You don't send me flowers

Last night, I got home at 10:30 with a sleeping Anonybabe. Anonyhub put her to bed and after a quick spat to clear the air, we chatted while we packed for a weekend trip. We talked while he did the dishes, while he showed me the band onesie he made for our niece's first birthday, and then while I soaked in a hot bath, with Anonyhub sitting tiredly on the belidded toilet. We didn't go to bed until 1:30 or so.

As we brushed our teeth, he said, "I feel like that's the longest we've talked without fighting in a while."

Aw.

As in aw, that's kinda sweet.

And, aw, that sucks.

Faith to move mountains

I've blown through so many Hathor comics in the last week that I forgot one of my initial reactions I'd wanted to noodle out here.

To my surprise, I got really sad when I read the cartoons about the unschooling/homeschooling she does with her kids. I felt sad for the upbringing I had in a way that I hadn't felt sad before. I felt like my childhood was a missed opportunity.

I had the same reaction when I read Persepolis. In it, a woman tells about her childhood in Iran in the 70s and 80s. Her parents were political activists and unhappy with the fundamentalist direction the government was going. There was a lot of political and social upheaval surrounding them. Although they tried to shield their daughter a bit from the ugliness of the world, they mostly explained to her what was happening and why. I devoured the two-volume set one night at my in-laws, staying up until dawn while Anonyhub and a six-week old Anonybabe slept on their palatte on the living room floor. I sat in the leather lazy boy, transfixed, mesmerized by a life and childhood that was so different from my own.

That was the first time I felt this pang, this sense of loss. I was jealous. Mostly because this little girl was being treated like a thinking, feeling, intelligent human being who was expected to become an adult some day. I wanted to emulate the main character's parents. This Hathor character is also trying to teach her kids to be political and outspoken, to fight for the kind of world they believe in. It's hard for me to recapture the sense of loss I felt seeing this comic or this one. As a child I remember playing by myself a lot. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it, but where were my parents? What were they trying to teach me? Anything at all? Why wasn't my mom teaching me to speak up for what I believe in rather than teaching my to conform? Why didn't my mom want to play with us rather than watch us play? (And why am I only fingering my mom as the guilty party?)

When I brought my feelings up to Anonyhub, I realized as I was grieving aloud that my parents did teach me some things that I appreciate. And they did it through an avenue I resented immensely for many years: religion. We ate, slept, and breathed Bible stories, prayer, and church in my childhood home. As the oldest and a born parent-pleaser, I latched on to the faith of my father & mother in an earnest fashion that would embarass the bejesus out of me in my twenties.

But I was encouraged to listen to the still, small voice in my heart and to pray to it (to "Him") at least every night. And pray I did, pouring out my questions, my frustrations, my guilt, and listening for an answer. When I was seventeen (?!) it finally dawned on me that I was pretty much praying to myself. This entity I'd been turning to for guidance and comfort wasn't GOD, it was just fucked up, lonely, naive me. I was angry. I felt like I'd been sold a bill of goods, that I'd been hoodwinked. It wasn't until much later, once I started learning to value myself, that I saw my parents & church had actually done me a favor.

Anyway, that, and the gorgeous Bible stories and the anti-authoritarian bent (my parents wouldn't agree, but they pretty much believed in religious anarchy), and the ability to sink myself so deeply and earnestly into something - all of this I honed during my religious upbringing.

So some of what I was pissed that I didn't get - a deeper understanding of human nature, the assurance that I'm in charge of my own destiny, a social conscience - I did get in a roundabout way.

I want to be more direct in my teaching with Anonybabe. I think. I don't want to turn into a zealot, but I want to be passionate about something, about life. This is perhaps what made me sad reading those comics. Hathor and the Persepolis parents seem to be passionate about having the best possible life for themselves and for their kids and their vision is so different than my parents' and until now, my own. Something is stirring me to rethink my definition of a good life. And that definition involves a lot less money and a lot more involvement. It involves treating Anonyhub and Anonybabe the way I wanted and want to be treated. And it is kind of blowing my mind.

The goddess in me

I'm very loosely into attachment parenting. I stubbornly refuse to read up on it, even though
the little snippets I heard about it make sense and line up with my "parenting philosophy" of sorts. I just don't like the idea of being a born again attachment parent, just like I don't like the idea of being a neo-hippy but like pretty much everything about that lifestyle, or at one point didn't like the idea of being an Obama-head even though a fairly detailed questionnaire I filled out that matched up my ideas about government and policy with all of the candidates' matched me at something like 97% agreement with Obama's voting record and platform.

I don't really know why I don't want to be seen as one of the parents who has gone down the attachment rabbit hole. And I don't really want to delve into it here. There's the way you see yourself, and then there's the way you are. Hopefully the twain shall meet.

There's a comic blog I've been reading lately called "Hathor the Cow Goddess" by a woman who is a joyful and raucous proponent of attachment parenting and co-sleeping, and public breastfeeding, and what have you. I think if I met her in person she would annoy the living shit out of me. Some of her cartoons do the same thing. Does she have to be so political and self-righteous about every aspect of her parenting? But then I agree with a lot of what she's saying: make nurturing your kids a priority, love is more important than going by the book, and it really shouldn't be such a big deal to whip out your boobs in public.

Lovely Sunday

Today was kind of awesome. I tried to center it around things Anonybabe and I like to do. For her, I made sure she got to spend some quality time climbing stairs and digging in dirt and riding on a bus. For me, I got to have a little picnic and go on an outing that had no real clear game plan.

The picnic was great. We laid out a big quilt in our teeny back yard (We easily covered a quarter of the space with it) and I put Anonybabe's body bib on and let her go to town on some roasted beets and oranges. When she was done she had Ronald McDonald clown face and beet juice covered her hands and feet and had dripped onto my leg. We were both all sticky from the orange that dripped juice when Anonybabe would lift her piece triumphantly and squish it before putting it in her mouth or mine. When we were done she crawled over and picked a clover flower, which we both sniffed, before I wiped off her hands, feet and face.

All mealtimes should be like that.

Then we took a couple of buses to ostensibly go to a resale shop before dropping in on Anonyhub at work. We didn't make it before the thrift store closed but it didn't really matter. I purposefully set out without really knowing whether my bus route would work so we could have a shrink-a-dink sized adventure.

And tomorrow is another holiday. More please!

Meow meow mom is weird meow

Anonybabe has this toy cat named Francis, who she loves. I mean, Anonybabe lo-huh-huuuuves him. And Anonyhub and I have worked up a shtick of sorts with Francis, complete with Daniel-the-kitten-from-Mr.-Rogers'-land-of-make-believe voice ("meow meow Anonybabe meow; meow meow want some chicken meow"). He's kind of saucy and kind of a brat and I kind of use him to let the naughty side of me out around Anonybabe.

I'm all for Anonybabe having imaginary friends. I had all of these elaborate (or at least very real) personalities made up for my many dolls when I was a kid, so it only seems natural to work these little characters we've created around her for all they're worth.

But Anonybabe has been doing this thing lately, especially with her dolls, where she wants us to play them for her. Like, we'll make Francis say something and when we try to put him down she'll rather imperiously pick him up and put him back in our hands. She'll point to our hands like a ruler-bearing school marm, then when we offer one, she'll turn it in the direction she wants so she can place Francis in firmly. Even if she's interacting with him, she wants it to be through us so we're pulling the puppet strings.

It got a little meta today when I picked up Birthday Bear (he wears a little birthday hat and plays "happy birthday" when you squeeze him) after we'd been playing with Francis for a while. And Anonybabe grabs Birthday and grabs Francis and first puts Francis in my hands and then in the same bossy manner she shoves Birthday into Francis's hands! So here I am making Francis make Birthday take a nap (which Anonybabe loved; she even loosely mimicked snoring for the first time) and Anonybabe would giggle and then pickup Birthday and put him back in Francis's hands. When I would try to put Francis down and deal directly with Birthday, Anonybabe would grunt and point until I picked Francis back up and maneuvered Birthday through him.

What the hell? I feel like I've pulled Anonybabe deep into the world of my childhood and its kind of freaking me out. Not to mention it's kind of getting on my nerves being Francis all the time. There's a song I try to sing to Anonybabe before she naps and sleeps to kind of set the mood for slumber. She's never been that interested in it, but it seems to calm her (or bore her, whatever). But somehow Francis got roped into singing the song the other night and now she requests it (by raising her hand high above her head to point at the moon) constantly and repeatedly from him. I'm a little jealous of Francis for that.

Meow might need to set some boundaries with Francis meow.

Stormy Weather

Anonybabe is generally the calm sort, but there are a few things that consistently cause her to lose her shit:

Apples, when taken away or especially when taken out of her mouth
Ice Cream, when not spooned over fast enough
Keys, especially when they're taken away but even when they aren't handed over

And the biggest, baddest tantrum inducer is the stairs. She points to every single front stupe we pass as we walk down the street. God help you if you take her off of the stairs before she's ready. Or gently but firmly remind her to go down them feet first instead of hand (and subsequently head) first. She cried big salty tears for minutes on end (yes, only minutes; I told you she was calm. It's a lot for her) the last few times we pried her cold, splintered hands from the steps leading to our upstairs neighbors and took her inside.

Do you see any method in her madness? I don't.

Anatomy Lessons

Anonybabe shocked me last week by knowing where her nipple was. We'd just finished nursing and mine was hanging out there and Anonybabe pointed to it, as she's been wont to do lately.

"Yeah," I said. "That's mom's nipple. Do you know where Anonybabe's nipple is?" thinking this would be as good an opportunity as any to start to teach her. She pointed right to it!

She also surprised me with "blanket". I mean, the word has certainly been bandied about the house, but not with careful deliberation like "doggie" or "tree" or "boodie" have.

Yesterday she succesfully pointed to all of the articles of Anonyhub's clothing as he called them out: "socks" "pants" "shirt". And then! she used her three syllables: "buh" "kuh" and "puh" for various words around the house. Most of them even kinda correspond. Pacifier - "puh". Bear (as in Teddy, we're not the Grizzley Adams) "buh". Keys - "kuh" Sock - "kuh".

Three months ago she didn't know her elbow from her asshole and now she's understanding words willy-nilly? I think I need my lapbelt.

I scream

Did you guys know soft serve ice cream should be avoided by pregnant women? I didn't know that. I must have averaged 7.6 soft serve frozen yogurts per week during the last trimester of my pregnancy. Of course, I also dipped from the putrid well of Taco Bell once or twice, so maybe knowledge would not have equalled power and/or wise decision-making anyway.

Playing politics

Let's make fun of the presidential candidates, shall we?

The Scarlet Letter

Fair warning: those of you who don't like talk of menstruation in general, or my crotch in particular, should probably opt out of this post.

Dude, I bled into my panties today. This is the first time that's happened in almost two years. I mean, I've had extremely light spotting for several months now. So light that I only knew I was spotting through basic post-bladder emptying hygiene, if you get my drift.

To my mind, this represents a blatant mark of a return to my own normalcy. My body, my mind, my feelings - even my eating and sleeping habits have been slowly aligning themselves with my pre-pregnancy self. Perhaps related, I tend to think of Anonybabe as her own person now instead of an extension of me. For a while it really was hard to separate, and I don't think that was just my neuroses talkin'. If you grow someone in your belly, you tend to feel attached.

So this missive from my uterus has me feeling pretty good. What am I going to do next with this wonderful gift of me now that that body snatcher mama nature is done with me for the time being?

This post needs no title

I'm struggling to write an article about the birth of Anonybabe. Struggling because to my surprise, I liked giving birth. A lot. Pain and fatigue and blood aside, it was awesome. And that's kind of hard to come to terms with, to this day. Surely it's wrong to like something that rends your body like that, especially when everybody else seems to have a horror story attached to their labor and delivery.

And then I hit upon the perfect metaphor: giving birth is like anal sex.

Bear with me, here -- at the wrong time and under the wrong circumstances, anal can be a horrible, painful, and traumatic experience. But done by the right person, when you're in the right frame of mind: relaxed and calm and kind of knowing what to expect and what to do, it can be...quite pleasurable. See? Childbirthish.

Now I just gotta slant this into a story fit for mass consumption. Anybody got any good euphamisms for getting fucked in the ass?

My favorite things

Apropos of nothing (Okay I was eating peanut butter and watching this)

I love porn mustaches. And peanut butter. And Missy Elliott.

And pictures of Robert Downey Jr. (I didn't think I was a fan but promo shots of Iron Man are making me all quivery). If Bob walked up to me and asked if he had no-stir organic creamy on his 'stache, my uterus would probably implode.

I've been trying to get Anonyhub to grow a mustache for years. He flatly refuses. Today I tried telling him that I would give him a whole weekend of baby smooth legs & pits in exchange for one weekend of porn 'stache. He just complained that he has to buy my hairlessness.

Please nigga, me no fuck for free!

When milk goes bad

I happened to look into the car cup holder this morning, and saw one of our big white mugs with an inch or so of curdly milk at the bottom. By my calculations (carry the weekend, divide by the public transportation days...) it's been at least five days since I left that mug in the car; two of which I drove to and from work.

Now, I'm not so troubled by the fact that I didn't see the curdly milk tree for the forest of coats and magazines and toys and clothes-to-be-dry-cleaned littering the car. It's more that I didn't smell it. Nor did Anonyhub.

Has the poop killed our sense of smell completely?

Stuck in the middle

Man I hate thermostat wars. I'm trying to lay low while one rages around me at work.

How does Switzerland do it, when France comes up and is all "Greece keeps going around to the thermostats and cranking the heat. I can't work when it's that hot! It's not a reasonable temperature; bring a freaking sweater!" And Chad is all "France is an asshole." God forbid that douche bag America comes up.

I have a deep arsenal of sleeveless shirts and cardigans to help keep me out of the fray, but my diplomatic skills are being stretched to the limit.

Shout it Out

Anonybabe and Anonyhub and I went out for a belated mother's day meal Monday night.

Anonybabe has heretofore behaved herself nicely when out and about, so I risked going somewhere I figured there wouldn't be many kids. Although the restaurant describes itself as a casual, neo-southern place, it is decidedly nice. A man in a blue button-down (who we later decided was the owner) greeted us at the door and looked none too pleased to see us toting a baby. We asked for a high chair, and a table where it wouldn't be in the way. They apologized for doing so, but stuck us way in the back. It worked beautifully because Anonybabe's chair was tucked away and Anonyhub and I could both reach her.

She was extremely antsy, so to blow off some steam I let her crawl on the floor from the bathroom to our table. I got those half-smiles as we crawled the gamut to our table that told me - oh, that is so...not cute.

We made the mistake of feeding Anonybabe a little ice cream. Peach ice cream made with local cream. Damn, it was good. So good that Anonybabe whined and yelled for more.

And then there was the squealing. Squeals of delight, squeals of displeasure, and squeals of "check out these bitchin' vocal chords I just found!" Anonybabe has been upping her vocalization day after day. Like the frog in slowly heating water, I didn't realize we'd reached the boiling point until I was suddenly faced with a restaurant full of unhappy patrons. She didn't sound like a tea kettle the whole time, but she damn near did. She gave us looks when we shushed her and tried to plug her up with her pacifier; usually we are trying to get her to "talk" as much as possible.

Anonyhub and I kept her nominally quiet by talking to her through her grover doll (Oh! May I have a sip of your wat-ter, please?" "Mmmm! Can Grover have a bite of your green bean?"), but aside from being embarrassing in and of itself, this would periodically crack her up so much that she would cackle uproarously and we would shush her and look around.

Overall we were not too much of a burden on our fellow diners or our daughter, but I'll not be taking Anonybabe out to any places that don't have a handy supply of crayons and dinosaur place mats in the near future.


You're welcome.

Home schooled

I'm dressed in a weak neo-eighties outfit today, in - I shit you not - a belted sweater dress (over pants), black heels with striped socks (pretty much completely covered by aforementioned pants), hoop earrings and a ponytail, and my no bangs are styled into a teeny-tiny pompadour.

It almost works. I look a little bit rad and a little bit ridiculous.

So what brought on this spat of work wear-inappropriate creative dressing? I just read an article on homeschooling in Mothering Magazine that got my creative juices flowing. It excited and scared me. If necessary, I think I could do that. Even if unnecessary, I think I'd want to do that.

I'd be stoked to read to Anonybabe, take her to plays and museums and technology exhibits; to take her camping, send her to local drawing or drama or community college math classes; to take her to get her palm read and volunteer at the botanical gardens. I would love learning alongside her. I had a prolonged fantasy in the car on the way to work about getting us both into a college geometry class when she's a tween. I would promise to stay on the other side of the classroom and pretend not to know her unless she wanted me to, and would finally get to figure out what the hell a proof was.

Creepy? Overly invasive? Perhaps. Hey, it's just a fantasy. And until we see which way the wind blows Anonybabe's temperament, it's too soon to tell whether it's a legitimate one.

Over the course of my own school days, I had teachers who inspired and teachers who stood in my way. I had classrooms where the teachers weren't even mediocre, but I learned in leaps and bounds anyway because I got so much one-on-one attention. I can't imagine going without the strong, easily laid bedrock I got in my elementary grade school years (incidentally at small private schools), and I can't imagine how much more I would have enjoyed jr. high/high school if I'd gotten to home school. (incidentally I attended small-town public schools).

I probably would have blossomed academically if I'd been allowed to "stay home" during high school like I begged to do and follow my interests. I may have languished socially, but I managed to do that anyway. My sister, on the other hand, would certainly have shrivelled up and died if she'd had to home school during her teen years. The public high school we attended was one of the best things that ever happened to her; she found herself there. And the grade school where I flourished? She was miserable there. Every kid is different, every school is different, and you have to find the best fit with the materials you have at hand.

So if Anonybabe isn't suited for homeschooling, no amount of wishing I can do it will make it so. But if she is; methinks I'll have to entertain the idea further. I think I would l-o-v-e love it, all of the inherent frustrations aside. I do realize that spending lots and lots of time with the one you love isn't necessarily a pleasant way to pass one's life, but it can be.

At the very least, we'd have a kick-ass dress code.

I love you, you're perfect, now change

*SIGH*

There are only so many times a person can play "guess what I'm pointing to?" with a one-year old before getting bored. For the bad rap that 2-3 year olds get, I find it refreshing that they can tell me they've pooped their pants. Or confirm that yes, the shit-fit they're throwing has everything to do with the toy you just put away.

I'm ready for Anonybabe to talk and grow up a little, even though a) I don't know how she could develop any faster and b) the developing she's done has already made life a little more complicated (if interesting). Anonybabe has a will which gets stronger every day, right in step with her ability to express that will. T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

Yes, yes, I know that it all goes so fast. And I've accepted that life and parenting will get exponentially more complicated the older Anonybabe gets. I'm just feeling the grass-is-greener-over-there pangs after babysitting a 2 year-old.

She can zip her own pj's. Is that so much to ask?

Why indeed?

Why can't a heterosexual guy tell a heterosexual guy that he thinks his boodie is fly?

I want to be a part of it

How the hell do you take a song like this and turn it into something as magical as this?

Cat Power!

I fancy this flight

I rented disc 1 of the series by Flight of the Conchords and I'm loving it. Can't get the songs out of my head.

Here's one Anonyhub and I both liked. Not that we can relate or anything.

Smart/Stupid

Smart things I have done lately, sometimes with a side of stupid:


Smart - roasted a chicken for the fam

Stupid - cleaned up roasting pan by dumping grease down the sink. Did you know one city temporarily banned garbage disposals because of people like me?


Smart - entertained a toddler I babysat by plopping her in the tub with Anonybabe & all her tub toys.

Stupid - let her run to the door in her birthday suit to greet her mom, then showed mom pictures I'd taken of her naked daughter with my camera phone. Ca-ca-ca-reepy.


Smart - went to the local coffee shop with Anonybabe and struck up a conversation with a nice gentleman and the fabulous 4-year old known to her friends as "FaFa"

Stupid - didn't watch the trajectory of Anonybabe's arms and she knocked over my giant mug of syrupy steamed milk all over the table, the floor, and FaFa's papa's shoes. And what did I say by way of apology? "You know, that's not the first time that's happened to us" The look on papa's face was well deserved.

Ticked off

The Anonyfam had a loverly weekend, complete with a Sunday trip to the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and apparently the ticks were biting because when I disrobed last night I found one firmly attached near my groin.

Now, I should have known better than to go traipsing off in the grass with Anonybabe, but it didn't once occur to me not to. The Arboretum is so damn near perfect looking that it doesn't feel like real nature. It feels kind of like a Disney theme park done right. Fortunately Anonybabe had no bloodsuckers embedded in her dermis, but there is still a dark shadow over my once sunny memory of crawling around in the grass with her under some evergreens. For pete's sake people. I'm from Arkansas. I should have known better. The idea that she could have had one of these things cutting into her due to my thoughlessness makes me cringe a billion times over - once for my current forehead slapper and 1,999,999,999 times for all of the future ones we'll hopefully survive.

Anonyhub - god bless him - did the honors of removing the tick with some tweezers, for which I was very very grateful. Unfortunately, he didn't save the tick so we could see if it left its head in my thigh or could test for antigens if I end up getting Lyme disease. Now I have a big ugly welt rimmed in red that I keep running to the bathroom to worry over and wash with antibacterial soap. Never mind the hours I spent googling images of tick bites to see if this is how mine is supposed to look. It is highly unlikely that I will get sick from this, but the bite is gross and I feel dumb.

But that's enough self-flagellation for one post; let's turn our attention to the high points of the afternoon, shall we?

Anonybabe got to play in a sandbox, and then wash off in a fountain in which bronzed frogs squirted water out of their mouths. I don't know which she enjoyed more, the act of splashing around in the water or pointing to the frogs over and over and hearing us say "Yes! Frogs!" She's all about the pointing these days. And when we can successfully guess and name what she's pointing to, she gets a big satisfied grin on her face. She's just as eager to communicate as we are. One week prior I'd learned the sign for "tree" and used it every opportunity I could, since Anonybabe seemed to point out trees a lot on our walks. At the Arboretum she managed to use the sign, and after a few misses, I realized what she was trying to say. When I did, I thought she was going to explode with pride and delight. It was a nice moment.

There were boucous of trees in blossom, and we walked up to many so Anonybabe could touch and smell them. She looked at me skeptically and then grinned sheepishly when I sniffed the flowers and held them up to her. She didn't cotton on to smelling them herself, but she spent the rest of the afternoon holding every bloom and blade of grass up to my nose. Then she would attempt to put any blossoms she'd pulled off back on the trees.

The Arboretum is a really nice place. I'll probably just stick to the paths next time I'm there and leave my "Hey ticks, free lunch!" placard at home.

Who's the whiney bitch? No really....which one of us is the wb?

I talked to a friend last night who was complaining of taking care of someone else's two year old.

"I hate to break it to you," she said, "but almost-three year-olds are a pain in the ass. You'll see." She went on to tell how the offending child would grunt out a non-word complaint when she didn't get her way. (As in, "let me wipe your face, Susie". Susie: "Unngh!") "I hate that," my friend said. "It's so annoying. Maybe I've blocked it out, but I don't remember my daughter doing that."

"Anonybabe does that," I told her.

"She does?"

Yeah. She does. I thought all babies did. I mean, you teach them not to, but how's a baby who doesn't have words going to use their words?

So despite the fact that this friend is kind of a mommy-dearest type with her child, this conversation got me all panicky about my parenting skills again. I'm kind of passive with Anonybabe, because, well, it works for me. I'm kind of a passive person. I don't tell her "no" as much as I ignore the bad and tell her "yes, yes, YES!" to the positive. It's the way I would want to be taught what to do and what not to do, but that doesn't mean it works.

This "teacher" mantle I have to take on doesn't sit well on me. I live in fear that I'm unconsciously raising Anonybabe to be a spoiled brat. I mean, my dad was extremely spoiled, and it showed when he was an adult. It seemed to rub off on his kids at least a little. My brother and sister and I all had the "I don't know why you don't think the rules apply to you" speech given to us by non-parents at some point in our childhoods. But I was extremely sensitive and felt squelched as a child. I really yearned for someone to pay close attention to me and encourage me when I was a kid, so I try to offer that to Anonyhon. She already shows a tendency to not try something if she thinks she'll get it wrong.

*Sigh* I'm doing the best I can, here. I'm trying all I know to do. If my best guess ends up crippling Anonybabe with an annoying personality...I guess then I'll really feel qualified to call myself a mother.

Time is on my side

Cleaned out a file cabinet the other day...I hadn't organized this thing in at least 6 years, and had given up completely on actually using it for filing. I had been stuffing file-worthy papers in the same stack in the top drawer for about three years and they had finally started to protrude out of the sides and top of the closed drawer, and then I'd stacked papers on top for about a year after that before finally breaking down and slogging through the mess.

I found stuff I've had for 10 years. Directions to the house of a former fuck buddy. Paperwork for my first credit card. Work evaluations from three different companies and notes from my impressions of my job interviews there. I threw everything out except the first interview impressions as I thought they were amusing.

The work evaluations bummed me out. "Too many personal calls." "A lack of urgency." "Started out well but seems distracted as of late." I have a horrible work ethic. I partly blame this on my father as by nature and nurture I was bred and conditioned to become a selfish, narcissistic slob. (I would, you know, take responsibility for my lack of work ethic, but that would take some effort, and now we're all the way back around to point A.) Anyway, with the evaluations I had (and have, who are we kidding?) the unfortunate ability to do a pretty slapstick, haphazard job and then be sensitive about the fact that I get called on it. It's a lovely combination. And reliving all of these evaluations, not to mention the who-the-fuck-am-I-and-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life years they happened in made me really sad.

I was already feeling down about the way my short story turned out for this writing class. I'd decided to write from the point of view of a babysitter who I really liked as a kid who happens to be black. I remembered this incident where my mom gave her a present and the babysitter, who was generally extremely shy, asked for a hug. My mom talked about this hug over and over and so from there I imagined this story of a babysitter who is in love with the kids' mom, but is so conflicted about it! And then gets hit on by the dad! I wrote it, set it aside for a couple of days, and when I picked it up, I was horrified. It sounded incredibly unbelievable and very racist: a young black woman who is obsequious and lusty, who is madly in love with a white character for no apparent reason. So I was in the midst of rewriting the story because my character obviously wasn't really in love with the mom. And I was feeling bad and unsure of myself. I mean, I want to write, but this is one of the reasons I've avoided it for so long...what the hell is going to come out? What am I going to expose to people?

So reading my shortcomings as an administrative assistant over the years bummed me out a lot at first. But then the more crap I had to wade through the less time I felt sorry or sentimental and the more I just gave stuff the heave-ho. Maybe that's a good reason to write. Throw the old brainwaves out so the new ones can come in.

Counting our blessings

The scene: my friends' bedroom, very early in the a.m. A 7 month old baby slumbers between them.

She: Honey! Honey! Wake up, I'm horny!
He (gruff morning voice): What do you want me to do about it?
She (brightly): Nothing! I just thought you'd like to know!