Unsolicited Advice

This past week, my niece gave birth to her first child - the first among my nieces and nephew in Canada who, truth be told, I still kind of think of as little kids themselves.  Babies having babies!  What has this world come to?  Wasn't it just a day or two ago that they were all sitting together at my wedding, eating icing out of a plastic container?  When did they grow up?   Forget that... when did I get so OLD...?

But I digress.

Anyway, I happen to love being a mom - partly because my son is obviously the coolest kid in the whole wide world - and I think it is one of the most fun things you can really do as a grown-up human.  But I am finally ready to admit that it is almost nothing like what I expected.  The awesome stuff is ever so much more awesome than I thought it would be. The crappy stuff is ever so much more crappy than I thought it would be.  Then there's the stuff that I thought would be easy which is totally not at all easy, and the stuff I thought would be incredibly difficult which is actually quite simple, especially after I've just thrown in the towel and said "fuck it" and decided that this particular difficult thing is really not worth all of the goddamn screaming.

As a mom, I am basically learning lessons all day, every day, and some are more painful than others.  For example, I learned that cream-coloured shirts are horrible, while plain white t-shirts are actually a great idea because you can bleach them to remove stains without leaving weird white spots!  (Note: I have no idea whether you would want to bleach a little tiny baby's clothes, but I suspect not since their skin may be more sensitive than a toddler's, so take that bit with a grain of salt).  Also, it might be super cute for your child to learn how to throw a football, but a nice, tight spiral across the Christmas dinner table into a glass of chocolate milk isn't always well-regarded by one's guests.  So other than the learn-as-you-go lessons, which my dear niece will learn through her own trial and error, what sage and completely unsolicited advice do I bestow upon her as she embarks on her mommyhood journey?

• Get sleep whenever you can, wherever you can.  Nate doesn't nap.  He has never napped.  He napped while he was in Guatemala (so we were told), but once we brought him home, he was like "hell no, I'm not napping, and if I do, it most certainly isn't going to be in that horrible and degrading crib!"  I realized this very early in my maternity leave, so I developed a system.  I would curl up in a ball on the floor inside the play-yard with him, using one of his stuffed animals as a pillow, while he played with his toys.  I also found that if I was going somewhere in the afternoon, he would fall asleep in the car and stay asleep.  So... I ran short errands in the afternoon and would carry him up to bed when I was done so I could lie down and snooze as well.  If the errand was totally contrived, this wouldn't work; it had to be legitimate, and preferably involve me trying to juggle multiple large objects while pushing a stroller or carrying a sleeping child.  When my mat leave was over and he was in day care, it was someone else's problem.
• Speaking of someone else's problem, don't micro-manage your day care team.  If you have done your homework and selected a good, reputable, clean and established day care with well-trained staff, you should not need to micro-manage them or nitpick every little tiny thing they do.  They have dealt with many more children in their tenure than you ever will, and most of the time, they have a pretty good idea how to handle things (especially potty-training... follow their lead on this one!).  Be involved, be engaged, but don't be that parent.
• Find people to work with who won't make you feel like a failure or a slacker if you leave before they do to pick up your child from day care.  Since joining my current company, I have never once had anyone crack wise about me "taking a half day" as I walked to the elevator with my bag at 6 pm.  My boss has actually cut sentences short when he realized the time and reminded me that it's time for me to leave.  While you wouldn't necessarily think this type of support or understanding is a big deal, it really kind of is.  Lots of employers (and employees) pay lip service to it, but few follow through to actually help you find some semblance of work-life balance.  Just take my word for it: if your current employer in any way makes you or any other working mom feel badly for trying to get home at a reasonable time, cut bait now and find a new employer, and take the other working moms with you.
• Accept that "work-life balance" will probably not mean a perfect balance.  I work for a company that does a pretty good job encouraging work-life balance.  I have reasonable hours, and am finally starting to overcome my Pavlovian response to my Blackberry's flashing red light.  Is it perfect?  No.  Do I wish I had more time at home?  Yes.  Is it better than my previous employer?  Hell yes.  If you go into the workforce as a working mom expecting a perfect balance, you will be sorely disappointed.  The trick is to end each day feeling like you did the best you could with the hand that was dealt to you that day, but to realize there are going to be a lot of days when even that is too high of a bar.  On those days, you just need to resolve to try harder tomorrow and leave it at that.
• Set high expectations but be willing to adjust them.  I would LOVE to have a super-clean house with everything in place at all times, but with an active 5 1/2 year old and a husband who leaves piles of laundry, snibbles of paper, mail, dishes, and anything else that can be piled all over the house like some sort of pile-leaving wild animal, it just ain't gonna happen.  Do I like this?  No.  Does it occasionally piss me off to the point where I become a screeching, semi-coherent banshee?  Yes.  Do I (somewhat) accept this reality and endeavour only to be a screeching, semi-coherent banshee when it really matters, such as when company is coming?  Yes.  Mostly.  Ish.
• Divide the labour however you want, but recognize that no matter how enlightened your darling other-half is, you will probably still do most of the work.  This one is a really bitter and jagged little pill for me to swallow.  But I do realize that my husband does a fair amount of work around the house that goes unseen.  By anyone.  Including him.  Ha!  I'm just kidding (?).  Seriously, though, I think this is something that gnaws at a lot of (especially working) moms.  Before the baby comes, we all think "I'm in a wonderful 50/50 relationship and I'm confident that my man, who respects my value as a working woman and a human being who sometimes actually enjoys walking around without a toddler wrapped around her leg, will step up and help out and it will always be 50/50 in every respect."  And then the baby comes, the fog lifts and, poof!  There's your enlightened husband and father of your child, sitting on the sofa watching fourteen episodes of Cool Tools in a row "to clean out the DVR" while you, ya know, clean the kitchen sink so it isn't a festering pool of rotting, half-eaten dinners and simultaneously try to keep your increasingly-mobile bundle of joy from tumbling down the stairs headfirst while carrying the fireplace poker and a handful of crackers (aaarrgghh... crumbs!).  
• Ignore the nosy-binosies.  I can't possibly emphasize just how important it is to ignore all of the crazy-ass, busybody nosy-binosies you will encounter, who want to make sure you rear your children exactly how they think you should and no other way at all.  For example, when we brought Nate home, he was 13 months old.  He still took a bottle in the morning and before bedtime, and in theory, before his non-existent nap.  It was, hands down, one of the most awesome bonding times we had each day, and I credit much of our attachment success to those quiet times in his rocking chair.  Generally, many people in the US - including doctors - will advise parents to yank the bottle as soon as the child is one year old.  Of course, this didn't work for us, since we couldn't go back in time (and if we could, we wouldn't waste it on the bottle thing).  Plus, our doctor (who, incidentally, understood the limitations on time-travel and was aware of our adoption situation) told us it was fine to keep him on the bottle for as long as we needed or wanted.  But boy, oh boy, you would have thought we were locking him naked in a dog crate in a cold, damp basement with the criticism I got from nosy-binosies who knew better than my physician and I did!  "You know, when my daughter had her baby, her doctor had her take the bottle away on little angel's first birthday, and of course, I, my daughter, and little angel are the most well-adjusted people in the universe, so you would be a fool not to do what we did and you are clearly a failure as a parent for not having figured that out yourself."   You will need to develop a politically-acceptable response (something like "thank you very much, I'll consider it and take your idea up with my husband/boyfriend/physician/therapist") that you can calmly deliver while mentally giving the nosy-binosy the finger and screaming "fuck off" at the top of your lungs.  Mentally screaming, that is.
• Trust your instincts.  The day before I went on my maternity leave, one of the partners I worked with wrote these words on a piece of paper for me as his advice.  You know what?  He was right.  The sooner you learn to trust your instincts, the better off you will be.  This can be hard for those of us who want to know that what we are doing is objectively right, want to know someone with a degree behind their name said it is okay - those of us who've been trained to look at the facts and determine the best course of action, as though there is always one right course of action.  But sometimes, you just have to go with your gut.  In the event of a tie between two rational options, pick the one your gut tells you to pick... unless your gut is telling you something really weird or potentially illegal, in which case you should seek help immediately.

At the end of the day, no amount of solicited or unsolicited advice will completely smooth the road ahead.  Hold on during the curves, slow down and proceed with caution over the bumps, and enjoy the downtime of the straightaways.  Bring your camera, and remember that parenthood is a journey, not a destination.

Enjoy the trip, Brittany.  And William... welcome to the world, little man!  You're in good hands!

Poo Poo Poo Poo...

Since Byron is in Cleveland for a few days on business, Nate and I are on our own for dinner.  While this typically involves making Nate's favourite Daddy-Is-Away meal of spaghetti and sprinkle cheese, last night, Nate decided he wanted Burger King.  Since I enjoy a nummy have-it-my-way Whopper every now and again, I obliged.


Off we went to our local Burger King, which is attached to a gas station (so you know it's classy).  There weren't very many people in the restaurant area - a single person sitting off to the side and then a family of three sitting near the play area.  Balancing our tray of freshly-made meaty goodness, Nate and I headed over to the enclosed play area, walking past the family of three.  As I approached their table, I noticed something on the floor.  It looked like mud... but then I smelled it.


Sitting right there on the floor, no more than three feet away from this family's table, was a big schmear of dog poo.


Yes, you read that right.  DOG.  POO.


And not non-smelly dog poo, either.  I deked around it, but I could definitely smell it, and so could Nate.  I wondered, how could this family sit there?  Surely, they would alert the staff.  It's dog poo... someone will take care of it, right?  RIGHT?!


Sitting in the play area, I was able to observe the dog poo and other patrons' reactions to it (or lack thereof) from a safe, non-stinky distance.  While Nate played in the hamster maze structure, I watched as a couple of men sat down adjacent to the dog poo.  No reaction.  Then the family of three departed, stepping over or around the poo schmear several times (I caught my breath a few times when it looked like the daughter might step right in it... the suspense!).  No reaction.  A family of FIVE then arrived and sat at the table right next to the poo.  They clearly noted the presence of the dog poo on the floor, BUT SAT THERE ANYWAY.  Several times, the dad went up to the counter but it was apparently not because of the poo, because no one came out to clean it up.  One of the kids went up to ask for some towels.  I was hopeful... but he just used them to wipe off the table  At one point, someone from the staff actually went over the family-of-five's table, spoke with them, and then returned to her post.  In order to accomplish this, she had to step over the poo TWICE.  


In other words, despite the clear presence of stinky dog poo on the floor, no one seemed fazed by it.  I started to question just how gungy the Burger King must normally be that no one was bothered by the fact that there was actual feces on the floor.  I wondered whether I was being Punk'd, or whether they were filming one of those episodes of Dateline NBC where they present some really abnormal or abhorrent situation, then show how apathetic people are to it.  I mean, it's DOG POO.  On the floor of a RESTAURANT.  Where they serve FOOD.  And no one - staff, customers - seemed to care.  What alternate universe had we stumbled into?


Eventually, Nate finished playing and we headed for the exit.  But I stopped.  Maybe I wasn't being punk'd.  Maybe Dateline NBC wasn't filming.  Maybe the staff just didn't know.  I approached the counter and the girl who had taken our order asked how she could help me.  Awkwardly, I told her that there was some, um, stuff on the floor over by the play area, which I thought might be dog poo.  


She stared at me.


"Dog poo?" she asked.


"Yes," I replied.  "Dog poo.  It looks like dog poo, and it smells like dog poo, and it's been there a while so I'm really just surprised that no one has mentioned it yet."


"But we don't allow dogs in the restaurant."


And this was when I realized how it had come to pass that a schmear of dog poo, which had existed on the floor for an undetermined period of time before my arrival and had existed for an hour since my arrival, had remained on the floor for as long as it had.  It was just completely beyond the realm of reason to everyone who encountered it that it was actually dog poo.  After all, this is a restaurant which doesn't allow dogs in the facility.  Surely, there would not be dog poo on the floor in such an establishment.


But at the end of the day, if it looks like dog poo and smells like dog poo, whether it is supposed to be there or not, it's probably dog poo.  And someone - preferably someone on the staff - should clean it the f&$# up.  


As Nate and I got into the car, I looked back into the Burger King.  The area by the dog poo was vacant.  No one had approached... it was not being cleaned up, and it appeared that the girl I'd told about it had just gone back about her business behind the counter.  


I wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing... whether I'd truly wandered into another dimension... A dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity... the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, which lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge.  A smelly, yet tasty, dimension of flame-broiled imagination.  An area which we call...


The Dog Poo Zone.

Slice Up the Fruitcake

A month or so ago, a friend of mine posted an article on Facebook about a toddler who had been struck by a car after escaping her mother’s care in a busy alley roadway, who was then ignored by multiple other vehicles and passers-by before a woman finally stopped to pull the girl from the street and seek help.  As some of you may already know, the child succumbed to her injuries and passed away in the hospital.

I am not retelling this story simply to depress you on a random Tuesday… though I recognize this may occur anyway.  I mention it because it seems somewhat representative of the sad state of affairs in our world today.  I mention it because the priorities in that street on that day were clearly out of whack.  Just how busy does one need to be to justify stepping over an injured toddler in the street?  Just how perishable were those perishables?!

Need more evidence that common decency has generally gone off the rails?  How about Jerry Sandusky and the entire Penn State football debacle?  And it’s not just Penn State… similar assaults occurred at the Citadel by a rising star and were ignored.  Catholic church, anyone?  “We can’t risk our rep, people!  Kids be damned, we can’t risk our rep…”

Then there is the high school football coach in Wyoming (Why-oming?  Why not!) who decided to take on the bully issue in his school by handing out a “Hurt Feelings Report” form to his students.  Bullied students could check boxes marked “I am a pussy”, “I have woman like hormones”, “I am a queer”, “I am a little bitch”, or “I am a cry baby” as the reason for the complaint.  The same “report” then solicited the “name of ‘real man’ who hurt your sensitive little feelings”.  If I started to list all of the ways this was wrong and/or offensive, it would take me completely through the pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving.  But the worst part is that HE STILL HAS A JOB AS A GUIDANCE COUNSELOR.  What the f…?!  I suppose if it doesn’t work out for him in Why-oming, he can always go to Michigan, where bullying is against the law unless it’s religiously or morally motivated.  I suppose Michigan forgot that, back in the day, some people thought interracial marriage was immoral, and that slavery was sanctioned by God…  In other words, “Screw you, victims!  So what if you are psychologically scarred!  We have our own (flawed) interpretation of God's word and morality on our side!  Woot!”

The economy is in a shambles.  Our political leaders have largely abandoned the helm and are letting the crazies steer the ship (maybe they use the down time for their insider trading activities?).  At least one current candidate has defended himself against allegations of sexual harassment by pointing out all of the women he has NOT sexually harassed (ummm….?) and suggesting that for successful executives, accusations of sexual harassment are as normal as filling out your annual benefits election form.  And judging by the Penn State scandal (not to mention the abuses within the Catholic church and other esteemed institutions), our police and other community leaders have apparently abdicated their duties and left the children to fend for themselves.  And then there’s Kim Kardashian.  KIM.  KARDASHIAN.  (Shudder.)

I guess what I’m saying is that, while it may be a bit earlier than usual and we still have a week until Thanksgiving, I think it’s time to haul out the holly.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lb9OVjlEZho  I don’t know about you, but I need a little bit of cheer right now… depending how the rest of the year goes, I may need to mainline candy canes and egg nog until New Year’s.  For, recent events have caused me to grow a little leaner (in spirit if not in physical form… drat!), grow a little colder, grow a little sadder, and grow a little older (which I really DO NOT NEED right now).  I need a little angel sitting on my shoulder!  I need a little music, need a little laughter.  I need a little singing ringing through the rafters.  I need a little snappy “happy ever after”, because god knows that the little girl in the street in China, the kids in the Second Mile program, the bullied students in Why-oming, and poor, clueless Kris Humphries didn't get one (well, maybe Kris did...).  It’s time for some reaffirmation that humanity hasn’t completely gone to hell in a handbasket.  Yes, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute! We need a little Christmas NOW.

Who’s with me?

On Absence, Fondness and Moonwalking

Wow!  It's been a while.  I bet everyone (all four of you out there) missed me.  Well, I'm glad to be back.  After all, sometimes a little absence is just what it takes to make the heart grow fonder.

I should know.  Over the last month or so, I've found the speakers to my car stereo and iPhone are more and more frequently pounding out the music of some of my old faves.  Michael Jackson, AC/DC, Run DMC... as it turns out, Nate loves 80s music.  Every time he puts on 'Bad' or 'It's Tricky' (which, admittedly, has been one of his go-to-favourites for a while now), my mind wanders down those old, abandoned trails to the days when I first heard them.  And then I feel old.  REALLY old.  But I still smile, because absence has made my heart grow fonder and, well... I still love Michael Jackson's music.

I have to admit that I still get a little bit giddy at Halloween when I just KNOW the Thriller video will be played.  And I always do my creepiest voice along to Vincent Price's part... mwaaaa haa haa ha!  I marvel at Michael's effortless contortions in the videos for Beat It, Billie Jean, Remember the Time, and (among the best for his dance performances, in my view) Smooth Criminal.  I remember fondly those days when I would try to moonwalk down our wood-floor hallway in my slipperiest socks...  and I recall in particular one neighbourhood garage sale when every other house had a table of Michael Jackson keychains and trinkets.  I ran out of money before I hit the end of the block!

In any event, last weekend, after listening to 'Bad' in the car at least a million times, I finally pulled out our nifty little tablet thingy and searched Vevo for Michael Jackson.  http://www.vevo.com/search?q=michael%20jackson&content=Videos  They don't have the full cache of his videos, but they do have Bad.  I called Nate over, and he, Byron and I cuddled on the sofa while we watched Michael strut his stuff and take on a scrappy ne'er do well in an empty train station.  Then, Byron and I watched (and recorded) with glee while Nate recreated the steps in front of the fireplace.  He didn't seem to take a shine to the pelvis grab-and-thrust (I feel like that may come later, like when he's a teenager), but he definitely nailed the head whip, the arms-out-to-the-side-defiant-pose-with-shouty-face, and the shuffles.

Since then, I've gone back to Vevo and watched most of the other available videos.  My love of Michael Jackson's music and my admiration for his talent has returned, in full force.  Michael's right.  It doesn't matter if you're black or white.  As it turns out, you are not alone.  And it sometimes helps to just sit back and remember the time, back when Billie Jean may or may not have been my lover, back when we were all bad and each day was a thriller.  There are always going to be some days when you wanna be startin' somethin' because that smooth criminal over there has made you feel like they don't care about us, but instead you just get on the floor and go off the wall, or take a good hard look at the man in the mirror and scream.  You think about those who may be gone too soon, which may make you think there ain't no sunshine and you'll never be able to heal the world.  But you've got a friend.  We've got a good thing going, and no matter what happens, I'll come home to you, because we've got forever.  Absence has indeed made my heart grow fonder.

You, my loyal fan(s), may have worried "she's out of my life", but I'm back, baby.  I'm back.  Can you feel it?  Is your heart fonder?  Mine is.

You Pledge Allegiance to the Whaaa?

We live in a time of pledges.  Sorority and fraternity pledges.  Pledges to charity fundraisers.  Pledges here, pledges there.  Throw a rock in any direction and you’ll hit a pledge of some sort.  Of course, the newest pledge on the scene  - the new pledge on the block, if you will - is the political pledge, and it’s all the rage for our legislators to sign them.  And sign them they are… in droves!  In some of these pledges, our government representatives commit to an ideological platform; in others, they commit to vote “yes” or “no” on a particular issue.  While it seems to me that the majority of the pledgors are on the conservative side of the aisle, I'm certain some lefties are signing them as well.  Regardless of the party or pledgor, all of these pledges are drafted by special interest groups.  Every.  Single.  One.  Of.  Them.

For what it's worth, I am not a special interest group.

Sadly, I am just a voting citizen who wants to know that I still matter, and that my voice will be heard.  I am aware that my elected representatives and I will not always come to the same conclusion, and believe it or not, I’m okay with that.  But I at least want to know that they are willing to hear me out if I have something to say.  So with this blog posting, I officially throw my pledge hat into the ring.  If you like it, feel free to send it to your federal, state or local representatives and ask for their signature.  I call it it the... 

Pledge to Do My Job

I, [Insert name here], commit to my constituents that I will do the following:

• Unless I was elected by a 100% margin without a single vote cast against me as a candidate, I pledge to remember – and to remind myself periodically, and if necessary, to hire someone to remind me repeatedly – that I represent a group of citizens with views as diverse as the day is long.  Whether I personally agree with these citizens or not, I recognize that, as their representative, it is my duty  - nay, obligation! - to listen their concerns, respect their perspective, solicit their viewpoints, gather the information necessary to make an informed decision (including, where necessary, engaging experts in the field to provide objective guidance), and to collate that with the concerns, perspectives and information gathered from my other constituents before making any decision, announcing any “final” position on a matter, or casting any vote.  I further pledge that in executing this duty, I will not supplant either the best interests or the prevailing viewpoint of my constituents with my own personal perspective or belief.  I recognize that I am but one individual within my district, and at all times I pledge to speak and act for those I represent, not only myself.  Even if I intend to run for national office (e.g. President of the United States), I expressly acknowledge that until such time that I win a national election, the people who reside outside of my district are not my constituents,  are already (presumably adequately) served by one or more other representatives within the legislative body, and are not the citizens on whose behalf I have been elected to serve.

• I pledge that I will diligently, efficiently and in good faith work to develop and pass legislation.  I recognize that I have been elected in order to serve as the voice and arm of the people, not to stand as a fixed and immovable object of obstruction.  In meeting this obligation, I pledge not to 1) erect false walls of objection to any piece of legislation or policy which rely on weak or non-existent factual foundations for support, 2) take absolute positions which do not allow me to negotiate in good faith, 3) call for “leadership” or “a grown up in the room” if I have no intention of personally and affirmatively answering the call on this particular issue, 4) highlight the failures of the opposing party or others with whom I disagree, unless I highlight my own past and current failures in the same regard with equal prominence, or 5) engage in inflammatory rhetoric which serves no legitimate legislative purpose.  Rather, I pledge to 1) gather the information necessary to make an informed decision, 2) listen to the concerns, perspectives and viewpoints of my constituents, 3) engage experts on the subject matter who can provide objective guidance, 4) analyze the legislation or policy which is up for debate, and 5) cast an informed and deliberative vote.  I will, at all times, engage in good faith negotiations, without using any tactics which would or could be considered to be undertaken in or indicative of bad faith bargaining.

• I pledge to prepare my own talking points for any interviews I grant or speeches I make, based exclusively on the views and opinions of my constituents and objectively provable facts.  When presented with talking points prepared by any special interest group or representatives of my political party, I will provide a full, unredacted copy of those talking points (along with a complete disclosure as to their source) to my constituents, either in paper form by mail to every household within my district, by providing a copy of the talking points to the local media and/or newspaper for publication, by posting the talking points to my website, or by any combination thereof.  Unless I independently arrive at the same talking points by the process described above, I agree not to speak, directly or indirectly, from talking points provided by special interest groups or representatives of my political party without full disclosure of the source of those talking points.

• I hereby confirm that I have not previously signed any pledges, and I pledge not to sign any pledges in the future, which would be directly or indirectly inconsistent with or contradictory to the commitments I have made to my constituents in this pledge. 

• In the event that I no longer wish to be bound by this pledge, I will personally, directly and publicly make the following statement:  “I, [Insert name], hereby advise the citizens who reside within my district – previously known as my “constituents” –  that I no longer represent all of you, but rather [choose one or more of the following options]: (a) wish to represent only the will and interests of certain special interest groups or a limited group of citizens, including but not limited to [insert names of special interest groups, or description of citizens sufficient for your constituents to identify or discern their political beliefs], (b) prefer to substitute my own personal judgment for that of the citizens within my district, (c) have decided to answer only to my political party’s national organization and therefore intend to vote the 'party line' from now on.  I remind you to consider this fact in the next election cycle when deciding which candidate deserves your vote.”  This statement is to be repeated in full in at least one television commercial scheduled to air during prime time on each of the primary television networks (ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox) on the night before the next election.

I acknowledge that failure to meet the obligations set forth in this pledge may result in the loss of confidence or votes of my constituents, and may rightly subject me to ridicule. 

Signed,

_______________________________

[Insert Name]

[Date]

On a Universal Truth

There are some fundamental, universal truths in this world.  Kittens are adorable.  Meetings always take at least twice as long as they need to.  Only the good die young.  The list goes on and on.  But the one on my mind today is this:  tan fat looks better than pale fat.

I realize that uttering these words out loud (or typing them into my blog silently) constitutes dermatologic heresy.  We are told – ordered, even! – to slather ourselves with 1,000,000 SPF sunscreen and to wrap ourselves from head to toe in sun-resistant garments, lest we spontaneously combust in a painful, melanoma-riddled flame.  Failing to wear adequate waterproof sunscreen, appropriate shielding garments and floppy hats can, in some circles, subject you to branding with a scarlet “S” (for “sunburn”…. keep up, please). 

Do I reject this guidance?  No.  Do I disagree with the science?  No!  I accept that sunbathing, particularly sunbathing that results in sunburns, is harmful to your health.  http://www.skincancer.org/Sunburn/  I do my best to keep my son appropriately doused in 50 SPF sunscreen, even though (despite my best efforts) he is and always will be a little bronzed god, and I dress him in long swim trunks and a protective swim shirt so conservative in nature as to be evocative of only the trendiest swim clothes from 1877’s summer couture collection.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Punch_-_Masculine_beauty_retouched1.png  I accept that it is my fate, as a woman of German and Polish descent, to be (eventually) relegated to the shadows to live out my life in semi-translucent, permanently-freckled seclusion.  I have a dermatologist who tells me once a year to avoid the sun because it puts me at risk for skin cancer, but who also tells me that, for the most part and thanks to my days frying in pure coconut oil and working down south, the damage is done, really… all we can do is hope for the best.  He tells me that tanning beds are the bane of his existence, and that he hopes eventually we women all get the message that “pale is beautiful.”

But then he tells me that, if I insist on having a tan, I should get it through one of the spray-on or rub-on self-tanners. 

And therein lies the problem.

If pale truly is beautiful, why immediately suggest the alternative?  Because he knows that it isn’t really beautiful, at least not for so many of us, and certainly not as the term “beautiful” is currently defined.  To a doctor, a tan may suggest increased risk for melanoma, but to a woman getting ready for a hot date, a tan represents the ability to wear a strappy black dress without looking like a character from an Anne Rice novel.  http://www.amazon.com/Complete-Vampire-Chronicles-Interview-Lestat/dp/0345385403/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1309201820&sr=8-1

Whether we like it or not, being pale is (still) associated with fragility, illness, poor nutrition, and a lack of energy.  There’s a reason the phrase is “deathly pale” and not “deathly tanned.”  Look up “pale” in the dictionary and you will find such inspiring synonyms as “dull,” “faded,” and “washed out.”  When you’re already struggling with a little extra junk in your trunk, do you really need that kind of associational baggage packed into your Spanx?  Hell, when I pressed him on the topic, even my dermatologist acknowledged that tan fat looks better than pale fat.  For some reason, a chunky booty looks less, um… chunky… if it’s got a nice tan to it.  Those dangly arms?  Somewhat less dangly when they’ve been kissed by the sun.  The muffin top you’re toting around above your belt line?  You show me a muffin top that looks better when it’s pasty (nay... uncooked!) and I’ll show you a lovely invisible suspension bridge I’ve got to sell you between New York and London. 

At the end of the day, I don’t know why tan fat looks better than pale fat.  It just does.  Universal truths don’t need to be proven or explained, and sometimes they are just so true that they are incapable of proof.  They are universal truths because they are – regardless of explanation or origin - true. 

If you don’t believe me, just ask the kittens.  http://www.cutelittlekittens.com/

El Camino Inca

About a dozen years ago, my dad and I went to Peru together.  We had been talking about how cool it would be to hike the Inca Trail for months (perhaps years), and then one day, he said "we should go to Peru."  And then poof, it happened.  We went to Peru.

It was an awesome trip.  We started in Cusco, a city that served as the capital of the Inca empire.  Our first day there, we decided to head to the square for dinner.  We took a wrong turn out of our hotel - literally, we turned left instead of right - and ended up in an area that was most definitely not the bustling square, but rather was an other-side-of-the-tracks local neighbourhood, filled with... well, locals... wondering why we were wandering around looking so annoyingly chipper and (I am guessing) pasty.  Resigning ourselves to the fact that we were not destined to find the square at that particular moment, we popped into a local deli for some soup and bread.  I wish I could say that the soup was the most exquisite soup I've ever eaten, but it was really kind of scary.  But then again, so was Dad's, and we were in it together, so I pretty well figured if I was going to die of some weird uncooked-food-poisoning thing, at least I was in good company.

We got more directionally savvy as the trip progressed, and once we found the square, he and I ate some fabulous meals together.  We also saw some really amazing sites: Sacsayhuaman (the puma-head-shaped fortress built by the Incas right outside of Cusco), the Catedral de Santo Domingo (with images of the enslavement of the Inca people carved into the wood pews), the Temple of the Sun (stripped of much of its gold by the Spanish Conquistadores), the ruins along the Inca Trail, Machu Picchu at sunrise, the hordes of (lazy!) travelers taking buses to Machu Picchu... the list goes on.  We also shared the most awesome Snickers bar ever, sold to us by a little kid who materialized out of nowhere on the Inca Trail, just as we hit peak fatigue and were ready to start eating small vermin along the trail from a serious case of trail munchies.

But the coolest thing I saw on the entire trip was my dad.  There he was, completely out of his element in so many ways, but also completely in his element in so many others.  He moved effortlessly from dad ("Let it go... so they like their money straight and untorn... why does that bother you so much today?  You know, if you lived in Peru you might value nice looking currency, too.") to trail mate ("I think we should try cuy... how often do you have the chance to eat one of your childhood pets as a delicacy?"), then back to dad ("We need to get your mom a Mother's Day card or she's going to be really pissed.") then back to soul traveler ("No, really, I'm going to get my hair cut here.  Let's see what they can do!") over and over throughout the trip.  I got a small glimpse of what my dad is like as a person.  Imagine that... a real person!  No, seriously!  It's true!  Parents are actual people, too!  (I know.  I didn't believe it either, until I saw it live and in person.)

I don't know whether he looks back with the same level of fondness as I do for that trip; after all, I did (as he puts it) "bitch my way up the mountain," so it may not have been quite as fun for him to be around me as it was for me to be around him.  But when I think of Peru, I think how cool my dad is, and how lucky I was to have had him all to myself for a couple of weeks in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and how lucky we were to have survived the scariest soup known to man.  But we survived it together (the soup and the mountain), and that's what matters.

Happy Father's Day, Ratty!

An Open Letter (#weinergate)

Dear Men Who Send Pictures of Their Bits to Women:

I write on behalf of myself and all of the women out there in the world today who, upon hearing that some football player, politician or other random famous person has emailed, Tweeted, Facebooked or otherwise electronically sent a photo of his junk to a prospective hook-up, reflexively (when we finish laughing) say to ourselves (and anyone else who will listen), "why would you ever do that?"

Contrary to what you might think, as a general rule, women aren't really all that fascinated with your penis - at least not as fascinated as you might think we are.  This is not to say we don't like that you have a penis, or that we do not ever want to see it or otherwise engage with said penis.  No; what I mean is that, barring extraordinary circumstances, we usually don't feel like we need a photo of it, and it is exceedingly rare that we need a photo of it to pop up, unannounced, on our Twitter feed, in our SMS Text inbox, or in a Facebook chat box.  No matter how awesome the photo (or the subject) is, we are probably never going to hang your "masterpiece" on our living room wall, above our bed, or even in our garage.  Rather, we will store it on our mobile device, and whip it out at the bar after a night of drinking to show our girlfriends what this jackass we met on Facebook sent us, as if we wanted or needed such a photograph.  Or, as many of you have discovered firsthand, we will save the photo until it is least convenient and helpful to you, and then send it to Andrew Breitbart or any other media outlet that is willing to pay for it or give us enough publicity to assist us in getting a book deal.  Or to your wife.  You remember her, right?  Riiiiigght....

Of course, as I mentioned, there are exceptions to the rule - i.e. "extraordinary circumstances" - in which sending a photo of your bits might be warranted.  For example, if you had unprotected sexual intercourse with a woman, then a week later, discovered something that looked like cauliflower growing from the shaft of your penis, by all means, snap a picture and send it to her she she can show her doctor what to test for.  Similarly, if you have an unusually small or large penis, you might want to send a photo (upon her request only, after making the appropriate verbal disclosure) so she can either get her giggles out of the way before you come over, or do some sort of kegel exercise to prepare for the impending sexual armageddon.

Absent such extraordinary circumstances, there is really no need to send us a picture of your penis (or, for that matter, any body parts that are directly penis-adjacent).  Really.  However, let me also be clear that I, like many women, can totally get behind sending a woman a nice picture of your non-penile/non-penile-adjacent physique, especially if you are in the habit of "meeting" women on Twitter or Facebook; after all, it's completely reasonable in that circumstance to provide some sort of evidence that, while you may be too lazy to go out to a bar to pick her up the old-fashioned way, you are not, in fact, too lazy to run a few laps or lift some weights.

We've all seen what can happen when you send pictures of your nether-regions to women, and now that you understand our perspective on the whole "digi-bits" issue, consider yourself on notice.  To paraphrase the line from Field of Dreams, "If you send it, we will laugh... and then we will send it to everyone we know."

Cheers,

K

Cincinnati "Paradise"

Birds calling to each other.

Unidentified critters pawing their way through the woods.

An occasional breeze pulling through the leaves.

The plinky tune of an ice cream truck futilely making its way through my neighhourhood, searching for children who are either at baseball games or safely tucked away in the comfort of their air conditioned homes.

The grind of a chainsaw competing with the whirrr of a nearby weed whacker.

The distant throttle of a Harley, undoubtedly ridden by a helmetless good ol' boy with a ZZ Top beard.

Sitting on my deck, I close my eyes, hoping for a moment of peace to relieve the headache that is forming behind my eyes.  Nate and Byron are at a kiddie birthday party, and I am, for the moment, alone.  As the noise of the chainsaw overtakes the chirping of the birds,  I remember my days "down south," when the lapping tide was never more than a few hundred meters away.  Nostalgia calls, and I find myself wondering why, oh why, did we ever think that "real life" was so appealing?

Of course, even then, the graceful sound of waves licking the sand was not without interruption.  In Mexico, I rarely had any time to just lie quietly and relax; rather, my strongest memories of relaxation are of friendly gatherings on the beach, and the sound of French, Spanish and English conversations blending with each other and with the sea breeze and water.  In the Bahamas, the silence of the dock was punctuated with radio chatter between the boats, or the call of our Chef du Sport, Saber, to my boss, Jean-Paul:  "Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Saber"  Repeat.  Then, finally, with a sarcastic tone, "Oui, Sabeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr.... qu'est-ce qui se passe?"  In Cayman, home-brought lunches on the beach were frequently interrupted by needy tourists asking what time the next boat went out, where they could rent a floaty, or why the parasailing people were taking such a long break.  Of course, in Cayman at the Hyatt where we worked, there was also incessant pounding of hammering and machinery from the construction of a new hotel unit on the beach.

Even with all of the interruptions, though, there was still peace, quiet and comfort in a form that simply doesn't exist here on my deck nestled in the trees.  Because when you tuned out the conversations, the radio chatter, the tourists and the construction, all you heard was the water, all you felt was the sunshine, and you knew you were in paradise, or damn close to it.  But when I tune out the ice cream truck, the chain saw and weed whacker, and the good ol' boy's Harley, I still know I am in Cincinnati, 15 minutes from work, arm's length from my laptop, two rooms away from my blackberry, and seemingly light years from an ocean.  I may love it here, but it is no paradise.

The Cat's Out of the Bag

Makeup is illusion.  It is the mask with which women (and some men) present a more ideal face to our adoring public.  Makeup can give us confidence that we are putting our best face forward, not our “I didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night” face,” or our “This is what I look like after a night of drinking” face,” or our “Blotchy skin and undereye circles run in my family” face.  And for many women, their hair speaks volumes, whether they use a volumizing conditioner or not.  Sleek and straight says one thing; curly and wild says another.  Sporty pigtail braids fall into a separate category than a headband or a scarf.  A perky, high ponytail sends a different message than a conservative, low ponytail.  In light of all of this, can someone out there please explain to me the rationale behind coming into work without your makeup and hair done, then standing in the office bathroom for a half hour to do it?

The only explanation I have heard which makes any sense is that it saves the woman some time in the morning to get ready.  While I am wholeheartedly in favour of finding any reasonable way to get an extra half hour of sleep, and I will readily admit that I go through a daily post-alarm assessment of things I can do which would allow me to hit the snooze just one more time, this “method” just seems unethical: why should your employer have to pay for you to make yourself presentable?  Because, let’s "face" it, that’s precisely what is happening, ladies!  Think about it.  You are being paid by your employer for your time at work.  And you are taking that time – time that should, at least in theory, be spent working – to get ready... time that your fellow co-workers who came to work already made up are spending doing the business of the day!  Did you come to your job interview without your hair and makeup done, then proceed to put the finishing touches on while exchanging pleasantries and providing more detail about your experience?  If you didn’t, then I think it’s fair to say that your employer reasonably expects you to show up for work with all of that prep work done already.  I mean, you wouldn’t show up to work in your pajamas and then get dressed in the bathroom, would you?  Isn’t it just a basic expectation that when you arrive at work, you are dressed and ready to go, and that you don’t need to spend the first half hour doing what should have been done at home in front of your own bathroom mirror?

Besides the myriad equitable arguments against this little “system,” we can’t ignore its biggest (in my view, its most fatal) flaw: by the time you get into work, get settled, perhaps take a conference call or two and eventually wander into the bathroom to put on your makeup and do your hair, people have already seen you in your “base” state.  Why bother?  It isn’t like you’re fooling anyone.  We’ve all seen you without the corrector and foundation to even out your skin tone.  We are aware that your eyelashes are thin and that your eyes don’t “pop” naturally.  We’ve seen your frizzy, bed-head hair (seriously, can you please just run a comb through it before you leave in the morning?).   And now we know what products you use, which for some reason, just seems like more information than I need to have about some of my colleagues.  In any case, we are not impressed with how fabulous you look when you (finally) walk out of the bathroom ready to shine, because we’ve seen your unfabulous, shineless head already.  

The cat’s out of the bag.  Don’t waste your time trying to stuff it back in.

30 Day Song Challenge

Because I am an overachiever, I have completed the 30 Day Song Challenge in a single day.  You may now bow down before me and admire my extraordinary capabilities.

Day 01: Your favourite song (of all time):  Hotel California (Eagles)
Day 02: Your least favourite song:  Torn (Natalie Imbruglia)
Day 03: A song that makes you happy:  Blame It On the Boogie (Jackson 5)
Day 04: A song that makes you sad:  My Immortal (Evanescence)
Day 05: A song that reminds you of someone:  In Your Eyes (Peter Gabriel)
Day 06: A song that reminds of you of somewhere:  Please Don’t Go (Rick Astley)
Day 07: A song that reminds you of a certain event:  Wonderful Tonight (Eric Clapton)
Day 08: A song that you know all the words to:  Ice Ice Baby (Vanilla Ice)
Day 09: A song that you can dance to:  Hold It Against Me (Britney Spears)
Day 10: A song that makes you fall asleep:  Anything from the Chant album (Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos)
Day 11: A song from your favourite band:  April 26, 1992 (Sublime)
Day 12: A song from a band you hate:  Doll Parts (Hole) 
Day 13: A song that is a guilty pleasure:  Take It Off (Ke$ha)
Day 14: A song that no one would expect you to love:  Cowboy (Kid Rock)
Day 15: A song that describes you:  Bitch (Meredith Brooks)
Day 16: A song that you used to love but now hate:  Everything I Do (I Do It For You) (Bryan Adams)
Day 17: A song that you hear often on the radio:  Judas (Lady Gaga)
Day 18: A song that you wish you heard on the radio:  Tonight Tonight (Hot Chelle Rae)
Day 19: A song from your favorite album:  Santeria (Sublime)
Day 20: A song that you listen to when you’re angry:  You Oughta Know (Alanis Morissette)
Day 21: A song that you listen to when you’re happy:  Like a G6 (Far East Movement)
Day 22: A song that you listen to when you’re sad:  Call and Answer (Barenaked Ladies)
Day 23: A song that you want to play at your wedding:  Just the Way You Are (Bruno Mars)
Day 24: A song that you want to play at your funeral:  Ripple / Brokedown Palace (Grateful Dead)
Day 25: A song that makes you laugh:  Fuck You (Cee Lo Green)
Day 26: A song that you can play on an instrument:  Fur Elise (Beethoven)
Day 27: A song that you wish you could play:  Hungarian Rhapsody (Liszt)
Day 28: A song that makes you feel guilty:  Criminal (Fiona Apple)
Day 29: A song from your childhood:  Yellow Submarine (Beatles)
Day 30: Your favourite song at this time last year:  I Like It (Enrique Iglesias)

One free candy bar (winner's choice!) to anyone who can answer all of the following questions about my list (guesses are welcome in the comments section):

• Who am I reminded of in the Day 5 song?
• You'll notice Sublime is on the list twice; what is my favourite Sublime song of all time?
• What place am I thinking of when I hear the Day 6 song?
• What event do I recall when I hear Day 7?
• What song on this list is the only song that I danced to at my senior prom?
• Of the following groups/bands from the list, which one have I NOT seen live:  Hole, Alanis Morissette, Barenaked Ladies, Sublime

An epiphany

This Sunday, I awoke to the pitter patter of Nate's little feet running down the hall in his excitement to tell me it was time to make our Mother's Day brownies.  I opened my cards and gifts (flowers and a gift card for Caribou from Nate, so we can stop there on the way to the day care - guilt-free! - for hot chocolate and coffee), then after putting the brownies in the oven, kicked around the house until it was time to get ready for my "official" Mother's Day treat: a sojourn at the Woodhouse Spa for "aroma bath ritual," to be followed by a 50 minute massage.  Aromatic oils, flower petals, soothing music, a massage... what more could you ask for, right?

Well...

So there I was, in my white bathrobe and spa sandals, sipping a glass of ice water and all ready to relax.  My masseuse came in to greet me and led me back to the aroma bath ritual room (which sounds a lot scarier than it actually is... I'm pretty sure there have not been any ritual sacrifices or anything in there, but then again, I didn't ask).  We walked into the room, past the privacy screen, and voila!  There was a lovely old-school soaker tub, already filled with fragrant hot water and flower petals.  My masseuse explained how things would go (I was to get in the tub, relax, and then after about twenty minutes, he'd check on me to make sure I'm not dead and give me a five minute warning to get out and onto the massage table for part two of my decadent Mother's Day aroma bath massage session), then quietly slipped out of the room.  And this is where the wheels started to fall off.

I stood there, looking at the flower petals floating in the water, and couldn't help but think that this is exactly the type of tub they had at Tao.  My tub had less flower petals, but basically, it was the same thing.  Tub.  Check.  Water.  Check.  Flower petals.  Check.  Hot semi-naked girl?  Hmm.  I was a little giddy about the prospect of pretending to be a gorgeous, glammed-up tub-sitting girl for a little while, and dipped my toe into the water.  It was a little hot for my taste, but it's all part of the Tao - I mean, Woodhouse - experience.  I eased myself into the tub, and came face to face with a harsh reality: I am too damn tall.

It's not that I was too tall for the tub.  No, even the tallest of the tall can smoosh into a bathtub one way or another, and quite honestly, this one was pretty deep.  Rather, I realized that I am too tall to have successfully sat in a bathtub at Tao (or anyplace else) with flower petals covering my girl parts without basically lying down.

Had I simply come to this realization and moved on with my life, the next fifteen minutes might have been more enjoyable, or even mildly relaxing.  Instead, I spent the whole time squinching this way and that, moving the flower petals here and there, adding water to see whether that might help (it did cool the temperature down, which was helpful, albeit in a totally different way), trying to find at least one coquettish-yet-mostly-covered position that might look even remotely attractive to an outside observer.  Nothing worked.  And worse yet, I discovered that my boobs are not big enough to get the flower petals to "stick" at my bustline the way the Tao girls' boobs did, which, if memory serves, was how they were able to sit up in the tub themselves.  No... the petals just floated sadly around the surface, fruitlessly searching for something to land on.  I even sat up and tried to stick the flower petals directly onto my skin to see if that might help.  It didn't.  I either needed more flower petals, more boobs, or both.  Or maybe waterproof glue.  But definitely something.

When my masseuse knocked on the door to give me the five minute warning, I could barely contain my relief.  And that was when I had my second epiphany of the day: there are probably lots of reasons why I never got a career as a tub girl at Tao (or any other club) off the ground, and while it's a bit depressing in a vain, I'm-getting-old-and-that-really-sucks kind of way, that's really okay.  Tub sitting isn't for everyone, but then again neither is being a lawyer, or Nate's mommy, or, you know, an awesome like a possum Mother's Day goddess with a 50 minute massage ahead of her and homemade brownies waiting on the counter at home.

Reflections

Nineteen years ago:

I got ready to go to one of the few parties I went to in high school, despite my overwhelming desire to stay home and watch hockey on television.

I wore a new outfit, which at the time seemed super cool but in hindsight was probably incredibly dorky.  White jeans... um, hello?!

My friend came to pick me up, and while it seemed odd that she wasn't driving, I didn't question it.

Three high school girls got into a car to go to a party on OSU's campus.  Although I'd been to lots of parties at another local university, this would be my first OSU party.

I zoned out in the car while my friends talked in the front seat.  I wondered who was winning the game.

Looking ahead and to the left, I saw a car approaching the upcoming intersection a bit too fast.  Glancing forward, I saw that our light was red, but the turn light was green, meaning that the oncoming car should probably be going a lot slower.  We should have been going slower, too.

I yelled "stop," but we didn't.  Quite the opposite... it felt like we accelerated.

I put my hands up to shield my face, but through my hands I saw a Mercedes hood ornament crush into me dead on.  This is perhaps the biggest reason why I will never own a Mercedes.

I reached out to try to hold onto the back of the driver's seat.  I missed.

I woke up on the sidewalk, face down.  People were standing around me, staring.  I didn't know why, and wondered what I'd done at the party, and just how embarrassed I should be.

My face was wet, and I felt heavy.  The wetness turned out to be blood.  The heavy feeling I felt was the effects of shock, multiple fractures and internal organ damage.

I tried to lift my right leg, but only part of it left the ground.  With my right foot, I could feel the grass next to the sidewalk.  This was oddly reassuring to me, because it meant I could still feel things, and I was probably not paralyzed.  Woo hoo?

I tried to get up, but wasn't able to because moving my upper body was immensely painful, even through the heaviness and shock.

I asked my friend if I would live.  She said "yes." I asked her if I would ever walk again.  Silence.

The paramedics arrived, and brought out the backboard.  I panicked.

In the ambulance, the paramedics started to cut my clothes off.  I asked them not to cut my socks off, because they were my father's.  They still cut them off, the bastards.

In the emergency room, I vomited on the doctor's shoes when they intubated me.

On the way to the operating room, I saw my parents, and told them I was sorry.

In surgery, doctors fixed a crushed femur, torn spleen, and inserted a tube into my chest cavity to help keep my lung from collapsing again after it had been punctured by one of five broken ribs.  There was no treatment for the broken fingernail.  Modern science had failed me in that respect.

Nineteen years ago:

I learned about friendship and strength from the myriad people who came to see me in the hospital, including those I never expected.

I learned about devotion from the teachers who worked with me to finish my senior year during my recovery, who overlooked clearly-drug-induced sentences (and probably entire paragraphs) in my final papers, and from the very special teacher who came to my house on prom night to keep me company on the assumption that I wouldn't be able to go.  (I did go... perhaps a first glimpse of the party girl who would emerge a few months later?)

I learned that there really are awesome guys out there from my prom date who, by all objective accounts, should have ditched me in favour of someone more fun, but who didn't.

I learned that the ability to pivot and find other paths forward in life are critical not only to success, but sometimes to survival.

Nineteen years ago, my life changed.  As a result, today I know about gratitude - to the doctors, to my friends, to my family, and to everyone who has helped me deal with the immense life changes the accident brought and has continued to bring me over the last two decades.

Thank you.

Working from Home - A Diary

5:40 am:  Alarm goes off at usual time.  Remember that I'm working from home today.  Reset alarm for 6:20.

6:20:  Alarm goes off.  Decide to wear hair in piggy-tail braids for doctor's appointment.  Snooze.

6:30:  Alarm goes off.  Again.  Debate whether I can skip shower and rely on post-spinning shower from night before.  Decide this is sub-optimal.  Position body so I can stare at clock and get "just five more minutes."

6:37:  Damn it.  That was more than 5 minutes.  Get up and get into shower.  Skip shaving legs - no need to look cute (or well-shaved) today.  Promise myself not to let anyone touch or look at my legs.  Should be easy - it's 40 degrees out.

6:50:  Out of shower, digging through laundry to find track pants.  Wrinkled!  Work from home or not, they need to be ironed.  Damn it!

6:55:  Dry hair, brush teeth.  Put on some makeup so as not to frighten the townspeople.  Hair under pink baseball cap, piggy-tail braids... check!  Anticipating that child's doctor's appointment will run late, send email to organizer of 8:00 call to let her know I will be dialing in late.  Hope she gets it before meeting starts.  Simultaneously hope other attorney on call will be on time - cc him to be safe.

7:10:  Carry still-sleeping child downstairs, wrap in blanket, put on Timmy Time.

7:15:  Dress sleeping child.

7:25:  Stand still-mostly-asleep child up in front of toilet, and pull his pants down.  Walk out of bathroom hoping he is sufficiently coherent to hit the potty.

7:32:  In car on the way to doctor.  Fingers tightly crossed there is no traffic!

7:41:  Check in for 7:40 appointment.  Sit patiently with child dozing in lap.  Smile kindly as strangers comment on how wonderful it would be to cuddle up in mommy's lap, while wondering whether that's really an appropriate statement to make to a perfect stranger.  Finally... called back into the office.  The second wait in doctor's office purgatory begins.

7:55:  Doctor arrives.

8:18:  Finally done with checkup.  Time to dial in for 8 am call.  Only 18 minutes late!  Yay for Bluetooth!

8:50:  Earned first bitchy badge of the day!  Only minimal interruptions to conference call - two dog barkings, one request from the child for Despicable Me.  Overall, a good showing.  Listen to voicemail.  Receive message asking whether I or my colleague plan to dial in for the call.  Voicemail time?  8:10.  &%#!  Make mental note to talk to more junior colleague about importance of being on time for calls (or at least to send email saying you would be late).  After feeble attempt to find normal Despicable Me DVD, commence attempt to get clearly obsolete Blu Ray player to load Blu Ray disc of movie.

9:00:  Second call of the day - on time and back on track!  Continue efforts to get Blu Ray player to load Despicable Me.  Consider ripping player out of entertainment unit and throwing it off of deck.  Decide against this, on basis that we are on budget and can't afford to replace because child is going to private school in fall.  Continue loading efforts during call, periodically updating colleagues of status of movie.

9:59:  Second call finally ends!  Call Byron to ask how to get Blu Ray player to load - is there some sort of magic incantation?  Explain to child that it is better to be Gru than a Minion.  Reminded by Byron that PS3 is also a Blu Ray player.  Give up on Blu Ray player and move disc to PS3 and begin efforts to start movie... again.

10:02:  Success!  Child watching Despicable Me.  Admit to myself that the minions are pretty cute.

10:15:  Call with junior colleague who was on 8:00 call.  Decide against pointing out he shouldn't be late, since it isn't likely to be productive (and might prematurely earn me a second bitchy badge of day).

10:28:  Return voicemail from person asking if I would attend 8 am call.  Yes, yes I will!

10:40:  Phone tag, I'm it!

10:42:  Revise document that was supposed to go out two days ago, but which I only last night got comments on.  Woot!

11:45:  Send email to person asking the same question for the n'th time this week.  Must... go... to... my... happy... place...  Bitchy badge number two safely tucked under my belt.  Child now on second showing of Despicable Me.

11:51:  Start lunch - soup for me, and mac and cheese for child.  Theme:  orange food.

12:20:  Finish soup.  Realize I need medical form for child's second doctor's appointment of the day.  Begin looking (futilely) for form.  Go online to find form; venture to basement to print.  Tell child I am going to basement for a few minutes.  Repeatedly respond to child's calls asking where I am.

12:55:  Plenty of time before we need to leave!  More emails.  Bitchy badge number three... check!  Look at clock, and discover it is now...

1:17:  Shit.  Have to leave!  Put child and Lego rocket ship in car - on the way to doctor!

1:33:  Check in for 1:30 appointment.

1:58:  Finally, our turn!  Read books to child while checking and responding to email.  Email organizer of 2:00 call to let him know it's not looking good for me to make it (on time or at all), and that I'll circle back later in the day.  Debate going out to hallway to look for doctor.  Decide against this, as an angry pediatrician is not a productive pediatrician.  Patience, grasshopper.  Realize therapy is helping.  Go me!

2:15:  Doctor materializes, 45 minutes after appointment time.  Perfect record of being on time for her appointments is officially shot.  Sad, but not unexpected.

2:48:  Finally done with doctor!  Child is healthy.  Woo hoo!  Just enough time to get home before 3:00 call, even driving at the speed limit.  Success!

2:58:  Dial in for 3:00 call, while hitting play on remainder of Despicable Me.

3:03:  Despicable Me is over (thank GOD!), and child wants another movie.  Colleague on the phone does an amazing Gru impression for child.  Child invites "Gru" to visit and sleep over at our house.  Female colleagues on phone think this is "just the cutest thing."  Wondering whether we now have an obligation to actually invite Phil-as-Gru for a sleep over.  Hmm.  I hope not, as this would probably make meetings with Phil-not-as-Gru fairly awkward.

3:05:  Child selects Sleeping Beauty as his new movie.  Once movie is loaded into PS3, he sits on couch holding Despicable Me case - so excited for his sleep over with Gru!  Yikes.

3:07:  Two minutes in, I am wishing I had a spindle I could prick my finger on to make this call end.

3:46:  Earn diplomat of year award from one half of call participants; possible subject of fatwa by other half of call participants.  Oh yeah... I'm living the dream.

4:13:  Call is finally over.  Or rather, it appears they randomly disconnected from the conference, since the call ended mid-sentence.  Either way, time to dial in for my 4:00 meeting.  Better late than never, right?

4:14:  Listening to conference call discussion, answering emails, reviewing a document, prying Lego pieces apart, and making chocolate milk and a "snicky snack" for the child.  In other words, multi-tasking.

4:22:  Sleeping Beauty is over.  New movie?  Ratatouille.  (Rat Patootie?)  Thank you, Mr. Disney!

4:58:  Call ends "early."  Wonder whether it's possible to punch person who said "wow - you get two minutes of your day back" in face through phone.  Alas, it is not.

5:04:  On my last call of the day.  Woot!

5:19:  Call is done.  Hmm... that was too easy.  Anticipating how this will blow up in my face tomorrow.

5:20:  Sitting down to watch Rat Patootie.  What's for dinner?  Spaghetti and sprinkle cheese?  Or cold cut sandwiches?  So many choices.

5:27:  Forgot to check voicemail.  Seven messages!  Back to work!

5:38:  Done (again)!  Rat Patootie, here I come!

Just another day in the life of a working mommy.

Rearranging

When I was a kid, I used to love to rearrange my bedroom furniture.  I think the first time I did it - alone, mind you - I was about 9 or 10 years old.  There I was, pulling my porcelain dolls off my dresser and my toys off of the little metal shelf in my room, piling everything on my bed, and doing my best to scoot the heavy wood furniture around the room.  It wasn't easy (I had heavy wood antique furniture), but every time I did it, it always made me feel like my room was brand new... like life was fresh and new again!

One summer in high school, I found a spot on the carpet that had come loose from the trim.  Lifting the hideous green carpet (which was a holdover from the previous owners, and which had just never been replaced) I discovered that it was covering finished hard wood, like the hard wood in the hallway, and in my parents' room, and in the guest room (in hindsight, it wasn't exactly shocking that my bedroom also had a finished hard wood floor).  The green carpet had always bothered me immensely - it didn't match my wallpaper, and was pretty grungy - so the fact that there was a hard wood floor underneath was completely irresistible.  I waited until a day when my mom was out of the house and my dad was at work.  I moved the furniture to the middle of the room, then worked my way around the walls, pulling the carpet free from the trim.  Once I had it completely freed along the edges, I moved all of the furniture to one side, and rolled up the carpet and underpad on the other side of the room; I then made enough space - piece by piece - to release the carpet from underneath the furniture.  I had to use my dad's heavy scissors to cut the carpet into pieces so I could carry it, but I'll never forget the look on my brother's face as I dragged huge rolls of my carpeting and underpadding through the family room and out the door to the curb.  Once I'd swept up the dust and cleaned the floors with Endust (literally spraying the floor then wiping it with a rag), my room felt so much more open, more airy... and decidedly less green.

I still find rearranging the furniture or making changes to the house to be refreshing, and even therapeutic.  In our house in Cleveland, the master bedroom had grey (GREY!) wallpaper that looked like storm clouds, complete with little silver lightning strike accents.  The master bath featured black and white prison-striped wallpaper (I had to wonder whether the previous owners used their bathroom wallpaper as a metaphor for their marriage).  Getting up in the morning was like waking in a rainstorm then heading into prison to take a shower.  It was horrible, and SO not a good way to start the day!  The day that I finally tore the first strip of that appalling paper from the wall was one of the best days ever... the satisfying "whish" the paper made as it peeled free still brings a smile to my face. When we bought our house in Cincinnati, it featured the most hideous wallpaper known to mankind, and the faded, ratty-ass carpet smelled like mothballs and Aspercreme.  Before we moved in, we hired a guy (nicknamed "Skinny Dude") to remove all of the wallpaper and repaint, and we replaced all of the carpeting.  ALL OF IT.  It was wonderful.

This afternoon, I rearranged our living room to accommodate a new African drum that we bought from a friend who is moving to China (thanks, Em... I will seriously miss you!).  Of course, the grand piano had to stay put, but I moved the chair and lamp to different spots, and brought a wicker and wrought iron set of drawers in from the foyer as an added touch.  The room felt new, and by association, I somehow felt new as well.

I've been doing a lot of rearranging lately.  Here and there in the house... here and there in my office... and here and there in how I think about things, too.  I'm getting rid of as much of the mental grey and prison striped wallpaper and grungy green carpet as I can.  When I find something that I just can't get rid of - something structural, or something that is too firmly fixed to completely jettison - I'm trying to find a new purpose for it, a new way to use it, or a new place to put it.

Sometimes you just need a fresh start.  Sometimes you just need a little... rearranging.

I Am Not the Bronx Zoo Cobra

A venomous cobra recently escaped from its enclosure at the Bronx Zoo.  Initially, the zookeepers informed the media that the cobra was still inside the snake house.  However, it appears more likely that the snake (who is, you know, a snake, and as a snake can slither into and under things with remarkable skill) has left the building and is out on the town, or at least out on the zoo, and apparently has access to an iPhone and Twitter.

That's right... since his escape, the Bronx Zoo Cobra has gotten his own Twitter handle.  I'm not really a big Twitter-er (Tweeter?  Twit?) but I have an account (it's for work, I swear!) and follow a few people (namely, my future second husband, Charlie Sheen, and a couple of bands).  I am now also a devoted follower of @BronzZoosCobra, and have to say... for a snake, he's got some serious Twit-Cred.

At this moment, the BZC has 202,224 followers.  For those of you who don't know what the hell this means, let me explain:

Imagine you are a person who wants to say something.  It might be meaningful, or it might be meaningless, but you want to say it anyway.  You grab a soapbox (or a wooden crate... I don't think they ship soap in wooden boxes anymore, so a new soap box probably wouldn't hold you) and a bullhorn from your garage and head down to city hall.

Now imagine that you place your wooden crate on the steps of city hall, stand up on top of it, and make your statement through the bullhorn.  The people who stop to listen to what you have to say - whether they like it or not - are your "followers."  If one person stops to listen to you speak, you have one follower.  If you have 202,224 people stop to listen to what you say, you have 202,224 followers.  Imagine that wherever you go with your wooden crate and bullhorn, those people are there to listen to what you have to say.  Along the way, you may lose a few, but you may also gain a few.  This, my technology-challenged friends, is Twitter.  The Twitter platform is like your wooden crate and bullhorn; the 140 characters you type in each tweet is what you have to say.  Your followers are the people who follow you around to listen, and who, by virtue of the Twitter platform, are empowered to reply back and engage you in conversation.

Cool, huh?  Definitely... if you're a person.  But think about it.  The Bronx Zoo's Cobra - a snake, or rather, someone pretending to be a snake - has 202,224 people listening to what it says (sssssayssssss?), including the zookeeper, who would be better of spending his time trying to figure out where the actual damn snake is!  And many of these people are writing back.  TO A FAKE SNAKE.  Don't believe me?  Here's one of my favorite BZC tweets and some of the responses:

@BronxZoosCobraBronx Zoo's Cobra

Getting my morning coffee at the Mudtruck. Don't even talk to me until I've had my morning coffee. Seriously, don't. I'm venomous.

@LadyOMyGodLady

@BronxZoosCobra Dude, if decide not to return to the zoo you should write for Conan. Have a great snakey day.

@kellidunhamkelli dunham

@BronxZoosCobra Come to Brooklyn! Prospect Park is full of delicious little mice, everything's cheaper. Take the A/C/E to the SSSSSS.

These people replied - to the snake - with suggestions for other places to visit in NYC, and for jobs.  If that isn't Twit-Cred, I don't know what is.  In fact, the BZC is so popular there is also a Facebook page dedicated to getting it a job hosting Saturday Night Live.  BZC = not an actual snake, but a person occasionally pretending to be a snake.  SNL = real show on national television, occasionally pretending to be funny.

I have to say it... I am more than a bit jealous.  I am a real, live person.  I occasionally say clever things, although very few of them are snake-related (this post notwithstanding), and clearly snake-posts are all the rage these days.  I have a Twitter account; admittedly, I haven't tweeted anything yet, but still.  I have zero followers.  None.  NONE!  The snake has me beaten by 202,224 people.  (Never mind that I am one of his followers... there's no shame in following a snake, right?  RIGHT?!)

So, much like I will eventually have to accept the fact that I am never going to be Charlie Sheen's next goddess, and that my prospects for a career in naked tub sitting are limited, I will need to accept the fact that the Bronx Zoo's Cobra has more Twit-Cred than I have.

I am not the Bronx Zoo Cobra, and that'ssssss okay.