day wondering if this is the day I get sent home at noon with a box of my stuff. This is my notice. Friday will be my last day."
Yeah. It was fun. The situation was weird, complicated in the way work stuff can be when you have a small office. The word betrayal was used several times by me, and the line "Don't forget to take the knife from between my shoulder blades before you go--you may need it again someday," may also have been delivered, also by me. It was unpleasant that last day.
But it's over, and I'm on the next phase of my life. I re-signed with a temp agency I worked with previously, and they've got an interview lined up for me next week. I found a couple of free-lance writing assignments to take on. I know, if you read this blog, you are thinking right now "Really? Someone is PAYING her to write?" It's true. I actually write pretty well when I have an assigned topic and rigid rules to follow. Husband and I decided to take advantage of the new situation. We are going to cut expenses, and strive for part-time work for me. The idea is for me to start taking some classes spring quarter, and to be more present for Erica. She's turning thirteen in a few weeks, an age at which girls become vulnerable to losing their damn minds, and I'd like to be around more, spend more time with her. When she was informed that Mom would be spending more time at home, she said "Oh, I'm just gonna LOOOOOVE that" with this dry, British sitcom delivery that was rather amusing. You should have seen her, though, yesterday afternoon when she spotted me coming up the sidewalk toward her on her walk home from school. Amber was with me, and nearly knocked Erica down, so excited was she to be taking a mid-day walk. It was nice.
Right this second, I am in the middle of the "Will I or Won't I" half-hour, the period between 8:30 and 9:00 when my agency rep could call me with a job assignment. I'm not a huge fan of not knowing whether I'm going to work on a given day, or whether I can make plans to get things done around the house and run errands, but it's better than not having any prospects at all. And it's probably only for this week. I tend to do well in interviews, so the odds are very good that I'll be back on a regular schedule soon.
I can't lie, I'm really looking forward to only having twenty to thirty hours a week. It's been nice having time to exercise without having to rush around to fit it in, it's been nice to fix dinner at a leisurely pace, and the house is cleaner than it's been in the last five years. Which is still not VERY clean, but hey, drops IN the bucket, right? Like anything else, I'm sure part-time stay at homing will start to feel like a grind, and if I add school into the mix, I'll be just as busy, if not busier, than I was with a full-time job, but I'm really enjoying this, right this second, and I refuse to wreck this moment of peace with worrying about what may be.
It's 8:59. I think I'm gonna be staying home today.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Social Secrets
I love social media- blogs, Twitter, Facebook. I get a real kick out of being in touch with people all over the world, people I went to school with, people who I would never know otherwise. I like seeing viewpoints that are completely different than my own, having what I consider "normal" to be challenged by the normal of others, and I love finding out that I am really not as strange and unlikeable and just generally different as I've always thought. It's nice knowing that almost everyone has ambivalent thoughts about parenthood, that everyone has stood by a crib at 3 a.m. whisper-screaming "What do you want? What could you possibly want? PLEASE just go to SLEEP!!" I like feeling like I'm a part of something bigger, part of a community, and I don't have to worry about what I'm wearing, or whether my hair is doing that thing it does, because there's a computer screen between us.
Unfortunately, I married a man who does not share this viewpoint. To him, the internet is a tool for figuring out how to get to a place he's never been, and a way to shop for birthdays and Christmas without ever having to encounter a human being. He is extremely private. Woe betide the friend who posts a picture on Facebook that includes my husband. He will never forgive you for that. He despises Twitter, and thinks blogs are stupid. "Who needs that much attention?" He asks. "Who is that unconcerned about security that they can post their lives on the internet for the whole world to see?"
The biggest issue in our relationship (to me, anyway) is that I can not tell him, "I need more." I need girlfriends, or a convincing simulation thereof. Don't get me wrong; I have girlfriends. A couple. But I don't have close friendships with anyone. I don't feel safe showing myself. I don't like to open up and be intimate with anyone other than him. I do trust him completely. But to him, that's all I should need, and sometimes, I just need more. But I've spent so much time holding everyone else at arm's length that I can't bring myself to reel them in. And to add to the problem, he doesn't need more. He has me, and he's completely, totally, wide open and vulnerable to me, and he just doesn't need anyone else. So I feel guilty. Because he's giving me all this, and I'm giving him all I have, and he's happy with that, but I'm not. I feel like there's no way to share that with him without hurting his feelings. And I'm terrified that telling him this will be the first brick in a wall between us.
So, this blog, my twitter feed--they are secrets. He knows about my Facebook. I have too many friends that are also his friends or co-workers to keep that from him. I think about telling him about the blog, but never about Twitter. He just doesn't get Twitter, and he never will, so why go down that road? And the blog...well, if he knew about it, he would want to read it, and if he was reading it, I would censor myself--not consciously, I don't think, but I would feel like I was being watched, and I would guard myself accordingly.
The best blogs I read, the ones that make me laugh and cry and feel a part of the blogger's life, are the ones that are unspeakably honest. That tell it, warts and all, without holding back. I feel like, if I'm going to write, there's not much point in it if I don't do the same. And I can't do it if he's watching. So, secret.
Is it a lie? Am I cheating him out of a portion of the intimacy and honesty I owe him? I don't know. The fact that I want to shy away from that question is probably an indication that yes, it is a lie, and yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. But right now, at this moment in my life, I need an outlet. I need this outlet.
And from a purely practical standpoint, I need the practice. I used to be a pretty good writer. It turns out, that's a perishable skill. I'd like to get it back. If I put something out there with my real name and my real self, and someone criticizes it, I would lose my resolve and quit. Right now, I need to be anonymous, to build up my courage and toughen my skin and learn that not everyone is gonna like me, not everyone is gonna agree with me, and that's FINE. It is okay. But I'm not there yet. I will be... someday.
Unfortunately, I married a man who does not share this viewpoint. To him, the internet is a tool for figuring out how to get to a place he's never been, and a way to shop for birthdays and Christmas without ever having to encounter a human being. He is extremely private. Woe betide the friend who posts a picture on Facebook that includes my husband. He will never forgive you for that. He despises Twitter, and thinks blogs are stupid. "Who needs that much attention?" He asks. "Who is that unconcerned about security that they can post their lives on the internet for the whole world to see?"
The biggest issue in our relationship (to me, anyway) is that I can not tell him, "I need more." I need girlfriends, or a convincing simulation thereof. Don't get me wrong; I have girlfriends. A couple. But I don't have close friendships with anyone. I don't feel safe showing myself. I don't like to open up and be intimate with anyone other than him. I do trust him completely. But to him, that's all I should need, and sometimes, I just need more. But I've spent so much time holding everyone else at arm's length that I can't bring myself to reel them in. And to add to the problem, he doesn't need more. He has me, and he's completely, totally, wide open and vulnerable to me, and he just doesn't need anyone else. So I feel guilty. Because he's giving me all this, and I'm giving him all I have, and he's happy with that, but I'm not. I feel like there's no way to share that with him without hurting his feelings. And I'm terrified that telling him this will be the first brick in a wall between us.
So, this blog, my twitter feed--they are secrets. He knows about my Facebook. I have too many friends that are also his friends or co-workers to keep that from him. I think about telling him about the blog, but never about Twitter. He just doesn't get Twitter, and he never will, so why go down that road? And the blog...well, if he knew about it, he would want to read it, and if he was reading it, I would censor myself--not consciously, I don't think, but I would feel like I was being watched, and I would guard myself accordingly.
The best blogs I read, the ones that make me laugh and cry and feel a part of the blogger's life, are the ones that are unspeakably honest. That tell it, warts and all, without holding back. I feel like, if I'm going to write, there's not much point in it if I don't do the same. And I can't do it if he's watching. So, secret.
Is it a lie? Am I cheating him out of a portion of the intimacy and honesty I owe him? I don't know. The fact that I want to shy away from that question is probably an indication that yes, it is a lie, and yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. But right now, at this moment in my life, I need an outlet. I need this outlet.
And from a purely practical standpoint, I need the practice. I used to be a pretty good writer. It turns out, that's a perishable skill. I'd like to get it back. If I put something out there with my real name and my real self, and someone criticizes it, I would lose my resolve and quit. Right now, I need to be anonymous, to build up my courage and toughen my skin and learn that not everyone is gonna like me, not everyone is gonna agree with me, and that's FINE. It is okay. But I'm not there yet. I will be... someday.
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