This is apropos of nothing, but I think this picture is funny so I thought I'd share. I was working all day Saturday, and during the late morning, Jason and Zeke took a long nap on our bed. My office is just off of our bedroom, so when I'm sitting at my desk, I look directly at the side of my bed. So as I spent hours writing deposition questions, this is what I was looking at.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Big foot, little foot
This is apropos of nothing, but I think this picture is funny so I thought I'd share. I was working all day Saturday, and during the late morning, Jason and Zeke took a long nap on our bed. My office is just off of our bedroom, so when I'm sitting at my desk, I look directly at the side of my bed. So as I spent hours writing deposition questions, this is what I was looking at.
I'm forced to become the mean mommy
As much as I love my husband, I've often said that being married to him is like being married to a puppy. I love puppies. They're fun and cute and playful and full of energy.
But sometimes they need a good swat on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.
And I say this as a woman who has never subscribed to the "men are idiots who need to be told what to do for their own good" school of thought. I've never been a male-basher and I'm not interested in being in a relationship in which the dynamic is me telling him what to do.
Jason has all of these friends who are amazed that I "let" him go surfing with his buddies on the weekend, because they were never "allowed" by their wives to go out and have fun when their children were young babies. I've never understood this. Beyond consulting each other to make sure that there isn't a scheduling conflict or that the other won't be inconvenienced by baby care or dog care or the like, we don't ask each other's permission to do things. We share responsibility for keeping the house running and the baby fed and safe, and as a result, we each get to do our own thing every once in a while. He goes surfing with his buddies. I go play tennis or get a pedicure. It all works out.
But this past weekend, I had to hitch up my big-girl pants and lay down the hammer.
A few weeks ago, before he left for Australia, Jason went mountain biking. There's a trail up in the hills a few miles from where we live that's set up with jumps and ladder rides and other insane devices for people who have too little regard for their personal safety.
Jason is unquestionably one of those people. He plays hard. And as a result, he occasionally falls hard, and he's constantly coming home with injuries. When we lived in Atlanta, he regularly went mountain biking with a group of guys, and he routinely came home scraped or banged up because he had skidded off a big rock and cracked a bone in his arm or was doing wheelies in the parking lot and tipped backwards onto his ass. When he goes surfing, he frequently comes home with his feet and ankles cut up from smashing them on the reef. He's broken his pelvis landing badly on a jump while snowboarding.
So a few weeks ago, Jason goes up to this trail he's heard about and starts riding around and doing jumps and whatever.
(A ladder ride with a teeter totter. Meaning you start riding up with the rails on one level, and then when your weight passes the fulcrum, the entire structure tips down to join with another part of the ladder. You couldn't pay me enough money to ride my bike on this thing.)
(The offending jump)
But sometimes they need a good swat on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.
And I say this as a woman who has never subscribed to the "men are idiots who need to be told what to do for their own good" school of thought. I've never been a male-basher and I'm not interested in being in a relationship in which the dynamic is me telling him what to do.
Jason has all of these friends who are amazed that I "let" him go surfing with his buddies on the weekend, because they were never "allowed" by their wives to go out and have fun when their children were young babies. I've never understood this. Beyond consulting each other to make sure that there isn't a scheduling conflict or that the other won't be inconvenienced by baby care or dog care or the like, we don't ask each other's permission to do things. We share responsibility for keeping the house running and the baby fed and safe, and as a result, we each get to do our own thing every once in a while. He goes surfing with his buddies. I go play tennis or get a pedicure. It all works out.
But this past weekend, I had to hitch up my big-girl pants and lay down the hammer.
A few weeks ago, before he left for Australia, Jason went mountain biking. There's a trail up in the hills a few miles from where we live that's set up with jumps and ladder rides and other insane devices for people who have too little regard for their personal safety.
Jason is unquestionably one of those people. He plays hard. And as a result, he occasionally falls hard, and he's constantly coming home with injuries. When we lived in Atlanta, he regularly went mountain biking with a group of guys, and he routinely came home scraped or banged up because he had skidded off a big rock and cracked a bone in his arm or was doing wheelies in the parking lot and tipped backwards onto his ass. When he goes surfing, he frequently comes home with his feet and ankles cut up from smashing them on the reef. He's broken his pelvis landing badly on a jump while snowboarding.
So a few weeks ago, Jason goes up to this trail he's heard about and starts riding around and doing jumps and whatever.
(A ladder ride with a teeter totter. Meaning you start riding up with the rails on one level, and then when your weight passes the fulcrum, the entire structure tips down to join with another part of the ladder. You couldn't pay me enough money to ride my bike on this thing.)One of the jumps had a landing that veered sharply to the right. Jason took it at high speed, apparently not realizing how hard the turn on the landing was. His bike managed to make the right turn. Unfortunately, he didn't. He went flying into the bushes and trees, hit his head so hard that it broke his helmet, and smashed up his left ankle.
(The offending jump)When he came home, he was covered with mud and his ankle was swollen, but he didn't think it was broken because although it hurt, he could walk on it. The bruising and pain continued and didn't really subside much over the ensuing week or so.
In Australia, he was at the hospital with his dad and decided to get his ankle checked out. Turns out, it's broken. But did Jason get a cast or even wrap it? No, of course not!
When I asked him why he wasn't getting it cared for, his pat response was "aw, she'll be alright." (You have to imagine this with an Aussie accent to get the full effect. Translation: "No big deal. And casts are for pussies.")
After another week, he finally decided that his manhood wouldn't be too compromised by an ace bandage, so he wrapped his ankle. I considered it a small victory, but was careful not to gloat.
Then this past Friday, we were invited to a backyard barbecue for the 4th of July. There was grilling and watermelon and music and hanging out in camp chairs shooting the breeze and dogs chasing each other around.
And a trampoline.
Jason, being Jason, couldn't resist getting up and jumping with the kids. He then had the temerity to be surprised when about 10 minutes after he stopped, his ankle started swelling up like a water balloon attached to a firehose.
We got him some ice packs and some Advil and sat him down with his leg elevated.
And then I had to say the words that I've never uttered in the course of my marriage, and that I hope I never have to utter again:
"Honey, you're grounded."
In Australia, he was at the hospital with his dad and decided to get his ankle checked out. Turns out, it's broken. But did Jason get a cast or even wrap it? No, of course not!
When I asked him why he wasn't getting it cared for, his pat response was "aw, she'll be alright." (You have to imagine this with an Aussie accent to get the full effect. Translation: "No big deal. And casts are for pussies.")
After another week, he finally decided that his manhood wouldn't be too compromised by an ace bandage, so he wrapped his ankle. I considered it a small victory, but was careful not to gloat.
Then this past Friday, we were invited to a backyard barbecue for the 4th of July. There was grilling and watermelon and music and hanging out in camp chairs shooting the breeze and dogs chasing each other around.
And a trampoline.
Jason, being Jason, couldn't resist getting up and jumping with the kids. He then had the temerity to be surprised when about 10 minutes after he stopped, his ankle started swelling up like a water balloon attached to a firehose.We got him some ice packs and some Advil and sat him down with his leg elevated.
And then I had to say the words that I've never uttered in the course of my marriage, and that I hope I never have to utter again:
"Honey, you're grounded."
Monday, June 30, 2008
How I Learned to Start Living and Kick The Used To Blues
I've noticed lately that more and more, the phrase, "oh, I used to do that" seems to be popping out of my mouth.
"Wendy, is that a banjo? Do you play?"
"Yeah, kind of. I used to play alot. I actually used to be in a bluegrass band, if you can believe it. It's kind of funny, I used to hang out with this big group of musicians and they all called me Banjo Wendy. I didn't play for years, then I started playing again when I was pregnant with Zeke. But eventually then I got too big to hold the banjo comfortably, so I had to stop. I really need to start playing more often. My picking skills are so pitiful these days."
"I've been thinking about trying yoga. What do you think?"
"Oh, you'd love yoga. I used to do yoga all the time -- there was this great studio in Atlanta, near Georgia Tech, and I used to take ashtanga classes 2 or 3 times a week. I always felt spent but amazing afterwards. I should start again. We should go to a class together."
"Hey, I saw a tennis racket in your garage. Do you play?"
"Yeah, though it's been awhile. I used to play competitively in a league in Atlanta, but I haven't really played regularly since before I got knocked up. I need to start playing again."
"Wow, that's a beautiful bike!"
"Thanks! I actually haven't ridden in almost two years -- first I separated my shoulder, and then I got pregnant. But I used to ride all the time. My good friend Michelle and I used to do this great ride in southern Fulton County near the Atlanta airport on weekends. It was out in the country and we'd do 25 or 35 mile rides by these gorgeous farms with rolling hills and crowing roosters. I really miss those rides. I need to call Michelle."
Notice a pattern forming?
Apparently, I used to be a really active, interesting person who did all kinds of cool stuff. And now I'm this boring old mom who used to do all kinds of cool stuff, but let it all fall by the wayside.
But I've decided that I'm calling "bullshit" on myself. I'm only 38 years old. I'm in fantastic health. No way am I at a point where all I can do is look back on all the fun I used to have. Fuck that.
So two weeks ago, I started a weekly tennis game with my neighbor, Anne (who also used to play regularly). She's in the military and has access to great courts at one of the local bases, so we went and played a couple of sets. We were a little rusty, but after playing for a while our shots improved, and we had an amazing time.
In the middle of one game, she said, "we're not even done today and already I can't wait to play again next week."
I knew exactly how she felt. I love playing tennis. It's so much fun, and such a great way to spend time with a friend. Why had I stopped for so long? We played again this past Saturday, and again had a blast. Even after only one week, our play had definitely improved. We're going to look into getting a lesson with a pro to work on some of our rough spots, and we'll play again this Saturday. We're also going to try to catch a yoga class sometime this week.
Then yesterday, I got on my bike again.
I have this gorgeous racing bike that I bought for way too much money about 8 summers ago, when Lance was early in his string of Tour de France victories and the buzz around him and around the Tour was building to a frenzy. My buddy Michelle and I rode all the time together. The perfect Saturday: wake up early, meet at her house at 6 or 6:30, ride in the countryside for a few hours, and then chill out and read for the rest of the day on the porch.
I loved those rides. I love that bike.
That bike that's been sitting disassembled in a box in the garage since we arrived in Hawaii. And yes, I know I had an excuse, having been pregnant and all, but Zeke is 8 months old. He's been out of me almost as long as he was in me. Why did it take me so long to take the bike to the shop and have it put together? Why?
I have no idea. Because yesterday, I got on my bike, not having ridden in almost two years, and felt incredible. I went out and rode 20 miles without even realizing how far I was going. I saw parts of the island I've never seen, because even though they're practically a stone's throw from where I live, when I turn out of my neighborhood in the car, I always turned left instead of right.
But on a bike, you feel a certain freedom to go where you want, deviate from a planned route, and go exploring in a way you don't in a car -- certainly not with gas over $4 a gallon. So that road up that hill that looked like it had a pretty view? Check it out. That route that you suspected led to a gorgeous neighborhood right on the western edge of Pearl Harbor? See what's there.
So I go. I go as far as my lungs and legs will take me. And I feel incredibly alive.
Because I'm done with used to.
"Wendy, is that a banjo? Do you play?"
"Yeah, kind of. I used to play alot. I actually used to be in a bluegrass band, if you can believe it. It's kind of funny, I used to hang out with this big group of musicians and they all called me Banjo Wendy. I didn't play for years, then I started playing again when I was pregnant with Zeke. But eventually then I got too big to hold the banjo comfortably, so I had to stop. I really need to start playing more often. My picking skills are so pitiful these days."
"I've been thinking about trying yoga. What do you think?"
"Oh, you'd love yoga. I used to do yoga all the time -- there was this great studio in Atlanta, near Georgia Tech, and I used to take ashtanga classes 2 or 3 times a week. I always felt spent but amazing afterwards. I should start again. We should go to a class together."
"Hey, I saw a tennis racket in your garage. Do you play?"
"Yeah, though it's been awhile. I used to play competitively in a league in Atlanta, but I haven't really played regularly since before I got knocked up. I need to start playing again."
"Wow, that's a beautiful bike!"
"Thanks! I actually haven't ridden in almost two years -- first I separated my shoulder, and then I got pregnant. But I used to ride all the time. My good friend Michelle and I used to do this great ride in southern Fulton County near the Atlanta airport on weekends. It was out in the country and we'd do 25 or 35 mile rides by these gorgeous farms with rolling hills and crowing roosters. I really miss those rides. I need to call Michelle."
Notice a pattern forming?
Apparently, I used to be a really active, interesting person who did all kinds of cool stuff. And now I'm this boring old mom who used to do all kinds of cool stuff, but let it all fall by the wayside.
But I've decided that I'm calling "bullshit" on myself. I'm only 38 years old. I'm in fantastic health. No way am I at a point where all I can do is look back on all the fun I used to have. Fuck that.
So two weeks ago, I started a weekly tennis game with my neighbor, Anne (who also used to play regularly). She's in the military and has access to great courts at one of the local bases, so we went and played a couple of sets. We were a little rusty, but after playing for a while our shots improved, and we had an amazing time.
In the middle of one game, she said, "we're not even done today and already I can't wait to play again next week."
I knew exactly how she felt. I love playing tennis. It's so much fun, and such a great way to spend time with a friend. Why had I stopped for so long? We played again this past Saturday, and again had a blast. Even after only one week, our play had definitely improved. We're going to look into getting a lesson with a pro to work on some of our rough spots, and we'll play again this Saturday. We're also going to try to catch a yoga class sometime this week.
Then yesterday, I got on my bike again.
I have this gorgeous racing bike that I bought for way too much money about 8 summers ago, when Lance was early in his string of Tour de France victories and the buzz around him and around the Tour was building to a frenzy. My buddy Michelle and I rode all the time together. The perfect Saturday: wake up early, meet at her house at 6 or 6:30, ride in the countryside for a few hours, and then chill out and read for the rest of the day on the porch.
I loved those rides. I love that bike.
That bike that's been sitting disassembled in a box in the garage since we arrived in Hawaii. And yes, I know I had an excuse, having been pregnant and all, but Zeke is 8 months old. He's been out of me almost as long as he was in me. Why did it take me so long to take the bike to the shop and have it put together? Why?
I have no idea. Because yesterday, I got on my bike, not having ridden in almost two years, and felt incredible. I went out and rode 20 miles without even realizing how far I was going. I saw parts of the island I've never seen, because even though they're practically a stone's throw from where I live, when I turn out of my neighborhood in the car, I always turned left instead of right.
But on a bike, you feel a certain freedom to go where you want, deviate from a planned route, and go exploring in a way you don't in a car -- certainly not with gas over $4 a gallon. So that road up that hill that looked like it had a pretty view? Check it out. That route that you suspected led to a gorgeous neighborhood right on the western edge of Pearl Harbor? See what's there.
So I go. I go as far as my lungs and legs will take me. And I feel incredibly alive.
Because I'm done with used to.
Bombarded
I've got so much shit going on right now, I can barely think about it all. I feel like there are fireworks going off in my head. I had other things I wanted to write about today, but I feel like I need to vent a little bit.
Jason got fired again, for the same reason as before: too many travelers on jobs while guys from the local union sit at home. What-fucking-ever. Not to betray my socialist roots, but I think it's bullshit. Jason's bosses love him -- he's the smartest, hardest working guy they've got -- and they've gone to bat for him to try to keep him on the job, explaining to the company that they'll lose money by getting rid of him and bringing back guys that are slower and dumber. But the union guys are putting the pressure on, so they had to can him. He's got prospects for other work, and he can collect unemployment, but it's still got my blood pressure up.
In the meantime, my boss and I are trying to work out an arrangement through which I would work for him on an hourly basis rather than being on salary. We started talking numbers, and his numbers are way low. He keeps talking about what the going rate is for contract attorneys. And I had to explain that traditional contract attorneys are people that big firms bring in to do document review or big discovery productions in monster cases. Their work is tedious and requires no real intellectual or analytical effort, and as a result, their pay is shit. I'm not that kind of lawyer, I don't do that kind of mindless work, and I won't work for shit.
He's not being a dick about it, and I know we'll be able to work something out, but it's making me anxious nonetheless.
Zeke and Jason are coming home tomorrow. Jason had an indiscretion from way before he met me on his record, and the customs guys tend to give him a hard time when he enters the country. We took care of all of the legal stuff before we even got engaged, and worked everything out so that he could get his green card after we got married. But they still detain him and search him and harass him. The last time Jason went to Australia, when he came back into the country, he was detained by border patrol guys once again, and they actually accused him of having a fake green card. As if they couldn't just look up his alien number and other information in their computer, and confirm in about 3 seconds that he is actually a legal resident of this country. But no. A little power in the hands of someone who doesn't wield much of it in other areas of his life can be very dangerous.
Anyway, now he's traveling with an infant, and I'm terrified that after flying all night, my baby is going to be detained so that a bunch of assholes can swing their dicks around and abuse my husband for no reason. My mother has made some calls and has been assured that there shouldn't be a problem, but I won't feel secure until I see them with my own eyes.
Jason got fired again, for the same reason as before: too many travelers on jobs while guys from the local union sit at home. What-fucking-ever. Not to betray my socialist roots, but I think it's bullshit. Jason's bosses love him -- he's the smartest, hardest working guy they've got -- and they've gone to bat for him to try to keep him on the job, explaining to the company that they'll lose money by getting rid of him and bringing back guys that are slower and dumber. But the union guys are putting the pressure on, so they had to can him. He's got prospects for other work, and he can collect unemployment, but it's still got my blood pressure up.
In the meantime, my boss and I are trying to work out an arrangement through which I would work for him on an hourly basis rather than being on salary. We started talking numbers, and his numbers are way low. He keeps talking about what the going rate is for contract attorneys. And I had to explain that traditional contract attorneys are people that big firms bring in to do document review or big discovery productions in monster cases. Their work is tedious and requires no real intellectual or analytical effort, and as a result, their pay is shit. I'm not that kind of lawyer, I don't do that kind of mindless work, and I won't work for shit.
He's not being a dick about it, and I know we'll be able to work something out, but it's making me anxious nonetheless.
Zeke and Jason are coming home tomorrow. Jason had an indiscretion from way before he met me on his record, and the customs guys tend to give him a hard time when he enters the country. We took care of all of the legal stuff before we even got engaged, and worked everything out so that he could get his green card after we got married. But they still detain him and search him and harass him. The last time Jason went to Australia, when he came back into the country, he was detained by border patrol guys once again, and they actually accused him of having a fake green card. As if they couldn't just look up his alien number and other information in their computer, and confirm in about 3 seconds that he is actually a legal resident of this country. But no. A little power in the hands of someone who doesn't wield much of it in other areas of his life can be very dangerous.
Anyway, now he's traveling with an infant, and I'm terrified that after flying all night, my baby is going to be detained so that a bunch of assholes can swing their dicks around and abuse my husband for no reason. My mother has made some calls and has been assured that there shouldn't be a problem, but I won't feel secure until I see them with my own eyes.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Home Alone
These past few days have shown me that I could easily become a recluse. With the exception of making idle chatter with the guy at the checkout counter at the grocery store, or explaining to the guy at the bike shop what needs to be fixed on Jason's bike, I have had no real face to face interaction with a human being since Jason and Zeke left. And while I miss my husband and my baby, I haven't really minded being so alone.
Don't get me wrong. I like people from a distance. I don't mind talking on the phone. I watch my news shows. Right now I've got Wimbledon on the TV as I type this. I read my blogs. I read my books. I'm interested in what other people do.
But I'm terrible at meaningless chit-chat. Most people I meet bore me. And, truth be told, I often feel uncomfortable in social situations, like I don't fit in or like people don't like me or think I'm weird (which I probably am). So it's easier to be by myself.
The strange thing is, I often really enjoy being out with friends. This weekend I'm playing tennis with Anne, my friend who's doing the cleanse with me, and I'm really looking forward to it. She's smart and fun to be with, and I love playing tennis, so it should be a grand outing. When it comes to my closest friends, like Kathleen or Michele or Elizabeth, I always love spending time with them, because I feel like I can be myself around them.
In the meantime, I don't mind being a hermit.
Speaking of the cleanse, I'm feeling great. I've been reading and learning about food and nutrition, and it's making me be much more thoughtful about eating. I'm off of red meat for good, I think. I'll probably eat chicken and fish sparingly. I'll eat whole grains and whole wheat pastas, but probably limit the amount of bread that I eat. I doubt I'll consume dairy the way I used to. And for sure, I'm done with sugar and caffeine.
The thing that I have noticed since I started the cleanse is that all of a sudden, I feel much calmer. The depression and anxiety that are an almost constant physical presence -- a flutter in my gut, a tightness in my chest -- are gone. And the reason I'm fairly sure it's the sugar is that yesterday, I had a piece of gluten-free rice bread toasted with some agave nectar on top. Agave nectar is touted as a great sugar substitute -- it's like honey, but sweeter and less viscous -- but unlike stevia, it has sucrose and fructose in it. And within minutes of eating it, I felt gross and kind of jittery.
It's only the first week, so I'll be really curious to see how I feel at the end of the three weeks. Based on how it's going so far, I'm optimistic. At the very least, I'm learning so much, it's really fun and interesting.
Don't get me wrong. I like people from a distance. I don't mind talking on the phone. I watch my news shows. Right now I've got Wimbledon on the TV as I type this. I read my blogs. I read my books. I'm interested in what other people do.
But I'm terrible at meaningless chit-chat. Most people I meet bore me. And, truth be told, I often feel uncomfortable in social situations, like I don't fit in or like people don't like me or think I'm weird (which I probably am). So it's easier to be by myself.
The strange thing is, I often really enjoy being out with friends. This weekend I'm playing tennis with Anne, my friend who's doing the cleanse with me, and I'm really looking forward to it. She's smart and fun to be with, and I love playing tennis, so it should be a grand outing. When it comes to my closest friends, like Kathleen or Michele or Elizabeth, I always love spending time with them, because I feel like I can be myself around them.
In the meantime, I don't mind being a hermit.
Speaking of the cleanse, I'm feeling great. I've been reading and learning about food and nutrition, and it's making me be much more thoughtful about eating. I'm off of red meat for good, I think. I'll probably eat chicken and fish sparingly. I'll eat whole grains and whole wheat pastas, but probably limit the amount of bread that I eat. I doubt I'll consume dairy the way I used to. And for sure, I'm done with sugar and caffeine.
The thing that I have noticed since I started the cleanse is that all of a sudden, I feel much calmer. The depression and anxiety that are an almost constant physical presence -- a flutter in my gut, a tightness in my chest -- are gone. And the reason I'm fairly sure it's the sugar is that yesterday, I had a piece of gluten-free rice bread toasted with some agave nectar on top. Agave nectar is touted as a great sugar substitute -- it's like honey, but sweeter and less viscous -- but unlike stevia, it has sucrose and fructose in it. And within minutes of eating it, I felt gross and kind of jittery.
It's only the first week, so I'll be really curious to see how I feel at the end of the three weeks. Based on how it's going so far, I'm optimistic. At the very least, I'm learning so much, it's really fun and interesting.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Excuse me for a moment while I get up on my soapbox. Ok, here goes...
The cleanse is going well. I'm having no trouble staying on track and I haven't really had any unmanageable cravings. Amazingly, I haven't been particularly hungry or had much appetite. I guess not having sugar or caffeine keeps me from having big hunger spikes. I've even lost a couple of pounds, much to my surprise. I haven't had a dramatic burst of energy yet, but I feel good and am actually enjoying the deliberation and care I'm putting into my food choices.
The biggest shock has been the discovery that gluten is in fucking everything. Here I was, cheerfully munching on my vegan Boca Burger and seasoning my stir-fry with soy sauce, only to have my friend Michele (a very smart doctor) inform me that both contain wheat gluten.
WTF? I thought gluten was just in bread and pasta and stuff like that. But no, it's in virtually every sauce and every type of processed food, even the ones that are good for you. For people that have actual gluten allergies, and aren't just temporarily cutting gluten out as part of a cleanse, finding stuff to eat must be a bitch.
I've been watching all of these shows lately (I think on Bravo, can't remember) about the epidemic of obesity and diabetes in this country. And I while I'm way too vain to ever allow myself to gain more than 5 pounds or so before the alarm bells start going off, I can see how people could eat what they think is a relatively normal diet, yet they pack on the pounds, little by little, until one day they look in the mirror or step on the scale and realize their health is in jeopardy and they need to lose a significant amount of weight. Everything has sugar in it. Everything has high fructose corn syrup in it. Everything has enriched flour and rice that has been stripped of all nutrients or fiber and is basically just junk. Everything has saturated fats. Portions are way too big. I look at those Pizza Hut ads for the "P'zone," which is basically a pizza folded over to make a calzone that, according to the ad, is over a pound of dough, cheese, meats and sauce, and I want to call Pizza Hut and yell at them. No human being should ever be eating that much food in one sitting.
And eating healthy is expensive. Fresh produce is pricey, especially these days. Good, unprocessed foods are much costlier, and more difficult to find, than less healthy stuff. A packet of ramen noodles is 20 cents, for God's sake. If you're short on money and looking to get full, you could do plenty worse. But you wouldn't be doing much for your body.
I'm not sure why I'm getting so worked up. I guess it just bums me out that we're bombarded with messages about how we need to eat better and exercise more, but there are many, many obstacles put in our way when it comes to actually doing it.
The biggest shock has been the discovery that gluten is in fucking everything. Here I was, cheerfully munching on my vegan Boca Burger and seasoning my stir-fry with soy sauce, only to have my friend Michele (a very smart doctor) inform me that both contain wheat gluten.
WTF? I thought gluten was just in bread and pasta and stuff like that. But no, it's in virtually every sauce and every type of processed food, even the ones that are good for you. For people that have actual gluten allergies, and aren't just temporarily cutting gluten out as part of a cleanse, finding stuff to eat must be a bitch.
I've been watching all of these shows lately (I think on Bravo, can't remember) about the epidemic of obesity and diabetes in this country. And I while I'm way too vain to ever allow myself to gain more than 5 pounds or so before the alarm bells start going off, I can see how people could eat what they think is a relatively normal diet, yet they pack on the pounds, little by little, until one day they look in the mirror or step on the scale and realize their health is in jeopardy and they need to lose a significant amount of weight. Everything has sugar in it. Everything has high fructose corn syrup in it. Everything has enriched flour and rice that has been stripped of all nutrients or fiber and is basically just junk. Everything has saturated fats. Portions are way too big. I look at those Pizza Hut ads for the "P'zone," which is basically a pizza folded over to make a calzone that, according to the ad, is over a pound of dough, cheese, meats and sauce, and I want to call Pizza Hut and yell at them. No human being should ever be eating that much food in one sitting.
And eating healthy is expensive. Fresh produce is pricey, especially these days. Good, unprocessed foods are much costlier, and more difficult to find, than less healthy stuff. A packet of ramen noodles is 20 cents, for God's sake. If you're short on money and looking to get full, you could do plenty worse. But you wouldn't be doing much for your body.
I'm not sure why I'm getting so worked up. I guess it just bums me out that we're bombarded with messages about how we need to eat better and exercise more, but there are many, many obstacles put in our way when it comes to actually doing it.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Adrift
I feel like I'm rattling around the house like a loose marble. Jason and Zeke left for Australia this morning, so I'm by myself for a week.
It feels very strange. My days are ordinarily so structured. I get up at around 5. Zeke wakes up at around 6:30. I take him and the dog for a stroll, then get Zeke dressed and take him to school. I get home at around 7:45, have some breakfast, and then settle in at my desk to do some work (or some blogging or some Scrabulous). I have something to eat at around 11:30. I take the dog for another walk. I do a little more work. I watch Countdown on MSNBC at 2 p.m. I do some cleaning. Jason gets home at around 4 and we head up to the daycare to pick up Zeke. We take the dog and the baby for another walk. We feed Zeke and take him outside to play with him for a little while. We give him a bath. We read stories, sing songs, and put him to bed. We have dinner, read or watch some TV, and go to sleep.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
For the next week, I don't have to wake up to feed anyone in the middle of the night, clean up after anyone else, cook for anyone else, bathe anyone else or do anyone else's laundry. I can go to the movies and not have to get a babysitter.
It sounds good in theory. I kept saying, "what am I going to do with myself all week while y'all are gone?" And Jason was all, "woooo, party!!" Like the minute he's out the door I'll be on the phone ordering some strippers with bottles of tequila tucked into their g-strings.
Um, have you met me, honey?
I'll probably spend the week by myself cleaning, painting and reading. I'll probably go surfing a couple of mornings. I'll sleep. I'll load up the top of my Netflix queue with all of the artsy movies Jason won't watch with me.
Which, again, sounds good in theory. But I love my husband and my baby. I love cleaning up the baby food that Zeke has catapulted off his spoon into my hair or onto the floor. I love singing him to sleep. I like watching crappy action movies with Jason while pretending to be disdainful of them. I love walking into Zeke's room first thing in the morning to find him clapping his hands and chattering to himself. When he sees me, he gives me this huge smile that makes me melt.
Time to myself is all well and good, but too much of it and I start to get a little crazy. Too much in my own head, which can be a scary place to be.
But it's only a week. I'll survive.
Now, where did I put that number for Chippendales.....
It feels very strange. My days are ordinarily so structured. I get up at around 5. Zeke wakes up at around 6:30. I take him and the dog for a stroll, then get Zeke dressed and take him to school. I get home at around 7:45, have some breakfast, and then settle in at my desk to do some work (or some blogging or some Scrabulous). I have something to eat at around 11:30. I take the dog for another walk. I do a little more work. I watch Countdown on MSNBC at 2 p.m. I do some cleaning. Jason gets home at around 4 and we head up to the daycare to pick up Zeke. We take the dog and the baby for another walk. We feed Zeke and take him outside to play with him for a little while. We give him a bath. We read stories, sing songs, and put him to bed. We have dinner, read or watch some TV, and go to sleep.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
For the next week, I don't have to wake up to feed anyone in the middle of the night, clean up after anyone else, cook for anyone else, bathe anyone else or do anyone else's laundry. I can go to the movies and not have to get a babysitter.
It sounds good in theory. I kept saying, "what am I going to do with myself all week while y'all are gone?" And Jason was all, "woooo, party!!" Like the minute he's out the door I'll be on the phone ordering some strippers with bottles of tequila tucked into their g-strings.
Um, have you met me, honey?
I'll probably spend the week by myself cleaning, painting and reading. I'll probably go surfing a couple of mornings. I'll sleep. I'll load up the top of my Netflix queue with all of the artsy movies Jason won't watch with me.
Which, again, sounds good in theory. But I love my husband and my baby. I love cleaning up the baby food that Zeke has catapulted off his spoon into my hair or onto the floor. I love singing him to sleep. I like watching crappy action movies with Jason while pretending to be disdainful of them. I love walking into Zeke's room first thing in the morning to find him clapping his hands and chattering to himself. When he sees me, he gives me this huge smile that makes me melt.
Time to myself is all well and good, but too much of it and I start to get a little crazy. Too much in my own head, which can be a scary place to be.
But it's only a week. I'll survive.
Now, where did I put that number for Chippendales.....
Monday, June 23, 2008
Easy cleansing
My neighbor, Anne, and I have decided to do the three week detoxing cleanse that Oprah did a little while back. It's a three week process where you cut all potential toxins and allergens from your diet. Supposedly, people who do this feel more energized and healthy, they lose weight, and they just generally feel great. Anne and I have both been feeling like we could eat healthier and improve our energy levels, so we're doing it together.
Oh, and don't get on my case about getting all Oprah-fied. I heard about it from Dooce, so no, I haven't drunk the Oprah Kool-Aid. Now please shut up so I can get back to figuring out how to live my best, regret-free life while reading lots of Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison books.
Anyway, for three weeks, we're cutting out all caffeine, alcohol, sugar, gluten and animal products. So no triple grande lattes for me, or bread or pasta or ice cream or yogurt or cheese or eggs or steak or chicken. Or beer. Or wine. Or apple pie. Or deviled eggs. The list is obviously quite long.
Anne and I were talking to Cindy about this the other day, and Cindy said that, for a number of reasons, she could never do a diet like that. That, in addition to depriving yourself of things you might like, it's too complicated and too difficult to adhere to. She went so far as to suggest that anyone who chooses to eat like that is obviously insane and couldn't possibly be happy. So, all you vegans out there, I guess it sucks to be you.
But the truth is, it's not that hard. I only drink one cup of coffee a day, and I don't drink sodas, so the caffeine won't be a big deal. I rarely drink alcohol -- maybe one beer a week, and I usually don't finish it -- so that part will be easy. I don't really have much of a sweet tooth. So it's cutting out the diary, meat and gluten that will pose a challenge.
Yesterday was my first day, and I had no trouble finding stuff to eat that was yummy and satisfying. Breakfast was oatmeal with raspberries and vanilla soy milk (which is delicious -- they've definitely improved the formula). Lunch was a Boca Burger and a spinach salad with vegan cheese, soy bacon and Italian dressing. Snack was an apple with almond butter, and dinner was stir-fry with broccoli, asparagus, tofu and brown rice, seasoned with garlic, chili oil and soy sauce. It was really good. And amazingly, Jason -- who is about as meat and potatoes as they come -- thought it was really good, too.
As I explained to Cindy, eating a new way isn't all that complicated. Unless you eat out at restaurants frequently -- which I don't -- the way you eat is dictated by a few simple steps:
1. Make a list.
2. Go to the store.
3. Buy stuff.
4. Go home and eat the stuff you bought.
Doing this cleanse isn't any different. The only real change is in the stuff I choose at the store. The rest is the same.
It's Day 2. I'm feeling fine. I'm not craving Oreos or a western omelette. I had a little caffeine headache yesterday, but nothing today. I'll keep y'all posted.
Oh, and don't get on my case about getting all Oprah-fied. I heard about it from Dooce, so no, I haven't drunk the Oprah Kool-Aid. Now please shut up so I can get back to figuring out how to live my best, regret-free life while reading lots of Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison books.
Anyway, for three weeks, we're cutting out all caffeine, alcohol, sugar, gluten and animal products. So no triple grande lattes for me, or bread or pasta or ice cream or yogurt or cheese or eggs or steak or chicken. Or beer. Or wine. Or apple pie. Or deviled eggs. The list is obviously quite long.
Anne and I were talking to Cindy about this the other day, and Cindy said that, for a number of reasons, she could never do a diet like that. That, in addition to depriving yourself of things you might like, it's too complicated and too difficult to adhere to. She went so far as to suggest that anyone who chooses to eat like that is obviously insane and couldn't possibly be happy. So, all you vegans out there, I guess it sucks to be you.
But the truth is, it's not that hard. I only drink one cup of coffee a day, and I don't drink sodas, so the caffeine won't be a big deal. I rarely drink alcohol -- maybe one beer a week, and I usually don't finish it -- so that part will be easy. I don't really have much of a sweet tooth. So it's cutting out the diary, meat and gluten that will pose a challenge.
Yesterday was my first day, and I had no trouble finding stuff to eat that was yummy and satisfying. Breakfast was oatmeal with raspberries and vanilla soy milk (which is delicious -- they've definitely improved the formula). Lunch was a Boca Burger and a spinach salad with vegan cheese, soy bacon and Italian dressing. Snack was an apple with almond butter, and dinner was stir-fry with broccoli, asparagus, tofu and brown rice, seasoned with garlic, chili oil and soy sauce. It was really good. And amazingly, Jason -- who is about as meat and potatoes as they come -- thought it was really good, too.
As I explained to Cindy, eating a new way isn't all that complicated. Unless you eat out at restaurants frequently -- which I don't -- the way you eat is dictated by a few simple steps:
1. Make a list.
2. Go to the store.
3. Buy stuff.
4. Go home and eat the stuff you bought.
Doing this cleanse isn't any different. The only real change is in the stuff I choose at the store. The rest is the same.
It's Day 2. I'm feeling fine. I'm not craving Oreos or a western omelette. I had a little caffeine headache yesterday, but nothing today. I'll keep y'all posted.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
A plea to help preserve my sanity
Dear Pfizer:
Congratulations on your success with Viagra. Really, it's great. I remember when the product first came out over ten years ago, and how much buzz there was, particularly because of the windfall that was going to rain down on the heads of people that owned your stock. Kudos to all of them.
Since Viagra was introduced, it has unquestionably become a part of our national (and probably international) zeitgeist. It shows up in TV shows and movies. Late night chat show hosts make jokes about it. Insurance companies cover it for men who feel they need it. I guess I never realized that there was such an epidemic of "ED," but I'm certainly thrilled that the afflicted masses are once again happily tumescent (though not for more than 4 hours -- apparently that's bad).
My point is, it's out there, and everybody knows about it, and anybody who might feel the need for it knows where to go to get it.
Which brings me to my current request.
Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, please please please, take those horrible ads off my TV featuring groups of guys hanging out and enthusiastically jamming to a bastardized version of Elvis's "Viva Las Vegas." I often have political TV on in the background when I work, and I guess you're a big sponsor of MSNBC (and good for them, really), because multiple times a day, one of those ads comes on. And every time, I throw up in my mouth a little bit and have an overwhelming desire to stab my eyes and ears with stiff, hot pokers.
And it's not just because the adaptation of Elvis's song is a musical and lyrical abomination, or because the men are overwhelmingly creepy in their ebullience over their impending boners.
No, I'm mostly just embarrassed for the actors. Being a working actor -- a working stiff -- is tough. If you're hard up for work and looking for a steady gig, the royalties from a drug company ad are probably hard to pass up, even if it means making a monstrous ass of yourself and having that ass-iness broadcast from coast to coast for all to see. When I watch these guys, a part of me dies inside because I know that a part of them is dying inside as well.
I don't begrudge you your right to advertise, though given that your product is now to erectile dysfunction what Xerox is to photocopying, I'm not sure it's necessary. Hell, even ex-presidential candidates shill for you!! So I know there must be ways of getting the message out other than your "Viva Viagra" campaign (and seriously, I feel nauseated just typing those words). Levitra and Cialis have managed to developed advertising campaigns that don't make me want to commit hari kari (though I've never understood the point of Cialis's "admiring the pretty view from separate bathtubs" theme -- if you're going to have sex with someone, how do you do it from separate bathtubs? -- but I digress).
I don't mean to be overly rigid about this, but I must insist that you come up with a different campaign. But don't worry -- I have confidence that you can come up with something appropriate that's less vomit-inducing and less damaging to the self-esteem of all of those poor actors. You're Pfizer, after all! Of all the companies in the ED club, you're the leading member! You're solid, upstanding guys -- I know you can do it.
Thanks in advance. You'll be doing a massive service to me and everyone I know.
Love,
Wendy
Congratulations on your success with Viagra. Really, it's great. I remember when the product first came out over ten years ago, and how much buzz there was, particularly because of the windfall that was going to rain down on the heads of people that owned your stock. Kudos to all of them.
Since Viagra was introduced, it has unquestionably become a part of our national (and probably international) zeitgeist. It shows up in TV shows and movies. Late night chat show hosts make jokes about it. Insurance companies cover it for men who feel they need it. I guess I never realized that there was such an epidemic of "ED," but I'm certainly thrilled that the afflicted masses are once again happily tumescent (though not for more than 4 hours -- apparently that's bad).
My point is, it's out there, and everybody knows about it, and anybody who might feel the need for it knows where to go to get it.
Which brings me to my current request.
Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, please please please, take those horrible ads off my TV featuring groups of guys hanging out and enthusiastically jamming to a bastardized version of Elvis's "Viva Las Vegas." I often have political TV on in the background when I work, and I guess you're a big sponsor of MSNBC (and good for them, really), because multiple times a day, one of those ads comes on. And every time, I throw up in my mouth a little bit and have an overwhelming desire to stab my eyes and ears with stiff, hot pokers.
And it's not just because the adaptation of Elvis's song is a musical and lyrical abomination, or because the men are overwhelmingly creepy in their ebullience over their impending boners.
No, I'm mostly just embarrassed for the actors. Being a working actor -- a working stiff -- is tough. If you're hard up for work and looking for a steady gig, the royalties from a drug company ad are probably hard to pass up, even if it means making a monstrous ass of yourself and having that ass-iness broadcast from coast to coast for all to see. When I watch these guys, a part of me dies inside because I know that a part of them is dying inside as well.
I don't begrudge you your right to advertise, though given that your product is now to erectile dysfunction what Xerox is to photocopying, I'm not sure it's necessary. Hell, even ex-presidential candidates shill for you!! So I know there must be ways of getting the message out other than your "Viva Viagra" campaign (and seriously, I feel nauseated just typing those words). Levitra and Cialis have managed to developed advertising campaigns that don't make me want to commit hari kari (though I've never understood the point of Cialis's "admiring the pretty view from separate bathtubs" theme -- if you're going to have sex with someone, how do you do it from separate bathtubs? -- but I digress).
I don't mean to be overly rigid about this, but I must insist that you come up with a different campaign. But don't worry -- I have confidence that you can come up with something appropriate that's less vomit-inducing and less damaging to the self-esteem of all of those poor actors. You're Pfizer, after all! Of all the companies in the ED club, you're the leading member! You're solid, upstanding guys -- I know you can do it.
Thanks in advance. You'll be doing a massive service to me and everyone I know.
Love,
Wendy
Felicita
A woman I know (I'll call her Cindy) is between jobs and looking for something new. She's not sure what. The other day Cindy and I were chatting and I asked if she had ever considered going back to school.
She gave me the Survivorman face and sneered, "Why?"
I fumbled for an answer. "Well, what are you interested in? Maybe you could learn a new skill and pursue a new career."
"I'm not really interested in anything," she said.
Her response stunned me. If I were independently wealthy, I would, in between traveling around the world, volunteer part-time at Legal Aid and spend the rest of my life as a student. I'd take literature courses, political science courses, learn how to paint, learn how to work with wood, learn languages, go to culinary school. I can't imagine a more ideal existence. The thought of someone having no desire to learn anything new makes me sad.
I heard somewhere once that happiness is best defined as the pursuit of attainable goals. I googled it but didn't find anything that triggered any memories, so it's probably from a movie I saw. Anyway, that makes sense to me. I'm at my happiest when I'm learning something or trying something challenging or looking forward to something.
So I've decided to learn Italian.
I've been feeling kind of blah and stagnant lately, but my neighbor gave me a couple of Rosetta Stone discs with about 15 different languages on them. I love the way Italian sounds (plus I could follow Italian opera without the supertitles), so I started working my way through the lessons, about 45 minutes a day. I now know a bunch of nouns and verbs and adjectives, and can put rudimentary sentences together. I walk into Zeke's room in the morning and say, "buon giorno, bambino!" If I'm outside and I see a bird in the sky, I think to myself, "l'uccello sta volando."
I'm having a blast.
When I'm done with Italian, maybe I'll tackle French.
She gave me the Survivorman face and sneered, "Why?"
I fumbled for an answer. "Well, what are you interested in? Maybe you could learn a new skill and pursue a new career."
"I'm not really interested in anything," she said.
Her response stunned me. If I were independently wealthy, I would, in between traveling around the world, volunteer part-time at Legal Aid and spend the rest of my life as a student. I'd take literature courses, political science courses, learn how to paint, learn how to work with wood, learn languages, go to culinary school. I can't imagine a more ideal existence. The thought of someone having no desire to learn anything new makes me sad.
I heard somewhere once that happiness is best defined as the pursuit of attainable goals. I googled it but didn't find anything that triggered any memories, so it's probably from a movie I saw. Anyway, that makes sense to me. I'm at my happiest when I'm learning something or trying something challenging or looking forward to something.
So I've decided to learn Italian.
I've been feeling kind of blah and stagnant lately, but my neighbor gave me a couple of Rosetta Stone discs with about 15 different languages on them. I love the way Italian sounds (plus I could follow Italian opera without the supertitles), so I started working my way through the lessons, about 45 minutes a day. I now know a bunch of nouns and verbs and adjectives, and can put rudimentary sentences together. I walk into Zeke's room in the morning and say, "buon giorno, bambino!" If I'm outside and I see a bird in the sky, I think to myself, "l'uccello sta volando."
I'm having a blast.
When I'm done with Italian, maybe I'll tackle French.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad
My parents met in when my dad was home in Detroit for a little while between assignments or between jobs or something like that. He asked his younger sister, who was friends with my mom, to fix him up on a date. He said he wanted someone cute and smart to hang out with, but that it wasn't going to be anything serious.
Their first date was a basketball game. One of the teams ran a pick-and-roll. My dad leaned over to my mom and said, "that's a pick and roll. That's when the team on offense--"
She cut him off. "I know what a pick and roll is."
And that was it for him. He was sunk.
They were married 41 years ago today. As far as I can tell, they are as happy together and have as much fun together as they ever did.
What I find remarkable isn't so much that their marriage has stayed strong for so long, but how young they were when they met and married. My mother was 22 and my dad was 24 when they got married.
That blows my mind.
When I was 22, I was in law school. I was mature enough to handle my life, but absolutely nowhere near ready to get married. When it came to men, I was an idiot at 22. I look at the guys that I was attracted to or dated or had crushes on back then, and there's no way any of them would have been right for me. I didn't get married until I was 35, and even though I'd like to have a little more time to have children, (by the time my mom was 35, she had 3 kids, the oldest of whom was 10), I'm glad I waited, because I simply wasn't ready before.
I think there are a couple of reasons my parents' relationship stayed so strong. My dad is a goofball, and my mom thinks he's hilarious. He tells the same jokes over and over, and she continues to laugh. They're also both really smart, and they have similar interests -- politics, books, art, travel. But they also both pursue separate interests - my mom goes to the opera with her best friend, reads mystery novels that my dad looks down his nose at, and can watch the same movies over and over. My dad likes to go on long solo bike rides, reads almost nothing but history books, and is obsessed with college sports.
When we've talked about it, my mom has pointed out that marriage is really a crap shoot. People change over time, and for every couple that weathers those changes and grows together, there's another that simply grows apart. Who they were when they met is vastly different from who they are years later.
I love Jason. But I'm a realist. I have no idea if we will still be together 40 years from now (assuming we're both alive). I'd like to think we will be, but you never know.
In any event, I feel lucky to have such a wonderful example of a strong marriage set for me. In addition to being great parents and great people, when I'm trying to figure out how to deal with a problem in my marriage, it's nice to have such a great couple as my mom and dad to look up to.
Their first date was a basketball game. One of the teams ran a pick-and-roll. My dad leaned over to my mom and said, "that's a pick and roll. That's when the team on offense--"
She cut him off. "I know what a pick and roll is."
And that was it for him. He was sunk.
They were married 41 years ago today. As far as I can tell, they are as happy together and have as much fun together as they ever did.
What I find remarkable isn't so much that their marriage has stayed strong for so long, but how young they were when they met and married. My mother was 22 and my dad was 24 when they got married.
That blows my mind.
When I was 22, I was in law school. I was mature enough to handle my life, but absolutely nowhere near ready to get married. When it came to men, I was an idiot at 22. I look at the guys that I was attracted to or dated or had crushes on back then, and there's no way any of them would have been right for me. I didn't get married until I was 35, and even though I'd like to have a little more time to have children, (by the time my mom was 35, she had 3 kids, the oldest of whom was 10), I'm glad I waited, because I simply wasn't ready before.
I think there are a couple of reasons my parents' relationship stayed so strong. My dad is a goofball, and my mom thinks he's hilarious. He tells the same jokes over and over, and she continues to laugh. They're also both really smart, and they have similar interests -- politics, books, art, travel. But they also both pursue separate interests - my mom goes to the opera with her best friend, reads mystery novels that my dad looks down his nose at, and can watch the same movies over and over. My dad likes to go on long solo bike rides, reads almost nothing but history books, and is obsessed with college sports.
When we've talked about it, my mom has pointed out that marriage is really a crap shoot. People change over time, and for every couple that weathers those changes and grows together, there's another that simply grows apart. Who they were when they met is vastly different from who they are years later.
I love Jason. But I'm a realist. I have no idea if we will still be together 40 years from now (assuming we're both alive). I'd like to think we will be, but you never know.
In any event, I feel lucky to have such a wonderful example of a strong marriage set for me. In addition to being great parents and great people, when I'm trying to figure out how to deal with a problem in my marriage, it's nice to have such a great couple as my mom and dad to look up to.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Lurrve
There's a great scene in Annie Hall in which Annie (Diane Keaton) asks Alvy (Woody Allen) if he loves her. Alvy explains that the word "love" is inadequate to describe what he feels for her, so he needs to make up new words to describe it. He "luffs" her. He "lurrves" her.
That's how I feel about Zeke.
Before having a child, I didn't really understand the depth of love I would feel for my child. I knew I would love him, but like Alvy, I feel like "love" is inadequate to describe the feeling. What I feel for him is so powerful that it has physical manifestations, like a flutter in my gut and my chest.
It's kind of like depression.
That may sound like a weird analogy, but when people who have never felt depressed ask me what it's like when I'm in the midst of a depressive downward spiral, I explain that it's not so much just thinking things that are sad or depressing. It's physical. It's a big heavy iron ball in my chest, weighing me down. Like I need to take deep breaths but can't because my soul feels so leaden.
This past weekend I was putting Zeke to sleep. We were sitting in the rocker and he was very drowsy, so I put him in his crib. He lay there for a second, and then started to clap his hands and kick his legs and laugh. I sat down in the rocker again, hoping he wouldn't realize I was still there, but wanting to see what he would do. He popped his head up over the crib bumper and yelled "hah!" when he saw me, then started giggling. It was so cute and funny that I cracked up. He put his head down so that his view of me was obscured, then popped up again and yelled "hah!" again, and immediately guffawed this awesome belly laugh. We did this for another few minutes, and then finally I gave him a kiss and left the room, and he settled down and went to sleep.
And thus was our first official game of "peek-a-boo." It was so funny and wonderful that I almost started to cry from the wave of love/lurrve/luff that flowed through me.
I think about when he grows up and wonder what he'll be like and what he'll be interested in and where he'll live. It'll probably be far away from me. It breaks my heart to think of not being able to see him whenever I want.
I don't know how my parents do it. And I feel guilty for being so far away from them.
That's how I feel about Zeke.
Before having a child, I didn't really understand the depth of love I would feel for my child. I knew I would love him, but like Alvy, I feel like "love" is inadequate to describe the feeling. What I feel for him is so powerful that it has physical manifestations, like a flutter in my gut and my chest.
It's kind of like depression.
That may sound like a weird analogy, but when people who have never felt depressed ask me what it's like when I'm in the midst of a depressive downward spiral, I explain that it's not so much just thinking things that are sad or depressing. It's physical. It's a big heavy iron ball in my chest, weighing me down. Like I need to take deep breaths but can't because my soul feels so leaden.
This past weekend I was putting Zeke to sleep. We were sitting in the rocker and he was very drowsy, so I put him in his crib. He lay there for a second, and then started to clap his hands and kick his legs and laugh. I sat down in the rocker again, hoping he wouldn't realize I was still there, but wanting to see what he would do. He popped his head up over the crib bumper and yelled "hah!" when he saw me, then started giggling. It was so cute and funny that I cracked up. He put his head down so that his view of me was obscured, then popped up again and yelled "hah!" again, and immediately guffawed this awesome belly laugh. We did this for another few minutes, and then finally I gave him a kiss and left the room, and he settled down and went to sleep.
And thus was our first official game of "peek-a-boo." It was so funny and wonderful that I almost started to cry from the wave of love/lurrve/luff that flowed through me.
I think about when he grows up and wonder what he'll be like and what he'll be interested in and where he'll live. It'll probably be far away from me. It breaks my heart to think of not being able to see him whenever I want.
I don't know how my parents do it. And I feel guilty for being so far away from them.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Compromising
I originally started this blog as a way of keeping up with family and friends from far away (yes, I started it in Atlanta, but knowing that we would be going to Hawaii soon). It's evolved from being a newsletter of sorts to a diary of sorts. In addition to talking about the mundane details of my daily life, I've talked about depression and motherhood and gotten into emotional stuff.
The more I've written about what's going on with me personally, the more I've vowed not to self-censor. Only one time did I alter a post, and it was at the request of people that I love and for legitimate reasons. I was still able to get my point across, but without potentially enflaming an already flammable situation, so I didn't feel too compromised.
But as more and more people that know me in The Real World come to read this blog, the more I feel constrained to self-edit either to avoid unnecessary conflict or strife with people that might be the subjects of a particular post. It's a problem of my own making -- I freely talk about this site and invite people to read it. But as a result, I'm finding that if I want to talk about some of the heavy shit I'm going through, I either have to make it so vague as to render it incomprehensible to anyone but me, or simply create a new, completely anonymous account and start a different blog in which names and places might be changed to protect the guilty, but all other details can be discussed.
My life out here can be very lonely. I spend alot of time by myself, and I don't have any close girlfriends here that I can talk to. So this writing is kind of my therapy. And if I have to do it in a way that's constrained, in order to be sensitive to people's privacy -- including my own -- it kind of loses its value to me.
I haven't made a final decision as to what to do about it yet.
In the meantime, I guess I'll be vague.
An iconic movie from my teenage years is The Breakfast Club. So angsty, so Brat-Pack-y, so "oh, John Hughes feels my pain."
It's also got some really good acting, particularly by Ally Sheedy and Anthony Michael Hall.
There's a scene in which the kids are talking about how misunderstood and put upon they are by their parents, and Ally Sheedy's character -- the basket case -- is asked, "what do they do to you?"
And in one of the more perfect line deliveries I've ever seen, you can almost see her heart breaking as she responds, "they ignore me."
That line always killed me. Because as rough as it is to be overtly mistreated by people that are supposed to love you, it's even worse when they just act like you're not there.
The more I've written about what's going on with me personally, the more I've vowed not to self-censor. Only one time did I alter a post, and it was at the request of people that I love and for legitimate reasons. I was still able to get my point across, but without potentially enflaming an already flammable situation, so I didn't feel too compromised.
But as more and more people that know me in The Real World come to read this blog, the more I feel constrained to self-edit either to avoid unnecessary conflict or strife with people that might be the subjects of a particular post. It's a problem of my own making -- I freely talk about this site and invite people to read it. But as a result, I'm finding that if I want to talk about some of the heavy shit I'm going through, I either have to make it so vague as to render it incomprehensible to anyone but me, or simply create a new, completely anonymous account and start a different blog in which names and places might be changed to protect the guilty, but all other details can be discussed.
My life out here can be very lonely. I spend alot of time by myself, and I don't have any close girlfriends here that I can talk to. So this writing is kind of my therapy. And if I have to do it in a way that's constrained, in order to be sensitive to people's privacy -- including my own -- it kind of loses its value to me.
I haven't made a final decision as to what to do about it yet.
In the meantime, I guess I'll be vague.
An iconic movie from my teenage years is The Breakfast Club. So angsty, so Brat-Pack-y, so "oh, John Hughes feels my pain."
It's also got some really good acting, particularly by Ally Sheedy and Anthony Michael Hall.
There's a scene in which the kids are talking about how misunderstood and put upon they are by their parents, and Ally Sheedy's character -- the basket case -- is asked, "what do they do to you?"
And in one of the more perfect line deliveries I've ever seen, you can almost see her heart breaking as she responds, "they ignore me."
That line always killed me. Because as rough as it is to be overtly mistreated by people that are supposed to love you, it's even worse when they just act like you're not there.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Swim, baby
Zeke is turning out to be a total water baby. Jason and I are very excited about this because we both love the water and are strong swimmers. I learned how to swim when I was about 18 months old and I think Jason was around the same age when he learned. Our plan is to have Zeke on a surfboard as soon as he can stand up.I've been taking him to the pool to get him comfortable in the water. The first time he seemed a little apprehensive, but I think it was because the water was a little cold for him -- he was only about 4 months old at the time and his body wasn't yet good at regulating its temperature. Once he hit 6 months he dug it, grinning and splashing the whole time.
The past few times I've taken him, he's draped his body over the crook of my arm (kind of like a human version of a swimming noodle) and as I pull him along, he flaps his arms and kicks his legs like he's swimming.
Because he's so little and so cute (I'm biased, but it's true), people tend to marvel at how comfortable he appears in the water. One lady asked me today, "does he take swimming lessons?"
I laughed and explained to her that he's only 7 months old, so no, he doesn't.
But inside, in spite of myself, I was puffed up with pride.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Pain management
My eye hurts.
Today is Kamehameha Day, a state holiday in Hawai'i. Jason was supposed to have the day off, but his boss decided to swap out having today off for Friday so the guys could have a 3 day weekend. But Zeke's school is closed today, so he's home.
So far we've gone for a walk with the dog, jumped in the exersaucer, had a yummy breakfast of bananas, mixed berries and rice cereal, practiced walking, gone to Lowe's to buy painting supplies, and played on the floor. While we were playing, I bent my head down towards Zeke just as he threw his hands up to touch my face, and one of his fingers, with sharp little nail fully engaged, went straight into my left eye.
When you're taking care of a baby, though, you can't react to pain they way you can when there's no baby around. If you yell or pull away sharply, the baby gets scared and cries. If you're holding the baby, you obviously can't drop him. So even though my eye felt like someone had stuck a needle in it, I gently put Zeke down and then spent the next 20 minutes with my eye tearing, trying to figure out if my cornea was scratched. I don't think it is, but it's still incredibly painful. But, there was a baby who needs my attention, so there was nothing to be done but suck it up and proceed with the day.
One time about a month ago, we were up at Shark's Cove, a reef up on the North Shore that's great for kids because it's a giant tidal pool that's calm and shallow. I was bouncing with Zeke in the water when I kneeled down and jammed my shin right on a sharp rock. It broke the skin and started to bleed. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I couldn't do anything but grit my teeth, wait for my stomach to unclench, and breathe through the pain. I wasn't going to scream in his ear. I obviously wasn't going to drop him in the water.
I've always had a high pain threshold. I ran a marathon with a herniated disc, for God's sake. I just never realized that motherhood would take that already high threshold to the next level.
On the bright side, if I'm ever captured by terrorists who try to torture me for state secrets, I'll be ready.
Today is Kamehameha Day, a state holiday in Hawai'i. Jason was supposed to have the day off, but his boss decided to swap out having today off for Friday so the guys could have a 3 day weekend. But Zeke's school is closed today, so he's home.
So far we've gone for a walk with the dog, jumped in the exersaucer, had a yummy breakfast of bananas, mixed berries and rice cereal, practiced walking, gone to Lowe's to buy painting supplies, and played on the floor. While we were playing, I bent my head down towards Zeke just as he threw his hands up to touch my face, and one of his fingers, with sharp little nail fully engaged, went straight into my left eye.
When you're taking care of a baby, though, you can't react to pain they way you can when there's no baby around. If you yell or pull away sharply, the baby gets scared and cries. If you're holding the baby, you obviously can't drop him. So even though my eye felt like someone had stuck a needle in it, I gently put Zeke down and then spent the next 20 minutes with my eye tearing, trying to figure out if my cornea was scratched. I don't think it is, but it's still incredibly painful. But, there was a baby who needs my attention, so there was nothing to be done but suck it up and proceed with the day.
One time about a month ago, we were up at Shark's Cove, a reef up on the North Shore that's great for kids because it's a giant tidal pool that's calm and shallow. I was bouncing with Zeke in the water when I kneeled down and jammed my shin right on a sharp rock. It broke the skin and started to bleed. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I couldn't do anything but grit my teeth, wait for my stomach to unclench, and breathe through the pain. I wasn't going to scream in his ear. I obviously wasn't going to drop him in the water.
I've always had a high pain threshold. I ran a marathon with a herniated disc, for God's sake. I just never realized that motherhood would take that already high threshold to the next level.
On the bright side, if I'm ever captured by terrorists who try to torture me for state secrets, I'll be ready.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
I may be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but that gift horse is zapping my mojo
My current job situation is seemingly ideal. I've been working for the same special education boutique law firm in Atlanta for 9 years. I love BossMan and he loves me. He respects my skills and my adoration of legal writing and appellate oral argument, and he lets me do it without making me do to much of the stuff I hate, like trials with unpredictable witnesses who give me stomachaches. BossMan is a smart, generous, sweet guy who has always been wonderful to me and whom I adore working with.
When Jason and I decided to try to move to Hawaii, being able to keep my job was essential because it let us move here with an income stream. And BossMan generously agreed to let me continue to work for him, essentially telecommuting to Atlanta from the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Working from home has not been without its challenges -- I miss having somewhere to go (other than to drop Zeke off at daycare) when I get up in the morning, and I miss the camaraderie of the office. Being at home all day with nobody to talk to can be lonely. But the flexibility is also nice. If I need to run an errand, I can run it. If I feel like going for a surf in the middle of the day, I can do it. Basically, as long as I get the work done in time, I can do it whenever I want, at my convenience. Not a bad arrangement.
"So what's the problem?" you ask.
Well, the problem is that since January, when I came back from maternity leave, I have had a hell of a time getting back into the loop. Many of the cases I was working on before Zeke was born are finished, meaning that in order to have work to do, I'm reliant on BossMan and the other lawyers in the office to include me on the newer cases. And they haven't been great about doing that. It's not personal, and I'm not mad. They're not trying to freeze me out. But for all of his strengths as a lawyer, BossMan is a terrible administrator, and he has a hard time focusing on people that aren't right in front of his face. So the lawyers in the office get overloaded with work, while I'm sitting out here at my desk with nothing to do. At any other firm, my dismal billable hours from the last two months would have gotten me unceremoniously fired, and rightly so.
A number of people have said to me, "Why is that bad? After all, you're still getting paid, right? Milk it! Enjoy the downtime!"
I can't. I like being busy, and I feel like an asshole when I'm not pulling my weight by maintaining my portion of the workload or, more fundamentally, justifying my salary. Because right now, BossMan is paying me alot of money to do nothing, and it makes me feel terribly guilty. Plus, it's boring. I've got mad lawyering skillz, and I like to use them.
And that combination of feeling like a dead weight to the law firm, and being bored out of my mind, is just bringing me down generally. I'm losing my motivation to stay active or organized in the rest of my life. The more I have to do, the more I tend to have my shit together in all facets of my life, and the converse is true as well.
Yesterday BossMan and I had a great conversation in which we agreed that he would try to delegate more work my way, but that I would also put feelers out into the job market to see what's out there. I asked him if it was time to call "time of death" on our arrangement and go our separate ways, and he said that the thought of it made him sick to his stomach and that he wasn't prepared to cut ties just yet. But realistically, he acknowledged that it wasn't a bad idea to at least see what the job market here is like. Maybe we'll be able to work out an arrangement where I can do something local on a part-time basis but still work for him on a contract basis.
I've sent out a bunch of cover letters and resumes and done some networking through some of the contacts I've made through the law school. I'm energized by having a plan of attack -- it just feels so much better knowing that I'm doing something productive. It would have been easy to just keep going the way I was going -- BossMan would never fire me -- but I can't do it and hold my head up.
When Jason and I decided to try to move to Hawaii, being able to keep my job was essential because it let us move here with an income stream. And BossMan generously agreed to let me continue to work for him, essentially telecommuting to Atlanta from the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Working from home has not been without its challenges -- I miss having somewhere to go (other than to drop Zeke off at daycare) when I get up in the morning, and I miss the camaraderie of the office. Being at home all day with nobody to talk to can be lonely. But the flexibility is also nice. If I need to run an errand, I can run it. If I feel like going for a surf in the middle of the day, I can do it. Basically, as long as I get the work done in time, I can do it whenever I want, at my convenience. Not a bad arrangement.
"So what's the problem?" you ask.
Well, the problem is that since January, when I came back from maternity leave, I have had a hell of a time getting back into the loop. Many of the cases I was working on before Zeke was born are finished, meaning that in order to have work to do, I'm reliant on BossMan and the other lawyers in the office to include me on the newer cases. And they haven't been great about doing that. It's not personal, and I'm not mad. They're not trying to freeze me out. But for all of his strengths as a lawyer, BossMan is a terrible administrator, and he has a hard time focusing on people that aren't right in front of his face. So the lawyers in the office get overloaded with work, while I'm sitting out here at my desk with nothing to do. At any other firm, my dismal billable hours from the last two months would have gotten me unceremoniously fired, and rightly so.
A number of people have said to me, "Why is that bad? After all, you're still getting paid, right? Milk it! Enjoy the downtime!"
I can't. I like being busy, and I feel like an asshole when I'm not pulling my weight by maintaining my portion of the workload or, more fundamentally, justifying my salary. Because right now, BossMan is paying me alot of money to do nothing, and it makes me feel terribly guilty. Plus, it's boring. I've got mad lawyering skillz, and I like to use them.
And that combination of feeling like a dead weight to the law firm, and being bored out of my mind, is just bringing me down generally. I'm losing my motivation to stay active or organized in the rest of my life. The more I have to do, the more I tend to have my shit together in all facets of my life, and the converse is true as well.
Yesterday BossMan and I had a great conversation in which we agreed that he would try to delegate more work my way, but that I would also put feelers out into the job market to see what's out there. I asked him if it was time to call "time of death" on our arrangement and go our separate ways, and he said that the thought of it made him sick to his stomach and that he wasn't prepared to cut ties just yet. But realistically, he acknowledged that it wasn't a bad idea to at least see what the job market here is like. Maybe we'll be able to work out an arrangement where I can do something local on a part-time basis but still work for him on a contract basis.
I've sent out a bunch of cover letters and resumes and done some networking through some of the contacts I've made through the law school. I'm energized by having a plan of attack -- it just feels so much better knowing that I'm doing something productive. It would have been easy to just keep going the way I was going -- BossMan would never fire me -- but I can't do it and hold my head up.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Obama
Last night I listened to Obama's speech in Minneapolis and was brought to tears. Who would have thought that in my lifetime, a mere 40 years after the Civil Rights movement and the assassination of Martin Luther King, that a black man would be the presidential nominee of one of the major parties? That he would draw crowds at rallies that set records for attendance? That he would make a generation best known for its self-absorption and political apathy so excited about an election? It's wonderful and inspiring and exciting and extraordinary.
I would have voted for Hillary, albeit with far less enthusiasm. I agree with her stance on the issues that I care about and was initially in her camp, but I was quickly weary of the double-speak and back-peddling and propensity to stretch the truth more than just a little bit. The Bosnia sniper nonsense. The snide assertion that Obama wasn't a Muslim, "as far as she knew." The agreement that the Michigan and Florida primaries would not count, only to about-face and equate that same decision with the electoral turmoil in Zimbabwe. The ridiculous claim that she won the popular vote (as if the popular vote were relevant to the nomination process in any event), where her numbers were only accurate if you excluded caucus states and counted Michigan, where her opponent's name wasn't even on the ballot. The more her campaign continued, the more I was turned off by the quintessentially Clintonian sliminess of it all.
Nonetheless, she inspired passion in millions of people and ran a tough campaign. It would have been great to vote for a woman for president, particularly one as smart and talented as she is.
But I'm glad it's Obama. Let's take our country back.
I would have voted for Hillary, albeit with far less enthusiasm. I agree with her stance on the issues that I care about and was initially in her camp, but I was quickly weary of the double-speak and back-peddling and propensity to stretch the truth more than just a little bit. The Bosnia sniper nonsense. The snide assertion that Obama wasn't a Muslim, "as far as she knew." The agreement that the Michigan and Florida primaries would not count, only to about-face and equate that same decision with the electoral turmoil in Zimbabwe. The ridiculous claim that she won the popular vote (as if the popular vote were relevant to the nomination process in any event), where her numbers were only accurate if you excluded caucus states and counted Michigan, where her opponent's name wasn't even on the ballot. The more her campaign continued, the more I was turned off by the quintessentially Clintonian sliminess of it all.
Nonetheless, she inspired passion in millions of people and ran a tough campaign. It would have been great to vote for a woman for president, particularly one as smart and talented as she is.
But I'm glad it's Obama. Let's take our country back.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
I've earned it, dammit
Zeke is starting the teething process on his upper gums, and it's a doozy. He's once again drooling like a madman -- soaking through his shirt in half an hour -- and goes through periods of such intense pain that he screams inconsolably. Mostly this happens at night. He'll start to cry, clutching at the side of his face (and no, it's not an ear infection -- we checked), thrashing around and banging his head into my chest. All I can do is hold him and try to soothe him and give him as much Tylenol and Advil as I can get my hands on.
Last night Zeke had three episodes in which he screamed in pain for 45 minutes. Which means that I'm exhausted and emotionally drained.
In the meantime, I can't get the TV in my bedroom to work.
It's something of a cliche that a young child will futz with a remote control or push a couple of buttons on a cell phone and all of a sudden it's inoperable and the parent can't figure out how to fix it. I've always scoffed at the notion of something like that happening to me, because I'm actually really good with technology and appliances -- I can fix or program just about anything electronic. My mother routinely calls me to talk her through setting up a new cable system or figuring out how to get the subtitles off the DVD picture.
Yesterday while I worked on the computer, Zeke was playing on the middle of my bed and got hold of the TV remote. He pushed a couple of buttons and the picture disappeared. I have worked on it for an hour and I can't get it back.
The past few times we've been to Costco, Jason and I have drooled over the flat-screen TVs. We've got a huge one in the living room, but we could use a smaller one in our bedroom, because the one we have is enormous and unwieldy and ugly. I want a pretty one I can hang on the wall.
So I've decided that the solution to the problem with my upstairs TV is to simply buy a new one. Good work, son...
Last night Zeke had three episodes in which he screamed in pain for 45 minutes. Which means that I'm exhausted and emotionally drained.
In the meantime, I can't get the TV in my bedroom to work.
It's something of a cliche that a young child will futz with a remote control or push a couple of buttons on a cell phone and all of a sudden it's inoperable and the parent can't figure out how to fix it. I've always scoffed at the notion of something like that happening to me, because I'm actually really good with technology and appliances -- I can fix or program just about anything electronic. My mother routinely calls me to talk her through setting up a new cable system or figuring out how to get the subtitles off the DVD picture.
Yesterday while I worked on the computer, Zeke was playing on the middle of my bed and got hold of the TV remote. He pushed a couple of buttons and the picture disappeared. I have worked on it for an hour and I can't get it back.
The past few times we've been to Costco, Jason and I have drooled over the flat-screen TVs. We've got a huge one in the living room, but we could use a smaller one in our bedroom, because the one we have is enormous and unwieldy and ugly. I want a pretty one I can hang on the wall.
So I've decided that the solution to the problem with my upstairs TV is to simply buy a new one. Good work, son...
Friday, May 30, 2008
Comic relief from an unlikely source
Our house is, technically, a condo. The entire neighborhood is managed by an association to which we pay fees. In exchange for these fees, men with tools appear every so often to mow our front lawns, trim the bushes, and generally keep things tidy and neat.
In fact, our front lawns aren't even ours. The only land that any of us actually owns is the fenced yard behind each house -- everything else is considered common area, and we aren't allowed to mess with it. Even on what would logically appear to my front lawn, i.e., the grassy area directly in front of my house, I'm not allowed to mow or fertilize or plant or anything.
When we moved in, we brought a bunch of plants that Jason had been accumulating and nurturing. They were all in pots. Knowing that we weren't allowed to plant anything out front, we just set potted plants along the edges of the driveway and the front walkway.
One day, the property manager knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted his guys to plant our plants in the ground. I said, "sure." So he planted a couple of hibiscus bushes on the right of the driveway (in front of the entry gate) and some little ti leaf bushes on the left.
Because it's all common property, the plants are no longer really ours in a legal sense, but Jason continued to water them and tend to them. It was understood by all they were his.
Two days ago, Next Door Neighbor decided that Jason's ti plant was dead (even though it's leaves were green and it wasn't drooping or otherwise indicating it wasn't long for this world) and pulled it out. I walked outside to talk to some of the other neighbors that were hanging out in the street (it's a dead-end, so we tend to pull out our camp chairs and hang out in the road drinking beer and shooting the shit). NDN had some clippers and was trimming the groundcover in front of my garage. Jason was standing out there looking stricken.
He's terrible at confrontation, so I whispered to him, "do you want me to say something?"
He nodded.
I turned to NDN. "Why did you take out Jason's plant? And why are you gardening the area in front of my house?" I didn't yell, but I don't doubt that my voice was stern.
"The plant was dead. And it's my yard."
"The plant was not dead, and it is not your yard. My fence ends right there, and everything you're doing is on land in front of my house."
"It's my yard. It's my yard."
"It is not your yard. Look where you're standing. You're directly in front of my fence and my house. How do you figure it's your yard?"
"It's my yard," she insisted.
"Fine. I'm not going to argue about this with you. I'll consult the paperwork and talk to people that know something about the property boundaries."
"You do that," she said.
"Don't worry, I will," I replied.
The condo documents containing all of the rules regarding common areas are hundreds of pages long, and I wasn't in the mood to hunt them down. I went inside to feed and bathe Zeke. When I came outside afterwards, I was standing talking to our neighbor across the street when I saw Jason come out of the house, grab his electric hand-saw, and cut down the plant next to where his ti plant had been. The plant he cut had been there when we moved in. It was about a foot and a half high and probably costs about $5 at Home Depot.
I fully recognize that this was a stupid and immature thing for him to do. But he was furious and acted without thinking, and in any event, it would have been the condo association's issue to raise. If they wanted us to replace the plant, no problem.
We went about our business and didn't think about plants any more.
Then yesterday, at about 5 in the afternoon, I walked outside to see two police cars in front of NDN's house.
"No, it couldn't be," I thought.
But yes, NDN had summoned the police about the plant. And as I stood in my driveway trying to keep from busting out laughing, the police were pointing out the imaginary line from the edge of my fence to the street and explaining to NDN that under Honolulu's city and county rules, anything on the "my house" side of that line was mine, and if I wanted to remove a plant, I could do it. After consulting with me and one of the other neighbors about the condo rules, the nice policeman also explained to her that in any event, the lawn and everything on it belonged to the condo association, so if anyone had standing to complaint about the loss of a plant, it was the association and not her.
NDN is now moping around complaining to the other neighbors that I don't like her and I act like I don't like her and that my treatment of her is "less than human." Guilty as charged on the first two. The last is too ridiculous to even address. My interaction with her is generally limited to saying "good morning" when we pass each other in the mornings walking our dogs.
In any case, Jason and I have not been able to stop giggling. Who knew a trip from the cops could do so much to lighten the mood around here?
In fact, our front lawns aren't even ours. The only land that any of us actually owns is the fenced yard behind each house -- everything else is considered common area, and we aren't allowed to mess with it. Even on what would logically appear to my front lawn, i.e., the grassy area directly in front of my house, I'm not allowed to mow or fertilize or plant or anything.
When we moved in, we brought a bunch of plants that Jason had been accumulating and nurturing. They were all in pots. Knowing that we weren't allowed to plant anything out front, we just set potted plants along the edges of the driveway and the front walkway.
One day, the property manager knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted his guys to plant our plants in the ground. I said, "sure." So he planted a couple of hibiscus bushes on the right of the driveway (in front of the entry gate) and some little ti leaf bushes on the left.
Because it's all common property, the plants are no longer really ours in a legal sense, but Jason continued to water them and tend to them. It was understood by all they were his.
Two days ago, Next Door Neighbor decided that Jason's ti plant was dead (even though it's leaves were green and it wasn't drooping or otherwise indicating it wasn't long for this world) and pulled it out. I walked outside to talk to some of the other neighbors that were hanging out in the street (it's a dead-end, so we tend to pull out our camp chairs and hang out in the road drinking beer and shooting the shit). NDN had some clippers and was trimming the groundcover in front of my garage. Jason was standing out there looking stricken.
He's terrible at confrontation, so I whispered to him, "do you want me to say something?"
He nodded.
I turned to NDN. "Why did you take out Jason's plant? And why are you gardening the area in front of my house?" I didn't yell, but I don't doubt that my voice was stern.
"The plant was dead. And it's my yard."
"The plant was not dead, and it is not your yard. My fence ends right there, and everything you're doing is on land in front of my house."
"It's my yard. It's my yard."
"It is not your yard. Look where you're standing. You're directly in front of my fence and my house. How do you figure it's your yard?"
"It's my yard," she insisted.
"Fine. I'm not going to argue about this with you. I'll consult the paperwork and talk to people that know something about the property boundaries."
"You do that," she said.
"Don't worry, I will," I replied.
The condo documents containing all of the rules regarding common areas are hundreds of pages long, and I wasn't in the mood to hunt them down. I went inside to feed and bathe Zeke. When I came outside afterwards, I was standing talking to our neighbor across the street when I saw Jason come out of the house, grab his electric hand-saw, and cut down the plant next to where his ti plant had been. The plant he cut had been there when we moved in. It was about a foot and a half high and probably costs about $5 at Home Depot.
I fully recognize that this was a stupid and immature thing for him to do. But he was furious and acted without thinking, and in any event, it would have been the condo association's issue to raise. If they wanted us to replace the plant, no problem.
We went about our business and didn't think about plants any more.
Then yesterday, at about 5 in the afternoon, I walked outside to see two police cars in front of NDN's house.
"No, it couldn't be," I thought.
But yes, NDN had summoned the police about the plant. And as I stood in my driveway trying to keep from busting out laughing, the police were pointing out the imaginary line from the edge of my fence to the street and explaining to NDN that under Honolulu's city and county rules, anything on the "my house" side of that line was mine, and if I wanted to remove a plant, I could do it. After consulting with me and one of the other neighbors about the condo rules, the nice policeman also explained to her that in any event, the lawn and everything on it belonged to the condo association, so if anyone had standing to complaint about the loss of a plant, it was the association and not her.
NDN is now moping around complaining to the other neighbors that I don't like her and I act like I don't like her and that my treatment of her is "less than human." Guilty as charged on the first two. The last is too ridiculous to even address. My interaction with her is generally limited to saying "good morning" when we pass each other in the mornings walking our dogs.
In any case, Jason and I have not been able to stop giggling. Who knew a trip from the cops could do so much to lighten the mood around here?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The news is brighter, and I'm presented with an opportunity for hilarity: baby passport pictures!
Yesterday Jason's dad woke up. He's not completely alert and responsive -- I don't think he's talking much, and he still needs to stay in the hospital because the doctors still don't know exactly what's wrong with him -- but he's awake and responding to some stimuli and is stable. So that's good.
Jason's going to try to go to Australia to see him at some point over the next few weeks, assuming we can get a decent fare. I think he's going to take Zeke with him. I'll miss Zeke, but I think it's good for him to go meet his grandfather and his other relatives Down Under.
Of course, this means that Zeke needs to get a passport. My mom's colleagues in the Honolulu passport office have graciously agreed to let me come in at my convenience and they'll expedite the process for me, so I should be able to get everything taken care of by early next week. I've got all the paperwork lined up, now I just need to get passport pictures taken.
When Jason last got his passport renewed, the pictures he initially brought in were rejected because he was smiling. Apparently, the rule is, "no teeth." I'm hoping this isn't a problem for Zeke, given that he's only got two of them. Now I just need to figure out how to keep him from smiling; a tough task, because when he's not eating or sleeping, pretty much all he does is smile, giggle and clap his hands. Maybe the powers that be are more lenient when the subject is only 7 months old.
Jason's going to try to go to Australia to see him at some point over the next few weeks, assuming we can get a decent fare. I think he's going to take Zeke with him. I'll miss Zeke, but I think it's good for him to go meet his grandfather and his other relatives Down Under.
Of course, this means that Zeke needs to get a passport. My mom's colleagues in the Honolulu passport office have graciously agreed to let me come in at my convenience and they'll expedite the process for me, so I should be able to get everything taken care of by early next week. I've got all the paperwork lined up, now I just need to get passport pictures taken.
When Jason last got his passport renewed, the pictures he initially brought in were rejected because he was smiling. Apparently, the rule is, "no teeth." I'm hoping this isn't a problem for Zeke, given that he's only got two of them. Now I just need to figure out how to keep him from smiling; a tough task, because when he's not eating or sleeping, pretty much all he does is smile, giggle and clap his hands. Maybe the powers that be are more lenient when the subject is only 7 months old.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Shrinking the distance
I put alot of effort into maintaining close contact with my friends and family on the mainland and all over the world. Occasionally it flashes into my head exactly where I am and how far away I am from just about everyone I love, and it can be overwhelming. Blogging helps. I usually have at least 4 or 5 Scrabulous games going on Facebook, and that helps. I talk to my mother every day and to other relatives and friends weekly.
Today that feeling of home came from an unlikely place.
I had Cream of Wheat for breakfast.
When I was little, Cream of Wheat for breakfast was a treat that my mom would make us when it was cold out or when we had all made it down to the table with time to spare. We would have it with brown sugar and milk on top. It was my favorite breakfast, and the one that would send me off to school feeling content and cozy and loved.
Yet, for some reason, I never eat it as an adult. I still love it, but when I'm at the grocery store I gravitate to oatmeal.
Today after I dropped Zeke off at school, I headed to the market to stock up on more oatmeal (having poured dog food over the last I had in the house) and some fruit. When I got to the cereal aisle, I saw the box of Cream of Wheat sitting there, and I felt an instant flood of nostalgia. I bought it and took it home and made myself a bowl with strawberries and bananas on top. It tasted like home. I felt like my mommy was there, ready to send me off to school with a kiss and a full warm belly.
It's made it much easier to sit at my desk and face the day, way out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Today that feeling of home came from an unlikely place.
I had Cream of Wheat for breakfast.
When I was little, Cream of Wheat for breakfast was a treat that my mom would make us when it was cold out or when we had all made it down to the table with time to spare. We would have it with brown sugar and milk on top. It was my favorite breakfast, and the one that would send me off to school feeling content and cozy and loved.
Yet, for some reason, I never eat it as an adult. I still love it, but when I'm at the grocery store I gravitate to oatmeal.
Today after I dropped Zeke off at school, I headed to the market to stock up on more oatmeal (having poured dog food over the last I had in the house) and some fruit. When I got to the cereal aisle, I saw the box of Cream of Wheat sitting there, and I felt an instant flood of nostalgia. I bought it and took it home and made myself a bowl with strawberries and bananas on top. It tasted like home. I felt like my mommy was there, ready to send me off to school with a kiss and a full warm belly.
It's made it much easier to sit at my desk and face the day, way out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Clearly, I need to get more rest
I am preparing my breakfast and the dog's breakfast. On the counter, I've got a bowl of oatmeal for me to which I will add blueberries, and a bowl of dry dog food for Max to which I will add some wet dog food.
I proceed to spoon half a cup of wet dog food onto my oatmeal.
I proceed to spoon half a cup of wet dog food onto my oatmeal.
Where's Dr. House when you need him?
I had a nice quiet weekend, and then everything went to hell very quickly. Saturday night I got a call from Jason's brother in Australia informing me that Jason's dad, who has been in the hospital for weeks with some undiagnosed illness, is unconscious and on a respirator, and the doctors still don't know what's going on. He was initially admitted because he had collapsed and was disoriented (he thought it was 2006) and couldn't function. The docs said it was severe depression. Given that he was practically catatonic and couldn't dress or feed himself, this struck me as a bit of a stretch, but hey, I've got a law degree, not a medical degree, so what do I know? In the meantime, they've been running test after test all while speculating that it could be cancer or TB or Legionnaire's disease, but the truth is, they don't know what the fuck is wrong with him.
The Aussie relatives, in typical form, suspect Asian bird flu because Jason's dad has a lady friend who is from the Phillipines -- they think that any time a person goes to China or the Phillipines or anywhere else "foreign" that they come back with cooties. Maybe this explains why they insist on boiling the tap water before they drink it, even though I don't doubt that the drinking water in Hawaii is a million times cleaner than it is in Australia. Because I'm evil, I've been secretly pouring out their pitchers of boiled water and replacing it with plain water from the tap. I know it's totally immature, but it makes me feel better. Miraculously, they're still alive.
Jason is a nervous mess and trying to figure out if he needs to go home to see his dad before it's too late, all while worrying that if he takes the time off work, he could lose his job. MIL is making things worse by being the voice of doom, going on and on about how people go into the hospital and come out sicker or dead. Thanks, asshole. You're really helping my husband keep it together.
Four more days, four more days...
The Aussie relatives, in typical form, suspect Asian bird flu because Jason's dad has a lady friend who is from the Phillipines -- they think that any time a person goes to China or the Phillipines or anywhere else "foreign" that they come back with cooties. Maybe this explains why they insist on boiling the tap water before they drink it, even though I don't doubt that the drinking water in Hawaii is a million times cleaner than it is in Australia. Because I'm evil, I've been secretly pouring out their pitchers of boiled water and replacing it with plain water from the tap. I know it's totally immature, but it makes me feel better. Miraculously, they're still alive.
Jason is a nervous mess and trying to figure out if he needs to go home to see his dad before it's too late, all while worrying that if he takes the time off work, he could lose his job. MIL is making things worse by being the voice of doom, going on and on about how people go into the hospital and come out sicker or dead. Thanks, asshole. You're really helping my husband keep it together.
Four more days, four more days...
Friday, May 23, 2008
The "work in progress" part of relationships
Reading over my last post, I'm thinking to myself, "Jesus, I'm a grumpy bitch." Frankly, the comments I received were far more charitable than I deserved, at least based on the information that I've revealed. The truth is, it's not just me being tired and annoyed at a month's worth of in-laws. There is more going on under the surface that I haven't talked about, some involving MIL, some just involving stuff between Jason and me that's been festering for a little while. But last night, Jason and I had a good talk about some of the underlying issues that have been eating away at me, and I'm feeling much, much better. I'm still not going to Maui, and I'm still thrilled to have the weekend to myself. But I feel like a huge fog has lifted.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Respite
When it was announced to me that MIL and Pa were coming to visit for a month, I was assured that they would be taking side trips to other islands, meaning that I would have intermittent days in my house to myself and my family.
Then Jason announced to me that he wanted all of us to take the Superferry to Maui this weekend.
I said no. He said why. I said because I don't want to travel with the whole group. I've had enough. I'm tired, I don't feel like traveling, and I particularly don't feel like traveling with them. The whole point of them going to other islands was that I wouldn't have to see them for a few days. He said don't you want to see Maui. I said not particularly. He said why not. I said because I don't give a shit about seeing other Hawaiian islands -- if I could get off of this godforsaken hell-hole and never come back, it would be the happiest day of my life. He said do you mind if I go with them and take Zeke. I said not at all.
So I'm getting all of Saturday and Sunday to myself. Which I really need. I'm getting a massage, reading, going surfing, and sleeping. I can't wait til they leave.
Then Jason announced to me that he wanted all of us to take the Superferry to Maui this weekend.
I said no. He said why. I said because I don't want to travel with the whole group. I've had enough. I'm tired, I don't feel like traveling, and I particularly don't feel like traveling with them. The whole point of them going to other islands was that I wouldn't have to see them for a few days. He said don't you want to see Maui. I said not particularly. He said why not. I said because I don't give a shit about seeing other Hawaiian islands -- if I could get off of this godforsaken hell-hole and never come back, it would be the happiest day of my life. He said do you mind if I go with them and take Zeke. I said not at all.
So I'm getting all of Saturday and Sunday to myself. Which I really need. I'm getting a massage, reading, going surfing, and sleeping. I can't wait til they leave.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
I'm also allergic to being called a haole
I lived Atlanta for 13 years, and without question my favorite time of year there is spring. Within the course of a week or two, the dreary dullness of winter disappears with an explosion of life and color. The trees turn pink and red and white, the azaleas bloom, the daffodils start poking through the dirt. All of a sudden people are outside playing with the kids or tossing a frisbee at Piedmont Park or having a beer on the patio at the local pub. It's gorgeous and happy and wonderful.
The only downside is the pollen.
With the onset of spring comes an extraordinary release of yellow dust by the various trees, bushes and grasses. Cars are covered with it. When it rains there are rivers of yellow pouring into the sewers.
On any given day during pollen season, the local news broadcast includes the pollen count. The count measures pollen particles within a cubic meter of air. Anything over 120 is considered extremely high, so that anyone with any sensitivity to pollen will likely have allergy symptoms. During the height of the pollen explosion, it wasn't unusual for the pollen count to be over 4000.
Amazingly, I was totally impervious to it. Everyone I knew, including my dogs, would run around hacking and sneezing, with eyes full of goop and handbags full of allergy medication, and I would be completely fine.
How ironic that it took moving to paradise -- the perfect climate -- for me to be knocked on my ass by an allergy.
It's the vog.
Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, is an active volcano that has been erupting for years. Right now, it's erupting at two points: a southern lava flow that goes into the ocean (and adds multiple acres to the island's area every year), and a vent that recently opened and started spewing ash and sulfuric acid. When the lava from the southern flow reaches the ocean, it also emits sulfuric acid.
(the new ash plume at Halemaumau crater on Kilauea's summit)
Usually, all of that ash and acid isn't a big deal, because the trade winds blow them away. But the trades have been kind of dormant lately, so all of that crud in the air has been slowly drifting west over the other island (the Big Island is eastern-most in the island chain). On O'ahu, there are two mountain ranges that run along the east and west coasts, so this volcanic smog, or "vog," gets trapped between the mountain ranges creating this disgusting haze of brownish grey. Most days, I can clearly see the Waianae mountain range (the western spine of the island) behind my house. Last week I could barely see my neighbor's trees the next yard over.
MIL and Pa went into Waikiki and couldn't see Diamond Head Volcano.
Just to give you an idea of how extraordinary that is, here is a picture of Waikiki Beach. See that big 800 foot tall extinct volcano visible at the end of the beach? That's Diamond Head. Not being able to see it from Waikiki is like sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and not being able to see the Washington Monument.
When I got back from my trip to New Hampshire, I had a sinus infection and bronchitis. I was congested, feverish, and coughing my brains out. My doctor prescribed some medication and I was getting better. I felt pretty good, and the cough was diminishing drastically every day.
Then the vog hit, and I started coughing again, mildly at first, and then so badly that my back and shoulders are hurting and I can't take deep breaths without my bronchial tubes going into spasm. The doctor diagnosed me with "severe allergic bronchitis brought about by weather conditions, specifically VOG." And yes, he capitalized "VOG" in his discharge papers. Elsewhere in his summary he referred to it as "acute bronchospasm."
I sort of take issue with the "allergy" part. When I think of allergies I think of people who can't eat in a restaurant because one of the waiters might have handled a peanut at some point in the last 5 years. Sulfuric acid isn't really an allergen -- it's a pretty severe toxin. It can burn your skin and cause cancer. By that logic, I'm also "allergic" to arsenic, ricin gas, and bullets aimed at my head.
The only downside is the pollen.
With the onset of spring comes an extraordinary release of yellow dust by the various trees, bushes and grasses. Cars are covered with it. When it rains there are rivers of yellow pouring into the sewers.
On any given day during pollen season, the local news broadcast includes the pollen count. The count measures pollen particles within a cubic meter of air. Anything over 120 is considered extremely high, so that anyone with any sensitivity to pollen will likely have allergy symptoms. During the height of the pollen explosion, it wasn't unusual for the pollen count to be over 4000.
Amazingly, I was totally impervious to it. Everyone I knew, including my dogs, would run around hacking and sneezing, with eyes full of goop and handbags full of allergy medication, and I would be completely fine.
How ironic that it took moving to paradise -- the perfect climate -- for me to be knocked on my ass by an allergy.
It's the vog.
Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, is an active volcano that has been erupting for years. Right now, it's erupting at two points: a southern lava flow that goes into the ocean (and adds multiple acres to the island's area every year), and a vent that recently opened and started spewing ash and sulfuric acid. When the lava from the southern flow reaches the ocean, it also emits sulfuric acid.
(the new ash plume at Halemaumau crater on Kilauea's summit)Usually, all of that ash and acid isn't a big deal, because the trade winds blow them away. But the trades have been kind of dormant lately, so all of that crud in the air has been slowly drifting west over the other island (the Big Island is eastern-most in the island chain). On O'ahu, there are two mountain ranges that run along the east and west coasts, so this volcanic smog, or "vog," gets trapped between the mountain ranges creating this disgusting haze of brownish grey. Most days, I can clearly see the Waianae mountain range (the western spine of the island) behind my house. Last week I could barely see my neighbor's trees the next yard over.
MIL and Pa went into Waikiki and couldn't see Diamond Head Volcano.
Just to give you an idea of how extraordinary that is, here is a picture of Waikiki Beach. See that big 800 foot tall extinct volcano visible at the end of the beach? That's Diamond Head. Not being able to see it from Waikiki is like sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and not being able to see the Washington Monument.
When I got back from my trip to New Hampshire, I had a sinus infection and bronchitis. I was congested, feverish, and coughing my brains out. My doctor prescribed some medication and I was getting better. I felt pretty good, and the cough was diminishing drastically every day.
Then the vog hit, and I started coughing again, mildly at first, and then so badly that my back and shoulders are hurting and I can't take deep breaths without my bronchial tubes going into spasm. The doctor diagnosed me with "severe allergic bronchitis brought about by weather conditions, specifically VOG." And yes, he capitalized "VOG" in his discharge papers. Elsewhere in his summary he referred to it as "acute bronchospasm."
I sort of take issue with the "allergy" part. When I think of allergies I think of people who can't eat in a restaurant because one of the waiters might have handled a peanut at some point in the last 5 years. Sulfuric acid isn't really an allergen -- it's a pretty severe toxin. It can burn your skin and cause cancer. By that logic, I'm also "allergic" to arsenic, ricin gas, and bullets aimed at my head.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
More
Yesterday Pa came into my office.
"Wendy, it's raining."
"Yes, I know. It's kind of pleasant. We don't get rain on this side of the island that much."
"I was thinking of going down to the pool."
"Why do you want to sit by the pool in the rain?"
"It's a nice rain. Very soft."
He had me there.
"Wendy, it's raining."
"Yes, I know. It's kind of pleasant. We don't get rain on this side of the island that much."
"I was thinking of going down to the pool."
"Why do you want to sit by the pool in the rain?"
"It's a nice rain. Very soft."
He had me there.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The downside of coming from a family of smart-asses
My husband is, to put it mildly, a Good Eater.
Being a Good Eater was always considered to be an admirable trait in my family. When I was little, I was a picky eater and a skinny string bean of a kid. My brother Josh, on the other hand, was a chubby-bubbie who ate everything. At dinner I'd be picking at my food and Josh would be scarfing down whatever was in front of him, and my parents would look at me and say, "look, Wendy. Josh ate his dinner. He's such a Good Eater." It's now become something of a joke in our family, to remark on someone's eating habits in a sing-songy voice that they're a Good Eater.
When Jason first moved in with me, I went into a mild panic after the first week because I was wondering whether one of us would have to get a second job to keep him fed. The guy goes through at least 2 gallons of milk a week and can easily blow through a loaf of bread in a day and a half. My mom even gave me a bread machine that was on non-stop in an effort to save some money. At any given meal, Jason usually eats about 2 to 3 times as much as I do. When my parents met him and observed his eating habits, it was roundly agreed that Jason definitely met the criteria for being considered a Good Eater.
So it was no surprise when Zeke demonstrated a healthy appetite for solid food, when it was introduced to him. Once he got used to the mechanics of eating, he would routinely polish off nice big quantities of applesauce or pears or squash or green beans or whatever else he was offered, smiling and smacking his lips the whole time. He was a Good Eater.
But then last week he got sick. He threw up at school, and had stomach issues for about 5 days. And he totally stopped eating solid food. He'll still take his formula in bottles, but every time I or one of his teachers at school tries to feed him, he pushes away the spoon and sometimes even cries. In the past 3 weeks, what with the ear infection and sinus infection and stomach bug, he's actually lost weight, which is bad for a growing baby. He's now dropped to the 15th percentile for weight, though he's in the 65th for height. I guess being long and thin isn't a bad way to go through life. But still, I'm a little worried.
I called my parents for some moral support and advice.
"I'm worried," I said. "I don't know what to do," I said. "What advice can you give me?" I pleaded.
When my dad heard what the problem was, his contribution to the conversation was, "are you sure it's Jason's kid?"
Being a Good Eater was always considered to be an admirable trait in my family. When I was little, I was a picky eater and a skinny string bean of a kid. My brother Josh, on the other hand, was a chubby-bubbie who ate everything. At dinner I'd be picking at my food and Josh would be scarfing down whatever was in front of him, and my parents would look at me and say, "look, Wendy. Josh ate his dinner. He's such a Good Eater." It's now become something of a joke in our family, to remark on someone's eating habits in a sing-songy voice that they're a Good Eater.
When Jason first moved in with me, I went into a mild panic after the first week because I was wondering whether one of us would have to get a second job to keep him fed. The guy goes through at least 2 gallons of milk a week and can easily blow through a loaf of bread in a day and a half. My mom even gave me a bread machine that was on non-stop in an effort to save some money. At any given meal, Jason usually eats about 2 to 3 times as much as I do. When my parents met him and observed his eating habits, it was roundly agreed that Jason definitely met the criteria for being considered a Good Eater.
So it was no surprise when Zeke demonstrated a healthy appetite for solid food, when it was introduced to him. Once he got used to the mechanics of eating, he would routinely polish off nice big quantities of applesauce or pears or squash or green beans or whatever else he was offered, smiling and smacking his lips the whole time. He was a Good Eater.
But then last week he got sick. He threw up at school, and had stomach issues for about 5 days. And he totally stopped eating solid food. He'll still take his formula in bottles, but every time I or one of his teachers at school tries to feed him, he pushes away the spoon and sometimes even cries. In the past 3 weeks, what with the ear infection and sinus infection and stomach bug, he's actually lost weight, which is bad for a growing baby. He's now dropped to the 15th percentile for weight, though he's in the 65th for height. I guess being long and thin isn't a bad way to go through life. But still, I'm a little worried.
I called my parents for some moral support and advice.
"I'm worried," I said. "I don't know what to do," I said. "What advice can you give me?" I pleaded.
When my dad heard what the problem was, his contribution to the conversation was, "are you sure it's Jason's kid?"
Friday, May 16, 2008
Exactly who am I trying to impress?
Not that I am in the habit of feeding my husband Chef Boyardee Franks n' Beans, but while MIL and Pa are here, I have gone out of my way to prepare gourmet meals. The goodies that I pull out of the bag every week and a half or so have been showing up on the table in rapid-fire succession. Jason is loving it.
If I were to examine my psyche, I guess the motivations are obvious. I'm trying to show her that her son married a domestic goddess and that I take good care of him (better care of him than she did, perhaps?). I don't know why I care what she thinks, but I do.
Last night, I realized that I don't need to work so hard.
Tonight MIL and Pa are going to babysit (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) while Jason and I go out on a dinner date. MIL announced last night that for their dinner tonight, she's making Pa -- wait for it -- franks and beans.
If I were to examine my psyche, I guess the motivations are obvious. I'm trying to show her that her son married a domestic goddess and that I take good care of him (better care of him than she did, perhaps?). I don't know why I care what she thinks, but I do.
Last night, I realized that I don't need to work so hard.
Tonight MIL and Pa are going to babysit (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) while Jason and I go out on a dinner date. MIL announced last night that for their dinner tonight, she's making Pa -- wait for it -- franks and beans.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
In which I take a break from "mommy-blogging"...
I'm tired of complaining about the in-laws or Zeke being sick or the vog that is giving me a blinding headache.
So today I'm going to talk about Thomas Jefferson.
Students at the University of Virginia are indoctrinated in the cult of Thomas Jefferson. He is revered, rightly, as the founder of a great institution of learning, the author of the Declaration of Independence and the Virginia statute on religious freedom, etc. People refer to him as "Mr. Jefferson," as if he just stepped out and went down to the Corner for a box of snuff.
I've always admired him for his "Renaissance man" tendencies -- he was a scholar, an inventor, a patriot, a scientist, an architect, and someone who devoted himself to promoting republican (small "r") ideals.
But I just finished a book about John Adams that taught me some disturbing things about Jefferson. That he actively schemed against Adams while serving as his vice president. That he was a big fat liar when it came to politics, saying one thing to one person and then saying the exact opposite to another, all while professing innocence and disinterest in any political schemes. That he wrote about the evils of slavery yet hypocritically refused to free his hundreds of slaves because they kept him in the lifestyle to which he was accustomed and which he refused to relinquish (he was a dandy and a spendthrift) even though he was in serious debt.
I'm not sure why this upsets me so much. I guess I'm so conditioned to revere Jefferson that it's coming as a great shock to my system that in spite of his unquestionable accomplishments and contributions to our country, in his personal life he was a bit of an asshole. I feel ridiculous saying this, given that the guy has been dead for almost 300 years, but I'm really disappointed in him.
So today I'm going to talk about Thomas Jefferson.
Students at the University of Virginia are indoctrinated in the cult of Thomas Jefferson. He is revered, rightly, as the founder of a great institution of learning, the author of the Declaration of Independence and the Virginia statute on religious freedom, etc. People refer to him as "Mr. Jefferson," as if he just stepped out and went down to the Corner for a box of snuff.
I've always admired him for his "Renaissance man" tendencies -- he was a scholar, an inventor, a patriot, a scientist, an architect, and someone who devoted himself to promoting republican (small "r") ideals.
But I just finished a book about John Adams that taught me some disturbing things about Jefferson. That he actively schemed against Adams while serving as his vice president. That he was a big fat liar when it came to politics, saying one thing to one person and then saying the exact opposite to another, all while professing innocence and disinterest in any political schemes. That he wrote about the evils of slavery yet hypocritically refused to free his hundreds of slaves because they kept him in the lifestyle to which he was accustomed and which he refused to relinquish (he was a dandy and a spendthrift) even though he was in serious debt.
I'm not sure why this upsets me so much. I guess I'm so conditioned to revere Jefferson that it's coming as a great shock to my system that in spite of his unquestionable accomplishments and contributions to our country, in his personal life he was a bit of an asshole. I feel ridiculous saying this, given that the guy has been dead for almost 300 years, but I'm really disappointed in him.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Un-Grandma
When I was first bitching and moaning about the in-laws coming for a month, many tried to console me by pointing out that I would have extra adult hands around the house to help out, extra help with Zeke, and that it could really end up with my life being much easier. Grandma would be here to cuddle her grandson and I would have more time to take care of everything else.
But perhaps the most shocking thing about this visit -- other than revealing how fucking weird MIL and Pa can be -- is how utterly uninterested MIL appears to be in Zeke. Oh, she'll greet him when I get up in the morning with "hello, little man" or make inane comments about whatever he happens to be doing ("having your breakfast, are you? are you?"), but she never picks him up or seems interested in holding him or kissing him or playing with him or taking him for a walk in the stroller or anything else.
On the other hand, when we were with my parents, I could barely get 5 minutes with the kid. As with all of their grandchildren, my parents are totally enamored of Zeke and cuddle him and talk to him and play with him as much as they can.
I know that people are all different, and that I'm blessed with an inordinately loving and affectionate family, but still. It bugs me. Particularly when I could use the help.
Yesterday I had to pick Zeke up early from school because he got sick and threw up a bunch of times. I took him straight to the doctor's office, and when I got home, MIL and Pa were sitting out in front of the house in beach chairs, even though it was raining a little bit. (Weird.) When I opened the car door, they could hear Zeke crying and could see that I was laden down with my purse and the diaper bag and bags of medicine and formula that the doctor gave me, but rather than help out or say "what can we do?", they just stood there and exclaimed, "oooh, the little boy's crying!"
No shit.
Today I had to keep Zeke home because his school has a puking-plus-24-hours banishment policy. Which means I'm getting nothing done. I asked MIL to watch Zeke for 10 minutes while I showered, and from the look on her face you would have thought a) she had never dealt with a baby before, or b) I had asked her to watch over an anthrax-laced envelope. Her relief when I returned from the shower could not have been more palpable.
Then she and Pa announced they were going to the pool. Pa trudged off down the street with one of my throw pillows from the sofa under his arm. (Fucking weird!!)
The other day when I dropped Zeke off at school, his teacher remarked that he must be getting spoiled with all the attention he must be getting from Grandma.
"One would think," I answered.
But one would be dead wrong.
But perhaps the most shocking thing about this visit -- other than revealing how fucking weird MIL and Pa can be -- is how utterly uninterested MIL appears to be in Zeke. Oh, she'll greet him when I get up in the morning with "hello, little man" or make inane comments about whatever he happens to be doing ("having your breakfast, are you? are you?"), but she never picks him up or seems interested in holding him or kissing him or playing with him or taking him for a walk in the stroller or anything else.
On the other hand, when we were with my parents, I could barely get 5 minutes with the kid. As with all of their grandchildren, my parents are totally enamored of Zeke and cuddle him and talk to him and play with him as much as they can.
I know that people are all different, and that I'm blessed with an inordinately loving and affectionate family, but still. It bugs me. Particularly when I could use the help.
Yesterday I had to pick Zeke up early from school because he got sick and threw up a bunch of times. I took him straight to the doctor's office, and when I got home, MIL and Pa were sitting out in front of the house in beach chairs, even though it was raining a little bit. (Weird.) When I opened the car door, they could hear Zeke crying and could see that I was laden down with my purse and the diaper bag and bags of medicine and formula that the doctor gave me, but rather than help out or say "what can we do?", they just stood there and exclaimed, "oooh, the little boy's crying!"
No shit.
Today I had to keep Zeke home because his school has a puking-plus-24-hours banishment policy. Which means I'm getting nothing done. I asked MIL to watch Zeke for 10 minutes while I showered, and from the look on her face you would have thought a) she had never dealt with a baby before, or b) I had asked her to watch over an anthrax-laced envelope. Her relief when I returned from the shower could not have been more palpable.
Then she and Pa announced they were going to the pool. Pa trudged off down the street with one of my throw pillows from the sofa under his arm. (Fucking weird!!)
The other day when I dropped Zeke off at school, his teacher remarked that he must be getting spoiled with all the attention he must be getting from Grandma.
"One would think," I answered.
But one would be dead wrong.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Act like you've been there
I'm not sure where I got this trait, but I have an almost pathological aversion to letting people know when anything has gotten to me. Well, not anything. I'll cry at a sad movie without giving it a second thought, or marvel at beautiful works of art without feeling like a chump, or express shock and horror at news stories depicting war or torture.
But in other situations, I play my cards close to the vest and make a point of reacting to virtually everything like, "oh, ho-hum. La dee da." It's probably a by-product of being a lawyer. When I first started working, I sat through a deposition in which my client was revealed to be a total lying scumbag, and even though I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me, I'm convinced that my reaction of, "oh, what? yeah, I knew all about that no big deal" helped us secure a far more favorable settlement than we were ever entitled to under any measure of morality or decency.
Which makes all the more baffling the reactions MIL and Pa have to just about everything. I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd be convinced that Australia is some backwater lacking all manifestations of modern civilization, instead of the plugged-in, tech-savvy country I know it to be. Seriously, it's like playing host to people that have just stepped off a time machine from the old country.
Because the highlight of their trip has been visiting Ala Moana Shopping Center, a big mall in downtown Honolulu. Which is a nice place with plenty of chi-chi stores and all, but still. It's a mall, fercrissakes.
"Oh, jeepers, you should have seen the food court. It was enooooormous. Soooo beauuuuutiful. You go in, and you're hungry, see? But it's so big and there are so many choices, it's just overwheeeelming. You don't know where to turn!"
They took pictures at the Williams-Sonoma.
"We went in one kitchens store, it was so lovely. They had this display of a stove set up with all of this goooooorgeous cookware. Wait, I have a photo here! Have you ever seen anything quite like it?"
Another high point was the trip to Costco (we're not allowed to shop at Sam's Club anymore since Jason watched a documentary about what a scummy company Wal-Mart is). They took pictures there, too. "That was quite an adventure!"
No outing, however seemingly insignificant, is immune. We pull up to a shopping center, grab a cart, and walk inside.
"Oh, Wendy, what's this store? This is a gorgeous place!"
"Uh, it's a Safeway."
*sigh*
But in other situations, I play my cards close to the vest and make a point of reacting to virtually everything like, "oh, ho-hum. La dee da." It's probably a by-product of being a lawyer. When I first started working, I sat through a deposition in which my client was revealed to be a total lying scumbag, and even though I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me, I'm convinced that my reaction of, "oh, what? yeah, I knew all about that no big deal" helped us secure a far more favorable settlement than we were ever entitled to under any measure of morality or decency.
Which makes all the more baffling the reactions MIL and Pa have to just about everything. I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd be convinced that Australia is some backwater lacking all manifestations of modern civilization, instead of the plugged-in, tech-savvy country I know it to be. Seriously, it's like playing host to people that have just stepped off a time machine from the old country.
Because the highlight of their trip has been visiting Ala Moana Shopping Center, a big mall in downtown Honolulu. Which is a nice place with plenty of chi-chi stores and all, but still. It's a mall, fercrissakes.
"Oh, jeepers, you should have seen the food court. It was enooooormous. Soooo beauuuuutiful. You go in, and you're hungry, see? But it's so big and there are so many choices, it's just overwheeeelming. You don't know where to turn!"
They took pictures at the Williams-Sonoma.
"We went in one kitchens store, it was so lovely. They had this display of a stove set up with all of this goooooorgeous cookware. Wait, I have a photo here! Have you ever seen anything quite like it?"
Another high point was the trip to Costco (we're not allowed to shop at Sam's Club anymore since Jason watched a documentary about what a scummy company Wal-Mart is). They took pictures there, too. "That was quite an adventure!"
No outing, however seemingly insignificant, is immune. We pull up to a shopping center, grab a cart, and walk inside.
"Oh, Wendy, what's this store? This is a gorgeous place!"
"Uh, it's a Safeway."
*sigh*
I'll cherish it forever
This is my first mother's day present from Zeke. I never thought I could love a silly crafts project as much as I love this one.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Emily Post vs. The Aussies
I like to think that I am a gracious hostess. The example was set for me by my mother, and I also lived half my life in the South, so I take my obligations to my guests seriously. I do my best to make people feel comfortable and welcome in my home. But I'm having a hard time with my current guests because they're not acting like guests, but rather like people who have moved in, and they're not letting me make them comfortable the way I feel I should.
Our house only has 3 bedrooms -- the master, Zeke's room, and a guest room. But with MIL and Pa staying with us, we're short a room. So Pa has been sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in our upstairs hallway/vestibule. Jason and MIL and Pa see no problem with this arrangement. I, on the other hand, am horrified by it. I just can't imagine that the etiquette gods are at all pleased with the notion of an 88 year old man sleeping on the floor of his grandson's house.
I'm going to buy a twin bed and put it in Zeke's room (he'll probably be using it in a year anyway) so that Pa can have a decent place to sleep. Which puts me in the ironic position of fulfilling my obligations as a hostess by ignoring my guests' assurances that all is well.
It's very off-putting.
Our house only has 3 bedrooms -- the master, Zeke's room, and a guest room. But with MIL and Pa staying with us, we're short a room. So Pa has been sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in our upstairs hallway/vestibule. Jason and MIL and Pa see no problem with this arrangement. I, on the other hand, am horrified by it. I just can't imagine that the etiquette gods are at all pleased with the notion of an 88 year old man sleeping on the floor of his grandson's house.
I'm going to buy a twin bed and put it in Zeke's room (he'll probably be using it in a year anyway) so that Pa can have a decent place to sleep. Which puts me in the ironic position of fulfilling my obligations as a hostess by ignoring my guests' assurances that all is well.
It's very off-putting.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Generation gap
Pa, Jason's grandfather, is 88 years old. Among the items he brought over for his visit is an old broken thermos stopper. He's held on to it for years -- over a decade, at least -- because he's determined to track down the company in Nashville, Tennessee, in order to procure a replacement.
When Jason handed me the broken stopper, I said, "what am I supposed to do with this?"
"Could you go online and maybe track down the company and see if you can get a new stopper?"
"Why doesn't he just get a new thermos? A decent one is, like, $20 or something."
Jason shrugged. "I don't know. Just see what you can find, OK?"
It turns out that Pa's thermos is so old that the company that made it hasn't existed for years. It was bought out by another company and the thermos models have all changed. The thermos stopper model he needs isn't manufactured anymore. I couldn't even find one on Ebay.
As I was searching, I was wondering to myself whether my attitude of "just replace the damned thing" was a by-product of the wasteful consumer culture we live in. When I lived in India (well before its economy opened up and modernized), it was always cheaper to get something fixed than to buy a new one. You'd go down to the corner market and there was always a guy with MacGuyver-esque talents who could fix your broken TV with a fork, some toothpaste and an old rusted spark plug.
Similarly, when we were in Detroit last week, my mom was helping my grandpa clean out his basement, and discovered that he had kept every telephone that he had ever owned, even though they were all old and broken. I guess he just figured that it was wasteful to toss them because they could have been fixed.
I have exactly the opposite inclination. Unless a really expensive big-ticket item like a fridge or something is involved, it's almost always cheaper and easier just to replace things that have broken. I'm the opposite of a pack rat -- I love throwing things away. If I had been Pa, it wouldn't have occurred to me to keep something as inexpensive to replace as a thermos.
I don't know if that's good or bad.
When Jason handed me the broken stopper, I said, "what am I supposed to do with this?"
"Could you go online and maybe track down the company and see if you can get a new stopper?"
"Why doesn't he just get a new thermos? A decent one is, like, $20 or something."
Jason shrugged. "I don't know. Just see what you can find, OK?"
It turns out that Pa's thermos is so old that the company that made it hasn't existed for years. It was bought out by another company and the thermos models have all changed. The thermos stopper model he needs isn't manufactured anymore. I couldn't even find one on Ebay.
As I was searching, I was wondering to myself whether my attitude of "just replace the damned thing" was a by-product of the wasteful consumer culture we live in. When I lived in India (well before its economy opened up and modernized), it was always cheaper to get something fixed than to buy a new one. You'd go down to the corner market and there was always a guy with MacGuyver-esque talents who could fix your broken TV with a fork, some toothpaste and an old rusted spark plug.
Similarly, when we were in Detroit last week, my mom was helping my grandpa clean out his basement, and discovered that he had kept every telephone that he had ever owned, even though they were all old and broken. I guess he just figured that it was wasteful to toss them because they could have been fixed.
I have exactly the opposite inclination. Unless a really expensive big-ticket item like a fridge or something is involved, it's almost always cheaper and easier just to replace things that have broken. I'm the opposite of a pack rat -- I love throwing things away. If I had been Pa, it wouldn't have occurred to me to keep something as inexpensive to replace as a thermos.
I don't know if that's good or bad.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Questions, questions
Jason has this habit of asking really random questions about things that wouldn't even occur to me to think about.
"If we take a roadtrip out west in a couple of years with our friends, what kind of RV do you think should we rent?"
"If we were to get a new car someday, would you get surf racks installed or would you use the soft removable kind?"
"What do you think we should make for dinner when so-and-so comes to visit next year?"
My brain is cluttered enough as it is, so these questions are generally met with the Survivorman face and a "what? I don't know. I'll worry about it when it happens."
But I've discovered that he comes by it honestly.
Last night at dinner, I was talking about how my niece was accepted into an advanced academic program this summer at Johns Hopkins University, and how my parents are really excited because she is going to stay with them for those three weeks, since the program is in Baltimore.
A few minutes after that conversation, Jason's mom asked, "you said that Baltimore is about an hour away from your parents' house. How is she going to get there every day?"
"I think there's a bus from DC that she can take, and one of my parents will take her to the bus every morning."
"How long is her day going to be?"
"Uh, I'm not sure. Probably 6 or 8 hours or something like that."
"Well, what's she going to do for morning tea and lunch?"
"Ummm. I have no idea. I'm sure she'll be taken care of."
The whole time I was thinking, "What?? I don't know." But I was careful to keep the Survivorman face at bay.
"If we take a roadtrip out west in a couple of years with our friends, what kind of RV do you think should we rent?"
"If we were to get a new car someday, would you get surf racks installed or would you use the soft removable kind?"
"What do you think we should make for dinner when so-and-so comes to visit next year?"
My brain is cluttered enough as it is, so these questions are generally met with the Survivorman face and a "what? I don't know. I'll worry about it when it happens."
But I've discovered that he comes by it honestly.
Last night at dinner, I was talking about how my niece was accepted into an advanced academic program this summer at Johns Hopkins University, and how my parents are really excited because she is going to stay with them for those three weeks, since the program is in Baltimore.
A few minutes after that conversation, Jason's mom asked, "you said that Baltimore is about an hour away from your parents' house. How is she going to get there every day?"
"I think there's a bus from DC that she can take, and one of my parents will take her to the bus every morning."
"How long is her day going to be?"
"Uh, I'm not sure. Probably 6 or 8 hours or something like that."
"Well, what's she going to do for morning tea and lunch?"
"Ummm. I have no idea. I'm sure she'll be taken care of."
The whole time I was thinking, "What?? I don't know." But I was careful to keep the Survivorman face at bay.
The marathon mindset
Nine years ago I ran a marathon. The previous year I had gone through an intensely painful break-up, and even though I had never been a runner, I accepted the invitation of a friend to do a half-marathon with her. It would be a good distraction, I figured, to try something new. Five months later we ran the Disney half-marathon, and I really enjoyed it, so I decided to try a marathon. So five months after running the half, I ran a marathon in Anchorage, Alaska. The morning of the race, I remember waking up and thinking, "I am about to undertake the hardest physical task I've ever done in my life." I wasn't wrong.
Even though it was a long time ago, I still vividly remember what it felt like to run the race. The first 10 miles were great. I felt fine, the weather was good, and I was comfortable and feeling light and breezy. Miles 10 through 17 were a slog, mostly because I got bored. I'd already run a long way, but I still a long, long way to go, and I was kind of over it. Plus we were on a section of the race that was very rocky and difficult, running through wooded trails, so I was constantly afraid of catching a bad step and turning my ankle or something. But then at around mile 18, we came out of the woods and started descending back into town, and I got a second wind. Miles 18 to 22 were awesome -- I felt like I could run forever.
And then the last 4 miles felt like 50. I have never had to summon as much willpower as I did those last 4 miles, just to continue putting one foot in front of the other. The thoughts in my head were of the "what the hell am I doing? why am I torturing myself like this" variety. But I kept going, and I finished. And in doing so, I realized that I can suffer through just about anything, as long as I will myself to keep going.
That realization has gotten me through everything from triathlons to recovering from back surgery (brought on, no doubt, by the marathon -- the disc had herniated by the time I ran the Alaska race) to childbirth. And yesterday, it got me through the most miserable plane ride of my life.
The past week has been, to say the least, difficult. It was great to see my family, but the airplane air and shitty New England weather and time changes were rough on both Zeke and me, and we ended up getting sick. Nice, rich, phlegmy hacking coughs, fever, stuffiness, you name it. I dosed him up with Tylenol and Advil and downed as much DayQuil as I could get my hands on, but it didn't really help much. Plus, he was sleeping in the bed with me, so every time he moved, I woke up. And there were a couple of nights when he would wake up feverish and screaming, and I would walk the floor with him for hours, putting cold washcloths on his forehead and trying to calm him down.
I would say that on average, I got about 3 hours of sleep each night we were gone, and only about an hour the night before we flew back to Honolulu. So I was exhausted, and still coughing up a lung every five minutes. The coughs were painful and made my windpipe sore. And did I mention that in all of this, I somehow managed to contract a yeast infection? Yeah, it was sure to be a banner day.
The 2 1/2 hour flight from Boston to Minneapolis was OK -- Zeke slept most of the way and wasn't fussy. The flight attendants adored him, and would take him and hold him for a couple of minutes at a time when I need to go to the bathroom. The layover in Minneapolis was fine. I put a blanket on the floor and he played with his feet and gurgled to himself.
The 8 hour flight to Minneapolis to Honolulu was a nightmare. First, they had the AC cranked way up on the plane, so it was freezing in addition to being very dry. I could feel the air drying out the back of my throat, so it not only hurt to cough, it hurt to breathe. Zeke's nose was running non-stop, and he's drooling like a madman, so his face was constantly soaked and freezing and becoming chapped. He managed to sleep for a few hours at the beginning of the flight, but the last 4 hours he was completely over it. He was uncomfortable, he was in pain, and he was bored, so whenever we were sitting in our seats, he cried. The only thing that worked was to pick him up and walk up and down the aisles with him. Which was OK, except that he's getting heavy, and I was tired and still coughing and feeling like dogshit.
With about 2 hours left to go, I was at the end of my rope. My throat was killing me, I had a blinding headache, and I was starting to feel nauseated from the lack of sleep. I was holding Zeke and walking with him and I started to cry. We were in a little alleyway behind one of the galleys that was kind of narrow and hidden, so I just leaned against the wall and cried. I couldn't do it anymore, I had nothing left, I was done.
But of course, I was on a plane, 5 miles above the Pacific Ocean, so what the fuck were my alternatives?
I calmed myself down, calmed Zeke down, and went back to my seat. The seat next to me was empty, so I set it up with a couple of pillows and put the baby down and gave him some toys to play with. I had the flight attendants bring me a steady stream of hot tea to drink. Zeke had a couple more episodes of fussiness before we landed, but we dealt with it and by the time we landed he was happy and chattering.
I still don't love Hawaii, but getting off the plane and feeling the warm air and knowing that I could sleep in my own bed -- without my baby next to me -- was a little slice of heaven.
Even though it was a long time ago, I still vividly remember what it felt like to run the race. The first 10 miles were great. I felt fine, the weather was good, and I was comfortable and feeling light and breezy. Miles 10 through 17 were a slog, mostly because I got bored. I'd already run a long way, but I still a long, long way to go, and I was kind of over it. Plus we were on a section of the race that was very rocky and difficult, running through wooded trails, so I was constantly afraid of catching a bad step and turning my ankle or something. But then at around mile 18, we came out of the woods and started descending back into town, and I got a second wind. Miles 18 to 22 were awesome -- I felt like I could run forever.
And then the last 4 miles felt like 50. I have never had to summon as much willpower as I did those last 4 miles, just to continue putting one foot in front of the other. The thoughts in my head were of the "what the hell am I doing? why am I torturing myself like this" variety. But I kept going, and I finished. And in doing so, I realized that I can suffer through just about anything, as long as I will myself to keep going.
That realization has gotten me through everything from triathlons to recovering from back surgery (brought on, no doubt, by the marathon -- the disc had herniated by the time I ran the Alaska race) to childbirth. And yesterday, it got me through the most miserable plane ride of my life.
The past week has been, to say the least, difficult. It was great to see my family, but the airplane air and shitty New England weather and time changes were rough on both Zeke and me, and we ended up getting sick. Nice, rich, phlegmy hacking coughs, fever, stuffiness, you name it. I dosed him up with Tylenol and Advil and downed as much DayQuil as I could get my hands on, but it didn't really help much. Plus, he was sleeping in the bed with me, so every time he moved, I woke up. And there were a couple of nights when he would wake up feverish and screaming, and I would walk the floor with him for hours, putting cold washcloths on his forehead and trying to calm him down.
I would say that on average, I got about 3 hours of sleep each night we were gone, and only about an hour the night before we flew back to Honolulu. So I was exhausted, and still coughing up a lung every five minutes. The coughs were painful and made my windpipe sore. And did I mention that in all of this, I somehow managed to contract a yeast infection? Yeah, it was sure to be a banner day.
The 2 1/2 hour flight from Boston to Minneapolis was OK -- Zeke slept most of the way and wasn't fussy. The flight attendants adored him, and would take him and hold him for a couple of minutes at a time when I need to go to the bathroom. The layover in Minneapolis was fine. I put a blanket on the floor and he played with his feet and gurgled to himself.
The 8 hour flight to Minneapolis to Honolulu was a nightmare. First, they had the AC cranked way up on the plane, so it was freezing in addition to being very dry. I could feel the air drying out the back of my throat, so it not only hurt to cough, it hurt to breathe. Zeke's nose was running non-stop, and he's drooling like a madman, so his face was constantly soaked and freezing and becoming chapped. He managed to sleep for a few hours at the beginning of the flight, but the last 4 hours he was completely over it. He was uncomfortable, he was in pain, and he was bored, so whenever we were sitting in our seats, he cried. The only thing that worked was to pick him up and walk up and down the aisles with him. Which was OK, except that he's getting heavy, and I was tired and still coughing and feeling like dogshit.
With about 2 hours left to go, I was at the end of my rope. My throat was killing me, I had a blinding headache, and I was starting to feel nauseated from the lack of sleep. I was holding Zeke and walking with him and I started to cry. We were in a little alleyway behind one of the galleys that was kind of narrow and hidden, so I just leaned against the wall and cried. I couldn't do it anymore, I had nothing left, I was done.
But of course, I was on a plane, 5 miles above the Pacific Ocean, so what the fuck were my alternatives?
I calmed myself down, calmed Zeke down, and went back to my seat. The seat next to me was empty, so I set it up with a couple of pillows and put the baby down and gave him some toys to play with. I had the flight attendants bring me a steady stream of hot tea to drink. Zeke had a couple more episodes of fussiness before we landed, but we dealt with it and by the time we landed he was happy and chattering.
I still don't love Hawaii, but getting off the plane and feeling the warm air and knowing that I could sleep in my own bed -- without my baby next to me -- was a little slice of heaven.
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