I wrote today! I wrote today!
This morning I worked on planning and research for the two novels I have in my head right now. I didn’t put them on the blog because I don’t want anyone to use my ideas. I’d rather flesh it out a little at a time myself. I am so happy. I did a lot of work around the house, and spent some time with the baby, but *I did write.* I did my work. It was so good. I felt like Virginia Woolf, who, when she was well, worked from nine until one every day. Someday…
Decoration Day
A wasted evening?
I cleaned house before I wrote, today. Then even though I was tired out, I went off and got some pullups and found a dress for the baby’s first day of school and a couple of sweaters for later in the season. The little one fell asleep in the cart at TJ Maxx, and I carried her limp out to the car and then into the house and put her in bed.
And by the time my little one fell asleep and I talked to my husband via IM, it was around eight and I was too tired to muster much creativity. It comes to me, though, that if I wrote some of the true things I’ve been through, they’d make fine, atmospheric, colorful, and unbelievable, true stories. But still, today I did not write. I should have written first. But this house was such an uncomfortable mess… and I HAD to have a first day of school dress for my girl.
As I talked with my husband, ate a bowl of cereal, and read Suite Francaise, I listened to the Drive By Truckers concert on npr.org. It’s almost over– Let There Be Rock!
I used to follow them loyally, every time they played nearby, from Atlanta to Birmingham to Knoxville to Houston. I saw, and was blown away by, the ‘World Premiere’ of the Southern Rock Opera at The Nick in Birmingham. I danced my ass off, and I cried. It didn’t take long for me to know every word to every song.
A friend of mine, who was dating someone in the band back then, introduced me to them. Her words were, I think you better come to The Earl (I was in Atlanta at that time). These guys are something special. Understatement of the year?
Their shows just blew me away. Then, as I got to know their music (kinda hard to hear lyrics when your eardrums, your brain, your ribcage are rattling from the noise) the content of the songs blew me away. I’m an adopted Southerner, if you can’t tell. I’ve lived in the South since I was fourteen, and lived in the rural Texas Hill Country between five and ten.
The DBT’s brought three kickass guitars turned up to eleven, to the poetry of the every day stuff of Southern youth– from sniffing glue to Lynyrd Skynyrd to TVA to George Wallace to the Civil War to the four little girls who died in that church in Birmingham to suicide to whiskey to teen pregnancy to hopped up old cars and death at the wheel. It doesn’t seem like it could be poetic, does it? But it’s lovely. Or it was back then.
A’course, my husband is from NoCal and he felt that his childhood was also laid open, on account of the Trucker Jesus. His best friend in sixth grade’s dad was a trucker, and he had a velvet Trucker Jesus in the place of pride in his living room. Sadly, my husband moved away for high school and they lost each other. But DBT’s appeal goes beyond Alabama, is all I’m saying.
Of course I always stationed myself with my girlfriend the band wife right beside the amps in front. I can’t imagine why those three guitars didn’t make my eardrums bleed. I lost several finer shades of my hearing at DBT shows, I am sure. Now I feel stupid because I’ve gone slightly deaf. Uh, I wonder why?
Later I introduced my husband to be to them. We spent many a humid southern summer wee hour smoking cigarettes and drinking Maker’s Mark and Coke between sets outside The Nick. Those nights were truly golden. We went to two DBTs concerts after I found out I was ‘knocked up,’ one in B’ham and one in Knoxville with my brother and sister in law. [We also saw Rush twice while I was pregnant but that's a story for another time.]
Before my baby I was an alt country band ho, a live music ho, pure and simple. Live shows were my reason for living. Everything I did, working (just to buy tickets and drinks), friendships (only if they were willing to come with me to see live music), entertainment (live music in a bar, natch), dates (only if they were willing to come with me to see live music, and they wouldn’t get far if they weren’t as rabid as I was)– every bit of it pointed in one direction and one direction only– out to the clubs and music festivals to see live bands. Alejandro Escovedo, Split Lip Rayfield, The Gourds, The Waco Brothers, Kasey Chambers, Flaco Jimenez, Ralph Stanley, Lambchop, The Old 97’s, Doc Watson, Richard Buckner, The Sovines, the Damnations, Slobberbone, Giant Sand, Wilco– I was at SXSW 2001. I’ve seen so many live bands I couldn’t begin to count, and a friend got me into the beauty of alternative country some time in the late nineties with a trip to Twangfest in Saint Louis. It was on. But the DBT’s were special.
After one Nick show my band girlfriend was asking me to come spend the night with them nearby instead of driving all all the way home at four in the morning. I felt weird… I liked these people too much to be a hanger on. But my friend did walk me over to the stage, where Patterson Hood was packing up, to say good night. He leaned down, had to bend almost double (he’s a tall, big man), looked into my eyes quizzically, and kissed my lips. Drunk? Looking for something? Just generally a good humored guy? Probably the last.
I scuttled away, out the door and into the thinning early morning dark. I loved him *far* too much to be a one night stand and then never have him call me again. This wasn’t how I wanted it, an alcholic blur. I’ve embarked upon many a long committed relationship with a drunken one night stand, but that just wasn’t how I wanted it. I’d already burned and been burned by hooking up with a guy in an alt-country band a year or two before– it was almost worse than disastrous.
I felt like I needed to be home. I had quit drinking early so that I could drive home safely. I think I was dating someone else at that time, although, because nothing happened, I felt comfortable telling my date (whoever it was back then) about my little thrill the next morning, and he had a good laugh with me about it. Anyway, I drove home fantasizing like hell about what if I had just allowed alcohol and my sweet friend to sweep me into that circle of incredibly gifted, f*cked up people, even if just for a night, and about what it would be like to live with Patterson. In my imagination I had our whole life together strung out ahead of me.
I got home just as morning was beginning to lighten the sky, and couldn’t sleep no matter how bad I wanted to. And I never had the opportunity to become a hanger on again. And around that time, I think so anyway, October 2001, I was watching Mike Watt at the Nick and my very handsome and solid husband to be asked me, Will you go with me? And it was on.
I haven’t liked subsequent DBT albums so much, although listening to this concert I see that they haven’t lost their edge live, not one bit.
DBT was a major part of some very big goin’s on in my life, partly because at that time they played near constantly in this part of the country. I couldn’t even begin to list them all (the big goin’s on) but they culminated with that pregnancy and my marriage. And now here I am, four or five years later, with a three year old, and a job, and a house, and I desperately want to be a housewife and have another baby, and I can’t tell you when I last saw a live show.
The incessant and addictive adrenaline highs of those days are gone. Could I somehow get that back?
obsessively picking up
Is mental illness simply the lot of the working mother? The working woman? The woman?
I reckon maybe other working mothers would be glad to have this problem. And I guess I am glad that I have it. Sorta.
I mentioned that few weeks ago my husband and step kids stayed out on vacation several days longer than the baby and I did. I had this house so tidy– horizontal surfaces empty and wiped, bed made, floors swept, laundry and dishes caught up. Even on work days, I was able to easily complete the minimum routine items that kept it looking nice.
What happened the minute they got back? We, really I, began to stagger under the growing load of items we couldn’t keep up with. I’m trying not to be a martyr. It’s just the truth. When I ask for equal division of labor he says I’m the messy one, and that he’s disgusted because when he cleans something once a year it never stays clean… it was just to cover up the fact that he doesn’t pick up after himself or at least leave the surfaces I’ve cleaned clean, dammit.
It’s especially discouraging when I work all day and then come home to an untidy, unhygienic, uncomfortable home that, it seems, I just cleaned a day or two ago. I can either do the second shift that my husband doesn’t see the need for and clean it, or go to bed miserable in this hell hole.
Now that the stepkids are (sadly) gone back to their mother, I wonder if it will degenerate as badly and as quickly this time. We’ll do a scientific experiment– husband only vs. husband and two preteens.
The thing is… I am spending my Saturday cleaning. I made a little flylady chart of items that are only allotted 15 minutes and items that are only allotted 5 minutes. It should have only taken me two hours.
But I can’t stop!
I’ve been relentlessly throwing things away or throwing them into the rooms where they belong almost all day. I’ve stopped briefly to feed or snuggle my three year old or have coffe, but for the last four hours… it’s sad. But I guess it’s better than having ocd-hoarding. Well… I don’t have it too bad anyway. Perhaps you wouldn’t believe me if you saw my den upstairs which is covered in old clothes I’ve been too skinny to wear for years, self help books, hundreds of diaries from the time I was ten… but at least down here, in our living space, I am ruthless, and within the limitations of our somewhat, er, bargain eclectic decorating scheme, it looks sooo nice. It does to me, anyway.
I guess strictly speaking compulsive behavior is something you do over and over even though it doesn’t give you any satisfaction. And truly, I have to admit I’m actually enjoying this. I can see my bedroom floor and my laundry room floor. I even got out the vacuum! I threw away candy we’ve had since last halloween– why in hell did we even move it into this house? I dismantled all those piles and piles of papers and books that seem to grow organically from every surface. Every item I toss in the garbage is like, I dunno, like taking off a nasty old bandage and letting the sun shine on a wound so it can heal.
But it would also feel sooooo good to accomplish some creative writing, and/or some healing school study. But I’m sooooo tired. And we’re out of pullups (she’s potty trained but it’s a lot to ask a little one, not to wet the bed during a nap or all night) so I have to go out at some point. Maybe it won’t be so damn hot and we can go to the park for a bit to get some exercise and bond.
Saturday
Financial considerations aside, I truly could live happily alone with my child. My husband is looking into work in Germany, and asking would/could we do it. I said well, I’d be glad to stay here if you wanted to go on. I don’t want a divorce. I like the guy. He’s handsome, he makes gorgeous smart babies, he’s a good provider and a good mechanic. But… I would just like to live alone.
He’s off in Germany this weekend, and it is soooo wonderful. I am sorry to say that, but not so sorry that it isn’t true. It’s fabulous. I’ve already made huge strides in getting this mess clean, and it will stay clean and comforting until he gets home. We eat what and when we want, and watch what and when we want on the Moxi, and go to bed and get plenty of sleep. It’s shweet.
a baker’s dozen– things to do before I die
Please feel free to post your top things to do before you die, in the comments section!
1. Go to Vegas (again) and stay in one of the luxurious casino hotels (for the first time) and get pampered and lose money (quarters I’ve been saving for months and months) like a high roller.
2. Go see Tom Jones, preferably in Biloxi.
3. See Cirque Du Soleil again, preferably with husband, if their latest work isn’t just too dang weird.
4. Write a book, dangit!
5. Start a business.
6. Save ‘one meeeeleeon dollars.’
7. Spend several months living in Venice– doesn’t have to be high rollin’ as long as I have the necessities and a small amount of money for shopping.
8. Spend a few months living in Mexico. I’ve never even been to Mexico.
9. Go back to Wales for several weeks.
10. Quit smoking– I literally need to do this before I die.
11. Buy an old house in the country large enough for lots and lots of folks to come and stay with us for a two week house party.
12. Have a live in nanny/maid that is paid in accordance with the importance of the work she does, or at least a living wage plus enough to save for retirement and shop for some little luxuries.
13. Birth or adopt my twins.
some guy stopped by
We’ve been in our house 3 and a half months. It’s a great house– brick, five bedroom three bath, solid, attractive– but there are many, many things that are weird, idosyncratic, and downright poorly done.
One of those items was a pile of large paving bricks around the base of our mailbox. I guess the previous owners, newlyweds much younger than we are, had made a flower bed around the base of the mailbox, and then a friend of theirs hit it backing out. So they just piled up the paving bricks and left them.
Today a somewhat weird looking guy came up my sidewalk and rang my doorbell. He walked funny, but I thought maybe it was the stepdad of the former owner and he was finally picking up the f*cking pool pump. So I answered, against my better judgement. He said, those bricks out there– I interrupted and said take them, and we’ll thank you for it. Woo hoo, yet annother item cleared away in this crazy place! I’m so grateful!
Maybe…
I was telling my formerly southern belle friend M, who lives in Brooklyn, about my new blog, via email. I was saying about how I am cracking up. Then I was about to say that perhaps I am cracking up because I need to break in order to be more the essential me.
Then I realized, jeez! How far is this egg metaphor going to go? I didn’t even know I was doing it. I erased the line in my email posthaste.
But… maybe I am cracking up because I need to break in order to be more the essential me.
I’m sure too damn tired to hold on to much of any of those pieces of shell that aren’t absolutely strictly necessary for minute to minute survival.
I’m glad I changed my moniker
Today I googled my old blog name. That epithet has become somewhat popular. I didn’t think it up, originally, anyway, I did post that disclaimer on the blog, and now lots of people use that phrase to characterise themselves. So… I’m glad I decided to strike out in a new direction, even that’s not why I decided to do it. While it’s a good move, I have to admit I decided to do it because of one petty thing that just sent me over the edge… oh I’ll save it for another post. Still, it’s a good move.
I have been telling friends that this new blog does not have the cohesive and somewhat witty premise or schtick that the last one did. I just feel the need to be, well, to be more myself. I’m still that person that started that old blog– I still, for example, let my child eat fruit and potato chips for supper and then let her watch tv for two hours so I can write– but I’ve kind of shifted gears out of my cutesy mask and into an emotional and logistical place that is more real and not as funny. That is, if it was ever funny in the first place.
So. To a new me, if not as funny, at least more real.
feng shui for hassled mothers
I woke at four thirty this morning. I tried to go back to sleep for a bit longer, but nothin’ doin’. I got on up and made my coffee and did my (please don’t laugh) Denise Austin workout. It’s the first time I’ve made a concerted effort to exercise in weeks.
So I was zipping around my dark house, happy as a sandboy, throwing in laundry and working out in nothing but panties and a sports bra–they didn’t even match, woo hoo! because praise Jesus *I’m the only adult home!!!*
Mindful of my unhappiness and exhaustion lately, I thought of something positive I could blog as I was zipping around: Feng Shui for Hassled Mothers. Maybe I should call it Feng Shui for Hassled Home Executives, eh? Is Home Executives a Flylady term? Anyway, I was so excited about it.
This evening, after starting my day at 7.15 am, shepherding my adorable blind coworker all around the Capitol City and sitting in personnel orientation for my job for eight hours, and hearing my child say Mom, Mom, Mom at least 100 times between five and six pm, I’m feeling a bit less excited.
I’ll try to dig up that can-do spirit. I’ll try not to advise that you just take to your bed with a bottle of wine, a pack of cigarettes and a book. I’ll try not to advise that you pile it in the middle of the kitchen floor and set it on fire.
Feng shui need not be this arcane, complicated set of measurements, remedies and properly placed expensive energy interventions. It certainly isn’t at my house– nowhere near what I would love to do if I stayed at home and could indulge my compulsive tendency to sort and sort and sort (notice I don’t say clean) all day and wouldn’t be broke from staying at home.
I have two sources I must credit for my feng shui knowledge. I have two Lillian Too Practical Feng Shui books. But guess who my best source is? And she doesn’t mention feng shui ever.
My best source is Flylady! Because Flylady is all about keeping the energy moving– and that’s what feng shui is about really– opening up to energy and giving it, and oneself, room to move and keeping it moving. It’s about loving oneself and one’s home enough to bless it by working briefly and then move on to something more fun. Renounce martyrdom! Just as feng shui is about clean, simple, comfortable spaces, Flylady is about throwing away the clutter– emotional and physical– that makes it impossible to clean house, take care of oneself, or be comfortable.
So.
There are many small quick things to do that get the chi moving again, brush stagnant energy out and make room for fresh. When there’s so much craziness going on, so many demands on my heart, mind, body and time, one tiny step is a triumph.
Today’s version, based on the things I dash through whenever I get a quick minute because it makes my life easier to do them a little at a time– Five Minute Feng Shui.
Even one of these items clears out stagnant energy and makes room for chi to flow.
My number one favorite thing to do, when I have time for nothing else, is
Take out the trash. Talk about symbolically getting rid of stagnant energy and making room so your house/energy/creativity can breathe again!
Other five minute goodies:
Spend five minutes sweeping the floor, just the big chunks.
Throw one load of dishes in the dishwasher. Don’t worry if the kitchen isn’t spotless– one load gets you farther than you were before.
Put all the dirty laundry in the laundry room.
Throw all the shoes in the closets.
Fold one load of laundry.
Spend five minutes tossing magazines.
Spend five minutes bagging clothes to take to the thrift shop.
Spend five minutes checking for out of date food in the refrigerator.
Take two minutes to scrub the tub *or* (NOT BOTH) wipe down the toilet with disinfectant.
Make the bed.
I managed three of these, this morning, and I felt like maybe, just maybe, sometimes I can manage this working mother thing.
But tonight, so help me, I’m going to bed at nine or earlier. Five a.m., or four thirty as it was this morning, will look a hell of a lot better on more sleep.
Monday
So much goes through my head that I’d like to write… but then it’s time to go to work and then it’s time to feed and bathe the baby and then I’m too tired.
So, this is really just a brief journal entry.
I grocery shopped on my lunch hour today. I made the mistake of going in there hungry. Two half gallons of ice cream, two batches of refrigerated cookies, one huge bag of Rrrrufffles with Rrrridges and a huge pot of french onion dip later… oh well. We need our treats, I guess.
I was too tired to do anything but the minimum tonight. I gave the baby her choice for supper and her choice was eggs with cheese and cinnamon toast. Couldn’t be easier! I washed dishes– some left over from my husband’s birthday supper *days* ago and some just from yesterday… I still don’t have all the damn things done. I fed the dogs and finished unloading the groceries and gave the little one a bath and finished Gail Godwin’s Queen of the Underworld (very good, by the way, but of course I’m a sucker for anything Cuba). I would have liked to sweep the floors or start on some of the tasks that need done before my parents visit, but I just can’t. I need to go to bed.
I started taking medicine for anxiety about ten days ago. That’s on top of the medicine I started taking for depression a month and a half or so ago. So now I’m neither my hopped up, productive, nervous self, nor my hopped up, happy nervous self. I’m not so angry. I’m not so worried. I have a much more factual perspective on things, although the anxiety hasn’t completely gone away. But most of all, I am tired. I hope this side effect quits soon. I think it would help so much if I could finally get with my girlfriends and do some walking, like I was doing earlier in the summer.
When will I feel sorted out again? I’ve felt at sixes and sevens for months now. I know we just moved into our new home three months ago, and so many good things have come with that. I know we just closed out the summer visit with my stepchildren. I know I’m a working mother with plenty on my intellectual, professional, emotional, marital, creative, and logistical plates. When will I even out? When will I settle somewhere between exhausted and totally pissed off?
I hate to be so negative. But I think it’s important to diarize the reality of my situation. I just hope I don’t become monotonous. If I don’t think of some cute flippant fun hip shallow things to say soon, I’ll quit.
