Hubs is walking towards the door, about to embark on his day.
“Don’t forget your lunch.” I call out to him as I hand him a wonderfully awful processed frozen entrée.
“Oh yeah, thanks babe.” He said, taking the box from me.
I suddenly feel a tinge of guilt. Does this boxed lunch show him how much I really love him? Will he know, when he eats this, that someone loves him and wants him to be happy? Or will he be empty and thirsty when he finishes, sodium-ridden and blue?
“Maybe you should have a ho-ho. You know, for the road.”
And the moment I said it I knew it wasn’t me speaking, but my father. My father who handed me a package of little Debbie Swiss cake rolls and tapped my head before I was allowed to leave to play. The man who taught me the joy of carbohydrates combined with sugar. The very man who passed this morale down to me: You feed those you love, and you feed them well. You keep them happy.
Hubs is diabetic, so I rarely encourage him to eat sugar. He is also a great judge of human interaction.
He eyed me suspiciously. “Yeah, ok, I’ll have a ho-ho, “for the road”…” He smiled at me as he left.
I wonder now if, when he turned his head to close the door, he saw my father staring back at him—a Greek man with useless eyes, wearing a cut off t-shirt, his feet dirty and undressed, waving goodbye… with love.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
It smells like breast milk in here
My office smells like breast milk. One of the advisors is pumping regularly, as she just recently produced offspring. On her way in today she talked about the feeling of dropping her child off at daycare, saying, "It feels so weird to pay someone for a job you want to be doing."
I can imagine it does.
It started me thinking about the new wave of women who have chosen to stay with their children over their career.
Another coworker discussed this today: "I would be a stay at home mom paying off students loans."
It seems that the career these women really want is far from corporate. I should clarify right now that these are women who made every attempt to build a strong career. They have masters degrees and strong resumes, they learned how to run with the "big dogs", how to dominate the corporate ladder one rung at a time. So, it baffles me that they yearn to walk away from all of that and focus solely on raising children.
More baffling is that these women completely understand their shared sentiment. they speak of "doing what really matters" and "doing what you have to to make ends meet so I can be with her/him."
It makes me wonder what is wrong with me, that I have no desire to do these things. Sure, I know that family is what really matters. and I cherish the time I get with my husband and our canine child. But in the end, I think that if you make the time with your child quality, then it can be the same as spending every waking moment with them. I mean...Right?
And I want to give my child things.. trips to other cities, the experience of new and unique foods and cultures, clothes, shelter.. and I am not sure we can provide all those things on one income. And I am not sure I could give my child my personal best if I was constantly worried about how to pay for the water heater or how late the electric bill is. Not to mention the idea that a strong marriage is (at least partially) dependent on financial stability, and fighting parents don't equal happy children.
Somehow though, these women seem more than willing to take a risk to make it work. And I completely believe that they can. I just don't know that I am of the same daring, morally centered breed.
I can imagine it does.
It started me thinking about the new wave of women who have chosen to stay with their children over their career.
Another coworker discussed this today: "I would be a stay at home mom paying off students loans."
It seems that the career these women really want is far from corporate. I should clarify right now that these are women who made every attempt to build a strong career. They have masters degrees and strong resumes, they learned how to run with the "big dogs", how to dominate the corporate ladder one rung at a time. So, it baffles me that they yearn to walk away from all of that and focus solely on raising children.
More baffling is that these women completely understand their shared sentiment. they speak of "doing what really matters" and "doing what you have to to make ends meet so I can be with her/him."
It makes me wonder what is wrong with me, that I have no desire to do these things. Sure, I know that family is what really matters. and I cherish the time I get with my husband and our canine child. But in the end, I think that if you make the time with your child quality, then it can be the same as spending every waking moment with them. I mean...Right?
And I want to give my child things.. trips to other cities, the experience of new and unique foods and cultures, clothes, shelter.. and I am not sure we can provide all those things on one income. And I am not sure I could give my child my personal best if I was constantly worried about how to pay for the water heater or how late the electric bill is. Not to mention the idea that a strong marriage is (at least partially) dependent on financial stability, and fighting parents don't equal happy children.
Somehow though, these women seem more than willing to take a risk to make it work. And I completely believe that they can. I just don't know that I am of the same daring, morally centered breed.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I's get to eat bad stuff
So, in about an hour and a half I get to go out to lunch. I am more than a little excited.
Recently, hubs and I have put ourselves on a very responsible (notice I did not say suffocating, insane, delirious or straining-- although I really wanted to) budget.
We no longer go out to eat, unless it is out of our allowance. Each of us get the same amount allowance, every two weeks, and we are free to do what we want with this money. That being said, our favorite thing to do with our money is hoard it, clutching it close to our chests and whispering "my precious...".
So we don't go out to eat. When we do use our allowances to go out to eat we feel guilty and upset. It so was not worth the money.
You may wonder why we are so strict with ourselves. It is not because we enjoy torment or we need to save to pay off debt. We really don't have debt. Instead, it is because we used to go out to eat excessively. I am talking 600, maybe even 700 dollars a month. On food. 700 dollars to sit at a table and receive poor service and cold food.
So we cut ourselves off. And now we get to go out to eat on someone else's dime. And it is going to be fabulous. Thank the heavens for parents...
om om om om.....
Recently, hubs and I have put ourselves on a very responsible (notice I did not say suffocating, insane, delirious or straining-- although I really wanted to) budget.
We no longer go out to eat, unless it is out of our allowance. Each of us get the same amount allowance, every two weeks, and we are free to do what we want with this money. That being said, our favorite thing to do with our money is hoard it, clutching it close to our chests and whispering "my precious...".
So we don't go out to eat. When we do use our allowances to go out to eat we feel guilty and upset. It so was not worth the money.
You may wonder why we are so strict with ourselves. It is not because we enjoy torment or we need to save to pay off debt. We really don't have debt. Instead, it is because we used to go out to eat excessively. I am talking 600, maybe even 700 dollars a month. On food. 700 dollars to sit at a table and receive poor service and cold food.
So we cut ourselves off. And now we get to go out to eat on someone else's dime. And it is going to be fabulous. Thank the heavens for parents...
om om om om.....
Friday, August 21, 2009
How Low Can You Go?
My husband is diabetic.
My husband has diabetes.
My husband is sick.
I think hubs and I both like to pretend like having diabetes is no big deal. We have, unfortunately, done everything humanly possible to act like it doesn’t really matter. And in doing so, we have only made it worse.
When Art was first diagnosed, we went along with the game. Art tested, took meds, fought the sickness that the meds brought on. And then one day I think he decided he could just outrun it. And I, at a tender age of 22, decided that was a great idea. Diabetes affects obese people and Wilfred Brimley—people who can’t outrun it, right?
And so there we were for two years, wallowing in our denial—happy and oblivious. And when Art had no energy or drive to do anything but work and eat and sometimes read, I stayed under the cover of my denial and didn’t lend a hand (something I was castrated for later, by numerous doctors).
Last year, Art started suffering the true effects of unchecked diabetes. He slept constantly; he looked sick, he felt awful. One day he came home and checked his sugar to find it had reached 600. He couldn’t get off the couch. The true effect of our denial sank in then, and I cursed myself for not noticing sooner. My hubs is no sloth—but as a slave to an untreated disease, that is what he had become.
We went to the doctor. And then to another. They checked his feet, his kidneys, his eyes. The damage we had done was not irreversible. He was going to keep all those things—as long as we never tapped the drug of denial again. As long as we signed up for the fight—for a battle that would never end as long as he lived.
Hubs has been amazing about watching his sugar. He takes his meds even though he hates them. Medication is against what he fundamentally stands for but I guess, then again, so is death. He finds it within himself to put a shot in his stomach three times a day, and take six medications.
And with this medication comes another scare. Before, our only worry was that his sugar would go too high, that he would sleep a Saturday away or feel sick. Now, we have to worry about it dropping. I was in a movie Sunday when it dropped below 70—to a whopping 55. I didn’t receive his call, but I did get the heartbreaking voicemail an hour or so later, as I stood in the lobby of the theater. He couldn’t find his glucose-- no doubt too disoriented and panicked to think straight. And I wasn’t there. And I didn’t check my phone.
Last night we went to the book store—our favorite outing. We were sitting on a bench in front of the magazines when his sugar dropped.
“We have to go.” He told me.
He booked it for the door, and I noticed he was walking in a sort of subtle zig-zag fashion. His balance was off. I had things to pay for so I ran to the shorter line at the café and hastily ordered a coffee because I couldn’t pay for my things there if I wasn’t a starbucks customer. When I made it back to the car, he was in the passenger seat which gave me a scare; he almost always drives and finding the driver seat empty was heart stopping. He had taken his glucose and was doing better. He drank my entire force purchased coffee in three sips—he hates coffee—and then apologized for the event. I was just glad I was there.
My husband has diabetes. He is sick. and I signed up for the fight to keep him well.
My husband has diabetes.
My husband is sick.
I think hubs and I both like to pretend like having diabetes is no big deal. We have, unfortunately, done everything humanly possible to act like it doesn’t really matter. And in doing so, we have only made it worse.
When Art was first diagnosed, we went along with the game. Art tested, took meds, fought the sickness that the meds brought on. And then one day I think he decided he could just outrun it. And I, at a tender age of 22, decided that was a great idea. Diabetes affects obese people and Wilfred Brimley—people who can’t outrun it, right?
And so there we were for two years, wallowing in our denial—happy and oblivious. And when Art had no energy or drive to do anything but work and eat and sometimes read, I stayed under the cover of my denial and didn’t lend a hand (something I was castrated for later, by numerous doctors).
Last year, Art started suffering the true effects of unchecked diabetes. He slept constantly; he looked sick, he felt awful. One day he came home and checked his sugar to find it had reached 600. He couldn’t get off the couch. The true effect of our denial sank in then, and I cursed myself for not noticing sooner. My hubs is no sloth—but as a slave to an untreated disease, that is what he had become.
We went to the doctor. And then to another. They checked his feet, his kidneys, his eyes. The damage we had done was not irreversible. He was going to keep all those things—as long as we never tapped the drug of denial again. As long as we signed up for the fight—for a battle that would never end as long as he lived.
Hubs has been amazing about watching his sugar. He takes his meds even though he hates them. Medication is against what he fundamentally stands for but I guess, then again, so is death. He finds it within himself to put a shot in his stomach three times a day, and take six medications.
And with this medication comes another scare. Before, our only worry was that his sugar would go too high, that he would sleep a Saturday away or feel sick. Now, we have to worry about it dropping. I was in a movie Sunday when it dropped below 70—to a whopping 55. I didn’t receive his call, but I did get the heartbreaking voicemail an hour or so later, as I stood in the lobby of the theater. He couldn’t find his glucose-- no doubt too disoriented and panicked to think straight. And I wasn’t there. And I didn’t check my phone.
Last night we went to the book store—our favorite outing. We were sitting on a bench in front of the magazines when his sugar dropped.
“We have to go.” He told me.
He booked it for the door, and I noticed he was walking in a sort of subtle zig-zag fashion. His balance was off. I had things to pay for so I ran to the shorter line at the café and hastily ordered a coffee because I couldn’t pay for my things there if I wasn’t a starbucks customer. When I made it back to the car, he was in the passenger seat which gave me a scare; he almost always drives and finding the driver seat empty was heart stopping. He had taken his glucose and was doing better. He drank my entire force purchased coffee in three sips—he hates coffee—and then apologized for the event. I was just glad I was there.
My husband has diabetes. He is sick. and I signed up for the fight to keep him well.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The wild and crazy adventures of Mom and Me: Getting a Secret Clearance
Growing up in Dayton, Ohio has given me the unique experience of living next to a base for twenty five years. In this time, I have become accustomed to buzz cuts, military police and republicans. As a child, we lived in a less affluent neighborhood next to base housing. I remember a classmate crying hysterically as his father had left that day to fight in the Gulf war. Later, we lived in one of the more affluent areas of Dayton and I remember a classmate crying hysterically, as her mother worked at the Pentagon at the time of the 9/11 attacks. Needless to say, living next to a base affects an entire community, at every demographic level; because when you live in a military area, there are constant reminders of the government and war. You can’t turn around without seeing camouflage.
And then there is the second part to this scenario. Working as a civilllian for the air force base has entirely more to do with who you know (or do, for that matter) than it does your skill set. And for this reason, base families breed more base workers and highly qualified people in the technology field simply… well, work somewhere else or leave the area. The result is astonishing.
And this brings me to Mom and Me’s Most Fabulous Adventure: Getting a Top Secret Clearance. My mom has no interest in changing professions and really, I don’t either. However, anyone that has lived in Dayton longer than, maybe a millosecond or two, knows that a top secret clearance can take you from joe-schmoe McDonalds worker to tie-adorned professional. So, when we received an email from a local, non-profit company that offers classes in conjunction with local colleges through which you can receive said top secret clearance, we trotted on over and took a little peek. And what a peek it was.
The operation was run professionally and was quite impressive but I am not here to promote it. I am here to tell you about the man next to me who asked inappropriate questions and the woman next to my mom who wore booty shorts to the event.
We walked into the twenty person attended event and took our seats, booty short woman who did not bring a pen or paper tour to our right and Mr. Desperation to our left. The session began. The CEO of this thing is huge, tough, and has the rhetoric of a God. I watched him and tried not to drool from sheer awe at his word choice, his tone, his choice of inflection at the end of statements. And then he mentioned the process of getting top secret clearance. And the questions began.
The man next to me shot his hand up as if it was a race.
“so, um, you mean if we have financial trouble we can’t get clearance? What if, like, it wasn’t your fault and your ex-wife had a shopping addiction?”
Uncomfortable silence followed this, of course, but superhero that he was, Rhetoric Man retorted with grace and respectful chiding.
And then the presenter continued. The man raised his hand again.
“What if like, all your neighbors are new and don’t really like you and the investigators question them?”
Mom and looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The smell of booty- short -woman’s old gum wafted towards us and I noticed how nice my mom’s mascara looked.
Another man raised his hand, toward the front of the room. He was wearing dress shoes with work out socks. “What if you have some suspicious activity from the past, but it was ten years ago?” oh boy.
I pictured a person attending a medical seminar and standing up, lifting his shirt and asking, “What do you think about this? Does this look cancerous?”
I stifled a laugh.
The event concluded, and I stood with my mom as she waited to network with rhetoric God. A man wearing pants from the early nineties milled his way over to us.
“uh… hi….Did you work--like teach-- at Wright State? Math or something?” He asked my mom while diverting his eyes to the floor, the table, the clock and occasionally, at her.
Smooth as she is, she told him that she did and asked him about his life. I watched inquisitively. I used to attend class with her and help hand out papers. I was six. How did he recognize her from 19 years ago? The woman next to me, perm free and without red lipstick did not resemble the math TA he would have known. Stalker, I thought and squinted my eyes. Luckily, he was watching the floor and shifting nervously and did not notice.
I left then, taking mom’s phone to make dinner plans out in the privacy of the lobby which faced the front doors. I should mention that all around this building are notices: You can be searched without warrant. You are under surveillance. Big Brother is watching.
As I ended my phone conversation, I saw a man manically trying to open the door to the building. The doors were locked and it was raining. He had a wind breaker on and one of those cop/ horse rider hats. I watched him awkwardly search his person for his phone and punch in numbers. Frustrated, he pushed his phone back in his pocket and pressed his face to the tinted glass, using his hands to shade his eyes as if he were using binoculars. And then, he pointed at me. And then at the door handle. When I didn’t move, he lifted his windbreaker which had a security/cop/authoritarian logo on it and he shook it at me. I wondered if this was a test, to see if I was meant to be a part of our country’s intelligence. As I watched the man flop about outside the door, I decided to let him in, knowing that the numerous cameras would document my innocence and kindness. By letting him in, I subsequently locked myself out but was able to view the show in full detail as he tried to open a locked closet that he thought was a stairwell and started listing off names, asking me if I knew the people. He looked hurried.
Finally, he left. Mom appeared and looked at me through the glass as if to ask, “What the hell have you been doing?” I just shook my head.
We decided over dinner that we were meant to have security clearance and we will begin taking classes—but I will save that little gem for another day….
And then there is the second part to this scenario. Working as a civilllian for the air force base has entirely more to do with who you know (or do, for that matter) than it does your skill set. And for this reason, base families breed more base workers and highly qualified people in the technology field simply… well, work somewhere else or leave the area. The result is astonishing.
And this brings me to Mom and Me’s Most Fabulous Adventure: Getting a Top Secret Clearance. My mom has no interest in changing professions and really, I don’t either. However, anyone that has lived in Dayton longer than, maybe a millosecond or two, knows that a top secret clearance can take you from joe-schmoe McDonalds worker to tie-adorned professional. So, when we received an email from a local, non-profit company that offers classes in conjunction with local colleges through which you can receive said top secret clearance, we trotted on over and took a little peek. And what a peek it was.
The operation was run professionally and was quite impressive but I am not here to promote it. I am here to tell you about the man next to me who asked inappropriate questions and the woman next to my mom who wore booty shorts to the event.
We walked into the twenty person attended event and took our seats, booty short woman who did not bring a pen or paper tour to our right and Mr. Desperation to our left. The session began. The CEO of this thing is huge, tough, and has the rhetoric of a God. I watched him and tried not to drool from sheer awe at his word choice, his tone, his choice of inflection at the end of statements. And then he mentioned the process of getting top secret clearance. And the questions began.
The man next to me shot his hand up as if it was a race.
“so, um, you mean if we have financial trouble we can’t get clearance? What if, like, it wasn’t your fault and your ex-wife had a shopping addiction?”
Uncomfortable silence followed this, of course, but superhero that he was, Rhetoric Man retorted with grace and respectful chiding.
And then the presenter continued. The man raised his hand again.
“What if like, all your neighbors are new and don’t really like you and the investigators question them?”
Mom and looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The smell of booty- short -woman’s old gum wafted towards us and I noticed how nice my mom’s mascara looked.
Another man raised his hand, toward the front of the room. He was wearing dress shoes with work out socks. “What if you have some suspicious activity from the past, but it was ten years ago?” oh boy.
I pictured a person attending a medical seminar and standing up, lifting his shirt and asking, “What do you think about this? Does this look cancerous?”
I stifled a laugh.
The event concluded, and I stood with my mom as she waited to network with rhetoric God. A man wearing pants from the early nineties milled his way over to us.
“uh… hi….Did you work--like teach-- at Wright State? Math or something?” He asked my mom while diverting his eyes to the floor, the table, the clock and occasionally, at her.
Smooth as she is, she told him that she did and asked him about his life. I watched inquisitively. I used to attend class with her and help hand out papers. I was six. How did he recognize her from 19 years ago? The woman next to me, perm free and without red lipstick did not resemble the math TA he would have known. Stalker, I thought and squinted my eyes. Luckily, he was watching the floor and shifting nervously and did not notice.
I left then, taking mom’s phone to make dinner plans out in the privacy of the lobby which faced the front doors. I should mention that all around this building are notices: You can be searched without warrant. You are under surveillance. Big Brother is watching.
As I ended my phone conversation, I saw a man manically trying to open the door to the building. The doors were locked and it was raining. He had a wind breaker on and one of those cop/ horse rider hats. I watched him awkwardly search his person for his phone and punch in numbers. Frustrated, he pushed his phone back in his pocket and pressed his face to the tinted glass, using his hands to shade his eyes as if he were using binoculars. And then, he pointed at me. And then at the door handle. When I didn’t move, he lifted his windbreaker which had a security/cop/authoritarian logo on it and he shook it at me. I wondered if this was a test, to see if I was meant to be a part of our country’s intelligence. As I watched the man flop about outside the door, I decided to let him in, knowing that the numerous cameras would document my innocence and kindness. By letting him in, I subsequently locked myself out but was able to view the show in full detail as he tried to open a locked closet that he thought was a stairwell and started listing off names, asking me if I knew the people. He looked hurried.
Finally, he left. Mom appeared and looked at me through the glass as if to ask, “What the hell have you been doing?” I just shook my head.
We decided over dinner that we were meant to have security clearance and we will begin taking classes—but I will save that little gem for another day….
Monday, August 17, 2009
Life
So, I was pretty sure my life would go like this:
1. Go to and complete college
2. Save the world
3. Make lots of money
4. Buy a house
5. Have some babies
6. Travel the world
7. Die (preferably before Art because I can’t bear thinking about life without him)
Here is how my life has gone (so far):
1. Start college
2. Fail out
3. Mosey around Ohio
4. Go back to College
5. Get married
6. Complete College
7. Change career direction
8. Change Masters degree direction
9. Get a job I am far too qualified for but I actually kinda love
I no longer believe I will save the world, although I am quite sure I can change it-- at least for a few people-- and this brings me joy. I am not going to make boats of money. The minute I chose English over an MBA I decided that. I don’t want to buy a house right now, or make babies, and I would rather travel the country than the world. So who the hell am I and where do I go? The path is so long and winding that I can’t see the end. Do I stay with the state? Do I change offices? Do I teach English or try to get into editing or do I stay in higher ed and be an advisor? Do we have kids? Do we stay in Dayton? Do we quit our jobs and bounce from nudist colony to nudist colony, the hottest 500 couple anyone has seen?
And I guess the answer is who the hell knows. And I guess, because I have no other choice, I’ll take it.
1. Go to and complete college
2. Save the world
3. Make lots of money
4. Buy a house
5. Have some babies
6. Travel the world
7. Die (preferably before Art because I can’t bear thinking about life without him)
Here is how my life has gone (so far):
1. Start college
2. Fail out
3. Mosey around Ohio
4. Go back to College
5. Get married
6. Complete College
7. Change career direction
8. Change Masters degree direction
9. Get a job I am far too qualified for but I actually kinda love
I no longer believe I will save the world, although I am quite sure I can change it-- at least for a few people-- and this brings me joy. I am not going to make boats of money. The minute I chose English over an MBA I decided that. I don’t want to buy a house right now, or make babies, and I would rather travel the country than the world. So who the hell am I and where do I go? The path is so long and winding that I can’t see the end. Do I stay with the state? Do I change offices? Do I teach English or try to get into editing or do I stay in higher ed and be an advisor? Do we have kids? Do we stay in Dayton? Do we quit our jobs and bounce from nudist colony to nudist colony, the hottest 500 couple anyone has seen?
And I guess the answer is who the hell knows. And I guess, because I have no other choice, I’ll take it.
Prawns and Prejudice
Art and I went to see District 9 this past Friday. We went with a whole slew of sci fi nerds—two of which are our close friends and the others are friends of said friends who happen to have power over the vocational world hubs has interest in. Going to a really amazing movie with people sci fi experts is a gift of an experience, one that I hope to receive many more times.
The only difference between sci fi geeks and literary buffs is medium. And really, the difference between the media of choice is slim: movies and video games are most certainly forms of art the same way literature is. So, there are more commonalities than differences. And so, I was geeked to stand outside the theater after the credits and talk about the story line, the plot, the characters and the theme.
Hubs has a former business partner who also attended this event. The man just recently decided that speaking directly to me and blessing me with eye contact was a worthy pursuit, so sitting next to him over burritos was actually rather painless. Hubs and I are at a loss as to what catalyzed the change of heart, but, notorious for my unabashed enthusiasm for other humans, I take what I can get.
Before the movie this frenemy hybrid mentioned that he hoped the movie was not too political, that he was not in the mood for a movie laden with political statement and thought provoking sentiment.
Normally, I would accept this comment with compassion. There are days when I just can’t stomach Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Schindler’s List. Genocide and injustice happens of course, and I pride myself on being aware of it but some days, I just want to sit on the couch, almost drooling, watching reality television.
The issue with this particular statement is that this slouching, sometimes wicked man calls himself a Christian. And a strong one at that. He stands at the right hand of God, with his family, waiting for the end of time when he can jump on Christ’s tailcoat and run out of town. And if this is what he stands for, well, I thank him for standing for something. I only wonder how a child of God can overlook the suffering of millions of his brethren while he sits high on a hill, blessed as he is to be born into a free country. He doesn’t want to be exposed to the subtle undertow of emotion this movie so sharply weaves into action and humor? We should all be so lucky. But we aren’t. and who is he to walk ahead, eyes shut tight, following the guiding light of ignorance?
After the movie I was so excited to talk about the political undertow. “Don’t look too much into it” he warned from the shadow of my husband’s strong, squared shoulder. And maybe he is right. The prawns in this movie may not have been an example of what has happened to millions of refugees and displaced persons, forced to live in slums and watch their children killed or worse, victims of addiction, violence and hunger. Of course, this movie may have been made simply to entertain or even, it may be propaganda for treating anyone different from us as scum, as sub-human. I doubt it though.
I am not saying that I don’t respect his political affiliation. I don’t care if you love guns, if Sarah Palin is your savior, if you want abortion to be illegalized. Hell, I am glad you have a thought in your head. But if you are going to turn a blind eye to the state of any of “God’s children”, then you are not worthy of my time.
Maybe at Christmas I will remind him, over dinner, not to “look too much into” Christ on the cross.
The only difference between sci fi geeks and literary buffs is medium. And really, the difference between the media of choice is slim: movies and video games are most certainly forms of art the same way literature is. So, there are more commonalities than differences. And so, I was geeked to stand outside the theater after the credits and talk about the story line, the plot, the characters and the theme.
Hubs has a former business partner who also attended this event. The man just recently decided that speaking directly to me and blessing me with eye contact was a worthy pursuit, so sitting next to him over burritos was actually rather painless. Hubs and I are at a loss as to what catalyzed the change of heart, but, notorious for my unabashed enthusiasm for other humans, I take what I can get.
Before the movie this frenemy hybrid mentioned that he hoped the movie was not too political, that he was not in the mood for a movie laden with political statement and thought provoking sentiment.
Normally, I would accept this comment with compassion. There are days when I just can’t stomach Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Schindler’s List. Genocide and injustice happens of course, and I pride myself on being aware of it but some days, I just want to sit on the couch, almost drooling, watching reality television.
The issue with this particular statement is that this slouching, sometimes wicked man calls himself a Christian. And a strong one at that. He stands at the right hand of God, with his family, waiting for the end of time when he can jump on Christ’s tailcoat and run out of town. And if this is what he stands for, well, I thank him for standing for something. I only wonder how a child of God can overlook the suffering of millions of his brethren while he sits high on a hill, blessed as he is to be born into a free country. He doesn’t want to be exposed to the subtle undertow of emotion this movie so sharply weaves into action and humor? We should all be so lucky. But we aren’t. and who is he to walk ahead, eyes shut tight, following the guiding light of ignorance?
After the movie I was so excited to talk about the political undertow. “Don’t look too much into it” he warned from the shadow of my husband’s strong, squared shoulder. And maybe he is right. The prawns in this movie may not have been an example of what has happened to millions of refugees and displaced persons, forced to live in slums and watch their children killed or worse, victims of addiction, violence and hunger. Of course, this movie may have been made simply to entertain or even, it may be propaganda for treating anyone different from us as scum, as sub-human. I doubt it though.
I am not saying that I don’t respect his political affiliation. I don’t care if you love guns, if Sarah Palin is your savior, if you want abortion to be illegalized. Hell, I am glad you have a thought in your head. But if you are going to turn a blind eye to the state of any of “God’s children”, then you are not worthy of my time.
Maybe at Christmas I will remind him, over dinner, not to “look too much into” Christ on the cross.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Work. A necessary evil.
There are people in life that act like going into work every day is the same as being asked to cut off their hand. And maybe for them, it is that bad.
I am not saying that I love my job so much that I want to spend every waking moment here. But, as sad as it is, I am saying that if I didn’t have work--well, I’m not really sure what I would do with myself.
Ok, dear readers, that is a lie. I know exactly what I would do with myself. A bottle of jack and horrible day time television. I would force myself to clean for two hours and then fall into the most destructive pattern you could think of. Pizza and booze and self-loathing would abound. Two months in I would be addicted to crack and four months after that, Art would leave me. True story.
I live with an incredibly self-disciplined person. This amazing man could fill his days with productive quests, working on his own projects and saving the world on the side. He would, in fact, probably work harder at home without a vocation, than he currently does going to work every day. This amazes me because I am simply not this way.
I find myself longing for Fall quarter to begin, for the routine of a busy life and the demands of balancing personal interests with work and continuing education. I need to be busy. Let the fun begin!
I am not saying that I love my job so much that I want to spend every waking moment here. But, as sad as it is, I am saying that if I didn’t have work--well, I’m not really sure what I would do with myself.
Ok, dear readers, that is a lie. I know exactly what I would do with myself. A bottle of jack and horrible day time television. I would force myself to clean for two hours and then fall into the most destructive pattern you could think of. Pizza and booze and self-loathing would abound. Two months in I would be addicted to crack and four months after that, Art would leave me. True story.
I live with an incredibly self-disciplined person. This amazing man could fill his days with productive quests, working on his own projects and saving the world on the side. He would, in fact, probably work harder at home without a vocation, than he currently does going to work every day. This amazes me because I am simply not this way.
I find myself longing for Fall quarter to begin, for the routine of a busy life and the demands of balancing personal interests with work and continuing education. I need to be busy. Let the fun begin!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
And I shall name you Obsession
:::because it’s time to get real:::
(and you have yet to see my crazy...)
I strongly believe that the only real difference between being married to someone and being obsessed with them is a label. And a ring, I guess.
Whenever I am away from my husband, I am thinking about him. I think about his day and his blood sugar. I rehearse the conversations we have had and I think of new ones I think we will someday have. I consider the way his feet look, how his toes are naturally curled. I imagine a bear dancing and it brings me joy, because it reminds me of him.
I often joke (after my third drink) that I got married to escape "The Herpes". In reality, marriage saved me from way more than that (don’t worry, the herpes is a joke. I am a huge proponent of safe sex and I wasn’t that promiscuous). Marriage has saved me from heartbreak, from infatuation. I really, really, needed someone to love. I needed someone to devote everything to. And when I met hubs, he totally fulfilled that need. So now when I go to the grocery store and I can only think of what he might like to eat, or when I doodle his name on a post-it while on a boring sales call, or when I (totally creepster-ishly) run my finger around the outer lobe of his ear while he sleeps-- well, these actions are completely acceptable. Because somehow, I got this amazing creature to sign a legal contract that society validates as proof that we are a team.
I doubt that most marriages are this way but I wouldn’t trade my bi-polar, creepster love for my husband for anything. I really think if I knew his skin would grow back, that I might just bite parts of his body off for fun so that he would be with me all day. It is that intense, or that sick, whichever way you look at it.
Tonight I will return home and we will do our own things, separate from one another. We might go to a book store and roam about. We might lie on the couch and he will prop his feet against my chest, so we make a little pile of human. He will chase the dog across the living room and treat him like his very own son and I will watch them from the corner, smirking and fulfilled because he is mine.
::Man of my life::
(and you have yet to see my crazy...)
I strongly believe that the only real difference between being married to someone and being obsessed with them is a label. And a ring, I guess.
Whenever I am away from my husband, I am thinking about him. I think about his day and his blood sugar. I rehearse the conversations we have had and I think of new ones I think we will someday have. I consider the way his feet look, how his toes are naturally curled. I imagine a bear dancing and it brings me joy, because it reminds me of him.
I often joke (after my third drink) that I got married to escape "The Herpes". In reality, marriage saved me from way more than that (don’t worry, the herpes is a joke. I am a huge proponent of safe sex and I wasn’t that promiscuous). Marriage has saved me from heartbreak, from infatuation. I really, really, needed someone to love. I needed someone to devote everything to. And when I met hubs, he totally fulfilled that need. So now when I go to the grocery store and I can only think of what he might like to eat, or when I doodle his name on a post-it while on a boring sales call, or when I (totally creepster-ishly) run my finger around the outer lobe of his ear while he sleeps-- well, these actions are completely acceptable. Because somehow, I got this amazing creature to sign a legal contract that society validates as proof that we are a team.
I doubt that most marriages are this way but I wouldn’t trade my bi-polar, creepster love for my husband for anything. I really think if I knew his skin would grow back, that I might just bite parts of his body off for fun so that he would be with me all day. It is that intense, or that sick, whichever way you look at it.
Tonight I will return home and we will do our own things, separate from one another. We might go to a book store and roam about. We might lie on the couch and he will prop his feet against my chest, so we make a little pile of human. He will chase the dog across the living room and treat him like his very own son and I will watch them from the corner, smirking and fulfilled because he is mine.
::Man of my life::
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Party of three plus two
Last night I went to dinner at a local steak house with my parents. It was a normal Wednesday night in a steak house at 7:30, the bar was rather empty, and sparse tables throughout the restaurant were filled with couples and families. We sat in a booth by the bar, one booth back from the entrance to the kitchen. Two girls sat behind us. I would estimate them to be around 21-23. They were conversing. Loudly. That is to say that the girl facing me, decked out in fake Chanel jewelry and stylish glasses, was screaming at the girl across from her who was dressed more nicely in a lacy black top. It was a train wreck.
“I JUST THINK YOU HAVE TO BE GOOD TO YOURSELF, YOU KNOW? BECAUSE IF YOU AREN’T, NO ONE ELSE IS GUNNA BE.”
Her conversation forced itself into my orifices, driving into my head. I tried to focus on the menu. I tried to begin a conversation with my mother about work, or family, or something.
My mom shook her head at me, unable to hear.
“I can’t hear what you’re saying. Is there something wrong with my hearing? I see your mouth moving but I just can’t hear you.”She screamed at me over her glass of wine.
I saw her predicament. There was only a booth between us and I don’t speak softly.
I nodded my head towards the girls behind her, “I think the issue might be the screaming woman behind you.” She nodded in agreement and took another sip of wine.
Our salads came. We broke bread. The conversation from the other table seeped over as unnoticeable as a tsunami.
“IT IS A REALLY SAFE DRUG, REALLY. AS LONG AS YOU FEEL GOOD ABOUT WHERE YOU ARE AND WHO YOU ARE, YOU KNOW, YOU’LL HAVE A REAL SAFE TRIP. I WOULD SUGGEST IT TO ANYONE, JUST A LITTLE GET AWAY, A LITTLE ESCAPE.I’M A FAN!” She made the last statement in a tone a new mother might use, giddy over her Diaper Jeanie. Her look and her words did not match. And she was just so loud.
My mother looked intrigued. “Is she talking about LSD?”
My step dad chimed in, equally interested. “Maybe Ecstasy.”
My mother again: “Or acid. Is acid the same as LCD? Whatever it is, she’s 'a big fan'.” We exchanged sentences nonchalantly, as if this was a normal occurrence in our lives. And really, it is. The three of us have had the pleasure of experiencing the weirdest and wildest of people. We attract them.
“NO ONE IN MY FAMILY REALLY KNOWS I’M GAY” really? I thought. You’re so modest about it. “I MEAN, EVERYONE HAS THOSE PEOPLE IN THEIR FAMILY THAT DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU AT ALL, SO WHY WOULD YOU TELL THEM?”
Our table of three gave up on conversation and tried to enjoy the act of forced ease dropping. It takes all the mystery out of it.
“MY LAST GIRLFRIEND WAS A REAL (insert derogatory “c” word here) I MEAN, SHE WAS JUST OUT OF CONTROL.”
And so it went on like this. I watched our waiter-- tiredly handsome from years of drinking, rocking a slight beer gut and a receding hairline-- approach the other table with the excitement of a child on Christmas. They joked and basked in the glow of pheromones and dysfunction glaring out from the booth.
Finally, the women left. The one facing me gulped down her drink, resembling that Koala recently saved from the wildfires in Australia. And then she darted from the table, in a hurry to get on to other things, her date following behind her dope-ily, unsteady in her heels, the tired waiter watching them as they left.
My mom told me a story about meeting the director of planned parenthood. My step dad told me about a blood biopsy and I listened in horror, watching my mom cut a pork chop.
And then we left, leaving the booths, the dishes, the bartender washing a glass behind us, for another day.
“I JUST THINK YOU HAVE TO BE GOOD TO YOURSELF, YOU KNOW? BECAUSE IF YOU AREN’T, NO ONE ELSE IS GUNNA BE.”
Her conversation forced itself into my orifices, driving into my head. I tried to focus on the menu. I tried to begin a conversation with my mother about work, or family, or something.
My mom shook her head at me, unable to hear.
“I can’t hear what you’re saying. Is there something wrong with my hearing? I see your mouth moving but I just can’t hear you.”She screamed at me over her glass of wine.
I saw her predicament. There was only a booth between us and I don’t speak softly.
I nodded my head towards the girls behind her, “I think the issue might be the screaming woman behind you.” She nodded in agreement and took another sip of wine.
Our salads came. We broke bread. The conversation from the other table seeped over as unnoticeable as a tsunami.
“IT IS A REALLY SAFE DRUG, REALLY. AS LONG AS YOU FEEL GOOD ABOUT WHERE YOU ARE AND WHO YOU ARE, YOU KNOW, YOU’LL HAVE A REAL SAFE TRIP. I WOULD SUGGEST IT TO ANYONE, JUST A LITTLE GET AWAY, A LITTLE ESCAPE.I’M A FAN!” She made the last statement in a tone a new mother might use, giddy over her Diaper Jeanie. Her look and her words did not match. And she was just so loud.
My mother looked intrigued. “Is she talking about LSD?”
My step dad chimed in, equally interested. “Maybe Ecstasy.”
My mother again: “Or acid. Is acid the same as LCD? Whatever it is, she’s 'a big fan'.” We exchanged sentences nonchalantly, as if this was a normal occurrence in our lives. And really, it is. The three of us have had the pleasure of experiencing the weirdest and wildest of people. We attract them.
“NO ONE IN MY FAMILY REALLY KNOWS I’M GAY” really? I thought. You’re so modest about it. “I MEAN, EVERYONE HAS THOSE PEOPLE IN THEIR FAMILY THAT DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU AT ALL, SO WHY WOULD YOU TELL THEM?”
Our table of three gave up on conversation and tried to enjoy the act of forced ease dropping. It takes all the mystery out of it.
“MY LAST GIRLFRIEND WAS A REAL (insert derogatory “c” word here) I MEAN, SHE WAS JUST OUT OF CONTROL.”
And so it went on like this. I watched our waiter-- tiredly handsome from years of drinking, rocking a slight beer gut and a receding hairline-- approach the other table with the excitement of a child on Christmas. They joked and basked in the glow of pheromones and dysfunction glaring out from the booth.
Finally, the women left. The one facing me gulped down her drink, resembling that Koala recently saved from the wildfires in Australia. And then she darted from the table, in a hurry to get on to other things, her date following behind her dope-ily, unsteady in her heels, the tired waiter watching them as they left.
My mom told me a story about meeting the director of planned parenthood. My step dad told me about a blood biopsy and I listened in horror, watching my mom cut a pork chop.
And then we left, leaving the booths, the dishes, the bartender washing a glass behind us, for another day.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Annoyance
I despise those women that go home and talk to their husbands and then dispense the knowledge they gained like they just traveled to the holy grail. You do not have all the answers. Your husband has no more answers than mine does. I wonder were these women go when they look for the truth—to the foot of the man they love? The whole process of love and marriage is so intense, that I feel like we lose ourselves along the way.
Choosing a spouse is much like a major purchase. Certainly, it is imperative that you find something intriguing and charming in the thing you are about to purchase (be it a house or a man);new windows, or strong arms, for example. It is imperative that you love your major purpose more than any of your friends or family because, after all, you are buying it. Choosing a house, just like choosing a spouse, is a long and drawn out process. You may find that you despise most houses, no matter how much potential they may have. Still other times you will find that you fall for a house, only to have another buyer grab it away from you. And occasionally, you will find yourself waiting so long for the process of buying the house to be complete that the commitment loses its appeal all together and you walk away, on to a more immediately available home.
Once you finally have your house, you feel so fulfilled. You want to scream to the world, “Look, look what I bought! I love it and it loves me and we will have a long and happy thirty year commitment together!”-- And it is right about there that the similarities between the purchase of a spouse and the buying of a house, end. And they end abruptly.
Sane, strong women do not go around asking their home what they should do with their lives, or conferring with the walls about the predicament of their close friends.
“Wall, I just feel that she is so delusional on this. Why would she not want the same things I do? Why is she waiting for this unavailable man, why is she chasing dead end dreams. Please give me advice that I can then dispense immediately back to her?”
The women on our favorite sitcoms, the women we are told to envy and manipulate, do not sit down in the middle of their living room and wait for advice from the ceiling to pour upon them. But these very same women—the ones on tv, at our workplaces, in our bridge clubs—-they go straight home to their other major purchase and covet every single word the man (or partner) says.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. He was the best “purchase” I ever made. And there was a time, say from the ages of 22-23 that I coveted everything he told me as fact, as truth, as pure, gifted knowledge. But soon after a year or so of marriage, I got the freak over that shit. Your husband knows no more than you do on general subjects. Certainly, he is a guru in the subject he specializes in--be it tools, computer graphics, financials --but he is not a wealth of knowledge on every subject under the sun.
That is my soapbox. This is my point. Be proud of your mate--he was probably a darn good purchase. But know that dispensing the knowledge he gives you back to your friends is probably not the best idea. Take his opinion and advice as you would that of your friends or Oprah, mix it with critical thought and believe in your own thoughts. After all, you were analytical enough to make a great purchase on your own.
Choosing a spouse is much like a major purchase. Certainly, it is imperative that you find something intriguing and charming in the thing you are about to purchase (be it a house or a man);new windows, or strong arms, for example. It is imperative that you love your major purpose more than any of your friends or family because, after all, you are buying it. Choosing a house, just like choosing a spouse, is a long and drawn out process. You may find that you despise most houses, no matter how much potential they may have. Still other times you will find that you fall for a house, only to have another buyer grab it away from you. And occasionally, you will find yourself waiting so long for the process of buying the house to be complete that the commitment loses its appeal all together and you walk away, on to a more immediately available home.
Once you finally have your house, you feel so fulfilled. You want to scream to the world, “Look, look what I bought! I love it and it loves me and we will have a long and happy thirty year commitment together!”-- And it is right about there that the similarities between the purchase of a spouse and the buying of a house, end. And they end abruptly.
Sane, strong women do not go around asking their home what they should do with their lives, or conferring with the walls about the predicament of their close friends.
“Wall, I just feel that she is so delusional on this. Why would she not want the same things I do? Why is she waiting for this unavailable man, why is she chasing dead end dreams. Please give me advice that I can then dispense immediately back to her?”
The women on our favorite sitcoms, the women we are told to envy and manipulate, do not sit down in the middle of their living room and wait for advice from the ceiling to pour upon them. But these very same women—the ones on tv, at our workplaces, in our bridge clubs—-they go straight home to their other major purchase and covet every single word the man (or partner) says.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. He was the best “purchase” I ever made. And there was a time, say from the ages of 22-23 that I coveted everything he told me as fact, as truth, as pure, gifted knowledge. But soon after a year or so of marriage, I got the freak over that shit. Your husband knows no more than you do on general subjects. Certainly, he is a guru in the subject he specializes in--be it tools, computer graphics, financials --but he is not a wealth of knowledge on every subject under the sun.
That is my soapbox. This is my point. Be proud of your mate--he was probably a darn good purchase. But know that dispensing the knowledge he gives you back to your friends is probably not the best idea. Take his opinion and advice as you would that of your friends or Oprah, mix it with critical thought and believe in your own thoughts. After all, you were analytical enough to make a great purchase on your own.
Monday, August 3, 2009
So far
This Saturday I had the privilege of hanging out with a newlywed couple. I am closer to this couple, I would estimate, than I am to any other and so acting as their third wheel does not overly frustrate me. Things were a little hairy, and I was quickly reminded of how great it is to have a few years of marriage under my belt. I would not say that my marriage is perfect, because anyone that says that is lying directly to your face and may be prone to drinking mouthwash for a buzz before heading to a soccer game. I would say however, that Art and I are in that magical lull of time where all the hard work so far has paid off and the hard road ahead of us is not overwhelming or threatening. I love being married, and love even more the comfort of knowing someone well enough to navigate even the roughest seas with the knowledge of a veteran.
This visit also gave me the rare opportunity to realize just how far I have come, and how far we have come as a couple. As we look at houses, we rarely give ourselves the credit we deserve. We got through my undergrad, we got through (almost) the first quarter of Art going back to school, I got a great job with Wright State, we learned to budget. In all reality, we are right on track. Sometimes it just takes visiting people that are a few steps behind you to realize it.
This visit also gave me the rare opportunity to realize just how far I have come, and how far we have come as a couple. As we look at houses, we rarely give ourselves the credit we deserve. We got through my undergrad, we got through (almost) the first quarter of Art going back to school, I got a great job with Wright State, we learned to budget. In all reality, we are right on track. Sometimes it just takes visiting people that are a few steps behind you to realize it.
A raisin in the Sun
The saddest thing of all is that I sit in front of a computer forty hours a week and I could guess only 25 hours of that are spent working. Add to this average, the fact that I would happily spend my lunch hours, Saturday mornings and random weekday nights doing the very same thing and you start to really see the issue. I have the ability to write, to put everything I want out of my head down on paper in a coherent way that gives back to the world and yet, I don’t do it. Not one bit. And so this is the first day of what should be a real commitment, because I cannot accept another failed attempt to bring what I really love into my life.
I watched a crappy reality show yesterday that made me laugh and this old woman said to her granddaughter: You must find what you really love and you must do what you can to make that your life. That woman was so wise. Her wisdom filled up my living room and my heart. I work as a secretary, for the state. It is an easy job, and I am thankful for it. It leaves room for writing in my life and I intend to utilize that as much as possible. If I don’t, I am certain my eulogy could easily be Langston Hughes' poem, “Harlem” :
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Here is to my new goals. May I be a healthy, rolling, grapefruit or a proud, productive pear.
I watched a crappy reality show yesterday that made me laugh and this old woman said to her granddaughter: You must find what you really love and you must do what you can to make that your life. That woman was so wise. Her wisdom filled up my living room and my heart. I work as a secretary, for the state. It is an easy job, and I am thankful for it. It leaves room for writing in my life and I intend to utilize that as much as possible. If I don’t, I am certain my eulogy could easily be Langston Hughes' poem, “Harlem” :
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Here is to my new goals. May I be a healthy, rolling, grapefruit or a proud, productive pear.
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