Rock On

As my dad was on his way out of town headed toward the beach this morning, he called to check in with my husband, who is his VP of Operations (sweet gig). My husband jokingly said that we'd see them down there. And lo and behold Daddy thought it was a great idea!!! Yahoo, an impromptu trip to the beach - FREEE!!!! Bubye.

Everybody's Got One

So, at about 8:30 last night I get a call from my mother. She was returning my call from earlier so I had to take it. Normally I would let voice mail get it - a habit cultivated from years of her alcoholism, though she's "sober" now. My husband was supposed to have taken her ice chests by her house earlier and had forgotten. She's headed to the lake for the holiday weekend so she really did need them.

Anyway, my normally saccharine mother was very curt. Sometimes this is a baiting technique she uses before unloading all of her incessant, interminable, and totally self-generated woes. She cannot stop herself from maintaining contact with her ex-husband the drunk felon (now serving time for his 1000th DUI). He's so awful, and I imagine that it was a conversation with him that prompted this evening's doldrums.

Deep sigh.... This time, however, in response to my two obligatory prods, she declares that she just can't talk to me because I always criticize her. That word "criticize," for my mother, is akin to murder. God forbid!

In a moment of clarity - who knows how - I just said "fine, goodbye."

And then I begin to feel like shit. I mean, I don't want her to be miserable, angry with me or anything, but I just can't fix her and I don't want to try either.

Have you heard that joke about the dude that goes to the doctor and says "doc it hurts when i do this" to which the doc replies, "so don't do that." That pretty much sums up both of us - except she's going to just keep doing what hurts. I think she actually likes it.

But I'm done with it.

Get On With It

I'm going to go ahead and do my entry for the day so that I can get on with the interminable thesis writing that has often of late been sacrificed to the god of blog.

We "lost" another artist today at the gallery. His work was, admitedly, crap, but he sells so much during our holiday show that I thought he could be a cash cow for the gallery. I am glad, though, that our clients seem to have a discerning and sophisticated palate - enough, at least, to ignore the crap. I just wish they'd spend more on the good stuff.

It's really hard to keep my chin up sometimes. Artists are so fickle and undependable and often only want to "help" if it means they can tell someone their stuff sucks. It pretty much undermines the whole "cooperative gallery" concept that we've got going on. Don't get me wrong, I have my superstars for sure. I just hate it that they have to shoulder the entire responsibility of being the "good artists" while others, who may sell as well or better, never lift a finger beyond the absolute requirement. But, I suppose, that's life, right? I've only worked one or two places where that wasn't the modus operandi.

Ah, the glamourous, chic and oh-so-exhausting art world!!

The Quest for Eric Estrada Teeth

Note to self (though it's irrelevant now) and to anyone else looking for advice on the subject:

DO NOT FUCKING GET BRACES WHEN YOU'RE 34. The orthodontists are used to dealing with teenagers so they don't give good drugs for the hideously horendously excruciating ridiculous pain. I need a joint. Fuck that - I need some CRACK!!!!!!

Towards More Picturesque Speech

Stupid, Silly, Pithy or Whatever Things I've Overheard During the Last Two Weeks:

• "Overheard" at the airport (about 500 times): "Maintain control over your carry-on items to prevent introduction of dangerous articles by unknown persons."

Ok, so much is wrong with this! A) maintain control? is your carry-on likely to jump up and flail around? B) introduction of dangerous articles? just too silly! C) unknown persons? this seems to imply persons that cannot be known, like, uh, aliens (of the the ET sort, of course, not Mexicans or Arabs), and if they're unknown, would you know they had made an introduction? How about: "Don't let strangers put shit in your bags!" This gobbledy-gook is likely the product of some over-educated, under-employed creative writing MFAer getting her rocks off at her stupid and disappointing technical writing job.

• Overheard standing in line to get my cap and gown, spoken by a fellow soon-to-be-college-graduate: "Yeah, I kicked him out on his butt last week, but he said he had a right to see his children and anyways his parents own the house, so I can't really say nuthin'. And so I told him to get his ass up off the couch and fix the kids some dinner and maybe vaccuum the fucking floor or something. He better have not drank up all the beer before I get home. I'm gonna drink a six-pack on the way so I'll be drunk enough to deal with him when I get there."

Ah, nothing like a college education to separate us from the brutes!

• Spoken by my sister the house-sitter: "I think those two bottles of bloody mary mix were expired - it made me puke all afternoon."

Do you think, just maybe, it was the gallon of vodka in the bloody mary mix that made you sick?

• Spoken by same sister: "I didn't tell you that Mother's cocker spaniel would also be staying the weekend because I knew you wouldn't like it."

Um, if you knew I wouldn't like it WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BRING THAT NASTY BEAST INTO MY HOUSE TO RUIN MY COUCH?????!!!!!

• Spoken by the friend driving us around Philadelphia (to which none of us had been before) while I got progressively more and more carsick: "No, we didn't get a map, and I hate to ask directions. I just have a feeling this is the right way to go."

RALPH!!!

• Spoken by same friend who brought her nine year old daughter to a party to which we arrived at 10:30 pm (after, of course, having gotten completely lost): "She was quite well behaved, don't you think?

I'm not a big kid fan, and this was almost more than I could handle. They let her run amuk and just chit chat with everyone at the (very adult) party for several hours - easily convinced that she wasn't bothering anyone. I nearly had a nervous breakdown because our arrival at said party with said nine year old implied our complicity in and approval of this situation. Egads!

Tits So Funny

I think it rather hilarious that the posting ending in "should I show my tits?" has gotten the most commentary (though, clearly six is no big score!). I guess that's cool, though. If there's one thing I like about my body, it's "the girls."

I feel lucky to be busty and so I have a wonderful collection of what my husband calls "booby shirts" that I pull on for special occasions. Frankly, I don't mind if people don't look past my chest, cause the rest is not so perfect. They may as well dwell on the positive part of my appearance. I mean, I'm no dog, but I'm certainly not svelt. I think my eyes are nice and one day when I get these fucking braces off I intend to have Eric Estrada (glow in the dark and perfectly straight) teeth. But for now, you can check out the boobs....

Another reason, besides their size, that I like my boobs is something pretty much no one gets to see. I have a skin condition called Vitaligo where something "eats" the pigment in my skin. It 's almost completely symetrical on my both sides of my body - including my boobs. There the de-pigmentation is in the shape of a butterfly and under a black light it's really, really cool (glows since it's white).

Well, you may think it's silly, but I figure I may as well celebrate these "flaws" and get a kick out the cards I've been dealt! Right?!
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A Hole In My Belly

Well, I've admitted to y'all that I'm cruising the parenting blogs. And now I'm cruising the infertility blogs, since I was feeling a bit silly in my voyeurism. But, frankly, I'm more comfortable with the parents. It's odd.

I may be the only infertile woman around who, though not seeking any alternative form of fertilization or baby acquisition, knows all the words to Barney, Blue and Veggie Tales (I really like Veggie Tales). Everyone suggests (ad nauseum, actually, and sometimes to the point of rudeness) that we should keep our minds open to adoption. I don't think that's in the cards - for lots of reasons that I'm too weary to outline today. (Gimme time, though, it's one of my favorite soap boxes to stand on.)

Maybe I'm more comfortable with the parents' blogs because they seem to be dealing with concrete, here and now, stuff. It seems to me, as someone who really has been in their shoes, that the infertile community often is displaced, by themselves or by society - who knows, from the real world - living every moment in anticipation of a maybe. It's not that their situation isn't real - God knows I know how REAL that agony and pain and disappointment is - but it seems that all too often infertile women allow their lives to be entirely shaped by this thing: infertility. We are, once again, allowing ourselves to be defined by our biology. It's a dangerously slippery slope backward.

It seems to me that before IVF, IUI, etc. women were forced to come to terms with the maybe, which often turned into a no. It's not that these medical advances are bad, but I think they often string us along and string us out. Reading these infertility blogs reminded me of how consuming the quest for a child can become. And this is not always a good thing. It's not that hoping for a child, even working toward conception, is a bad thing. It's that it seems so often to drain joy out of the creation of life in a way that can be scarring and can make you look back on that part of your life with only memories of the negatives of the experience.

Sure, those negatives can eventually be replaced by the ecstasy of motherhood, but what if they're not? What are you left with? Bitterness, anger and a wasted year or two years? That would be a pity. I say, let's embrace our bodies and work on accepting them. This doesn't mean we can't use the wonders of medicine to try to change our course, but do it with joy, do it with peace - then the whole experience will be creative and reflective of the extraordinariness of the whole of life.

For me the bittersweetness of the failure to conceive shaped my life - in ways I would never have expected - in wonderful, painful, tender and searing ways. I am a better person because of it. I might have been a good mother, I like to think I would have been. I am, though, definitely more of a woman because of the hole in my belly.
*

It's an ALMOST done deal

I am officially a college graduate. OK, not officially, but I walked (with all the "pomposity of the occasion" per instructions of the University president) on Friday night.

It was both more, and less, exciting than I had anticipated - as with most big things in my life. I actually really enjoyed wearing all the honor cords that I had accumulated - though the comments from fellow students began to wear on me (and the people standing in line with me for two hours waiting to walk in to the coliseum). I have come to terms with the fact that I'm a dork - a big ole dork - and that I dig academic recognition and achievement. I also know that those cords don't mean a hill of beans in the "real world" and that most of my bosses in the past (even the couple of good ones) probably only had a "C" average in college, if they went.

The best part of the evening (besides the great salad at Cafe Society afterward) was the unexpected award that I got. I was given the "Margaret Saither Award for Outstanding School of Arts Graduate." Coolio! I'm pretty proud of it.

The night after graduation was the party. We had been planning and working toward this party for a couple of months and were really relying on the weather to cooperate since the band was supposed to play outside on the deck and we wanted to show off our newly constructed patio with the firepit. We bit our nails all week hoping that the forecasters were wrong about the 95% chance of thunderstorms Saturday day and night. And they were! Yeeeehaaaa.

It was a great party if I do say so myself. It made me very grateful and humbled to see how many different kinds of friends that I have. Life is good.

Now back to that thesis.......(yep, took an Incomplete, hence the walking but not actually graduating). Let the wailing and gnashing of teeth resume.

Brain Cloud

I only had two vodka sodas last night, but my head is KILLING me. Am I getting too old for a mild little party of two vodkas? Shit, I hope not!!!

This is my graduation week. I'm a "non-traditional" student who started college at 30 (great story, maybe I'll tell it sometime), and I have mixed feelings about doing all this geeky "senior stuff." I skipped the "senior party" last night, partly because I wasn't sure if my husband was invited (and that would suck way too bad to have to brave the throng of 21 year olds without someone to whisper sarcastic mean comments to) and partly because it was the season finale of the Amazing Race (oh MAN do I want to be on that show BAD!!!!!).

But, Monday night I did got to the Honors Program dinner at Cafe Society (sadly, sans hubby), mostly because my friend is the director and she pretty much demanded that I go. It was nice. I was really worried that I wasn't going to be able to have wine, but we did - what a relief.

Still, it was weird when it came to the toast/roast part of the evening. Most of the other students, in fact, with the exception of one who is known to be one of those people who can (and does) go to class drunk and still make good grades (but, she's from New Orleans, so everyone seems to think this is perfectly normal - one of the nice things about going to a Catholic school), all were toasted by their professors.

"Anna is the most amazing, perfect, sweet, beautiful, saint, er, education major CBU has ever seen."

"Jeffrey has the amazing ability to always be right in all of his rocket science classes."

"Lauren just has the sweetest disposition - and she's so smart!"

Aside from rocket science dude (about whom I'll just have to take the professor's word, since, of course, I've never crossed paths with him), I have to agree - these are some pretty neat kids.

I, on the other hand, was roasted. Two of my professors, one of whom is a very good friend outside of school, let me have it. The friend especially. This would have been all well and good if ANYBODY else had taken the "roasting" option so seriously, but NO, I get to be the old student AND the one who, according to Dr. Friend, makes "snotty comments about her fellow students." Squirm. My "accolades", juxtaposed against the GLOWING testimony to all the other students' brilliance and high moral character, were a bit jarring. This was clear enough for my friend, the director, to apologize the next day for having read them all aloud.

Oh, well, I can take my lumps - I certainly dish 'em out (apparently).

I've got a baccalaureate, president's reception and finally the graduation ceremony to get through before I can THROW DOWN at my party on Saturday (please, oh please God, don't let it rain...). Let's hope I can handle more than two vodkas without getting a "brain cloud."

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Nightmare=Reality

So, I had a terrible dream in the wee hours of this morning. I dreamt that I woke up at 9:09am to realize that my sociology exam was HALF OVER. I was frantic. Getting dressed like lightning, figuring I could get there and knock it out before the 10am end time. Whew, I thought, when I woke up at six thirty.

I stumbled up to school, still a little bleary eyed, but ready to take what promised to be a gimme exam.

Funny, no one was in the classroom. And this class is made up of a bunch of silly freshmen who are ALWAYS in there fretting about conflict theory, biting their nails about tests that any 12th grader could pass.

I headed over to the in-room computer to check the time of the exam. Wonder of wonders - it was last Thursday!

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In Hot Water

So, that didn't go over so well. Who knew hubby was gonna be all sentimental or particular? He didn't think the happy birthday card was "acceptable" (actually, he said HELL NO!) - that is, at first. I had to throw a fit and point out what a brilliant idea it was, and how, of course, his mom is so cool and funny and hip (nice touch, huh?) that she would get a big ole kick out of it.

I wore him down. But I think it's mostly because he didn't have a better idea (I suppose I could have suggested MAKING her a card - since he is an artist and all, but that would be giving in. And you bet your bootie I wasn't going to do that - not after his initial reaction!).

So, anyhow, the card's still sitting on the dining room table and he just called her instead...But she did ask about her card. Maybe I'm wrong about her being cool enough (since getting a card obviously mattered - YUCK). Do you think there are any of those sappy, crappy ones on markdown?

I'm a great daughter-in-law!

***

Happy Birthday Mom, I Suck

So, I bought my mother - and my husband's mother, and my step-mother - birthday cards instead of Mothers' Day cards. I figure, having to read the crap that they put in the MD cards is much worse than getting a BD card for the holiday. Don't get me wrong: I appreciate all these women and want to make sure to mark the (contrived) holiday at least so they'll know I remembered them. Actually, I appreciate them enough not to bore them with the ridiculously florid and sappy language that would NEVER come out of my mouth.

The step-mother is gonna think it's funny. She's no fan of Hallmark (though the best thankyou note writer in the world). Hopefully the other mothers will get the joke and not be insulted by the reality that I just got to the freakin' store too late to snatch up the funny or sincere cards.

In my typical birthordered sangfroid, I'd wager that my goofy brother doesn't even remember - he never does. And then my stupid card'll look great!!!!

Can I Get An Amen?

I honestly don't know how to solicit, elicit or attract commentary, or commenters - I really, really hate the 'word' commentator because commentate is not a word so the doer of said non-existent verb, also does not exist: non existence by non association - ok I looked it up and commentate is in fact a word, but I'm willing to bet, though my inadequate etymology reference leaves me wanting, that it is a malapropism, if not a pandering instance like the addition of 'ain't' to the dictionary - to this blog (you forgot that I was in the middle of a sentence, didn't you?). I don't know if I really care (not about your forgetfulness, but about the comments).

I'm not about to e-mail my friends (the two or three that are computer literate enough to find a blog, or know what one is) and say, "please, please come read my rambling musings (a newly overused and somewhat contrived word, I think), and give me your thoughts...." It's hard enough to get people to read my shit when I print it out on clean white (bright white, I like bright white) paper.

So what do I have to do? Show my tits?
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Schizophrenic Writer

So, I'm on day three, or four, is it? of this blogging thing, and just as I had feared: I'm terribly boring. And this ain't so great considering the fact that I consider myself a writer.

I have the worst time trying to decide WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT. I imagine that's a common problem, to some extent. For me, the problem is generated in large part by the fact that I am two people (at least) and I find myself exposing my severest contradictions in my writing. I want to write authentically, but is seems that what is authentic for me on the one hand is a bunch of bull, a total lie, a misrepresentation, or a half-truth on the other hand. Does this make sense?

Half of me is a lusty liberal who likes to smoke pot and cuss like a sailor. Most of this "me's" friends are gay, atheist, pro-choice and voted for John Kerry. The other me goes to the silkiest of silk-stocking churches, and has close friends who send their kids to evangelical schools, vote Republican, are staunchly pro-life, and believe that homosexuality is a sin.

I'm a mixture of both sets of friends. And this inhibits my writing. Half of the stuff I write is protestant theology (I know, snore), the other half is reflective essays - which are a bit whitewashed (though quite good, I've been told by people who actually count - I've one four writing prizes in the past year). I've either got to find a way to tell my stories without cleaning them up (maybe I'll use a pseudonym) or I've got to get brave and just be who I am. Yikes!

Oops

While I was working away on my thesis this morning, I got an e-mail from my history professor inquiring about my end of term paper for her course. Oh shit! I thought it was due on THIS Thursday not LAST Thursday. This wouldn't be so bad, but I already have shown myself to be a lackadaisical student with her by turning in my midterm late. I'm really not, actually, lackadaisical - just a bit overwhelmed this semester. What I hate is that she knows nothing else of me.

So, all that to say that I must now interrupt the meager momentum that I had going on my thesis to write a paper about WWI - UGH!!!!

Next...

So, I'm back in the lab. Trying desperately to begin this thing. This is getting worse by the day.

I really want to be at home. Hubby is laying a brick patio in the backyard for the graduation party that will be a farce if I don't get this thing done. It's really beautiful and I love watching how industrious he is with everything that he does. I don't know why it amazes me so much how he can figure stuff out. He's very patient with his projects. Unlike me. He never rushes anything (sometimes this is very annoying, but in the end, he always comes out smelling like a rose - which is also annoying at times).

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I have to come to the lab to work instead of using my home computer. Partly it's because the dinosaur at my house is just so slow. It has some kind of gremlin that is necessitated by the layers and layers of firewalls and spam guards. Partly, though, it's because I'm so distractable. I have to leave my e-mail software on at home so that I can't check my mail from here - I have to force myself not to look (for the hundredth time) at the e-vite for my party - I have to grit my teeth and refuse to log onto the purtymommy blog (strange, strange addiction).

But... I really don't like sitting next to people in the lab. Invariably people want to chit chat with each other or loudly work on a group project, breaking my already fragile concentration - or they take phone calls and don't leave the room, affording me the unpleasant situation of listening to half a conversation - or they listen to headphones thinking they're "in private" forcing me to partake in the tinny sound of rap music at a decibel just below comprehension and just above "tuneoutability." Finally, it's always cold in here. I think I'll start bringing a blanket soon.