Busy Looking Busy

Finally, he’s out of the house. My adorable husband. Nice company, but he is in my way, man — and so are his shoes, empty Diet Coke cans, 300-pound Franklin Planner and little post-it notes that are everywhere.

The first week of unemployment was honeymoonish. We went for walks, went to Chipotle for chips and guac, drank wine at dinner and caught up. It was great.

Since losing his job, my husband feels better. He looks rested. He’s making up time with the girls. He’s exercising every day. His back problems have hugely improved.

But last week he had to return his company laptop. Which means we now have one computer. One. And since job search trumps narcissistic ramblings, I lose. I do manage to sneak in 10 minutes here and there when he goes to the bathroom, but otherwise I am off-line. All day.

Also, since he’s home, I need to look busy. I’ve been cleaning and cooking and grocery shopping – oh, and running fake errands. In fact, I have a whole trunk full of stuff to return today. It’s the stuff I bought looking busy yesterday.

The other day he was downstairs (on the laptop) and I was upstairs, making the bed. I climbed in it, like the old days. I grabbed my book and one of the kitties jumped up to join me. Cold sheets, purring cat, great book: ahhh, bliss. As soon as I settled in, I heard his heavy footsteps clomping up the stairs. I threw my book under the bed, pushed the cat off and got back to looking busy.

Today he is out at an appointment so I have limited time to catch up on blogs, shop online for winter boots, call my friends, finish my book, watch reruns of Curb Your Enthusiasm and eat cold pizza in my pj’s.

So if I haven’t been commenting on your blogs lately, please know it’s not you, it’s me.

Actually it’s him.

I gotta run. I only have limited time, people, and I have an appointment of my own.

Waiter, there’s something in my glass.

My husband lost his job last week…

…the job that was slowly killing him. He was on the road, commuting across state, eating fast food, sleeping in hotel rooms, missing time with his doting daughters, and stressed in such a way that I really feared heart attack.

And then I remember that a year ago yesterday, a woman in mint green scrubs locked my head into a helmet and slid me into a dark, magnetic tube for a brain MRI to check for MS — which I didn’t have. And later that night, I went to the ER because I was convinced the MRI had caused the white pain of a migraine that left me unable to function — it hadn’t. And for the next several months I was nearly bed-ridden because of horrific pain that was diagnosed as fibromyalgia, which I was told would never get better — it did.

So yeah — October 2009: Swine flu is everywhere. It’s been raining for the last ten days. My husband is unemployed. Our house continues to fall apart and maybe worst of all, I’ve gained 5 pounds.

But really, it’s all good.

Offending My First Rock Star

My friend keeps telling me to be “careful with my blog.” As I’m trying to be brave, she’s trying to stop me from being a word-slinging idiot. As it turn out, she’s right…maybe not about the blog, but about the word-slinging idiot part.

Two nights ago I went to my first author reading. Shauna Niequist suggested this book by Donald Miller on her blog. The next day I see in the paper that Donald Miller is coming to town. I think this is a cool sign. So I buy the book, call a friend who I think would also appreciate it, and mark it on the calendar.

Now Donald Miller (and Shauna) are classified as “Christian writers.” Since I am being careful with my blog, I won’t say much more other than I don’t read or own a lot of books by Christian writers. Anne Lamott was up until now, my entire Christian library. But I loved Shauna’s book (loved it) and I had a good feeling I would like Donald Miller’s book, too. And I did. It’s a very thoughtful book that I almost enjoyed more after I read it than I did while I was reading it. Also very thankfully, it’s not preachy.

The reason I make the disclaimer on Christian writers is that also touring with Donald Miller is another CW named Susan E. Isaacs. I hadn’t read her book. I did sit down with it at the bookstore and liked what I read. I also went on her website and found it witty and honest (my favorite combination). Finances being what they are in my house, I didn’t buy her book. I had to make a choice last week — a new book, or fruits and vegetables? I chose fruits and vegetables, but only because we’re heading into flu season.

Two nights ago, we go to the reading. I didn’t know what an author would do at a reading (hello, I know). I guess since I paid for a ticket and authors are like rock stars to me, I think I was expecting Bono to come out, sing a few songs and then tell me how he got to be Bono. This is what I was most excited about…how an author gets through writing a book. What does that feel like?

So out walks Susan Isaacs with very little introduction. The room is quiet. She is petite with blond hair and a great necklace, which I’m totally fixated on. Without any warm-up she just launches into reading her book.

Susan is also a comedian and an actor. Her reading was like watching Tina Fey do a one-woman show. Characters emerge in different voices, she shouts, she pauses, she waves her arms around (I notice her triceps don’t jiggle). She reaches a dramatic crescendo and then breaks character and says something like “and if you want to know more about what happens, you’ll have to buy my book.” And she walks off the stage. Wait, what?

I’m waiting for the secret. I’m waiting for her to pass on the wisdom. I want her to take questions. Plus, the whole time she’s up there all I can think of is – holy shit. After you write a book, you have to go on a book tour and stand under florescent lighting and expose yourself even more than you do on the pages. How do you do that?

I whisper to my friend, “Have you ever been to an author reading before? Is this all they do – read from their book?” She leans over and says, “I don’t know, but I think so.” Now I’m bummed. I want the secret. I want to hear about the process, the part about how Bono becomes Bono.

Next Donald Miller comes out. He’s more handsome than I expected — like a cross between John Corbett and Dane Cook. He doesn’t read, but he does recount the premise of his book with such accuracy, that twice, I open my book to see if he’s actually reciting it verbatim. He does inject a few, “Okay, I don’t normally tell this story, but…” and I nearly fall off my metal chair because I’m leaning so far forward. Give me more skinny, more dirt, more, more.

Then they turn the lights up even brighter and he answers three questions (one from a guy wearing a silk vest, which I’m totally fixated on). Then Bono walks off stage. No encore. The show is over.

We leave, and the next day I go on his blog and leave a comment telling him I enjoyed his presentation and ask him the question I was too scared to ask the night before. But because I’m running to deliver birthday treats to my daughter’s class, I don’t think about what I’ve written. I just hit send and leave. Also I link my comment to my blog. I have no idea why. I guess I want to see if a rock star would read my blog.

This morning, I see Susan Isaacs has left a comment on my blog (see post below). She sounds deflated? pissed? uppity? because in my comment to Donald Miller I thanked him for not “just reading” his book. Now this is the word-slinging part. The word “just” before “reading.” I send her an email apologizing that I didn’t mean it as a slight to her. I simply meant it as a thank you to him for giving me a little bit, just a wee bit, of dirt.

It’s not the end of the world. But all I can think of it how hard it would be to stand up there, baring your soul and triceps under very unflattering lighting. And she did it brilliantly — only to be on a tour bus the next day feeling momentarily bad about her performance. This makes me feel momentarily bad. I might have totally bummed out a rock star.

On the other hand…a rock star read my blog. Hey, yay!

A Revealing Me-me

Karen, a very ‘appy and lovely British blogger, over at If I Could Escape tagged me with this blogging award and guess what the prize is? I get to write about me! In my first me-me-me meme. Hooray.

Okay, first I must tag seven new award-winners. And the awards go to:

1. Alias Mother (I know you’re busy)
2. Chocolate and Wine (I know you’re sick)
3. Emilie’s Observations (I still don’t get Steampunk)
4. My City Life (To be composed in your high rise)
5. No Shoe Left Behind (Start banging away over there)
6. The Fibrochondriac (Use your WordPress)
7. Waltz in Exile (Must use at least three ***’s)

Next I’m supposed to share seven of my personality traits. Okay. So, I am:

Self-aware: A shrink once told me I was the “most self-aware person he had ever seen.” This, from a shrink. He also told me I was the “most anxious person he had ever seen,” which I think makes him the “most frequent abuser of superlatives I have ever seen.”

A Good Listener: When I’m done talking about me, I am happy to concede the floor. I love, love stories about others – especially kooky family stories. I collect them. When one of my friends spends a weekend with her kooky relatives, I’ll brew a pot of coffee, curl up on the couch and wait for the phone to ring. “Go!” I’ll shout when she calls. Seriously, no detail is too small. Try me.

Funny. Okay, my blog is not funny. Nor will this little blurb about me being funny be funny. But in my off-line life, people tell me I’m funny. So maybe I’m a bit funny-ish. Or maybe I’m just very funny-strange.

Hyper-organized. You should see my house. I honestly feel incomplete if I leave the house without the beds made. I was one of those people at work who always had the freakishly clean desk. I could hear people whispering “like, so anal” when they walked by my office.

Curious. I once wanted to start a “research club.” I thought it was a great idea. One person picks the topic and the rest of the group has to do research on it. Then everyone gets together, drinks wine and discusses what they’ve learned. I shopped the idea around and got nuthin. Maybe this explains the “you’re so funny” feedback.

Emotional. Every day I’m forced to make the climb out of the pit in my stomach and head back up into my brain. Every single day.

Guilt-ridden. Example: In the last two weeks, I have been working on getting this unpaid writing gig that is not likely a good fit for me. I needed a picture of myself for the site, so I asked my good friend Beth to take a picture of me.

Beth is an amazing photographer. She came over and took a few shots and while I love Beth’s work, I hate the way I look. My hair is total Carol Brady, my nose is bulbous and I am. so. old. Huge creases, everywhere. Oh, and oink, oink. OMG.

So after she generously came over to take pictures on a rainy day, lugging her sleeping infant in a carseat, I just couldn’t send in her photo. And I didn’t want to ask her to photoshop out the wrinkles, clear up my skin, and shave pounds off my chin. So I used another picture. But I told her I would definitely use her photo for something else. So, for her:

This is my self-aware, listening, funny-ish, hyper-organized, curious, emotional and (oh, so slightly less) guilt-ridden self. Coffee’s brewing. Now then, about you…Go!

Brave New Writer? (First Draft)

Chapter Two has started out less efficiently than I expected. It’s been 3 weeks and I don’t have a job, my closets are a mess and my triceps are still drapey sacks of useless flesh. But I’ve been having fun going out for lunch, drinking coffee, browsing at the bookstore, and playing a lot of bridge. Yes, bridge. I know, right? I’ll cover bridge another time — I’ll need time to cover it.

Anyhoo, while I’ve been messing around living a temporary (and financially deprived) life of suburban leisure, I haven’t stopped thinking about what I need to do next. Do I make money with a marketing job and start repaying the enormous debt caused by my time “off-ramp,” or do I get honest and pursue what I’ve secretly always wanted to do? Do I try and write?

I’ve been through the whole “do what you love, love what you do” argument. I’ve considered the now-or-never timing ever since my age rudely shoved me into the middle (God willing) of my life. I’ve analyzed the lifestyle issues:self-discipline, time management, low pay, even the loneliness. I’m pretty good with most of it.

What I’m not good with is the emotional part. You don’t have to read very deep in this blog to grasp my desperate need for approval. I can make myself sick waiting for a little validation or encouragement. The first hour after I hit “publish” is dicey. I’ve gone back and hit “delete post” on at least three separate occassions.

It’s not that I need ego stoking, well okay, it is — but not because my ego is so big it needs to be fed. Rather, it’s because my ego is such a pussy. Someone could walk by and take it out with just a funny look.

I’ve loved to write since I was a kid. My parents divorced when I was young, and we moved around a lot. Stories kept me company. I’ve written in a journal since I was nine. Anyone who writes knows what this is like: I have to write. It keeps me quiet, grounded and fortified.

Recently I’ve been reading what other writers have written about writing. The one thing each one (Stephen King, Sol Stein, Anne Lammot, Betsy Lerner, my Uncle Fred) has said is that a writer has to be brave. She needs to write honestly. She can’t be afraid of what others say. This is the only way to possibly be good.

See the problem here? I want approval, but the only way for me to get approval is to not want approval. This is the point when I moan, define myself as woe and seek refuge in my anonymous blog.

But the blog is not as safe anymore because in deciding to test my bravery, I outed myself. I gave this URL to someone in Jcrewville I know who is ridiculously well-read and masterfully critical. She is intelligent and knows everyone, I mean EVERYone, in town. This could give her power over my sorry, little, writer-wannabe soul. But I am brave (while furiously checking stats).

It’s been three days and I’ve gotten nothing. I figure either a) she already found out about the blog and read it a while ago, or b) is not interested, or c) both. So this is the point when I say: so what. So whaaaaat! And I hit “publish” and leave the house for a pumpkin latte because whether I suck or not, I want to write –and my triceps will always be drapey sacks of useless flesh.

Chapter 2

Today I dropped off two daughters at school. One begins her last year at elementary school and the other begins her first. When we got within sight of the playground, my fifth grader (!) ran off. I never saw her again – confirmation that indeed, her friends are preferable company.

I walked my first grader in and helped her find her locker, her classroom, her desk. We took pictures, pointed animatedly at her nearby friends and then I stood back with all the other moms and waited. It couldn’t have been less than 90 degrees in the classroom. My eyes were stinging from the 7:00am wake-up call and my back was slick with sweat.

The place was swarming with parents. Some moms were brushing away tears and others were maneuvering for the door. I leaned down to her tiny desk to kiss her goodbye and she distractedly blew in my face – an aborted attempt to blow me a kiss, I think.

I left the classroom missing her already and at the same time, silently screaming “Woo-hoo! I’m freeee!!!!”

Now I sit in my silent house, one kitten at my feet, a cup of coffee next to the laptop and I’m ready to get started.

Chapter 2.

Narcissism, Neuroses, Etc.

Would you like to hear
Of the terrible night
When I bravely fought the –
No?
all right.
- Shel Silverstein, The Battle

Lately I feel like I am drowning in my own narcissism. Me – starring in my own show about me! and what I buy at the grocery store, and what I read — and what I think about what I read. It’s pretty much, what I think about everything and it’s making me tired. I talk too much and write too much — about me(!). Blah, I can’t stand the sound of my own voice anymore.

One thing’s for sure: I need to pick up a newspaper. Isn’t there some scuffle going on in Washington over this thing called healthcare? Isn’t the ocean unusually warm? What are the folks in China up to? These are places where I need to park my brain. Maybe if I worry about the swine flu a little more, I might worry about my pre-teen daughter’s social life a little less.

I think there are two times a year when Jcrewville gets extra crazy. One is right before school gets out and everyone’s outdoing each other with parties, fundraisers and teacher’s gifts. The other is back-to-school time when moms who have been out of circulation for the summer get nutty trying to re-enter the social scene at the playground. At least that’s when I start getting all twisted-up and insecure.

I hate gossip and yet after months of isolation, I binge on it like raw cookie dough…until I’m sick and full of regret. Why, why do I do it?

So if you’re unfortunate enough to have clicked on this post and are bored, join the club. If you are feeling vulnerable because it’s that time of year when you need to put on lipstick and make cocktail-party chatter with other moms, you are not alone. And if you have any opinions on healthcare or the swine flu or news about you (!), please share.

In the meantime, I’m going to throw on my fleece and sit outside on this chilly afternoon. Or maybe I’ll brew a pot of coffee and bake some cookies.

(Yawn.)

Fall Preview

I got nuthin’ to say this morning except that it’s raining — and I’ve turned every light on in the house even though it’s only 9:00am. This reminds me that fall is coming and after that, eight months of darkness. The ladies of Jcrewville will have to pack their Lily Pulitzer away until next year.

My daughters need new shoes and soccer cleats. Despite the dirt and neglect, their feet somehow grew spectacularly this summer.

Next year, I will have seven hours and ten minutes each day all to myself. I need to get back in shape and even more daunting…find a job (insert neuroses and insomnia here).

Suggestions are welcome.

Small-Town Ledger

His periwinkle eyes were my first clue. Standing there alone, clutching a five dollar bill, he looked confused about where the line ended. I motioned for him to cut in front of me.

He moved up to the counter. “Can I have my mom’s drink, please?”

The cashier seemed confused. “What, honey?”

“My mom’s drink.”

The barista looked up and said to the cashier, “Oh that’s Kelly’s son.”

“Oh right, Kelly’s son.” And she began to ring up the order while the barista called out, “Venti, no-fat, extra-shot with sugar-free vanilla.”

I smiled. Of course that was Kelly’s son. Of course they knew her order. It was a moment of Mayberry. Woman sends her small son to Starbucks all alone with no worries because we all know each other’s children. We all look out for them. I add this to my plus column.

In the negative column sits the pain of a family down the street from me. A family facing divorce. People started whispering “marital problems” last summer. Everyone knows about it except possibly their own kids. For a year, people have been speculating: Has is happened yet? Who wanted out? Why did it go bad?

That’s the thing about living here. We all know each other’s business, each other’s drink order, what we all paid for our houses. Diagnosed with breast cancer? Everyone rallies, cooks and drives your children to school (plus). Your teen daughter experiments with alcohol? Everyone talks, keeps their distance, diverts babysitting jobs from her (minus).

Some days I’m awed by the pretty scenery, other days I’m creeped-out by the lack of privacy. Is it normal that after eight years I still find myself tallying the pluses and minuses? Maybe that’s just life…or mid-life…or whatever.

Right now, I guess it’s just where I live.

The Short List

It’s an impossibly beautiful morning. The back door is wide open. I’m supposed to go on a walk with my husband to loosen up my sore muscles and his creaky back, but right now he’s reading the sports page so I have a few minutes to indulge in me-me-me-time.

Waltz promised she’d read my grocery list if I wrote it down. I couldn’t possibly print the whole list — besides, I’ll assume you don’t really want to know what brand of kitten chow I buy (yes, I said kitten — kittens actually, more on that later).

Instead I’ve complied my short list of favorite things to buy in the summer. It’s the stuff I need to stockpile in case my husband loses his job, in which case my whole family will be forced to subsist on my selfish but yummy choices because hello, I buy the food.

1. Jicama.
Welcome to my own personal Jicama Festival. It started in late spring when I ran into a former preschool mom who’d lost weight and looked amazing. She was loading up on jicama.

I was like, “oh yeah, jicama…. it’s yummy, but I’d never think to actually buy it.” She told me she slices it and dowses it with lime juice and Splenda for a sweet snack. Her arms were seriously cut and unlike me, she only had one chin. I put two huge jicamas my cart. (P.S. I did contemplate secretly tailing her, three carts behind, just to see what the skinny people buy, but I’m a bigger person than that).

So yeah, jicama. Peeled and sliced up like french fries (*sigh*) in a ziploc, I pull it out whenever I want to munch on something (straight up and neat, not tainted with Splenda). Recently, Alias Mother suggested a salad with jicama, watermelon, mint and lime. Can you imagine? So I bought more jicama, some watermelon and limes and then I forgot the mint. Curses.

2. Mint.
This was my not on my go-to list this year or I’d be knee-deep in heavenly jicama salad, but gosh, mint – Mint! Nothing soothes the soul and makes me crave rum like fresh mint. One summer I planted it in two huge pots and spent months muddling it for various mojito-ish concoctions that kept me happy, boozy and lazy through September. It was a very good summer.

3. Greek Yogurt.
So creamy, so yummy. I am kind of squeamish with yogurt, but the Greeks — Op-ah! they made me love yogurt. I mix it with flax seed, vanilla, blueberries and a little stevia. It’s expensive but I justify it by returning cans and not buying shoes. Oh, and I never buy fat-free, just low-fat. Fat-free is just not creamy enough.

4. Flax seed.
I started buying flax seed when I read about it’s anti-inflammatory effects. Now, I put it on salad, in my yogurt, in cereal, and sprinkled on peanut butter toast. It’s nutty and hearty, and I love that it leaves a few little seeds in my gums that I can fish out with my tongue in a rather satisfying post-meal ritual.

5. Arnold Whole Wheat Sandwich Thins.
I’m trying to stay away from white flour and bread in general, but I’m hooked on these. They’re like thin, but hearty little hamburger buns — 100 calories and 5 grams of fiber per. They make a great snack slathered with peanut butter or with a slice of cheese, especially when you’re dashing off to Target, hypoglycemic, and don’t want to yell at your kids in front of the other moms at Target. I also serve them toasted, open-faced, and drizzled with olive oil for my people. They eat it and actually thank me.

6. Diet Coke.
Everything I’ve read about fibromyalgia says to lose the aspartame. My teenage neighbor insists Diet Coke contains formaldehyde. Screw it. I need my Diet Coke. Everyday. There is nothing like it — cold, out of can (not a bottle), bubbly, fresh, and with a little kick of energy. It’s just a little chemically beverage that makes me so happy. You may scold me all you want. I may die early and never decompose — but I just. don’t. care.

7. Lemons.
I confess, buying lemons makes me feel smug — like I’m some kind of great cook or something. But I think lemons make everything taste bright and fresh: squirted over roasted asparagus, nestled in sparkling water, splashed into mayo and curry powder for a quick dressing.

My favorite go-to chicken recipe is just lemons, olive oil and whatever else I have around: fresh thyme, garlic, red onion, Dijon mustard – smooshed together in a ziploc to marinate until it’s time for grilling. My foodie brother says not to add the lemon juice until the end, that it will pre-cook the chicken in a cheviche-like fashion, but I let in marinate for hours. It makes the chicken soooo tender and yummy.

8. Good White Wine.
I love red-wine, but I had to give it up when postpartum (or perimenopausal?) hormonal changes made me intolerant. Now I must drink white, but that’s good in the summer, chilled in a pretty glass. I won’t list a region or grape because I’m not that discerning so long as it’s not Chardonnay, which makes me shudder, and costs more than seven dollars. For some reason, I can find good wine under ten dollars, but never under seven.

9. Starbucks Verona Coffee.
I know, I love Dunkin Donuts, too – but in the morning, I need black, bitter, super-hot Starbucks.

10. Chocolate chips.
Right?

There you have it. Please feel free to add a few of your summer favorites and/or wine recommendations. We can have a virtual summer picnic. I’ll bring the jicama.