I had a simple desire as I searched the newsstand in the airport before departing on my early morning flight from Oakland back to Seattle: I wanted something to read. Little did I know that I was putting forward a Herculean request.
My eyes quickly skipped over the Cosmo, Vogue, and other so-called “women’s” magazines. I’m not sure why the world is so ready to assume that all women are obsessed with youth, beauty, and how to have better sex in their marriage, but when it comes to these magazines there might as well be only one publication, because it’s all the same vacuous shit. I glanced over at the home improvement/room renovation zines, but decided to pass. I like my house the way it is, and despite wanting a better-looking bedroom, I seriously doubt these glossy magazines exclaiming that “pink is the new black” would give me a design I might be happy with.
After looking at several young, beautiful, airbrushed faces smiling back at me with cover girl perfection, I finally came to my senses and looked for my old standbys: Time and Newsweek. When all else fails, I can rely on these magazines to provide interesting and informative content that doesn’t assume I want to read a ten page expose on anti-aging unless it’s strictly rooted in science and mentions the word Alzheimer’s at least two dozen times. I push the stroller over to the one rack of intellectually challenging publications, which is buried in the newsstand between a barrage of men’s fitness magazines, new technology publications, and sleazy, near-porn rags like Stuff and FHM. I guess they assume that in between working for better abs, tricking out your car sound system, and jacking off to Hollywood’s latest batch of would-be starlets, men might actually want to read something that makes them think.
Unfortunately, for the first time in all my travels, which have been significant, my old standbys let me down. Three fashionable, fresh-faced, youthful teenagers smiled back at me from the cover of Newsweek. The subject was a profile on colleges, which seems a little odd given that we are one week away from Labor Day, and if you are a teen who hasn’t gotten off their ass and chosen a college by now, you are pretty much S.O.L. until Spring at the very least. I’m not criticizing Newsweek for doing a profile of colleges, I’m sure they did a great job, but a cover that resembles Teen People caught me off guard, and made me want to email a nasty letter to the editor. Do they realize that they are sharing the newsstand with other magazines who have nearly identical covers, only instead of colleges, those other zines profile zit cream side-by-side with questionnaires that will tell you if you are really “a slut or a savvy sweetheart.”
Next to Newsweek was an even more disappointing Time featuring singer Kanye West. No disrespect to Mr. West, who is a talented artist, but wouldn’t a sexy posing R&B singer be more appropriate for, oh I don’t know…Rolling Stone, rather than a magazine that should be talking about the fact that I’m paying nearly $3 a gallon for gas!
I took one more glace at the newsstand as I was mentally kicking myself for leaving my book at home. Why hadn’t I thought of bringing the latest issue of BUST, The Nation, or any other zine that is designed to be read by an audience with a few non-pop culture addicted brain cells. Has our print media completely turned all reigns of control over to the National Enquirer?
As I leave the newsstand in disgust, I eye the latest issue of People proclaiming that Angelina Jolie is the new mother of the year for adopting an African orphan. Good for her for giving an orphan a home, but I think People is going a little too far. I’m no mother of the year, myself, but I don’t keep a vile of Jeff’s blood around my neck. Below the ridiculous People was the face of Jennifer Aniston on the cover of Us Weekly talking about her divorce from Brad Pitt. I could so give a shit less about all three of these human beings. First of all, this story is old news. Secondly, I was never that much of a fan of any of their work. Finally, a divorce in Hollywood: why is this news? Getting a divorce in Hollywood is like losing your virginity in the back seat of yours or your boyfriend’s car after a rock concert in high school, nearly everyone does it, so is there really a need to keep talking about it.
I walk to the gate realizing that I would rather spend the entire 90 minute flight repeatedly reading my daughter’s cartoon, thick-paged book, Count with Mendel, rather than use up one iota of my time taking in the newsstand garbage. From now on, whether I plan on reading or not, I’m packing my own eye candy, because as long as I live I doubt I will ever give a rat’s ass about Angelina, Brad or Jennifer, and I know I will never spend $4 to read about them.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
The Joy of Job Hunting
Jeff recently received his MBA, and was antsy to use it. I guess all of that new knowledge in his head was bursting his skull, so he decided to team up with another grad and start a business. The only drawback is that in order to avoid reducing our family health coverage to bloodletting and faith healing, I have to find a job with benefits. My current job is extremely part-time, and barely includes pay, let alone insurance.
I haven’t been in the workplace in almost two years, and I find myself excited and apprehensive about going back. Right now my life is pretty simple. I get up around 8:00 am, but I’m able to schlep around in my jammies until at least 10:30 am. In the morning, I drink coffee leisurely while cleaning the bottom floor of the house as I listen to The Howard Stern Show. I eventually make my way upstairs, change my daughter into clothes, put her down for a nap and take a shower. The rest of the day revolves around the length of her nap, and the chores of minimal importance that need to be accomplished. Yes, my life is one non-stop roller coaster of adventure!
Getting a job will mean that I have to be out of the house by 8:00 am or earlier, and no more bumming in the pjs. It also means that I actually have to spend time searching and applying for jobs, which I now find difficult. Several years ago when I was unemployed, I was willing to take anything that remotely fit my abilities as long as it had some sort of decent salary and wasn’t too high stress. Now, I’m picky. I really only want to do event management, which is something I excel at given my many years in the music industry setting up intimate parties and humungous concerts. The non-profit world has been good to me, but the whole “not for profit” attitude not only describes an organization, but the pay they tend to offer employees. Basically, I want to throw events and get paid well for it.
Due to my particular job specifications, I have only been on a couple of interviews, and I guess I had forgotten what torturous fun that was. I know I’m being judged when I walk into an interview, but I often wonder what I’m truly being judged on. They all say they are looking at your resume and experience, but in the back of my mind I know that somewhere at sometime a job candidate was dismissed for not wearing the right shoes. I kind of laugh at the idea of politicians always trying to outlaw discrimination in the job interview process, because essentially it’s an impossible thing to do. Sure they will tell you that another candidate’s experience fit what they were looking for when they really want to say, ‘putting a red knit sweater with dark blue slacks and white flats is just to static for me, and since you are so pristine, I would probably hate working with you.’ Don’t worry fashionistas, that wasn’t my interview outfit.
There is nothing like the nagging feeling of having a good interview and wondering if you will be called back for round two. Right now, I’m doing that wait, and it’s not fun. At least I know at this point that my experience, particularly in events, is immaculate, so basically it will come down to chemistry. If they think they will like working with me, I’m in. If they suspect that I might not fit into their clique, then I’ll be happy not to have the job. There is nothing worse than finally getting a job and realizing that you don’t like or can’t relate to anyone you’re working with. I once had a job (for two weeks) at a pizza parlor in college. Everyone seemed really nice when I went in for an interview, and were very welcoming when I was hired. Once I actually started working I found out that my female co-worker was a manic-depressive who would yell for no reason. The guy making pizza was a 40-year-old perv who kept trying to stare down my shirt when I bent over, and continually offered me rides home despite the fact that I lived within walking distance, and the delivery guy was a drunk. I collected my first (and last) check and never returned. It will come as no surprise that this particular establishment has since gone out of business.
Right now, I have the luxury of pickiness and hope that the right thing will come along. As I get closer to the launch date for my husband’s business, I’ll begin entertaining a broader range of job possibilities. I don’t look at my eminent employment as a negative; it is a challenge that will bring about a whole new experience. It will give me the motivation to actually get my ass in gear in the morning, and will still allow me to catch some Howard in the car on the way to my new workplace. It will enable me to take care of my family’s health benefits, while making enough money to take care of the household. Best of all, it will bring an entirely new forum of angst on which to bitch about amusingly at least once a week in this blog.
I haven’t been in the workplace in almost two years, and I find myself excited and apprehensive about going back. Right now my life is pretty simple. I get up around 8:00 am, but I’m able to schlep around in my jammies until at least 10:30 am. In the morning, I drink coffee leisurely while cleaning the bottom floor of the house as I listen to The Howard Stern Show. I eventually make my way upstairs, change my daughter into clothes, put her down for a nap and take a shower. The rest of the day revolves around the length of her nap, and the chores of minimal importance that need to be accomplished. Yes, my life is one non-stop roller coaster of adventure!
Getting a job will mean that I have to be out of the house by 8:00 am or earlier, and no more bumming in the pjs. It also means that I actually have to spend time searching and applying for jobs, which I now find difficult. Several years ago when I was unemployed, I was willing to take anything that remotely fit my abilities as long as it had some sort of decent salary and wasn’t too high stress. Now, I’m picky. I really only want to do event management, which is something I excel at given my many years in the music industry setting up intimate parties and humungous concerts. The non-profit world has been good to me, but the whole “not for profit” attitude not only describes an organization, but the pay they tend to offer employees. Basically, I want to throw events and get paid well for it.
Due to my particular job specifications, I have only been on a couple of interviews, and I guess I had forgotten what torturous fun that was. I know I’m being judged when I walk into an interview, but I often wonder what I’m truly being judged on. They all say they are looking at your resume and experience, but in the back of my mind I know that somewhere at sometime a job candidate was dismissed for not wearing the right shoes. I kind of laugh at the idea of politicians always trying to outlaw discrimination in the job interview process, because essentially it’s an impossible thing to do. Sure they will tell you that another candidate’s experience fit what they were looking for when they really want to say, ‘putting a red knit sweater with dark blue slacks and white flats is just to static for me, and since you are so pristine, I would probably hate working with you.’ Don’t worry fashionistas, that wasn’t my interview outfit.
There is nothing like the nagging feeling of having a good interview and wondering if you will be called back for round two. Right now, I’m doing that wait, and it’s not fun. At least I know at this point that my experience, particularly in events, is immaculate, so basically it will come down to chemistry. If they think they will like working with me, I’m in. If they suspect that I might not fit into their clique, then I’ll be happy not to have the job. There is nothing worse than finally getting a job and realizing that you don’t like or can’t relate to anyone you’re working with. I once had a job (for two weeks) at a pizza parlor in college. Everyone seemed really nice when I went in for an interview, and were very welcoming when I was hired. Once I actually started working I found out that my female co-worker was a manic-depressive who would yell for no reason. The guy making pizza was a 40-year-old perv who kept trying to stare down my shirt when I bent over, and continually offered me rides home despite the fact that I lived within walking distance, and the delivery guy was a drunk. I collected my first (and last) check and never returned. It will come as no surprise that this particular establishment has since gone out of business.
Right now, I have the luxury of pickiness and hope that the right thing will come along. As I get closer to the launch date for my husband’s business, I’ll begin entertaining a broader range of job possibilities. I don’t look at my eminent employment as a negative; it is a challenge that will bring about a whole new experience. It will give me the motivation to actually get my ass in gear in the morning, and will still allow me to catch some Howard in the car on the way to my new workplace. It will enable me to take care of my family’s health benefits, while making enough money to take care of the household. Best of all, it will bring an entirely new forum of angst on which to bitch about amusingly at least once a week in this blog.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Whatever Happened to Adult Culture?
Every now and again I punish myself by trying to watch television. My normal tv watching is usually restricted to Noggin during the day and catching the headlines in the evening before bed. I don’t watch that much tv, not because I’m one of those pansy-assed intellectuals, it’s just that with the pervasiveness of reality television, and the lack of creativity in Hollywood, there’s nothing worth watching. As a woman in her early 30s, I also end up feeling bad about myself after watching tv, like I’m over the hill despite having at least another 40-50 years of life left.
We are currently living in a culture that so craves youth that the moment you hit 30, your life is reduced to nothing more than clothing from Chico’s, wrinkle cream, and extreme plastic surgery makeovers. I believe much of this started when the powers that be decided to make Las Vegas more family-friendly. Even as a teenager witnessing this, I thought it was a real dumb shit move. If you want to stay up all night, drink, gamble, and possibly end up passed out naked next to someone you may have met only a few hours prior, then there’s no room for family in that equation. I also think this weird push for a “family friendly” society led to the premature aging of a very vital segment of American society, which I am now a part of.
On a given Friday or Saturday night, Jeff and I decide to hire a babysitter then head out for some fun. Unfortunately, despite living in Seattle, we are often at a loss for something to do. We usually end up doing dinner and a movie, or dinner and a play, or dinner and something else very typical. Three years ago, before Rachael, we went out one evening with a group of other young couples and wound up in a club. The moment we entered I knew we were going to hate it. It wasn’t the ultra-loud techno music glaring from the speakers or the pithy looks from the single club patrons in their early 20s making it clear that we didn’t belong, it was the fact that Jeff and I were never into clubbing in the first place. Even in my wild single days I was more comfortable opting for a punk or hardcore live show rather than a meat-market dance club with shitty music. In my whole life, I think I have been to less than a dozen dance clubs.
The option of a concert is growing a bit thin as well. Last week I was on the phone with an old friend who also spent some time working for a concert promoter, and we both found ourselves in the conundrum of wanting to see music, but not wanting to be the creepy old lady hanging out at the show. Besides, I’m married to Jeff; a man that believes that the musical sun rises and sets to Billy Joel. Okay, you can stop laughing now!
As someone who is more vital than ever and now has an income to back it up, I’m amazed that there aren’t more entertainment options available to those in my age group. We may not go out as often as single people, but when we do, we spend more money. This whole attitude of “the best time of your life is when you are a teenager” is such a dominant force in our society that I see women older than me trying to dress like their daughters. I guess from a marketing standpoint, the worship of all things teenager is a cash cow. If you can make women believe that the perfect age is 16, then they will spend bank on any crap anti-aging remedy on the market while feeding the diet and gym membership industries. Men will have their mid-life crises early and opt to spend the extra thousand on a hot car rather than making a deposit into their kid’s college account. They will end up spending way too much money on hair dye and gym memberships. In the end, the adults will wind up being as unsatisfied with life as the teenagers they so envy. So why deal with this bullshit in the first place?
Just give us an adult culture we can enjoy and be comfortable with. It should include some decent, age appropriate clothing, media, and activities. We have the money, and are willing to spend it. Restore Vegas to the den of sin it once was without the catchy advertising, over-priced buffets, and shitty gambling odds. Not every adult-oriented activity has to be family-friendly, and not every adult has to be “cool” and “youthful” in order to be relevant.
It would be great if the next time Jeff and I hired a babysitter, we could hit Downtown Seattle, and find a place to chill out and have a drink with another couple that opted to join us for a childfree evening. We could socialize, talk about adult issues, and maybe share a sophisticated slow dance, while dressed in tasteful and stylish clothing. Everyone in the gathering place could return to their lives in Suburbia feeling hip and fulfilled after a night of real fun that celebrates their adult culture, and of course, the dinner would be fabulous.
We are currently living in a culture that so craves youth that the moment you hit 30, your life is reduced to nothing more than clothing from Chico’s, wrinkle cream, and extreme plastic surgery makeovers. I believe much of this started when the powers that be decided to make Las Vegas more family-friendly. Even as a teenager witnessing this, I thought it was a real dumb shit move. If you want to stay up all night, drink, gamble, and possibly end up passed out naked next to someone you may have met only a few hours prior, then there’s no room for family in that equation. I also think this weird push for a “family friendly” society led to the premature aging of a very vital segment of American society, which I am now a part of.
On a given Friday or Saturday night, Jeff and I decide to hire a babysitter then head out for some fun. Unfortunately, despite living in Seattle, we are often at a loss for something to do. We usually end up doing dinner and a movie, or dinner and a play, or dinner and something else very typical. Three years ago, before Rachael, we went out one evening with a group of other young couples and wound up in a club. The moment we entered I knew we were going to hate it. It wasn’t the ultra-loud techno music glaring from the speakers or the pithy looks from the single club patrons in their early 20s making it clear that we didn’t belong, it was the fact that Jeff and I were never into clubbing in the first place. Even in my wild single days I was more comfortable opting for a punk or hardcore live show rather than a meat-market dance club with shitty music. In my whole life, I think I have been to less than a dozen dance clubs.
The option of a concert is growing a bit thin as well. Last week I was on the phone with an old friend who also spent some time working for a concert promoter, and we both found ourselves in the conundrum of wanting to see music, but not wanting to be the creepy old lady hanging out at the show. Besides, I’m married to Jeff; a man that believes that the musical sun rises and sets to Billy Joel. Okay, you can stop laughing now!
As someone who is more vital than ever and now has an income to back it up, I’m amazed that there aren’t more entertainment options available to those in my age group. We may not go out as often as single people, but when we do, we spend more money. This whole attitude of “the best time of your life is when you are a teenager” is such a dominant force in our society that I see women older than me trying to dress like their daughters. I guess from a marketing standpoint, the worship of all things teenager is a cash cow. If you can make women believe that the perfect age is 16, then they will spend bank on any crap anti-aging remedy on the market while feeding the diet and gym membership industries. Men will have their mid-life crises early and opt to spend the extra thousand on a hot car rather than making a deposit into their kid’s college account. They will end up spending way too much money on hair dye and gym memberships. In the end, the adults will wind up being as unsatisfied with life as the teenagers they so envy. So why deal with this bullshit in the first place?
Just give us an adult culture we can enjoy and be comfortable with. It should include some decent, age appropriate clothing, media, and activities. We have the money, and are willing to spend it. Restore Vegas to the den of sin it once was without the catchy advertising, over-priced buffets, and shitty gambling odds. Not every adult-oriented activity has to be family-friendly, and not every adult has to be “cool” and “youthful” in order to be relevant.
It would be great if the next time Jeff and I hired a babysitter, we could hit Downtown Seattle, and find a place to chill out and have a drink with another couple that opted to join us for a childfree evening. We could socialize, talk about adult issues, and maybe share a sophisticated slow dance, while dressed in tasteful and stylish clothing. Everyone in the gathering place could return to their lives in Suburbia feeling hip and fulfilled after a night of real fun that celebrates their adult culture, and of course, the dinner would be fabulous.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Child Protective Services
In order to make an attempt at fitting into our new, pristine neighborhood, I joined the Homeowner’s Association Board. Actually, the elderly neighborhood maven who lives across the street roped me into it. You know, the older lady in the neighborhood who knows everybody’s business, and what she doesn’t know, she isn’t afraid to ask, because she’s old. I love those kinds of people, and I aspire to be that ballsy someday.
During the latest HOA meeting, I was informed that a sex offender lived near our neighborhood. After the meeting, I immediately went to the computer and with the power of the almighty internet was able to find out where he lived, what he looked like, and the nature of the crime he had been convicted. Prior to having kids, I thought child molesters were pieces of shit, but now that I have a little girl of my own I have way more of a “shoot to kill” attitude. This bastard is a Level 3, which means he doesn’t think there is anything wrong with molesting kids and is extremely likely to re-offend. Nice security blanket, eh. Our neighborhood is located right behind a school, so if one was on the prowl for an underage fling, living near a school is like taking up residence at the Neverland Ranch.
I find it so strange to be instantly and aggressively affected by this news, since in my younger days I lived in an apartment at the bottom of Queen Anne, two blocks away from where a guy was stabbed to death over a drug deal gone bad. I even remember one night where a homeless guy on crack chased me while trying to grab my arm. I managed to make it to my building and punch the code in as he was on my heels yelling at me to “get back here or I’ll kill you.” My conclusion is that when you are unattached and single, you can handle anything, but when you have kids you are officially the custodian of a being that you have to bring into adulthood safely and in tact.
This exasperation and burning hatred of this sex offender extends beyond my own child. I find myself willing to duct tape him to a chair and beat him with a rubber hose over the thought of him touching any of the kids in my neighborhood. I don’t know most of the kids who live near me, and I don’t really fit into the vibe of this area, but I see them riding their bikes and my one wish is that they will be able to enjoy their childhood without some asshole getting his kicks by ruining their lives. They say when you become a parent you tend to see every child as if they were your own, and I think in many ways that’s true, especially when it comes to something tragic. What parent didn’t wince and get a sick feeling in their stomach when that guy kidnapped those two kids in Idaho after killing their family?
I am not a violent person, despite the above rubber hose reference, and I have always worked to champion human rights, after all I was a Jew who grew up in Idaho. However, I find myself not giving a damn about his privacy or his rights, since he so callously decided that his young victim didn’t need their childhood. I have no problem spreading his picture all over the neighborhood website, and would have even less of a problem standing on my porch with my arms folded watching him if he chose to walk down my street.
For now, I, and the rest of the neighborhood parents, stay on a low level of alert giving strangers a second look when we walk our children to the park. The police don’t have to worry about me turning into some crazy vigilante, because I have every confidence that they are keeping a very good eye on him. After all, this is a fairly affluent neighborhood, surrounded by a school and a more affluent neighborhood, and the police would be facing one hell of a shit storm if this guy grabbed a kid from this area.
I consider myself fortunate, because out of this huge area with all of these people, I only have to worry about one guy. Sure sex offenders have access to cars, and usually peruse schools, but one is probably more likely to prowl an area they know. This is one of the major reasons I live in Suburbia. For all its faults, and believe me, there are so many, Suburbia does provide a safety net that the city can’t accommodate. At this point in my life, I would love to be in Queen Anne again, but I can’t imagine trying to raise my child in the city. In the vicinity of my old apartment, there are four Level Three sex offenders, and 70 without valid addresses, which means they’re homeless and could be anywhere in the city. I know there are a lot of families who raise kids in the city, and do it quite successfully, but I’m a neurotic Jewish mother with a tendency to jump to conclusions and a knack for wanting to punch anyone in the face who lays a hand on my kid.
As I email the picture of the sex offender around to parents in the neighborhood, I am grateful for only having to keep up with one sick fuck. Nestled in a Suburbia I find mostly disturbing, I am reminded of why I endure this place as my daughter dances carefree, happy, and completely unharmed to Blue’s Clues.
During the latest HOA meeting, I was informed that a sex offender lived near our neighborhood. After the meeting, I immediately went to the computer and with the power of the almighty internet was able to find out where he lived, what he looked like, and the nature of the crime he had been convicted. Prior to having kids, I thought child molesters were pieces of shit, but now that I have a little girl of my own I have way more of a “shoot to kill” attitude. This bastard is a Level 3, which means he doesn’t think there is anything wrong with molesting kids and is extremely likely to re-offend. Nice security blanket, eh. Our neighborhood is located right behind a school, so if one was on the prowl for an underage fling, living near a school is like taking up residence at the Neverland Ranch.
I find it so strange to be instantly and aggressively affected by this news, since in my younger days I lived in an apartment at the bottom of Queen Anne, two blocks away from where a guy was stabbed to death over a drug deal gone bad. I even remember one night where a homeless guy on crack chased me while trying to grab my arm. I managed to make it to my building and punch the code in as he was on my heels yelling at me to “get back here or I’ll kill you.” My conclusion is that when you are unattached and single, you can handle anything, but when you have kids you are officially the custodian of a being that you have to bring into adulthood safely and in tact.
This exasperation and burning hatred of this sex offender extends beyond my own child. I find myself willing to duct tape him to a chair and beat him with a rubber hose over the thought of him touching any of the kids in my neighborhood. I don’t know most of the kids who live near me, and I don’t really fit into the vibe of this area, but I see them riding their bikes and my one wish is that they will be able to enjoy their childhood without some asshole getting his kicks by ruining their lives. They say when you become a parent you tend to see every child as if they were your own, and I think in many ways that’s true, especially when it comes to something tragic. What parent didn’t wince and get a sick feeling in their stomach when that guy kidnapped those two kids in Idaho after killing their family?
I am not a violent person, despite the above rubber hose reference, and I have always worked to champion human rights, after all I was a Jew who grew up in Idaho. However, I find myself not giving a damn about his privacy or his rights, since he so callously decided that his young victim didn’t need their childhood. I have no problem spreading his picture all over the neighborhood website, and would have even less of a problem standing on my porch with my arms folded watching him if he chose to walk down my street.
For now, I, and the rest of the neighborhood parents, stay on a low level of alert giving strangers a second look when we walk our children to the park. The police don’t have to worry about me turning into some crazy vigilante, because I have every confidence that they are keeping a very good eye on him. After all, this is a fairly affluent neighborhood, surrounded by a school and a more affluent neighborhood, and the police would be facing one hell of a shit storm if this guy grabbed a kid from this area.
I consider myself fortunate, because out of this huge area with all of these people, I only have to worry about one guy. Sure sex offenders have access to cars, and usually peruse schools, but one is probably more likely to prowl an area they know. This is one of the major reasons I live in Suburbia. For all its faults, and believe me, there are so many, Suburbia does provide a safety net that the city can’t accommodate. At this point in my life, I would love to be in Queen Anne again, but I can’t imagine trying to raise my child in the city. In the vicinity of my old apartment, there are four Level Three sex offenders, and 70 without valid addresses, which means they’re homeless and could be anywhere in the city. I know there are a lot of families who raise kids in the city, and do it quite successfully, but I’m a neurotic Jewish mother with a tendency to jump to conclusions and a knack for wanting to punch anyone in the face who lays a hand on my kid.
As I email the picture of the sex offender around to parents in the neighborhood, I am grateful for only having to keep up with one sick fuck. Nestled in a Suburbia I find mostly disturbing, I am reminded of why I endure this place as my daughter dances carefree, happy, and completely unharmed to Blue’s Clues.
Monday, August 22, 2005
The Awesome and Mysterious Power of Binky
I remember my friend Missy telling me that when she had her baby, there was no way she would ever use a pacifier. This was in high school. Three years later after the birth of her first son, I smiled and pointed out the pastel, blue object hanging from his mouth, while exclaiming, “I thought you said you weren’t going to use one of those.” She quickly gave me one of her famous ‘do I kick your ass now or later’ looks, and I shut my mouth. Missy happens to be nearly 6’ tall, and has one hell of a mean streak.
For quite sometime, I shared my Amazonian friend’s opinion about pacifiers, and felt I would forego the orifice pleaser with my own child, until I had her. Rachael took to the binky right away. She was immediately fonder of the rubber on her bottles and binkies than the skin on my breast, which, after a short spell of feeling utterly rejected, became okay by me. Frankly, I was so damned exhausted trying to be a new mom that I was almost relieved when she wouldn’t breastfeed. (Bad Mommy Confession #1)
Keeping a binky around was easy at first. It would flop out of her mouth and end up somewhere around her, and since she was barely mobile, that would mean it was buried on either the left or right side of her swing or bouncy chair. When she was a little older, I used a handy binky clip to keep it attached to her. She loved her brightly beaded binky clip and would enjoy many minutes of fun playing with it. At about nine months old, she learned how to unclip it from her shirt, and that’s when the great binky chase started.
From that point on, in addition to keeping track of everything in the house, I had to know where the binky was at all times. My husband was no help, since he is completely useless when it comes to knowing where things are around the house. Unfortunately, he’s always been this way. I remember early in our relationship when I relocated back to Seattle I moved into his apartment, and after one week he was asking me where his things were. He will call to me from the second floor of the house to ask me to find something that is usually within his immediate reach. When it comes to anything to do with Rachael’s belongings, he is completely at a loss, so I’m the sole keeper of the binky.
“Binky” was one of the first words Rachael learned to say. She has also learned to hide them, throw them in the trash, and leave them behind when we go to the store or some other public place. She is 20 mos. old and I’m reluctant to keep purchasing binkies, because I would like to break her addiction very soon. This is not going to be an easy task. She is as stubborn as I am, and takes great, mischievous joy in throwing her binky down on the floor and demanding that I retrieve it lest she break out into a screaming fit that would wake the dead. The only reason she is still using a binky is because I am too lazy to begin the process of breaking the habit. (Bad Mommy Confession #2)
It seems the more I try to take it away or have her use it less, the more she wants binky with her. She will look around for it before we leave the house, and throw a fit in the car if she doesn’t have it. At night, Rachael doesn’t like to go to bed without binky. During naptime if she doesn’t feel like going to sleep, she will throw her binky out of the crib and scream for it until I come in, pick it up, and lay her back down. Yes, I know, this is manipulation and power play at its finest, but sometimes a moment’s worth of quiet is much stronger than my need to separate my child from a senseless piece of rubber and plastic.
I have tried to figure out exactly what the binky represents in her life, but haven’t been able to hone in on the need it fills. Since she doesn’t have a favorite stuffed animal or carry a blanky, her binky is probably the one thing that gives her security. I know it will eventually give way to a favorite doll or toy, then a specific outfit, and in the teenage years a boyfriend or eating disorder, but for now I would just like to see her smiling without having to focus in on the cartoon bear playing tennis that adorns the front of her binky.
I’ll probably opt to bring out the big guns into the second year of her life, and by the time she’s three, the binky will be a dusty item in the memory box I keep for her. If there’s one thing I’m certain of it’s that I will be damned if she is going to be one of those five year olds I see at the mall asking for a specific brand of shoes or a $75 X-box game while mumbling through one of those enormous, big kid binkies. I don’t care how much screaming I have to endure, the binky may have mysterious soothing powers, but it’s life force is coming to an end. However, since Rachael is still young, I’ll retrieve binky off of the carpet in the stairwell just in time for her afternoon nap. (Bad Mommy Confession #3)
For quite sometime, I shared my Amazonian friend’s opinion about pacifiers, and felt I would forego the orifice pleaser with my own child, until I had her. Rachael took to the binky right away. She was immediately fonder of the rubber on her bottles and binkies than the skin on my breast, which, after a short spell of feeling utterly rejected, became okay by me. Frankly, I was so damned exhausted trying to be a new mom that I was almost relieved when she wouldn’t breastfeed. (Bad Mommy Confession #1)
Keeping a binky around was easy at first. It would flop out of her mouth and end up somewhere around her, and since she was barely mobile, that would mean it was buried on either the left or right side of her swing or bouncy chair. When she was a little older, I used a handy binky clip to keep it attached to her. She loved her brightly beaded binky clip and would enjoy many minutes of fun playing with it. At about nine months old, she learned how to unclip it from her shirt, and that’s when the great binky chase started.
From that point on, in addition to keeping track of everything in the house, I had to know where the binky was at all times. My husband was no help, since he is completely useless when it comes to knowing where things are around the house. Unfortunately, he’s always been this way. I remember early in our relationship when I relocated back to Seattle I moved into his apartment, and after one week he was asking me where his things were. He will call to me from the second floor of the house to ask me to find something that is usually within his immediate reach. When it comes to anything to do with Rachael’s belongings, he is completely at a loss, so I’m the sole keeper of the binky.
“Binky” was one of the first words Rachael learned to say. She has also learned to hide them, throw them in the trash, and leave them behind when we go to the store or some other public place. She is 20 mos. old and I’m reluctant to keep purchasing binkies, because I would like to break her addiction very soon. This is not going to be an easy task. She is as stubborn as I am, and takes great, mischievous joy in throwing her binky down on the floor and demanding that I retrieve it lest she break out into a screaming fit that would wake the dead. The only reason she is still using a binky is because I am too lazy to begin the process of breaking the habit. (Bad Mommy Confession #2)
It seems the more I try to take it away or have her use it less, the more she wants binky with her. She will look around for it before we leave the house, and throw a fit in the car if she doesn’t have it. At night, Rachael doesn’t like to go to bed without binky. During naptime if she doesn’t feel like going to sleep, she will throw her binky out of the crib and scream for it until I come in, pick it up, and lay her back down. Yes, I know, this is manipulation and power play at its finest, but sometimes a moment’s worth of quiet is much stronger than my need to separate my child from a senseless piece of rubber and plastic.
I have tried to figure out exactly what the binky represents in her life, but haven’t been able to hone in on the need it fills. Since she doesn’t have a favorite stuffed animal or carry a blanky, her binky is probably the one thing that gives her security. I know it will eventually give way to a favorite doll or toy, then a specific outfit, and in the teenage years a boyfriend or eating disorder, but for now I would just like to see her smiling without having to focus in on the cartoon bear playing tennis that adorns the front of her binky.
I’ll probably opt to bring out the big guns into the second year of her life, and by the time she’s three, the binky will be a dusty item in the memory box I keep for her. If there’s one thing I’m certain of it’s that I will be damned if she is going to be one of those five year olds I see at the mall asking for a specific brand of shoes or a $75 X-box game while mumbling through one of those enormous, big kid binkies. I don’t care how much screaming I have to endure, the binky may have mysterious soothing powers, but it’s life force is coming to an end. However, since Rachael is still young, I’ll retrieve binky off of the carpet in the stairwell just in time for her afternoon nap. (Bad Mommy Confession #3)
Friday, August 19, 2005
My Crayon Munching Beer Keg with Legs
Two weeks before Hanukkah, and around six months before we were married, Jeff and I decided to take the ultimate plunge: we adopted a dog. I was partial to Basset Hounds since I had owned one previously with positive results, but Jeff had his heart set on more of a Cockapoo type of dog: fuzzy, friendly, and about 25 lbs. We decided right away that we would adopt from a shelter instead of searching pet stores, because we wanted to save an unwanted animal.
On a typically gray Seattle Saturday afternoon, we went searching for the perfect, four-legged companion that would fill the void left in our lives for something fuzzy that we could feed table scraps. Our first stop was the Humane Society in Bellevue where we found an adorable brown and white Cocker Spaniel who did the cutest trick; he chased his tail. The only problem was he kept chasing his tail, obsessively. We were told by one of the employees that the dog would keep chasing his tail until he vomited or defecated. Needless to say, we left that particular shelter. We tried several more with no luck, and on a whim decided to make one last stop at the pound in Kent. Imagine San Quentin, only for dogs.
In the last cage at the very end was a little dog with overgrown, black, curly fur. He looked like a smelly sheep, but he was friendly, and like the cartoons, I saw little red love hearts appear over Jeff’s head when he was giving the dog belly rubs. We adopted the stinky guy, took him right to a groomer who only had time to shave him down, then went home, and gave him a long bath. He had an eye infection, kennel cough, and an ear infection. We cleared it all up and named him Fozzy.
Four and a half years later, I have discovered one basic thing about Fozzy: this dog loves to eat. I always look forward to hosting parties where people can roam freely through the house socializing with a tray of food in one hand and a glass of preferred beverage in the other. However, I always make sure to warn them that if they set their food below dinner table level, Fozzy will pounce like Rikki Tikki Tavi on a cobra. This is a slow, lazy dog, but if there’s food, he will move at the speed of lightening. I often have to make him stay outside while I’m feeding the baby in her highchair, because he will jump up and try to knock the food out of her hand. Rachael has also learned how to whack Fozzy on the nose to keep him from stealing her graham cracker. I don’t get this scavenger behavior, since he has to be one of the most well fed dogs in the neighborhood. Due to my dog’s girth I often refer to him as a fuzzy beer keg with legs, because his belly is so bulbous.
Fozzy’s love of food nearly killed my stepdad a couple of years ago. Fresh off a kidney transplant, my parents moved in with us during the weeks that followed my stepdad’s release from the hospital. At the time, we lived in a tri-level home. My stepdad was watching television in the bottom level of the house while my mother fixed dinner. When the meal was ready, my mom called everyone to the table. My stepdad, still on a catheter, began ascending the stairs when all of the sudden, out of the blue, Fozzy tore past him entangling himself in my stepdad’s catheter tubing. The dog drug poor Dad the rest of the way up the stairs by a part which no man ever wants to be dragged, and to this day, my stepdad still hates my dog.
Most recently, Fozzy’s latest bizarre eating hobby involves Rachael’s crayons. The first time he did it, I went into a complete panic and called Crayola to make sure there was nothing toxic in the colored wax. Much to my relief I discovered that one could eat the whole box, and aside from a sick tummy, there would be no effect. I decided to buy the washable crayons figuring that maybe there would be an ingredient in those colors that would keep Fozzy’s appetite at bay. Again, he devoured the entire pack. This time I was angry, because regular crayons are about 50 cents a box, whereas the washables are $4 more. Nevertheless, many boxes of crayons, and several colorful piles of poop later, Jeff was told that there is something in the Cocker Spaniel breed that makes them hunger for crayons. Fozzy wasn’t being his usual piggish self he was simply eating colored wax on instinct. How weird is that?
Life with Fozzy continues to be an adventure, and he never ceases to surprise me. His appetite is as endless as his belly bulge, and I love the fact that after Rachael has thrown her dry Cheerios all over the floor, I don’t have to think about getting a broom. My fuzzy, little Hoover has already taken care of the mess, and is now jumping for the graham cracker.
On a typically gray Seattle Saturday afternoon, we went searching for the perfect, four-legged companion that would fill the void left in our lives for something fuzzy that we could feed table scraps. Our first stop was the Humane Society in Bellevue where we found an adorable brown and white Cocker Spaniel who did the cutest trick; he chased his tail. The only problem was he kept chasing his tail, obsessively. We were told by one of the employees that the dog would keep chasing his tail until he vomited or defecated. Needless to say, we left that particular shelter. We tried several more with no luck, and on a whim decided to make one last stop at the pound in Kent. Imagine San Quentin, only for dogs.
In the last cage at the very end was a little dog with overgrown, black, curly fur. He looked like a smelly sheep, but he was friendly, and like the cartoons, I saw little red love hearts appear over Jeff’s head when he was giving the dog belly rubs. We adopted the stinky guy, took him right to a groomer who only had time to shave him down, then went home, and gave him a long bath. He had an eye infection, kennel cough, and an ear infection. We cleared it all up and named him Fozzy.
Four and a half years later, I have discovered one basic thing about Fozzy: this dog loves to eat. I always look forward to hosting parties where people can roam freely through the house socializing with a tray of food in one hand and a glass of preferred beverage in the other. However, I always make sure to warn them that if they set their food below dinner table level, Fozzy will pounce like Rikki Tikki Tavi on a cobra. This is a slow, lazy dog, but if there’s food, he will move at the speed of lightening. I often have to make him stay outside while I’m feeding the baby in her highchair, because he will jump up and try to knock the food out of her hand. Rachael has also learned how to whack Fozzy on the nose to keep him from stealing her graham cracker. I don’t get this scavenger behavior, since he has to be one of the most well fed dogs in the neighborhood. Due to my dog’s girth I often refer to him as a fuzzy beer keg with legs, because his belly is so bulbous.
Fozzy’s love of food nearly killed my stepdad a couple of years ago. Fresh off a kidney transplant, my parents moved in with us during the weeks that followed my stepdad’s release from the hospital. At the time, we lived in a tri-level home. My stepdad was watching television in the bottom level of the house while my mother fixed dinner. When the meal was ready, my mom called everyone to the table. My stepdad, still on a catheter, began ascending the stairs when all of the sudden, out of the blue, Fozzy tore past him entangling himself in my stepdad’s catheter tubing. The dog drug poor Dad the rest of the way up the stairs by a part which no man ever wants to be dragged, and to this day, my stepdad still hates my dog.
Most recently, Fozzy’s latest bizarre eating hobby involves Rachael’s crayons. The first time he did it, I went into a complete panic and called Crayola to make sure there was nothing toxic in the colored wax. Much to my relief I discovered that one could eat the whole box, and aside from a sick tummy, there would be no effect. I decided to buy the washable crayons figuring that maybe there would be an ingredient in those colors that would keep Fozzy’s appetite at bay. Again, he devoured the entire pack. This time I was angry, because regular crayons are about 50 cents a box, whereas the washables are $4 more. Nevertheless, many boxes of crayons, and several colorful piles of poop later, Jeff was told that there is something in the Cocker Spaniel breed that makes them hunger for crayons. Fozzy wasn’t being his usual piggish self he was simply eating colored wax on instinct. How weird is that?
Life with Fozzy continues to be an adventure, and he never ceases to surprise me. His appetite is as endless as his belly bulge, and I love the fact that after Rachael has thrown her dry Cheerios all over the floor, I don’t have to think about getting a broom. My fuzzy, little Hoover has already taken care of the mess, and is now jumping for the graham cracker.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Shopping for Jeans
I hate clothes shopping. Despite what every media outlet screaming in my face tells me, shopping for clothes is not a fun and enjoyable experience. I don’t like to meet my friends for shopping, I prefer to visit with them over lunch or a playdate. I hate looking through sales ads for bargains, and since I’m not aware of what’s on discount, I never get one. If I have an article of clothing (or a pair of shoes) that I like, then I wear it until it becomes threadbare and falls off my body. I’m the woman who still has her grunge era Doc Martens in her closet.
I was recently faced with having to shop when after a 15 lb. weight loss, the jeans I owned no longer fit. Some would say this is a cause for celebration, and although I’m happier about being closer to my ultimate goal of looking good naked again, the downside is that I have to find new jeans. The jeans that I had been wearing were two years old. I bought them after I had Rachael. I have pre-pregnancy jeans sitting in my closet waiting to be worn again, but I’m not at that stage yet. I thought about just getting a belt and cinching the large jeans at the waist or letting them ride low on my hips until I could fit into the smaller ones, but that would just make me look like one of those hip hop wannabe kids I see at the mall with their pants hanging pathetically off their asses. I arrive at the sad conclusion that I will have to venture out to a commercial retail establishment and make a purchase.
Five minutes after entering the mall, I realize that I have two major things going against me as a shopper: I am only 5’ tall, and I’m 32 years old. Seattle is a very ethnically diverse area, and has an enormous Asian population, so why is it that every pair of pants seems to be made for chicks over 6’ tall? Not only do I have to shell out money for the pants, but also have to take them to an alterations shop and have them hemmed. Normally I would do it myself, but I took sewing in the 7th grade and learned that I was incapable of correctly threading the sewing machine bobbin and had absolutely no control over the foot peddle.
I am also bugged by the fact that all of the clothes offered at major retail seem to be made for teenagers or women in their 50s. Our society is constantly telling women that the best age to be is 16, and I’m not sure why. At 16, I was barely able to drive, still stuck in high school, had minimal income from a crappy part-time job, and was basically a naïve idiot with big hair who obsessed over boys. Why is this age suddenly the gold standard? Oh yeah, it’s because 16 year old girls are old enough to put out, but young enough to be baffled by the bullshit that less intelligent men want to feed them. Thank you Brittney Spears! Conversely, I find it equally strange that the more mature casual clothing consists of outfits that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in. Is anyone making fashionable garments for women in their 30s? The ones who don’t want to look like their mothers or their teenage babysitters?
I take a moment to clear my head remembering that my objective on this particular outing is not to analyze society’s fucked up priorities and stereotypes, but to find a pair of well-made jeans that will accommodate my ass. That is yet another great challenge: my ass. I am Italian and Jewish, neither which is known for producing flat-assed females. If I were to magically wake up weighing 20 lbs. tomorrow, I guarantee that 15 of it would be in ass. Thankfully, on a lazy Thursday, while lounging on the couch, I tuned into an episode of Oprah where she talked about Apple Bottoms jeans. These are black girl jeans; made by a clothing house run by a black guy (Nelly), designed by black designers for black women, which means that instead of the jeans flattening the ass like spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread, they are cut to accommodate the extra ass, so greatly celebrated by the very rap star who runs the clothing label. I decided to try on the graciously cut Apple Bottoms and once again, Oprah was right! These are amazing jeans. After a lifetime of trying to fit my round tuchas into flat, WASPy jeans, I finally found a comfortable pair made for girls like me. In these jeans, my butt, though not as small as I want it to be, actually looks good. Way to go Nelly!
I walk to the alterations shop to have at least six inches cut off the legs, and smile about my oddly positive shopping experience. However, one favorable consumption trip still doesn’t erase my loathing of the clothes shopping experience. I take comfort in the fact that these jeans seem pretty sturdy, and will make it possible for me to postpone my next shopping trip for at least another two years.
I was recently faced with having to shop when after a 15 lb. weight loss, the jeans I owned no longer fit. Some would say this is a cause for celebration, and although I’m happier about being closer to my ultimate goal of looking good naked again, the downside is that I have to find new jeans. The jeans that I had been wearing were two years old. I bought them after I had Rachael. I have pre-pregnancy jeans sitting in my closet waiting to be worn again, but I’m not at that stage yet. I thought about just getting a belt and cinching the large jeans at the waist or letting them ride low on my hips until I could fit into the smaller ones, but that would just make me look like one of those hip hop wannabe kids I see at the mall with their pants hanging pathetically off their asses. I arrive at the sad conclusion that I will have to venture out to a commercial retail establishment and make a purchase.
Five minutes after entering the mall, I realize that I have two major things going against me as a shopper: I am only 5’ tall, and I’m 32 years old. Seattle is a very ethnically diverse area, and has an enormous Asian population, so why is it that every pair of pants seems to be made for chicks over 6’ tall? Not only do I have to shell out money for the pants, but also have to take them to an alterations shop and have them hemmed. Normally I would do it myself, but I took sewing in the 7th grade and learned that I was incapable of correctly threading the sewing machine bobbin and had absolutely no control over the foot peddle.
I am also bugged by the fact that all of the clothes offered at major retail seem to be made for teenagers or women in their 50s. Our society is constantly telling women that the best age to be is 16, and I’m not sure why. At 16, I was barely able to drive, still stuck in high school, had minimal income from a crappy part-time job, and was basically a naïve idiot with big hair who obsessed over boys. Why is this age suddenly the gold standard? Oh yeah, it’s because 16 year old girls are old enough to put out, but young enough to be baffled by the bullshit that less intelligent men want to feed them. Thank you Brittney Spears! Conversely, I find it equally strange that the more mature casual clothing consists of outfits that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in. Is anyone making fashionable garments for women in their 30s? The ones who don’t want to look like their mothers or their teenage babysitters?
I take a moment to clear my head remembering that my objective on this particular outing is not to analyze society’s fucked up priorities and stereotypes, but to find a pair of well-made jeans that will accommodate my ass. That is yet another great challenge: my ass. I am Italian and Jewish, neither which is known for producing flat-assed females. If I were to magically wake up weighing 20 lbs. tomorrow, I guarantee that 15 of it would be in ass. Thankfully, on a lazy Thursday, while lounging on the couch, I tuned into an episode of Oprah where she talked about Apple Bottoms jeans. These are black girl jeans; made by a clothing house run by a black guy (Nelly), designed by black designers for black women, which means that instead of the jeans flattening the ass like spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread, they are cut to accommodate the extra ass, so greatly celebrated by the very rap star who runs the clothing label. I decided to try on the graciously cut Apple Bottoms and once again, Oprah was right! These are amazing jeans. After a lifetime of trying to fit my round tuchas into flat, WASPy jeans, I finally found a comfortable pair made for girls like me. In these jeans, my butt, though not as small as I want it to be, actually looks good. Way to go Nelly!
I walk to the alterations shop to have at least six inches cut off the legs, and smile about my oddly positive shopping experience. However, one favorable consumption trip still doesn’t erase my loathing of the clothes shopping experience. I take comfort in the fact that these jeans seem pretty sturdy, and will make it possible for me to postpone my next shopping trip for at least another two years.
Monday, August 15, 2005
If I Could Do it All Over Again...
For something new and different I decided to wake up at 7:30 a.m., and hauled Rachael and myself to the morning learning classes given by the Jewish organization I work for. I detest mornings, but the topics seemed interesting enough to drag my sorry butt out of bed. The subject of free will came up, and as the instructor began speaking in a mix of Hebrew and English, one question came to mind: If I could do it all over again, would I be here now?
This is not a new question for me. It’s something that has plagued me at various points in my life, usually when I find that my world has hit some sort of dead end. I am bothered by the fact that it has come into my head again, yet sitting in the folding chair in the basement of the Orthodox synagogue sipping Chamomile tea, I can’t help but to think about what my potential options could have been, and why I made the decisions that I made about my life.
I look back at my youth and wonder why I spent so much time trying to make my parents proud of me. I had been obsessed with working in the music industry since I was 11 years old, and my mother hated it. She wanted me to go to college, have a reasonable career (i.e. something that I could give up easily when I had babies), live in a big house with a husband who made enough money to take care of me, and remain in Idaho for the rest of my life. Is there a worse existence? If you’ve ever been to Idaho, you know there isn’t. Instead I spent three years at the local university, and dropped out. With the help of a sham first marriage, I got away from my control freak mom and moved to Seattle to attend art school. I went to work for a record company, flew to L.A. regularly, and loved my job. Best of all, I did a big “in your face” with my mom. I was actively working in the industry I wanted to be in, and was living in Seattle. Life was good until my record company was bought out in a merger.
I found myself back in Idaho working for a small, but ambitious concert promotion company. At this point, I get up and refill my cup of tea, wondering why I didn’t go to L.A. Oh yeah, I remember, my mother had instilled in me that L.A. was a cesspool filled with heartless plastic people. Sure, she was right, but maybe if I had gone I could have been a record company executive by now instead of a mommy trying to eek out the last 50 pages of a fiction novel.
I recall that during my stint in concert promotion it seemed so important for me to be professional. I obsessed on this to the point where I would never step foot on a tour bus or speak with the musicians unless we were in a public place all in an effort to avoid any remote speculation of impropriety. Why? What if I had thrown caution to the wind and wound up naked with someone famous. In the end, it wouldn’t have effected the outcome of my life, and it would have made for a good story during those play date gatherings.
I could see all us mommies sitting in a large circle on the floor as our chubby munchkins played. As the championship breast feeder would finish her critique of the available breast pumps and nipple creams at Babies ‘R’ Us, all the mommies would look to me to make a contribution. I would casually smile and ask, “Did I ever tell you about the time I fucked (insert rock star name here)?” Sure, some would gasp in shock, but I have a feeling most would lean in and want to know every detail, then I would probably come to find out that they, too, had been pretty wild in their pre-mommy days.
As the class draws to an end, the instructor wraps it up by telling us that there is a purpose for everything, even the bad stuff. This is a powerful statement coming from a woman who probably lost the majority of her grandparents’ siblings and cousins during the Holocaust. Previously, I had settled on the fact that if I had made the decision to go to L.A. instead of back to Idaho to do concert promotion, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I would most likely be married, but not to Jeff, and I probably wouldn’t have kids. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t have lasted in L.A., since I hate the cutthroat environment that is prevalent in the entertainment industry particularly in LaLa Land. I would have ended up divorcing my first husband (which was always a given), and moving back to Seattle to work, where I would have met Jeff at some Jewish singles event. We would fall in love, travel the world, buy our starter home, get married, move to the ‘burbs, and have a baby named Rachael.
I leave the class resigned that everyone is where they are supposed to be for one reason or another. We have free will, but we don’t have the ultimate control over our lives, that’s left up to fate or G-d, which ever you believe in. All we can do is live for the here and now, and enjoy each day we get. I’m at peace with that idea. However, I still wish I had scored a rock star, at least once.
This is not a new question for me. It’s something that has plagued me at various points in my life, usually when I find that my world has hit some sort of dead end. I am bothered by the fact that it has come into my head again, yet sitting in the folding chair in the basement of the Orthodox synagogue sipping Chamomile tea, I can’t help but to think about what my potential options could have been, and why I made the decisions that I made about my life.
I look back at my youth and wonder why I spent so much time trying to make my parents proud of me. I had been obsessed with working in the music industry since I was 11 years old, and my mother hated it. She wanted me to go to college, have a reasonable career (i.e. something that I could give up easily when I had babies), live in a big house with a husband who made enough money to take care of me, and remain in Idaho for the rest of my life. Is there a worse existence? If you’ve ever been to Idaho, you know there isn’t. Instead I spent three years at the local university, and dropped out. With the help of a sham first marriage, I got away from my control freak mom and moved to Seattle to attend art school. I went to work for a record company, flew to L.A. regularly, and loved my job. Best of all, I did a big “in your face” with my mom. I was actively working in the industry I wanted to be in, and was living in Seattle. Life was good until my record company was bought out in a merger.
I found myself back in Idaho working for a small, but ambitious concert promotion company. At this point, I get up and refill my cup of tea, wondering why I didn’t go to L.A. Oh yeah, I remember, my mother had instilled in me that L.A. was a cesspool filled with heartless plastic people. Sure, she was right, but maybe if I had gone I could have been a record company executive by now instead of a mommy trying to eek out the last 50 pages of a fiction novel.
I recall that during my stint in concert promotion it seemed so important for me to be professional. I obsessed on this to the point where I would never step foot on a tour bus or speak with the musicians unless we were in a public place all in an effort to avoid any remote speculation of impropriety. Why? What if I had thrown caution to the wind and wound up naked with someone famous. In the end, it wouldn’t have effected the outcome of my life, and it would have made for a good story during those play date gatherings.
I could see all us mommies sitting in a large circle on the floor as our chubby munchkins played. As the championship breast feeder would finish her critique of the available breast pumps and nipple creams at Babies ‘R’ Us, all the mommies would look to me to make a contribution. I would casually smile and ask, “Did I ever tell you about the time I fucked (insert rock star name here)?” Sure, some would gasp in shock, but I have a feeling most would lean in and want to know every detail, then I would probably come to find out that they, too, had been pretty wild in their pre-mommy days.
As the class draws to an end, the instructor wraps it up by telling us that there is a purpose for everything, even the bad stuff. This is a powerful statement coming from a woman who probably lost the majority of her grandparents’ siblings and cousins during the Holocaust. Previously, I had settled on the fact that if I had made the decision to go to L.A. instead of back to Idaho to do concert promotion, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I would most likely be married, but not to Jeff, and I probably wouldn’t have kids. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t have lasted in L.A., since I hate the cutthroat environment that is prevalent in the entertainment industry particularly in LaLa Land. I would have ended up divorcing my first husband (which was always a given), and moving back to Seattle to work, where I would have met Jeff at some Jewish singles event. We would fall in love, travel the world, buy our starter home, get married, move to the ‘burbs, and have a baby named Rachael.
I leave the class resigned that everyone is where they are supposed to be for one reason or another. We have free will, but we don’t have the ultimate control over our lives, that’s left up to fate or G-d, which ever you believe in. All we can do is live for the here and now, and enjoy each day we get. I’m at peace with that idea. However, I still wish I had scored a rock star, at least once.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
I Live with Rodents on Crack
When Jeff and I were first dating, I admired his energy and ambition. He seemed to get excited about everything in life, and was very spontaneous. When it came to something he was passionate about, he didn’t hold back.
It’s nearly five years later, and now I have a much different description for his enthusiasm level. The energy and ambition is constant, which means he can’t relax, physically or mentally. On any given evening, we will finish dinner and put Rachael to bed by 8:30 p.m. My plan afterwards is to kick back with my husband and watch a movie or a show. Not Jeff! He is on the computer obsessing over a possible purchase (his or someone else’s). He brings up five different Google searches at once then curses at the computer for not being fast enough. At the same time, he is on his cell phone, the house phone or both. I sit back on the couch and watch his blood pressure rise keeping my cell phone secretly hidden away, so he won’t commandeer it for his price-hunting mission. After all, when he finally does collapse with a heart attack someone’s got to call 911.
The spontaneity has also lost its luster. It was fun back then when we’d spend three hours on the phone and he would call back immediately to tell me that I should be in bed instead of talking to him. Now, he has fits of impulsiveness that have nearly cost us our lives. He is originally from Southern California, and continues to drive like he still lives there. The Pacific Northwest is riddled with horrible drivers and no mass transit system, so you have to be alert and on the defensive the moment you pull out of your driveway. Many is the time when we will decide on a particular destination, and my husband will stop right in the middle of the fucking street to ask what I think about going somewhere else. I just look at him with shock and scream at him to drive the damn car. He seriously doesn’t get the fact that you can’t just stop in the middle of a two-lane road, because you think barbecue might be preferential to Chinese for lunch.
His passion for every subject is at times exhausting and I have come to the realization that my husband is a ferret on crack. He has a similar rodent-like scurry when he’s pursuing a task and definitely has the same energy level. The mottle-headedness is where the crack comes in, and this weekend’s travel plans were a perfect example of a ferret on crack in action.
Jeff wanted to go out of town. Simple enough, right? Not for someone who labels themselves as the “dealman.” He spent two nights on every travel website known to man, while verbally berating some poor operator in Bangalore when the Alaska Airlines website timed out. By the end of this 48 hours of marathon research, he had several hotel options, and managed to secure a flight later in the day on Saturday. However he assured me that we would be heading to the airport nine hours early to try to standby for the morning flight (like that ever works). Then much in the ferret on crack nature, after detailing each hotel option to me for 20 minutes while I was trying to run errands, he asked me which one we should utilize. The “end” key on my cell phone seemed to be screaming at me to hit it, but I calmly told him that he could choose, which he already had, so I’m not sure why the fuck he asked in the first place.
The sick, sad thing is that I see strains of this same obsessive nature in my toddler. The other day, she was determined to color at the coffee table in the family room. She brought her box of crayons downstairs, two coloring books, and a blank pad of paper. Rachael colored for all of five minutes and abandoned the project, so I began cleaning it up. She went ape shit! My toddler began running around in circles yelling “no, no, no”, then proceeded to bring all of the items back to the table. I looked at her, sighed, and realized that much like her old man, she had the drugged rodent tendencies.
I love them both with all my soul, but my dreams of a sweet, relaxing evening have given way to the hectic reality that is life with rodents on crack. As I attempt to watch a movie, my ferret on crack will be clicking away wildly at the computer and yelling into the phone, while my hamster on crack is running around in circles with her Dora the Explorer DVD in hand yelling “Dodo, Dodo.” All I can say at this point is thank goodness my dog is lazy.
It’s nearly five years later, and now I have a much different description for his enthusiasm level. The energy and ambition is constant, which means he can’t relax, physically or mentally. On any given evening, we will finish dinner and put Rachael to bed by 8:30 p.m. My plan afterwards is to kick back with my husband and watch a movie or a show. Not Jeff! He is on the computer obsessing over a possible purchase (his or someone else’s). He brings up five different Google searches at once then curses at the computer for not being fast enough. At the same time, he is on his cell phone, the house phone or both. I sit back on the couch and watch his blood pressure rise keeping my cell phone secretly hidden away, so he won’t commandeer it for his price-hunting mission. After all, when he finally does collapse with a heart attack someone’s got to call 911.
The spontaneity has also lost its luster. It was fun back then when we’d spend three hours on the phone and he would call back immediately to tell me that I should be in bed instead of talking to him. Now, he has fits of impulsiveness that have nearly cost us our lives. He is originally from Southern California, and continues to drive like he still lives there. The Pacific Northwest is riddled with horrible drivers and no mass transit system, so you have to be alert and on the defensive the moment you pull out of your driveway. Many is the time when we will decide on a particular destination, and my husband will stop right in the middle of the fucking street to ask what I think about going somewhere else. I just look at him with shock and scream at him to drive the damn car. He seriously doesn’t get the fact that you can’t just stop in the middle of a two-lane road, because you think barbecue might be preferential to Chinese for lunch.
His passion for every subject is at times exhausting and I have come to the realization that my husband is a ferret on crack. He has a similar rodent-like scurry when he’s pursuing a task and definitely has the same energy level. The mottle-headedness is where the crack comes in, and this weekend’s travel plans were a perfect example of a ferret on crack in action.
Jeff wanted to go out of town. Simple enough, right? Not for someone who labels themselves as the “dealman.” He spent two nights on every travel website known to man, while verbally berating some poor operator in Bangalore when the Alaska Airlines website timed out. By the end of this 48 hours of marathon research, he had several hotel options, and managed to secure a flight later in the day on Saturday. However he assured me that we would be heading to the airport nine hours early to try to standby for the morning flight (like that ever works). Then much in the ferret on crack nature, after detailing each hotel option to me for 20 minutes while I was trying to run errands, he asked me which one we should utilize. The “end” key on my cell phone seemed to be screaming at me to hit it, but I calmly told him that he could choose, which he already had, so I’m not sure why the fuck he asked in the first place.
The sick, sad thing is that I see strains of this same obsessive nature in my toddler. The other day, she was determined to color at the coffee table in the family room. She brought her box of crayons downstairs, two coloring books, and a blank pad of paper. Rachael colored for all of five minutes and abandoned the project, so I began cleaning it up. She went ape shit! My toddler began running around in circles yelling “no, no, no”, then proceeded to bring all of the items back to the table. I looked at her, sighed, and realized that much like her old man, she had the drugged rodent tendencies.
I love them both with all my soul, but my dreams of a sweet, relaxing evening have given way to the hectic reality that is life with rodents on crack. As I attempt to watch a movie, my ferret on crack will be clicking away wildly at the computer and yelling into the phone, while my hamster on crack is running around in circles with her Dora the Explorer DVD in hand yelling “Dodo, Dodo.” All I can say at this point is thank goodness my dog is lazy.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Greedy Munchkin Smiles
I don’t brag very much about anything, but I have to say that my child is one of the cutest kids in the world. She has eight teeth: four on top and four on the bottom. When I see her little pearly whites glaring at me as her lips stretch ear to ear, no matter what mood the smile finds me in, I’m happy.
Rachael dances, sings and climbs like a little monkey. She is also developing a great sense of humor. Whenever I decide to relax on the floor she will get a devious look on her face, let out a war cry and come barreling across the room catapulting herself right onto my back knocking the wind out of me. Then she will laugh endlessly. Apparently an attempt to break my back in half is funny to her, as is dropping food on the dog’s back just out of his reach forcing him to arch and writhe until he can get his mouth around it. Actually, that part is funny and I’m amused by it, too.
The other thing about my toddler’s development that tends to catch me off guard is her sense of entitlement. Since she was born, she has been able to demand anything of me, now this action has culminated in her believing that everything is hers and everyone around her exists solely for serving her. Basically, when someone calls my daughter a princess, they are pretty accurate. The other day she had a bowl of Jeff’s homemade M&M ice cream. They were originally going to share, but you give the toddler the spoon and it’s not coming back. I decided to forego the ice cream and had my barely-has-a-taste, low fat fudgesicle, not because I’m health conscious, it’s just that I would like half a chance at looking good naked again. I should have known better than to bring out my fudgesicle in front of Rachael. I really should have been wiser when I decided to let her have just a taste believing that she would take a lick and be done with it since her ice cream was far better. I was a dumb shit for failing to realize that what falls into Rachael’s hands, becomes Rachael’s possession. She quickly grabbed the fudgesicle and began dipping it in the ice cream as if to mock me. I tried to talk her into giving it back. She would smile, move the fudgesicle close to my mouth, then pull it away and giggle. Unfortunately, she is too young for me to begin using the whole “I gave birth to you” guilt that serves as the cornerstone to every Jewish mother’s argument. I finally gave up and went to the freezer to get another fudgesicle. As I unwrapped it and sat back down at the dinner table, Rachael smiled, put her empty hand out and said “thank you.” Jeff and I collapsed in hysterics.
Although there are days I just want to kill her like Monday morning when she woke up at 5:30 a.m. and kept whining. We brought her into our bed, gave her a bottle, turned on Noggin and she continued to just whine. I finally returned her to her crib where she cried for 15 minutes and fell asleep until 9:30 a.m. Unfortunately by this time, Jeff and I were wide awake and when I was finally able to catch some more winks, I slept for a whole 40 minutes before I had to be back up again. She was in a crabby mood that day, and only became endearing when we put her to bed that night.
Kids are weird creatures. Given their affinity for goofy music, their ability to change from ecstatic joy to hysterical screaming, and their rejection of a delicious meal in favor of Chef Boyardee Ravioli, I sometimes wonder if they are completely human. For as big of a pain in the ass as she is, Rachael does make my day. Actually she will usually make my day, drive me crazy, have me completely exhausted, and leave me in bellyaching laughter all in the course of two hours. Put all that emotion on a 16-hour loop then you’ll have the answer to the question: why mothers are so nuts.
There are days when I’m in complete frustration and mull over the idea of getting a full-time job and putting her in daycare all day, but then I think of all of the munchkin smiles I would miss. I also wonder if I could deal with the guilt that society seems to give women who choose to work instead of staying home despite the fact that this same society opts to measure people less on their character and more on the amount of yearly income they bring in. A scarier prospect for me would be the chance that I wouldn’t miss staying home at all, and that I would enjoy a job more than I enjoy blowing on Rachael’s dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets to cool them down at lunchtime. I doubt the later would be true, so for now I just stay at home, work my part-time, flexible schedule job, try to write with Dora the Explorer singing in the background, and watch my smiley girl dancing while she catches the stars.
Rachael dances, sings and climbs like a little monkey. She is also developing a great sense of humor. Whenever I decide to relax on the floor she will get a devious look on her face, let out a war cry and come barreling across the room catapulting herself right onto my back knocking the wind out of me. Then she will laugh endlessly. Apparently an attempt to break my back in half is funny to her, as is dropping food on the dog’s back just out of his reach forcing him to arch and writhe until he can get his mouth around it. Actually, that part is funny and I’m amused by it, too.
The other thing about my toddler’s development that tends to catch me off guard is her sense of entitlement. Since she was born, she has been able to demand anything of me, now this action has culminated in her believing that everything is hers and everyone around her exists solely for serving her. Basically, when someone calls my daughter a princess, they are pretty accurate. The other day she had a bowl of Jeff’s homemade M&M ice cream. They were originally going to share, but you give the toddler the spoon and it’s not coming back. I decided to forego the ice cream and had my barely-has-a-taste, low fat fudgesicle, not because I’m health conscious, it’s just that I would like half a chance at looking good naked again. I should have known better than to bring out my fudgesicle in front of Rachael. I really should have been wiser when I decided to let her have just a taste believing that she would take a lick and be done with it since her ice cream was far better. I was a dumb shit for failing to realize that what falls into Rachael’s hands, becomes Rachael’s possession. She quickly grabbed the fudgesicle and began dipping it in the ice cream as if to mock me. I tried to talk her into giving it back. She would smile, move the fudgesicle close to my mouth, then pull it away and giggle. Unfortunately, she is too young for me to begin using the whole “I gave birth to you” guilt that serves as the cornerstone to every Jewish mother’s argument. I finally gave up and went to the freezer to get another fudgesicle. As I unwrapped it and sat back down at the dinner table, Rachael smiled, put her empty hand out and said “thank you.” Jeff and I collapsed in hysterics.
Although there are days I just want to kill her like Monday morning when she woke up at 5:30 a.m. and kept whining. We brought her into our bed, gave her a bottle, turned on Noggin and she continued to just whine. I finally returned her to her crib where she cried for 15 minutes and fell asleep until 9:30 a.m. Unfortunately by this time, Jeff and I were wide awake and when I was finally able to catch some more winks, I slept for a whole 40 minutes before I had to be back up again. She was in a crabby mood that day, and only became endearing when we put her to bed that night.
Kids are weird creatures. Given their affinity for goofy music, their ability to change from ecstatic joy to hysterical screaming, and their rejection of a delicious meal in favor of Chef Boyardee Ravioli, I sometimes wonder if they are completely human. For as big of a pain in the ass as she is, Rachael does make my day. Actually she will usually make my day, drive me crazy, have me completely exhausted, and leave me in bellyaching laughter all in the course of two hours. Put all that emotion on a 16-hour loop then you’ll have the answer to the question: why mothers are so nuts.
There are days when I’m in complete frustration and mull over the idea of getting a full-time job and putting her in daycare all day, but then I think of all of the munchkin smiles I would miss. I also wonder if I could deal with the guilt that society seems to give women who choose to work instead of staying home despite the fact that this same society opts to measure people less on their character and more on the amount of yearly income they bring in. A scarier prospect for me would be the chance that I wouldn’t miss staying home at all, and that I would enjoy a job more than I enjoy blowing on Rachael’s dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets to cool them down at lunchtime. I doubt the later would be true, so for now I just stay at home, work my part-time, flexible schedule job, try to write with Dora the Explorer singing in the background, and watch my smiley girl dancing while she catches the stars.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
My Awkward Part-Time Job
For fun, I write. For my future, I’m in the process of composing a novel. For extra money to justify having my own personal credit card, I work part-time. I am currently the fundraising director/event organizer/other stuff doer for a group of Orthodox rabbis who do education and community outreach. Yes me, a bonafide punk, works for a group of very observant Jewish rabbis. It’s a bizarre combination, I must admit, but so far, it’s worked out due to a strange mutual admiration.
The rabbis believe in my competency and ability to get things done, and I admire their strong individualist attitude of living the life they want to live despite what the world tells them. Observant Jews honor the Sabbath completely, which means come Friday night; they don’t do anything that constitutes work. No washing dishes after dinner, no checking email, they don’t even turn on and off lights, because of an ancient restriction that bars Jews from lighting fire on the Sabbath. I once spent an entire Sabbath, which is sundown on Friday through sundown on Saturday, with one of the rabbis and their family. It was very relaxing, and made the weekend seem longer. Although I don’t know if I could do it myself, and my husband wouldn’t entertain the idea of taking on an observant way of life, I respect the purity in their lifestyle.
They buck the modern obsession to consume, and write off popular culture. When you attend one of their gatherings, the last thing they do is ask you about your profession, because they aren’t there to network, they just want to have a good time. Unfortunately, the world tends to see them as backwards and closer to the Puritans who founded this country, which is a complete untruth. Nobody knows how to party like observant Jews.
During Purim, which is a bullshit holiday that nobody believes really happened, but it’s fun, so we celebrate it anyway, Jeff and I were invited over to the rabbi’s house. A dozen people sat around two tables drinking, eating and singing. One of the objectives of Purim is to drink until you can’t differentiate the good guy in the story from the bad guy, and since observant Jews follow the liturgy to the dime, everyone was getting absolutely piss drunk. The kids were on the other end of the room dressed in costumes (which is custom), eating candy and bouncing off the walls, because no one was really in the mood to discipline them. I had a great time talking with the rabbis most of whom were wearing funny hats or had ties wrapped around their heads, and their wives who decided to wear heavy, drag queen-like makeup for the occasion. My wine glass was never empty, and needless to say, I don’t remember leaving the house or getting home that evening, but nine months later I had Rachael, so the rest of the night must have gone well at least for my husband, anyways.
I doubt the rabbis would acknowledge any resemblance between their lifestyle and those of the punk movement, but the similarities are endless. Both punks and observant Jews bunk fashion trends, neither group cares to get involved in the materialistic pissing contest so praised by our consumer culture, and they are loyal to their own philosophies of living despite being criticized by the majority. I thoroughly enjoy hanging out with punks and Orthodox Jews. I am judged by neither and welcomed by both, which I believe is the most important aspect when choosing people to invite into my life.
It’s so strange the people you end up with. I never would have guessed seven years ago, when the majority of my friends were punks, artists and musicians that in a few short years my friends would be Orthodox Jews, business professionals, and mommies. However, I’m not complaining, because the people I call friends actually want to be around me despite my pissy moods, endless political rants, and my bad habit of returning phone calls later than I should. I went from promoting concerts to organizing fundraising events for Jewish programs, which I find a bit strange as well. The upside is that I no longer work 60 hours a week, like I did in my concert promoting days. I do miss those days from time to time, and I am reminded of the chaos when my organization is doing a youth program with children ages 5-12. Let’s face it, when you’ve got 50 excited kids in one small room it’s the same noise level as any Motley Crue show packed to the hilt with drunken burnouts.
I have the ultimate flexible schedule, do the majority of work from home, and basically, couldn’t have asked for a better part-time job. I adore my co-workers: those amazing and fun people who constantly challenge me to think differently about the world. Those sometimes kooky rabbis who live to practice their craft, raise their families, and unbeknownst to them are more punk in their black hats and suits than any of those posers hanging at a Green Day concert.
The rabbis believe in my competency and ability to get things done, and I admire their strong individualist attitude of living the life they want to live despite what the world tells them. Observant Jews honor the Sabbath completely, which means come Friday night; they don’t do anything that constitutes work. No washing dishes after dinner, no checking email, they don’t even turn on and off lights, because of an ancient restriction that bars Jews from lighting fire on the Sabbath. I once spent an entire Sabbath, which is sundown on Friday through sundown on Saturday, with one of the rabbis and their family. It was very relaxing, and made the weekend seem longer. Although I don’t know if I could do it myself, and my husband wouldn’t entertain the idea of taking on an observant way of life, I respect the purity in their lifestyle.
They buck the modern obsession to consume, and write off popular culture. When you attend one of their gatherings, the last thing they do is ask you about your profession, because they aren’t there to network, they just want to have a good time. Unfortunately, the world tends to see them as backwards and closer to the Puritans who founded this country, which is a complete untruth. Nobody knows how to party like observant Jews.
During Purim, which is a bullshit holiday that nobody believes really happened, but it’s fun, so we celebrate it anyway, Jeff and I were invited over to the rabbi’s house. A dozen people sat around two tables drinking, eating and singing. One of the objectives of Purim is to drink until you can’t differentiate the good guy in the story from the bad guy, and since observant Jews follow the liturgy to the dime, everyone was getting absolutely piss drunk. The kids were on the other end of the room dressed in costumes (which is custom), eating candy and bouncing off the walls, because no one was really in the mood to discipline them. I had a great time talking with the rabbis most of whom were wearing funny hats or had ties wrapped around their heads, and their wives who decided to wear heavy, drag queen-like makeup for the occasion. My wine glass was never empty, and needless to say, I don’t remember leaving the house or getting home that evening, but nine months later I had Rachael, so the rest of the night must have gone well at least for my husband, anyways.
I doubt the rabbis would acknowledge any resemblance between their lifestyle and those of the punk movement, but the similarities are endless. Both punks and observant Jews bunk fashion trends, neither group cares to get involved in the materialistic pissing contest so praised by our consumer culture, and they are loyal to their own philosophies of living despite being criticized by the majority. I thoroughly enjoy hanging out with punks and Orthodox Jews. I am judged by neither and welcomed by both, which I believe is the most important aspect when choosing people to invite into my life.
It’s so strange the people you end up with. I never would have guessed seven years ago, when the majority of my friends were punks, artists and musicians that in a few short years my friends would be Orthodox Jews, business professionals, and mommies. However, I’m not complaining, because the people I call friends actually want to be around me despite my pissy moods, endless political rants, and my bad habit of returning phone calls later than I should. I went from promoting concerts to organizing fundraising events for Jewish programs, which I find a bit strange as well. The upside is that I no longer work 60 hours a week, like I did in my concert promoting days. I do miss those days from time to time, and I am reminded of the chaos when my organization is doing a youth program with children ages 5-12. Let’s face it, when you’ve got 50 excited kids in one small room it’s the same noise level as any Motley Crue show packed to the hilt with drunken burnouts.
I have the ultimate flexible schedule, do the majority of work from home, and basically, couldn’t have asked for a better part-time job. I adore my co-workers: those amazing and fun people who constantly challenge me to think differently about the world. Those sometimes kooky rabbis who live to practice their craft, raise their families, and unbeknownst to them are more punk in their black hats and suits than any of those posers hanging at a Green Day concert.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The Appropriate Lexicon
My daughter Rachael now has a vocabulary of about 60 words. She picks up new ones on a daily basis, which has made me keenly aware of my need to curb my tendency to swear. This is going to be a real bitch, because frankly, there are some words that just aren’t replaceable.
I remember the Mormon kids in high school who used to substitute appropriate words for their evil, inappropriate counterparts, and it just sounded really lame. They would say, “fudge” instead of “fuck” or “darn” instead of “damn”. I took a wicked amount of joy in correcting their failure to use the accurate swear word, which would often get me in trouble, but it was worth it. Now those goody-goodies can take a turn laughing at me as I hold my breath in the car to refrain from releasing a slew of verbal abuse that my toddler might latch onto. My face turns red as a pair of little assholes in a crappy car playing bad rap music at ten pulls out in front of me, and I can’t say anything. I look into my rearview mirror and watch my daughter in her carseat happy as a clam as she “reads” her Baby Einstein book about frogs.
Ever since my daughter has began adding to her lexicon, my husband has been on high alert. During the beginning of one of Rachael’s Dora the Explorer DVDs two frogs come on the screen ribbiting, and Rachael correctly identifies them as “frog.” However, Jeff swears he heard the word “fuck” and starts giving me dirty looks. He is correct in accusing me of teaching our child foul words, because if she does end up repeating them it will be, because she heard them from me. I managed to correct my husband that night by showing Rachael pictures of other animals, including frogs, and asking her to identify them, which she did. I still think Jeff didn’t really believe me until he witnessed Rachael screaming “frog” for the next two weeks every time she saw the friendly amphibian.
I do feel somewhat guilty about the amount I swear, but also have no interest in curbing it. I will own up to my responsibility as a parent and keep my mouth in check, only because I don’t want Rachael letting a “shit” or “fuck” fly at an in-law family gathering. I also want her to recognize what is appropriate and inappropriate, because we have a particular family member who doesn’t, and everyone can’t stand that person.
I wish that appropriateness, along with potty training, were one of the things that were hard-wired into kids when they were born. It would be great if Rachael could automatically know that when Mommy calls someone a “dumb bastard” while she’s driving that doesn’t mean she can repeat the phrase when it comes to a fellow toddler in daycare.
I thought about doing the whole swear jar thing, you know, deposit a quarter per swear. However, I only have a few hundred dollars tucked away in a personal savings account ear-marked for a breast lift once I quit having kids, and all I need is one good dose of Seattle traffic, and the money would be history.
Inevitably the day will come when my smiley, blue-eyed munchkin will blurt road crew language, and I’ll have to summon an iron will in order to discipline her when I really want to laugh until I pee. Let’s face it, there’s nothing cuter than a little kid swearing. I only hope that she does it early in the day, so I can have that word gone from her vocabulary by the time Jeff gets home. I can just see him walking in the door as Rachael is running through the house singing “shit, shit, shit, shit,” while I’m sitting on the couch busting a gut. He would end up lecturing me, and I would feel like the worst mom in the world, then we’d end up writing the whole experience down in the baby book, because no matter how proper the family is, every parent remembers their kid’s first swear word.
For now I can only hope that I can curb my swearing habit before Rachael picks it up, because we are sending her to an Orthodox Jewish pre-school at the end of the month, and the last call I want to get is from the teacher informing me that Rachael just called her classmate an “asshole.” I can picture the look in the teacher’s eyes as she stares at me like I’m the world’s worst mother, and all I’ll be thinking is: Darn it, I should have kicked my fudging swearing habit earlier.
I remember the Mormon kids in high school who used to substitute appropriate words for their evil, inappropriate counterparts, and it just sounded really lame. They would say, “fudge” instead of “fuck” or “darn” instead of “damn”. I took a wicked amount of joy in correcting their failure to use the accurate swear word, which would often get me in trouble, but it was worth it. Now those goody-goodies can take a turn laughing at me as I hold my breath in the car to refrain from releasing a slew of verbal abuse that my toddler might latch onto. My face turns red as a pair of little assholes in a crappy car playing bad rap music at ten pulls out in front of me, and I can’t say anything. I look into my rearview mirror and watch my daughter in her carseat happy as a clam as she “reads” her Baby Einstein book about frogs.
Ever since my daughter has began adding to her lexicon, my husband has been on high alert. During the beginning of one of Rachael’s Dora the Explorer DVDs two frogs come on the screen ribbiting, and Rachael correctly identifies them as “frog.” However, Jeff swears he heard the word “fuck” and starts giving me dirty looks. He is correct in accusing me of teaching our child foul words, because if she does end up repeating them it will be, because she heard them from me. I managed to correct my husband that night by showing Rachael pictures of other animals, including frogs, and asking her to identify them, which she did. I still think Jeff didn’t really believe me until he witnessed Rachael screaming “frog” for the next two weeks every time she saw the friendly amphibian.
I do feel somewhat guilty about the amount I swear, but also have no interest in curbing it. I will own up to my responsibility as a parent and keep my mouth in check, only because I don’t want Rachael letting a “shit” or “fuck” fly at an in-law family gathering. I also want her to recognize what is appropriate and inappropriate, because we have a particular family member who doesn’t, and everyone can’t stand that person.
I wish that appropriateness, along with potty training, were one of the things that were hard-wired into kids when they were born. It would be great if Rachael could automatically know that when Mommy calls someone a “dumb bastard” while she’s driving that doesn’t mean she can repeat the phrase when it comes to a fellow toddler in daycare.
I thought about doing the whole swear jar thing, you know, deposit a quarter per swear. However, I only have a few hundred dollars tucked away in a personal savings account ear-marked for a breast lift once I quit having kids, and all I need is one good dose of Seattle traffic, and the money would be history.
Inevitably the day will come when my smiley, blue-eyed munchkin will blurt road crew language, and I’ll have to summon an iron will in order to discipline her when I really want to laugh until I pee. Let’s face it, there’s nothing cuter than a little kid swearing. I only hope that she does it early in the day, so I can have that word gone from her vocabulary by the time Jeff gets home. I can just see him walking in the door as Rachael is running through the house singing “shit, shit, shit, shit,” while I’m sitting on the couch busting a gut. He would end up lecturing me, and I would feel like the worst mom in the world, then we’d end up writing the whole experience down in the baby book, because no matter how proper the family is, every parent remembers their kid’s first swear word.
For now I can only hope that I can curb my swearing habit before Rachael picks it up, because we are sending her to an Orthodox Jewish pre-school at the end of the month, and the last call I want to get is from the teacher informing me that Rachael just called her classmate an “asshole.” I can picture the look in the teacher’s eyes as she stares at me like I’m the world’s worst mother, and all I’ll be thinking is: Darn it, I should have kicked my fudging swearing habit earlier.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
The Hypocrisy of Whole Foods
When it was time to wean Rachael from the liquid deliciousness that is Similac Soy Formula, Jeff and I decided to do strictly organic milk. We had heard enough bad reports about everything from cancer to girls starting their periods at age nine to be motivated to pay the extra $2.50 per gallon. We also didn’t want to have to explain the workings of maxi-pads to our kindergartener.
The first hurdle was finding a place to buy organic milk. Most average grocery stores carry milk void of the cancer-causing hormone they inject into cows, but we wanted to make sure we were getting the real deal. I’ll take any risk imaginable with my own life, but my kid is another story. The bulk grocery stores had organic milk, but you literally have to buy an entire utter’s worth, and since both Jeff and I are lactose intolerant, there was no way Rachael was going to plow through two gallons on her own before the expiration date. We settled on purchasing our organic milk from a natural food store, namely the PCC Natural Market in Seward Park. PCC is a great chain of modest stores with knowledgeable employees. I go to the Seward Park store, because I work in that area, and it’s convenient.
When we heard about a new natural food ultimate supermarket opening in Bellevue, Jeff insisted we check it out and I didn’t argue although I was a little apprehensive. Bellevue is the Beverly Hills of the Seattle area. All of the richest people in the Puget Sound live in a special area of Bellevue called Medina. Kurt Cobain killed himself in Medina, so that should tell you something. To date, the only excellent things to ever come from Bellevue have been a terrific dog park, the BurgerMaster off of Northup Way, and Queensryche.
We drove up to Whole Foods ready for our natural food shopping adventure, and stood in awe at the size of the store. It was like five PCC Markets in one, and upon entering we found out how such a large facility could exist. Can you say $6.99 a pound for organic cherries, and during peak season, nonetheless! There were aisles and aisles of all things natural from sodas to household cleaners to a lady hocking her own brand of meal replacement bars where the main ingredient was figs. The organic fruit and vegetables were placed side-by-side with its pesticide-ridden, non-organic twin, which seemed to reek of hypocrisy. If I wanted chemicalized eggplant, then I wouldn’t be at a natural food store.
The dairy section was quite impressive with several varieties of organic milk; some of them weren’t even pasteurized. We chose our moo juice, and proceeded to grab a few more things. However, the experience seemed a little empty. When one enters a PCC, although there is less of a selection, the space is smaller, and the shelves are more crowded, there is an honesty to those who shop there. They truly want to eat healthier food and feed their families a meal that won’t lead to the ingestion of cancer agents. The PCC shoppers are the ones who sign the Green Party petitions, and would consider attending a demonstration to lobby for stricter environmental standards.
I got a much different vibe at Whole Foods. Most of the cars in the Whole Foods lot were upscale, and I counted at least 15 SUVs, two of which were Hummers. Note to Whole Foods shoppers: Buying Earth-friendly dish detergent doesn’t mean shit when you drive a Hummer (the worst environmental offender since the ’67 Cadillac). Like everything in Bellevue, the gesture of eating healthy seemed to be based less on wanting to actually eat healthy, and more on the fact that eating organic was now in vogue. I could see some Bellevue suburb mom, the kind that has a nanny and goes to the spa all day, yet still bitches about the kids, hosting a dinner party and bragging about how all the veggies were organic. The Whole Foods shoppers would be unlikely to sign a Green Party petition, and given their district voting record, elected the assholes that are fucking up the environment in the first place.
Needless to say, it was our first and last trip to Whole Foods. I prefer shopping someplace that is as honest as I am. A store where I can ask the clerk something simple like “what tea do you recommend for enhancing relaxation” and the answer would amount to a collegiate lesson on tea, its origins, relaxation techniques, and possibly a simple Yoga pose demonstration. Tomorrow I’ll make another trip to PCC, the one in Seward Park, to pick up my baby’s organic milk, and yes, Mr. Green Party member; I will sign your petition.
The first hurdle was finding a place to buy organic milk. Most average grocery stores carry milk void of the cancer-causing hormone they inject into cows, but we wanted to make sure we were getting the real deal. I’ll take any risk imaginable with my own life, but my kid is another story. The bulk grocery stores had organic milk, but you literally have to buy an entire utter’s worth, and since both Jeff and I are lactose intolerant, there was no way Rachael was going to plow through two gallons on her own before the expiration date. We settled on purchasing our organic milk from a natural food store, namely the PCC Natural Market in Seward Park. PCC is a great chain of modest stores with knowledgeable employees. I go to the Seward Park store, because I work in that area, and it’s convenient.
When we heard about a new natural food ultimate supermarket opening in Bellevue, Jeff insisted we check it out and I didn’t argue although I was a little apprehensive. Bellevue is the Beverly Hills of the Seattle area. All of the richest people in the Puget Sound live in a special area of Bellevue called Medina. Kurt Cobain killed himself in Medina, so that should tell you something. To date, the only excellent things to ever come from Bellevue have been a terrific dog park, the BurgerMaster off of Northup Way, and Queensryche.
We drove up to Whole Foods ready for our natural food shopping adventure, and stood in awe at the size of the store. It was like five PCC Markets in one, and upon entering we found out how such a large facility could exist. Can you say $6.99 a pound for organic cherries, and during peak season, nonetheless! There were aisles and aisles of all things natural from sodas to household cleaners to a lady hocking her own brand of meal replacement bars where the main ingredient was figs. The organic fruit and vegetables were placed side-by-side with its pesticide-ridden, non-organic twin, which seemed to reek of hypocrisy. If I wanted chemicalized eggplant, then I wouldn’t be at a natural food store.
The dairy section was quite impressive with several varieties of organic milk; some of them weren’t even pasteurized. We chose our moo juice, and proceeded to grab a few more things. However, the experience seemed a little empty. When one enters a PCC, although there is less of a selection, the space is smaller, and the shelves are more crowded, there is an honesty to those who shop there. They truly want to eat healthier food and feed their families a meal that won’t lead to the ingestion of cancer agents. The PCC shoppers are the ones who sign the Green Party petitions, and would consider attending a demonstration to lobby for stricter environmental standards.
I got a much different vibe at Whole Foods. Most of the cars in the Whole Foods lot were upscale, and I counted at least 15 SUVs, two of which were Hummers. Note to Whole Foods shoppers: Buying Earth-friendly dish detergent doesn’t mean shit when you drive a Hummer (the worst environmental offender since the ’67 Cadillac). Like everything in Bellevue, the gesture of eating healthy seemed to be based less on wanting to actually eat healthy, and more on the fact that eating organic was now in vogue. I could see some Bellevue suburb mom, the kind that has a nanny and goes to the spa all day, yet still bitches about the kids, hosting a dinner party and bragging about how all the veggies were organic. The Whole Foods shoppers would be unlikely to sign a Green Party petition, and given their district voting record, elected the assholes that are fucking up the environment in the first place.
Needless to say, it was our first and last trip to Whole Foods. I prefer shopping someplace that is as honest as I am. A store where I can ask the clerk something simple like “what tea do you recommend for enhancing relaxation” and the answer would amount to a collegiate lesson on tea, its origins, relaxation techniques, and possibly a simple Yoga pose demonstration. Tomorrow I’ll make another trip to PCC, the one in Seward Park, to pick up my baby’s organic milk, and yes, Mr. Green Party member; I will sign your petition.
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