cheap chianti
It’s really not bad. Sluggable, in fact. I was walking back to the kitchen every so often to refill my glass, but finally I just brought the raffia-covered jug in and set it by my keyboard.
My child’s at ballet with her Daddy, and the veggies for Roasted Mediterranean Vegetable Lasagne are roasted and cooling.
Girls.
I am ready to take smoking back up, quit healing school, quit my job, take my child out of ballet, and kiss my husband’s ass from here until eternity so I can just stay home and quilt and clean and cook and shop. After all, he may not be much of a maid, but he is very nice about watching the baby or babies for me so I can get some ‘me’ time.
The only thing keeping me from putting pink rollers in my hair, putting on stretch pants and high heels, and lighting up a cig is that I just don’t have any cigs right now. And it’s for the best… I’d like to try hard to cope without my addiction– just this once???
I wonder how long it will take me to sink back into the negative pleasure of being my Alabama WT self.
And I’ve spent waaaaay too much money on healing school to throw it over now. Not yet, anyway.
Also.
While natural family planning appears to have worked out okay for me this month [at least that's some good news, right? some pretty serious good news, in fact], the particular brand of natural deodorant I have doesn’t appear to be doing the same. I am terribly paranoid– Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you *don’t* smell bad. Was someone skipping away from me as subtly as possible today in our staff meeting?
[The staff meeting in which I found out I am now reporting to the most machiavellian, manipulative, twisted MF I've ever known? Sigh. I'm going to try hard to keep my mind clear and be professional and give him the opportunity to do the same. It's possible that it will be just fine. But I've been enjoying the freedom to schedule my work as I saw fit, working extra long days in the field and taking comp time when needed to keep my life together. I desperately need some now, for sure.]
I’ll go research other brands, perhaps the crystal brand my hotwaterbath friend recommends. Or maybe just cave to patchouli. And M. hotwaterbath, you can ask me for granola, or tease me in any other way you please, any time.
The weekend is coming. I can’t wait. My husband, who is a good enough guy at the moment, will be gone, so it will be an all girl party– call me if you want to hang out.
I want so badly just to hibernate and ground myself, even if it’s in things that don’t last such as my house and possessions, even if it’s in things that are pretty much purely academic and cerebral and unreal, such as self help books or delicious highmiddlebrow fiction, even if it’s in ‘giving too much’ as I slave to plan my long dreamed of Friday the Thirteenth birthday party (That’s not my birthday but it’s close enough!).
Soon. The weekend will be here soon.
I better go whip up that pain in the ass white sauce and put the ’sagna together.
vegan curry and so on
The vegan curry was, yes it was, a rousing failure. Sigh. No it wasn’t a failure… it just wasn’t delicious like what we get at the Indian restaurant.
I love chicken koorma but I’m trying to approximate the flavor without the chicken. And of course curry is a different thing than korma, and of course chicken is off limits for me… but it’s the missing ingredient according to my husband.
The cheap ass chianti from Sam’s (yet another suburbanity, Sam’s) wasn’t bad, however. And we have more than half the bottle left for the mediterranean veggie lasagne later in the week.
overheard
babydaddy, in the course of an argument with my child: And why don’t you get your hand out of your shorts?
baby: NO!
All I can say is, it’s just a good thing my child doesn’t know how to flip a bird.
I need you to tell me the truth
As my friend.
I am counting on you girls.
[Dear W, and any other shadowy males reading, I always want you to read this blog, and I hope I don't run you off by talking about really gritty things. Please come back, please stay, don't be run off. ]
May Deane has heard a version of this train of thought– I hesitated to bring it out into the open, until now.
You see… I have finally decided to use non-aluminum (al-you-minnie-um?) underarm deodorant. I have decided that I sweat so f*cking much– it is truly embarassing. I know no-one– I mean, no one– sweats like I do. I need to check in either with my healing school folks about what the deep spiritual implications of such must be– what on earth could they be?— or check on getting some underarm botox injections– whoops, not only is that even scarier than al-you-minnie-um, it’s also against the feminist manifesto and way too expensive– anyhoo, I sweat so much that the scary aluminium stuff isn’t helping anyway. So why not attempt to bypass breast cancer and alzheimers and move on to tea tree oil and enzymes?
Or… patchouli, or sandalwood, both of which I actually adore but haven’t used because I don’t want what happened to my sister in law to happen to me…
This is too good a story, I have to tell it even if it isn’t mine.
She was going to a NAFTA protest or some such thing, what was after NAFTA, the global thing? and on the way in, she had to go through some kind of checkpoint. Or maybe it was a routine traffic stop, I don’t know. Anyway. The cop took care of the official business and looked her over and said, dead serious… ‘Got any… *granola* in that bag?’
Ahahahahaha!
This is a true saying, as they say in church. Or this is a true, something. Anyway.
[Oct. 15, 2006-- my SIL reminds me that not only did the cop ask her if she had any granola... she had, not one, but *two* boxes of granola in there!!!! Ahahahahaha!]
Some things could only happen to her.
I’m going to give it a shot. Natural deodorants that is. Never mind that they cost three times as much– I was revolted to find that they in fact cost six or seven bucks at the Wild Oats in Nashville. But I’m a suburban mommy and I have the luxury of such things. I’ve come a long way from my hardscrabble Appalachian mental health case manager days, I know.
After all, my health is really more important than placating my fellow human being… isn’t it???
Honestly… I’m not sure. But I’m going to give it a try.
So. Momma, I’m depending on you, to tell me the truth.
Should I begin to stink, would you let me know? Posthaste? I mean it!
the girl of a hundred lists
Remember that song? I think it was the GoGos.
The two major things on my list today, washing and vacuuming my and my husband’s cars and plotting out the rough placement of the features in our back garden using the lawn mower, are both right out. It’s raining.
I kept the list short because I only have one weekend day before going back to work.
I am addicted to lists. I love to sit and plan what I’m going to do. And of course I never get to all of the items. I believe I cause myself frustration by sitting around making lists and dreaming. I know my beloved Flylady believes in lists to help get things organized… but for me it is possible that lists are just hideaways for more clutter. Also lists sort of go against the ‘be here now’ philosophy I’m trying to embrace.
Still, the holidays are coming, and I believe I’d like to get back into Flylady to make the most of that time. I’ll have to give up lists as a new year’s resolution, I guess.
misc
Randomly:
I am off for two work days on the road and then healing school Friday night and Saturday morning. I have so much I want to write, namely a long one on the nature of friendship in general and the loss (through fighting and falling out) of one’s closest friend. It, that is, writing about it, will have to wait. It has waited a year, it can wait several more weeks or even another year.
Thank goodness Gymboree has nothing I want in terms of Halloween costumes, so I don’t have to spend a hundred bucks on that, at least.
Since our dustup last week, my husband has been really working to pull his weight in terms of dishes, cooking, household labor. I *think* he even cleaned a toilet for, like, the second time ever since we moved here.
Is he okay with that? Or is he doing it to spite me or worse to avoid what he perceives as my nagging and my view of ‘deficiencies in his character’? I’ve also been thinking a lot about the nature of intimacy, honesty, and accountability in intimate relationships. I’d like to write about that, too, in general terms of course, not in terms that would violate our privacy too much, but in my head, my worries and what I view as my shortcomings or my tasks as I grow into myself.
I read Deborah Wiles’ Each Little Bird that Sings last night. She notes in her foreword that she wrote this book after enduring way too many losses in her family in a way too short amount of time, so I don’t think I’m giving anything away by saying that I snuffled and bawled and squalled as the book came to its close.
The book has won many awards, and I guess, rightfully so. In my lowly opinion, especially lowly since I’ve never even written a book, children’s or otherwise, it’s not exactly great literature… and I am not one of those who thinks children’s literature should be held to a different standard than adult literature. Great writing is great writing, and I hate for it to be dumbed down. On the other hand, I absolutely love Wiles’ evocation of quirky southern life– yes, southern life can indeed be that quirky, even if the quirks are not layered on quite that thick in real life. And I do think it’s a wonderful book about handling grief. Sort of. If you’re really in the mood to handle grief, and Lord, who is???? I know, I know… it’s a reality, but… Anyhoo, the author does a wonderful job of creating a heartbreaking but still manageable (just barely) growth opportunity for little Comfort Snowberger, whose narrative voice is really too cute.
I’d love to hear what others think about this one. I am so impressed with Wiles. She’s won all these prizes, and I don’t think she started writing, or at least getting published, until she was in her forties. As always when I hear of such a thing, I think, hallelujah! There’s hope!
All right, dear reader (My friend M is the only one reading this, right? and maybe her husband???). I must jump up and get ready to hit the road. Talk to you soon.
I am my child’s worst developmental holdup, or, babbytine gum
The night before last my little one was able to fall asleep with no ‘babby’, otherwise known as a passy in country terms. I hadn’t planned (of *COURSE* I hadn’t planned!!!) to try to wean her from it any time too soon. Four years old is soon enough, I reasoned. But since we saw, uh, mildew inside both the huge kindergartner size pacifiers we have around the house, we started talking to her about getting a toy each night she goes to bed with no babby. She was all for it.
As I was driving home from her school yesterday afternoon, she seemed sort of pensive. I wondered if it was because of the burden of quitting the babby. Then for some reason it came to me– if she doesn’t use her babby any more, she is really not my baby any more. Oh my Lord, how that hurts my heart. Tears came to my eyes.
I promised her that she would always be my baby, even if she does give up the babby, just as I did when we quit breastfeeding (late) and potty trained (late). I’ll probably be telling her that at sixteen when I finally kick her out of our bed!!! [Just a little joke, that, we're getting bunk beds and I'm quilting for the girls' beautiful new room, so she'll be in her own room by four I'd imagine, at least starting out the night] I wanted to hold her back in the toddler class at her school instead of sending her up to the pre primary class.
Why am I this way? After many reproductive nightmares as a twentysomething, I think motherhood was just *so* important to me, in its sort of symbolic sense, when I finally decided to have a baby. Add on top of that the incredible whoosh of hormones and love and reptile brain that came over me the minute she was born– I have never felt so much love or joy or purpose in my LIFE. And… she was just so freaking adorable. In every way, every single day, from fat cheeked bald asian baby era to still bald walker era to finally getting enough hair to make a pigtail to… the buck teeth of today due to using the pacifier. But our dental hygienist says if she quits shortly she’ll probably grow out of her overbite. So off to Dollar tree we went for prizes, with a big huge prize promised after a week without babby. And I visualized her with no babby and teared up.
What a precious little thing she’s always been, and somehow I associate her growing up with losing that. She’s more beautiful and competent every day… but somehow I feel like she’ll grow away from me. Sniff. They are from us but they are not ours, isn’t that the saying?
In an effort to cheer her up, or at least buck her up to the task or give her a sense that she’s not alone, I told her that giving up babby was like mommy giving up her segaweets. We two delinquents and addicts can give up together, I reasoned. ‘Mommy gave up her segaweets,’ she said sagely. ‘Smoking p.u.!’ she said, wrinkling the cutest nose South of the Mason Dixon line. But other than that she didn’t seem to feel a whole lot better.
And how dare I even imagine that the two tasks are similar!! I am a grownup, with a whole host of comforting behaviors at hand to get me through quitting. She is a tiny child [well actually she's larger than most four year olds, but work with me here] who doesn’t have the tools to handle her emotions and who has learned to cope, admirably, by knowing when to use her babby. And they certainly don’t make babbytine gum to ease her cravings.
Poor kid.
So last night… she popped one of those mildewy suckers back in. I let her. We can’t do this til she’s ready… it’s kind of like her babbytine gum, I guess, she knows she can quit quitting any time she wants and we’ll do this on her schedule. To buy or not to buy a few gigantic replacement pacifiers?
reporting back
My zit is now as ugly as it is painful. Sigh. I haven’t had one of these in, I don’t know how long.
But I have the best hair ever!!! Yes, the black with white streaks was definitely pronounced ‘four years ago’ but I have black with more subtle blond that almost looks like silver or gray. I *love* it!
She left it long, but layered it up. Then she spent probably an hour styling it. [Fat chance I'll do that much work, *ever* on my own hair, but I can coast on good color and a good hair cut. That's how good she is.] I felt so loved up by the time I got out of there– three hours [and a hundred ten dollars, now you see why I haven't done this in so long, and I gather that's cheap for a really good style] later.
It’s not just about the great hair. It is also about the loving presence of this woman, running a small family business in a pretty darn small city (26K or so). She looks like one of those snobby pretty girls who would have been very mean in a small town high school, but she is so kind, accepting, sympathetic, and liberal. She’s actually letting people apprentice with her and work their way up now, and I can see that this nurturing, disciplining role suits her. I had the best time just talking to her today. I just sat in the comforting energy. She’s such a good girl. (She’s my age, but she’s just a good girl).
Words really can’t express my gratitude. It’s the little things.
counting the days
counting the hours and minutes…
In the small town of my previous job was a hairdresser– or, I don’t know what she would prefer to be called. Anyway she’s a small businesswoman running a wonderful salon. She is creating cutting edge genius, (always age-appropriate of course, some of the coolest, most understated and classy gray hair East of the Mississippi comes out of her shop) in this little bitty podunk town. She was the architect of my dyed-black-with-white-streak of the days back before I quit my last job.
She is thin, made up, loud, fun, in charge of her life, adorably dressed, vibrant, all the things I am not. I just loved her for taking me, a slightly dumpy thirty-something nonprofit director type and believing in me as the kind of woman who could pull off dyed-black-with-white-streaks. She brought out my inner punk, but it was always healthy and shiny and well cut and — well no matter what else was going on, fights with my husband, setbacks at work, unplanned pregnancies, pitocin labor, breastfeeding, miscarriage… I had great hair. It looked great to me, anyway. One of my colleagues recently said it was a cry for attention. Yes she’s a catty woman, but it’s okay. H’m. Maybe she was right. The two, great hair and a cry for attention, aren’t mutually exclusive I guess.
She, this hairdresser, was so f*cking good I wrote a poem about her, about how I hated almost everything about that town but if I left there I would have to leave her too.
Fastforward a long, long time. Far too long. While I wasn’t working, and when I first started this job and we were recovering from my time off work, and when we bought this house, I just couldn’t afford to go pay a hundred bucks for her to do a really good job. I’ve been scraping by on fifteen dollar haircuts whenever I had a moment to run in one of those fifteen dollar haircut places. I even– gasp!– lightened my hair myself this summer. Ugh.
Now I am far from a glamour puss. I grow my hair long and flowing because I am too chicken to do one of those cool haircuts I see on other women, chic and short and edgy. My hair would probably be far cuter, and far less, uh, flat and straight, if it were shorter.
On the other hand, I once told my husband that if I ever let my dye job grow out, no matter how bad things become, to please shoot me, or get me to Shelly posthaste.
That was before I quit my job, stayed home for six months, went back to work and bought a house. That’s what I get for talking in such terms– that is, the grown out, home lightened mess you see today.
Well a) being so nasty toward myself for having less than overdone hair is against the feminist manifesto. I don’t know why I should be so shallow. And b) my hair is now at that grown out dye job stage and it has been making me miserable.
So… I’ve been waiting a month. That’s how long it took to get an appointment with her. She is that good. She never has openings, never. When I found out I only had to wait a month I considered myself lucky. Her schedule usually makes one wait six to eight weeks.
Tomorrow is the day. I am soooooo happy. I have no idea what she’ll want to do. I went back up to healing school last week and everyone was complimenting me on my natural color, how much softer I looked… but I just hate having light hair, I feel like it fades me into insignificant, and that darkened hair brings out my eyes and adds much needed drama. I don’t want to be soft. I am already too soft. I need badass hair. Don’t I??
I think maybe black with a white streak could be a little too four years ago… plus it took us about three visits to finally get the blonde sections good and white… plus one of my colleagues told me that hair like that is a cry for attention, and perhaps she is right.
So what else is there?
It doesn’t matter. She can do whatever she wants. Tomorrow at one thirty I am going to throw myself into her arms and bawl in relief. Dear God I can’t wait to smell that ammonia and feel that dye stinging my scalp and coloring my ears and neck. I can’t wait to sit in my little plastic cap baking under the dryer. I can’t wait to walk out of there glossy, buffed and fluffed. Did I mention that her assistant, possibly the only gay male for hundreds of miles around, gives the best shampoo massages and is the most maternal, sweet, accepting, and caring presence ever????
I am counting the minutes.
I’ll report back.
division of labor
I need to know.
Let’s assume that a parent is working at *least* 8 hours a day whether he/she goes to a paying job outside the home each day or stays home with children.
In how many families do husband and wife split the labor left over after the 8 hour day, evenly? (I’m not talking about keeping a spotless house, here. I’m just talking the minimum that needs to be done for hygiene, nutrition, and for each parent to have some time to him/herself each day.)
Have the husbands who take this responsibility always been that way, or did they respond decently to some requests/coaching from the wives?
If your husband or wife does not split household labor, above and beyond your respective 8-10 hour work days, evenly, how do you justify that? How do you feel about it? Why do you stay married? Do you talk about it? Are you okay with it?
Who gets more time to him or herself in your family? As in, time to do what you want free of housework, cooking, or babies? The husband? Or the wife? Is that person the sole breadwinner? Does breadwinning entitle a spouse to opt out of housework, cooking, and child care in your family?
Is that okay with you? Why or why not?
I’ve talked to a few girlfriends about this. I’d love to have a larger sample, outside of my own little circle of friends.
