Do you know any of these people? Right the Fuck Now is their m.o. I live with two of them. I am having a hard time finding the words to describe the way this affects my life.
I am a screener. A listmaker. I will get to it when I'm ready. Give me some time to process, to think.
Ugh. Not good enough for Mr. and Little Miss RTFN. Did you call? Did you call? Did you call? Did you get it yet? Did you decide? Let's go RIGHT THE FUCK NOW.
Among the bourgeois I've heard a lot of talky-talk about having kids, not having kids, putting career first, self-fulfillment, what this all means.
No one ever puts the following in the plus column, but I would. Being in a marriage and being a parent FORCES you to grow. You have no choice. You are always acting, reacting, playing off the energy of others. Other people who have EXPECTATIONS of you. People who are of you, bonded to you, yet very different than you.
There is no coasting when you are part of a family unit. You constantly have to step up your game. Someday I'll be ready for the majors.
10/24/07
10/23/07
My Happy Place(s)
In response to my friend Mary's RFP for Happy Place posts. I do believe I've met the deadline!
I have four happy places and I am going to write about them all. I change tenses. Sometimes I am remembering. Other times I am really there. What a nice way to procrastinate this afternoon.
Sturdy bitch.
That’s the BP’s favorite term of endearment for me. He also affectionately calls me “a piece of ass.” I don’t mind. In fact, I’m flattered. I am quite vain about my ass.
My happiest place is the gym. I love to lift weights and I love to be strong. I feel like I can conquer the world and all my demons during a good, sweaty workout.
As I’ve said, I was never an athlete. For much of my life, I’ve felt awkward, clumsy, weak. Inside and out.
In the weight room – squatting, benching, rowing, pressing - I am fluid, focused, sexy, strong. I am beautiful and I am alive (if not fully awake; I usually fit my workouts in at 6 in the morning). For me, it beats Prozac.
With my earbuds in, I am transported. A little hip-hop lite – Kanye or Black Eyed Peas – I am a starring as a video vixen. With the theme from Rocky or the NJ anthem – Springsteen’s Born to Run – I am in training for the fight of my life; I push hard. Aaah - Guns n Roses, Peter Gabriel, – I am again a young woman, with responsibility to no one but myself.
Baking.
Nothing feels better to me than to be embraced by the warmth of the sun. I imagine this is what it feels like in the womb. On a cloudless day, near to noon, with the sun directly overhead, I feel as close to the Higher Being as I am going to get while still breathing.
Even better – I am sweaty and delirious. Sunbathing in Las Vegas in July. The ticklish sensation of the beads of sweat spilling over to form tributaries down my neck, between my breasts – I know I am near nirvana. Or perhaps just dehydrated and on the verge of sunstroke.
At the Ballet.
Everything was beautiful at the ballet
Graceful men lift lovely girls in white
Yes, everything was beautiful at the ballet – hey!
I was happy…at the ballet (from A Chorus Line)
Actually, at the New York City Ballet, it’s not about the tutu. Lourdes Lopez, Wendy Whelan, Nikolai Hubbe…some of my favorite dancers from the 90s. Before kids, I was at the State Theater twice a week. The music, the athleticism, the beauty of bodies in motion, artists giving of their gifts and passion. Magic. In the left wing I literally bumped elbows with Baryshnikov. My God.
My happy place is not in the 1st ring, the orchestra or even backstage (did you know that nearly all ballet dancers smoke?). It’s the edge of the fountain in the heart of Lincoln Center plaza, where the sound of Broadway traffic is muffled, the air always feels fresh and crisp, people are crossing everywhich way like ants, and I can fantasize about running into Damian Woetzel and having him sweep me into his dressing room and bend me over the barre before he takes the stage.
Not always in solitude.
Generally, I am my own best company. But I do have one happy place that includes others. On the front porch “down the shore.” We’ve just returned from a day at the beach, with several hours of baking for me, if I’m so lucky. We may still have sand in our suits, or perhaps our hair is dripping from an outdoor shower, the sting of the sun still fresh on my cheeks. Some of us are parked for the evening, enjoying the first of many chilled beers, fresh off tap, and bowls full of lime-baked tortilla chips. (I indulge in neither. I’m a teetotaling, recovering alcoholic and take the BP’s word that those gritty chips are “like crack cocaine.”) We gossip, poke fun and send the kids inside to fetch more beer. When they start to whine that they’re hungry, we send them to the corner to pick up some pizzas. We call out to the neighbors walking by, or biking back from the beach (how does he pedal and balance a surfboard like that?)
As dusk sets in, the neon fish is turned on and the tunes get louder. My life has a soundtrack, and the Summertime playlist works on these evenings. Janis Joplin, Sublime, Bob Marley. We’re still laughing; there are so many things to laugh about. Maybe tonight we’ll get a lightning storm – better than fireworks! One by one we head inside for bed; hopefully the kids before the grown-ups. Tomorrow we’ll sleep in and start the day with hot coffee and Taylor ham and cheese sandwiches. Only in New Jersey.
I have four happy places and I am going to write about them all. I change tenses. Sometimes I am remembering. Other times I am really there. What a nice way to procrastinate this afternoon.
Sturdy bitch.
That’s the BP’s favorite term of endearment for me. He also affectionately calls me “a piece of ass.” I don’t mind. In fact, I’m flattered. I am quite vain about my ass.
My happiest place is the gym. I love to lift weights and I love to be strong. I feel like I can conquer the world and all my demons during a good, sweaty workout.
As I’ve said, I was never an athlete. For much of my life, I’ve felt awkward, clumsy, weak. Inside and out.
In the weight room – squatting, benching, rowing, pressing - I am fluid, focused, sexy, strong. I am beautiful and I am alive (if not fully awake; I usually fit my workouts in at 6 in the morning). For me, it beats Prozac.
With my earbuds in, I am transported. A little hip-hop lite – Kanye or Black Eyed Peas – I am a starring as a video vixen. With the theme from Rocky or the NJ anthem – Springsteen’s Born to Run – I am in training for the fight of my life; I push hard. Aaah - Guns n Roses, Peter Gabriel, – I am again a young woman, with responsibility to no one but myself.
Baking.
Nothing feels better to me than to be embraced by the warmth of the sun. I imagine this is what it feels like in the womb. On a cloudless day, near to noon, with the sun directly overhead, I feel as close to the Higher Being as I am going to get while still breathing.
Even better – I am sweaty and delirious. Sunbathing in Las Vegas in July. The ticklish sensation of the beads of sweat spilling over to form tributaries down my neck, between my breasts – I know I am near nirvana. Or perhaps just dehydrated and on the verge of sunstroke.
At the Ballet.
Everything was beautiful at the ballet
Graceful men lift lovely girls in white
Yes, everything was beautiful at the ballet – hey!
I was happy…at the ballet (from A Chorus Line)
Actually, at the New York City Ballet, it’s not about the tutu. Lourdes Lopez, Wendy Whelan, Nikolai Hubbe…some of my favorite dancers from the 90s. Before kids, I was at the State Theater twice a week. The music, the athleticism, the beauty of bodies in motion, artists giving of their gifts and passion. Magic. In the left wing I literally bumped elbows with Baryshnikov. My God.
My happy place is not in the 1st ring, the orchestra or even backstage (did you know that nearly all ballet dancers smoke?). It’s the edge of the fountain in the heart of Lincoln Center plaza, where the sound of Broadway traffic is muffled, the air always feels fresh and crisp, people are crossing everywhich way like ants, and I can fantasize about running into Damian Woetzel and having him sweep me into his dressing room and bend me over the barre before he takes the stage.
Not always in solitude.
Generally, I am my own best company. But I do have one happy place that includes others. On the front porch “down the shore.” We’ve just returned from a day at the beach, with several hours of baking for me, if I’m so lucky. We may still have sand in our suits, or perhaps our hair is dripping from an outdoor shower, the sting of the sun still fresh on my cheeks. Some of us are parked for the evening, enjoying the first of many chilled beers, fresh off tap, and bowls full of lime-baked tortilla chips. (I indulge in neither. I’m a teetotaling, recovering alcoholic and take the BP’s word that those gritty chips are “like crack cocaine.”) We gossip, poke fun and send the kids inside to fetch more beer. When they start to whine that they’re hungry, we send them to the corner to pick up some pizzas. We call out to the neighbors walking by, or biking back from the beach (how does he pedal and balance a surfboard like that?)
As dusk sets in, the neon fish is turned on and the tunes get louder. My life has a soundtrack, and the Summertime playlist works on these evenings. Janis Joplin, Sublime, Bob Marley. We’re still laughing; there are so many things to laugh about. Maybe tonight we’ll get a lightning storm – better than fireworks! One by one we head inside for bed; hopefully the kids before the grown-ups. Tomorrow we’ll sleep in and start the day with hot coffee and Taylor ham and cheese sandwiches. Only in New Jersey.
The Proselytizer * and **
Last month my mother-in-law tried to convert me again.
MIL: How are you feeling?
Bourgeois Mom: Good, but tired. Quite often stressed out, actually.
MIL: You should take Prozac.
Bourgeois Mom: Well, thank you for your concern. I really think that my level of stress and anxiety is tied closely to the 6 hours of sleep I average per night and my juggling a job, kids and household responsibilities while still trying to have a life for myself that includes triathlon training. Plus, you know DS can be a bit challenging, and I worry about him and what the future holds for him.
MIL: DS should take Prozac.
Bourgeois Mom: Again, thank you. But, you know, we’ve seen a lot of professionals including The Expert at Yale, and, well, there’s no magic pill for autism right now. We tried some medication under pressure from the school a few years ago, but it didn’t seem to have a noticeable effect.
MIL: Well, there’s no need for the two of you to suffer so. I don’t understand why you won’t at least try the Prozac.
Bourgeois Mom: I wouldn’t really call what we’re experiencing here suffering. People who have lost limbs in a war suffer, I would project, but I haven’t actually been there. Children who are orphaned or sexually abused suffer, I imagine. Those who are dying of AIDS or cancer probably are suffering a great deal. I think we’re just living a life over here. ***
MIL: I’ve been on Prozac for ten years and I shit daisies every day.
Bourgeois Mom: Still not convinced.
*90% of this conversation took place in my head. The “You should take Prozac,” to the best of my recollection, was uttered verbatim. How do memoirists do it?
** What do you know? All my life I’ve been pronouncing proselytize with a “th.”
*** All right, I’m not Tom Cruise here. Psychiatric medications are necessary for many people. And they may have been life saving for her. But they are not the magic pill for all that ails us.
(Sorry about all the endnotes. At one point in my life I was a Ph.D. student.)
MIL: How are you feeling?
Bourgeois Mom: Good, but tired. Quite often stressed out, actually.
MIL: You should take Prozac.
Bourgeois Mom: Well, thank you for your concern. I really think that my level of stress and anxiety is tied closely to the 6 hours of sleep I average per night and my juggling a job, kids and household responsibilities while still trying to have a life for myself that includes triathlon training. Plus, you know DS can be a bit challenging, and I worry about him and what the future holds for him.
MIL: DS should take Prozac.
Bourgeois Mom: Again, thank you. But, you know, we’ve seen a lot of professionals including The Expert at Yale, and, well, there’s no magic pill for autism right now. We tried some medication under pressure from the school a few years ago, but it didn’t seem to have a noticeable effect.
MIL: Well, there’s no need for the two of you to suffer so. I don’t understand why you won’t at least try the Prozac.
Bourgeois Mom: I wouldn’t really call what we’re experiencing here suffering. People who have lost limbs in a war suffer, I would project, but I haven’t actually been there. Children who are orphaned or sexually abused suffer, I imagine. Those who are dying of AIDS or cancer probably are suffering a great deal. I think we’re just living a life over here. ***
MIL: I’ve been on Prozac for ten years and I shit daisies every day.
Bourgeois Mom: Still not convinced.
*90% of this conversation took place in my head. The “You should take Prozac,” to the best of my recollection, was uttered verbatim. How do memoirists do it?
** What do you know? All my life I’ve been pronouncing proselytize with a “th.”
*** All right, I’m not Tom Cruise here. Psychiatric medications are necessary for many people. And they may have been life saving for her. But they are not the magic pill for all that ails us.
(Sorry about all the endnotes. At one point in my life I was a Ph.D. student.)
10/8/07
Clues
Q: When did you first notice your son was different?
Well, he's always been a bit lopsided:
DS talked (12 months) before he could walk (15 months).
He read on his own (age 3) before he was out of diapers (age 4).
He started doing algebra (age 7) before he could tie his shoes (nearly 8).
And now - “I’ll have an iced grande peppermint decaf latte with whip.”
At the age of 12, he learned to order his Starbucks despite not being able to cut his own pancakes!
Well, he's always been a bit lopsided:
DS talked (12 months) before he could walk (15 months).
He read on his own (age 3) before he was out of diapers (age 4).
He started doing algebra (age 7) before he could tie his shoes (nearly 8).
And now - “I’ll have an iced grande peppermint decaf latte with whip.”
At the age of 12, he learned to order his Starbucks despite not being able to cut his own pancakes!
10/1/07
Race???? Part I
I used to be Hispanic, but I’m not any more. Or Latina, whatever they are calling it these days. My father was born in an adobe hut, according to family lore, in a small Central Mexican town called Chalchihuites. I looked it up on the map. It exists. I’ve never been there. As an infant, his family immigrated to New York City (legally, thank you very much) and later settled on Long Island. He doesn’t talk much about his childhood. The facts I’ve gleaned are these: 1) he used to think that the flecks in vanilla bean ice cream were dirt; 2) he bathed in the kitchen of his family’s two-room apartment in Hell’s Kitchen; 3) he learned to speak English in kindergarten and 4) he was made to kneel on rice as a punishment and his father did not spare the rod, or the belt buckle as it were.
There’s no doubt about it. HE is Mexican. An immigrant. “Disadvantaged.” He did not go to college and has engaged in mechanical work.
According to my analysis, that made me “first generation,” from a “working class family.” Cool. I was eligible for many scholarships and was courted by an Ivy League school.
Now I’m bourgeois. I have been acted upon affirmatively, and this turned out pretty well. I have two houses, three cars and I go on a lot of nice vacations. My friends are doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs.
I check the white box. Or Caucasian. Whatever.
Why do I do this? It’s because of what “they” mean when they ask the question.
I know this. I work with many not-for-profit social service agencies serving a large city. O.K. New York City. Our funders always want to know – how many Blacks and Hispanics (African-American, Latino, WHATEVER) do you serve? There must be many. These people need HELP.
I don’t need help any more. I am no longer “disadvantaged.” I am decidedly advantaged. So I must be white, right?
But check out my quiet act of resistance.
I don’t mean the flag or the “proudly.” I mean the fact that I HAVE an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror of my BMW SUV. :-)
There’s no doubt about it. HE is Mexican. An immigrant. “Disadvantaged.” He did not go to college and has engaged in mechanical work.
According to my analysis, that made me “first generation,” from a “working class family.” Cool. I was eligible for many scholarships and was courted by an Ivy League school.
Now I’m bourgeois. I have been acted upon affirmatively, and this turned out pretty well. I have two houses, three cars and I go on a lot of nice vacations. My friends are doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs.
I check the white box. Or Caucasian. Whatever.
Why do I do this? It’s because of what “they” mean when they ask the question.
I know this. I work with many not-for-profit social service agencies serving a large city. O.K. New York City. Our funders always want to know – how many Blacks and Hispanics (African-American, Latino, WHATEVER) do you serve? There must be many. These people need HELP.
I don’t need help any more. I am no longer “disadvantaged.” I am decidedly advantaged. So I must be white, right?
But check out my quiet act of resistance.
I don’t mean the flag or the “proudly.” I mean the fact that I HAVE an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror of my BMW SUV. :-)
9/24/07
On Youth Sports
My forearms are red and tingly; my eyes are bleary. “If you get another bag, you can take advantage of our two for $3.00 special,” chirps the woman behind the register. Impressive customer service at the Quick Check at 6:30 this Saturday morning. I reclaim my place in line with another bag of ice. I have no feeling left in my arms.
It turns out to have been good advice – I do need four bags to ice down the three dozen single servings of Gatorade, water and orange juice. I am pushing all thoughts of my carbon footprint to a different portion of my mind. Last season, when I sent a three gallon bottle of water and some paper cups, I got "feedback."
I don’t have time to justify the waste. This soccer mom is on snack duty.
8 a.m. soccer scrimmage with a neighboring town followed by a softball double-header 20 miles south. Quick change of uniforms in the car. Sunday’s travel schedule brings us 18 miles north for a 4:45 soccer game. We arrive at 4:00 for warm-ups.
I was the kid picked last for kickball at recess. I was kicked off the Honor Society for failing gym. My husband tosses me the car keys and I duck.
Sports were never my thing. This is INSANE.
My daughter plays two sports. Year-round. Two hours of training, twice a week for both, plus weekend games out of town. She’s ten and she’s been training like an Olympic hopeful for three years now. As one family, we pay $2,000 a year to import “football trainers” from the U.K. to – I’m not sure how to fill in the blank. …win soccer games?
My daughter is not athletically gifted. She LOVES to play, she loves to be with her friends, she loves being part of the team. She runs, she tries hard, she learns. She drinks the Gatorade and eats the snacks at half time. What she needs is a pick up game in the park, neighborhood kickball, biking to a friend’s and playing catch in the yard. And Kool-aid.
This is just not an option here in Baristaville*. I left my kids un-scheduled for three weeks in August so they could hang out with their friends.
Boy, did this backfire. NO ONE was around. The streets were empty.
Instead I gave our babysitter $100 a day to go entertain them – waterparks, movies, pizza, museums. Seriously, it was demonstrated to me that they do not know what to do unless we provide adult supervised, expensive entertainment. This is a crime and I am complicit.
I am a soccer lemming. I don’t know what else to say.
* a term I did not coin, but lifted from another local blogger
It turns out to have been good advice – I do need four bags to ice down the three dozen single servings of Gatorade, water and orange juice. I am pushing all thoughts of my carbon footprint to a different portion of my mind. Last season, when I sent a three gallon bottle of water and some paper cups, I got "feedback."
I don’t have time to justify the waste. This soccer mom is on snack duty.
8 a.m. soccer scrimmage with a neighboring town followed by a softball double-header 20 miles south. Quick change of uniforms in the car. Sunday’s travel schedule brings us 18 miles north for a 4:45 soccer game. We arrive at 4:00 for warm-ups.
I was the kid picked last for kickball at recess. I was kicked off the Honor Society for failing gym. My husband tosses me the car keys and I duck.
Sports were never my thing. This is INSANE.
My daughter plays two sports. Year-round. Two hours of training, twice a week for both, plus weekend games out of town. She’s ten and she’s been training like an Olympic hopeful for three years now. As one family, we pay $2,000 a year to import “football trainers” from the U.K. to – I’m not sure how to fill in the blank. …win soccer games?
My daughter is not athletically gifted. She LOVES to play, she loves to be with her friends, she loves being part of the team. She runs, she tries hard, she learns. She drinks the Gatorade and eats the snacks at half time. What she needs is a pick up game in the park, neighborhood kickball, biking to a friend’s and playing catch in the yard. And Kool-aid.
This is just not an option here in Baristaville*. I left my kids un-scheduled for three weeks in August so they could hang out with their friends.
Boy, did this backfire. NO ONE was around. The streets were empty.
Instead I gave our babysitter $100 a day to go entertain them – waterparks, movies, pizza, museums. Seriously, it was demonstrated to me that they do not know what to do unless we provide adult supervised, expensive entertainment. This is a crime and I am complicit.
I am a soccer lemming. I don’t know what else to say.
* a term I did not coin, but lifted from another local blogger
8/26/07
Summer Reading
“Oh, you should read this, I think you’ll like it,” my mother tells me. She and I exchange books a lot, despite the fact that one should always take her recommendations with a grain of salt.
How was the movie, Mom? “It was EXCELLENT. The best I’ve ever seen. That Cate Blanchett should win an Oscar.”
I heard you tried that new Italian place. “The chicken piccata was OUTSTANDING. I really can’t remember having such a good meal.”
Hey, welcome back from vacation! “Oh my gosh, Provence was AMAZING. I felt like I died and went to heaven. I’m so lucky to be alive.”
And finally, “My grandchildren are all so BRILLIANT . They are just such a pleasure to be with.”
My mother is a glass half-full kinda gal.
The book she passed on to me was Eat, Pray, Love.
It is a treatise for bourgeois women everywhere:
My husband is boring! I think I will collapse on my bathroom floor and bang my head against the cold ceramic tile.
I found a hot lover! Why is my husband so mad at me? I think I will divorce him.
My lover is emotionally unavailable. I think I need Zoloft.
If I am not going to be a suburban soccer mom, then I don’t know who I am. I think I will travel to an ashram to find myself.
I read 25 pages. I scoffed. Is this woman SERIOUS?!!
But, she uses the word smug several times. I read the whole thing. I have two concluding thoughts:
1. Hmmm, maybe I should get myself a guru.
2. Wait, I’ve heard this message before. Ah, yes.
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