The life and times of a stay-at-home mom who yearns for greatness without ever actually getting off the couch.

Cabo, Baby! Volume 4

Wed, 18 Aug 2010 20:20:01 -0700

Ok. So it’s been a month since I’ve posted. Sue me. I’ve been really busy sitting on my ass and watching Buffy on Netflix. That takes us a lot of time, yo.
But I’ve not forgotten you, O Faithful Reader. (All three of you. Hi Dad!) I’m still here. I’m still writing. Or thinking about writing. Or something. I mean, I took a bunch of pictures! Does that count?
OF COURSE IT DOES!
So, anyway, we went to Mexico again, like we do every summer. We go to Cabo San Lucas, where we have a timeshare, right on the beach. It’s pretty damn close to heaven. I lie on a lounge chair, reading and chatting, flagging down the waiters for pina coladas, while my children swim in the pool or play in the waves. The Ninja actually reads. We play and eat and attempt to outwit the brutal sun with swim shirts and 100SPF spray. We’ve been home for 5 days and I can’t wait to go back. This trip is what gets us through the rest of the year.
Witness:

You want to go with us next year, don’t you. We’ll probably pass on the fishing, though. That was too damn early.

Procrastination: Part Duh

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 10:35:03 -0700

I am the best procrastinator ever. Hands down. You may think that you procrastinate to an extraordinary degree, but you don’t. I make you look like a total winner with the responsibility and the punctuality and the winning. I? Oh, I. I win at procrastination. Case in point? This here blog post. Know how long I’ve had this sitting open on my desktop? Oh, just about 10 days. I promised myself I wouldn’t blog until I got my *actual* work done. You know, the kind they pay me for. With the editor and the publication and tax status. That work. And did I finish it? Am I current? OF COURSE NOT. I just did enough to feel justified in slacking off some more. Hence this here piece of literary gold.
I don’t know what it is about me. A therapist once told me that I procrastinate because I can get away with it. I’m lazy because I get away with it. Because I manage to talk my way out of the hot water I’m constantly landing myself in. Really? That’s the only reason? I avoid getting off my ass just because I can? Not because there is something fundamentally wrong with me? Not because the size of my ass makes getting off of it so. damn. difficult? Really? That’s just so... I don’t know... lame. That is a lame-ass reason for such epic procrastination.
But wait a minute. A lame-ass reason is pretty much par for the course, around here. I’m all about the lame-ass excuses, lame-ass attempts to clean, lame-ass meals prepared... I am a lame-ass. So that makes sense then, I guess. Right?
At least I win at something. I win at procrastination.
(Please don’t try to steal my thunder here. This is all I’ve got.)
(Is there a trophy for this?)
(I’d like a trophy.)
(Can someone get on that? It seems like work...)

Non-Obligatory Father's Day Post

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 13:23:50 -0700

When I was in college, I fell in lust with a super-hot guy. Then I married him. Probably not the best way to ensure marital bliss, but, there you go. That’s what I did. Fast forward a few years, we’ve moved a few times, filed our own taxes, bought a home and had a baby. And the man I had always hoped he would become, appeared. Before he became a father, we were just playing house. But now? Oh, now. Now life started. Now it meant something. Now, it was for real.

The Hubs fell head over heels in love with that baby. He held him for hours, only giving him back to nurse. On the weekends, The Hubs was SnugglyMan. He put on a BabyBjorn and wore David all weekend. Wore him to the grocery store. Wore him to watch TV. Wore him to mow the lawn. As David grew older, he graduated to a backpack and the bike seat. He was still Daddy’s buddy. The first time David laughed out loud, it was at Daddy. The first time he walked, was to Daddy. Sure, Mommy was food, but Daddy? Daddy was the center of the universe. He still is.
A few years later, along comes Matty, and the girl we had hoped for faded out of our memory as a new force was born. It was The Boys. The three of them. Not musketeers, no, musketeers were a force of chivalric good. THESE boys were pure, destructive FUN. And I? I became the Anti-Fun. That’s my name, around here. Because I think pillow fights with couch cushions is a little over the top. Because I know that the only way these games ever end is with someone crying. So, I referee. I clean up the collateral damage. I sit back and smile.
I smile because I see a bond that will never break or fade or disappear. I see a man teaching his sons to be men, to play, to be fair, to work hard, to love. He has so much to teach them, so much to share that I could never offer them. I don’t know how to throw a baseball or football. I can’t shoot a basket. When a bully threatens me, I want to sit down and talk about it. (Or tell all my friends about it, so no one wants to hang out with him anymore.) I don’t know about the cool clothes or backpacks or when it’s time to stop kissing Mommy in public. I don’t know what it means to be a man. But he does. And so will they.
I am so grateful to this boy I married, who became a man and fathered my children. I am so grateful for everything he does to make our lives better, easier, more fun. I am grateful to fall asleep by his side, every night. I rarely wake up next to him, though. He gets up early, makes coffee and starts a day while I am still drooling on my pillow. He gives me that gift on top of everything else that he does, every day, in addition to the two beautiful lives I get to be a part of, thanks to him.
I am so grateful to be able to say, “Happy Father’s Day” to this man, my husband, the love of my life.

Baby Brother Left the Nest

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 23:01:51 -0700

I don’t always get along with my little brother. Possibly, that’s because I insist upon thinking of him as my “little brother”, even though he’s 6’3” and 32 years old. Whatever. He’s my baby brother and one person on earth capable of annoying me faster than the speed of light. It’s a skill of his. I’m told I posses the same skill in regards to him. But of course, as anyone could tell you, there is NO WAY anything could be more annoying than a little brother. It’s a universal truth. (It occurs to me that calling him “annoying” may also add to the friction. Huh. Food for thought...)

Anyway, today my brother got on a plane for Israel. He says he’ll be back in six or seven months, but I’m not so sure. Little brother has been searching for himself for a while, and while I hope he finds something, I hope it doesn’t keep him there. As annoying as he is, I can’t imagine a life without him around to torment me. No one else does it half so well. It’s a skill born of history and experience. But for all of his obnoxious needling, he is still my baby brother. He’s the little towhead I taught to speak and imitate our dad, the little guy who followed me around relentlessly, stealing my toys and developing adolescent crushes on my friends. He’s the only person who really GETS what growing up in our house was like, the only person who can mock me in Hebrew, the only one who remembers.

My baby brother is off on the other side of the world now. He’s in a country fighting a war that I don’t think will ever end. He’s in a place where missile warnings go off with regularity. And he has no plan, other than to become fluent in the language. He’s looking for connection, for purpose, and secretly, I think he’s looking for a wife. (If you live in Israel and are looking, let me know. He’ll LOVE it if I set him up. Really. Heh.) I understand his need to go searching, and I get why he loves Israel. He loves the people, he loves that he can’t scare anyone off, the way people here get intimidated and frightened of people with real stories and passion. He loves having someone to direct his anger at. When you’re in a country at war, you know who to be mad at. It’s easy. It’s THOSE GUYS. The world makes more sense when you know who the bad guys are. Even if you have to travel around the world to fight them. He loves fighting the bad guys. My brother would make a superbly righteous superhero. Sadly, he lacks the ability to fly or shoot lasers out of his eyes. If he did? OMG, it would be ON. He loves nothing more than to come to the rescue.

I wonder who he will find to save there. Sure, he has a few friends, but his family is here. His history is here. No one there knows how he couldn’t pronounce his “r”s until he was five years old. No one there knows how incredibly sweet and cute he used to be. They’ll see this tall, good looking, cocky American with an ax to grind. I wonder what they’ll make of him. Will they welcome him into their ranks? After all, there are a whole lot of axes to grind in that part of the world. And I’m afraid that his heroism will put him in harm’s way. I’m worried that their fight will become his fight, when what he really needs to do is forgive. I wonder, will they teach him that?

Or will he find a woman to teach him gentleness. Tenderness. A woman who will accept him and worship him and nurture him and allow him to be safe in the world. To stop fighting. Hating. Blaming. Is there a woman who can do that? I think he’s hoping so. Hoping to find his home in another person. Someone to make him whole. And I worry about the wisdom in that. I worry about his choices, his goals. I worry. But mostly, I hope. I hope that he comes home soon. That he finds what he’s searching for. I hope that in a country living at war, my baby brother finds peace.

Be safe, Mikey. You are loved.

Sometimes Books Can Break My Heart

Mon, 31 May 2010 15:08:40 -0700

I'm a serious reader. I read constantly. I always have something with me to read and I'm always in the middle of some book or other. And I like to think that I'm a fairly discerning reader. Occasionally, I'll read history, but mostly, I read fiction. I love novels. LOVE. And I almost don’t care what they're about, as long as they're GOOD. I wont read crap. I try to choose books that are well written, with fully developed characters and intelligent plots. Nothing turns me off a book faster than when I find myself editing, rather than reading. For me, reading is an escape. My identity vanishes as I melt into the story, pulled along by the voice of the narrator, watching the scenery going by, as if from the window of a train.

But sometimes, the magic doesn't work. The voices don't ring true. The characters aren't real. The conversation is stilted. The plot is contrived. Sometimes, the book just can’t capture my imagination. Sometimes they’re a total disappointment. And, sadly, the easiest way to find awful books is to check out the bestseller lists. Oy, the garbage hanging around the top of those...

Maybe I'm just contrary, (shut up) but some of the worst books I've read have been books that are hugely popular, novels that have sat at the top of the bestsellers list, stories that people I know and respect have loved. But to me? They were stupid. Or annoying. Or poorly written. And this is coming from someone who enjoys the Twilight books, people. It's not as if I'm a TOTAL book snob. Pretty much all I ask for is characters I can care about, so that I care what happens to them, and a plot that doesn't make me wonder if the author limbered up before stretching that far.

Most recently? I read "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo". Oh. My. God. That. Sucked.

1. Those characters were annoying. I honestly didn't care if they lived or died. Oooh, shocking! Look what happened to her! How awful! And her reaction! Even shocking-er! (Insert me blowing a raspberry here.)
2. That plot? The big twist at the end? Bah. I saw that coming from the first chapter, so from where I stood, the whole story was an exercise in futility.
3. The bizarre, random, violent cruelty of the "bad guy" plot? Why was that even there? It had nothing to do with the main journey of the heroes. It was a completely unnecessary side trip into voyeurism and gore. Annoying.

I compulsively need to finish books I start. I have this idea, that right up to the very last word, a story has the potential to redeem itself. So, I plug along with books that I can't stand, hoping against hope that at some point, it'll get good. Usually though, if I'm not hooked early on, it's a lost cause.

So all that makes sense. I don’t like crappy books. Logical, right? I mean, you’re not SUPPOSED to like the crappy ones. But sometimes, even the great ones are no fun to read. I have never enjoyed anything Hemmingway wrote. Maybe I just couldn’t get past not liking the author, but really, I think I hated how he refused to allow a female character in his fiction to be anything other than a one-dimensional prop. So, mysoginistic drunks aside, I love most of the classics. I love Dickens, Hardy, Austen, Shakespeare, Falkner, Steinbeck. I love good writing. But sometimes? Good writing isn’t enough.

Right now, I'm reading "Huckleberry Finn". Somehow, I never read it in high school, so when I saw it for free in the iBook store, I figured, "Why not?". So, I'm about 3/4 of the way through. And I'm not captivated. And I don't know why. I mean, I love everything that ever came out of Mark Twain's mouth. He spoke some of my favorite quotes of all time. I love his travel writing. I love his essays. And "Huck Finn" is supposed to be one of the greatest American novels ever penned. But I'm not in love. I'm trudging through it, looking ahead to the light at the end of the tunnel. Or river. Whatever. As long as there’s an end to the damn thing.

It's not the dialect stuff that gets me, though it can be tiresome. And it's not the racism, thought that is honestly portrayed and I do believe that Mark Twain was not a racist man, nor is this novel in any way supporting racism. I enjoy and appreciate Huck's journey and enlightenment. But dear Lord, this thing is dragging. People are rambling on and on and ON and OH MY GOD SHUT UP ALREADY AND GET BACK TO THE STORY! Gah! Look, I get it. It's a caricature. Yes, she's a fool. Hahaha. MOVE ON, PLEASE.

And then I feel as if I'm a heretic, speaking sacrilege against the canon of American Literature. Defaming a man who is at the very top of my Perfect Dinner Party list. Mark Twain is one of those people I look forward to meeting in Hell, when I get there. So how can I not love his masterpiece? How is that possible? I mean, it's no piece of crap, like "Dragon Tattoo", so what's my problem? I guess the difference is that while one is crap AND I didn’t like it, the other is not crap. I just didn’t so much like it. Oh, I liked parts of it, but it’s not a novel I’ll be revisiting again and again, the way I take a yearly vacation to Pemberly, reveling in renewing my acquaintance in Longbourne and on Gracechurch Street in Town. Or hell, not even the way I re-read the Twilight books before I go see the latest movie. What does it mean, that I’m disappointed in one of the Great Works?

You may be wondering, at this point, why I have devoted all this time to whining about books I haven’t liked, instead of just shutting my mouth and finding one I do like. Good point. But I guess it’s just that I love books so much, that when one of them disappoints me, it’s like being let down by a friend. Since I was 4-years-old, books have been my most constant companions. When one of them fails me, it rocks my foundations. Upon whom can I count if not upon my books? Whom can I trust if not them? Is there NOTHING I can rest my faith upon? (And don’t tell me God. We’re not going there tonight.)

All I’m saying, is that sometimes books can break my heart.

The Wanderer

Sat, 22 May 2010 22:09:29 -0700

I don’t really fit in anywhere. I’m not just talking about my jeans. I mean, socially, I don’t quite fit into the box. I don’t have a group or a posse or even a particularly close friend. And it kind of bums me out. Because, it’s not like I don’t have friends at all, or people just don’t like me, because they do. At least 3 people to whom I’m not related by blood have told me that I’m awesome, so, it must be true. My sense of awesomeness is apparently not delusional, or something I dreamed up while on painkillers. But the fact remains, that I don’t know where I belong. I don’t know which lunch table to sit at in the high-school cafeteria of life. And considering that I’ve been out of high school for quite some time, it feels pretty weird.

Last night, I went to a party for a friend. It was a girls’ night out kind of thing, and there were at least five women there that I consider to be friends. But I didn’t know whom to hang out with, whom to talk to, whom to sit with. Everywhere I went, I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s conversation. I didn’t feel comfortable, no matter where I wandered. I just never felt like I fit in. I always feel like the outsider, even when I’m not.

Tonight was the Little League movie night. It’s a great evening on the baseball field, where they set up a huge inflatable movie screen and play a baseball movie, while everyone sets up blankets and beach chairs on the lawn. They sell hot chocolate and popcorn and everyone secretly brings picnics and pretends to hide their wine. The kids run around waving glow sticks and the parents hang out, chatting and drinking unidentified beverages out of plastic cups. I set up my chair with some other parents from David’s team, people I have known for years, people whose kids have shared coaches and teachers and afternoon playdates with my kids again and again. Still, I felt like an intruder in someone else's’ circle. How bizarre is that? I talk to these people every day. We carpool. We trade kids. We share wine from the same glasses. But I don’t feel like I am one of them. Instead, I feel like a kid on a foreign exchange program. I come from Planet Elsewhere, and all these lovely folks include me for the sake of curiosity and general politeness, but I do not belong. *One of these things is not like the other ones. One thing doesn’t belong...* Go ahead, sing with me...

Until it got dark and everyone settled down for the film, I wandered around from group to group. I hung with some of the PTA ladies I work with. I stood for a while with parents from Matty’s team. I laughed with women I’d seen the night before at the party about how silly we were. I said “hi” to some neighbors. I faded away from each of them, looking to see who else might draw me in.

I don’t know why it is that I have always felt this way. I’ve always been on the periphery, always orbited the center, always longed to stop moving and know myself home, but I’ve never known how. I wonder what that would feel like. I wonder what it would be like to settle into a group and know my place in the world, know where I belong. Someday I’d like to stop wandering from group to group, flitting about like a butterfly. I’m tired of being the wanderer.

UPDATE

I didn’t write this to inspire pity. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, especially when I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m not sitting in a dark room waiting for someone to come offer my flowers and make me feel loved. I feel loved already, thankyouverymuch. All I’m saying is that I am seeking more connection in the world. I would like to feel more rooted in my community. And I don’t think that I am alone in that sentiment. I think a lot of people feel alone in a crowd of friends. So, my door is open. My hand is extended. Feel free to grab a hold and come aboard. (Unless you’re super annoying. Even *I* have standards.)