I should be working, but...

Writing Tip #2

2010-07-28T14:53:00.002-04:00

From June 23:

I wish to be taken out to the ball game

I wish to be taken out to the crowd

I would like to be bought some peanuts and Cracker Jack

I don’t care if anyone ever gets me back….

Not very powerful, is it? To mark our office's foray to Nationals Park today to see pitching phenomenon Stephen Strasburg lead our home team to certain victory, let’s vow today to use active verbs in all our writing.

Bad: The curveball was missed by the batter.

Good: Strasburg smoked a 103-mph fastball past the dazed batter, dazzling the capacity crowd.

Go, Nats!

Writing Tip #1

2010-07-20T09:37:00.000-04:00

I've been sending these out to the staff here at work to help them address some of the more vexing problems they have with putting together their reports. I thought I'd share them with a much narrower audience by posting them here. This first tip is dated June 16.

In honor of Bloomsday (June 16, the day James Joyce’s epic—and ponderous—novel Ulysses takes place), the Publications staff is offering the following tip on making your writing more succinct:

Writing Tip #1

Avoid overusing prepositional phrases. They weigh a sentence down and lead the reader through a syntactic maze, when all you really want is to make your point.

Example: The report of the Committee stressed the points of view of several of the measure stewards in attendance at the meeting.

Wow. How about:

The Committee’s report stressed the attending measure stewards’ point of view.
OR
In its report, the Committee stressed the opinions of the measure stewards attending the meeting.

Happy Bloomsday!

The Deep End

2009-08-15T20:30:00.005-04:00

A week or two before Max died, I joined an online support group, at the suggestion of a colleague, for people who have dogs with cancer. I'm not normally a support group kind of gal, but Max's prognosis was terrible, and I just wanted to know what others were doing to help their doggies--and themselves--through a confusing and emotional time.

When Max died nearly two weeks ago, I "graduated," as it were, to the board for people whose dogs have died from cancer, and I admit, it was comforting to know that others were crying over their babies and I wasn't totally nuts. Being on these boards, however, pretty much made me feel worse rather than better, hearing all the terrible stories of heartbreak and canine courage and knowing that it soon would be my turn. Ask not for whom the bell tolls--it tolls for thee.

I've more or less weaned myself off the support groups now, but my time there has led me to some odd observations. For example, our society has absolutely no grip on the idea of death. We fear it mightily. Once upon a time, we were all familiar with it, even in our human children, and we accepted it to some degree. The Victorians actually gloried in it, raising mourning to a creepy, historic high. No one knew how to get mileage out of a loss more than a Victorian.

But now we not only can't handle the death of our fellow humans with any kind of acceptance apart from a grudging resignation, but we no longer can accept the fact that our pets move on. Don't get me wrong: I love my pets as much as, if not more than, anyone I know. I'm utterly devoted to them, and I did all I could to help Max and fight his cancer in the limited way I could. But we all must know, when we adopt any pet other than perhaps a parrot or a Galapagos turtle, that we will outlive them. Max was 10 1/2; I'm 45. He was an old man; after loving him for 10 years, I'm still just middle-aged.

While the people on the boards were unceasingly kind and patient, I encountered a tremendous amount of denial and breast beating. I'm not against anything we humans do to ease our pain, so long as it harms no one else, but I felt a bit perplexed by some of the attitudes, particularly the rallying cry of, "It's not fair!"

Of course it's not fair. As my mom always told me, life isn't fair. And she should know, because the way she died was so grossly unfair that it just proved her point. If euthanasia for humans were legal, we would have gladly helped Mom over the "Rainbow Bridge." Fortunately for our furry friends, we can give them the peaceful passing my mom was denied. That's not fair at all. But I'm glad we could do it for Max.

What's odd to me is that the ones who seem to have the hardest time letting go are the ones with strong faith. This makes no sense to me. I'm not a person of faith, but I was raised that way; in the faith of my childhood, Jesus was there to take us when we die. There is no more pain or suffering, just union with God. Why, then, are people so afraid of it, even for their pets? In Christianity, what could be better than being with Jesus? Why, then, are we willing to put our human and animal loved ones through appalling physical torture just to keep them from Jesus?

Godless though I am, I don't see death as the enemy. It's an enemy for those of us left behind, but it's peace for those who must leave us. Of course we don't want them to leave too soon. My mom and dad both died too soon. My sister definitely died too soon. But we just don't get to choose, and we have to find a way to accept that without clinging to mythology just because it makes us feel better. And I don't mean by that Christianity. I mean the myth that anyone with a 13-year-old collie can "beat" cancer. You can make it go away, perhaps, depending on the type of cancer, but something is going to mow that dog down soon enough, and that something might not be so gentle and accommodating as cancer can be.

For example, our other dog is at least 11, has diabetes, is blind and arthritic. He spends most of his life sleeping. His quality of life? Hard to say, but I don't see how it can be great. If he needed heroic measures, we wouldn't take them. He deserves better than that. He will die, I will die, we all will die, and if imaging a Rainbow Bridge makes you feel better about your doggy leaving this world, then fine, just don't tell yourself you have to keep him from crossing that bridge. You can't. You can delay it. You can tease out a few more years, and maybe that's what you should do. But you can't beat death.

Sorry for my miserable ramblings. I miss Max terribly. But lamented as his passing is, and too soon in that he was a very vigorous, happy dog up until the last minute, his leaving us behind has made room for another dog who had a rough start to have a spoiled rotten life with us. We pick her up tomorrow. Her name is Buttercup, although we're probably going to change it. She spent her first 9 months chained in a yard, and now she's going to live on Easy Street with us. And none of this would be possible if nature hadn't taken its inescapable course.

The dog is dead. Long live the dog!

Max, b. 1/99, d. 8/4/09, of hemangiosarcoma

Comedy or Tragedy

2009-07-29T08:17:00.005-04:00

I stumbled out of the Metro this morning at Metro Center just as the bells of the Church of the Epiphany were ringing in 8 o'clock--time for me to be in the office and not just outside it. At the top of the escalator a youngish man in dreads serenaded commuters with a keyboard and a mediocre voice: "What a Wonderful World."

Is it? I suppose so. But at 8 in the morning after nearly two weeks of not getting enough sleep, it's a question worth asking.

I began to wonder if the dreadlocked musician was my own personal Greek chorus, commenting on the action of my day. (It figures my private Greek chorus would have a mediocre voice.) I almost began to laugh, although as yet uncaffeinated and thus insensate, at the thought of Mr. Dreadlock following me around all day, singing pertinent pop songs as my day unfolds. I have a feeling this sensation is not original--in fact, it smells suspiciously of sitcom. But there it is.

I can still hear waves of his music wafting up at my 5th floor office, past the Caribou Coffee. I'm not sure what song he's playing, as the sound is just far enough away to be heard but indisctinct. So I'm not sure what's coming up for me later. But he told me earlier it's a wonderful world, and it's possible he's right.

Hello, Goodbye

2009-07-02T21:11:00.004-04:00

It seems like I just came to the Association, and now I'm leaving. I've spent three short years there, but the place grew on me like kudzu--it's beautiful, but it's invasive.

I gave a bigger chunk of my life to the Association than I was expecting to. I gained experience, grew frustrated, lost my mind, gave up my weekends--but I worked with some of the best people I've ever known. Leaving was necessary, but it was painful.

It's funny how you often don't know what people think of you until you leave a place and they think they won't see you anymore. I always felt I was the fortunate one to get to know and work with these people, but I was surprised by their generous goodbye. Two of my favorite comments (and I'm blushing to repeat them, but I must write them down so I never forget):

"You were a breath of fresh air this place really needed."

"I can't believe the one positive person around here is leaving."

I'm not sure what it is about me that felt fresh, but I loved hearing that. And as for positive, well, I've been anything but positive lately, or I wouldn't have considered leaving. I've been weighed down, and I've felt burdened. And I'm not one to suffer in silence, so often I've moaned to my staff about The Man and The Association Establishment and the Idiotic Things They Do. I felt that I was dragging them down and that it would be my leaving that would give them the fresh air they needed. It never once occurred to me that I might have brought a draft when I came in.

Leaving is beyond a doubt what I need to do--for my sanity, my family, and my waistline. But I didn't want to have to do it. I wanted to want to stay there forever. But maybe when I shut the door behind me this afternoon, a fresh breeze wafted in that will invigorate the ones I left behind.

Little Town on the Beltway--Town Meeting Edition

2009-05-15T17:08:00.003-04:00

I firmly believe that the answer to my midlife crisis is to get involved in my world in more diverse ways. Right now I'm all work or all mom, with little room for crossover or in between. So this year I decided to participate in a couple of small-town activities.

For those of you who don't know, I live in a small town of about 135 people in Suburban Maryland. We're 18 miles and at least an entire generation away from DC. Tuesday night was the uncontested election of two town commission members. It's hard to get anyone to run at all, so I suppose a hotly contested race is a bit much to ask, but it might have spurred my memory to show up and vote. According to the chair of the town commission, we had a pretty good turnout of 18 voters to vote for two people who probably had to have guns held to their heads to get them to run just to replace themselves.

The next night was the annual town meeting. I lasted through the first hour because we were dealing with matters of particular interest to me: the proposed bypass that should rescue our adorable, historic town from the choke of heavy traffic and the two derelict houses next to mine.

I'm torn on this last one. I'm heartsick for the middle-aged loner who didn't have fire insurance and can afford neither building up nor tearing down his properties. (Nevertheless, I can't shake the haunting comparison between this guy and the middle-aged loner killer in The Lovely Bones.) But I'm amazed that there could be two houses that make my house look good in comparison. I should be glad, but really I'm tired of the hazard next door. I'm concerned that either house might look like a great place for teenagers to hang out smoking pot and accidentally starting another fire or going through the floorboards as they explore in the dark on a dare. I want these things torn down, built up, sold to someone who cares, sealed up from teenagers, whatever. I don't care. Maybe I just want to erase the image of the day the one house burned down two years ago--I've always been simultaneously drawn to and repelled by hellish forces of nature. Whatever my motivation, I'm ready to move on. I'm sorry for the loner, but I want my neighborhood back.

And what a neighborhood! At 45 (next Friday), I'm one of the younger adults in town. I've lived here more than 10 years and am still a newcomer. I don't go to the town's Methodist church apart from Christmas Eve, so many of my fellow small-town citizens don't really know who I am. I'm a middle-aged mom. I guess I fade into the background.

But this year our state delegate recognized me (albeit I had spoken up during the meeting, giving geographic clues), so that was one small step for suburban momkind. In any meeting of this kind, I think it's customary for one citizen to hog up the majority of the time set aside for these meetings, either through comments they think are funny, questions that are irrelevant to anything anyone's talking about and certainly not on the agenda, or demands for action! They want action! You want action? Move to a big town. It's not happening here.

Nevertheless, it's sort of nice knowing that there's still a place so close to arguably the world's most powerful city that still gets obsessed over finding money to repair gravel roads and fix up the old school house where Miss Anna and Miss Flo went to school.

And speaking of Miss Anna, she finally lost her husband of more than 67 years. He wasn't sick for long, but at 89 I think his passing can't have been unexpected. So we all gathered at the Methodist church to say goodbye, the overflow crowd watching the service from a Web cam in the parish hall. I listened to the well-meaning but misguided language of bigotry in a eulogy that claimed the deceased was such a great guy because he loved Jesus. I guess everyone else can go to hell. Oh, wait a minute....

Then we all crossed the street to watch the American Legion lower the flag at the town hall. There was an awkward moment when the string holding the flag broke, and all the poor WWII vets had to maintain their salutes while their hapless octogenarian Legion buddies tried to fix it in an operation that seemed to take forever. The reception to wish the dearly departed was held at a cozy inn we could all walk to, and we ate white bread sandwiches and talked about how much the town has changed--when it really hasn't.

I'm not sure why I'm celebrating all this. It's infuriating sometimes but beautiful. It's democracy in action and family and friends writ large. I should get more involved. Maybe in another 10 years, when they think I've been here long enough, I can run for the town commission and pore over proposals for a new propane heater for the town hall. It sounds kind of nice, really. So long as I can run unopposed.

Pick My New Career!

2009-02-09T18:55:00.003-05:00

Maybe it's a midlife crisis, or maybe I'm just having a crisis of confidence, but I'm just not the editor I used to be. Quite frankly, I don't even think I'm the writer I used to be, and I always thought I could count on that.

So I need a change. But what can I do? Honestly, nothing. I have a bachelor's degree in English. I'm lucky to be able to afford groceries. So what does an executive editor/director of news and information (yes, that's my unwieldy title) with more than 20 years' experience in publishing do when midlife hits and the same old same old is just...old?

You can be part of the solution! Send in your ideas of a new career for me (more schooling not a good idea at this point), and you will get in return--my undying gratitude! Does it get any better than that? I don't think so.

Funeral for a Friend

2009-01-12T19:21:00.002-05:00

I can't in all fairness claim the honor of being a friend to the woman whose funeral I attended Saturday. I wish I'd had the honor. I knew her from a couple of places--the church where my daughter occasionally attends youth group activities and the stable where our daughters ride. I barely knew her but wish I'd made the time to make the effort now that she's gone.

Not that she needed my friendship. She had a fabulous network of friends, family, and coworkers to keep her occupied. Whenever I saw her, she was generally with her jolly hulk of a husband, silent in his shadow yet not overshadowed. She had a beautiful smile and an outgoing personality. Together, they were radiant. Add her 14-year-old daughter, and they were the perfect nuclear family, miraculous and happy despite inevitable blemishes.

She was struck with a brain aneurysm just before Christmas and went into a coma Christmas Eve. Her family mercifully decided to remove her from life support a few days later. Her exit was very sudden in the grand scheme of things, and this naturally gives me pause. She was about my age, with an adoring husband and beautiful daughter. Sound familiar?

I lost both parents with less than a month's notification, so I'm no stranger to this sort of thing. Nevertheless, her passing shook me profoundly. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. It could have been my best friend or my wonderful, stressed-out neighbor across the street. Life is so valuable yet so fragile. I can't control it, so I have to close my eyes, hold on, and enjoy it.

Her funeral did, however, make me decide a few shallow things for myself:

1. At my funeral, please show pictures of me like they did at my friend's. Only PLEASE Photoshop them so I look thin. My friend always looked great, but I couldn't help thinking there were probably pictures up on the screen that she wouldn't have approved of. Women are just like that.

2. Please show up for my funeral! For hers, they practically lined up outside in the cold to pay their respects, but I'm afraid that if they threw a funeral for me, no one would come. (Someone I mentioned this to suggested that my obituary should mention that doughnuts will be served. That should help.)

3. If you're my friend and you decide to speak, please don't tell any drunk stories. Anyone who doesn't already know them doesn't need to know. And whatever you do, please don't mention He Who Shall Not Be Named. I'm not sure restraining orders are valid after someone's death, but I don't want to find out the hard way.

4. I have some music I want played, and I'm pretty firm on this. The Lachrymosa from Mozart's Requiem would be cool and creepy, but hey, I'm realistic. I would for you to play "Find the River" by REM because they always play that for dead friends. I'm not their friend, but they played it for my old pal John Seawright, who, coincidentally, died of a brain aneurysm when he was my age. And I absolutely INSIST that at the end of the service, before the doughnuts are served, everyone join in a rousing sing-along of Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." This is not negotiable.

5. I want to be a diamond.

Don't It Make His Brown Eyes Blue

2008-11-17T16:25:00.003-05:00

I wanted to come up with something upbeat to write because it seems as though all my entries are total downers, but it's been--frankly--a shitty week. The worst seems over, and what I'm left with now is some residual sorrow for those around me I've had to watch suffering. My biggest concern now, because it's the only situation I have any control over, is Gavin the Diabetic Dog.

Our lovely black lab mix Gavin was diagnosed in May with diabetes. The diagnosis came as something of a relief because I'm of the school of thinking that finds it comforting to imagine the worst possible outcomes and then be pleasantly surprised. Not sure that's working for me in the long run, but it's what I know. At any rate, the family and I have been carefully attending Gavin, faithfully giving him insulin shots twice a day, watching what he eats, trying to get him consistent exercise (we could do better on that one)--but we've yet to get his blood sugar where it should be. We're close, but we're just not there yet.

He seemed happy enough at first because he finally had some energy from the insulin. He's old and shaky, but I could still get him to run up and down the hill with me a little bit so he could feel the wind on his face.

Then about a week or so ago, we realized that he is now almost totally blind. We knew he had cataracts and that his sight was going, but we thought we had more time to get his blood sugar in check and head off the cataracts at the pass. But now he's having trouble negotiating his once-familiar surroundings, and he's timid on his beloved hill in our back yard.

Nevertheless, since that discovery I've noticed that he's already made some major adjustments. I've watched him sniff my footsteps to find the food bowl I've just filled; he's learned his way around the kitchen as long as we completely open or close doors and leave everything in the same place all the time. He's learning his way down the stairs, which are difficult for all of us, even in good times and good lighting. He comes to us for love when he hears us call him, and he still wags his tail when he hears his name and rises to stand at the ready when we say the magic word "outside."

I've been handling these changes rather stoically, until today. In my office is a birthday card my staff gave me with a picture of a black lab who looks just like Gavin. The difference? The dog on the card has brown eyes. So did Gavvy, of course, only now those cataracts give his doggy eyes a smoky blue appearance. And I nearly choked up right here at the office because I realized I miss those brown eyes.

Try Not to Breathe

2008-11-05T20:43:00.002-05:00

I'm trying to enjoy our victory yesterday. And I do mean our. If you're too stupid to realize Obama's win is the best possible outcome for this world, that doesn't mean you won't reap the benefits. You will--oh, you will.

I want to leap and shout with all those beautiful young people whose enthusiasm and dedication to their belief in a better world helped to bring that world about. We've said they're selfish and lazy and don't care about politics or participating in real--versus virtual--communities, but we were wrong, dead wrong.

That a descendant of slave owners would one day be giving the ole rebel yell in honor of the United States--that's right, the Union--electing its first black president would surely have been far from the wildest imaginings of those very slave owners. And it makes me yowl even louder inside to think about it.

But there are a couple of storm clouds hovering over this Inaugural Parade route in my head. The first is the fact that I'm holding my breath hoping that the worst, the unthinkable, the unutterable, will not happen. I'm enough of a cynic to know that it could. And superstitious enough not to say it aloud.

The other little cloud is the vineyard where the sour grapes of wrath are stored. For example, one co-worker was so distraught at the prospect of a President Obama that she didn't sleep last night. She showed up at work wearing black and looking like something that was dragged for miles by a pickup truck in Texas, sighing and shaking her head all day as though we were facing the Apocalypse. I suppose I should feel sorry for her in her ignorance and fear--she's actually terrified that she'll lose her job and her house, perhaps through the nefarious plans of our president-elect to give them to, let's say, a crack ho. She called the Democrats in the office "comrades." She said she was going to wear black every day for the next four years. (Sounds like my college wardrobe.) Then--the unforgivable, the unconscionable--she said to a friend, a Jew, that she hoped that friend would "visit her in the concentration camp."

I'm going to try to give this alarmist drama queen a break. But her hot, foul breath, mingling with the fetid expirations of all those who think like her, is causing a miasma that threatens to choke me. So I'll try not to breathe.

Opera in the Outfield

2008-09-17T15:25:00.005-04:00

Last Saturday night I witnesed marketing genius. The Washington National Opera sponsored a live simulcast (I think that's redundant) of the opening night of "La Traviata" at Nationals Park, and Jeff and I joined approximately 15,000 other Washingtonians to enjoy the music and hot dogs. What better way to get people like me--although preferably younger--who've never been to an opera to sit for three hours and listen to sopranos than to broadcast it in a unsnobby atmosphere where they can wear shorts and eat Ben's Chili Bowl?

I had my doubts about opera, although I love classical music without knowing much about it. What I know about opera I can pretty much attribute to Bugs Bunny. (You must have seen the immortal 12-minute rendition of Wagner's entire "Ring Cycle." Much better than the original.) Having sung alto in the church choir my entire childhood, I have no love of sopranos. I think recitatives are silly and boring. Most tenors leave me cold. (I guess I prefer low-pitched noises in general.) Nevertheless, I was enthralled. The HDTV bigger than my house certainly helped to make the event watchable, but I even loved the music. I did occasionally want to laugh because the facial expressions on someone singing a high note at a tragic moment are priceless, but I appealed to my better nature and kept my amusement to myself.

I must admit that I can't recall the names of any of the performers off the top of my head. I mean, come on. But the soprano singing the part of Violetta was pretty and hardly screechy at all, and I adored the baritone who sang the part of Alfredo's father. It helped that I already knew the story, but I still was moved to tears at the ending, corny as it may seem to a modern audience. How could I not be when facing the grand spectacle, the music and emotions, the lyricism and athleticism of the performances? It's safe to say that this was the first time that I have ever cried in a major league sports venue.

The Washington Post, in their typical crabby fashion of the last few years, found the performance only "adequate." I'm glad at times like this that I don't know enough about music to know when something lovely just isn't right. I'm glad I couldn't hear, as Jeff did, that the soprano was flat and the tenor sharp--or was it the other way round? I was just thrilled to be there, sucking down chili dogs to Verdi, and watching little children frolic on the bright green grass of the outfield in time to the music. Maybe these kids will never acquire the fear of and misconceptions about opera and the arts in general that so many Americans labor under. Perhaps they'll adore Mozart and shrug off Puccini the way I love the Beatles but snicker just a bit at Queen. And if the arts at the ballpark go completely over their heads, there's always Ben's Chili Bowl.

Too Old to Breed, Too Young to Lead

2008-08-29T21:05:00.003-04:00

Watching the news coverage of Sarah Palin's being chosen to be John McCain's running mate, and talking to co-workers, I've observed something a little surprising. Palin, who like me, is 44, is caught in a sort of middle-aged no man's land.

With a Down Syndrome baby, she's pretty much established that she's at the end of her safe childbearing years. And today, I had a hot flash.

So, we're old, right? My daughter certainly thinks so. Add to that irrelevant and out of touch. In some ways, I'd say that's a fair call on her part.

But then, apparently, Sarah Palin is too young too lead if John McCain kicks it in office. How's that? Experienced? No, not really. But too young? I can't accept this any more than I can accept that John McCain is too old. (Just a few years older than Hillary Clinton, who, apparently is the just the right age to be taken seriously as a woman in politics.)

I don't suppose there's any point to this observation of mine, apart from reinforcing something that's enraged me for some time: middle-aged women are invisible in society. We're too old to be considered sexy, but we're too young to be the grandes dames in our professions or the revered dowagers in our families. We drift in and out of the consciousness of our fellow Americans like phantoms whose passing went unnoticed and whose return remains unremarkable.

Of course, the clear answer here, as far as Sarah Palin goes: vote Democrat.

Live from Waikiki

2008-07-22T19:09:00.005-04:00

My BFF Laura sent me an e-mail the other day in response to my last entry--something to the effect of, "You sold your soul to a non-profit, right? That makes you a crappy negotiator."

Admittedly, that makes me feel a bit better about my Faustian transaction. So does being here in Waikiki for our annual meeting. I miss my family, and I'm trying to stay on my diet; but despite the drawbacks, it is really gorgeous here. And apparently I've been assigned one of the "executive" rooms, which means I have a lovely view. Who knows, maybe that's what they tell all the staffers just to make us feel special.

Perhaps the wages of sin aren't so great, but it does have a few lovely perks.

Sittin on the dock of the bay

2008-06-27T19:51:00.003-04:00

All week long, I chug through my days with nothing in sight but the weekend. If I can just get through Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, I can finally grasp the golden ring of the weekend. Then the weekend comes, and I don't get done what I want (which is usually to relax and forget about work), and suddenly it's Monday again.

I'm 44 years old, and I'm wishing my life away.

It's a good life. I have no idea why I'm not savoring the days, each day I spend with this child who's now taller than I am and whose voice dropped an octave in the last week or the husband who's enough younger that I'm certain to leave him behind when I leave this earth, so I might as well enjoy him now. I'm spinning my wheels madly to get through a series of days just to reach a shorter series of days that hold promise but don't always deliver results. Why am I so anxious to leave my weekdays behind me? What can I do to learn to cherish them and drag them out the way I do my weekends so my life stops whizzing by me so fast?

I'm John at the bar in the old Billy Joel song:

Now, John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke and a light of your smoke
But there's some place that he'd rather be

That's me. Tolerating the customers of my weeks and constantly worrying that wherever I am, there's a better place out there to be.

I'd love to say I'm like John Lennon, happily watching the wheels go round and round, no longer riding on the merry-go-round, but the truth is, I'm on the merry-go-round and not likely to get off any time soon. Round and round I go, always with an eye to the landscape for the spot I'd like to land just as soon as the damn thing stops.

I know it's my own fault for selling my soul. If I'd remained true and been willing to starve for my art--or worse, let Fiona starve--I might feel more professionally fulfilled. Instead, I sold my soul. At least I sold it in the 80s when the market was high.

All my heroes have been...journalists

2008-06-14T08:56:00.002-04:00

It wasn't that long ago that I realized that apart from English pop stars of the 60s, all my real heroes have been journalists. From my childhood Watergate days, when Woodward and Bernstein changed the world, to the first Gulf War when Wolf Blitzer brought the scuds into my living room, to the Sunday mornings of my middle age, when Tim Russert got me to think more analytically about all the crap politicians spread. Walter Cronkite, Dan Rather, Bill Moyers, Tom Brokaw, and even Barbara Walters in her day, had the ability to change the world with their words alone.

I'm a lazy feature writer myself--not a hard-hitting, energetic newshound. Perhaps that's why I'm in awe of those whose passions are uncovering the truth. I don't buy the argument that most journalists are pushing their own agendas, be it liberal, conservative, or whatever. I think any journalist worth his salt would sell out his own grandmother if it made a good story.

So I'm profoundly affected by the fact that Tim Russert just dropped dead yesterday. He was a vibrant force like none I've ever seen--full of pride in his family, love of life, and love for the game. As I get older, I feel it more and more when someone not old, not apparently sick, is seemingly struck by the middle finger of God. No matter how much we may want to be here, we ultimately have no fucking choice in the matter.

I know there's other stuff going on in the world right now that demands my attention, and it will get its due. For example, four Boy Scouts were given the finger of God the other day, and it broke my heart. But it took a journalist to tell me about it. (Unfortunately, it was Anne Curry, who makes me want to hurl my cereal at the TV every morning. We need the Tim Russerts of the profession more than ever if we're left with only the likes of her.) There are plenty of bad apples out there spoiling the whole barrel for some news consumers, but to me that only proves my point. The newsgatherers are some of the most powerful people in the world. Their words can bring down administrations and end injustice.

My daughter is toying with the idea of being a journalist. Right now I think she's drawn to the idea of being on TV, but if I know her, she's more likely to find she gets her high from wielding the mighty pen. And even if she changes her mind about what she wants to do in life, I couldn't be more proud that the idea at least crossed her mind.

Creative Discipline?

2008-04-14T11:19:00.009-04:00

The other day as I was at the library, about to check out All the King's Men because I haven't read it and it's a classic, I stumbled across a real find that was forlornly stranded on an empty shelf near the new arrivals. It's Michael Palin's diary from 1969 to 1979--my perfect read! Not only do I have a prurient interest in what even boring people have to say about their own lives, but Michael Palin is my idol. And since the period this volume covers includes the height of Monty Python, Robert Penn Warren got re-shelved for another time. He's not going anywhere.

I'm not too far into the diaries, but they've made quite the impact already. First, I was intrigued by the jacket notes saying that this is a remarkable collection because Michael talks as much about his children's first steps as he does about Python. What a man! What a dad! But as I get into it, I realize that this note must have been written by a man. Michael does talk about his children, and his pride is obvious and touching. But dammit, 90 percent of these writings, easily, are composed of details about the day-to-day of putting together the groundbreaking show. From a man's point of view--and probably a baby boomer man's--writing about your family 10 percent of the time must seem absolutely remarkable. What a man! What a dad!

I think about how I'm never really off the clock as a mom, and how Jeff and Fiona still call me up at work to solve family disputes--something we in my family would never have done to my dad--and I'm just not that impressed. In another example, I originally intended for this blog to be more about work, and how I'm escaping it in my head by writing at the office, but really, it's mostly about my family and the bit of life I have outside the office. So no awards for Python parenting. But big kudos to their wives, who apparently never saw them.

But what really does impress me is that a) he's still an extraordinarily sweet guy, especially for someone so famous, and b) he's extraordinarily disciplined. Now, he admits that he's never had to do the 9-5 in his entire life, and he shudders at the thought and the greyness of the life of those who must (thanks, Michael). Be that as it may, he writes of being at Terry Jones' house at 9:30 am to start writing for the show most days of the week. Now, if I could live by a schedule of my own devising, as long as I produced the goods, I'm pretty sure that no writing would be done before 9:30 PM. I'm just sayin'. Yet Michael and (some of) the boys could sit down and knock out brilliant comedy during the day, while the rest of us--me, for example--are struggling to write a story for our member magazine about our recent House of Delegates meeting. YAWN!

I can't imagine being creative on demand. I'm not spontaneously funny. Then again, no one ever said I was, I've never been expected to be, and I've never had to rely on it to feed my family.

Nevertheless, I'm impressed.

I'm also impressed by his personal discipline. He discovered he was addicted to nicotine, then he decided to stop smoking immediately, using the diary to serve as the outlet for whatever emotions or urges the nicotine used to soothe away. He still writes in his diary almost every day, in the morning before he gets up. I can't imagine this. I'm not human in the morning, so I can't imagine the insane, incoherent ramblings I might produce before coffee. It simply wouldn't be safe.

He mentions frequently running on Hampstead Heath. This in the 70s, when most people his age got their only exercise from lifting a bong to their mouths. And on his birthday, he decides to forgo his usual "breakfast discipline" by having bacon and eggs! Imagine! I consider myself a model of dietary restraint if I have only two desserts in one day.

I really admire this man. I'd like to be more like him. How the hell do I do that? Am I to accept that it's just a personality difference and that some of the world's greatest artists have been wildly undisciplined? Or have I always used that argument as an excuse not to get my act together?

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Give it up for the girls

2008-04-07T12:54:00.005-04:00

The last weekend in March, my courage, nerves, and minimal dancing skills were put to the test at two performances with the ensemble put together by my teacher, the lovely and talented Artemis. The first was at a theatre on Capitol Hill, a hefty but lovely walk for me from Union Station. The Atlas Theatre is a gorgeous facility, although in a bit of a dicey up-and-coming neighborhood. (Perhaps more "coming" than "up.") This place is the real thing, and I must say, even though I've performed in the real thing before, it was intimidating. It's a small house but with top-notch lighting and sound equipment, complete with snotty technicians. (Okay, only one was snotty, but he made an impression.) But the really scary thing about this place was that the lights were so bright that when they went to black for us to go onstage and line up for our performance, it was the blackest black I've ever seen. Blacker than your-brother-trapped-your-head-under-the-covers black. Blacker than caught out in the woods on a moonless night black. Black. It was everything I could do not to panic. Would I have enough time to adjust to whatever light there was so that I would find my spot and not look like an idiot dancing off by myself somewhere?

Amazingly enough, I was able to find my spot. The lights came up, and of course, they were blindingly bright. My eyes adjusted to the light; I smiled seraphically at K. and the Three Graces as they did their solos, and then, apparently, the smiling stopped. I had work to do. All day long, all the possible negative outcomes of this performance had been going through my brain on an endless video loop. My biggest fear was that I would not be able to get up from the floor, where I was smiling and watching, without bobbling. I bobbled during tech. It was a legitimate fear.

I got up cleanly and did my little dance with no mistakes that I was aware of, but also with very little joy. The stage was huge, and the margin of error so small. I was never so happy as when the lights died again and I was able somehow to find my way through the pitch black of the wings to the stage door and freedom.

Despite my jangled nerves, the day still wound up being one of those red-letter days for the sistahood. We were there roughly eight hours, most of which was spent not rehearsing but dressing, making up each other's faces, and telling each other about our lives. I have to tell you, this is a great bunch of girls. As our teacher said, "Not a bitch in the bunch." I haven't had much girl time lately, and I tell you, I was savoring it. There's a bond you forge when a) you're bored and b) you're doing something terrifying, that no one can easily break. Sort of a foxhole thing, I think.

The next day, however, we reprised our performance, although slightly altered because we were missing two out of our troupe. Instead of a scary, professional theatre, this was at one of my favorite restaurants ever, Mem Sahib in Rockville. This is where Jeff and Fiona and I go to celebrate special occasions. The Indian food is excellent, and they have belly dancing and play Bollywood movies! You eat family style, and the process takes more than three hours. Our teacher had an informal recital there for her private students, and she let our little group perform there as well.

This was a blast. We ate the Indian buffet, saw some great dancing, ululated our appreciation for the performers, improvised our performance, and had the time of our lives. I got the performance rush that I was expecting the night before but sadly didn't get. I smiled like an idiot for the crowd (the place was packed), and I know I was looser and danced better. That, along with hanging with the girls and getting to know them, made all the weeks of preparation, the hellish rehearsal hours, and the scary stage all worth it. I might actually do this again.

To Artie's Hussies, if any of you catch this, you totally cook.

Ramble on--a review of sorts

2008-03-14T13:30:00.005-04:00

The other night Jeff and I went to hear Mayuko Kamio, violinist and recent winner of the Tchaikovsky competition. The concert was in the Music Room of the Mansion at Strathmore--a lovely faux Tudor hall with a stone fireplace and elegant dark wainscoting. Going there feels like sitting in a very rich person's living room a long time ago, so I let my mind wander just as I used to do as a kid and took myself there.

I thought about how I should have lived in the 18th century or maybe the Regency. First, those Empire-waist dresses totally cover up the worst parts of my figure and emphasize the best. Second, I wasn't really cut out for hard work, and if I'd been born into the right family that just wouldn't have been necessary. And third, I just really love the music.

The first piece Kamio played was modern and horrible, so I ignored it. I could tell she played well technically, but there was nothing about the piece to recommend it to my notice or admiration. But then she played a Beethoven sonata, and I was in an Austenian heaven. This couldn't be my own living room, I mused. I don't think in any life I would be cut out for tremendous wealth. I'm more like the much-less-wealthy cousin of the landed gentry. I know what I need to know, but I don't have the money to live the lifestyle or even to pass as one of them.

So, anyway, I'm imagining myself sitting there in white muslin and pearls, my gloved hands clutching a small, useless fan, my myopic eyes wondering if I'm attracting any admirers of comfortable fortune. I don't need much--perhaps a gentleman farmer or a clergyman from a respectable family.

And then something happens that rips me out of this century and rudely thrusts me into my own. The violinist was playing the Beethoven so violently and passionately that she broke a string with a tremendous CRACK! I thought for a moment that the 300-year-old Stradivarius had shattered into firewood.

Jeff was not optimistic about her ability to replace the E string and keep it in tune. They need to season for about 30 minutes, he explained. But Kamio left the stage, replaced the string, and returned to pick up the sonata basically where she'd left off.

And the interruption, which had catapulted me into my own time and place, only served to renew her fire. She attacked the strings almost as though she hated them. Her bow seemed to saw the Stradivarius in half. It was the most rock and roll thing I'd ever seen in my life. I half expected her to set the Strad on fire and leap atop the grand piano. I nearly scrambled for a Bic lighter to hold up.

(I've since been updated by a young co-worker that cell phones are what cool young people hold up at concerts now, so please don't comment. I know I'm old. But in my defense, at classical concerts, you have to turn the damn things off.)

Perhaps I should have help up a candle.

For what it's worth...

2008-02-08T13:33:00.000-05:00

There's something happening here. What it is ain't exactly clear.

I've never intended to be a political ranter in this blog; but something's going on, and I want to say that I've noticed it before it's too late. There's a shift in the air somewhere, and it's mystifying me. Is it that the parting on the left is now parting on the right? There is something different in the streets, and I think it's the fact that hordes of young people are getting involved in the presidential campaign.

I've been appalled for years by the political apathy of the young, particularly the people who say that no decision they make could possibly affect them. Until, of course, they want to marry whom they choose, make their own decisions about the size of their families, get care for their elderly parents--the list goes on.

But now I see that one candidate has electrified the young, and I'm finding myself rooting for him. At first I worried that Obama didn't have enough experience to run this country. Neither did W., and look what happened! But as I've grown old and cynical, I've come to the conclusion that it's really more about personality and passion than experience. Some people have a gift.

Clinton does not have this gift. I will not die or vote Republican if she wins the nomination, but I truly hope that the unwieldy Clinton political machine can be stopped. First of all, she's unable to inspire those who just need a spark to get them going--she's all business. Second, she's got 42 wrapped around her like the Ancient Mariner's albatross. Third, I can't stand the thought that she and people like Mitt Romney (and yes, John Kerry) seem to think they can try to buy the White House. A friend of mine well into her 30s pointed out that she's never voted on a presidential ballot that didn't have a Clinton or a Bush on it. Once torn about the upcoming primary, I knew then what I was ready to do.

She's voting for Obama, and so am I. And so is the die-hard Clinton supporter I work with. And the co-worker who, just like me, was totally on the fence until about a week ago. And possibly the dear friend in a red state who's not so liberal as she used to be but who's open to new ideas. And the young relative who's always been a Republican. And the young liberal in Maryland who clued me in to Dennis Kucinich years ago.

The ages of the women range from 27-65. The only thing we all have in common is our gender. I want someday to vote for a woman, but it must be the right woman. I can't support Clinton now because she represents too many things to me that are ancient, established, and tired. I want somehow who can inspire young people to care. I want 18-year-olds to be as excited as Laura and I were, rushing down to the courthouse to register to vote the minute we became old enough. Clinton is not the people; Obama is not the people; Bush certainly is not the people. We are the people, and it's time to do our job.

Rant-o-rama

2008-01-23T15:10:00.000-05:00

At long last, today I am indulging in compiling a list of things that have totally pissed me off lately. Let's see if I can get all the way to the end witout saying something nice.

Bloggers who do nothing but moan. (Oh, the irony!) I'm particularly dissatisfied with Wendy lately--she's a good writer, but I'll be thrilled when she gets her head out of her ass.
Blog commenters who suck up to the blogger. My anecdotal evidence suggests that women are the guiltiest ones here. No matter what unwarranted crabbiness about PMS/husbands/boyfriends/neighbors/even readers, these online princesses can do no wrong in the eyes of their fans.
Net Nannies. BUT--I've found away around it, until they figure me out. Hooray!
Disorganized people. This does not include myself, my husband, my daughter, or anyone temporarily on my good side.
Columnists who write in the voices of their infant children or pets, e.g., "Mommy's tired today, so I'll be writing her column so she can get some sleep." These people shouldn't even be reproducing, much less letting their spawn write their columns. Joy of joys, Jen Chaney's column in The Gazette, the much-reviled (by me) "Jeneralizations," has been canned. Unfortunately, all the other lifestyle columns, which didn't suck nearly so much as hers, also have been canned to save money. The catch: she's still in The Washington Post. How do people like that get a gig with the Post?
Restaurants you love that suddenly SUCK. Jeff and I went to Bilbo Baggins in Old Town Alexandria the other night, and almost everything was wrong. The waitress got our order wrong, then forgot us, and the lime chiffon pie seemed to have no sugar in it whatsoever. I mean, imagine. And then when I mentioned that waitress never brought my soup, she gave me a look.

BUT...

Fiona was at her cousin's all weekend, so Jeff and I got much-needed couple time. It's hard to complain about crappy food or service when it's something that's bringing you together, something you can go home and laugh about under the covers.

Atonement

2008-01-06T19:59:00.000-05:00

This isn't a movie or book review, but I did read the book and see the movie last month, and I have to say that they both made a profound impact.

I find McEwan's endings unsatisfying--not because they're unrealistic, and not even because they're unhappy, but because they're absolutely bereft of hope. I suppose that's very modern of him, but I want at least a smidgen of hope that life for the characters after the book ends isn't necessarily wretched and devoid of joy.

So I went to see the movie armed with knowledge of the ending, and the filmed version did not disappoint. I was wondering how the script would take the interminable internal monologue of the book and put it all on film, but it managed to do so very artfully. I was mesmerized by the performances, the photography, and even the music.

And then a revelation came to me as I was driving away from the cinema. (I should add here that I should never drive after seeing a good film. I always leave feeling as though I'm seeing the world so differently, as if through a fishbowl or a funhouse mirror, that what I'm seeing now is through such a different lens because the movie has affected me so profoundly.) I realized as I pulled away that I understood why I hated the narrator of the book/movie so much: I could totally identify with her. She spends her adult life trying to atone for a youthful mistake that is, in many senses, utterly unforgivable.

And that's exactly how I feel, only--I have no idea what my sin was. All I know is that I've paid--dearly--for a sin I've committed, but the sin is unknown to me.

My ex-husband, in one of many attempts to psych me out, once told me, "I know what you did in college. I read your diary." Now, I did keep a diary in college, and it was out where anyone could pick it up and read it. So it could have been true. And the answer could have been any number of things. What didn't I do? And yet I knew it was just an attempt to ferret out of me some previously unconfessed crime so that he could point out that "perfect people" like me are far from perfect. Duh.

But it wasn't anything I did in college, that much I know. But I know that the stain was on me by the time I moved to DC in 1990, because I vividly recall wandering around the National Gallery, identifying with at least three paintings of Mary Magdalene. One of them, "Penitent Magdalene" by Titian, actually moved me to tears because I saw myself on that canvas. Yet I still can't seem to arrive at it. Perhaps it's nothing but residual Catholic guilt. Perhaps it's from blaming myself for something that never could have been my fault to begin with.

I watch Nearly Perfect Husband with awe, knowing that he's done nothing that's left him with a residual feeling of having sinned. He's unblemished. And I'm grateful to be with him because I don't know many people who are so, relatively speaking, spotless.

Is it something that would make him shrink with horror if he knew? Would you?

Net Nanny

2007-12-13T22:59:00.000-05:00

My staff finally saw me lose my temper at the office. While I can be something of a Home Fuhrer, I'm pretty laid back at work. It takes something outrageous to get me worked up.

And then I met the association's new Net Nanny. That bitch is blocking everything even remotely interesting to read online. Blogs? Forget it. I can see some of them, but I can't post or read comments. (And the prize for the most frequently blocked is Zeepdoggie, who, now that he has changed his banner, will never get through. First, Net Nanny told me that it was blocking adult content. The next time, it said that it was tasteless or obscene. Once, it even claimed I was trying to view porn.)

My poor niece is suffering mightily thanks to Super Net Nanny 911. She e-mails me several times a day just to keep in touch and tell me about her day, sometimes to ask for advice that she will not take. (My favorite: "Aunt Margaret, I've decided not to live with my boyfriend, but not because of anything you said.") Lately, most of her messages are being blocked. The reasons:

"I'm having a crap day." (Tasteless or obscene)
"He was talking smack about my team." (Illegal drugs)
"I hope he didn't hook up with anyone this weekend." (Adult content)

In dismay, I whined to a coworker about how I hate being treated like a child and how the association should just trust us, and she turned it all around for me. I'll change her name because, since I'm not doing this at work like I'm supposed to be, I can't ask for permission to use her name. Let's call her Bob. Here is the e-mail exchange that saved my life:

Maggie: Oh, I’m trying to keep up my morale...I guess I should just start laughing at this.

Bob: I have a strong feeling that all this B******T will pass. If not, we’re F****D. In the meantime, lubricate the * key, because that bad boy is going to be used a lot! I can’t wait to go home and give my husband a *******. Then, I’ll ****************. And I’ll LIKE it! Ha! Try blocking THIS message!

Maggie: Okay, that almost made me p** my pants.

Bob: Last night, I stuck my hand down my pants to *********************************. SUCKERS! If this weren’t blocked, you would know what I did. But, you can’t tell, can you Big Brother? I bet it’s just killing you! I’m doing it again tonight.

Little town on the beltway

2007-12-10T20:21:00.000-05:00

Saturday night was the long-dreaded annual Brookeville holiday party. I dread and fear this event for several reasons:

1. Even though I've lived here for nine years, hardly anyone in this town of roughly 100 citizens can match my name to my face. Jeff, who has lived here only just over a year, they all know. I mean, all of them. Here's to my forgettable face.
2. Brookevillians are not known for their culinary wizardry.
3. Half the town is over 80, and the other half is 30 with toddler children, so I don't really fit in either category, although I'm starting to have some sympathy with the former.
4. Our state delegate, who lives down the street and has known me for the last nine years, always mistakes me for someone else. Two years ago it was my neighbor's 18-year-old daughter (okay, not bad), and last year it was the 30-something mom of a baby (I must seriously have aged).
5. It feels like it lasts forever.

This year was something of an improvement. Chad and Michael, the local same-sex couple who recently were married in Toronto, sat at our table and livened things up considerably with tales of a bride they knew who had a cake at her wedding that was a life-sized replica of herself in her wedding gown. I wondered if the head was like the top layer, so they'd have to cut it off and freeze it to eat on their first anniversary. And that whole year, it could just sit there and glower at them every time they open the freezer for a bag of peas.

Also, we sat with other people whom we actually know, who paid our daughter to feed their cats while they were away; and while they didn't get Fiona's name quite right, they did remember mine. And of course Jeff's.

This year the delegate sat at our table and did not mistake me for anyone else at all. She did, however, mistake Jeff for one of the same-sex spouses across the street, giving herself away by leaning in toward him and saying in a low voice, "I suppose you'll think this is a bigoted question, but..." before squinting and realizing he was not Chad at all.

She's a good delegate. I don't suppose she has to be able to recognize people to represent them in Annapolis.

Meanwhile, the new residents in town didn't recognize me as the woman whose dogs occasionally run into their yard and infuriate them by barking at their dogs, who are safely ensconced behind their fences. These woman have fussed at me or Fiona on more than one occasion about this, but tough luck. Dogs on our street are always running into their neighbors' yards. It's the culture here. At any rate, these new residents must be better cooks than the established Brookevillians, because the food was better this year. Even the stuff that looked like dog food tasted okay. Whatever it was.

This year, I must make myself unforgettable. Suggestions?

Please pass the corn

2007-11-27T21:48:00.000-05:00

I love my in-laws. I realize I'm extraordinarily lucky here--not only for marrying a man who's as crazy as I am, but also for the fact that his own family is just as endearingly wacky. Who raises God-free vegan kids in Texas? They do! And I love them for it.

It's nice to have a family again. I'm basically down to a brother and a niece (and Fiona, of course), and I had grown accustomed to celebrating most holidays in a non-sentimental, practical, and non-traditional way. Thanksgiving had always been my least favorite--not because I have anything against giving thanks, but more because giving thanks is something I can do privately. Also, I despise turkey.

But now Thanksgiving is a lovely yearly reminder of the weekend Jeff and I got married last year. And Nearly Perfect Husband's family has taken us in and thrown their collective arms around us, and I feel like I belong to something at last. And they can indulge my desire to exercise, eat little or no meat, and avoid the G-word on holidays. Life is good.

The only problem? How the hell did I exercise every day, eat vegetarian (can't quite hack vegan), and STILL gain weight? I amaze myself.

You probably think this blog is about you

2007-11-14T13:58:00.000-05:00

Whenever I get stuck for a topic for this blog, my niece Jessica always tells me to write about her. I think this is hysterical when I remember that years ago when I was in therapy, she always insisted I not talk about her to my therapist. All the confidence of the 20-something that the world revolves her has been replaced by the 30-something terror at the realization that it doesn't.

Well, Jessica, for all you do, this blog's for you.

Because of odd family dynamics and situations beyond our control, Jessica grew up not knowing me. We got in touch when she was about 18 and I 29, so I've had to cram a lot of auntly nagging and unsolicited advice into these last 14 years to make up for lost time. Since then we've both been married and divorced, I've raised a child on my own, I've finally met Mr. Right, and she's pulled herself out of the socioeconomic class she was born into and forged herself an admirable life. We've both accomplished a great deal, together and separately. And yet we both occasionally look in the mirror and vilify the girl we see there.

When I look at her, I see a beautiful, confident, bubbly young woman who, like the old TV theme song goes, "can turn the world on with her smile." I see someone without whom I simply couldn't have made it through 10 years of single parenthood. I don't know what or who she sees, but it can't be that person.

So Jessica, and all other women out there who might be reading this, please stop talking trash about that girl in the mirror. Chances are there's someone out there who just couldn't live without her.

This, of course, does not apply to me. I can say whatever I want to myself.

P.S. I was able to resist cake at the baby shower today. Be on the lookout for the four horsemen of the apocalypse, because it can't be long now.

Calorie bombs

2007-11-08T11:29:00.000-05:00

I have a wipe-off wall calendar in my office on which I write deadlines, meetings, and other important days for myself and staff to remember. I've recently begun drawing a cartoon bomb on every day that there will be some sort of sugar-laden caloriefest at the office. Next week, there are three calorie bombs on the calendar.

I know this should be about my own self-control. I mean, why should I ruin everyone else's fun? But why is it we have no other way to celebrate the season or life's milestones but indulging in high-carb orgies? Is everything worth that manner of celebration?

Halloween begins the eating season here at our little association, and the season continues through New Year's. If it were just Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Chrismakwanzakkuh, I would be content. But it's every day between. So now celebrations mean nothing, and there's nothing in particular to look forward to because you just can't top the sugar orgies.

You'd think that would be enough to keep me away, to help me moderate. Nope. I'm a junkie. I realize not everyone has my glacially paced metabolism or my sugar addiction. But can this be good for any of us? We're stuffing our faces constantly, and it isn't even fun.

I wish we were throwing french fry parties. Those I could resist. Or pretzel parties. Or cold cut parties.

If I'm going to eat gloppy, sloppy sweets, I want to look forward to them and have them rarely. Jeff and I have been planning an anniversary cake all year because the wedding cake last year was so yummy and we barely got to have any at all. Now, that's something to look forward to. Not the joyless stuffing of our faces with random crap that's probably been purchased from Safeway, anyway, and not even made lovingly at home.

I will try to resist. I know it's all crap, but I can withstand anything but temptation. But I'd prefer a change of mindset entirely. I want to usher in the age of the office cold cut party.

Pimiento loaf, anyone?

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Made redundant

2007-10-31T16:14:00.000-04:00

I've always thought that was a cruel expression. Along comes new technology or even just economic hard times, and British workers are "made redundant." Now I feel the meaning of those words with full force. I heard once that the purpose of being a parent is to make yourself obsolete; in that case, I have succeeded remarkably. I have made myself redundant.

Fiona attended her first bat mitzvah Sunday. We had been preparing for this for weeks, and I had a great deal invested in the outcome for various reasons. First, it was to be my daughter's first dress-up party without me. Second, at her age every social event is an opportunity for dizzying success or radical failure. Third, and this is embarrassing but true, I've never set foot in a synagogue myself. Hey, I grew up in the Deep South in the 70s and 80s. If there were any Jewish kids at my school, they were flying under the radar, hoping not to be noticed. As for me, I've always been something of a Jew-wannabe but sadly lacking exposure. So this bat mitzvah was a chance for my daughter to be exposed to something deeply meaningful and beautiful that I have not yet had the opportunity to observe for myself.

Excited, Fiona and I went shopping for the dress she would wear. Shopping together often consigns us to opposite and bitter camps, but this day was magic. She tried on a pink dress and loved it. You'd have to know her to know why that's so unusual (bit tomboyish, bit practical). She looked amazing. Oddly enough, she looked sophisticated in her pale, ballet pink. It had the weird effect, through its sheer simplicity, of making her look classic and elegant. It was 75% off. Every accessory was 75% off. We were charmed, tripping lightly through Macy's, collecting wraps and shoes and handbags, and the cost of the outfit in total fit on the remains of a gift card Jeff and I received last year when we got married. A propitious sign, indeed.

Sunday morning we awoke early and did her hair. It came out perfect. I let her wear a tiny bit of makeup. I knew how important this day was to her. We took pictures, and we deposited a happy but slightly apprehensive young lady at Beth Shalom.

I tried not to worry all day about how the affair was going. I knew how much was riding on its success, but I kept myself distracted. When it was time to pick her up, I couldn't wait to hear all the details. Who wore what? Did she dance with any boys? Did any of the girls, jealous of her beauty, make catty comments?

She greeted me with an impatient toss of her head, settled herself into the passenger seat, and proceeded to listen to "Soulja Boy" on the radio. When I asked her questions, she answered with impatience and scorn. I was devastated. She swore she had a great time, but she had no intention of sharing that good time with me. It was hers, not mine. Not mine at all.

I'm starting to come to terms with this. There will be so many more moments that she will refuse to share, and some of them will be golden, and I'll just miss out. I can't stop this. I will always hate it. But I'm guessing this means that I'm doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm there on the sidelines, in the process of making myself redundant.

Bleargh

2007-10-25T09:54:00.001-04:00

Everything I said yesterday? Never mind.

I sucked last night in my belly dancing class. I was stiffer than the basketball-playing med students (who also happen to be in the armed forces--talk about overachievers!), and one left foot kept stepping on the other. The only thing I seemed to do well was, unbelievably, turns. I usually suck at these at home, where I'm generally treading on a dog or running into furniture.

Even the nerd who dances with a look on her face that resembles that of someone being forced to jump from a plane danced better than I did last night.

And I lost my favorite cheap earrings. I bought them in Ireland before Fiona was even born, so they can't possibly be replaced. I never lose anything, but I pick these to lose!

Oh yeah, and how the hell does Starbucks cram 500 calories into one tiny scone? I want to sue them to pay for my lipo.

Rant over.

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Shaking Through, Part Two

2007-10-24T16:27:00.000-04:00

Tonight is my belly dancing class. I love it. Last week I was on Cloud Nine because the instructor stopped me after class and told me I was doing a great job and to keep it up.

This may seem simple to you, but it's unbelievable to me. I've always loved dancing, but I've never been able to find something I could do that wouldn't make me feel fat and awkward. Ballet and modern choreography just don't look right on a short, stumpy woman, no matter how good a dancer she is. But belly dancing...it's magic. It's a wiggle that any woman with a little grace and a little jell-o in her limbs can make look fantastic and enticing.

It's so rare for me to find something that my body can do well. (Well, there's one thing, but I haven't always been so sure about my ability to do that, either.) I have no idea what I want to do with this. I can't imagine dancing in a recital. I just want to know I can do it and to study to improve. Just for myself.

Another thing I like about this class is that, unlike the last class I took awhile back, it's not populated mostly by gorgeous 20-somethings who've taken 12 years of classical dance and want to try something new. We're all more or less beginners here. And the 20-somethings who are in the class are newbies at dance and perhaps even at understanding their bodies. There's a group of medical students who come together each week who are earnest and hardworking but seem more at home on the basketball court than on the dance floor. Their bodies are stiff, as though they didn't know they could undulate and sway. It's fun watching them loosen up with an art form that's designed by and for women to work with the way a woman's body moves best.

Of course, it's a little unsettling for me to watch myself dance in a mirror. I thought I was a better dancer when I was doing it in the privacy of my bedroom with the terrible lighting. I didn't know then that my arms look like hams when I lift them over my head. And I seem a little stiff myself. I'm looking forward to loosening up and really letting go.

I wish I could get Fiona to do it. I'd like for her to experience the relaxation and joy of letting her body un-self-consciously move the way it's supposed to. Like me, she can be a little tense. But of course, the very idea of me belly dancing, much less her, prompts the never-ending eye roll.

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Shaking Through

2007-10-17T13:53:00.000-04:00

Maybe I'm just having one of those hormonal days, but today I'm feeling that I'm only squeaking by in life. I will never be the one at the office to win an award for--well, anything. I'll always get the job done, but I don't feel that I'm excelling. I'm an adequate mother in that I'm keeping a roof over my child's head and food in her belly, but I'm not always understanding what she really needs. And as far as being a good wife, I'm only doing the bare minimum to keep Nearly Perfect Husband from leaving me for someone more attentive.

But here in the the Maryland suburbs, I seem to be surrounded by people who are succeeding. It seems like no one in Montgomery County does anything half way. Their houses are huge, their cars are sparkling, their kids are high achievers, and even their marriages don't reveal their cracks by the light of day. I thought I had a good salary--theirs are better. I thought I had a responsible job--theirs are better, or better yet, they're such good moms they don't even work. They totally devote themselves to driving their kids to numerous practices and lessons, and then, supposedly, they have quality family time when they all get home.

These people even excel at being tired. The busiest mom gets the bragging rights, and it seems that while their comments adopt the language of complaint, their first language is the boast. They're proud of how tired they are, dammit, when all I can think about is how the hell can I spend time with my family, do my job, and actually get enough sleep at night so that I don't have to nap in my car during my lunch hour just to keep from falling asleep at my desk or, horrors, during a meeting.

And when I try to tell these tired moms that my daughter has frustrated me lately, they look at me sympathetically, but they never chime in with their own parenting issues. Never. If I say that Fiona's being snarky and disrespectful, they never offer their own stories. "Really?" they say. "I would never put up with that."

So it's back on me again, the mediocre mom, boss, and wife--the woman with the only disrespectful child in the Metro DC area.

I think they're lying. I think their kids are equally rotten, if not more so. I know their kids are lying to them. I know their husbands occasionally cheat on them and often ignore them. I know there are plenty of nights when they turn their cheeks for a kiss in a clear signal that nothing else will be forthcoming. I know that success is sometimes only a fashion that they wear, but I'm still left bemused by their desire to wear it.

I want out. I want the freedom to admit I ain't all that. When I was a kid, I knew lots of mediocre people leading dull lives, and they were very nice. They were the "salt of the earth." If I'm destined to always finish in the middle of the pack, I want that to be okay.

Who is the Poet Laureate of the ordinary?

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Nostalgia (or RIP, Athens, GA)

2007-10-10T16:19:00.000-04:00

Too much time on my hands at work the other day led me to hunt around the Internet for a rare recording of REM's "So. Central Rain" and thus began for me a long, strange trip into the past that left me astounded by the way a song can take you back to a time that wasn't so great and make it seem golden somehow.

I know that it's only the song that's golden. It's stood the test of time, sounding as fresh as ever nearly 25 years after it was released, while I've moved on, utterly altered by my Athens experience. Living there with the "cool people" taught me some valuable lessons--for example, the cool people are seldom cool. What I thought was a creative, friendly town where I could blossom wound up for me a tomb to the girl I'd created. Good riddance to her, anyway.

I was too star-struck, too happy to be in a place where "weird" was okay, and too willing to trust the wrong people. I loved the wrong people. I utterly lost myself.

So why does a song take me back to a place I never was? If I hear an old REM song, I'm remembering rundown group houses, vintage clothes, seabreezes (the drink, not the winds, for those of you aware of how land-bound Athens is), friends dropping by unannounced at 3 in the morning, and the humid afternoons that lasted until you thought the night, when everything began, would never come. I'm not remembering the breakup that woke me up and sent me packing to DC, nor the false friends who dropped me when He Who Shall Not Be Named (it's a legal thing) stopped speaking to me. I'm not remembering that instead of freedom from Southern narrow-mindedness, I found instead a harsh regime of its own kind. Certain bands weren't cool. You couldn't be seen in your office clothes, or no one would respect you. Under no circumstances were you allowed to like REM's music--but bragging about hanging with them and doing their drugs was de rigeur.

I don't mean to sound bitter about all this years later. I'm over it. It's just so odd how the music bathes it all in a flattering light. Jeff says it's the same kind of amnesia women get about childbirth. If we could remember how painful it was, we'd never slog on and have more than one kid.

By that logic, if we could accurately remember the past, would we keep slogging through life?

I never did find the version of "So. Central Rain" that I wanted, which I think is perfectly fitting.

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Boredom

2007-10-03T14:51:00.000-04:00

I'm going to risk sounding ancient here, but I'm concerned about something I'm observing in my daughter and her friends lately. They are absolutely, positively unable to tolerate boredom. If they find themselves with more than five minutes' unscheduled time that happens to coincide with nothing to watch on television and no friends on IM, they panic. Fiona actually wailed last night about a workout she was doing that was boring, and she wanted to stop. Aren't most workouts boring? Is entertainment really the point?

Perhaps I'm jealous. I haven't been bored in years simply because I haven't had time to be. But I've always found boredom to be liberating, anyway. When my mind is free to wander, it goes to the most interesting places because it's not fettered by a task or deadline. I had a 3 1/2-day weekend this week, and by day two I was actually able to sit down and write a few paragraphs of fiction because my mind had finally had enough leisure to think creatively. Imagery of wild, beautiful animals being released from captivity comes to mind, but I suppose that's a bit trite.

I wish I could explain to her and her peers how liberating boredom can be, and how they're depriving themselves of these precious moments of nothing set to do, no flickering images before them, no electronic beeps alerting them that a friend is online. I didn't have these things when I was young, of course, and my creativity was fertile. Boredom, paradoxically, made life exciting.

I have no idea how these kids are going to fare when they hit the working world. Much as I generally enjoy myself at work, there's a lot of boredom in board rooms. Sometimes while sitting at my desk, I'm appalled at the lack of enthusiasm I have for some of the items on my to-do list that are less interesting or challenging than others. But I'm convinced that I could never have an original thought if my mind weren't free to wander, so I try to embrace the dull.

I'm sure we can blame the parents (I include myself here). It's so much easier to let the television babysit the kids, and isn't it a relief that they have the computer to entertain them while we're vacuuming? Okay, it isn't, really; but now that I want out of all this and want family time reading together, listening to music, or discussing current events, I realize I may not be able to have it. How are we going to have anything to talk about if we don't create some stillness so we can think? And how can children who've been bombarded with stimulation every minute of their lives possibly bear its absence?

Perhaps I'm just blowing hot air here. We parents complain about how we're losing our children to technology, but we don't seem to be willing to do much about it. For example, we still have a television in the house. Just one, and only in the family room, but there it remains. I'd like to kill it, but perhaps I fear missing out on something if I do.

Perhaps if I sit here at work long enough with nothing interesting to do, I'll come up with the answer.

"Keep your husband off my husband"

2007-09-26T14:24:00.000-04:00

I try to avoid serious topics in this online blathering of mine, but the recent news about a decision by the Episcopal bishops has me scratching my head. They promise to exercise restraint in consecrating gay bishops or face serious splintering within the denomination.

Why must they restrain themselves? Are they in any danger of going on a spree, wildly and with great abandon elevating random homosexuals to the see? My hunch is that they're unlikely to raise anyone to that level who isn't an Episcopal priest already, right? Right? And what do these would-be splinter groups fear from newly created gay bishops? Unsolicited fashion advice? That the traditional dog collars and "bishop purple" will be wantonly cast aside for something with lace and a subdued but elegant tone-on-tone stripe?

My mother's church in the 70s was ripped apart by faction fighting over a gay priest. My mom, bless her, took the side of the gay priest, but she watched many of her friends and fellow Vestry members leave for more traditional parishes, taking about half the congregation with them. While my mom was a comparative liberal in her day, I would never call her a leftist--or even terribly enlightened. She thought that homosexuality was possibly a psychological disorder that was simply a nuisance to the one who had it but no danger to anyone else. But you wouldn't want someone with OCD or bipolar disorder to be kept from delivering God's word, would you, if they seemed to have something valid to say? Mom felt that God was capable of speaking through anyone--humans were vessels, not sacred in and of themselves. And my understanding of Christianity tells me that this is an orthodox Protestant belief, not radical in any way.

And yet we have a group who want no gay clergy and no one blessing the marriages of homosexual couples. And it's this last one that really slays me. How are same-sex marriages any kind of threat to my marriage? Is heterosexual marriage, even mine with Nearly Perfect Husband, so frail and delicate a thing that it might fall apart because that lovely couple across the street tied the knot in Toronto?

The couple in question are legally married according to Canada, but their union is not recognized here in Maryland. They are nearing middle-age, totally in love with each other, and utterly devoted to their lives together. Isn't this what society wants people to do? My mother lamented that her homosexual friends--and she did have many--were promiscuous. If that were true, then shouldn't we be doing everything we can to celebrate the happy union of the couple across the street because they've promised to be faithful and stable? Shouldn't we do everything we can to support all couples who promise to be together forever and enrich each other's lives, including attending their weddings and their children's christening or naming ceremonies?

How on earth is my marriage threatened by the couple across the street? Sure, Jeff is adorable and anyone should want him, but they've promised themselves to each other. And should one of them stray and make my husband an inappropriate offer, remember, he's straight. Oh yes, and married. And one of the tenets of marriage, as I've repeated all too often in this post already, is that the couples promise to be faithful to each other. Anyone might break a marriage vow--plenty of straight people do. But the pressure from society (and, of course, the love of their spouses) should give them pause, gay or straight.

I don't feel threatened by the couple across the street. My marriage is more likely to suffer from my husband's friendship with the straight man in our neighborhood who has awe-inspiring power tools and an encyclopedic knowledge of how to restore crumbling historic houses like our own.

Neither do I feel threatened by a sermon delivered by a gay man or lesbian. (And no, those of you who know me, this is not because I'm unlikely ever to get my butt into a church where I could hear such a sermon!) I refuse to believe that any God would by so stingy with the Word that gay and lesbians could be unable to receive it and then pass it along to those hungry to hear it. If such a God exists, I'm willing to risk the flames of eternal damnation by refusing to follow along.

Until humans can invent a more loving and compassionate God, I'm going to continue to sleep in on Sunday mornings.

All the president's homeys

2007-09-24T12:47:00.000-04:00

Who knew that MySpace is now the paper of record?

I'll give you a moment to catch your breath after that shocker. Meanwhile, I'll fill you in on how I made this discovery.

The other day my 12-year-old daughter stormed into my room in a fury. "Anyone can see your MySpace page!" she complained. "I told my friend you had one, and she found it. And it mentions my name. It's not fair!"

Ah, the resounding cry of American children: "It's not fair!" Poverty, famine, disease--these things aren't fair. But economically comfortable suburban kids who aren't allowed MySpage pages when their mothers have them are not high on my sympathy list.

"If you didn't want her seeing my page, you shouldn't have told her I had one," I pointed out. It's not as though any kid that age would do a random search for local moms on MySpace and whoops, there I'd be.

"But all my friends will see that you have a page!" Fiona wailed. She was truly distressed. Her other friends have pages, although the site asks for members to be at least 14. I won't let her break the rules, and besides, I'm envisioning pedophiles hiding behind every link. But I maintain a page so that I can check periodically to see what her friends are up to and if she's lied about her age to set up a page; and now anyone who cares to search for local moms can see that. I understand her concern, but too bad. Mom's got a page. Stop blabbing about it if you're embarrassed.

Then yesterday, I saw that the Washington Post Magazine is looking for a new columnist with a "fresh yet familiar voice." For someone who's been daydreaming lately about writing a column someday, this was an opportunity not to be missed. So I copied a couple of these blog entries into an e-mail and sent it along to the editors just in case they might give me a shot.

I don't expect to hear from them. But I would hate myself forever for not trying, and believe me, over the years I've learned to handle rejection. I've had plenty of practice at it.

Now, Fiona was delighted that I sent in the samples. I warned her that if I was selected--which wasn't likely--that might not be such a great thing for her. I'd write about her occasionally, and possibly a million people would read about it. Didn't she hate that I mentioned her on the MySpace page? This is the Post.

"No, Mom, that's totally cool," she said. "Mention me all you want. It's not like it's MySpace. No one I know will see it in the paper."

I think the Post should get a MySpace page.

In which our Author bludgeons one T. Shandy, Gent.

2007-09-19T12:22:00.000-04:00

I finally finished Tristram Shandy. This was no easy task; in fact, reading this classic took me the better part of a month, and it offered me little joy. In retrospect, the reasons for committing to finish it seem tame: 1) it's an 18th-century comic novel, and I generally like that sort of thing; 2) I think I recall that my dad was fond of it; and 3) I absolutely refused to believe that the narrator would never get to the point. I know that's the conceit of the book, but I couldn't believe that 478 pages after embarking on this "sentimental journey" (another book by Sterne that was well worth the effort I put into it), after many promises by the narrator to get to the point, I ended the book feeling not only that I hadn't made any progress whatsoever but also that perhaps my copy had the last page missing.

I can't say I wasted that month of reading, but I feel the same way I do when I work out solidly all week and then find that the scale hasn't budged. What's the point? I know I've gained some benefit by exercising my body or my mind, but it's hard to grasp.

Then the other night, Jeff and I were enjoying delicious margaritas and Mexican food at a place called Samantha's, and we were talking about the blogs I read and some of the "characters" I follow. I can be quiet the callous author, you know. I understand intellectually that these people writing the blogs are sentient human beings, but I think I see them more as book characters. I'm always wanting them to further the plots of their lives, and I get quite frustrated when they don't.

There's one in particular whose entries can be extremely dull. She admits her life is going nowhere. She's depressed and sees little hope for improving her situation. And yet there's this spark--I feel that she could pull herself out of her funk, get her life together, and start writing some good stuff. I keep believing, but she has yet to deliver.

"She's your Tristram Shandy," Jeff observed. "You're so sure she's going to get to the point. I'm telling you: She'll never get to the point."

He's probably right. And he actually knew this person once upon a time, so he's not just basing his observation on stereotyping. I know that people who live in that perpetual fog don't find the way through the gloom more often than they do. But I have to believe that it's possible that this "character" will come out on top. Or at least, that she will find a way to go down in flames rather than sighs.

But we all shine on...

2007-09-12T17:24:00.000-04:00

Jeff turned up something when searching for my engagement ring that, on first hearing, absolutely appalled me. Finding a diamond that was "cruelty free" was his number-one priority. He had filled me in on the evils of De Beers and the diamond industry in general--I'm ashamed I knew nothing about it at the time, but what the hell, I never expected a man to buy me a diamond.

So in his search for high-quality, lab-created diamonds, he turned up this: www.lifegem.com. I found this idea of making diamonds from your loved one's carbon remains to be repellent at best. But when he told Fiona about it much later, she was electrified by the idea: "I want to be a diamond!"

Now, Fiona's an old soul. If there's any such thing as reincarnation, she's lived, and therefore died, many times. It's clear from the mistakes I've made, however, that this is my first time around. And I've already lost my fair share of loved ones, so it was natural for me to be thinking from the point of view of the survivor and not the deceased. I did not want to wear Mom. It never once occurred to me what it would be like to be the diamond myself.

Then the other night Jeff and I were talking about how becoming a diamond could be problematic for those whose religions insist that the body will be taken up to heaven by Jesus on Judgment Day. And then the image struck us both at once--billions of glittering diamonds ascending to heaven in tremendous clouds and columns of twinkling lights. It made me wish for heaven when I don't believe.

I want to be a diamond.

Sending out an SOS

2007-09-10T10:06:00.000-04:00

This is serious. I have procrastinated long enough on writing the story covering the annual meeting. It must get done today, or Edie will have my head, and I will be the biggest hypocrite on the face of the planet.

I don't know why I assign myself stories at all anymore. I always put them off until after what any reasonable person would call the last moment, leaving Edie in a bind, pursing her lips to keep herself from saying something tart to me because I do, after all, sign her timesheets and approve her days off. I'm taking unfair advantage of the system.

So how do I fight this kind of writer's block? This is just a straight story on what went on in Philly--I could even phone it in and copy and paste some standard language I used in last year's story. But there's a part of me that wants to take pride in even the most mundane hack writing I have to do, so I'm mentally pacing back and forth trying to think of ways to make this piece sparkle.

Any writers out there who can give me a clue how you handle this? Are you able to let go when you're not feeling inspired and just write--pound it out, make sure it's factually and grammatically correct, and then send it out into the world to fend for itself?

Who let the atheists in?

2007-09-08T20:15:00.000-04:00

Fiona and I spent our evening at a talent show at a Baptist church. A friend of Fiona's from the school orchestra had begged her to play with her because she didn't want to play alone, so we found ourselves at a Baptist church in Howard County, wondering if our godlessness radiated from us like the fires of hell itself. We dressed primly and smiled as sweetly as we could.

We wound up having a wonderful time. These were really nice people. Granted, there wasn't a minority in the bunch, but they were mighty nice folks all the same. They were relaxed and friendly, and I have to say, they seemed full of the spirit they believed in. The talents acts were young, old, silly, impressive, or simply just for fun. The pastor played hymns on his harmonica. It didn't suck. A group of teenagers played Christian rock, and they were excellent. They didn't have a singer, so the "Christianness" of the song was blessedly lost. An old guy with a cane, so frail that his sons had to help him up on the stage, told jokes.

These people weren't self-conscious--they were fun. At one point when Fiona and her friend were playing their instruments and got lost, stopping, blushing, a woman behind me cried out, "That's okay! Keep going--you sound great!" and everyone applauded. I could have kissed her.

One lovely woman was telling me all about the church and how kind and friendly everyone there was, and she rounded it off by saying, "And we really love the Lord here." I had no idea what to say in return. What do you say? "I'm sure he loves you, too"? "You can't have Him, He's mine"? I think I muttered something inane like, "Good for you." I hope she didn't hear me.

Of course, we didn't tell them we were atheists. Besides the fact that Fiona and I both don't like to discuss religion, we didn't want to stop the show and have them all rush over to us to lay on the hands and try to save us. Seriously, we're not in any danger. And I question the usefulness of a lord who keeps getting lost so that his followers must continually hunt him down.

But religion or not, we had a great time. And I can't describe how refreshing it was to be in a place where everyone was friends with everyone else, and where no one cared if the acts were actually talented or not--they just wanted to celebrate their community. Kids around here are pushed and pushed until they're all tiny prodigies or commit early suicide, but at this particular church, they were just encouraged to have fun.

Buying a car

2007-09-06T15:58:00.001-04:00

I had a feeling when Jeff woke up Monday morning that we would be buying a car that day. His trusty Saturn let him down Sunday when he was running late for a gig, and that was the last straw for the hapless vehicle. When I casually mentioned Monday morning that Labor Day was a good time to buy a car (what was I thinking?), Jeff's eyes lit up.

He ran outside and immediately began cleaning out the Saturn.

Should I be offended that it took him six weeks to decide to date me and dog knows how long to ask me to marry him from the moment the idea first flitted across his mind, but a simple "They have good deals on Labor Day" was all it took to get him to sign over big bucks for five years?

Jeff is a slow decision maker. Which makes me think that though he talked about seeing this relationship with the Saturn through to the bitter end, he'd already been eyeing other cars.

Fiona, of course, was totally psyched. She asked for a Rolls at first but seemed content enough to accompany us instead to the Toyota dealership. She was excited to sit in all the cars and ride around as Jeff and I drove several, taking in the new car smell and making faces at our driving skills. For the first hour or two, she was in heaven.

I remember loving car shopping, too, when I was a kid, but I have a feeling the process was a little simpler back then. We were a VW family, and the dealership sold only VWs. And I have no recollection of the actual purchasing process, so it can't have been the hours-long, paper-signing ordeal that we all went through Monday. Fiona patiently tried to entertain herself while we waited and signed, waited and signed.

Part of the agony of the process is, for me, the time that it takes. This time becomes longer each time I buy a car. Monday's excursion lasted about five hours--at one dealership only. Of course, we had to drive three different cars. And we had to listen to why each of them was an excellent choice for us. Each car was the best damn car ever made. Then we had to listen to the warranty manager tell us that the car we picked just might be the worst car ever made and how we'd better get all kinds of treatments and warranties and roadside assistance because that piece of shit was bound to break down, so we'd better cover our butts. We patiently withstood the subtle sneer when we refused this posterior protection and the warranty manager wrote on our application "No Adds." It might as well have been "Communists." "Kitty Torturers." "Fucking Cheapskates."

But now it's all over, and Jeff has a well-deserved, shiny red Toyota Corolla. And I'm a teeny bit jealous. I replaced my car in January and liked being the one with the pretty new car. Now it's passe, and I'm just a schlub in an 8-month-old Subaru.

I'm not going to draw any analogies between the way Jeff car shops and the way he shops for women. His woman-shopping days, after all, are over. But I wonder where I went wrong. Was my salesmanship sub-par? Was my lifetime warranty somehow insufficient? I don't know--perhaps he examined the report of past incidents.

Scapegoats

2007-09-02T17:33:00.000-04:00

I've been doing some thinking about the excuses we make for not having what we want. I remember a woman I worked with years ago who drove me absolutely nuts--she was loud, rude, insensitive, and she even smelled a little. Occasionally she would complain that our company was full of anti-Semites because no one liked her there. I wanted to scream at the top of voice that being Jewish had nothing to do with the fact that she was unpopular, but that being a raging, whiny bitch had everything to do with it.

It was easier for her to blame it on something intrinsic about her that she couldn't change--even better that she chose something she could take some ethnic pride in. That intensified the injustice in her mind, I believe. It was easier because to address the real cause of everyone's dislike would be too personal, too painful, and too damn difficult. It would mean taking a hard look inside her soul and cleaning out all the gunk--the narrow-mindedness, the bitterness, the insecurity, the pettiness.

I used to think that no one would love a fat girl. I was certain of it, and it was for the very good reason that this message is drilled into the head of every American girl from at least the age of 10. And my personal experiences seemed to back it up. No boy ever looked at me until I lost the weight. I've never been thin, but I became slender enough to attract the attention of the average male adolescent.

And here's where my theory fell all to pieces: I was attracting the AVERAGE male. The kind of guy who was too insecure to take a chance on a girl his friends might laugh at him for dating; the kind who wasn't terribly interested in what I was interested in but who needed someone moderately attractive on his arm at parties. I dated some nice guys; I dated some nearly evil guys; I dated some losers.

What I needed, and was too stupid to understand, was a guy who could embrace my weirdness and silliness at the same time he could embrace a body that would go up and down in weight, attractiveness, and fitness. Someone who wouldn't run screaming if he knew the Real Me, whoever that was.

I never found it until I totally gave up trying. After a scary first marriage and a couple of years or therapy to untangle all the knots I'd tied in my head--or at least most of them--I was finally okay with who I was and too old and tired to have any time for someone who didn't like that. If I was going to put any effort into a relationship, that man was going to have to be worth my time. To put it simply, I set my standards impossibly high.

But it wasn't impossible. Surprise of surprises, I found it. There was someone out there who didn't see an older, dumpy suburban mom, but rather an intelligent, creative, sensual woman who could make him happy. (And yes, it is hard for me to describe myself that way, but I'm trying to see myself through his eyes.)

I didn't need a scapegoat. I didn't need weight or ethnicity or any number of other intrinsic qualities to explain why I hadn't found love. To find love, I had to make myself lovable. And to do that, I had to strip away all the pretenses, excuses, defenses, and prevarications that had always held me back. Jeff wouldn't, couldn't, have loved the girl who blamed her lack of romantic luck on her weight. But he could love the girl who decided, "Fuck 'em if they don't love this. This is lovable."

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

2007-08-31T16:14:00.000-04:00

Here I am, stuck in the middle. Alone. Utterly alone.

No, I'm not being melodramatic. I put Steeler's Wheel and Beetlejuice together in a blender, and that's what came out. It has been an awful day. I'm stuck between my boss and his perception of a deal we made, and the employee with whom we struck the deal. And now both of them are questioning the deal and each other's honor, and I'm left questioning my sanity. And clutching a bag of bagels that I brought for the employee's goodbye breakfast--all for naught, because she was too upset to show up on her last day.

I remember when I wasn't a boss and sat at my desk amid piles of work to do, wondering why the hell bosses get paid so much money while the rest of us actually produce something. What makes them worth so much more than us grunts?

Well, now I know. I'm not one bit more valuable than anyone on my staff, but I am constantly confronted with decisions to make, fires to put out, and people whose emotions get the better of them. I love being the one who makes things happen, but I know it must look like I'm just filing my nails while I count my cash.

Okay, this blog isn't meant to be just about work life. It's not the most important thing to me at all. But Jeff, my Nearly Perfect Husband, can testify to the fact that I've had so many fires to put out at work lately that I can't seem to stop trying to put out phantom fires at home. I get into hyper-problem-solving UberBoss mode at the drop of a hat--if the trash needs taking out, I spring into action, bagging the trash and formulating a plan about how we can develop a better trash-hauling procedure or, better yet, eliminate trash altogether by implementing a five-year plan.

So UberBoss is on her way home now and worrying about how she can be a sex kitten. Okay, sex cat. She hasn't been a kitten in a long time. So on her commute, she will try to formulate a plan for making herself look cute, relaxing, and rocking his world. But I fear the UberBoss would not go quietly if you plied her with a pitcher of margaritas, an angry massage therapist, and a chorus line of Johnny Depp look-alikes singing her praises.

Why I Work

2007-08-30T14:42:00.000-04:00

Well, obviously, it's because I prefer eating to starving. I have a perfectly round shape that I need to maintain, and regular meals and mouth-watering sweets don't come cheap. I've often wondered if I'm a big fat coward, hiding out here in the non-profit world, disguising myself as an executive who lives for her work. Don't get me wrong: If I have to work a 9-to-5 job, this is the way to do it. They're great to me here, I love my coworkers, and I'm well paid to do work that I find enjoyable. I just never thought when I graduated that I'd be doing the corporate grind 20-odd years later.

What did I think? I planned to be a world-famous novelist and host Saturday Night Live by the time I was 26. I would list Monty Python as one of my biggest influences, and that was going to mean something to someone. But now I'm not even sure I care if I'm published--although I care very much if I write--and when I mention Monty Python, I generally get blank stares. Needless to say, I have not received the call from Lorne Michaels.

Somehow, I've managed to stumble into a lovely life, despite all my attempts to sabotage myself. After a disastrous first marriage, an attitude toward work that some call unconventional and others simply call lazy, and a rather seat-of-my-pants approach to parenting, I've landed in a beautiful place. I think I might just be the luckiest girl in...my zip code, definitely.

And quite frankly, the money comes in handy. Little girls like mine sure know how to drain a bank account, and she's not even financially spoiled.

Have I sold out? I guess so. But life is good, so I suppose I won't apologize.