Please pass the corn

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

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 All the confidence of the 20-something that the world revolves her has been replaced by the 30-something terror at the realization that it doesn't.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

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

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

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

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

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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