tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-115469782024-03-12T17:32:34.692-07:00Tantrum WarehouseIf you can't say anything nice, come sit next to me.
Tact free since 2003.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.comBlogger973125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-48241941286038939712014-01-14T21:52:00.001-08:002014-01-15T20:34:22.046-08:00ReBootI have had an online presence since 2003 in some form or another - though I suppose dropping off the internet here for a couple of years negates that - I've been here and on Diaryland before that. I started blogging because I thought I had funny things to say about my job and my commute and anything I ran across. But of course there are a million funny writers on the internet and wow I like working so I stopped writing about my job (and deleted the hell out of the stuff long ago). I don't blog about my kids (oh I had another baby in September!) because the internet has all kinds of kiddos. And I don't blog about my marriage because well . . .things are good so they are dull. And if they were bad well I shouldn't air that nonsense. It doesn't leave much.<br />
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I started running a couple of years ago. For me it was hard and scary and it sort of blows my mind to call myself a runner. I am definitely the kind of person who sticks with things I know I will be good at and I am not a good runner. I am too large. I am not an athlete. I am slow as hell. But after a non-running pregnancy (because that was just a disaster with crazy heart rate issues and just NO) I am trying to get back where I was. The baby is just under four months old and I started back training ten weeks ago. After my 5K detailed below I ran more races, eventually moving into half marathons. It is something that JR and I do together (though he is on the injured reserve at the moment) and it feels crazy good to do something that was a struggle for me. I am back to running four days a week and I am still large and slow and I am so thankful to be back.<br />
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My pal L pushed me to blog again - with a focus on running. I kind of doubt I will stick to just one thing but it feels great to dust the old place off and typey typey into my screen.<br />
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*After some thought I decided to have a separate blog for fitnessy type things which you can find <a href="http://runninglikeoprah.blogspot.com/">here </a>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-31976502651086619212011-06-10T22:17:00.001-07:002011-06-10T22:42:15.383-07:00If I Can Do It. . . .Anyone CanIn junior high school I hated Mondays. For all of the usual reasons, the ones I still have today as an adult--the weekend is over, getting up early, etc--but mostly because on Mondays we ran the Short Course. The Short Course was a 3/4 of a mile run that the gym department at my junior high developed so that they could humiliate and torture teenagers in a legal way. Every Monday for three years we all put on ill fitting bright purple t-shirts and short shorts and trudged this course. The athletes and stars loved it and bolted around the thing like their heels were one fire. The rest of us lumbered along red-faced and sweating and just enduring it. Some really unfortunate people struggled even more and had the humiliating honor of being last.<br /><br />It made me hate running. Hate sweating. Hate gym teachers who wore spandex shorts for a living. In three years no one instructed any of us on improving our times or taught us how to run better. We all learned to just slack off for the first couple of months so that our times would "improve" so we would pass. Most of us actually got slower by ninth grade as our hatred of the stupid thing made running it even more difficult.<br /><br />After junior high I never ran again. A base or two playing softball. Awkwardly across the street as to avoid being hit by a bus. I made jokes about not even running from a serial killer. Even thinking about running made me remember the shame of being slow, of not being able to breathe. Made me hear the yelling and belittling voices of those teachers.<br /><br />But around Seattle everyone runs. Everyone. That grandma at the grocery store? Her too. And it seemed a couple of years that basically everyone I knew was training for a 5K or had just run a 5K or was considering a half marathon. And I wondered what their problems were. Didn't they know that running was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">embarrassing</span> and painful and horrible in every way? Still, I bookmarked the Couch to 5K program three years ago. I had baby weight to lose and maybe that would help.<br /><br />Oddly bookmarking a running program on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">internet</span> doesn't make you lose weight. PRO TIP.<br /><br />A few months ago my friend L started <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">squeeing</span> about running. She had been a couch potato before this (though we went to junior high together so I knew about her secret jock past) so this was a big turn around. She couldn't stop talking about it. She would just gush about running and doing races and well it made me think. Mostly that aliens had taken over her brain. But also that if a slacker like L, admittedly one with a much more athletic background than mine, could do it. Maybe I could too?<br /><br />Then she started pressuring me to do the Susan B. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Komen</span> Race for the Cure 5K. Our friend T, a breast cancer survivor was doing it. It would be fun! etc. And I agreed. But still I didn't do anything.<br /><br />Finally, less than a month before the race, I had a panic attack thinking about how I would run three miles when I had never once run more than one. And that was around 18 years ago. I was going to die a gasping death from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">cardio</span>vascular activity.<br /><br />I dusted off the Couch to 5K program and got going. At first it was awful. Running one minute was SO HARD. Couch to 5K is designed to take couch <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">potatoes</span> like me from nothing to running a 5K in about nine weeks. I had three. So instead of three times a week, I ran every day (one rest day per week). But it was amazing how the intervals got easier, how I went farther each day. And I found myself enjoying it. I mean, running sucks, it isn't fun at all. And yet it was time each day when I wasn't strapped to email, I wasn't working, I wasn't commuting, I wasn't caring for my three year old or doing laundry. It was just me and my head and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ipod</span>.<br /><br />I had to get up early, at 4:15, to do my runs. But day after day I kept doing them. I bought running leggings and a real (scary) sports bra. I started using a GPS tracker to chart my mileage. I just kept going. I wasn't running to lose weight or for any good reason at all. I was mainly running because I had been telling myself for a long time that I couldn't and I really just needed to do it.<br /><br />I am by nature a quitter. At least when it comes to physical stuff. Give me a work problem and I will puzzle that shit out but make me try something physically hard and I will give you so many reasons I can't do it. I will quit early and often. It is something I hate about myself.<br /><br />Last week I ran the Susan B. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Komen</span>. I ran it at a snail's pace and didn't do it as fast as I wanted (mother fucking hills). But I finished. 3.3 miles, the farthest I ever ran. I was so proud of myself, amazed at myself. Because my feet swelled up Saturday like little basketballs. I had a major gastrointestinal event that morning that I will spare you the details of. I had lots of reasons to quit. Good reasons to quit. But I didn't. I didn't run fast or well but I did run it.<br /><br />And then I did something even more amazing. Not the next day but the day after. I got up at 4, laced up my shoes and started running again. And registered for my next 5K next month. Where I am going to KILL my time.<br /><br />And I kind of want to kick the shit out of some gym teachers.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-24344720117678232012011-05-02T20:58:00.000-07:002011-05-02T21:06:21.415-07:00ComfortedI think most of us had long given up on anyone catching <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Osama</span> Bin Laden. I assumed that we had given up, for all of the rhetoric on the subject. The world is a large place, and while he was very recognizable it isn't impossible to hide. Some days I can't find my keys, it seemed more than likely that a mass murderer who was <em>trying</em> to hide could somehow mange it.<br /><br />My brain didn't know how to process the words that President Obama said last night.<br /><br />I saw the celebrations on TV. The kids cheering and chanting and singing. A large part of me wanted to cheer too. Not out of joy but something more like relief. Patriotism certainly. Satisfaction. I also felt shame, shame to feel that joy over something monstrous like state-sanctioned, totally justified, life-saving murder. Shame of all of us for acting like our team just one the Super Bowl. My feelings were complicated--are still complicated today--and I bet 90% of all of us feel the same way. I felt the same gross, nauseated feeling today when I started seeing the smug <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebook</span> statuses. All of the people trying to shame others for feeling joy and relief.<br /><br />My feelings about all of this, 9/11, the "war on terror", politics in this country for the last ten years, how much of our civil liberties we have signed away are complicated. I am angry at all of us and the terrorists that took those things from us. That we <em>gave it all away</em> sickens me. I am angry and sad and yet somehow weirdly proud that we are still here. And watching the demonstrations and the weird <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">political</span> posturing and the smug asshole <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebooking</span> I think that we all may feel the same way.<br /><br />I don't feel happy that the man is dead. But it is comforting all the same.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-81222873546153898012011-04-17T21:00:00.000-07:002011-04-18T22:29:29.944-07:00Dad UpdateI am surprised every time that I see my father now. He has lost more than forty pounds, gone down three pants sizes. He wasn't big before and now he looks like a lollipop--his large round head atop that skinny frame. I can't help commenting on it, even though I know it is awful, because I am so jarred every week. I've only seen legs that thin in commercials for Feed the Children. His watch spins around his wrist.<br /><br />I forget he is sick.<br /><br />I forget and then I see his skinny knees and the deep creases around his eyes and it all comes back. The fear. The worry. My mother and I cluck around him like deranged hens trying to find things he will eat. We nag him into wearing pants that fit around the waist instead of ones several sizes too big.<br /><br />He is a different person. I know my father always imagined he would die young and spent a lot of time trying to protect my mother. He has always been over-insured. He worked brutal hours trying to earn enough money. Now he has reached the age he never thought he would and his health is threatened. He retired, even though financially it is causing a serious shit-storm, and I can see him have to re-arrange his whole way of thinking. He is a different person because I can see now that he sees that this is what he has been working for--there is no future time to worry about. Enjoy your wife, love on the grandbabies, take a deep breath because this is IT.<br /><br />He is sick but there is something else. A bit of ease around the eyes. A comfort in his slightly baggy skin. A comfort with saying how he feels in a way he never would before. I hate what brought us all here and I would give almost anything to make him well again. But I like this version of my father. The one that comes up and eats a braised chicken (no salt) and fixes my doorknob and chases my daughter and doesn't worry about what time it is. Who just sits on the couch and watches baseball and just IS. He could never do that before.<br /><br />I hope he can hang onto this feeling, this comfort. Maybe it will help us all with what is coming.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-81216759554713883892011-03-20T19:14:00.000-07:002011-03-20T19:21:26.914-07:00There Are Always CracksIt seems odd to put this here, after a glowing post about J and marriage and yet I just need to put it somewhere.<br /><br />Being married is HARD. And I know this is a big no <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">shitter</span> to anyone who has even dated some one for more then ten minutes but even after ten years it occasionally hits me like a bat to the face. It is true that most of the time J makes me feel loved and supported and like I am part of a team. We have a family and that is a special thing that is more important to me than anything else. But it is also true that he hurts me more and deeper than anyone else.<br /><br />Because when the person who is supposed to love you and value you does something cold or cruel it hurts more than a stranger.<br /><br />It is also true that with marriage and now a child I feel more of at a loss than I did before. I am not going to leave him because of something small and yet each time there is something small that he doesn't see (no matter how much I show him) I feel cracks.<br /><br />It is possible to have some one be the person you love and value and need and yet also <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">acknowledge</span> that there are scary holes in that relationship. As a child with parents who have been married for forty years and grandparents who made it more than sixty I know that those cracks exist in every marriage. Right now I am just sad, the kind of sad that will fade in time.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-78602344347100734022011-02-28T20:50:00.000-08:002011-02-28T21:00:39.177-08:00I Am Just Saying The Show Involved a Hot Dude in Gold Short Shorts Singing JourneyI can't say that February was my favorite month.<br /><br />My father was in the ICU for a few days and we now know he has a very serious liver disease. He has lost forty pounds in the last month. However, he is home from the hospital and working part time and every day he isn't in the hospital is a good day.<br /><br />The kiddo got a nasty stomach flu and had me scrubbing her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">carseat</span>, every surface in the house and sadly, MY HAIR, from vomit. Which I then got. For five days I couldn't do anything but stay in bed and hope that one day I would be able to drink water without vomiting up my toenails. I lost six pounds in those five days.<br /><br />I also missed out on a job that I had been promised. One that would have been challenging and ideally suited for me and also more family friendly than I have now. Also more money. And I am near tears again just thinking about it.<br /><br />But at the end of the month was J and my anniversary--a biggie--TEN YEARS. I walked around all day in this very annoying way shouting TEN YEARS like I was in Gross <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pointe</span> Blank. It is hard to believe that we were ever twenty two years old. Somehow it is also hard to believe that we are not still twenty two years old. I don't know what possessed twenty two year old me to get married--it remains my most impulsive decision of my lifetime. I decided to marry him despite having no logical reason and doing it entirely based on gut. And it has turned out to be my best decision. We celebrated by spending the night downtown in Seattle, in a hotel, after eating an AMAZING meal. And going to a burlesque show. The show was awesome. We drank way too much wine and then more wine at the show. And also shots. And the evening ended with us walking back to our hotel singing Queen all the way.<br /><br />Marry a man who knows all the words to Fat Bottomed Girls is what I am saying.<br /><br />May ending February on a high note be a sign of good things for March. Less puking, parents in the ICU and soul crushing career sadness ahoy!Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-42891543387866079082011-02-01T22:40:00.000-08:002011-02-01T22:58:31.049-08:00Going To Need A Lot of Pep TalksSaturday morning I struggled to wake up for Mo's birthday party. I had so much to do. I had been up late cleaning and baking and worrying too much about getting everything ready. And then the phone rang.<br /><br />My mother apologized because they would miss the party. I still can't believe that this is what they worried about. My father was bleeding in the ER. Had been bleeding all night.<br /><br />He is still in the ICU and though he will survive and (hopefully) for quite some time I am <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">devastated</span>. We don't have a lot of answers and all that is clear is that nothing will ever be the same. All I hear now is this low level hum of anxiety.<br /><br />In the months coming up my parents are going to have to make some tough choices about treatment for my father. Because of his type of illness I am going to have to make some choices too. This is what it is to be a family. To feel the sadness that threatens to split you wide open.<br /><br />My husband gave me a pep talk this morning. Said the words that people need to hear when their world is falling apart. I find myself repeating them again and again. Because I have to get up tomorrow - no matter what happens.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-14431978481793578692011-01-04T20:12:00.000-08:002011-01-05T20:54:11.928-08:00Great HairMy daughter's hair grows in tiny, perfect spirals. Her curls bounce around her ears when she walks. This is the result of a rather ridiculous regimen of shampoo, conditioner, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">detangling</span> spray and--shamefully--hair cream. Oh and a wet brush. All hail the wet brush. Her hair turns into a puffy cotton ball while she naps so the it has to be resprayed and brushed again (I know you are not supposed to brush curls but only when wet and seriously the wet brush is gentler than a comb on them). Moms of boys stop me at the mall, at the children's museum, at Target, and sigh wistfully. Older girls ask me if I used a curling iron on her hair.<br /><br /><br />My daughter can walk in high heels. Her walk in heels is more purposeful and careful and, well yes, slower than her regular walk. Her normal walk is like a mouse scurrying on wood floors--well a mouse who stomps. Her high heeled walk is a like a colt headed for the trough.<br /><br />My mother hexed me--the way that mothers do and your mother probably did too. After one too many shopping trips during the eighties looking for dresses without ruffles or lace or frills she gritted her teeth and spit over her shoulder and cursed me with, "I hope you have the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">girliest</span>, fluffiest daughter around." She thought that I would be frustrated by a child so different than me, the way I annoyed her.<br /><br />Instead, at least so far, it doesn't seem to have to be the two extremes. I don't know what made me a tomboy, it isn't as though I am an athlete or anything. I think I was just drawn to the status that being boyish brought me. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Girly</span> things made me seem silly. Maybe our views of gender are different now or maybe my daughter is just smarter than I was because to me it seems as though she doesn't have to choose. She wears dresses all the time--but jeans underneath them. Mixes pink with her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gabba</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gabba</span> shoes. She plays dress up and space ship and everything in between. She is getting to be exactly the kind of girl that we all should be, the one that does what she wants and is who she is without worrying about what everyone else thinks. Now all I can do is protect her and hold my breath that she gets to stay that way.<br /><br />And admire her really great hair.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-36663972770368495312010-12-24T21:32:00.000-08:002010-12-24T22:26:29.547-08:00Happy HolidaysMy relationship with Christmas has evolved since I became a Jew. In the beginning, it felt very weird to participate at all because it wasn't "my" holiday anymore. We have always celebrated with family because my mother would be <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">devastated</span> (and alone) if we didn't. But it didn't mean much to me.<br /><br />I've taken a lot of heat for that. The majority culture celebrates Christmas and sees no reason why a Jew of any striped should not. But to my family Christmas is a religious holiday and it has taken some time for me to remove that context and just celebrate the season.<br /><br />I guess that is part of being a Jew in the US--having the cadence of your holidays just be slightly off from everyone <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">else's</span>. That difference, that off <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">rhythm</span> feeling is part of Jewish identity.<br /><br />This year I took my daughter to see Santa. It didn't occur to me that she has had no exposure to Santa and wouldn't know who he was. Stripped of that context it is a pretty weird ritual. I guess that I should have done some ground work, though I confess the Santa trip was an impulse--a photo op for the Grandmas (who were thrilled). I wonder at the difference between my daughter's childhood and mine--and I am finding myself weirdly glad that she is getting a touch of the fun of Santa. I doubt she will ever BELIEVE but she will get to have that magic anyway.<br /><br />Tomorrow we will spend the day with people we love. We will get to watch our girl open up toys and have that excitement that only little kids can really muster. We will eat and nap and feel lucky all day. No matter what you celebrate (or not), I hope you can do the same.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-55577818835857815452010-12-06T21:23:00.000-08:002010-12-06T21:40:28.961-08:00Happy HolidaysSince Hanukkah began I have been treated to my least favorite, most likely to cause rage, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">douchey</span> thing people say to me around Jewish holidays three times.<br /><br />The cadence of Jewish holidays--especially those more demanding in nature than Hanukkah which, lets face it, is mainly about eating and fun--is different than that of the majority of people in the US. Even those who are not Christian tend to follow that calendar since it is the dominant culture here. The customs of Judaism are foreign and different and Other to a lot of people.<br /><br />And, unfortunately, people say some ugly or clueless things. Last week I was stressed at work, it has just been a madhouse and well, as often happens, people were not being very respectful of my time and the deadlines sucked and BAH. I was worrying aloud because Friday was the holiday and also J's birthday and I just wanted to get HOME in time to do the holiday. And some one piped up, "You know, God doesn't care if you light candles."<br /><br />Believe me when I say that I said this more professionally at work but the tone and my expression are exactly what you are imagining though I was as neutral as possible. But let me say here what I think.<br /><br />FUCK YOU.<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ok</span>, let me expand on that. No, I don't think a supreme being cares about my candle lighting. Nor do I think he/she/they care if I eat leavened bread during Passover or fast during the fasts. I don't think God gives a flying fuck if I run naked through the street singing Yankee Doodle Dandy.<br /><br />I also don't think if God cares if you celebrate Christmas or go to church or pray before meals.<br /><br />Those things are religious constructs. They are an expression of faith and part of an identity. I want to be home for candle lighting because it is important to ME. It is part of our family identity. It is part of how we are Jewish. It is part of how we interact with the world. It is just as important to me as your family shit is to you.<br /><br />I am tired of the smug attitude that those of us who are something different are lesser. Your celebrations and prayers and the things you find meaning in are not more important than mine. I made my choices last week--I finished my work and I was late to our celebration--and I don't know if I made the right ones. I did what I think we all do, which is the best that I can in the moment. My priorities have to be fluid and I just have to keep moving. But I have gotten this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">smarm</span> before and it isn't about work being more important, it is about the person not thinking that the practice has any value.<br /><br />My father does this before Passover every year. He says "well God doesn't care if you eat bread."<br /><br />It is the shittiest thing he says to me all year. I am pretty sure he doesn't see it that way, and would be surprised that I feel it that way. And I can't just say it baldly to him the way I would anyone else because my dad and I don't communicate that way. But basically he is saying that something I do to be part of a community and as a religious practice and whatever has no value. Let me tell you that the whole point of Passover is that the diet sucks and it is a time honored tradition to bitch about it. I am pretty sure the Jews wandering the desert bitched and moaned unless they were really <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">insufferable</span>. But that doesn't mean that you just pack it in and eat a pizza. It is just part of the deal.<br /><br />It is 2010 and we live in a diverse culture. Maybe instead of worrying about the War on Christmas or school prayer or whatever bullshit worry that people who have the majority position in the country (and therefore the power) are doing today they could think about how if we all just respected each other's beliefs and needs and how we expressed ourselves we wouldn't have to worry about those lines in the sand. We could say Happy Holidays and people would know that people mean it in a kind and generous way. Kids could pray or not in however they see fit.<br /><br />And no one would be an asshole again.<br /><br />Happy Holidays.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-7694985381699871762010-11-17T19:45:00.000-08:002010-11-17T19:53:27.692-08:00I Don't Think Flag Pins Are Patriotic At AllI am going to write something that will probably get me a hateful email. But I am writing it because I am so frustrated by what I keep reading and hearing.<br /><br />I hate Veteran's Day.<br /><br />I hate yellow ribbons ad <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebook</span> thank yous and prayers for troops. I hate the weirdly <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ostentatious</span> displays of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">faux</span> patriotism.<br /><br />My husband is a veteran. Both my grandfathers (and one of my grandmothers) served in WWII. I truly value their service and am thankful for the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sacrifices</span> that they and others have made on all of our behalves.<br /><br />That is why I hate the fucking hypocrisy about members of the military.<br /><br />You know how <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Americans</span> show what they value? With money. This is why lawyers make fortunes and teachers are on food stamps. We put our money on what we really care about. And so instead of flag pins and those weird magnetic yellow ribbons on cars I think we should fund the appropriate equipment for soldiers. I think we should pay wages that mean that no military <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">personnel</span> need food stamps. I think we pay for better security so that military families are safe. I don't believe that prayers will protect a soldier serving overseas--but the right body armour might.<br /><br />I know that Veteran's Day was last week but the chatter keeps going. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with thanking a Veteran for their service--but making sure our WWII and Korean War and Vietnam Vets have their pensions funded and have the best <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">health care</span> available is the best sort of thank you we can offer.<br /><br />Once we have settled all that--maybe then I will re-post your <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">facebook</span> message.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-2571689244191449712010-11-11T20:55:00.000-08:002010-11-11T22:05:38.262-08:00Why I Don't Use FoursquareI've been online blogging and using social networking for seven years. I obviously still use a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">pseudonym</span> and take certain precautions about <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">anonymity</span> but I don't kid myself--if some one wanted to figure out who I am and where I am they can. In fact, many of my regular readers know.<br /><br />I don't worry too much about it because well, I can't. I am reasonably cautious and I accept that living online carries risk. Living in the physical world carries risk too. That being said apps like foursquare and the like make no sense to me. I have no desire to report my whereabouts to everyone at every moment. I don't even really like that my phone has GPS.<br /><br />For the past few months I couldn't quite put a finger on why my friends' foursquare updates pinged something in my stomach, I couldn't place why they upset me even though there is nothing to be upset about.<br /><br />I was stalked in 1999. I met a man at a seminar. A friend and I worked with him on a project--we went to his house and he showed me his paintings. I mainly remember that part because I have always been into artists. He had this great dog. And I didn't see him again. He never even told me his last name.<br /><br />Except I noticed this car behind me a lot--a model/color just special enough that it seemed odd it turned up everywhere I went. One day I recognized him. The next day he started screaming at me on the street--calling me names. He parked outside my apartment and honked the horn and flashed his headlights at my windows for hours.<br /><br />I called the police. They didn't seem to know what to do with me, kept wanting me to say we had dated, wanted it to be something that I had done. I finally got dumped with an officer who specialized in domestic disputes even though everyone knew it wasn't really that sort of situation. I liked the officer and she was the first one that looked me in the eye. But she couldn't do anything. Until he attacked me no one would do a thing about the harassment.<br /><br />One night I was studying in my apartment with some classmates. He followed another resident into my "secure" building and knocked on my door. I answered and he pulled me into the hallway. He tried to pull me down the stairs. I fought back and a classmate came into the holiday and so did the super. Just enough to pull him off of me.<br /><br />I don't know what his intention was that night, was he going to hit me, try to kidnap me? But it turned out to be lucky for me in a way because he had an arrest warrant for assault and had skipped bail. That the police could and would do something about. That made the officers take me a little more seriously.<br /><br />I won't ever know what made that guy follow me. I don't think it had much to do with me at all. I don't think he was obsessed with me. I just think he was trying to control something, some one. I was just unlucky. But I know this sort of thing happens every day. I imagine the police have gotten more savvy about what stalking is and hopefully they don't shunt women off with warnings about dating strange men and maybe you just need to only drive with some one else in the car. I hope the officers don't stare at the women's boobs while they are clearly trying to size up why the guy would want this girl anyway.<br /><br />I think about that guy all of the time. I walk down the street now without a worry about who might follow me. I am a suburban mommy, no one follows me or notices me much at all. But my eyes still watch my rearview mirror closely, I still look people in the eye and watch my surroundings on the street. And I would never ever use foursquare.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-79607415469566158122010-11-07T20:59:00.000-08:002010-11-07T21:40:42.915-08:00Lucky GirlMy father and I got along for a while.<br /><br />To simplify things, the story is that he and I have always fought. But that isn't strictly true. It is true that he always preferred my sister's company to mine (in the natural way that some people just enjoy each other more). It is true that I never held his attention really--I wasn't anyone particularly interesting or special to him when it came to me personally. He always loved me--and it isn't as though I came out of the womb and we started fighting.<br /><br />There was this brief moment though--when I was old enough to have real conversations and my sister was all teen <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">angsty</span>-when he and I enjoyed each other. I think it was maybe around a year, right after we moved here to Washington. We watched movies every night--working our way through all of the James Bond films and movies he considered classics. We are popcorn and played cards. It was just this moment in time when we just drank each other in.<br /><br />In the next couple of years I hit puberty and I think he stopped being able to pretend I was his son and I don't know. Teenage girls are unpleasant at best, I can't blame him really. But we drifted away from each other. We became these people who would tense up when the other person was in the room. I can piss my father off by sitting a certain way.<br /><br />I don't blame my dad. He loves me. He did the best that he could. He and I just don't get on together the way that we would want to. I am lucky to have a father like him though because he wants me to be happy so much.<br /><br />I can't help seeing the difference though, in how J is with our daughter. How he plays with her and holds her and just loves her for who she is. Now, who she is doesn't play loud music or wear inappropriate clothing and she hasn't called him a cocksucker yet. But this weekend he played tea party with her for hours, even though he would rather have done anything else, because she wanted him to and because he loves her.<br /><br />My daughter won't ever have to wonder what is so wrong with her that her father is indifferent to her. She won't have to try to change so that he will think that she is worthy or interesting. She already is.<br /><br />Lucky girl.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-76774278698883364992010-11-02T19:22:00.000-07:002010-11-02T19:40:01.824-07:00Evil GingyGrowing up my sister did everything first. I am sure this is a youngest child thing but since we are the same gender and interested in the same things I ran into an endless string of "oh Sister already did that" whenever I accomplished anything. I don't think my parents loved me less or thought I was any less wonderful than my sister but for them and our extended family it was hard to get worked up about a first grader getting all A's when her big sister had done that four years in a row at that point.<br /><br />This continued basically our whole childhoods. I do wish that some one had urged me into different activities and sports than the ones she did. I wasn't really talented at anything and she was always better. In another family I would have been the smart one but in our family I couldn't snare that title. She was even prettier once she got through the awkward phase (sadly right as I entered mine).<br /><br />As adults none of this matters. We both grew up to be successful adults who are happy and have beautiful families and our lives couldn't be more different (I would like to go back in time and somehow tell Little AB that--that none of this matters). But that feeling of never being really GOOD at anything built a tiny evil voice in my head (truthfully, he looks like <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shrek</span> which says something maybe not so flattering about me) that exists only to fuck with me.<br /><br />I think we have all have this voice sometimes. Unless you are more mentally healthy and probably really boring and maybe also a kitten kicker at any rate. I think mine is louder and meaner and maybe more convincing than other people's (wait! this is what I am good at! huh I am never going to be on Star Search). Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> whispers in our ears about how we aren't smart at all and how GOD how could you have worn that outfit don't you know you have Mommy Ass and everyone in your office hates you and your stupid FACE. Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> plants bad thoughts in your head about how your husband doesn't really love you and resents you and how your mother screens your calls. You know these things aren't true and yet that dark place in your heart wonders. Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> is an <em>asshole</em>.<br /><br />Most of the time I don't listen to Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span>. Listening to Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> never results in good work or cute outfits or gold star parenting moments. Listening to Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> means you will find yourself in the parking lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken licking a honey wrapper with a bad haircut and wearing weird frosted lipstick.<br /><br />Occasionally though Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> gets to me. I have Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> <em>days</em>. Days that are filled with anxiety and that terrible deep in the stomach feeling of DOOM DOOM DOOM. Days when you think about crying in the bathroom at work even though you are WAY TO MATURE FOR THAT YOU MEAN IT. Days when you could rip some one in HALF. Days when one more email chirping away in your in box is the difference between functional adult and a trip to the nuthouse.<br /><br />I had an Evil <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gingy</span> day yesterday. I don't know what overtook me. Nothing was happening out of the ordinary. But I became convinced that everyone in my office hates me and is talking about me. Also that they make fun of my outfits. That I am old and washed up. That I am going to be fired. It was like having a huge cannonball of PMS and shame and hate hitting my self esteem. Every ten minutes.<br /><br />Today is better. Today maybe they hate me, maybe they don't. I can't really do much about it. Today maybe my outfit is better and I made roasted carrots for dinner and I just slog through it all. Today I am remembering to be proud of myself because maybe no one else sees that I am doing something to be proud of here.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-7037636889109911292010-10-28T19:39:00.000-07:002010-10-28T19:49:38.512-07:00Where Have I BeenApparently going back to an office job means that I am have no time to type into the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">internet</span>. I don't know how that can possibly be--since I feel like I spend all of my time staring at this white screen.<br /><br />The past couple of months have been . . .strange. So good in so many ways. It feels awesome to stretch my brain and find that more of my skills are still in there than I thought might be. I really like the people I work with and I don't think I can overstate that less time with my MIL has been a lovely thing for me. Some things are less awesome--office politics still exist and drama and SNORE. With every job comes some of the same problems, at least that is what I have found, at least when the job is new and exciting it is easier to ignore them.<br /><br />Of course it is all well and good to say that I am using my brain and wow I am not a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">dumbass</span> and a whole other thing to have that be true. Today I proved again that I am not all about using my brain at all times. I was wandering through stores at lunch when I found a perfume in this cute little bottle. It was called Marigold and I put a little on my wrist and took a sniff.<br /><br />Not for a second thinking about how a perfume called Marigold might contain marigold oil and uh I am allergic to marigolds. My eye immediately waters and starts to swell shut, my nose is running and I have a really cute hive on my wrist. <br /><br />Doesn't everyone feel better now that they know I have spent the last month wisely?Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-15990303494006122392010-09-20T20:46:00.000-07:002010-09-20T20:59:05.145-07:00On TimeI don't want to write about this.<br /><br />I don't want to because it is all too familiar to a lot of us. Because I really don't have a thick skin about it and while my blog is so tiny you cannot see it with the naked eye, one weird comment might send me spinning. <br /><br />I am so grateful to have a job. A job I could be good at, one I can really enjoy, one that feeds and houses my family though people always pretend that women's income does that too. But no job is perfect. And the truth is, that very few of us have jobs that really work with having a family. Actually having a life. My company is not unique here--in fact that is why I feel comfortable writing about it at all. It is not an indictment of the company. They say all the appropriate things about work-life balance, they have incredibly sincere pamphlets they hand out. I think they even mean it. But in action it doesn't work that way.<br /><br />It doesn't work that way because a lot of people who have worked very hard to get where they are don't have families--many don't have partners--so their brains don't care or see about those things. They don't work that way because well let's be honest, the ones that do have kids have stay at home wives. They don't worry about childcare or sick babies or rushing home. They schedule meetings that will take a couple of hours for four o'clock. They work weekends and can't imagine why everyone doesn't. <br /><br />I don't want work life balance because of my daughter. I want it for me. Because I am a better worker and thinker when I have something beyond my job. When I have slept. When I have seen the world outside of cube walls. But I demand some bit of balance for my daughter. For her I take the heat. <br /><br />I shouldn't have to.<br /><br />It isn't normal to get email on your phone 24 hours a day. It isn't normal to wake up in the middle of the night freaked out about something like this. We ask too much of our workers. We give them less and less space to be people. <br /><br />I knew this coming back. I knew it would be hard. And it is hard. I am not sure how I am going to do it. I know I will do it. I don't really have a choice.<br /><br />Actually I know how I will do it. I took a slightly down job and I will stay in that slightly down job. I won't work for a promotion--which sucks--because I know the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">expectations</span> that comes with that. I do good work--better than a lot of people who work their lives away--but people only care about ass in the seat time. More is better?<br /><br />I was Mommy Tracked after my maternity leave. Not in a concrete legal way, but in the way I was demeaned in so many eyes. Oh you have a vagina that you don't just use <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">recreationally</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ew</span>. How nice. I was passed over for a promotion while pregnant--one I didn't want so I was happy--but I was also blocked from a good job when I returned. And I have been so lucky.<br /><br />I am good at setting boundaries--my daughter won't suffer. But the anxiety of trying to make it work is not good for me. It adds a whole layer of complexity to a job that doesn't need it. Let me do my job, get out of the way. I will be the best one you have. Don't crap on my desk because I don't work until 8 at night. I am the first one here in the morning. <br /><br />This isn't about being a mother, though I am seen through that lens. This is why for a chickie company there are so few women in the higher levels. This is why my friend that hired me said she was relieved that there would be ONE other person with a child. In a group of 30. Of everyone in their late twenties to early forties. <br /><br />I will always leave on time.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-76094469630151240062010-09-02T13:20:00.000-07:002010-09-02T13:30:18.916-07:00BraveFor a few months I have been looking for a job.<br /><br />That was hard for me to do. To me, there is nothing more soul crushing than job hunting. It feels like the worst kind of dating. Tons of rejection. Very little positive feedback. Just endless hope. I made the final two for a few jobs and I would be so excited and than it just didn't work out. It is hard not to lose your confidence. Especially when you are like me and you are naturally shy. Working yourself up to be confident and gregarious in an interview so that you make the right impression is hard. It is unbelievably hard to do it again and again and again. <br /><br />And it was hard to admit that I wanted a regular full time job again. I was supposed to be living the dream. Except I really struggled to teach myself the skills I needed for the business. And none of the classes I could find really taught what I wanted to know (and if anyone in the greater Seattle area wants to teach me <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dreamweaver</span> hook a sister up). And I HATED not having anyone to interact with. Hated working in the basement when my toddler was upstairs pissed at me. Really hated having so much contact with my MIL--who I love but we do better when we are not judging each other's choices so damn much. I don't like doing massage long term. Or rather I love doing massage but I hate all the crap that came with it. I hated the politics at the clinic that I worked at (which are the same everywhere). I hated being talked down to by people who thought I was a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">SAHM</span> but didn't want to act like I thought I was better than a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">SAHM</span> so I couldn't really say anything. I hated not making enough money. <br /><br />We were all sacrificing so much and it wasn't the right fit yet.<br /><br />BUT. The year was amazing. This year was just what I needed. I learned a lot about my work needs. What kind of work makes me happy. What personally makes me happy. My husband and I got a lot of things right in our marriage. We are still working on balance and well I think we will be until the day we die. That just comes with this, but this year was amazing. I was so happy in a lot of ways.<br /><br />The single best thing I got from this year was the ability to go back. To say, last year I needed to quit even though I knew people were thinking I couldn't hack it and though it felt like failing and I needed to try something different. And this year it is best for me and my family for me to go and work full time at one job. It is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span> to change your mind and it is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span> for the needs of your family to change. In the past I would have stuck to my guns because doing something else would be admitting I was wrong. But I wasn't wrong. Things just didn't work out how I had hoped.<br /><br />I am so proud of myself for trying. And I am not mad at myself for deciding to do something different.<br /><br />I got a job offer last week. I accepted. I actually clapped when I hung up the phone. The commute will suck and I expect that the office politics will be just what they always are. I know that things will not be perfect and I will feel crushed under the weight of my life. I think we all feel that way sometimes. But I am doing what is right for me and my family and I feel brave.<br /><br />Again.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-83648122844561415212010-08-17T21:53:00.000-07:002010-08-17T22:01:53.584-07:00Maybe I Should Smear Some Eye Cream On My HandsYesterday was my birthday. Since I am not seven, sadly, there were no ponies or piles of presents. My MIL did bring me a lovely card and my folks took me out to dinner Sunday to celebrate. And thanks to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebook</span> everyone I know said Happy Birthday. It was a strange day--maybe because it was a Monday. But also because my grandparents forgot and my sister forgot (I SWEAR I am not calling my sister out--<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">heh</span>--we all have lives people). It was just sort of strange and a non-thing.<br /><br />I am mainly just weirded out because I am thirty-two. I am thirty-two years old and have a two year old. So I guess that this is real life and really happening and crap I am the adult here. A few years ago a friend of mine died (I am not linking because it will make me throw up honestly) and she was thirty-two and had a two year old. So my main goal for the year is to not drop dead at dinner with my husband and daughter. BIG GOAL.<br /><br />The last year has been so strange and an adventure almost. Overall it has been amazing for me and for my family and I am ready for this stage to be over but I don't know. I feel sort of frozen. Kind of like when you were a kid and summer vacation was almost over and you didn't want to go back to school but you had done everything you wanted to do and you were sort of bored and didn't care anymore. Maybe I have the summer <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">fuckits</span>. Or the thirty <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">fuckits</span>. I will feel less frozen when I am forty?<br /><br />None of this makes any sense. I am just typing typing typing. <br /><br />And looking at my hands. The women in my family have some jacked up looking hands. I am pretty sure mine are going to go all crypt keeper ANY SECOND.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-61687836815009425292010-08-10T22:34:00.000-07:002010-08-10T23:01:12.413-07:00Benedryl Makes Me a Wee Bit LoopySomething horrible is in the air and well it has made me swell up like the elephant man. My father swears it is blackberries and, I admit I know less than nothing about plants and how they pollinate (an aside, I absolutely loathe that moment when some one comes to my house and they ask me about various plants in my yard and PEOPLE I DO NOT KNOW IF THAT IS A CAMILLA. I feel so dumb and I should know but I don't know anything at all about flowers. It is not unlike that feeling of stupid I get when I am hosting some one from out of town and they ask me which mountain you can see from my house. I should know that. But geography is uh not my strong suit <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span>? If you want to talk about the cast of Glee I am your girl. What might save your pan when have scalded tomato soup on the bottom? I can help you. But on actual real information I am less than useless). So I am willing to believe my father when he says it is blackberry pollen that is melting my face off but GOD IT NEEDS TO FUCKING STOP.<br /><br />I have been working my ass off the last couple of days absolutely sloshed on allergy medications. It is like having your brain drowning in molasses. With more snot.<br /><br />I did a sinus rinse and the most unspeakable sludge came out. Unspeakable and yet I just spoke of it. Or typed. Let us not think about it too much. Can I recommend the sinus rinse? It is delightful and disgusting and WOW IF ONLY MY BRAIN DIDN'T FEEL LIKE MUSH.<br /><br />I am also medicating with ice cream. If you do not want to be a fat ass? Do not buy the Costco box of ice cream treats. And eat them all in a week? Things that did not occur to me when I was buying the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">deliciousness</span>.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-8965799648557128672010-07-29T21:44:00.001-07:002010-07-29T21:55:45.854-07:00The ClenchI am spinning around and around lately. There is a lot of stress happening. Some centered around the job hunt. Some financial. But mostly stress because of my own personality. I am some one who takes a worry and rubs it around in my hands. It spins and spins in my head until I can't let it go. I need structure and routine to feel comfortable so this limbo status is hard. That doesn't mean it is bad but it is hard.<br /><br />The stress is making me clench my jaw again and this morning I woke up with my eye almost swollen shut and throbbing. Just another sign that I need to learn to calm the eff down.<br /><br />I've been thinking a lot. About how what is right for my family is a fluid thing. Last year leaving my job was the right thing. It has been hard but it was right. And though it is hard for me to accept--going back to a corp gig isn't saying I was wrong but really just acknowledging that things have changed. And when it is hard to accept that what is right for ME, for US, can change so much no wonder all of us have a hard time grabbing hold of acceptance for other people's choices. <br /><br />I feel my MIL staring at me sometimes. I know she doesn't agree with me all of the time, or even some of the time. We are very different people who were brought up very different ways and I think in a lot of ways how my husband and I live feels like a rejection to her. It isn't meant to be but it is true that we live in a very different way than she did. Or does. If you are a hippie who lived on a commune and in the mountains and then were homeless by choice it would seem really ODD that your son would get married and become a techie guy and move to the suburbs. But there it is and here we are and I wish I could just say look we don't think you were wrong (well not about everything) but we're doing something different. This is what is right for US.<br /><br />Instead I just worry about it. And resent her judgement. <br /><br />And clench. Always clenching.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-2392856635170759032010-07-16T14:39:00.000-07:002010-07-16T14:47:59.567-07:00I Miss HimI will never forget that phone call.<br /><br />My dad, early in the morning, but not too early because he didn't want to wake me up. What could I do? And he was crying, which I don't think I had ever heard before but have heard many times since. My grandpa gone. The one person that I stupidly thought could never die was dead.<br /><br />The anniversary snuck up on me a bit. I have been a little crazed and wired and well maybe my freak out about not having a life was really about something else? I am stressed about looking for a job and sad about my grandma dying and all of those things but I can handle them.<br /><br />My grandpa has been dead a year today. He really isn't coming back. I am an adult and I knew that, I know that, but it is like finding out again today. He is really gone. And I miss him.<br /><br />I didn't see him often, not often enough that is for sure. I didn't call because I was so stupid. I didn't want to bother him. But I can still smell his old man spicy smell. I can feel how strong his hugs were. I remember him carrying me around--uh in my twenties. He was the strongest man I ever knew (I am pretty sure my father would fall over if he tried to carry me three inches). I can feel his hand on my shoulder, waking me up to have ice cream in the middle of the night. I remember his face when he told me he restored the piano for me. I can feel the heat of his lap and how he smelled like sweat and sun in the dark den during Cubs' games on summer afternoons. <br /><br />I can see the cold, waxy skin in his casket too. <br /><br />In Judaism the anniversary of death is called <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Yahrzeit</span> and technically it is the anniversary on the Hebrew date but I lit a candle today for him. And I said the Kaddish. I hope he wouldn't mind. This is supposed to be the closing of mourning him. I don't suppose I ever will stop.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-26859050771066000382010-07-14T21:46:00.000-07:002010-07-14T22:43:16.643-07:00Maybe I Should Open With DON'T RUNMy husband has a life. In the past week he has gone to the movies, played in a softball tournament, played his regular softball games, gone to two <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">MLB</span> baseball games and tonight he is at a concert. In the past week I have gone to work and uh stayed home to watch our daughter.<br /><br />I don't mind this, really. I am so glad that he hobbies and interests and he is much more fun and engaged with me when he has those outlets. But I need something too. I don't really have a pack of girlfriends I run around with. My friends are spread out--some far from me--and most of us have kids and don't really get out at night. So my husband is my main source of adult company. And when he goes out every night that means not only am I home with the kid but I have no one to talk to either.<br /><br />In fact, this past weekend he was gone most of the days too.<br /><br />I never want to be the one that says no, I don't think that is my place. He is an adult and can have his own time. But now this pattern has played out that I have no social life and his is more active than before we had kids. But I still feel stymied about it. It isn't easy to make close girlfriends as an adult. Most of the women I know are from work--which means geographically they are far from me. Or they are the wives of his friends--which means I don't know them well at all and we may not have much in common. Neither of these lends itself much to me just hanging out with them once in a while. And my social anxiety--and the extreme likelihood that I will be unable to make small talk like some sort of backwards social reject (which I guess is fair)--doesn't help. <br /><br />I guess I am lonely more than anything else. It is strange because I have a lot of person to person contact in my work now and meet many people who I would like to be friends with. But it would be strange and unprofessional for me to ask a client if she wanted to get a drink sometime. <br /><br />I will be fine--I just need to make more of an effort to be less ridiculous. I need to give in and call the other moms I know because even if they may not appreciate my sense of humor or my obsession with the Golden Girls we can still have fun.<br /><br />I need to have friends like men do--where sometimes they don't even know the guys last name but they still hang out and have fun. <br /><br />Man, this is when I miss being single. I used to have tons of men friends. But that all fades away when you get married--even if no one really wants it to. I guess I will just have to hang out at the park, the first mom who is nice to me and doesn't look like a crazy person I follow her home.<br /><br />Wait, does that make ME the crazy person.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-17278594345284998352010-07-10T20:30:00.000-07:002010-07-10T20:49:20.363-07:00Saturday Night MadnessI read this horrible article tonight about how the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">BP</span></span> spill is bringing forth a methane explosion. A methane explosion that would likely kill all of humanity in a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">fiery</span> ball and also most of earth. In the next six months. And no one can do anything.<br /><br />I would like to unread this article. It is causing me an endless loop of anxiety (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">FIERY</span> BALL AND THE END OF HUMANITY) and depression. My life has been wasted! Oh shit my baby is going to die! I don't want my baby to die before me but I can't hope to die FIRST because she would be so scared and ALONE. And also I have done nothing to use my life in a useful or compelling matter but really what does it matter since we are all about to be ashes and toxic waste before my kid turns three. Part of me wants to hide in the closet and cry, part of me says screw it lets go to Europe and enjoy the last six months of humanity but mainly I hoping to find sweet sweet solace in denial. Denial and cowardice because what else is there?<br /><br />It is nights like this that I really wish I had some sort of pharmaceutical available. Wine isn't going to cut it since I am much more likely to end up sobbing in the bathtub. And I am alone here with the baby so that seems like a bad idea. Mostly I would like to forget that article because I am just thinking "well that dinosaur that tried to warn the other dinosaurs about the Big Bang just ended up dead with the rest of them and I am sure they never thought it could happen either."<br /><br />Other than that Saturday is GREAT.<br /><br />**Edited to add, yes I KNOW that this is pretty much a tinfoil hat conspiracy but I am in a highly <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">suggestible</span> mood tonight.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-47557051145526480662010-07-08T22:34:00.000-07:002010-07-08T23:30:11.282-07:00The YardWhen we bought this house I didn't really understand why our realtor kept talking about the yard. J and I are not yard people. We hate doing yard work. We don't garden. We had two little dogs. A yard was wasted on us really. We just wanted somewhere the dogs could pee.<br /><br />Last summer we had a patio built out in the back. Had the yard leveled. And I began to understand a little more why he was so enthusiastic about it. In some parts of the country this yard would be tiny but around here it is large. We have a view of the mountain. You can see the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">trainyard</span> (this is not a feature for adults but for the preschool set it is like growing goldfish crackers on a bush out there they are very excited). The house and the trees are laid out in such a way that it is all shade in the heat of the day. <br /><br />This year I get the yard.<br /><br />When Mo wakes up from her nap we go outside. We take the puppy (oh did I tell you about the puppy) and go lay in the grass. We sit in chairs and have a drink. We blow bubbles. She rides her tricycle. She slides on her slide. The neighbor girl, who is the nicest child I have ever met, comes over and throws the dog a ball over and over. We pick flowers and dig in the dirt and hit baseballs and everything in my head is quiet.<br /><br />My yard is covered in toys. We have eight hundred old softballs that the dog chases and rips apart. We have a toddler bat and ball and tee. We have a climber with two slides. We have a bubble bucket. We throw balls and slide and count bubbles. The world is still spinning but we're eating apple slices and chasing the dog and if I could freeze time I would. I would hit pause.<br /><br />I get the yard. I love the yard. Especially since I don't do any yard work.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11546978.post-38910386955515647532010-06-29T20:54:00.000-07:002010-06-29T21:07:06.933-07:00I Miss My FriendWhen we put Buster down I felt so sad, so broken. I came home and put Darla in my lap and cried. I cried many times over the next few weeks. I talked to her and told her how much I loved him, how much I loved her, how much I missed him, how much I was sure she missed him. They had been a pack for a long time, more than nine years. That is a longer than a lot of marriages. Darla was an amazing comfort. <br /><br />And after a time it didn't break my heart when I listened for him and he didn't come. And I could accept what had happened. I started to remember what he was like before he got old, before his body betrayed him. I really took the time to enjoy Darla and to remember them when they were young.<br /><br />And this week Darla died.<br /><br />We put her down Monday, after one of the worst nights of my life. She was in pain and we took turns sleeping on the couch and in the bed and for a while in the bathroom because she squeezed herself under the tub. <br /><br />We were absolutely right to do what we did. I know that. But I feel as though some one has used an ice cream scoop to hollow my insides and then poured lemon juice on top of the wound. Then set me on fire. I feel empty and angry and oh so very <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">devastated</span>. It was always our joke that Buster was J's dog and Darla was mine but in part this was not a joke. I loved them both so much but it was her that slept beside me all those years, her who liked to walk with me. She was my friend. <br /><br />And now she is gone. <br /><br />I alternate between eating things like bacon for comfort and uh puking randomly because I hate what has happened. I hate that my daughter saw J and I leave with the dog and burst into tears because she knows we are not bringing her back. I hate that we stole her friends from her (at least from her point of view). I hate that she asked me this morning, "where's Dar Dar?" <br /><br />My feelings about Heaven are complicated. Jews have no official position on it, and I think most Jews don't believe in Heaven or Hell. Of course I was raised Christian and those views are at least part of our greater <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">consciousness</span>. But I don't really think I believe in Heaven. Except for dogs. I do believe that dogs are good creatures who deserve more and in my vision all of the dogs from your family take care of one another and run in a big extended pack. So I told Darla to go find Buster. That he and my parents dogs Rocky, Maddy, Sarge and even Mikey and Heidi would make sure she found her way. I know that sometime yesterday she was testing her newly strong again legs and bossing them all around. <br /><br />People may just go back to the earth and I feel comfortable with that. But Darla is laying in the sun where she belongs.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12193438348834805844noreply@blogger.com2