Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
I'm not surprised but I am disappointed, humiliated, insulted and depressed. I can't even get a part time job stocking grocery shelves on the midnight shift.
And.
Either a teenager, a woman who can't speak English or a drug dealer got the job instead of me.
That's where the humility kicks me in the gut. No, I don't think I'm better than them. (Okay, I'm not dealing drugs, and in the eyes of the law that makes me not a criminal so technically I guess I am better than the drug dealer.) We all wanted that job and we all had unique qualifications. Their unique qualifications were what the store wanted. My unique qualifications were not as pertinent as theirs and so I didn't get the job. My education and professional experience are not relevant enough to get me a part time job stocking shelves on the night shift. Ouch. That awareness hurts.
Sure, I'm overqualified for the job. I understand that. But I am reliable and hard working and I can read and speak English and I am not engaged in criminal activity (yet, anyway, give another month or two...).
Sure, my desperation is probably palpable and the specter of my broken dreams follows me around like a long afternoon shadow. I try to keep the desperation and disillusionment locked away under the kitchen sink and only let them out at night. But I've caught them wafting around me when I venture out into the world. I hope they're not detectable to naked human eyes other than mine, but, they leave a tell-tale vapor trail on my face that no amount of make-up can hide. Even if, if I do a good job with my attitude and concealer the vapor trail stains my job application. Between the lines detailing the degrees and years of professional experience and now the months of blank space, there's a filmy sludge from the vapor trail that spells out: Desperation and broken dreams.
And sure, it's obvious I would quit as soon as I get a full-time day job. But since when is stocking grocery store shelves a long-term career opportunity? Does anyone stay at that job very long? Isn't it a given that no one takes a part-time midnight shift shelf stocking job as a serious long-term career opportunity? So does it matter that I'm overqualified and will leave as soon as I get a full-time job?
Apparently the answer to that is: Yes.
Brain Bias. Overqualified people not getting jobs because they're "too smart" or "too experienced" for the job. We're seen as either a threat to the existing manager or not taken as serious candidates because we'll leave when we get a "real" job.
Brain Bias bugs me. I don't see that shelf stocking job as beneath me and if it earns a paycheck, well, that's as real as a job needs to be.
Here's the bottom line fact: That part-time job combined with another one or two part-time jobs could keep me going, keep a roof over my head, pay my mortgage. The ideal solution is a full-time job, of course, but until that happens I'm edging closer to foreclosure and homelessness. There aren't a lot of full-time jobs available. But there are a lot of part-time jobs. Two or three part-time jobs would pay my mortgage. Instead I'm deemed overqualified, not a viable candidate. Brain bias. Because of brain bias the "smart girl" with the fancy college degrees and all that professional work experience is edging closer to homelessness.
Consequently the insinuation that I don't consider stocking grocery shelves as a real job is insulting.
And that funk that's stinking up the place, the one that's the by-product of the desperation and broken dreams stored too close together, is lurking around more, lately. Like storing ammonia and bleach too close together, you're playing Russian roulette. Nothing might happen, if there's proper ventilation and they're not brought out at the same time...or...you might die. That combined vaporous funk self-righteously flaunts itself and taunts me. "Ha ha, I'm just a vaporous funk now, but just you wait. I'm growing denser, wider and smellier. Thought you could avoid me, did you? Well, listen here, girlie, no one loses a job and avoids me. It's not possible. Desperation and broken dreams always result in depression when they're combined. You run along and delude yourself, apply for jobs and try to sell more of your stuff, and hey, why not put your soul up for bid on eBay while you're at it? That'll buy you a month of mortgage payment if you're lucky. I'll be here wafting around. You'll succumb to me sooner or later. Desperation and broken dreams always give way to depression."
Monday, February 22, 2010
I had an assignation hurled at me that left me pondering if it was a mere statement of fact or an accusatory affront.
A friend introduced me to someone she knows. Casual conversation about the Olympics ensued. My friend said to her other friend, "Oh, Trillian loves Apolo. She's a super fan."
Okay. Yes. I like Apolo. I even love his attitude. He inspires me. I follow him on Twitter.
Does that make me a super fan?
I think it's relative. Compared to some people (who don't follow him on Twitter, for instance) I'm a super fan, but in relation to others (the people who can list every one of his race times and follow his training regime, for instance) I'm a mere casual observer.
I laughed off my friend's super fan label but felt a need to defend myself. "Yeah, I like Apolo. He's got his head on straight. I like that in an athlete."
The conversation continued and once again my friend lobbed a label at me. "The only thing that will tear Trillian away from the Olympics is LOST! I made the mistake of calling her the other night during LOST, har har, I won't do that again. She's a supermegafan of LOST."
I stammered through another defense, "Ha! Yeah, well, man-o-rama, and it's the last season, I actually can't wait for it to end. I'm only watching out of commitment, seeing it through to the end, like continuing to read a book you don't like or staying in a theater when you don't care for the movie presented. That and the men. Lots of eye candy on LOST."
But hang on a minute, why was my friend talking about me like this?
Why was she compelled to air my insignificant interests to this person I just met?
I didn't want to go all sulky but I didn't want to continue the conversation, either. I tried to turn the conversation back to my friend, her husband, her kids, the reason we were drinking at 2:00 in the afternoon...and that didn't get off the ground. So I tried to engage my friend's friend in conversation about her. Married. Kids. Doesn't work. Label. Label. Label. And then the conversation turned to the kids' school, the PTO, the new intermediate kids ballet teacher and a multitude of topics I know nothing about and was therefore excluded from the conversation.
Which is fine. I'm used to it. And given the choice between the super fan accusations and total conversation exclusion I happily choose exclusion. I think there's a happy conversational medium but I've yet to figure out how to hit on it and sustain it with my married/children/non-working friends. There's a them-us barrier that filters most conversations between married/children/non-working people and single/childless/working (albeit unemployed) people.
I have broached this subject with this friend and lately I seem to be getting through to her. She's been making efforts to talk about topics other than kids, husbands, vacations, new cars, new houses, and how "stressed" she is even though she doesn't work, has a nanny, a maid service, and a personal trainer. She's showing signs of understanding that we lead very, very different lives and no longer have much in common and that our friendship has become as perfunctory as she claims sex is with her husband.
She told me this, I think, in an attempt to make me feel better about being single. "We've been married 10 years. We have two kids. Sex just isn't a big deal or a priority. If he wants it I give it to him but the fact is that he rarely wants it and I don't care. We schedule sex, make ourselves have sex just to try to convince ourselves that we can and want to do it. It's perfunctory and we both know it but that's okay with us. Every now and then we shake things up a bit, a new nightie, a position we tried once on our honeymoon...but even that's perfunctory - scheduled, planned attempts to assure ourselves that we're okay. I'm just happy he can still get it up a couple times a month. That's married sex, Trill. You're not missing much." Waaaaaaaaay too much information. Far more than I ever wanted to know about my friend and her husband. But I've come to see it as metaphoric for our friendship. We make ourselves keep in touch, mainly via email, and just to assure ourselves that we're okay we try to get together once or twice a month.
What's weird is that I'm not sure if this is just how life is, or if it's just how my friend is. If this is how she manages all her relationships: A perfunctory haze of mutually recognized rote congeniality. Not that I expect her, or anyone else, to go around all hopped up high on lust for life, seizing every moment and choking the life out of it. But like our conversations, I think there's a better compromise, a middle zone that's more zesty but not ridiculous or impossible to maintain.
I tried to explain this when I broached the "we have nothing in common" conversation but she didn't really get it. Things are pretty black and white with her these days. I'm sure my life seems sad and weird to her. Mayor of Singleton, no kids, unemployed, cheering on other people to do great things, getting excited about music and fantasizing about men on television. She can't relate to any of that just like I can't relate to her "stress." But she is making attempts at crossing the abyss between us by talking about me in terms other than single, childless and unemployed. So. You know. Yay her for making the effort. I realize it's going to be awkward for both of us at first but in time maybe this friendship can be saved.
However, she was clearly relieved and happier when I turned the conversation back to her comfort zone, her turf, her world. I effectively gave her and her friend permission to ignore me. If the alternative was having to defend or explain my interest in speed skating or LOST, well, at that moment I preferred to be ignored.
So while my friend and her friend nattered on about their children and complained about their husbands I sipped my way into a slightly drunken haze and contemplated what it means to be a fan.
Fan.
Fantasy.
Coincidence? Of course not.
I started making mental list of people and things I consider myself to be a fan of and realized it's not as easy as making a mental list.
There are broad categories, subsets and unique individuals. It's like biological classification. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species.
Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Sports Class: Ice Sports Order: Hockey Family: Red Wings Genus: Forwards Species: Steve Yzerman
Compared to: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Sports Class: Ice Sports Order: Olympics Family: Speed Skating Genus: Short Track Species: Apolo Anton Ohno
Or: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Awesome Family: Pixies Genus: Bassists Species: Kim Deal
Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Pop Order: Kinda lame Family: Packaged but not without talent Genus: Singers Species: Pink
Holy crap. This is it! This is the order of life! We know this, we learn it in grammar school science, but there's more to it than the plant, insect and animal world! It's the order, the structure of human personality. There is order in my Universe!
There, in that ubiquitous fake flair-filled suburban dining and drinking establishment, with my friend and her friend deep in conversation about which cashiers at the local grocery are "better," I was unlocking mysteries of the mind. Or at least mine. In mapping my fan areas a solid picture emerged. There's nothing random about my seemingly scattered interests! I don't know how, yet, but I know this knowledge is going to revolutionize my understanding of, you know, stuff.
I spent the train ride home organizing my interests. Easy and difficult.
For instance, Nick Cave. Ahh, that's a tricky one. Is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock/Alt Order: Awesome Family: Bad Seeds Genus: Singers Species: Nick Cave
or, is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Literature Class: Poetry Order: Modern Family: Free verse Genus: Spiritual Species: Nick Cave
or, is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Literature Class: Fiction Order: Modern Family: Novels Genus: Disturbing Species: Nick Cave
or, is he: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Cinema Class: Non-documentary Order: Drama Family: Actor Genus: Non lead Species: Nick Cave
or, is he a Kingdom to himself? Kingdom: Nick Cave Phylum: Writer Class: Poet Order: Spiritual Family: Disturbing Genus: Vile characters Species: redemption
See? Not as simplistic as it seems, is it? And that's the whole point of personality. And being a fan. I'm more a fan of Nick Cave's music so for me he's organized the first way. But for others who like his fiction, their brains map him in the novelist organization flow.
I'm a fan of all the Pixies so there are four organizations for each of the members as well as a fifth all-encompassing organization.
Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Awesome Genus: Groups Species: Pixies
The thing is, being a fan sometimes denotes an air of exclusivity. Like, if I'm a fan of the Pixies I can't be a fan of the Chili Peppers, or at least as much of a fan of the Chili Peppers.
But no. That's not true! And using the natural world's organization structure shows this! Like cats, for instance. They're all Animalia, Chordata, Mammalia, Carnivora, Felidae, Felinae, Felis...but then you've got Felis Silvestris, Felis Manul, Felis Nigripes...see? They're all cats, you can like some more than others, but you can like them all equally, as well, because they all have a lot in common!
So: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Awesome Genus: Groups Species: Red Hot Chili Peppers
Ahhhhh. But what about a band like, oh, say, Nirvana. This works: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Awesome Genus: Groups Species: Nirvana
But, for me, this works better: Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Music Class: Rock Order: Gods Family: Saviors rising from the ashes Genus: Groups led by a prophet Species: Nirvana
But that's just me. My fan organization. Yours is probably different. And that's what's so cool about this. We really are unique individuals! And yet...not. This explains that confounding perplexity of the condition human. It can all be organized, classified, put in order in tidy categories where we are lumped together, not exactly unique or special, but, in the lower genus and species details we diverge into our individual personalities.
Now. What about the fan in fantasy?
Well, that's easy, too.
Take LOST for instance. Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Television Class: Drama Order: Man-o-rama Family: Lust worthy Genus: Salacious fantasies Species: Josh Holloway
Or, Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Television Class: Drama Order: Man-o-rama Family: Lust worthy Genus: Sweet and tender romance Species: Henry Ian Cusick
Or, Kingdom: Leisure Activities Phylum: Television Class: Drama Order: Man-o-rama Family: Lust worthy Genus: Taste for the exotic Species: Daniel Dae Kim
Or, the whole thing could also fall into this organization:
Kingdom: Fantasies Phylum: Man-o-rama Class: LOST Order: Libidinous desires Family: Single female fantasies Genus: Imaginary salacious exploits Species: Taking the lonely out of long lonely nights
Based on that organization model I'm guessing I have a lot in common with other women. The the phylum and class might differ, but I'm pretty sure the genus and species of that particular fantasy kingdom are universal. Consequently we're all fans.
It's all so obvious to me, now.
I don't feel defensive or embarrassed about being a fan.
Yeah. I said it, I am a fan of Apolo and LOST and The Pixies. (I like the kingdom of leisure activities, apparently.) I am a fan of Nick Cave's music but find characters in his novels disturbing. That doesn't make me less of a fan. In the Nick Cave organization there's room for lots of different kinds of fans.
The only danger I'm finding in all of this is that there's an Obsessive Compulsiveness to it that is disconcerting. (I know, "duh.") When I was making my fan organization charts on the train I chuckled at the OCD connection. When I started making the charts mentally I stopped chuckling and started to worry about becoming Rain Man. "Oh crap, my mind is starting to think like this all the time. I'm finding comfort in the organization. That cannot possibly be good."
Then again, it makes a lot of sense. There's nothing but confusion, chaos and disorder in my life right now. And I feel like I don't fit in anywhere. My little fan organization lists are a way for me to bring some order, structure and a perception of control and inclusion into my life. Which is an autistic coping behavior, I know. Okay? I know.
But is it a bad thing? I don't think so. Whatever gets you through the night, right?
Then again, insane people generally don't think they're insane. So. Yeah. There's that.
I call it the unemployment limbo. The bar keeps dropping lower and I have to work harder to fit under it.
And my life(?) remains in limbo.
Go a little lower, now...
I had another interview today.
Rock on, right?
Welllllll. You tell me. Is interviewing for a job stocking grocery shelves three nights a week, 10PM - 2 AM, rock on worthy?
Yes. I had to interview for a job stocking grocery shelves. Apparently there's a skill set required for putting canned peas on a shelf. And an art to properly shelving cereal.
Actually. I know there is an art to it. Product placement on store shelving is a HUGE marketing deal. Huge. There's a lot of strategy and some pretty cut-throat competitive bidding in the shelf-war marketing game. Companies vie for premium positioning (eye level). Some stores rent shelf space and others "auction" it to the highest bidder. And of course the products themselves have to be positioned such that their snazzy graphics are displayed front and center. And the products have to be neat and orderly. People don't like to hunt around for their groceries. Most people don't spend a lot of time at the grocery. They want to go in, grab their Corn Flakes and Heineken from the easiest shelf to reach and get the heck out of there.
See? I'm perfect for the job! I know a lot about marketing and consumer behavior! I just had to convince my would-be manager of that.
I showed up for the interview expecting an informal chat with the store manager. Instead there were four of us in a small dismal room sitting on metal folding chairs. (the kind used in Baptist church fellowship halls - I know this because I once went to a wedding reception held in a Baptist church fellowship hall. don't ask.) It was: A teenaged boy, a woman who spoke very little English, a guy who talked on his cell phone during the entire "interview." He tried to muffle/whisper parts of his conversation but it was a small, quiet room and it was obvious he was making, erm, "deals." Apparently he's looking to augment his narcotics income by stocking grocery shelves at night. Or hey, maybe he's trying to go legit.
Finally a woman with an ubiquitous clipboard entered the room and affected a Marine drill sergeant demeanor. She flipped through pages on her clipboard and called out our names. I thought we were supposed to respond, you know, like roll call. So when she called out my name I said, "Present!" and raised my hand.
Hey. I'm new to this kind of "interview." And I was eager to make a good impression. I wasn't clear if there were four stocking positions available or if the four of us were vying for one job so I wanted to shine bright among my potential competition.
You read that correctly. I wanted to make a good impression for a job stocking shelves at a grocery store three nights a week and was worried about beating my competition for the job: A teenager, a non-English speaking woman and a drug dealer.
Where and when did my life(?) make this turn for the weirder?
Oh, right. When I was laid off.
I'm not saying I'm too good to stock shelves at a grocery store. Obviously I don't think that - I applied for the job. If I thought I was too good for the job I wouldn't have applied in the first place. I want to work and earn money. Period.
Sure. Ideally I would like to land a job using my college degrees and years of professional experience. But, uh, heh heh, funny thing about that. Not a lot of job openings for college educated professionals with loads of professional experience.
Had I known my life(?) was heading here I never would have spent all those years and money on college. And I certainly would not have endured the long hours, absurd deadlines and stress in my previous jobs. Had I known the jobs I would need at the most critical time in my life would be skilled labor jobs I would have skipped college and fast-tracked myself down a career path of retail and skilled labor jobs.
I have no idea if I'll be considered for the shelf stocking job. The drill sergeant told us about the job, the importance of arriving on time, being a team player and properly stocking the shelves correctly - according to the prescribed shelving plan. She showed us a shelf plan sheet with the names or mini graphics of the products diagrammed onto the shelf drawing. We had to read the product brand name and what it was. "Corn Flakes. Cereal." She said we didn't have to know the aisle number location yet but after a few weeks on the job we'd be expected to know the aisle location for products. There will be a test. Benchmarking goals, you know.
The non-English speaking woman struggled with the product type names. She could read the brand names off the chart but when it came to describing them...well...yeah. I mean, maybe they don't have Corn Flakes in her native country. How could she know what they are? Or why they have premium positioning on the cereal shelves? Or maybe she knows what they are but can't remember how to say cereal in English. I felt sorry for her. I sat there hoping there were two job openings and that she and I would get them. I vowed to befriend her and help her. I tried to make a deal with the Universe: "Give both of us jobs and I'll help her learn English."
But I'm concerned I blew the "interview."
I thought my marketing background might give me an edge. I tried to impress the drill sergeant by asking about the store's guidelines regarding "facing" and "noting" and the store's facing valuation ratings v. revenue ranking.
Yeah. I know. I kind of got a little caught up in her "stocking shelves is serious business" attitude and ran with it. Hey, I know about visual marketing, placement strategy, I know that stuff, man, I know it. When I had a career I used to get excited about it and worked tirelessly on imaging. And placement is a huge factor in the marketing visuals.
But in my zeal for marketing and quest for a job I think I went too far. And blew the interview. Usually I think I blow interviews because I don't know enough, that I'm not good enough to nudge out the competition. Lately I think I've been blowing interviews because I know too much. That's a difficult concept for me to wrap my gray matter around. Spending my entire life expected to push myself harder, learn more, work more, be smarter, savvier, deeper, wiser, more creative, more knowledgeable, more driven has obviously affected me. The only way I know to function is by striving to learn and push to excel. It's been drummed into me since kindergarten. Use your brain, learn all you can, don't be stupid, don't just pass the tests learn the material, get good grades, get into good schools, learn the material, prove it, get a good job at a good company, don't be stupid, use your brain, don't be stupid, prove yourself...it's how the world works, right? Wrong. I'm learning that too much knowledge can be a bad thing.
After the "interview" I realized I might have gone a bit too far. Maybe I shouldn't have tried so hard. Maybe I shouldn't have let on that I know about facing and noting and shelving placement and marketing strategy and revenue statistics. Maybe I should have played dumb.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
"If I have given my all and still do not win, I haven’t lost. Others might remember winning or losing; I remember the journey." Apolo Ohno
Amen to that. I think Apolo and I woke up under the same influence today.
It's a process not an event. Sports...careers...life...love...whatever. It's all a journey worth remembering.
2:55 PM
What with me in a permanent state of singleness (Please, be upstanding for the mayor of Singleton) and the recent Valentine's Day avoidance success I've been thinking not so much about why I'm single, or the romantic failures, but the results, the where I am now and what those relationships mean, or not, now.
It's easy dismiss those men, especially HWNMNBS, as insignificant others. They are insignificant in my day-to-day life. Sure, sure, buried deep in my psyche there are good lessons learned and scars on painful wounds. Sure. But. Really, generally, other than collectively forming the part of my history that is the romance chapter they have no bearing on what I do or how I am now.
They didn't lead me to conclude that I'm better off alone and collecting dust on The Shelf. I made that decision. I chose to stop trying. I chose to eliminate all hopes of romantic love and companionship from my life. I chose to get off the emotional roller coaster of trying to date and mate. I accepted the role as mayor of Singleton.
But. Those choices are based on numerous failed attempts and failed relationships. So. Are those past boyfriends, significant others of my past, as insignificant as they seem in my day-to-day life? Welllll, there's a kettle of psychology fish.
Here's what I've concluded.
For a long time I wanted HWNMNBS to be insignificant to me. I sarcastically referred to him as my insignificant other. I thought saying it often enough might eventually make it true. Because I thought if and when I could honestly render him insignificant I would be triumphant, victorious, over him.
Silly girl. Silly, silly girl. What I know now is that getting over him was a matter of accepting the disappointment of losing what I wanted for us, for our future. Not a matter of rendering him insignificant.
The fact that I loved him and liked him enough to want to spend my life loyal and dedicated to him and to our would-be marriage is not insignificant. And never will be. The facts that I have the capacity for that depth of feeling, that strength of conviction, that willingness to support someone else, that steadfast loyalty are not insignificant. The fact that I am viable when it comes to love, at least in terms of capability, is extremely significant.
I know, I absolutely know that all of us have the capacity to love. It's merely a matter of choosing to explore and develop that ability. Some of us have deeper capacities than others, and some of us have pivotal situations that impact our choices regarding love. "Daddy didn't love me..." "Mummy didn't hug me enough..." "In seventh grade Jessica made fun of me for liking her..." "he left me for a 23-year-old with fake boobs" on and on and on it goes in the therapists' offices. But those issues have nothing to do with love. They're about blame and insecurity and anger. Choose to accept responsibility, choose to not be angry, choose to revel in your strengths, choose to love and voila!: Therapists join the ranks of the unemployed.
Easier said than done, I know, believe me, I know.
Big words coming from me, right? Hey, I have issues, I know. Never said I didn't. But. The incapacity to love isn't one of them. I know I love and can love. Thanks to my former beaus, I know without a doubt, that I can love and feel love. And thanks to them (among others) I know I'm not an angry person. To this day I have yet to have a moment of anger at HWNMNBS. I've been hurt, but not angry. And one more time with feeling: That's why he's not insignificant.
Don't get me wrong, I don't still "love" him in the longing sense. I just don't see any point in anger. What would it prove, or do? It would only make me bitter and old, fast. I'd still be the mayor of Singleton up on The Shelf collecting dust. But I'd be angry and growing old, quickly, and no fun to be around, either. And even though I'm partnerless, I do have friends and family who I like and respect and don't want to alienate myself from them. Anger has a way of doing that - alienating people - and I certainly do not want that. I'm lonely but the thought of the loneliness without my friends and family is horrifying.
Some of the residents of Singleton live here only because of their anger. They're so angry and self righteous that they alienate themselves from people...and love. The sad part of this is that they have the capacity to love yet they choose blame and anger instead. As Mayor of Singleton I struggle with how to help them help themselves. I'm just smart and insightful enough to grasp the situation but I'm too stupid to know how to help. Telling them doesn't help - typically they're already aware and they just get more angry when someone points out the obvious. Or they think I'm nagging them with trite clichés or that I'm naive. Or chemically altered with medication. So I try to lead by example. You know, the whole Snuggie® of compassion and sympathy thing. Giving understanding and hope without expectation or desire for anything in return is so much easier and healthier than doling out anger and being disappointed because expectations weren't met.
What separates us from animals is: Emotion. And the big deal of emotion is: Love. It matters. It's significant. And exploring it, letting it happen, embracing it, taking the chances and risking heartache are all important. And significant.
So it's inappropriate to render the exes insignificant.
Different from blame: life plays on and because of choices I made - to be with HWNMNBS and while we were together - other paths were not taken and so I am where I am now. But that's not his "fault." I made those choices. But since he was a factor in those choices he is significant. But not to blame.
He is part of the cause of some of the now, but he's not part of the effect.
But that doesn't mean I'm not over him. I am. And no, me dost not protest too much. I am over him and have been for quite some time. I don't think about him that often, rarely, in fact. It's funny, as I write this I'm trying to remember the last time I thought of him and I can't recall exactly. A couple months ago, maybe? In that respect he is insignificant.
On behalf of the people of Singleton I'd like to make that world aware that we, the people of Singleton, are not lovelorn lost souls incapable of love, commitment or lust.
Actually, we're some of the lustiest people you'll ever meet.
Ahhhh, the significance of lust. Are my crushes on young Harrison Ford, Johnny Depp, John Cusack, Hugh Jackman, and 90% of the male cast of LOST insignificant? They seem so, I mean, not gonna happen in real life, no way, no how. And I probably wouldn't want them to happen. The significance of lust is that it's a fantasy with a visual catalyst. I have no idea what the men I lust after are like in real life but that's insignificant. I'm visually attracted to them and my emotional and physical desires fill in the rest. Without a real partner those objects of desire help my imagination fill in where reality leaves off. They are insignificant but they, the collective imagination catalysts, are significant. They keep the libido thumping, the hormones on alert, and prevent a total passion system shutdown. I have a vivid imagination (you should see what my imaginary Josh Holloway does...it's scandalously delicious...and my imagination insists that John Cusack is just waiting for the right woman: Me) but without some visual stimulation my imagination would eventually struggle to keep things interesting.
Without someone to think about, fill the void of reality, I'm pretty sure my imagination would end up conjuring bland, generic cookie cutter automatons performing the same rudimentary functions a la those creepy AI robot people. Not that Jude Law is bland or generic, mind you, but, he was pretty creepy in AI and not in a good way. You get my point.
Insignificant lustful celebrity crushes aren't entirely insignificant. They're visual rocket fuel for the imagination. As long as no one becomes obsessed or confuses the boundary between a little imaginary diversion in the long, dark lonely nights and, well, reality, then they're a nice anonymous way to keep the libido blood pumping.
Yes. It's merely filling the void where reality falls short. But for those of us who have tried, repeatedly, to fill our reality with reality and failed, repeatedly, and now live in Singleton, filling the reality void with imaginary diversions is a way for us to stay in touch with our passionate and emotional capacity. And hey, for those lucky residents of Singleton who move to Coupledom, think of the all the things the former Singleton will have backlogged in their lust inventory. Some pretty lucky recipients will benefit from those imaginary trysts. To the victor goes the spoils.
Not so insignificant now, eh?
My sister insists that "all you need is love." As her smart-mouthed little sister and the Mayor of Singleton it's my responsibility to counter that with, "Tell that to Eleanor Rigby." Sarcastic poignant quip aside, I contend that love is not all you need. You also need trust, respect and the willingness to choose love, no matter the past, no matter the outcome, and overcome anger.
A lot of the residents of Singleton get annoyed with the overcoming anger aspect. They feel wronged, and in many cases they were wronged. They're mad about that. They get mad at me for not being angry. "HWNMNBS was a prick to you! I'd be furious if someone did that to me! You should do x or y or z. Why aren't you mad at him? What's wrong with you?" Hmmmmm. Well. For a start I know that anger will not resolve anything and will make me feel worse. True, Daddy should love you, Mummy should hug you a lot, junior high school kids shouldn't tease each other, and 45-year-old men shouldn't leave their wives for 23-year-old girls with fresh boob jobs. But those are their issues, their responsibility. How we choose to react is our responsibility. Expectations. Ugh. There's a hornet's nest of emotional complication. Accepting the significance of people in the past, romantic or otherwise, without blaming them for now and embracing the people of the present and future without expectation is a level of enlightenment that we the humans can attain because we have the capacity to love. We can do it if we choose. It won't ensure romantic success, it won't make us feel less lonely, but it will make us happier, healthier people.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
It’s a story as old as time. As long as there are siblings, there will be arguments.
Those of you saying, “No, that’s not true, I love my siblings, we’re very close and we get along great, we never argue,” I say this: “Wait’ll your parent(s) start downsizing the family home and getting rid of their accumulated stuff.”
I’m not saying my siblings and I spent our lives in a blissful state of eternal camaraderie. But since we’ve become adults we’ve each worked out our own ways of dealing with each other so as to avoid serious arguments. I’m not saying my brother and sister don’t hurt my feelings. From time to time they say and do things that really hurt. That’s siblings for you – no one knows the places to hit that hurt the most like siblings. And to be fair, I can reduce my sister to a defensive, insecure teary-eyed shrew in two sentences and I can lay heavy layers of guilt on my brother that burden him under their weight for weeks, if not months. But I don’t do those things. I could, but I don’t. I don’t want to upset them because it serves no purpose. And generally they keep their hurtful daggers tucked away from me.
But every now and then a little cat fight breaks out and the word weaponry is brought out, dusted off and put to use. We’re all equally armed so it’s a “fair” fight. Generally the skirmish quiets down in a few minutes and we resume our regularly scheduled lives.
But the business of sorting and eliminating and doling out the stuff my parents amassed during their marriage and raising us kids has stirred up more than memories and dust.
My brother and sister have been MIA for much of the sorting and purging. A fact that really annoys the crap out of me. Sure, my brother lives thousands of miles away, I understand that. But, then, if he can’t or doesn’t want to make the time to come to help then does he have any right to be upset about not laying claim to the long forgotten things he didn’t know he wanted until they ended up in my possession?
Never in a million years could my imagination have conjured the drama that is unfolding over, get this, Firesign Theater albums. I kid you not. Firesign Theater albums.
Way back in the olden days before cable people didn’t have Comedy Central, The Simpsons, or the VH1 skanks to provide them with humorous entertainment. I have vague recollections of those days. They weren’t as bleak as they sound. But what did people do when they wanted a laugh? Well, they went to Las Vegas to see comedians, they watched variety shows on TV and…they listened to something known as “comedy albums.”
My parents liked a good comedy album. Over the years they amassed quite a collection from the golden heyday of the comedy album. You might think listening to the same comedy bits over and over would get, erm, boring. Why would anyone buy a comedy album? After you’ve heard it once it’s not new and funny anymore. Well, true in some cases but back then comedy was smarter, funnier, more layered, more nuanced. And let me answer that question with a question: How many times have you watched Seinfeld reruns? Monty Python? The good seasons of SNL?
When my parents had a party it was an inevitability that at some point (usually after a few rounds of cocktails) the jazz and swing music on the hi-fi was replaced by a comedy album or two.
We had a groovy rockin’ hi-fi with a long spindle that could accommodate a tall stack of albums. This was the early caveman rudimentary form of a playlist. You stacked up the albums you wanted to hear and the hi-fi would play through them one at a time. (Albums are 12” black vinyl discs with grooves cut into them, that, when a needle is dragged over them at 33 1/3 RPM melodious magic comes out of the speakers.) Though my dad was all for superfluous multi-functionality in appliances (the more buttons, knobs, speeds, lights, gauges and dials the better) he was not a proponent of stacking records and using the auto-play feature on the hi-fi. When more than one album was in the stack the top album, on-play, had a tendency to slide on the album below it, causing the on-play album to “slide” which set the album into a speed other than 33 1/3 RPM and creating audio distortion.
In our house audio distortion was the 11th Commandment Moses couldn’t fit on the tablets. “Thou shalt not knowingly commit audio distortion.” Every time my dad hankered over the latest in music technology he used audio distortion as an excuse to procure it. “The old turntable motor can’t be tweaked anymore, the best I can get out of it is 32 1/3, the audio distortion is getting worse, time to replace it.” We had a black and white television far longer than I will publicly admit. When my friends came over I made sure we only watched reruns of really old shows that were in black and white because I was mortified that we didn’t have a color television. But what we lacked in living Technicolor we made up for in the latest symphonic audio technology. I didn’t appreciate this when I was really young, but as I grew into an amps at 11 Clash blaring pre-teen I was silently grateful my dad spent money on stereos instead of televisions.
Okay. So. One of the other reasons my dad didn’t like to stack records on the hi-fi spindle was because the albums kind of plopped down onto each other. My dad said this caused scuffs. Not scratches, scuffs. Those were the 12th and 13th commandments. “Thou shalt not scuff a record album,” and “Thou shalt not, ever, ever, scratch a record album.” Scuffs weren’t as bad as scratches, but to my dad a scuff was enough to banish an album to the “scuffed and scratched” area of the record shelf. Those records were taken out of regular rotation and usually banished to the basement after a year or so.
So stacking records was a no-no in our house. Unless my parents were having a party. That was the one time my dad would risk breaking some commandments and stack records. He’d spend all afternoon sorting through the albums and stacking them in what he thought was the perfect order for the party. (Like playlists or mix-tapes, the order of the album stack was crucial for setting the right mood at the right time.) About mid-way through the stack he’d place some comedy albums.
My dad was a huge fan of ‘60s and ‘70s comedy giants, the monsters of comedy albums: The Smothers Brothers, Bob Newhart, Mike Nichols and Elaine May, George Carlin and…Firesign Theater. Kids used to line up outside record shops the day a new album was going to be released by their favorite band. My dad used to be like one of those kids when a new Firesign Theater album was released.
I was far too young to understand the jokes or the type of humor, but, my parents used to sit around listening to those albums laughing so hard they’d cry or even beg for mercy because their stomachs hurt from laughing. I didn’t get the jokes, but I knew they were funny and I knew a measure of my maturity would be the day I “got” the jokes on those albums. I couldn’t wait for that day to arrive. I couldn’t wait for the day I was old enough to understand the jokes so that I could laugh as hard as my parents. Every now and then I’d come home from school and play one of those albums. “Funny yet? Nope. Okay, try again in a few months.”
Imagine my surprise when, in my junior high school years, I dragged out some of those albums and realized the jokes were about…drugs. Sex. Religion. Government. Topics “we” didn’t joke about in our house. Or so I thought up to that point. The albums that made my parents laugh so hard, the jokes that brought them to tears, were, gasp, naughty. Disrespectful. Insubordinate. And maybe even treasonous. I was shocked. And embarrassed. My parents understand drug jokes?! They’re laughing at jokes about God and Jesus? God and Jesus? They’re venerated, holy and should never, ever be deemed funny, right? And, oh God, no, please, no, not sex, not sex jokes, too!
I never thought of my parents as counter-culture types. Though looking back on it there were clues. They did refuse to accept the US news media spin on Viet Nam and watched only CBC and BBC news during the ‘Nam years, a habit that still remains. My mother wore a couple paisley halter dresses and tried yoga with one of my aunts back when yoga was viewed as too California and only for hash-imbibing hippies and kooks like Gomez Addams. They read banned books and allowed us kids to read them, too. My dad did grow out his curls one summer and affected a shorter, moderate version of the Robert Plant ‘do.
And the real proof of their antiestablishment leanings was laid out before me in the comedy albums they found side-splittingly funny. There in our living room on that fateful afternoon of my awareness there was a big, permanent shift in the paradigm of my parents. Everything I thought I knew about them was called into question. Everything they taught me, all the rules, the lessons, everything about them, was suspect and up for cross-examination.
Thank you, Firesign Theater, for making me realize my parents knew about drugs, sex and politics. And more than that, thank you, Firesign Theater, for educating me on the same topics.
So, obviously, I wanted those albums. They mean a lot to me. And my brother and sister didn’t express any interest in them and from what I recall they thought my parents were square and stupid for listening to them over and over.
Apparently I misread their opinions. Because when my mother mentioned to my brother that I came across all the Firesign Theater albums he immediately called me and accused me of absconding them before he and my sister had a chance to lay claim to them.
Okay. Now. They’re welcome to have them, there are enough of them that we can divide them between us and we’ll all have a hefty collection. But. The insinuation that I covertly absconded the albums really made me mad. And moreover, if he wanted them so badly why didn’t he make more of an effort to spend a few days helping sort and purge the contents of my parents’ house? Where was he when I was wearing my asthma inhaler like a SCUBA tank because of the dust and water damage to all the stuff in the basement and attic? Where was he when our mother came across something so sentimental that she lapsed into gasping crying jags? Where was he on all those schleps to the donation centers?
I know, I know. I’m up on a high horse. But here’s why. I was feeling bad, guilty, about not sending some of the albums to my brother (even though I had no idea he wanted them). And then he pulled the fatal kidney punch at me. After a heated discussion about the time and effort I've put into helping my mother sort through stuff, he said, “I don’t have the luxury of unemployment, I have to work, I can’t just spend days and weeks doing nothing but helping clean out the basement. I don’t have that luxury.”
Whoa. Wait a minute. He honestly used the words unemployment and luxury in the same sentence? Cleaning out our parents’ basement and attic are luxurious activities? Whoa. Whoa. Okay. Gloves are off, now. The first punch was thrown and even though I tried really hard to respond with a Snuggie® of compassion, ceci est mon frère and c’est la guerre.
Within an hour of the argument with my brother my sister sent me a scathing email. My brother wasted no time telling her about their dirty rotten little sister absconding the comedy albums.
“You weren’t even born when those albums were made. What do you want with them? You can’t possibly care about them. You can’t even understand the jokes.”
Whoa. Wait just a minute there, sis. True, many of those albums are older than me, but just how naïve and humorless do you think I am?
I’m not proud of what happened next.
You know in Harry Potter when there are spell-offs? Wands zapping as spells are hurled back and forth, lightening and thunder crashing around the wizards as they try to out-do each other with their spell prowess?
Yeah. Well. That was my sister and me hurling drug and sex knowledge back and forth at each other, trying to top each other with our knowledge of sex, drugs and what constitutes humor within those topics. Unfortunately for me my sister is older and did come of age in the late ‘60s. She does know a heck of a lot more about LSD than I do. Then again, is that really brag worthy? Fortunately for me, though, I’m a culture history buff and because I didn’t take LSD I’m clear headed with quick recall. Still. Not exactly brag worthy.
Taking a step back from all of this, I see the humor in the fact that we’re arguing over who gets the comedy albums. Other siblings argue over expensive jewelry, the heirloom silver, things of monetary and ancestral value. Us? We’re arguing over comedy albums that aren’t worth much, if they could even be hawked on eBay. Funniest of all is that what we deem of ancestral value is a stack of comedy albums from the ‘60s and ‘70s. The legacy we all cherish are my dad’s comedy albums.
Not a bad legacy to leave your children – laughter – but I gotta wonder if, upon review of his accomplishments in life, my dad would list, “Left a large collection of comedy albums for my children to fight over.”
And of course it’s not about the albums, it’s about what they represent. Laughter. Good times. Parties. Our parents spending an evening in fits of laughter in the living room. Our parents and their friends retelling the jokes and having yet more laughs. Our dad clandestinely elbow-nudging our mom and saying just a few key words of a joke rendering her weak in the knees laughing.
That’s why we all want those albums. And of course, taking another step back, it’s “easy” to rationalize that the albums aren’t important. It's the memories that matter. And us kids all have those memories.
I didn’t abscond the albums and I’m happily dividing them up and sharing them with my siblings. They’re not worth the low-blows and punches we've lobbed lately. The albums may not be the legacy my dad wanted to leave us, but I’m certain arguing and hurting each others’ feelings isn’t a legacy he wanted to create.
The idea that we could reach the point of not speaking to each other, starting a long standing feud, over comedy albums is not without an ironic twist of humor but it's not a path any of us want to take. I realized the real issue is that we're having to learn share. We're so different and so apart in ages that we never really had to share anything with each other. We weren't interested in each others' stuff. Very strange to realize that at this stage of our lives we're just now figuring out how to share with each other. The fact that what we all want, what we have to share, are laughs is a legacy worthy of our parents.
11:36 PM
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Woohoo!! I survived Valentine's Day 2010!!! Rock on to that, eh?! AND, even better, I don't have to breathe in the stench of rotting roses in the office as the days after February 14 progress. See? Unemployment does have some advantages.
So, as you noticed, I'm full of Twit, now.
And since I'm trying to be all hip with the latest technology the cool kids are using I took a spin on the Rock Band wheel.
I know. It seems like I would have done this long before now. What with the air guitar shredding and all. But I haven't had access to an XBox and the game.
Well, everything's changed, now. One good thing about all my friends getting married, having kids and moving to the suburbs: All the expensive stupid junk the kids want (and their indulgent parents buy) is at my disposal.
Enter: Rock Band for XBox.
Oh rock on.
Rock. On.
Or not.
Unfortunately my Rock Band experience wasn't as mirthful as anticipated.
A little history of me and the guitar is necessary to fully grasp what happened on that fateful XBox Rock Band day.
When I was a very little girl my brother's bedroom was down the hall from mine and my sister's. I shared a common wall with my sister so I was constantly, and I do mean constantly, barraged by the Beatles. If my sister was home she was playing a Beatles record. Even when she slept. (Hence my deeply rooted loathing and contempt for the Beatles.) One day I heard the siren call from down the hall. It lured me toward my brother's room. His door was closed but I could hear it. I sat on the floor in front of his door, spellbound, seduced, by the intoxicating axe grinding emanating from my brother's room.
I thought his room was a portal to Heaven or Hell. I wanted to go either place. Wherever that music came from was where I was meant to be. I knew it. I just knew it. And if it was the sounds of Hell, then so be it. (Jesus was still my imaginary friend so I thought I was covered if it turned out to be Hell.) It spoke to me, deeply. It didn't touch my soul. It reached in, grabbed it, put it in a choke hold and has never let go.
The seducer, my salvation from the Beatles, my savior and demonic possessor? Jimi Hendrix. I'd sit outside my brother's door for hours in a wide-eyed, near drooling reverie. Occasionally my brother, who was learning to play guitar, would jam along with Jimi. That bothered me at first because my brother kind of sucked at guitar and his cacophonous guitaring interfered with the message my seducer was sending me through his music.
To his credit, my brother did improve and eventually I didn't mind so much. I honestly thought Hendrix was in my brother's room, teaching him how to play. The fact that Hendrix was dead alluded me. But when my brother scoffingly made me aware of that fact I simply assumed that Hendrix, like Jesus, was resurrected and giving guitar lessons behind closed doors of teenagers' bedrooms. Of course. Duh.
I patiently waited for my turn to learn to play guitar. I figured in the mean time I'd take in every note of every song so that when it was my turn to learn from Jimi I'd be ready. I'd know the songs so "all" I'd have to do was learn to play guitar and then I'd be a rock goddess. Of course. Duh. I was pretty sure when Jimi showed up in my bedroom he wouldn't be impressed with the Beatles (Jesus hated the Beatles so naturally I assumed Jimi did, too). When my brother cast off some of his boyhood ephemera I absconded some of it, especially the classic Hendrix poster. I put it on the back of my bedroom door. I thought that poster was some sort of sign to saintly Jimi. "Hendrix welcome here, Jimi, stop this way."
When Jimi didn't show up, guitar in hand and offering music lessons, I blamed my sister and her Beatles. I though Jimi came by to teach me guitar, heard the Beatles from my sister's room, mistook it as emanating from my room and thinking I was a lame Beatles fan, passed me by and went on his way to some other kids' room. (And you wonder where my contempt and loathing for the Beatles comes from? Issues? What issues?) So much for learning to play guitar from resurrected Jimi Hendrix.
Suffice it to say I have yet to learn to play guitar and I am not a legendary rock goddess. I play a mean air guitar, I shred air with the best of them. But put an actual guitar in my hands and it's disturbing and wrong on levels I can't articulate. I suck. (Flinching from the bitter pain of a broken dream. Lip-quivering whimpering, "but, but, but..." and a single, poignant tear makes its way down my cheek.)
My parents gently suggested a more age and eye-hand coordination neutral instrument so I opted to learn to play clarinet in the school band. Whatever. I knew it was lame then, I know it's lame now. But it turned out that I had a bit of natural aptitude for the darned thing and spent my formative years in first chair in various school bands and orchestras. Laugh all you want. Make the Kenny G jokes. Go ahead. I'm laughing with you. It's lame and only proved to enhance my reputation as a five-star geek in my already awkward teenaged years. Especially since I kicked it up a notch and learned the oboe and Kenny G's instrument, the soprano sax, too. Yes. I was very woodwindy. It doesn't salve the wound of my broken rock goddess dream, but hey, at least I can play something.
Ahhhhh, but...Rock Band! Perhaps salvation? Bwa ha ha. Exzcellent.
Or not.
Straight onto the stage there was a problem. The same problem I encountered when I attempted to learn to play a real guitar: Discrimination. Bias from the right majority. And I don't get that. There are left handed guitar players. Even a few good ones. Jimi, my lord and savior, of course, and one of my latter day saints, Kurt Cobain, are left-handed players of note.
With real guitars there are workarounds for left handed would-be guitarists. Learn to play right handed. Or. Buy and learn to play a guitar specifically made to be played left handed. Or re-string a right-handed guitar (not as simple as it sounds since guitar strings are different diameters). Or, just flip over a right-handed guitar and play it upside-down and backwards.
Unfortunately my forays into legendary guitar rock goddessing were all thwarted by issues resulting from all of those methods. I can tell you from painful experience that none of those alternatives is a "good" solution. Even a left-handed guitar is only as good as the instruction you receive. Having a right-handed guitarist teaching a left-handed student is fraught with complications.
Oh. And apparently I have no natural ability to play an actual guitar. (Oh yeah, that.) I made several attempts that ended in frustration, tears and depression. And in one case, a huge fight with my brother that he still uses to lord over me. Whenever it's apparent I can do something better than him and he feels threatened by his little sister he turns to me (his little sister) and says, "So, did you ever learn to play guitar?" Translation: "Remember all the times I tried to teach you how to play guitar and you were too stupid to figure out how to play right-handed or upside-down and backwards? Ha ha. You suck and I don't because I can play a guitar."
The realization in my late teens that I might have to get a real job because my plans to be a legendary rock guitar goddess might not work out as I hoped was a crushing blow. (Little did I know there would be a willing audience for Kenny G, even if it is the dentist office Lite FM audience, Kenny G is a God among that crowd.) Lessons with real guitar instructors and my learn-on-my-own sessions all ended with me in a lip-quivering moment of disappointment, a poignant tear rolling down my cheek, and me meekly whimpering "but, but, but, Hendrix...he's left-handed...but, but, but, I was going to be a legendary rock goddess..."
Shudder.
The frustration and disappointment took a heavy emotional toll on me. I put the dream on hold for a while, thinking one day I'd find a good left-handed guitarist to teach me and then I could be a legendary rock goddess. I continued with my clarinet lessons, picked up oboe and sax, and had a band teacher who had a restrung cello lying around (doesn't everyone?) and I sated my rock goddess dreams through those orchestral instruments. I wasn't great at cello but I rocked the clarinet, oboe and soprano sax. And no, I don't sit around listening to Kenny G shaking my fist in the air screaming, "It could have been me!" (Squidward, though...Squidward rocks his clarinet.)
But every now and then I'd make another attempt at guitar. There were some lessons from alleged "great teachers." There were boyfriends who tried to teach me. There were books read and a learn-at-home video. Which was more humorous than instructional. Imagine Bob Ross teaching guitar instead of painting. But the end-result always included disparaging remarks about my left-handed proclivities and inability to play a right-handed guitar.
So, this Rock Band thing. I assumed the guitars used for Rock Band were right/left oriented and I assumed there would be a few issues. I knew my friends wouldn't have a left-handed console guitar but since actual strings aren't involved I thought this might be the perfect compromise for my chord challenged hands.
Yeah.
Not so much.
My friends' 5-year-old who's never had a music lesson and probably has never even heard Jimi Hendrix kicked my ass. Okay, that's to be expected. Kids today. Pfft.
And then...it happened. My friends and their 5-year-old fired up their latest Rock Band component. The Beatles. The swutting Beatles.
"Hey, Trill!!! You can be McCartney, he's left handed!" my friend jubilantly proclaimed.
"But without a left-handed guitar it's literally a moot point," I countered.
"Just play it upside-down," he enthusiastically counter-countered.
And so it came to pass that on a dark night in the suburbs I was standing in front of a 6 foot wide screen with an upside down guitar console strapped around me, accompanied by two of my friends and their five-year-old attempting to play "Come Together."
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
And I suck. I can't even play a fake guitar. And there was McCartney staring back at me, taunting me, mocking me.
The five-year-old called a band meeting and I was kicked out of the band faster than Pete Best.
Whatever.
On the up side, though, the Lego game for Rock Band is pretty darned funny. That provided me with hours of sophomoric entertainment and the Super-Easy mode allowed me to play a song beginning to end.
Here's the thing. McCartney is left-handed. I assume he's making gazillions of dollars off the Rock Band game. And yet...my friend informed me there's not a left-handed guitar console available for Rock Band. Huh? Seriously? "Just flip it upside down and change the strap," is the workaround.
On principle I'm now officially mad at XBox.
When, when will the discrimination end??? When will our public shame turn to peaceful coexistence?
But wait. Just you wait. When Kenny G for Rock Band comes out I'm going to kick ass.
Monday, February 15, 2010
So, you may have noticed the Twit box. I’m not sure if Hell froze over or not. At the very least it’s probably a sign of End of Days.
“Trillian, et tu? Really? Et tu? You?! Twitter? First Facebook, now Twitter? Twitter?!”
Yeah, yeah, I know. I know.
But. See. Here’s the thing.
I really, really, really respect and admire Apolo Ohno. And I love the Winter Olympics. And Apolo is Tweeting regularly during the Olympics. So. Yeah. I caved.
Hey. It’s a bright spot in my weird life(?). Apolo is such a fantastic athlete and has his head in such a great place that I find his Tweets interesting and inspirational.
While watching the opening ceremony and following the Olympic feed I noticed Christopher Moore (the author, Lamb (brilliant) Stupidest Angel, (funny alt holiday reading), etc.) was also watching the opening ceremony and tweeting his thoughts on it, and, heh heh, yeah. Kinda funny. It enhanced my Olympic home viewing experience, to say the least.
And that’s the thing about Twitter. If you’re judicious about who you follow it can be very interesting and inspirational and, gulp, fun.
I have a confession to make. I’ve been keeping a dirty little secret: I’ve been lurking on a few feeds for a, um, ahem, while. I was in denial for a long time. I played a little game with myself. "I can quit any time." "If you're not signed up you're not really Twittering." I'd check my name of choice to see if anyone took it, and, shockingly, no one wanted to be known as HalfLass on Twitter. I'd tell myself, "Check on Thursday. If it's still available Thursday you have to come out and sign up." Thursday would arrive, HalfLass was still available, and I'd make a new deal with myself. "Next Tuesday night. If it's still available next Tuesday night then you have to come out and sign up..." I'm not proud of the lurking habit. But. Nor am I ashamed. So with the Olympics and Apolo and everything I decided it was time to come out.
So. There. That’s why. Hell frozen over? End of Days? Maybe. Or. Maybe I’m just being honest with myself by openly admitting that I am not above using Twitter. I'm just kinda doing it HalfLassed. Nyuck nyuck.
7:51 PM
Friday, February 12, 2010
So, here’s another good thing about unemployment: Not being subjected to the squeals and ooos and ahhhhhs of flowers, candygrams, balloons, plush toy hearts with outstretched arms and kissy lips proclaiming “I love you THIS much!” or plush teddy bears proclaiming “I love you BEARY much!” arriving at the office all day long. And better still, no dealing with the stench of wilting roses in the office after Valentine’s Day. No being surrounded by gifts borne of guilt, social pressure, significant other pressure, futile hopes, desperation and in a few cases, love.
I’m not Jewish so I probably shouldn’t make this assumption, but my guess is that being single in a coupled-up office on Valentine’s Day is like being Jewish on Christmas. Everyone’s all hopped up high on expectant or hopeful hormones waiting for the delivery of some special sign of affection. Just like Christmas. Office cubicles are decorated, red sweaters and festive jewelry are worn. Just like Christmas. Specially decorated treats are brought in – cookies, muffins, donuts, cupcakes, fancy chocolate – all with red frosting sugary décor. Just like Christmas. Some hopes will be disappointingly dashed when no delivery is made, and others will be shocked and surprised by an unexpected show of affection. Just like Christmas. At the very least unsingle people know they’ll go home to the object of their affection and share a bottle of wine, a cuddle, or at the very least won’t eat dinner alone. Just like Christmas. The single person without any prospects knows there will be no delivery for them and they know the evening will be spent like every other evening: nothing special and very much alone and not part of the holiday revelry going on in homes and restaurants across the world. Just like Jewish people on Christmas.
Once I made that connection I started feeling a lot better about Valentine’s Day. I know plenty of Jewish people who enjoy Christmas day. They have their own family traditions or personal rituals they do while the Christian world celebrates Christmas. They may not believe in Jesus but that doesn’t mean they have to feel bad or alone on Christmas day. A few years ago I took a cue from my Jewish friends who spend Christmas day sleeping in late, watching movies, baking cookies, and taking a day off from life. That’s all well and good except that I had to go to work and be confronted with my singleness all day long.
This year, thanks to being laid off, I don’t have to have my singleness thrown in my face. No affronts with roses, candygrams, cuddly toys, and whatever else shows up at the office as a gesture of affection. I can lounge around on my own reclusively hidden away from the romance and marketing hype aimed at couples. (Speaking of marketing hype, have you seen the lamest diamond commercial ever? Someone got paid to produce that embarrassingly smarmy crap? It’s a pulp romance novel cover come to life. However, props to the inadvertent creepiness of the commercial. Weren’t we just talking about slasher movies?)
I have my movie viewing all lined up, some treats ready for the oven and some in-home spa goodies ready to pamper myself. And this year I don’t have to face the world of couples celebrating their love – sincerely or out of guilt and obligation – in the office place. I can spend the day, heck, the whole weekend, alone, cut off from the world of romantic couples. All because I’m unemployed. A nice unforeseen benefit of being laid off.
I know it might seem sad, like an old lady left alone and neglected. But I’m okay with that. It beats the alternative: Navigating a world of couples as a lonely single person.
The thing is, I don’t even care about Valentine’s Day! Even when I was in relationships I found the whole thing a stupid, arcane and forced overmarketed holiday perpetuated by businesses looking to cash in on our most vulnerable weak spot: Love. So it’s not as if I even care about not getting flowers or wined and dined or feeling obligated to don some ridiculous uncomfortable lingerie and perform an impossibly acrobatic Cirque du Sexual (or Sex du Soleil). What matters to me is a genuine, healthy, loving relationship on all the days of the year other than Valentine’s Day.
What bugs me about Valentine’s Day is that it calls attention to single people. It’s supposed to be about love and romance and happy couples, but in celebrating couples in love it makes the singles stand out all the more. We’re conspicuous by omission.
Well, not this year, not me!
I’ve been savoring my 2010 Valentine’s Day victory for a few weeks. The whole merchandising send-up used to fill me with dread. But not this year. This year I scoff at the hearty displays and shoot daggers right back at all those Cupid cherubs strewn about town. “Har har, you don’t scare me! I’m unemployed! I don’t have to deal with you in the office this year! This year no one will know or care that no flowers or candy are delivered to me. This year no one will know or care that I’m home, alone, watching documentaries on the industrial revolution! Ha! Take that, cherubic little Cupid cut-out!”
Then it occurred to me that this is the perfect year to take it a step farther. I’m going to be my own Valentine. I’m going to vow to love me, all day. Shower myself with praise and affection. For one whole day, 24 hours, nothing but self love. And no, I’m not talking about onanism (although…without the pressure of special Cirque du Sexual bedroom gymnastics…). I’m talking about being kind to myself. Treating myself the way I would treat a significant other. Treating myself the way I would want a significant other to treat me. Nothing over the top, just the usual things that I think a lot of couples take for granted.
Tell myself good morning and maybe even a tender I love you upon waking. (Instead of waking up alone, again, and crying because I’m waking up alone, again.) Put the biggest and plumpest blueberries on my cereal. (Instead of denying myself the “good” fruit.) Write myself a short note of praise for a few small things like how I’m supportive of other people or the funny way I air guitar to AC/DC. (Instead of criticizing myself for not being smart enough, clever enough, pretty enough, and generally not good enough to succeed in life.) Look in the mirror longer and for reasons other than applying lipstick and remind myself that my eyes are an incredibly rare and beautiful color and that I have a warm smile. (instead of hastily avoiding mirrors and telling myself my hips and thighs are repugnant, that I’m too tall, too pale, too scarred, too broad shouldered and the rest of me is ghastly and citing all the insults and rejection I’ve heard from men and catty remarks from other women). I’ll wear my favorite comfy jeans and soft, well-worn t-shirt and genuinely not care that the jeans are baggy in the ass and the t-shirt is a little too unflatteringly tight in the boobs. (okay, I’ve been doing this a lot lately, maybe too much…) Treat myself to carrot cake from the fancy bakery and savor it, enjoy it without thinking about the calories, fat grams and lack of nutritional value. I’ll enjoy a good bottle of wine from a good wine glass. (Instead of buying the cheapest bottle and using a cheap water glass, forsaking the good wine glasses for “special” company.) And banish all negative self-talk and heap on copious amounts of reminders of my good qualities, things that someone else should find desirable and endearing. (Instead of taking to heart all the criticism and negative remarks hurled at me.)
I always intend to do this. It’s my Valentine’s Day battle strategy. But it always fizzles out by the third flower delivery in the office. This year, though, there is no office, no endless deliveries of love to other people to thwart and derail my plan by making me feel conspicuous by omission. I can focus undivided, undiverted attention on myself. This year I’m actually looking forward to Valentine’s Day.
And the biggest, best part of the plan: Think of all the people I love and who love me. And all the people I like and who like me. I am worthy of love and I am loved. No, I don’t have the one special significant other kind of love, but, I have lots of other love. Call them, email them tell them I love them and why they’re special to me. Give lots of love instead of feeling bad about not getting one special love.
And why stop there? I love animals. Take the $5 I’d spend on a card for a significant other and donate it to the ASPCA. I love the Great Lakes and live on Lake Michigan so instead of penning love letters to a significant other, I’m going to spend time on Valentine’s Day writing my elected officials voicing concerns and ideas about the Asian Carp issue. I love kids so instead of making baked goods for a significant other I’m going to donate time on a non-profit homework tutoring site helping kids learn how to read. I love art so instead of making a sexy home video for a significant other I’m going to box up new and barely used art supplies and to send to an after school program that helps special needs kids tap into their creative talents.
Yeah, it’s very ‘70s hippie idealism but not all hippie idealism is oversimplified drivel. And it’s better to expend positive energy than negative. Now that I’m free of the workplace affront of Valentine’s Day I’m totally free of the reminders of my very single status. No peer pressure from office mean girls is going to chink away at my armor of resolve this year. So there’s nothing bashing my ego and heart around, nothing and no one to remind me that I’m an abysmal failure at love, and nothing to trip up my positive plans for combating Valentine’s Day as a very-far-up-on-the-shelf-collecting-dust singleton.
And now, for you, yes, you, a very special Valentine’s Day message of love. You, yes you, reading this blog, are my special, kind, clever funny Valentine. I love you more than the THIS much of the plush heart with the arms and kissy lips. I know. I know. That’s a whole lotta love. Probably more than you need so why not pass some of it on to someone else?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Ya know, I try to remain tolerant. I try to see all sides of an issue. I try to find fair compromises. I try to get involved and do things for change. I even have the audacity to hope for change. (How's that for some rhetorical hyperbole?)
But the fact remains: I am not and never will be a Chicagoan. I cannot abide by or tolerate the political hijinks that make a mockery of the democratic process. It's shameful and embarrassing.
But this is a new low in Illinois politicking. It's the straw that tipped this camel's back. Lake Michigan does not belong to Illinois and yet they're holding it hostage. And worse, the Feds are now backing off on an aggressive plan to stop Asian carp infestation.
If you think this is only a Great Lakes region issue, guess again. The Great Lakes have a real and significant impact on the rest of the country, and, oh yeah, Canada. But hey, what do we care about Canadians?
Sorry for the political rant but this is just really, really making me angry and I don't think many people outside the Great Lakes region know this is happening.
So here, read how the Feds are wasting money and a questionable theoretical and inhumane idea that will take years to fully put into place when there's a cheaper, immediate, more humane solution available.
Money. Greed. And Lake Michigan is the chattel and hostage.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
How about a little bad poetry? Yeah, why not. It's been a while. Being out there, traveling, seeing the world brings out the poet in all of us. Kerouac, Dylan...Chaucer. Several hours stuck in an airport observing my co-travelers, pilgrims, and I'm going all Canterbury.
Passenger in the Storm of the Century The storm of the century blows across the nation. Ten years into the century that's hardly a boast, But the deeply concerned reporters don't get the joke That the storm of the century is an hyperbolic aberration.
A baby cries. An Amish family prays.
"Attention passengers, squawk, hiss, squawk, there'll be a delay" The airline agents cackle bad news throughout the airport gates Every airline, every destination, every flight is canceled or late. The storm of the century is wreaking havoc on travel today.
A baby cries. An Amish family prays.
The would-be passengers react to the news and ponder their fates. They checked with the airlines, called ahead and requested alerts, All systems were go in spite of the weather but now planes are inert. The airlines waited for boarding time to announce all flights would be late.
Business travelers are the first responders to the bad news at the gate. Their platinum plus elite advantage clubs get them nowhere with the agents, So the business travelers are mad and band together to plot an insurgence. They yell in their cell phones and bang on their PDAs hoping to dodge fate.
A baby cries. An Amish family prays.
The cool guy sigh-cusses and cocks his Trilby lower over his eyes. Skinny jeans, soul patch, mod leather jacket and eating a veggie burrito, Is he truly cool, fiddling with his iPhone aps? Or merely incognito, Hiding his insecurities behind last year's hipster mag how-to disguise?
The tangerine glow of the young woman's freshly harvested fake tan Sets her apart from the others with their ghostly white winter pallor. Pink lipstick, red coat and blond highlights, she's in living technicolor. She's a living cautionary tale for those flying to fun in the sun and sand.
A baby cries. An Amish family prays.
Grandma and Grandpa are weary of snow and cold weather Back in November they were set to embark on a Winter tropical trip But Thanksgiving Day Grandma fell on the ice and had to replace her hip She's wobbly, he's frustrated, they're antsy but at least they're together.
Mom is traveling with two loud, anxious and cranky toddlers. Using not rules but ineffectual saccharine sing-songy words of praise She appears to be parenting in a mood-altering drug induced haze The kids outbursts crescendo with no discipline from their mollycoddler.
Travelers tout the virtues and benefits of grand expeditions, "It's great to see the world, explore and meet interesting new people!" Their wisdom is true but "interesting" is code for creeps and assholes. People are people wherever you are, there's no escape from the human condition.
A baby cries. An Amish family prays. It's all mirth and blue skies Until there are weather delays.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Sending flowers? Teleflora will give 20% to the ASPCA when you order now through Valentine's Day. Use this link to send some love to your loved ones and to animals in need. Win-win. Compassion rocks.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
I’ve got a couple new skills to add to my resumé. Perhaps even a new career path.
You never know what life is going to present, or when, so embrace every experience.
Friends asked me if I would babysit their 2-and-11-month-year-old twins while they took their five-year-old to an out-of-town event for the weekend. Their nanny “doesn’t do” weekends.
I know. We should all be so lucky as to have the control over our employers to say, “I don’t do weekends” and still remain employed. I’ve never had a job that didn’t require occasional (or even frequent) working on weekends. I don’t mind it - occasionally. Quite honestly even if it’s not required (when I had a job, that is) I find myself at the very least thinking about a work project or client. I might not have been in the office or “officially” working, but my brain was working. I know, I know. Dedication, focus, loyalty…where did it get me? Unemployed, that’s where. Maybe my friends’ nanny has it right: Make it very clear that you refuse to work weekends, that you will not go above and beyond, and voila! respect. I dunno. Seems kind of rigid and selfish and not very committed to the job.
Anyway. My friends are all trying very hard to “find” jobs for me. They’re trying to keep me busy. Which is good. I appreciate their concern for me. Though there’s a fine line between “helping” me cope with my situation and “taking advantage” of me and my situation. People think unemployed people have absolutely nothing to do and therefore should be ready, willing and eager to do whatever anyone asks of them. If I hear “you’re not doing anything anyway…” one more time I’m going to lose my temper. True, I’m not going to work every day. However I am looking for a job every day. It does take time. A considerable amount of time, actually. A surprising amount of time. But when someone asks me to help them with something it’s difficult to say no because I am unemployed and technically, “not doing anything anyway…” I find myself defending myself which got old about the second week of unemployment.
The friends in question are stay-at-home moms who live in the suburbs. Because at this point all my female friends are stay-at-home moms who live in the suburbs. Because apparently I am the last remaining single woman my age who doesn’t have children and live in the suburbs. I used to use online dating sites to meet men. Then I switched to the “friends and activity” partners sites to find other single women to hang out with. Yes. I had to advertise for friends. And it has so far been an abysmal failure. Most of the women I’ve met are nice, professional people but they are just looking for “filler” until they meet a man to date. So I’ve got my married stay-at-home mom friends who live in the suburbs. And they’re all “excited” that I have “all this free time” now.
The thing is, I love kids. So, you know, it’s not that I don’t want to be around children. So I don’t “mind” that my friends are all stay-at-home-moms in the suburbs. Okay, I’m not crazy about the suburb part, but I know, I know, the schools are better, it’s safer for the kids to run and play and the property tax is cheaper, I know. I know why young parents who vowed they’d never leave the city pack up and move to a good school district where the same tax dollars that pay for a small condo in the city will get them a four bedroom house with a nice yard. It's easy to get there, you just take a left at the boulevard of broken dreams.
Since my friends started moving en masse to the suburbs I’ve learned to view my visits “out there” as adventures. I see myself as an alien explorer traveling though the Universe seeking new experiences and cultures in hopes of a higher level of enlightenment and understanding. I come, and go, in peace. It makes the whole thing a lot more bearable. The odd looks and questions about why I’m still single, why I live in a shoebox in the city and pay insane property taxes, why I don’t have children, and how I can stand living without a man are easier to handle diplomatically when I pretend that I’m not from this planet. In my head I’m from a distant planet where single professional women are lauded and held in high esteem and regard while the women who have no purpose other than to please men and breed are viewed as low-life drones who are pitied and ridiculed. This isn’t much of a stretch of my imagination because when I visit my stay-at-home-mom friends in the suburbs I am a stranger in a strange land where the women don't have careers and spend their time taking care of men and children.
And I relate better to the children than I do my friends.
So, okay. My friends’ nanny doesn’t do weekends (we’ll just let the fact that she’s a stay-at-home-mom and yet has a nanny slide for now, blog for another day). They heard about a weekend seminar with a kids karate guru so naturally they had to take their five-year-old to this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Naturally. (Did you have any once in a lifetime opportunities when you were five years old? Yeah. Me either.) There were to be parents’ sessions, as well. Both parents were strongly encouraged to attend. Okay, so, mom, dad and young grasshopper all travel to learn from the masterful sensei. Just one snag. They also have 2-and-11-month-year-old twins. My friend’s parents are wintering in Bermuda. Her husband’s parents live 1,800 miles away. Their nanny doesn’t do weekends. What to do, what to do?
Call Trillian, that’s what! Trillian’s unemployed, she doesn’t have anything better to do with her time, she can schlep out on the train at the crack of dawn Friday morning, we’ll meet her at the station with the van packed, she can then drive us to the airport, drop us off, and then take the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins home and stay with them until Sunday night when she’ll pack up the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins in the van, pick us up at the airport and we’ll deposit her at the train station in time to make the last train into the city on Sunday night! It’s brilliant!!!
My friends are really good at sorting out logistics. Something happens to women when they’re pregnant. Something strange and mysterious. Women who, before they were married, couldn’t plan their own lives beyond a shoe sale at lunch on Wednesday and happy hour on Friday turn into tactical strategists devising Patton-esque plans intricate in detail and timing. The irony in this is that of my friends, I was the one who had goals and plans for attaining them. I was the one who was called upon to figure out logistics and details. I was the go-to friend for travel advice, ideas about “best” timing, navigating life (literally and metaphorically) and sorting out details. Now the women who couldn’t plan a piss-up in a brewery are precision strategists who always have a plan and ideas for me and my life. Especially now that I’m unemployed. They all know exactly what I should do and how I should do it. And yes, yes, sometimes they’re absolutely right. But a lot of the time it’s just about manipulating me and my time to suit their goals and plans. I know this. They know this. And I think they know I know they know. So in my mind that makes it “okay.” I can say no. And I often do say no. If I’m manipulated it’s because I allow myself to be manipulated. That’s how I reconcile it. And hey, these are my friends. All’s fair in friendship, right?
I thought about the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins. They’re pretty good kids. Seem to be well-behaved, almost potty trained, generally good nappers and eaters. Shouldn’t be too difficult to take care of them for a few days. And hey, it gets me out of my place and into a McMansion in the suburbs for a few days. I can drive around in a van and see how the other half lives. A real housewife of Lake County. So I agreed to my friend’s plan.
Friday morning, before sunrise, I was on a commuter train to the far flung suburbs. I was surprised I wasn’t the only person making the pre-dawn reverse commute. I have no idea what the other people on that train were going to do in the suburbs at the time of day but it appeared they were going to work or taking care of something important. My co-commuters didn’t appear to be casual riders heading out to visit friends or go shopping. They all seemed purpose driven. Which I guess by definition at 5 AM on a commuter train would be expected. You don’t get on a commuter train at 5 AM without a serious reason.
True to her word, my friend, her husband and their three kids were at the station waiting for me when the train arrived. I got in the back seat of the van and nearly got a contact-high from the smell of coffee. My friend and her husband had mega-venti-double-ultra-plus-espresso-all-the-caffiene-none-of-the-flavor coffee drinks. They were high as kites, revved up like 6-year-olds on Mountain Dew and Skittles. The five-year-old karate kid was also revved up like a deuce, possibly on Mountain Dew and Skittles. The 2-and-11-month-year-old twins were sleeping peacefully, cutely, amidst (and oblivious to) the high-watt caffeine induced energy in the van around them. They were my zen place in the intense with anticipation van on the way to the airport. The parents and karate kid were talking nonstop about the adventure that awaited them. The mother, my friend, barked out commands like an Army general. “Take this exit! It’s shorter this time of day!” “Practice your foot flexes and shoulder rolls! You want to stay limber while we travel so you’ll be ready for the session tonight. The level assignment is tonight, you want to be put in the right level!” “I told you to take that exit!!!!” We finally got to the airport and all the heightened anxiety and intensity that entails.
As they left me curbside she handed me a notebook. “Everything you need to know is in there. Phone numbers, meals…it’s all in there. Call if you need anything, we’ll see you at arrivals at 8:30 Sunday night. Oh, and by the way, a stray cat found her way to our yard day before yesterday, she looks like she’s *with child*(she said leaned forward and said “with child” to me like it was some insider secret), we’re taking her to the shelter Monday. Unless you want her. I wrote the shelter’s number in the book. Toodle ooo!!! See you Sunday!”
I got in the van and just sat there for a minute trying to unspin out of the whirlwind tornado that I just dropped off at O’Hare. I looked back at the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins. They were awake but sleepy-eyed and seemed pretty nonchalant for toddlers whose parents just left them in the hands of that weird unmarried childless woman who lives in the city. “Well kids, it’s just you, me and a pregnant cat. The world’s our oyster.”
I got back to their house which was no small feat considering McMansions all bear a striking resemblance to each other. Every time I visit one of my friends in McMansionville I always wonder what would happen if I went to the wrong house. My assumption is that the names are different but everything else is pretty much the same. I wonder if I would even notice the difference. I’m guessing the conversations would be the same, or similar, as would the food, furniture and entertainment. I know, I know. That’s really narrow-minded, cynical and ignorant of me. I’m painting them with a broad bush of generalizations, the same type of brush they use on me. They paint me with the “poor old single, childless, now jobless, Trillian. Pathetic and sad old spinster who leads a dull, boring, unfulfilled and lonely life.” Okay, yes, I am lonely but not the way they make it seem.
Anyway. It’s just that everything looks and feels the same in those suburbs. Naturally it makes me wonder if, since they all strive to live in the same kind of house, drive the same model of car, have the same kinds of kids in the same schools and activities, wear the same kinds of clothes, style their hair the same way, eat the same food, drink the same wine, watch the same television shows, read the same books, shop in the same stores that they all lead the same lives and if I would even notice if I walked into the wrong house. It’s the whole Stepford scenario. It kind of creeps me out and makes me sad, too.
My friends used to be so interesting and different and used their brains and unique talents. They were interesting...different...deep...funny. And now they’re living in cookie cutter boring, mediocrity where everything is all spelled out for them, they don’t have to think an original thought, they simply have to look around at their neighbors and do what they do. Deep down I know that’s not entirely true, but then again…none of my friends seems capable of original thought or humor, or if they are, they speak it in hushed, secretive tones to me. The conversations start like this, “Trillian, I can tell you this, you would understand, but don’t say anything, no one around here would get this…” The tone is hushed and whispered. It’s as if they’re afraid of being found out, that if anyone discovered that they actually had an original thought or idea or joke the villagers would be angry and come after them with pitchforks and flaming torches. What upsets and confuses me about all this is that my friends want this. They aspired to it, worked to achieve it and seem, for the most part, happy about it.
Oddly enough these are the times when I get the most clarity in my life. If falling in love, getting married and having children means moving to Generia and living happily there, then there is the reason why I’m not married and why I don’t have children. I don’t aspire to or even want to consider a life in Generia. Ahhhh, but here’s the scary part: My friends felt the same way, said the same thing, vowed it wouldn’t happen to them. But one by one it happened to all of them. Typically about the time the kids start school they cave into the practical matters of good schools, lower property tax, safe neighborhoods and convenience. They swear they have no broken dreams, their dreams just changed.
I ask myself this pointed question: If I really wanted it, truly wanted the husband and children, wouldn’t I be willing to make the concessions? "Change" my dreams? A discussion and sometimes an argument with myself ensues and ultimately I leave Generia thinking, “I’m not cut out for this. I’m lonely but I’d be really lonely in a place like this. At least in the city no one notices me. No one cares. It is dog eat dog in the city. I’m invisible in apathy. No one notices or cares about me. But out in Generia people only pretend to care, and the dog eat dog is otherwise known as keeping up appearances. And people are invisible in anonymity. Pick your poison.” I choose being invisible in apathy rather than anonymity.
And yes, yes, it’s so easy to dismiss it all with the same old clichés that have been used to describe the suburbs since the dawn of suburbia. There are many good qualities about the suburbs. I do understand why my friends moved there. Those good schools and lower property taxes, the nice, safe, comfortable homes, the convenient shopping and like-minded neighbors and yes, usually a pretty strong sense of community. All very good reasons to just do it, just up and move to the suburbs. If not for yourself, for the children. And if you don’t get caught up in keeping up then all is probably well.
So yeah. This was going to be a loooooong weekend. Me, the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins, a pregnant cat and my crisis of zeitgeist and existentialism. Niiiiiice.
I discovered the twins are very adept at maneuvering in and out of their car seats. Note to self: The boy child is quick with the restraining harness that is the only thing preventing him from being a projectile missile careening through the windshield. He’s the Houdini of the preschool set, no car seat can hold him. No mention was made of his deft handwork in The Notebook. Over the course of the weekend I discovered nothing useful was mentioned in the instruction manual. Phone numbers for doctors, sure, if the children needed a doctor, yes, those numbers would be useful. But the rest of it? Not so much. By noon on Saturday The Notebook was deemed useless, pointless and, at times, I eyed it suspiciously, as if it was part of a big joke perpetrated against me.
I was anxious to see and assess the pregnant stray cat. Just how pregnant was she, is she possibly someone’s pet who wandered off and what about food for her? She looked generally healthy, and yes, very pregnant. Little more than a kitten herself. Kittens having kittens. It’s a family problem and society’s burden. I felt the areas where they usually chip cats. I didn’t feel anything, but there was one tiny bump behind her neck which made me hope maybe it was an identity chip. I went online and found a vet located near the kids’ preschool. I called and made an appointment to have the cat checked for an ID chip. She was resting comfortably in a makeshift bed my friends made for her so all I had to do was worry about transporting her to the vet and hope she wasn’t as close to delivering her kittens as she appeared to be.
The children eyed me as I reviewed the cat. “What’s her name?” I asked.
“She doesn’t have a name. Daddy says we can’t name her because once something has a name it won’t leave,” the boy child said with an air of authority.
“Mommy says she’s going to have babies,” the girl child offered.
“It certainly looks that way,” I said.
We had two hours before it would be time to take them to their preschool. Two hours. Okay. What do 2-and-11-month-year-old kids do when they have a couple hours to kill before school? I thought maybe color or play with toys or have a snack or even catch some shut-eye. Yeah. Not so much. Maybe it was the novelty of having someone new, someone not Mommy or Nanny there. Maybe it was the reality of being left behind setting in. Maybe it was their normal routine being disturbed by the early morning airport trip. Maybe it was all the caffeine wafting around the enclosed space of the van. I’m not sure what it was, one or all or some or none of those things that had the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins agitated. But one thing I do know for certain: They can sense fear. Those kids wouldn’t even let me take off their jackets when we got in the house. They were off and running. And running. And running. And running. Insert every cliché movie scene you’ve ever seen about a guy or single woman stuck taking care of young toddlers. Frey. Melee. Fracas. Need I say more?
I decided to just join in. I mean, when in Rome, right? Yelling is stupid and pointless, trying to get them to behave like mature adults is ridiculous, and ultimatums are a waste of gray matter. These are 2-and-11-month-year-olds. Reason and logic do not apply. Fortunately I knew this going into it (no thanks to The Notebook, though) so just joining in the hijinx seemed like a natural solution. Funny thing about 2-and-11-month-year-olds. They get really flummoxed when a grown-up behaves the way they do. The fear they sensed in me turned to fear they felt for themselves. Three days with this lunatic? She’s taking care of us? The hunters become the hunted. Tiger, tiger, burning bright.
Within 20 minutes I was deemed “kooky” by the girl child. I was also found to be in violation of a house rule. I was given a time-out. I didn’t fit in the naughty chair so I had to sit on the floor next to the naughty chair. They discussed appropriate punishment and decided 10 minutes was a fair time out. The boy child set the timer. And the two 2-and-11-month-year-olds just stood there watching me, making sure I stayed in the naughty chair floor space. Kept ‘em quiet and entertained for 10 minutes. I know. It’s brilliant. Maybe they lost respect for me, the adult, but they’re 2-and-11-month-year-olds. How much respect do they have for any adult? And further, I’m the one with the car keys, money and food. If they want to go anywhere, obtain anything or eat, they’re gonna have to go through me to get it. Voila. Respect. Bwa ha ha ha. Exzcellllllent.
After my time out we dined on a snack of Cheerios and apple juice boxes and discussed the best way to transport the cat. The girl child suggested a Tupperware® container while the boy child felt his dump truck would be ideal because she could be pushed into the vet’s office, a sort of wheel chair, and when it was time for the exam she could be “dumped” out of the truck and onto the table. Gotta give him props for practicality and multipurposing. I thought that was quite an inspired idea. But instead we found a box and put a towel in it.
And off we went to school and the vet. I dropped the kids off at preschool. That was interesting. I was viewed suspiciously, not by the teacher or kids but by the other mothers. My friend pre-arranged my guardianship but I had to show proof of ID to drop off the kids. I dunno. This seemed a little weird to me. If I was going to harm or kidnap the kids would I drop them off at preschool? As I went through the ID ritual with the teacher the other mothers and nannies all craned their necks to try to get a glimpse of my ID or overhear the conversation between the teacher and me. When I got ready to leave one of the mothers, I presume the gang leader, approached me. “You’re Helena’s friend, right? I think we met at a barbecue a few years ago.” I didn’t recognize this woman, but then, she was indistinguishable from most of the women I’ve met at my friend’s parties. They all look the same to me. So I just smiled and nodded. “Yes, I think maybe we have met.” (“If you say so” strongly implied.)
“You live in the city, right? Creative something something or marketing or something, right?”
Wow. I obviously made more of an impression on her than she did on me. She was smiling and seemed all very pleasant and friendly but there was an accusatory tone and an eye of suspicion to her, like a detective probing a suspect.
“Erm, yeah, creative services manager, yeah. In the city. I live in the city.”
The woman was making me nervous.
“You’re taking care of the twins this weekend? Helena mentioned she and Jake were going to Karate-con. But she didn’t mention who was staying with the twins. I assumed she talked Marla (the nanny) into working the weekend.”
Seriously, this was turning into an interrogation. I did my mental imagery of me traveling through space on a universal mission of peace and enlightenment, far from my planet where single, professional childless women are the norm and women who do nothing but breed are outcasts to be used and pitied. “I’m a stranger in a strange land, be nice and try to fit in. Smile and nod politely. Don’t agitate the natives.”
“Nope, Marla’s off duty, it’s me and the twins hittin’ the town and lookin’ for trouble, har har.”
Mrs. Stepford Housewife of Lake County was not amused. Stay-at-home-moms are not known for their sense of humor when it comes to children. Or anything else, really. Humorless place, Generia. I forgot about that. Major slip-up on my part. My mind was racing to a scenario where a team of social workers from child protective services shows up at my friends’ house, surrounding it like a SWAT team with a bull horn, “We know you’re single and therefore cannot be trusted around children. Just send out the children and no one will get hurt.”
“Boss, boss, I just got information that there’s a pregnant cat in the house, too!”
“Okay, we know about the cat. Repeat, we know about the cat. Send out the children and the cat and no one gets hurt.”
About that time the boy child raced over, grabbed my leg in a sort of combo tackle-hold/hug/shove. “It’s time for you to go!”
He was right. The cat and I had some business to handle.
“Nice to see you again,” I said, all smiles and sincerity to the Stepford ring leader.
Turns out the cat wasn’t chipped. The vet surmised the kittens would arrive “any day.”
Great. I hoped “any day” was any day after Sunday. I love cats and this little one was already pulling on my heartstrings. Add a bunch of adorable kittens and I’d be one step closer to becoming the crazy woman with all the cats, feeding the cats instead of herself and on the verge of homelessness…the foreclosure people showing up and finding me and a bunch of cats...yeah. That cat was trouble. Real trouble.
I packed the cat back into the box and went to retrieve the kids from preschool.
Apparently it was a big day at preschool. Someone’s dad came to class and talked about trees. %$&*ing Avatar. Seriously. I swutting hate that movie more every day. The takeaway the 2-and-11-month-year-old twins got was that trees breathe. And that scared the bejeezus out of them. Way to go, mister. Even I know better than to try to introduce the concept of trees as living beings to pre-school aged kids. Wizard of Oz anyone? Freaky humanoid trees hurtling apples and insults? So now I had an unclaimed, unwed mother cat ready to pop out a litter of kittens and two 2-and-11-month-year-old kids freaked out about trees that breathe.
And there I was just a few hours prior making sweeping generalizations about bland generic life in the suburbs. Okay, Universe, I get it. Judge not lest ye be judged.
Got the cat and the kids home and we dined on a lunch of grilled cheese and something called “Broco Bites” allegedly comprised of broccoli and carrots shaped into “fun” shapes. Not surprisingly the kids didn’t go for the “fun” aspect of the Broco Bites. They weren’t fooled. They weren’t touching them. The Notebook said that’s what they were supposed to eat for lunch, though, and at that point I was still trying to use The Notebook as the instruction manual. However, I was starting to understand it wasn’t going to be as helpful as intended. I did score a coup, though. They both agreed that I make grilled cheese sandwiches better than their mother (the secret is a light spread of apple sauce and a tiny bit of mustard). Using that in I suggested that perhaps I make Broco Bites better than their mother. (heh heh heh) Shockingly, they fell for it. I got three bites of Broco Bite per child. They concluded that Broco Bites are yucky, no matter who makes them. I suggested ketchup. That got another bite, per child, of Broco Bite in them. I figured that was good enough. I heard Roger Daltry singing in my ear, “We won’t get fooled again…” and I had a vision of a toddler riot breaking out in the suburbs, kids slamming juice box shots, swinging Nerf bats and going all Gymboree in the streets. Four bites of Broco Bite, per child, seemed like enough to me.
Now for the hard part. Except I didn’t know it was the hard part at the time. The Notebook said they get to watch 30 minutes of Nickolodeon or a DVD of their choice after lunch. Naturally they couldn’t agree on what to watch. A heated debate and argument ensued. So I came up with the only fair solution: 30 minutes of Book TV, Discovery or the History channel. Unfortunately the book on Book TV was Atomic Obsession: Nuclear Alarmism from Hiroshima to Al-Qaeda and while I was pretty sure that would bore the kids to sleep I was concerned they might be astute enough pick up on the scarier aspects of Atomicism and the last thing I needed was to add to the breathing tree fear mongering. The Discovery channel was showing sharks. Ditto the fear mongering concern. Also unfortunately it was ammo day on the History channel. The history of rockets was far more exciting and interesting than I had in mind. This was supposed to be punishment for not cooperating on what to watch. Plus I wasn’t sure my friends would appreciate their toddlers learning the finite details about explosives. I rummaged through my friends’ DVD stockpile. I found one on knitting. I kid you not, a knitting DVD. I’m pretty sure there’s not a more boring DVD available. Even more boring that watching golf, watching a DVD of someone knit ranks as one of the most boring things a human can do. The kids thought so, too, but informed me their mother, my friend, watches it all the time. (Heh heh heh…useful information.Very useful information to store away for use at a later date. "I'll take barometers of broken dreams of suburban stay-at-home moms for $500, please Alex.") The boy child got antsy and whined a lot. The girl child fell asleep. Which was good because we were closing in on nap time.
Here’s the thing about 2-and-11-month-year-olds who are “pretty much” potty trained. “Pretty much” only applies to when they’re awake. And even then “pretty much” means keep your eye on them all the time and watch for tell-tale signs. Crossed legs, crotch grabbing, sudden and extreme quiet, going off and hiding behind things like plants and chairs. “Pretty much” potty trained also means “with assistance.” Again, not covered in the instruction manual. I guess I was just supposed to know, or assume, the finer points of almost-3-year-olds’ toilette needs.
The boy child silently watched me carry the sleeping girl child up to her room and put her down for a nap. He was yawning so I suggested that we read a book in his room, have some quiet time. Shockingly, he obliged. And fell asleep by the fourth page. Rock on!
Why do people make such a big deal about nap time? This is easy. Run around a lot, show a knitting DVD, read a book, voila! sleeping children.
I went down to check on the cat. All seemed well. I gave her more to eat. She seemed grateful and gave me a purring head butt. Ahhhhh. Domestic bliss. The kids were napping, the cat was purring, it was ammo day on the History channel...
45 minutes later the domestic bliss was shattered by a blood curdling screech from the girl child. Insert every babysitter alone with the kids slasher movie scene you’ve ever seen. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. Instead, every one of those movie scenes flashed before my eyes. Thanks, John Carpenter and Wes Craven, really, thank you. I raced upstairs (and yes, I honestly contemplated grabbing a knife from the kitchen) and found her sitting up in her bed, soaked from the waist down, tears streaming down her face.
Uh-oh.
Worse than any slasher movie gore scene. The little girl had…gasp…an accident.
The boy child was standing at her door observing my response to the liquid meltdown that occurred in his sister’s bed.
“You’re supposed to put a Pull-up on us before we go to sleep,” he said matter of factly. I think he even rolled his eyes at me. “I had a bit of a drip myself,” he said, grabbing at his crotch.
Okay, this was a glaring omission in The Notebook. But even so, if he knew this, if Pull-ups with bedtime is SOP why didn’t the boy child mention it when I put his sleeping sister down for her nap? Or when he was laying down for a nap? Now I had to clean up the girl child, change her clothes, change her bedding, do laundry and explain to my friend that I didn’t understand the Pull-up procedure part of “pretty much” potty trained.
And exactly what is a “bit of a drip” in 2-and-11-month-year-old boy terms? A full-on accident or truly just a little “bit of a drip?” I wasn’t exactly anxious to find out but once I had the girl calmed down and was cleaning her up I knew I had to bite the bullet and deal with it. “Okay, so, this ‘bit of a drip’ of yours. What’s the damage? Do we need to clean you up and change you, too?”
“Nah. I’m okay.”
My first reaction was to take that at face value. Good. He’s fine. But it soon became obvious he’s a) a guy and b) not a good judge of “okay” in terms of assessing the state of his underpants.
From there on out I took the safe route and instigated an all Pull-up, all the time rule. They hated this rule. “We’re not babies!” “We only need them at bed time!” “We’re big kids!” “Mommy doesn’t let us wear Pull-ups except in bed!” Yeah, yeah, tell it to someone who cares, someone who’s your mother or father or nanny.
I found discarded Pull-ups all over the house the duration of the weekend. They were relentless in their stubbornness over not wearing Pull-ups. Which meant the kids were sans underwear much of the time. But I was just as relentless in my dictatorial Pull-up regime. Fortunately Pull-ups are gender specific so when I found a discarded Pull-up I could ascertain to whom it belonged. Thank you, Pull-up people, for making life with bi-gender twins so much easier. I was slightly concerned my friends would return home and find spent Pull-ups hidden all over the house. But then, I figured that, too, is probably “normal.” These kids seemed too adept, too wise about Pull-ups for this to be their first foray into civil disobedience with Pull-ups.
Random sentence I never thought I’d hear myself say, “You cannot wear your sister’s tu-tu to Target without Pull-ups or underpants underneath it.” I’m not sure how to wash tu-tus and if he had an accident while wearing it I would have to throw it away. I also wasn’t sure he was supposed to be wearing the pink tu-tu. His sister said he could wear it (nice of her to share) but I had a hunch their father might not approve of his son wearing nothing but a pink tu-tu and a smile. The boy gave the girl a sort of conspiratorial look when he asked her if he could wear it to play dress-up. Something was definitely up with the tu-tu and pantsless boy. But I was not going to be the adult who says, “No, you cannot wear the tu-tu because you’re a boy and boys don’t wear tu-tus.” Their parents can be responsible for those therapy sessions, not me. The kids might have nightmares about breathing trees, but I was going to wake up in a cold sweat over layers of pink tulle soaked with urine.
I also discovered a direct correlation between juice box consumption and trips to the bathroom. I mean, duh, of course, but wow, the response is nearly immediate. I made the rookie mistake of giving them juice boxes for the road when I took them to Target for cat care supplies. Fortunately we were under the all Pull-up all the time regime at that point, but sheesh, it was an instant reaction. “I have to go potty! Now!” When a 2-and-11-month-year-old kid tells you they have to go potty now! What they mean is, “We're on the threshold of the urination event horizon. I’m going to pee in 30 seconds. If you can get me to a bathroom before then, rock on. If not, we’re all gonna suffer.”
I made another rookie mistake by trying to point out the virtue of being safe rather than sorry. “Aren’t you glad you were wearing a Pull-up? Not such a bad idea after all, is it?” Oh boy. Ohhhh boy. That’s the wrong thing to say to a 2-and-11-month-year old. 2-and-11-month-year-olds do not like logic and reason thrown in their faces. 2-and-11-month-year-olds vent their frustration with logic and reason by screaming.
The tragic part of this is that I get it. I’m down with scream therapy. How many times have you been so frustrated with people and/or a situation that you want to just scream into the Universe? We don’t go around screaming, generally, because we’re mature adults and we channel our frustration, anger and confusion into socially acceptable outlets like booze, drugs, food, indiscriminant sex, reckless driving, arguing, gossip, slander, and domestic violence. Yeah, screaming out in frustration is so juvenile.
I had to call upon the only experts I know with this. My parents. What did my parents do to diffuse frustration screaming? When I was little and feeling so frustrated I wanted to scream my parents threw philosophical reason at me. “Why are you so upset?” “I don’t want to go to bed.” “Will screaming make you feel better about having to go to bed?” “No.” “Will screaming change your bedtime?” “No.” “Will screaming make Mummy and Daddy proud of you?” “No.” “Will screaming solve anything at all?” “No. But it makes me feel better.” “Why does screaming make you feel better?” “I dunno.” “When you figure out why screaming makes you feel better then maybe we’ll let you scream.”
I never figured out why screaming made me feel better consequently it was never up for re-evaluation. But I spent a lot of sleepless nights contemplating why screaming made me feel better.
Fortunately I discovered the restorative and healing powers of rock and roll. Socially acceptable screaming. Rock on.
Ahhhhh. There we go! I knew if I thought it through something would come to me. Fortunately the van was mp3 equipped and I had my iPod with me.
“You wanna scream? Okay, fine, we’ll all scream!”
And so it came to pass that two 2-and-11-month-year-olds and I were rolling through suburban strip malland screaming and banging our heads to AC/DC. Hey, my friends asked me to stay with their kids. They knew what might happen. Besides, The Notebook didn’t say anything about what music the kids can or cannot listen to and I know for a fact that their father fancies himself as Jimmy Page and plays his guitar along to Led Zeppelin every chance he gets. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. It’s not pretty but it is pretty funny. (Speaking of broken dreams.) So it’s not as if these kids haven’t been exposed to questionable music choices for preschool aged children.
By the time bedtime rolled around on that first night we’d reached a place of understanding. There was a sort of unspoken détente between us. I broke another house rule and had to have another time out in the naughty chair space under the watchful eyes of my charges. (The cat consoled me by climbing into my lap and purring during my incarceration.) I let them have pizza and ice cream and juice boxes. (Always the juice boxes, infernal juice boxes.) We danced and jumped around the living room and made Barrel of Monkey chain necklaces (yes, I know, probably some child safety choking code infraction, insert replay of child protective services SWAT team) and we danced around some more. The girl child does a great Mick Jagger strut accentuated by her tu-tu, the boy child is quite possibly the next James Brown. Sated and sleepy, Pull-ups in place, I put them to bed with surprisingly little resistance.
Later, I went up to bed in the guest room. I’d just settled in and was counting sheep when I heard it. It started out a nearly indiscernible whimper and then crescendoed into an all out wail. “I wannnnntttttt Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeee” Uh oh. The Notebook didn’t mention anything about this, either. And the thing about twins is, when one wants something, the other automatically wants it, too. And so within seconds there came another wail from the other room, “I wannnnnnnttttt Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeee” and not to be outdone, he wanted “Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” and “Dadddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” Oh crap. I’m neither Mommy or Daddy and Mommy and Daddy are two time zones away hip deep in Karate-con.
Apparently the breathing trees were weighing heavy on their minds, especially the girl child. She described in vivid detail the dream she had about breathing trees. She demonstrated a gasping, choking, panting pantomime of a tree grabbing at her. Pretty disturbing stuff. I was even kind of scared after she told us about it.
Yadda yadda yadda I found myself sleeping on the floor with two 2-and-11-month-year-olds snuggled together in bed with various plush animals and the lights on. I slept with one eye open. First, out of concern for the children. If they cried I wanted to hear them. Second, out of concern of the children. What might they do with the adult asleep? Third, out of fear that a breathing tree would come gasping and panting its way up the stairs and grab us all and take us off to the forest. I dozed off for a few minutes and dreamed that I was Gulliver in Lilliput. I woke up, startled, thinking the kids were tying me down to the floor. Turned out the girl child had climbed out of bed and onto me. Her rabbit’s ears were tangled around my wrist.
Eventually I got some sleep, but as you can imagine not a lot and not restful. So you can probably imagine that I was not in a great mood Saturday morning. But boy the kids were. Up and at ‘em, bright eyed and bushy tailed, as if nothing untoward had happened during the night.
I made their breakfast following the guidelines in The Notebook. Scrambled eggs, strawberries, toast, and of course more infernal juice boxes. After breakfast the kids were playing a rousing game of Throw Toys at the Couch when a low, guttural noise came from the area of the cat bed.
Rules for Trillian’s Life: #1. If it can go wrong, it will do so when I’m the only one around to take responsibility for it.
Sure enough, the stray cat was convulsing and groaning and spasming and it wasn’t a hairball. It was a baby furball. Well. Eventually it was a baby furball.
At that point it was just a lot of groaning and licking and purring and yeowling. I tried to make a lot of noise to divert attention away from the cat. I wasn’t sure my friends would deem the miracle of kitten birth appropriate for 2-and-11-month-year-olds. Naturally The Notebook made to mention of it.
And just as naturally, the kids were very interested in what was going on in the cat bed. I kept trying to shoo them away, divert their attention, but the noise from the cat bed was too loud and too “exciting” to keep the kids away.
I thought, “Well, you know, miracle of life, this is a natural, normal, thing…they’ll either love it or be grossed out.”
The poor cat was clearly confused as to what the heck was happening to her. First time mother and all that. The two 2-and-11-month-year-old kids were alternately enthralled and bored.
This is a transcript of the actual conversation.
Boy child: “Why is the cat making that weird noise?”
Me: “Mrs. Cat is going to have her kittens. She’s in labor.” (I felt suddenly compelled to highlight that having babies out of wedlock is not in keeping with their parents’ social and religious standards and that this cat is perfectly respectable married woman. Mrs. Cat.)
Girl child: “What’s labor?”
Me: “It’s when a Mommy’s body prepares to have a baby.”
Girl child: “Is Mrs. Cat going to have to go to the hospital to have kittens?”
Me: “No, she’s going to have them right here.”
Stunned wide-eyed silence.
Girl child: “Where’s Mr. Cat? He should be here. His wife’s having a baby.”
Me: “Erm, Mr. Cat is away on a business trip.” (Okay, look, I was under a lot of pressure and trying to handle the situation as delicately as possible. These are not my children and I didn’t want to get into the whole “animals don’t get married and boy animals are only in it for the sex and leave the females to handle all the hard, messy work much like humans” discussion. I didn’t think through the whole Mrs. Cat thing and now it was snowballing. Telling them Mr. Cat was away on a business trip just seemed like the best way to handle this. Their dad travels for work, I knew they know what business trips are and that they could relate to a daddy having to go out of town for work. Don’t judge. Until you’re in the situation don’t judge me.)
Boy child: “A business trip doing what?”
Me: “He works in the mice control industry.”
Girl child: “Welllll, he shouldn’t leave Mrs. Cat alone at time like this!” For such a young child she’s got a well developed sense of fatherly duty. Methinks she’s heard her mother say a thing or two to her father about fatherly responsibility and duty. That or she’s a born suffragette.
Me: “Sometimes it can’t be helped. It pays better than the flea circus where he used to work. And I think Mrs. Cat can handle this.”
Boy child, standing up, hands on hips: “Mommies know how to have babies.” (said with an odd air of authority on the topic.)
Me: “True that.”
Girl child: “Boy, won’t Mr. Cat be surprised when he gets home!”
Me: “I’ll say! He’s in for a real surprise.”
We all sat around the cat bed stroking and talking to Mrs. Cat, trying to put her at ease and comfort her. The kids were amazingly sweet and gentle with her.
After about 45 minutes of her growling and licking herself she spasmed a big contraction, yowled and just like that, out plopped the first kitten. Nature kicked in and the confused and scared first time cat mother did what mother cats do. She licked off the sac and chewed off the umbilical cord and ate the placenta.
Okay. Now. For the uninitiated adult this is a disgusting, brutal, disgusting, appalling, disgusting, weird thing to witness. Any part of that process is bound to impress, revolt and shock the human observer.
But there I was with Mrs. Cat looking to me for support and two 2-and-11-month-year-old kids looking to me for explanation.
What surprised me was how calm the kids were. Maybe because they’ve never seen anything like this before and because they’re too young to have a clue as to what just happened. I was sure they’d be all, “Ewwwwww, gross! What’s she doing? What is that and why is she eating it?!!!” But when she licked off the sac and kitten #1 squirmed and kneaded its way to her belly the kids were just all, “Oooooo, it looks like that octopus at the aquarium! Is it because cats eat fish?”
Me: “No, it’s because the kitten is all wet. When it dries off you’ll see all the fur and it will look like a cat. Not an octopus. Good observation, though. It does look like an octopus.”
Boy child: “Is it a boy or a girl?”
Me: “I can’t tell, we’ll have to wait for Mrs. Cat to feel comfortable letting us have a good look at it.”
Girl child, squatting down low and leaning over Mrs. Cat and the new kitten: “Do boy cats have wieners?” Astonishingly, the boy child didn’t giggle at this. Both kids sat there intently looking at me for an answer.
Me: “Yes. Yes they do.”
Girl child: Going in closer to the newborn kitten, “Are they furry wieners?” Again, astonishingly, no giggles.
Me: “Uh, yeah, kind of.”
Girl child: Standing up, clap/rubbing her hands in satisfaction, making the official pronouncement, “That’s a boy,” pointing to the kitten’s back end. I assumed she was confusing the little tail for a, um, wiener, but I got a little closer for a look.
Me: “Oh, no, that’s the kitten’s tail.”
Girl child: “No, silly, there, look,” pointing between the back legs of the kitten. Sure enough, what appeared to be the tiny, um, “boy parts” of the cat were in full view.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Cat was convulsing and spasming and groaning again. Out shot kitten #2 who looked exactly like kitten #1.
Boy child: “Maybe this one’s a girl, twins like us!”
Me: “That’d be cool!” Mrs. Cat grabbed kitten #2, licked the sac off, chewed off the cord and ate the placenta and kitten #2 took its place next to its older brother furrowed deep into Mrs. Cat’s belly.
Boy child: “Mr. Cat really oughtta be here for this.”
Girl child: “It’s not every day a guy has twin babies!”
I try really hard not to anthropomorphize, but I swear, I swear Mrs. Cat shot me a knowing sarcastic look.
The really amazing part of this is that the kids didn’t find the whole sac/umbilical cord chewing/placenta eating part of the whole thing gross or weird. They just watched it all unfold speculating on the whereabouts and feelings of Mr. Cat. I suppose it’s because they’re too young to have a concept of what’s truly gross and what’s not. At this age poop is a subject of much fascination and importance to them, so umbilical cords and placentas? Yeah, not really that gross in comparison.
Mrs. Cat quickly popped out kitten #3. All seemed to be going well and she seemed to be far more confident about the whole thing. Kitten #4, same thing.
The kids were getting bored with it. Kind of like they were looking at their watches muttering under their breath to each other about wrapping it up because they had somewhere they had to be.
There was a lull in the action and Mrs. Cat seemed to be relaxing. I thought, “Show’s over, job done.” The kids resumed their game of Throw Toys into the Couch and I gave Mrs. Cat big bowls of food and water which she downed ravenously. I was feeling all proud of myself for handling the whole thing with such maturity and confidence when Mrs. Cat started yowling again. Only this time it sounded more intense, more pained, more urgent. Oh crimony, not another one! Even I was getting a bit sick of the whole thing and wished Mr. Cat was there to help his wife through this instead of me.
Mrs. Cat seemed anguished. She was licking and biting at herself and pushing her paws into her belly. I know that look. I get that look every 28 days. Cramps. She looks like she has really bad cramps. She looked up at me as if to say, “Help.”
Oh dear.
Oh dear. Kittenbirth gone wrong. For the sake of everyone involved we cannot have an “it’s a cruel and violent world” reality check in the form of a kittenbirth gone wrong.
The kids came trotting back, wanting to see what was going on now.
Girl child: “Is there going to be another kitten?!”
Me: “Looks like maybe so.”
Boy child: “Why is Mrs. Cat all twisted up?”
He was right. Mrs. Cat had contorted herself into a really odd position. I attempted to straighten her out thinking maybe her contorted body was causing delivery trouble. In doing so it became obvious kitten #5 was stuck.
Oh crap.
Oh crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.
I was going to have to go in. Crap. Crap. Crap. And me without my kitty forceps. Crap. Crap.
Mrs. Cat was really yowling now. Obviously she was in a lot of pain. Right then. For the sake of women of all species, I had to do it. I had to help Mrs. Cat and this kitten and that meant, you know, pulling it out. I was really afraid the kitten was already dead. It didn’t appear to be moving or pushing its way out. It was just stuck and still.
“Okay kids, I have to help Mrs. Cat, you two go in the other room and draw pictures of the kittens for Mr. Cat so he can see what the kittens looked like when they were born.”
Alrighty then, a new chapter to my life. Trillian: Cat Midwife.
I could see the kitten was not in head first position. I tried to remember what James Herriot did in All Creatures Great and Small. There was always some emergency breech animal birth out on the Dales. He always sorted out the mother and child…but how? What did he do? How did he handle the breech animal births? Think girl, think!!! Oh crap. Crap. Crap. Mrs. Cat why? Why?
Okay, wait that’s not fair. It’s not her fault. I called upon whatever Goddesses of cats and mothers I could think of, Norse, Greek, Hindu, Celtic, Egyptian, Wiccan…you name it, I tried to summon and invoke their help. I was suddenly exceptionally spiritual and well versed in female and cat goddesses. I didn’t realize I knew that much folklore. Huh.
I took a good look at the kitten, reached in there and got the best grip I could on the kitten, closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, said a prayer to the God (yes, really), apologized to Mrs. Cat, prayed again (yes, really) and pulled out the kitten. Mrs. Cat snatched it straight out of my hand and went to work on the sac, umbilical cord and placenta. The kitten didn’t appear to be moving. Oh crap. Crap. Crap. No. Crap. No. Please. No. Mrs. Cat was feverishly licking and biting and licking the kitten, clearly trying to get it to show some sign of life.
Trillian: Cat Midwife to the rescue. I started rubbing what I thought was the kitten’s heart area. Mrs. Cat was working on its face, feverishly licking and biting the little one’s eyes and mouth. We were quite a team, Mrs. Cat and I. She doing her part on the face, me giving heart stimulation massage. I was just about ready to admit defeat and wondering how the heck I would explain it to the kids and what I would do with a dead kitten, when, for the first time in my adult life, a prayer was answered. The kitten started squirming and pawing at its mother and wiggled its way to her belly beside its older siblings.
Mrs. Cat was exhausted. I was exhausted.
The 2-and-11-month-year-old twins, on the other hand, wanted lunch.
I felt a deep kinship with Mrs. Cat. She just went through a huge ordeal but her kids didn’t care about that - they wanted to eat and snuggle up to her. I’d just been through a huge ordeal but the kids I was babysitting didn’t care about that – they wanted lunch. Thankless job, this child rearing business.
After lunch I Pull-upped the kids and got them to take a nap while I did some online cat birthing research. I thought I’d find a ton of cat midwife services but surprisingly, no. I know a lot of fanatical cat people. I know how they are. Ahem. I thought for sure loads of people would be in the business of capitalizing on cat fanatics’ need to spoil and pamper their beloved pet cats during kittenbirth. Apparently there’s either not a market for cat midwifery or it’s a rich untapped source of business potential.
Hmmmm. A possible new career path?
I looked over at Mrs. Cat peacefully licking and sleeping with her kittens. Awwwww. Heck yeah, I want in on the ground floor of this burgeoning field. But then I remembered how, just a few hours earlier, she was anguished and pained and how close we came to losing that kitten. We were lucky. Really, really lucky and maybe, just maybe, God granted me a rare favor, for the children’s sake not mine, I presume. If that had gone badly, if the kitten and/or Mrs. Cat hadn’t survived I’d be online trying to find out what to do with a dead kitten. So, no. Cat Midwifery will have to be left to stronger willed cat lovers.
The kids awoke from their naps and rushed to see the kittens and Mrs. Cat.
Boy child: “Do they have to wear Pull-ups?”
Me: “That’s a good idea but no, Mrs. Cat will take care of that for a few days and then she’ll teach them how to use the litter box.”
Girl child: “I wish we could use the litter box.”
Ermm. Yeah. Um. Uh huh. Okay. Um. Yeah. Alrighty then, who wants to play Barrel of Monkeys?
Yeah! Barrel of Monkeys! Woo hoo!!!
Saturday night I ended up camping out on the floor. Again. And found myself going to check on Mrs. Cat and the kittens at regular intervals. Between the 2-and-11-month-year-olds’ antics and needs and Mrs. Cat and the kittens I was exhausted.
The whole thing was a good exercise for me. I haven’t spent that much alone time with young children since my nieces were little. Not that I don’t appreciate what my friends endure on a daily and nightly basis. I do understand the work and effort it takes to care for children. I really do get it.
But this adventure made me realize a few things. Motherhood is hard, really hard. Just ask Mrs. Cat. Not the physical labor – although that’s a lot of work – I mean the mental work, the worry. Little beings with little brains trying to sort out life and how it works looking to you for guidance…yeah…that’s a lot of work and a lot of stress. It’s really easy to second guess yourself. One situation handled wrong and your child could end up in therapy for years.
Mrs. Cats’ kittens had a lot of strikes against them. A stray cat mother, little more than a kitten herself, abandoned and pregnant in the middle of winter in sub-zero weather, and yet, there they were. Mrs. Cat found a safe, warm place to birth them and they’re all fine. Hopefully the shelter will find them good homes and they’ll grow up to be healthy, happy pet cats. Motherhood triumphed over huge odds.
My friends’ twins are struggling with potty training and frustrated with rules and scared about breathing trees and hate broccoli. That’s all very worrying and stressful in the moment. But I suspect somehow they’re going to grow up and be productive members of society in spite of all that. They’ll get the hang of going to the bathroom and learn to deal with the rest of it. I kind of doubt they’ll end up dead or in jail by age 20. I console myself with that. I don’t think three days in my care could screw them up too badly. (Unless the whole tu-tu thing rears its ugly head when the boy is a teenager.)
Is that the measure of success with parenthood? The kids are alive and not incarcerated. Success.
Getting back to nature, that’s the only measure for Mrs. Cat. Her kittens are alive and safe. The species will continue to evolve. Job done. She’s a successful mother.
I cleaned up the kids, cleaned up the house, fed Mrs. Cat and loaded the kids into the van one last time. Hopped up high on juice boxes and anticipation of seeing their parents and brother we rolled along screaming out Manta Ray and Satisfaction. By the time we got to the airport they were dozing. When I rolled up to the curb for their parents’ pick-up the boy child woke up. “hmmmmm, Mommy,” was all he said, then adjusted himself in his car seat and went back to sleep.
That’s it? “Hmmmm, Mommy?” She’s been gone for three days, he had to endure the legend of the breathing trees, Pull-ups and the birth of kittens in her absence and all the excitement he can muster is, “Hmmmm, Mommy?”
My friends got in the car, the karate kid and I climbed in the back of the van. And off we went, leaving the airport and heading to the train station. The girl child awoke and, without any pre-emption or greetings, said to her parents, “We had to give Aunt Trillian two time outs. She was naughty.”
You might think Mrs. Cat and the miracle of birth would trump my house rule infractions. You might think the fact that I saved them from the clenches of breathing trees in the night might earn a mention. You might think my superior way with grilled cheese would warrant some conversation. But no. First and foremost on her mind was a behavior report.
Up to that point I was kind of thinking, “Hey, maybe they’ll ask me to stay with the kids another weekend…we’re getting along great, now, maybe they’ll want me to stay with them again.” But now with that time out on my record my ability to properly care for the children is called into question.
Hopefully my friends will overlook the infractions and consider me when their nanny isn’t available. Kind of a turn of attitude for me. Not that I didn’t want to stay with their children. The children were never the issue. (Though had I known about the Pull-ups and tu-tu I might have given it more consideration.) It was the fact that staying with the kids meant staying in Generia.
Generia isn’t so bad, I guess. It’s just that I don’t fit in there. I’ve cultivated and embraced an invisible persona in the city. I like that no one notices me. It’s a lonely but painless existence and I like that. Well. I mean. It’s better than the alternative I was living. You know, the life I lived when I was trying to date and mate. I was lonely and pained – rejected and ridiculed and mocked and criticized and dismissed and on and on. Now that I’m officially invisible in the city (unemployment is a huge boost in that effort) I move around stealth, unnoticed. Recently I’ve even had a couple people nearly sit on me on the bus and train or bash into me in the grocery aisle. “Oh, oops, I didn’t see you there…” I’m 5’11” with huge boobs and a pronounced limp. Not bragging, just saying, that if I can become invisible, anyone can. I’ve adapted to living in the city – even if my way of adapting is by becoming invisible, it’s still adapting, still a valid coping technique. The problem is that the invisibility techniques I’ve refined don’t work in Generia. What makes me invisible in the city makes me stand out in Generia. So when I go there I have to either re-tool my invisible shield or subject myself to the comments people make that point out the obvious ways I am different than the inhabitants of Generia.
That’s what I dreaded. Nothing to do with the children.
But other than the run-in with the Stepford ring leader at the preschool, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time outside the house. There was that fateful trip to Target, but I suspect I just looked like a harried (if not inept) mother with two unruly toddlers. Nothing new there – it’s Target in Generia, harried mothers and unruly toddlers are the focus demographic.
So, you know, staying with children in the suburbs wasn’t so bad. And that makes me wonder if that’s how my friends cope. Maybe it really is all about the kids. Maybe the concessions they make in their lives, their lifestyle, are insignificant because they’re focused on the kids. And since they’re there they are doing their best to cultivate and embrace their own form of invisibility shield. Maybe that’s why they all live in the same kinds of houses, wear the same clothes, drive the same cars, style their hair the same, eat the same food, go to the same vacation destinations…they’re indistinct and invisible amongst each other. Which means, at the core, they have the same issues I do: Better to have no one notice you than to stand out and have to deal with being hurt, mocked, ridiculed, embarrassed and a million other things that wear down your self esteem and personal resolve.
And that’s really sad. Sad for me, yes, but even more sad for them, I think. I chose to live this way. The rejection took a serious, serious toll on me. The thing is, though, I’m okay with myself. My invisibility shield is “just” something I wear out in public. I’m still me, I’m still “okay” with who I am. I’m not striving to impress anyone or fit in with anyone. I choose to be invisible. Whereas the invisibility my friends and the other inhabitants of Generia have is a result of trying to fit in and be like everyone else.
One day soon the 2-and-11-month-year-olds are going to take a look around at their friends and want to fit in with them. It’s normal childhood development. Peer acceptance. And that’s great, it’s a good thing, a vital and normal stage in childhood. But what concerns me is that as they look around at their friends they’ll also look around at their parents’ friends and think that being like everyone else is normal adult behavior. The girl child is already tuning into this. She deemed me kooky. She picked up on the fact that even though I’m an adult I’m not like other adults she knows and deals with on a regular basis. So much for my invisible comfort zone. Kids. Pfft.
Sure, she also told me I make better grilled cheese sandwiches than her mother. My grilled cheese sandwiches are a little cavalier, a little, shall we say, kooky, what with the apple sauce and mustard. I was lucky the kids liked and accepted my grilled cheese sandwiches. Other kids wouldn’t. They’d be wary of it, deem it yucky. So either these kids are too young to judge or are, themselves, a little more willing to be kooky than their peers. I haven’t been around a 2-and-11-month-year-old boy who likes to go commando under his sister’s pink tu-tu so I’m not sure if this is a “normal” 2-and-11-month-year-old boy phase or if he's kooky. My hunch tells me it's a normal phase. But I know there are a lot of parents who would deem that behavior “kooky” and even suspect. And that makes me wonder if these willing-to-be-kooky kids trapped in Generia will soon bow to their social modicums and become as rigid and invisible in their generic surroundings and peer group.
The problem is that I can’t decide if that’s sad or not. I’m not sure which way I hope they go but for their sake I'm leaning toward genericism. Life is a heck of a lot easier when you fit in with the people around you. And how could I possibly advocate not caring about convention and peer groups when I’ve spent the last three years trying to become invisible because I can’t fit in or find acceptance (or even just one man and one decent job) and deal with the rejection and misapprehension? My theory, now, is that moving to the suburbs, becoming generic, is Darwinian. It’s a survival of the fittest tactic that ensures continuation of the species. You migrate with the herd or face certain death. I still don’t like it “out there” but I’m less puzzled and more respectful of my friends’ move to Generia. They’re evolving. And clearly I am not. Who’s got it right? The couple with the nice house, three kids, a weekend at Karate-con and money in the bank or the single woman past her sell-by date who's unemployed and considering a career in cat midwifery?
