Your stuff was already gone: the clothes you wore that were in the closet, including the tan linen suit, crisp white shirt, and dark blue tie that you wore on our wedding day; the computer where you filled out your invoices (but not the desk and the chair- those were still here for me); the leather sofa and chair we had moved from the house we owned, to the apartment we didn’t want to move into, to the house we were now renting; the tools that cluttered up our small garage and made it hard for me to park; the silverware (my grandmother has extra); the plates (my sister has a spare set); all of the glasses except for 4 (I don’t need much); your shaving cream and razor (although there were still a few bits of stubble around the edge of the sink); your shampoo; your soap (I always insisted on having separate soap bars); the television we couldn’t afford when we lived in the house we owned; the artwork I was willing to part with; the dining table and chairs that your mother bought for you as a birthday present before we married; the boxy and modern lamp set; tubs of various knick-knacks and belongings that were packed up moves ago and never unpacked.
This was my last night in what was our house.
Standing in the middle of the living room, which would be completely empty except for a stack of framed prints and a single bench, I wondered how we had gotten to this place. It was like moving day in reverse. Everything had an uncomfortable echo to it- the clock ticking in the kitchen (had it always been that loud?), the sound of the air forcing itself through the vents, the rhythmic beating of my heart.
It was late, and I needed to get some sleep. For me, moving day would be in less than 12 hours. For you it had been the day before.
I walked into the bedroom and studied the bare queen-sized mattress (I had agreed to letting you take the bedding) and the small sofa that we had to cut the legs off of to get it to fit through the bedroom doorway. (Where had we put those, anyway?) I dug through one of the three plastic tubs sitting in the middle of the room until I came up with several towels. (That would have to do for now.) I fashioned one into a makeshift pillow and spread the others out for a blanket. (How long had it been since we had both slept in this bed? How long had it been when, so much heat being generated from two bodies, we’d had to pull back the blankets altogether?)
I flipped the overhead light off and flopped down on the bed, reaching for one of the towels as a cover. (This isn’t so bad. It’s kind of like camping, somehow. Only quieter. Much quieter. So quiet that the noise is almost unbearable.)
My mind drifts to you sleeping for the first night in your new apartment. Will you wake up in the middle of the night and, for a moment, think you are back here? Back and back and back before now, the time when we learn to unwind ourselves from ourselves. Undo the knots that years have made. Take turns working on the stubborn parts while the other fills out new address forms at the post office or announces the news to a friend not seen in months or shops for a new spatula.
Here we will begin the process of getting to un-know each other.
Photos in piles: Keep. Keep but look at later. Put in the mail in a padded envelope addressed to an apartment you will call home and I will most likely never see. Throw away.
Photos in frames are switched out. A tiny you and me on our wedding day for my new dog in the backyard of my new place. Our trip out west for my trip out east. This frame I'll keep empty.
Back in my bed our bed your old bed, I am watching the blades of the ceiling fan whirl. If I move my eyes quickly to the left and the right, I can- for a brief moment- see each blade clearly. I can even see the lines of dust and the cracks in the paint. I make myself look for longer than I want to.
And my mind goes back and back and back to-freeze- when we were getting to know one another. Banking the memories for the un-knowing. Tying the knots and making patterns of our messiness. To this moment here, when everything I said was funny and everything you did was endearing. And here, when we drank in each other's lives and our bellies felt full and we had visions of being old. At the same time. At the same place.
I unwind slowly at times. Quickly at others. I skip over some of the knots and leave them there. But, here. Here is the thread loose and ready to be wound up with another's. I give it back to you.
With love.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
What the poo?
Some people collect salt and pepper shakers. Some like to listen to talk radio in the morning. Some people like the way it feels to close their eyes and rub on their eyelids really hard and then watch the little yellow floaty things go round and round until they disappear.
I like to talk about poop.
I don't know why. It's not like I'm obsessed with actual poo. (Note: I will interchange the words "poop" and "poo" because they are both equally fun to say.) I don't have t-shirts with little cartoon poos on them or cross-stitch "I heart poo" lids on jam jars in my kitchen. I abhor the smell of poo and would rather look at my grandparents making out than actually look at poop. But, hot damn if I don't find myself bringing up poop-related topics. Often. Even when my higher-self tells me it's not such a good idea.
Here's an example. A few years ago, I was on a run around Forest Park. (Insert "oh no! she's not going to...is she?" comments from those familiar with the Forest Park running story.) Okay. So, I was on a run. And runners, you will no doubt have a similar story. If not, keep running. It will happen to you. Here I am, at about mile 5, just a bouncin' and a hoppin' down Skinker Blvd, when a sudden cramping attack led me to replicate Jamie Lee Curtis's frantic front-door-knocking scene from Halloween, only instead of trying to escape a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, I was desperately trying to get to a bathroom.
No luck, and moments later I found myself squatting in broad daylight behind the Missouri History Museum Library and Research Center. A failed attempt at turning nearby crunchy leaves into toilet paper led me to a painful walk of shame for the 1 mile back to my car, swearing I would NEVER tell anyone about this as long as I live.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I had called two different people. They listened in awkward silence, and then encouraged me not to share it anymore. Once was enough. Twice was two times too many.
But, I keep bringing it up. To my mother. At social gatherings. To a friend's wife. To someone who is a runner or used to be a runner or knew a runner once. I can't stop. "This one time, I was running around Forest Park..." Those nearby who know the story get wide-eyed. "Noooooo!" I can almost hear them saying in slow-motion. But by the time the last "oooo" of "noooo!" is out of their mouth, the room is already pin-drop silent and I'm continuing to dip my ridged Ruffle chips into some sour cream n' onion dip and commenting on how good and salty it is.
In college, I developed a nice case of IBS. Irritable bowel syndrome, or "Gee, we're sorry you keep nearly shitting yourself in public and after ruling out Crohns disease, we're not really sure what's going on there, so we'll just tell you that your bowel is irritable." Yeah. That's helpful.
So, about 3 years of always having an exit strategy, always knowing where the bathrooms are, nodding my head during dinner conversation on a nice date but really thinking, "Get to the end of the story, fella. Little lady's about to blow! *(And not in the way you want.), running red lights to fly into a gas station and pray to the good Lord above that no one was in the nasty-ass bathroom stall,- the end result is I became, understandably, a bit poo-preoccupied.
Today if my bowel were cast on the Muppet Show, it would be less Statler and Waldorf, as crabby old balcony dwellers, and more Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, as precise and in charge. But still, my reoccurring question when travelling somewhere new or thinking about nearly any activity is, "What if I have to poop?" Getting onto a bus with 80 middle schoolers? "What if I have to poop?" Doing a back flip off of a boat attached to scuba gear? "What if I have to poop down there?" Getting buckled into a death-defying ride at an amusement park? "What if I'm at the top of the ride and I have to poop?" Lacing my shoes for a long run with a friend? "What if we're 5 miles in and I have to poop?"
It's one thing if I thought these questions to myself. Seems normal. Even appropriate. But I tend to vocalize them to my company. "Well..." they usually say, "then you just...poop." Really? Seriously?
This also happens when I'm watching others. Say I'm at a baseball game. I may, while watching the pitcher, lean over and say, "What if he has to poop when he's out there?" Or while watching a talented Russian pair ice skating on tv, "What if one of them has to poop in the middle of their routine?" Or while watching the president address the union. "What if he has to poop right now? Like, an emergency-poop? What is he going to do?"
"Um. I've never given that much thought," is another response I tend to get. I think this is polite-talk for "Will you PLEASE stop talking about poop?"
And then I try to stop. Really, I do. But the trying seems to bring about even more poop scenarios, and I find these, too, must be said out loud.
It's amazing I still have friends. And I have a lot of them. Really, I do. Real ones who seem to like me a lot, despite my poo talk. Then there are the little related poo things.
I giggle each and every time I hear the name "Pujols."
I like when someone says "do" followed by the word "do," as in, "These seemingly useless contraptions shouldn't be thrown away. They do do something."
I like the way the automated voice on dictionary.com says "poop" with a little exhale of air after the last "p"- "poo-puh."
I think a dog pooping is funny, with its back all hunched over and its eyes darting around in doggy shame, like, "Oh, for pete's sake. Do I really have to do this in front of everyone again?"
The dung beetle fascinates me.
The idea of dingleberries, especially on rodents, is entertaining.
I don't think I'm alone in being entertained by most-things-poo, but, quite honestly, as Groucho Marx and Woody Allen both said, "I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." Poo-talking clubs, that is. Although, I come by it naturally, I guess. Among other things clipped to a wire crossing the length of my grandfather's bathroom was a daily log about, well, his daily logs.
And that's really gross.
I mean, a girl has to have some standards, right?
I like to talk about poop.
I don't know why. It's not like I'm obsessed with actual poo. (Note: I will interchange the words "poop" and "poo" because they are both equally fun to say.) I don't have t-shirts with little cartoon poos on them or cross-stitch "I heart poo" lids on jam jars in my kitchen. I abhor the smell of poo and would rather look at my grandparents making out than actually look at poop. But, hot damn if I don't find myself bringing up poop-related topics. Often. Even when my higher-self tells me it's not such a good idea.
Here's an example. A few years ago, I was on a run around Forest Park. (Insert "oh no! she's not going to...is she?" comments from those familiar with the Forest Park running story.) Okay. So, I was on a run. And runners, you will no doubt have a similar story. If not, keep running. It will happen to you. Here I am, at about mile 5, just a bouncin' and a hoppin' down Skinker Blvd, when a sudden cramping attack led me to replicate Jamie Lee Curtis's frantic front-door-knocking scene from Halloween, only instead of trying to escape a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, I was desperately trying to get to a bathroom.
No luck, and moments later I found myself squatting in broad daylight behind the Missouri History Museum Library and Research Center. A failed attempt at turning nearby crunchy leaves into toilet paper led me to a painful walk of shame for the 1 mile back to my car, swearing I would NEVER tell anyone about this as long as I live.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I had called two different people. They listened in awkward silence, and then encouraged me not to share it anymore. Once was enough. Twice was two times too many.
But, I keep bringing it up. To my mother. At social gatherings. To a friend's wife. To someone who is a runner or used to be a runner or knew a runner once. I can't stop. "This one time, I was running around Forest Park..." Those nearby who know the story get wide-eyed. "Noooooo!" I can almost hear them saying in slow-motion. But by the time the last "oooo" of "noooo!" is out of their mouth, the room is already pin-drop silent and I'm continuing to dip my ridged Ruffle chips into some sour cream n' onion dip and commenting on how good and salty it is.
In college, I developed a nice case of IBS. Irritable bowel syndrome, or "Gee, we're sorry you keep nearly shitting yourself in public and after ruling out Crohns disease, we're not really sure what's going on there, so we'll just tell you that your bowel is irritable." Yeah. That's helpful.
So, about 3 years of always having an exit strategy, always knowing where the bathrooms are, nodding my head during dinner conversation on a nice date but really thinking, "Get to the end of the story, fella. Little lady's about to blow! *(And not in the way you want.), running red lights to fly into a gas station and pray to the good Lord above that no one was in the nasty-ass bathroom stall,- the end result is I became, understandably, a bit poo-preoccupied.
Today if my bowel were cast on the Muppet Show, it would be less Statler and Waldorf, as crabby old balcony dwellers, and more Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, as precise and in charge. But still, my reoccurring question when travelling somewhere new or thinking about nearly any activity is, "What if I have to poop?" Getting onto a bus with 80 middle schoolers? "What if I have to poop?" Doing a back flip off of a boat attached to scuba gear? "What if I have to poop down there?" Getting buckled into a death-defying ride at an amusement park? "What if I'm at the top of the ride and I have to poop?" Lacing my shoes for a long run with a friend? "What if we're 5 miles in and I have to poop?"
It's one thing if I thought these questions to myself. Seems normal. Even appropriate. But I tend to vocalize them to my company. "Well..." they usually say, "then you just...poop." Really? Seriously?
This also happens when I'm watching others. Say I'm at a baseball game. I may, while watching the pitcher, lean over and say, "What if he has to poop when he's out there?" Or while watching a talented Russian pair ice skating on tv, "What if one of them has to poop in the middle of their routine?" Or while watching the president address the union. "What if he has to poop right now? Like, an emergency-poop? What is he going to do?"
"Um. I've never given that much thought," is another response I tend to get. I think this is polite-talk for "Will you PLEASE stop talking about poop?"
And then I try to stop. Really, I do. But the trying seems to bring about even more poop scenarios, and I find these, too, must be said out loud.
It's amazing I still have friends. And I have a lot of them. Really, I do. Real ones who seem to like me a lot, despite my poo talk. Then there are the little related poo things.
I giggle each and every time I hear the name "Pujols."
I like when someone says "do" followed by the word "do," as in, "These seemingly useless contraptions shouldn't be thrown away. They do do something."
I like the way the automated voice on dictionary.com says "poop" with a little exhale of air after the last "p"- "poo-puh."
I think a dog pooping is funny, with its back all hunched over and its eyes darting around in doggy shame, like, "Oh, for pete's sake. Do I really have to do this in front of everyone again?"
The dung beetle fascinates me.
The idea of dingleberries, especially on rodents, is entertaining.
I don't think I'm alone in being entertained by most-things-poo, but, quite honestly, as Groucho Marx and Woody Allen both said, "I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." Poo-talking clubs, that is. Although, I come by it naturally, I guess. Among other things clipped to a wire crossing the length of my grandfather's bathroom was a daily log about, well, his daily logs.
And that's really gross.
I mean, a girl has to have some standards, right?
Monday, July 11, 2011
Um...Can I Ask You Something?
If you've recently had a baby, I'm going to ask you about it. (Did you poop on the table? I heard you poop on the table.) Vasectomy? I've got questions for you. (So, like-it's a totally different tube than the pee tube, right? But, it's all in the same spot. Right? So do you pee yourself for a little bit during recovery?) Monitor your glucose with one of those blood pricker things? (So, do you ever just poke it in random places to see what it would do? I mean, like not on your finger, but say, your elbow?) Glass eye? (Can you take it out? Can I see it? Can I tap on it with my fork?)
If it's related to the body, and I haven't experienced it, I'm deeply fascinated by it. My exploratory and sometimes socially awkward/seemingly insensitive/crowd-gasping questions are really just an indication of my curiosity. To a gay friend: "So, um, I totally get what goes on with a man and a woman, you know- with sex and all that business, but when you're on a date with a guy, and things seem to be going in that direction, do you just come out and ask who's going to be in what position, or like, do you both kind of charge and see what happens?" To someone with dentures: "So, do you really put your teeth in a glass next to your bed, or is that some horrible stereotype? Do you brush them? In or out of your mouth? Flossing? Yes? No?"
Perhaps I ask the questions other people are already thinking, but have too much tact to verbalize. I can't be the only one thinking these things. Or maybe I am. Either way, I'm fascinated.
The other night I was at a party and was seated next to a young, attractive woman who had a clear IV tube leading from the top of her shirt down to a brown purse on the floor. I'm guessing most people kind of do this: "Hi, lady. I'm going to totally NOT look at the plastic tube sticking out of your shirt and pretend like it's not there. See how accepting I can be of people with plastic tubes attached to their chest? I don't even NOTICE it!" I do notice it. Not in a bad way. In a I'd like to know more about what's going on there way.
I've been told that a gentler approach to my line of questioning might make others feel less- I don't know- like they want the ground to open up and swallow them whole. After a polite exchange of names I said, "So, do you mind if I ask about what's going on there? With the tube?" She seemed surprised, in a shy way. But willing to answer. Her body can't take in water and she has to be given IV fluids through a port in her chest throughout the day. And night, I guess. I didn't ask about that. Damn.
"So," (I'm beginning to notice that all of my questions begin with a sing-songy "Soooo.") "So, you have an IV bag right there in your purse?"
"Uh-huh."
"Can I see it?"
"Um. Okay." She rummages through her brown leather purse like she's looking for car keys or a lone stick of gum, and comes out with a nearly depleted plastic bag of clear liquid. "It's almost out," she says.
"So, you have to change it?"
"Yep."
"And, where do you buy them? The bags, that is."
"I go down there and they give me a few at a time." I forgot to ask where there is. The hospital? The IV Shoppe?
Questioning went on in this manner. "So, do you sweat? What happens to all that water? Do you just pee it out? Can you exercise?" Somehow I ended up asking if it was possible to put solid things into the port on her chest. Pills. Or small pieces of food. "No. Um. Just liquids." Although she did tell me that drug addicts with ports have used them as a place to inject drugs right into the bloodstream.
Which reminds me about a line of questioning to an ex-heroin using acquaintance that ended up with him telling me how he used his drug stuff to crush up aspirin and cook/shoot into to his kitty when it was sick once. See? Even drug addicts have a soft spot.
Back to my IV friend.
"Well," I concluded, "I think it's nice. Not that you have it, I mean. Just like. It's like having a puppy. Only not as cute. Well, right now I'm picturing a little face on the bag in your purse, and that's kind of cute. But, you know what I mean. It's something to talk about with strangers."
"I hadn't really thought of it that way," she replied. "I'm kind of shy, so, yes- I guess it does give me something to talk about. If people ask me about it. Which doesn't happen that often."
Maybe I made the last line up. I don't remember. I was picturing the clear tube protruding from her bag to be wagging like a dog's tail.
She was a great sport.
I left the party shortly thereafter and felt like I made a new friend. I have no idea what she does for a living, what her last name is, if she is married/ever been married/has kids, if she grew up in St. Louis. But I know that it was about time to change the bag of fluids that was making her able to be out of a hospital and socialize with the rest of us. And I liked knowing this.
If I'm thinking about it, I'm probably going to ask it. "Are you afraid to die? Do you think about it?" I've asked those questions to my grandma (since deceased) and my Great Uncle Joe- Joe was in his 80s when I asked and my grandma was over 90.
I've talked about it with my fabulous Aunt Patty, after her breast cancer came back with a vengeance. Sprawled out across her bed, noticing how her once comfortably doughy frame was now small and bird-like, I asked her about it. I mean- it was there. In the room with us. Not asking her about it wasn't going to make it not happen. We weren't on her bed because she was having a sleepover. I didn't wake her up from a normal nap. She was dying, and everyone knew it at this point. I asked. "Are you afraid to die, Aunt Patty?"
"Hell, yeah, I'm afraid to die, Bridge!" Not what I expected. For once I didn't have any follow-up questions. Not "Where do you think you'll go?" or "Can you come back and do things like make my curtains move?" or "If you really do go to heaven and see famous people, who will you look for first?"
Instead, this is what happened: Our faces on the same pillow, inches apart, we stared at each other in the truth of what she had just said. We held hands and let our fat tears fall into the fabric of her new pillowcase. My questions, normally swirling around in my head, fell to the floor like a box of pins and I only had one left.
And I kept it in.
If it's related to the body, and I haven't experienced it, I'm deeply fascinated by it. My exploratory and sometimes socially awkward/seemingly insensitive/crowd-gasping questions are really just an indication of my curiosity. To a gay friend: "So, um, I totally get what goes on with a man and a woman, you know- with sex and all that business, but when you're on a date with a guy, and things seem to be going in that direction, do you just come out and ask who's going to be in what position, or like, do you both kind of charge and see what happens?" To someone with dentures: "So, do you really put your teeth in a glass next to your bed, or is that some horrible stereotype? Do you brush them? In or out of your mouth? Flossing? Yes? No?"
Perhaps I ask the questions other people are already thinking, but have too much tact to verbalize. I can't be the only one thinking these things. Or maybe I am. Either way, I'm fascinated.
The other night I was at a party and was seated next to a young, attractive woman who had a clear IV tube leading from the top of her shirt down to a brown purse on the floor. I'm guessing most people kind of do this: "Hi, lady. I'm going to totally NOT look at the plastic tube sticking out of your shirt and pretend like it's not there. See how accepting I can be of people with plastic tubes attached to their chest? I don't even NOTICE it!" I do notice it. Not in a bad way. In a I'd like to know more about what's going on there way.
I've been told that a gentler approach to my line of questioning might make others feel less- I don't know- like they want the ground to open up and swallow them whole. After a polite exchange of names I said, "So, do you mind if I ask about what's going on there? With the tube?" She seemed surprised, in a shy way. But willing to answer. Her body can't take in water and she has to be given IV fluids through a port in her chest throughout the day. And night, I guess. I didn't ask about that. Damn.
"So," (I'm beginning to notice that all of my questions begin with a sing-songy "Soooo.") "So, you have an IV bag right there in your purse?"
"Uh-huh."
"Can I see it?"
"Um. Okay." She rummages through her brown leather purse like she's looking for car keys or a lone stick of gum, and comes out with a nearly depleted plastic bag of clear liquid. "It's almost out," she says.
"So, you have to change it?"
"Yep."
"And, where do you buy them? The bags, that is."
"I go down there and they give me a few at a time." I forgot to ask where there is. The hospital? The IV Shoppe?
Questioning went on in this manner. "So, do you sweat? What happens to all that water? Do you just pee it out? Can you exercise?" Somehow I ended up asking if it was possible to put solid things into the port on her chest. Pills. Or small pieces of food. "No. Um. Just liquids." Although she did tell me that drug addicts with ports have used them as a place to inject drugs right into the bloodstream.
Which reminds me about a line of questioning to an ex-heroin using acquaintance that ended up with him telling me how he used his drug stuff to crush up aspirin and cook/shoot into to his kitty when it was sick once. See? Even drug addicts have a soft spot.
Back to my IV friend.
"Well," I concluded, "I think it's nice. Not that you have it, I mean. Just like. It's like having a puppy. Only not as cute. Well, right now I'm picturing a little face on the bag in your purse, and that's kind of cute. But, you know what I mean. It's something to talk about with strangers."
"I hadn't really thought of it that way," she replied. "I'm kind of shy, so, yes- I guess it does give me something to talk about. If people ask me about it. Which doesn't happen that often."
Maybe I made the last line up. I don't remember. I was picturing the clear tube protruding from her bag to be wagging like a dog's tail.
She was a great sport.
I left the party shortly thereafter and felt like I made a new friend. I have no idea what she does for a living, what her last name is, if she is married/ever been married/has kids, if she grew up in St. Louis. But I know that it was about time to change the bag of fluids that was making her able to be out of a hospital and socialize with the rest of us. And I liked knowing this.
If I'm thinking about it, I'm probably going to ask it. "Are you afraid to die? Do you think about it?" I've asked those questions to my grandma (since deceased) and my Great Uncle Joe- Joe was in his 80s when I asked and my grandma was over 90.
I've talked about it with my fabulous Aunt Patty, after her breast cancer came back with a vengeance. Sprawled out across her bed, noticing how her once comfortably doughy frame was now small and bird-like, I asked her about it. I mean- it was there. In the room with us. Not asking her about it wasn't going to make it not happen. We weren't on her bed because she was having a sleepover. I didn't wake her up from a normal nap. She was dying, and everyone knew it at this point. I asked. "Are you afraid to die, Aunt Patty?"
"Hell, yeah, I'm afraid to die, Bridge!" Not what I expected. For once I didn't have any follow-up questions. Not "Where do you think you'll go?" or "Can you come back and do things like make my curtains move?" or "If you really do go to heaven and see famous people, who will you look for first?"
Instead, this is what happened: Our faces on the same pillow, inches apart, we stared at each other in the truth of what she had just said. We held hands and let our fat tears fall into the fabric of her new pillowcase. My questions, normally swirling around in my head, fell to the floor like a box of pins and I only had one left.
And I kept it in.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
My New Phone: Or, How I Made an Ass of Myself at the Phone Store
I just traded in my old-school flip phone. It's the one that flew out of my back pocket while I was riding my scooter and still worked. But it's also the one that took a lesson in zen patience to text with: 3(D), 8-8(U), 6(M), 2-2(B), 7(P), 4-4(H), 6-6-6(O), 6-6(N), 3-3(E). And it was one of many reasons my middle school students make fun of me. When they're not busy pointing out how my arms flab about when I erase the board, how the food I brought for lunch "looks nasty," or how the running man is not a dance anybody does these days. What do they know.
My phone contract (seriously? contract? I've been committed to the 2 cell phones I've had in my life longer than most of the relationships I've been in)- was up this summer, so I took it by the local phone place for an upgrade.
The following shitty thesis goes out to the one or two students who read this blog:
In this paper, I will tell you about how I don't know much about today's phone technology. And also how I make an ass of myself. Often.
"Hello, what can I help you with today?" says the Sprint guy. Normal question. Deserves a normal response, like, "Oh, I'm ready to upgrade my phone." That's all that's needed, really. I'm apparently sometimes incapable of delivering all that's needed. I give unwanted garnish (like verbal parsley) or sometimes the wrong dish altogether.
"Yeah...uh...." (while I dig in my bag for my old-school flip phone) "Well...you'll see what I need help with here in a sec" (Phone dude stands still, eyebrows raised. I locate the phone and pull it out, flipping it open.) "BAM! Check out this old-school business. I'm only missing the big ol' bag that holds the battery and plugs into the car. Right? Right? Remember those? No, you're too young. Check out my texting skills." (I go into a pantomime of pressing buttons over and over while making a face that, I think, says, "Damn! This is taking a looooong time to text my message.") All unnecessary things, I see now- in the light of day.
"Well. Yes. I can certainly help you with that."
We go to the counter and he takes some basic information, including asking for my driver's license.
"Yeah. That was my soccer mom phase. See? In the photo? Don't I look all, 'Hey, neighborhood kids! Get in my minivan and I'll take you to practice!' Yeah. I do. And I was like, 20 pounds heavier. Right? Isn't my face puffy? You know it is. Don't lie."
Phone guy probably thinks to himself, Um. I'm not lying. I'm not even talking. I'm just trying to enter your information into the computer.
"For security reasons, what is the street that you grew up on?"
"SHAF-tes-burrrry. Shaftesbury. Sounds like England, I know. But it's in U. City. Uuuuuu City. I love U. City."
At this point, I'm aware that my chatter is on hyper-drive, and I really have no idea why. I don't do speed. I wasn't, like, ridiculously excited about a new phone or nervous about talking to a stranger. I did just have a big cup of coffee, which is like speed. So, I guess I do do speed. (I said "do-do.") Anyway, sometimes I talk too much. Quickly. And not anything of particular substance. I've been told this.
"Okay. Come over here and take a look at a few of these phones."
"Alrighty then."
We walk about 15 feet to the display phones. I manage to say nothing, nor do I adopt some kind of wacky gait. I do no dance moves. I appear almost mature and normal.
"This one is the one I have. It has wireless capabilities and...um. Over here. Don't touch that."
I've begun poking at nearby screens with my pointer finger because they're there. I can't tell you the restraint it takes me not to press all buttons on an elevator. It's only because my desire to have strangers (say, on an elevator) like me is greater than my compulsion to touch all elevator buttons that I don't do it. Anymore.
"Sorry. It's just- okay. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"This one has 4 Gs."
"I'm already G enough! I don't need no 4 extra Gs, homie!" (Yeah. This was definitely funnier in the split second it lived only in my head and not out loud. And it certainly didn't need to be said with my mock gangsta hand motions.)
"Oh. Ha. Right. No. This gives you instant connection for your internet." He snaps his fingers. I wonder if they taught him to do that in cell phone selling class. I used to wink my right eye and make a clicking noise at my customers when I was in retail. I have no idea where I picked that up, but it was about as creepy as you're picturing it to be.
"Okay. I'll take it!"
"Wait. Do you have any questions about-"
"Can I do facebook on that thing?" (Oh, man. I'm an idiot.) "And locate Starbucks? Because I really only want to get on facebook and find Starbucks. And maybe text some people." (Wow. How to make yourself come off as the biggest moron. And I somehow know this, but I can't keep my mouth shut. My inside thoughts become my outside words in a split second. *snap*)
"Yes. It can. I'll go in the back and get one for you. Hang on a sec."
I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes in that parental, "I'm going to leave you alone for a minute but don't you touch anything, missy" kind of way. I touched things. Just to spite him.
Out came my new phone in a box, and as he sat behind his computer and did more computer-y set up things, I proceeded to take the phone out of the packaging and begin poking around. I'm holding it like it has cooties and turning it over and over in my hands.
"Where's the talky part?" I ask.
"The what?"
"You know. The HELLO! HELLLLLOOOOOO! IT'S MEEEEE! part." (I'm yelling into the bottom of the phone.) "There is no talky part. With holes. Little holes. You know, like 'HELLLLLO!"
"No. It's fine. Put it up to your-"
"HEEEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I'm yelling and flipping the phone around. My phone guy's manager has come out from behind the little divider and is looking at me.
"Hi," I say to him. "Where's the talky part? Remember on the old phones, the rotary ones, I mean, how you could unscrew the talky part? Yeah...The cell I'm getting rid of had the holes. You know. The holes that I'd talk into. The talky part."
"Ma'am," the manager explains. "Just hold the phone up to your ear."
I oblige.
"And talk."
"HELLLLOOOOOO! Like that? Where's the talky part? Seriously. Like, where does my voice go into the phone."
They both sigh and I decide that I'll save it for someone else. Lucky someone else.
In 45 minutes or so, my phone purchase is complete. I have a little guilt over abandoning my old phone, just like I did when I traded my last car in and then drove away all teary. I hate to think I'm hurting anyone's feelings. Anything, I mean. Anything's feelings. Because we all know how sensitive cell phones are.
So, now I'm at home. I've figured out how to download "apps" (the word irritates me) and can now locate a Starbucks no matter where I am. I've refused to download "Angry Birds" for the same reason that I refused to see Forrest Gump when it came out: everyone said how much they liked it and that somehow fundamentally pissed me off. (I did end up seeing Forrest Gump, by the way, and I liked it. But I'm not giving in to "Angry Birds.")
I skipped over the parts in the manual that might actually help me understand my phone better, but I did read all of the caution parts because I find them entertaining. I now know not to pour liquid on my phone. Or go into a grain bin with it, where I might explode. Or give it to a kid who might chew on it and choke on the chewed off parts. It didn't tell me not to take the battery out and put my tongue on it, but I'm going to pretend that's in there, too. Because I kind of want to. And I think it might not be good for both the battery and my tongue.
I also know to "take lots of breaks to stretch and relax" while texting to avoid injuries. This caution was my favorite. I'm taking a break from texting right now to write this blog. And it is, indeed, very relaxing. Perhaps I'll text someone about it when I'm done.
So, I'll return to school with a piece of new technology that my students both recognize and know how to operate. By the time I catch on, it will be outdated, no doubt. And that's okay with me.
I still have the running man.
My phone contract (seriously? contract? I've been committed to the 2 cell phones I've had in my life longer than most of the relationships I've been in)- was up this summer, so I took it by the local phone place for an upgrade.
The following shitty thesis goes out to the one or two students who read this blog:
In this paper, I will tell you about how I don't know much about today's phone technology. And also how I make an ass of myself. Often.
"Hello, what can I help you with today?" says the Sprint guy. Normal question. Deserves a normal response, like, "Oh, I'm ready to upgrade my phone." That's all that's needed, really. I'm apparently sometimes incapable of delivering all that's needed. I give unwanted garnish (like verbal parsley) or sometimes the wrong dish altogether.
"Yeah...uh...." (while I dig in my bag for my old-school flip phone) "Well...you'll see what I need help with here in a sec" (Phone dude stands still, eyebrows raised. I locate the phone and pull it out, flipping it open.) "BAM! Check out this old-school business. I'm only missing the big ol' bag that holds the battery and plugs into the car. Right? Right? Remember those? No, you're too young. Check out my texting skills." (I go into a pantomime of pressing buttons over and over while making a face that, I think, says, "Damn! This is taking a looooong time to text my message.") All unnecessary things, I see now- in the light of day.
"Well. Yes. I can certainly help you with that."
We go to the counter and he takes some basic information, including asking for my driver's license.
"Yeah. That was my soccer mom phase. See? In the photo? Don't I look all, 'Hey, neighborhood kids! Get in my minivan and I'll take you to practice!' Yeah. I do. And I was like, 20 pounds heavier. Right? Isn't my face puffy? You know it is. Don't lie."
Phone guy probably thinks to himself, Um. I'm not lying. I'm not even talking. I'm just trying to enter your information into the computer.
"For security reasons, what is the street that you grew up on?"
"SHAF-tes-burrrry. Shaftesbury. Sounds like England, I know. But it's in U. City. Uuuuuu City. I love U. City."
At this point, I'm aware that my chatter is on hyper-drive, and I really have no idea why. I don't do speed. I wasn't, like, ridiculously excited about a new phone or nervous about talking to a stranger. I did just have a big cup of coffee, which is like speed. So, I guess I do do speed. (I said "do-do.") Anyway, sometimes I talk too much. Quickly. And not anything of particular substance. I've been told this.
"Okay. Come over here and take a look at a few of these phones."
"Alrighty then."
We walk about 15 feet to the display phones. I manage to say nothing, nor do I adopt some kind of wacky gait. I do no dance moves. I appear almost mature and normal.
"This one is the one I have. It has wireless capabilities and...um. Over here. Don't touch that."
I've begun poking at nearby screens with my pointer finger because they're there. I can't tell you the restraint it takes me not to press all buttons on an elevator. It's only because my desire to have strangers (say, on an elevator) like me is greater than my compulsion to touch all elevator buttons that I don't do it. Anymore.
"Sorry. It's just- okay. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"This one has 4 Gs."
"I'm already G enough! I don't need no 4 extra Gs, homie!" (Yeah. This was definitely funnier in the split second it lived only in my head and not out loud. And it certainly didn't need to be said with my mock gangsta hand motions.)
"Oh. Ha. Right. No. This gives you instant connection for your internet." He snaps his fingers. I wonder if they taught him to do that in cell phone selling class. I used to wink my right eye and make a clicking noise at my customers when I was in retail. I have no idea where I picked that up, but it was about as creepy as you're picturing it to be.
"Okay. I'll take it!"
"Wait. Do you have any questions about-"
"Can I do facebook on that thing?" (Oh, man. I'm an idiot.) "And locate Starbucks? Because I really only want to get on facebook and find Starbucks. And maybe text some people." (Wow. How to make yourself come off as the biggest moron. And I somehow know this, but I can't keep my mouth shut. My inside thoughts become my outside words in a split second. *snap*)
"Yes. It can. I'll go in the back and get one for you. Hang on a sec."
I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes in that parental, "I'm going to leave you alone for a minute but don't you touch anything, missy" kind of way. I touched things. Just to spite him.
Out came my new phone in a box, and as he sat behind his computer and did more computer-y set up things, I proceeded to take the phone out of the packaging and begin poking around. I'm holding it like it has cooties and turning it over and over in my hands.
"Where's the talky part?" I ask.
"The what?"
"You know. The HELLO! HELLLLLOOOOOO! IT'S MEEEEE! part." (I'm yelling into the bottom of the phone.) "There is no talky part. With holes. Little holes. You know, like 'HELLLLLO!"
"No. It's fine. Put it up to your-"
"HEEEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I'm yelling and flipping the phone around. My phone guy's manager has come out from behind the little divider and is looking at me.
"Hi," I say to him. "Where's the talky part? Remember on the old phones, the rotary ones, I mean, how you could unscrew the talky part? Yeah...The cell I'm getting rid of had the holes. You know. The holes that I'd talk into. The talky part."
"Ma'am," the manager explains. "Just hold the phone up to your ear."
I oblige.
"And talk."
"HELLLLOOOOOO! Like that? Where's the talky part? Seriously. Like, where does my voice go into the phone."
They both sigh and I decide that I'll save it for someone else. Lucky someone else.
In 45 minutes or so, my phone purchase is complete. I have a little guilt over abandoning my old phone, just like I did when I traded my last car in and then drove away all teary. I hate to think I'm hurting anyone's feelings. Anything, I mean. Anything's feelings. Because we all know how sensitive cell phones are.
So, now I'm at home. I've figured out how to download "apps" (the word irritates me) and can now locate a Starbucks no matter where I am. I've refused to download "Angry Birds" for the same reason that I refused to see Forrest Gump when it came out: everyone said how much they liked it and that somehow fundamentally pissed me off. (I did end up seeing Forrest Gump, by the way, and I liked it. But I'm not giving in to "Angry Birds.")
I skipped over the parts in the manual that might actually help me understand my phone better, but I did read all of the caution parts because I find them entertaining. I now know not to pour liquid on my phone. Or go into a grain bin with it, where I might explode. Or give it to a kid who might chew on it and choke on the chewed off parts. It didn't tell me not to take the battery out and put my tongue on it, but I'm going to pretend that's in there, too. Because I kind of want to. And I think it might not be good for both the battery and my tongue.
I also know to "take lots of breaks to stretch and relax" while texting to avoid injuries. This caution was my favorite. I'm taking a break from texting right now to write this blog. And it is, indeed, very relaxing. Perhaps I'll text someone about it when I'm done.
So, I'll return to school with a piece of new technology that my students both recognize and know how to operate. By the time I catch on, it will be outdated, no doubt. And that's okay with me.
I still have the running man.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Monkey-Mind and Some Patio Observations
I'm trying to be okay with the fact that the elderly woman sitting across from me, snacking on apples, cheese slices, and bits of turkey, sticks her tongue out nearly to her chin each time her fingers guide her food's way to her chomp-hole.
She's not doing anything wrong, really. Just having a little afternoon snack along with her frothy coffee drink on an outdoor patio on a beautiful day. And I could choose to look away. But I'm mesmerized.
She did it again. It's like her tongue makes a little chin-bib in case anything were to miss her gaping mouth. Once the bit of apple or cheese makes its way in, her tongue retracts and does what it's supposed to do. Flipping around chewed up mash, I guess. Pushing stuff to the back of the throat. Crimeny. I've seemed to have lost my appetite for the rest of the day.
I'm trying to be happy for this lady. I mean, here she is, making healthy food choices and enjoying some leisure time alone. She's even pouring over a newspaper. A concerned citizen. A member of our world's society. When's the last time I read a newspaper? I mean really read it, like she's doing. Not just skimming through the obits looking for good names for future fictional characters. Great. Now I'm irritated not only by her unsightly eating habits, but also how her newspaper reading is making me feel bad about myself. Knock it off, lady.
She's balled up her trash and put it in her purse. Her napkin has been shoved, I kid you not, into what one may call her "private parts." I mean she's clothed, mind you, but you get the idea. Vigorous stirring of her frothy coffee drink has commenced. So much so that her little shoulders are shaking as if she were the recipient of a forceful, hand-chopping back rub. Pause for an audible sip. Stir again. Pause and sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip.
She's doing that on purpose.
My hyper-focus on this woman, someone's sweet, sweet Granny, no doubt, is put to rest while I do some damage control for the accidental "come-hither" vibe I may have just given the man who has joined the patio. I've been writing, comfortably, and as a result, I've flung my legs over the side of a chair, leaned back and have otherwise established a Renoir-like pose. Cheddar-eating Granny didn't seem to mind. But I was suddenly aware that felt like a comfortable writing post just moments before Mr. G.Q. sunglasses/five o'clock shadow guy came out here suddenly feels...centerfold-ish.
I shift myself back into a determined, feet on the ground, back straight, position and study both the leaves of the rose bush on my right as well as the freckles on the back of my arm. "Not interested in the least, buddy." That's the vibe I put out now. "Not even a courtesy smile from me, mister. Try the frantic coffee stirrin' Granny to your left." I don't say these things, mind you. I think them in my little head.
All snacks have been consumed, her tongue has returned to its restful position, the remainder of the trash has been shoved into her now empty plastic cup. And Granny continues to read her paper. I'm telling you right now- I have not the attention span to even make it through the headlines in her paper. Granny's more focused, and as a result, smarter than me. I'm mad at you, Granny.
I refuse to look over at G.Q. guy, but can make out that he's got a laptop open- a manly black one- and may be typing away. He may be writing a business report. He may be looking at porn. I have no idea. I don't care. I'm not looking.
He just got his foot-tap going when Neil Young started begging to his Old Man to take a look at his life over the speakers attached to the outer brick wall behind me. G.Q. guy could be emailing his own old man. He could have daddy issues. He could be tearing up right now. I want to look but I won't.
Maybe he's a teacher. Maybe he's on summer break. Maybe he is faking like he's just looking around to give his brain pause, but is quietly observing those around him. The wonderfully kind old woman to his left, now writing a shopping list on the back of a receipt. Nothing about this irritates him. He smiles, reminded of his own grandmother, who he loved dearly.
He sees the red-headed lady intent on whatever she's typing on her own laptop. He doesn't note that her unnaturally-colored hair contradicts the dark brown and silver roots beneath her lime-green headband. He's not bothered by the fact that each time she takes a swig of her coffee, she tosses her head back like she's swallowing a pill. Her bobbing right leg doesn't distract him. He doesn't feel the need to describe the obvious pimple on the bridge of her nose or wonder why someone with gray hairs (although covering them- poorly) still breaks out like a teenager. He's just watching.
Not judging.
Jerk.
She's not doing anything wrong, really. Just having a little afternoon snack along with her frothy coffee drink on an outdoor patio on a beautiful day. And I could choose to look away. But I'm mesmerized.
She did it again. It's like her tongue makes a little chin-bib in case anything were to miss her gaping mouth. Once the bit of apple or cheese makes its way in, her tongue retracts and does what it's supposed to do. Flipping around chewed up mash, I guess. Pushing stuff to the back of the throat. Crimeny. I've seemed to have lost my appetite for the rest of the day.
I'm trying to be happy for this lady. I mean, here she is, making healthy food choices and enjoying some leisure time alone. She's even pouring over a newspaper. A concerned citizen. A member of our world's society. When's the last time I read a newspaper? I mean really read it, like she's doing. Not just skimming through the obits looking for good names for future fictional characters. Great. Now I'm irritated not only by her unsightly eating habits, but also how her newspaper reading is making me feel bad about myself. Knock it off, lady.
She's balled up her trash and put it in her purse. Her napkin has been shoved, I kid you not, into what one may call her "private parts." I mean she's clothed, mind you, but you get the idea. Vigorous stirring of her frothy coffee drink has commenced. So much so that her little shoulders are shaking as if she were the recipient of a forceful, hand-chopping back rub. Pause for an audible sip. Stir again. Pause and sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip.
She's doing that on purpose.
My hyper-focus on this woman, someone's sweet, sweet Granny, no doubt, is put to rest while I do some damage control for the accidental "come-hither" vibe I may have just given the man who has joined the patio. I've been writing, comfortably, and as a result, I've flung my legs over the side of a chair, leaned back and have otherwise established a Renoir-like pose. Cheddar-eating Granny didn't seem to mind. But I was suddenly aware that felt like a comfortable writing post just moments before Mr. G.Q. sunglasses/five o'clock shadow guy came out here suddenly feels...centerfold-ish.
I shift myself back into a determined, feet on the ground, back straight, position and study both the leaves of the rose bush on my right as well as the freckles on the back of my arm. "Not interested in the least, buddy." That's the vibe I put out now. "Not even a courtesy smile from me, mister. Try the frantic coffee stirrin' Granny to your left." I don't say these things, mind you. I think them in my little head.
All snacks have been consumed, her tongue has returned to its restful position, the remainder of the trash has been shoved into her now empty plastic cup. And Granny continues to read her paper. I'm telling you right now- I have not the attention span to even make it through the headlines in her paper. Granny's more focused, and as a result, smarter than me. I'm mad at you, Granny.
I refuse to look over at G.Q. guy, but can make out that he's got a laptop open- a manly black one- and may be typing away. He may be writing a business report. He may be looking at porn. I have no idea. I don't care. I'm not looking.
He just got his foot-tap going when Neil Young started begging to his Old Man to take a look at his life over the speakers attached to the outer brick wall behind me. G.Q. guy could be emailing his own old man. He could have daddy issues. He could be tearing up right now. I want to look but I won't.
Maybe he's a teacher. Maybe he's on summer break. Maybe he is faking like he's just looking around to give his brain pause, but is quietly observing those around him. The wonderfully kind old woman to his left, now writing a shopping list on the back of a receipt. Nothing about this irritates him. He smiles, reminded of his own grandmother, who he loved dearly.
He sees the red-headed lady intent on whatever she's typing on her own laptop. He doesn't note that her unnaturally-colored hair contradicts the dark brown and silver roots beneath her lime-green headband. He's not bothered by the fact that each time she takes a swig of her coffee, she tosses her head back like she's swallowing a pill. Her bobbing right leg doesn't distract him. He doesn't feel the need to describe the obvious pimple on the bridge of her nose or wonder why someone with gray hairs (although covering them- poorly) still breaks out like a teenager. He's just watching.
Not judging.
Jerk.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Choo-Choo! (Hear that? It's the motherhood train passing me by.)
Sometimes I hear the whistles a-blowin'. The motherhood-train whistles. It sounds like velcro diaper strips being pulled apart and the clicking of a wind-up toy that plays tinny music and the pat of chubby baby hands crawling across a tiled floor.
And I smell it before I can see it. It smells like Desitin ointment and baby powder and no-tear shampoo. It smells like spoiled milk and spit up and pungent poo.
Then I see it. The first car is full of young women. Twenty-somethings. A few in their early thirties, but not much older. New mothers-to-be. First marriages and "We weren't even trying yet! We thought it would take longer!" Some still hold onto their positive pregnancy test in joyous disbelief.
The next car has women who are visibly pregnant. Swollen bellies are being cradled by expectant hands. Sometimes I can feel his little elbow. Wait. Here. Feel that? Oh! He just moved. This little girl is doing flips in there. What does your nursery look like? Wait- do you have to go to the bathroom, like, every five minutes? Me, too! Cameron. That's a great name. We're naming ours Grace. After my grandmother.
I recognize women in the next car. This is the car they don't tell you about when you're 12 and picturing your future-self married with children. In this car are the women who have only recently become pregnant after years and years of trying. Miscarriages. Failed IUIs. Failed IVFs. Hope followed by devastation followed by hope followed by devastation- month after month. Now they are pregnant. No one wants to celebrate too soon.
I know some women in the next car, too. A mom who desperately wanted to become pregnant but was told she'd never be able to due to a medical condition. A teacher mom who decided to adopt one of her students when that student was a struggling teenager. A mom who experienced the death of a baby and had a chance of giving birth to a baby with the same life-threatening condition. A mom who, despite years of fertility treatments, was unable to become pregnant. A single mom who, at 40, decided not to wait for a partner to seek out motherhood. The women in this car are moms, thanks to adoption.
On and on the train cars pass with a rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump. It's moving slowly enough for me to continue to see in.
Births. Smiling husbands. Teary new grandparents. Wrinkly toes. Baggy onesies. Blue bubbly snot-suckers. Goopy eyes. Newborns.
Breastfeeding. Rocking. Newborn head-sniffing. Bottle-feeding. Shots. Sleepless nights. Diaper changes. Tiny baths. Tiny scoots. Tiny steps. Tiny words. First birthday parties. Kindergarten. School photos. Cuts and scrapes. Christmas mornings. First Periods. Teen poutiness. Fights. Crushes. Broken hearts. You can't make me episodes. Pull away. Move out. Come back. Remember early years. Grow up. Get married. Have kids.
38. I'm 38. I'm not 28. I'll not be dating for a year (or more). Let's do the math. Okay: 39. Fine. Not too old, you say. Right. If I were to include "trying to have a baby" on the list of first-date options, which I'm not. (Sorry, fellas.) So- let's add some get-to-know-you time. A year or two. And that's with the assumption the first person I'll meet will be someone I'll want to have kids with. So, let's throw in some "What the hell was I thinking?" time for disaster dates. 41? 42? 43?
I'm not an idiot. Perhaps it's in the cards for me to get pregnant and become a mom, but it's not likely. I don't want to raise a child by myself. And I'm not sure I can imagine getting married again. Maybe. We'll see. But really, when I think of all of that ridiculous "alone time" I need and my desire to travel and- well- my inherently self-centered nature (i.e. "Mommy's too tired to fix dinner. Dig around in the cabinet and see what you can find"), perhaps it's better this way.
Perhaps I'm meant to parent in the 8:30-3:12 time slot, as a teacher. Perhaps I'm meant to be an aunt. A godmother. "That wacky lady that we see on Wednesdays."
And part of me is okay with that. Really. As it sits in, I think I can do this "Holy shit- life is not at all like I thought it was going to be- let's see where it takes me" thing.
But, hot damn, if there isn't a women's club out there that no matter how much I'd like to belong to it, I just don't. It's like the ultimate "cool table" in the lunch room. And yes, you can invite me to sit with you for awhile, but I won't get any of your inside jokes. And I will smile when you announce your pregnancy. Your second. Your third. Your fourth, even. And I may go to your baby shower. And I'll let your baby's little outfits and toys and blankies pass through my hands, even the one I bought for you, and I'll talk about how adorable they are. And I'll visit you in the hospital. And I'll take pictures. And part of me will be legitimately happy for you. And part of me will feel like I just swallowed a golf ball. And I'll swallow that part down. And if I'm lucky, I won't tear up and make an ass of myself. (This is your day, after all.)
And I'll hear the train steadily going down the tracks. The one I'm not on.
And I smell it before I can see it. It smells like Desitin ointment and baby powder and no-tear shampoo. It smells like spoiled milk and spit up and pungent poo.
Then I see it. The first car is full of young women. Twenty-somethings. A few in their early thirties, but not much older. New mothers-to-be. First marriages and "We weren't even trying yet! We thought it would take longer!" Some still hold onto their positive pregnancy test in joyous disbelief.
The next car has women who are visibly pregnant. Swollen bellies are being cradled by expectant hands. Sometimes I can feel his little elbow. Wait. Here. Feel that? Oh! He just moved. This little girl is doing flips in there. What does your nursery look like? Wait- do you have to go to the bathroom, like, every five minutes? Me, too! Cameron. That's a great name. We're naming ours Grace. After my grandmother.
I recognize women in the next car. This is the car they don't tell you about when you're 12 and picturing your future-self married with children. In this car are the women who have only recently become pregnant after years and years of trying. Miscarriages. Failed IUIs. Failed IVFs. Hope followed by devastation followed by hope followed by devastation- month after month. Now they are pregnant. No one wants to celebrate too soon.
I know some women in the next car, too. A mom who desperately wanted to become pregnant but was told she'd never be able to due to a medical condition. A teacher mom who decided to adopt one of her students when that student was a struggling teenager. A mom who experienced the death of a baby and had a chance of giving birth to a baby with the same life-threatening condition. A mom who, despite years of fertility treatments, was unable to become pregnant. A single mom who, at 40, decided not to wait for a partner to seek out motherhood. The women in this car are moms, thanks to adoption.
On and on the train cars pass with a rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump. It's moving slowly enough for me to continue to see in.
Births. Smiling husbands. Teary new grandparents. Wrinkly toes. Baggy onesies. Blue bubbly snot-suckers. Goopy eyes. Newborns.
Breastfeeding. Rocking. Newborn head-sniffing. Bottle-feeding. Shots. Sleepless nights. Diaper changes. Tiny baths. Tiny scoots. Tiny steps. Tiny words. First birthday parties. Kindergarten. School photos. Cuts and scrapes. Christmas mornings. First Periods. Teen poutiness. Fights. Crushes. Broken hearts. You can't make me episodes. Pull away. Move out. Come back. Remember early years. Grow up. Get married. Have kids.
38. I'm 38. I'm not 28. I'll not be dating for a year (or more). Let's do the math. Okay: 39. Fine. Not too old, you say. Right. If I were to include "trying to have a baby" on the list of first-date options, which I'm not. (Sorry, fellas.) So- let's add some get-to-know-you time. A year or two. And that's with the assumption the first person I'll meet will be someone I'll want to have kids with. So, let's throw in some "What the hell was I thinking?" time for disaster dates. 41? 42? 43?
I'm not an idiot. Perhaps it's in the cards for me to get pregnant and become a mom, but it's not likely. I don't want to raise a child by myself. And I'm not sure I can imagine getting married again. Maybe. We'll see. But really, when I think of all of that ridiculous "alone time" I need and my desire to travel and- well- my inherently self-centered nature (i.e. "Mommy's too tired to fix dinner. Dig around in the cabinet and see what you can find"), perhaps it's better this way.
Perhaps I'm meant to parent in the 8:30-3:12 time slot, as a teacher. Perhaps I'm meant to be an aunt. A godmother. "That wacky lady that we see on Wednesdays."
And part of me is okay with that. Really. As it sits in, I think I can do this "Holy shit- life is not at all like I thought it was going to be- let's see where it takes me" thing.
But, hot damn, if there isn't a women's club out there that no matter how much I'd like to belong to it, I just don't. It's like the ultimate "cool table" in the lunch room. And yes, you can invite me to sit with you for awhile, but I won't get any of your inside jokes. And I will smile when you announce your pregnancy. Your second. Your third. Your fourth, even. And I may go to your baby shower. And I'll let your baby's little outfits and toys and blankies pass through my hands, even the one I bought for you, and I'll talk about how adorable they are. And I'll visit you in the hospital. And I'll take pictures. And part of me will be legitimately happy for you. And part of me will feel like I just swallowed a golf ball. And I'll swallow that part down. And if I'm lucky, I won't tear up and make an ass of myself. (This is your day, after all.)
And I'll hear the train steadily going down the tracks. The one I'm not on.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Don't Drink That! And Other Advice For Those In High School
1) Unless you're checking the circuit breaker for your parents or getting your bike out of the garage, stay out of basements and garages.
Nothing good is going to happen in a basement or a garage. Because you are too young to have your own apartment in which to do stupid things, you will be tempted to do stupid things in someone's garage or basement. It is, you think, your transitionary apartment. A place untouched by adult vibes and watchful eyes. You will want to plug in a blacklight and furnish this place with someone's old scratchy outdated sofa and you will think you've arrived.You've arrived, alright. You've arrived at a place where you're about to do stupid things. In this sacred space you will try smoking a cigarette for the first time, or continue your now pack-a-day-at-15-years-old habit. Stupid. You will be lured into someone else's garage or basement, and you will exit looking as if you've attached a vacuum cleaner hose to your neck. No one attaches a vacuum cleaner hose to their neck. We know how you got that. And it was stupid.
You will, in this stupid-doing place, think it's a good idea to make a beer bong and slouch under it, chugging away as your friends cheer you on. You will have photos taken of you. You will post them on facebook. We can see this, too. And believe you, me. We're thinking, "Well, that's stupid." You will get high in this place and think you're really onto something. You are. You're really onto seeing which one of your friends in their 20s or 30s are still sitting in their garages getting high. Which is probably most of them, although you don't consider it now. Write their names down. Wait a decade. You'll see.
2) Almost-in-high-school-gentlemen: Just because you can grow facial hair doesn't mean you should.
In the same category would be those of you who, much to your delight, woke up one day with a mild sprouting of haphazard hairs curling their way from under your otherwise smooth chin or cheeks. This, I'm sorry to tell you, is not really a beard- no matter how much you admire it in the mirror or fiddle with it in class. Get rid of it.
3) About-to-be-in-high-school-Ladies: When you wear ho clothes, you may feel sexy, and you may be getting attention from a certain population of boys, but- let me tell you, and listen up- you look like a moron.
I've seen it. I've seen it on facebook. I've seen it in person during 8th grade graduation. I've seen you wearing heels so high your ankles wobble each time you step. I've seen you squeeze yourself into skirts that barely cover your under-butt and tops that announce to the world, "Look! I was a flat-chested kid just a couple of years ago but now I have tatas!" We know you have tatas.
I don't blame you, really. You've been given a recipe for how you should dress from the time you started watching television and listening to music, really. You were told "sex=power" and you figured that to be true the first time you got attention from a heightened hemline or lowered bustline. But, let me clarify something. You're trying to attract teenage boys, right? And teenage boys are riddled with hormones that would posses them to hump a tree if they thought no one were looking. They can't help it. Everything is humpable and everything is saturated with sexual energy. You don't have to work that hard. Really. It's okay to be pretty. Attractive. Beautiful. Without the stereotypical look of someone begging to be noticed for their outsides only. Cover the tatas, ladies. Tone down the pumps. Put that out there and you may be surprised by the quality of who you attract.
4) Smoking is stupid. Don't do it.
Plus, it's like- what?- $4 or $5 a pack now? Well, that's ridiculous. They were $1.25 in the vending machine when I was your age, so- there.
5) Hey, what do you think about just holding off on the whole drinking bit until you're older?
 | ||
| cool? not really. douchebags? yes. |
Just wait and see if that still sounds like a good idea at 21. Your brain is dumb right now. Remember that. Oh, now- don't go getting offended. It's just a fact. Your dumb brain will tell you all types of things are a good idea, and years later, you'll look back and wonder what in the hell you were thinking. Trust me. This will happen. So, why not just wait a bit. You're not going anywhere. You have plenty of time in the future to make yourself look like an ass in public if you so desire.
6) We, who have done dumb things in our teenage years, know who you are and exactly what you're up to.
Yeah. Sit with that for awhile.
We blend ourselves into what you see as the ignorant and out of touch adult community. That's part of how we do things. To trick you. But, I'm telling you, we know what you're up to. (p.s.- If this statement just made you lower your blinds and check your door to make sure it's locked, you're smoking too much pot, and we knew that, too.)
7) There's nothing wrong with being a nerd or being friends with a nerd.
8) If you're being a bitch, stop it. If you're being an asshole, knock it off.
Enough said.
9) Your parents are only temporarily the enemy because you're probably in violation of one of the 8 things listed above.
1) Stop doing those things and you'll see that you actually might like your parents a little. Otherwise, 2) wait until you're older, 3) go to therapy, 4) blame everything you don't like about your life on your mom and dad, 5) work through it, and then 6) arrive at step 1, where you could have easily been years earlier and for a lot less money.
10) Peer pressure is stupid. Be who you are and no one else.If you get that funny feeling that you shouldn't be doing something- don't do it. If someone tells you that something you do is "retarded" or "gay" because this is the only way they can come up with to try to extinguish a part of you that may be genuine- ignore them. Be the person who gets up early on the weekend for a run, if you like running. Be the person who goes to see a Disney film because you happen to still like them. Be the person who feels comfortable in your own clothes. In your own skin. Be the person who says, "Fine- you go ahead and snort that if that's what you feel like doing, but I'm not going to." Be the person who says, "Fine- you don't want to date me anymore because I won't (insert any number of sexual things here)? You've done me a favor. You've made it really clear that you're not the person for me." Be that person. Decades from now you'll look back and know that person was there, and wonder where she (or he) was. Why wasn't she speaking up? The only reason is because you didn't let her. That's it. Nothing else.
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