Mother's Day

*Note: Originally written on Monday, 5/12/08, the day after Mother's Day.

So I read other people's blogs, mostly women, and I read about their mothers and their kids and their miscarriages, the assorted tragedies of being a person on Earth at this time. And I, like most people, compare my life to what I read, not necessarily in a judgemental way, just comparing, measuring differences. Quite often, the biggest difference is motherhood. As in, I'm not a mother, and most likely never will be. I think there is a biological component. I'm fertile, as far as I know, but I'm at an age when most women have either had children, or their biological clock is booming like a Taiko drum, and mine isn't. It would probably not be easy for me to get pregnant now, there would be a high risk of Down's Syndrome and other abnormalities related to aged eggs, and yet, there is only the tiniest whisper of If you want it, it has to be soon. Mostly, there is deep ambivalence when I think about pregnancy and a child of my own. I don't want it the way most women seem to, the way one friend did, desperately trying to get pregnant even though she had serious doubts about her fiancee. Or the woman who's husband didn't want kids, so she poked holes in his condoms. To me, that speaks of a yearning I don't feel, lengths I'm unwilling to go to. I don't know what I expect, maybe a deep clutching sensation in my uterus, but it's just not there.
My mother wasn't a particularly good one, not like some mothers I read about, sacrificing for their children, making sure they're taken care of. I admire women who are that way, who want better for their kids and work hard to ensure it. I had some interesting, mind-expanding times with my mom, but generally I feel she was selfish and neglectful. She did things because she wanted to, and dragged her kids along when she had to, often leaving us behind. Which is a good way to make a child feel abandoned and unloved. I think my little brother felt it more than I did, since my early childhood was more stable than his.
I like kids, I babysat a lot when I was younger, and I enjoy being around little ones, but still, there is only the barest thought of Do I want a baby? Maybe it's a balance thing, I don't feel I have space in my life for pregnancy and kids, what with having a disabled husband and a job and aspirations of a literary nature. Or maybe I'm just pathologically lazy, kids are a lot of work and I don't want to have to deal. I do have the idea that I could be like Josephine Baker and after I'm wildly successful, adopt a huge, multicultural family of needy kids. That seems like a really cool thing to do.
I had an uncomfortable conversation with an elevator inspector once. He was asking about my family and if I had children, he had six!, and when I told him I was childless, he looked at me with pity and condecension and asserted, "Why? Children are the joy of life!" I made some flip comment like, "Not always." or something like that (I mean, were Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson really the joy of their parent's lives?), when what I should have done is given him a teary, wide-eyed look, and said sadly, "I was in a horrible accident when I was young and I can't have children." Would have served the presumptuous dickhead right.

Partially Hydrogenated

Ok, so I wasn't paying attention when I bought some bake mixes that were on sale. And since they were on sale, I bought more than I usually would. I mean, we like cake and muffins, I make pretty good reduced-fat versions, and the expiration dates are far off. That should have been the clue. Fuck Pillsbury, and Betty Crocker too, with their partially-hydrogenated crap!! I didn't realize that the stuff is banned in some European markets, and yet American companies can still get away with feeding us unhealthy shit. Oh, but there's no trans fat, which is really bad for you, there's only partially hydrogenated. Which is like saying, well, we'll kick you in the nuts with our sock feet. Gee, thanks.
Oh well, my bad, I've got to read the labels more carefully. I guess I'll donate it to our local food bank, can't bring myself to throw it away, at least someone more desperate than I won't have to pay for the shit.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

This morning, I read Susan's blog over at 29 Black Street, and I can totally relate to how she's feeling. I need to make some big and serious changes in my life, changes for my health, sanity and future. Right now, I'm spinning my wheels, getting nowhere, paying bills and surviving, but not much more than that. I'm in this place, physically and emotionally, as a result of bad decisions and unhappy circumstance, and I need to figure out how to turn it around, preferably sooner.
I have a job I don't like. No big surprise there, that describes 90% of the people I know, but it pays the bills and keeps a roof over our heads, which is important, even more so when your spouse is disabled on a fixed income. I don't like being the sole breadwinner, and it makes it that much harder to change jobs or take time off. Everything I do has more impact because it's not just me I'm making decisions for. That was a hard-learned lesson.
It's occurred to me lately that I was happier when I was stripping. I know it sounds weird, but I was married, had flexible hours, worked with people I liked, and had a lot less stress than I do now. Of course, other things were different too. NSA wasn't disabled, was much healthier, and I was younger and more optimistic. I have determined that I don't enjoy making already rich people richer, it cramps my soul and I feel withered and diminished.
So I've got to come up with a workable plan to change my life and lift my spouse and myself out of this situation. I don't think it's going to be easy, and I know it will take time. And I've got to be careful, because rash decisions and poor implementation are why I'm here now.

MMMmmm

Because it's just before lunch and I'm hungry.

• Honey-roasted turkey breast with avocado, tomato, mayo and lettuce.
• Refried spaghetti. Fry the noodles a bit in olive oil before adding the sauce for a better texture.
• Reuben with light Swiss, ultra-thin sliced brisket, homemade 1000 Island dressing, grilled to perfection on Jewish rye.
• Loaded oatmeal. Frozen cherries and blueberries (thawed), chopped walnuts, cinnamon, vanilla and a dab of butter.
• Steak Diane, medium rare with a mushroom-onion cream sauce. NSA used to make it, haven't had this in ages.
• Grilled asparagus with homemade hollandaise. Full of fat and cholesterol, but incredibly tasty.
• Raspberry-cream cheese anything, actually, just cream cheese anything pretty much.
• Pan-roasted Chilean sea bass with chili-peanut sauce. Conscience won't let me eat it any more because Chilean sea bass has been severely overfished.
• Hot & Sour soup from Pick-Up Stix. Loaded with chicken, shrimp and tofu, the perfect blend of spice and tart. I've tried other local restaurants, none of them measure up. I also tried to make it myself, with disappointing results.
• Swedish pancakes with lingonberry jam and sour cream. Also, crepes with carmelized bananas and whipped cream, and ricotta-stuffed blini.

Not a complete list by far, but a decent start.

Okay Day

Last night I went to bed early, around eight o'clock, since I wasn't feeling well. Like too warm, achy, stinging eyes kind of not well. I thought I was getting sick. But I woke up this morning feeling okay, not wonderful, but alright, despite being woken up by a whiny cat and a wheezing husband at four in the morning (the cat is just a little bitch sometimes, and the husband forgot to take his asthma medicine before bed.) And that makes me think my symptoms were pretty much psychosomatic, that I had a bad day yesterday and my mood was low, so my body just went "can't deal, give it up."
Today, even after a restless night, I'm okay. The sun is shining and there's a bit of a breeze, it's supposed to be warm for the rest of the week. Sometimes, it's hard to figure out what I need, am I drinking enough water?, should I take an iron supplement?, but sometimes, all I need is to get through the night and wake up the next morning. Sometimes that's enough.

Random Friday

I hate it when guys I don't know call me "honey" or "sweetie," it seems presumptuous and just bugs me, but I don't mind it when women do the same thing, especially if they're older and have that kind of whiskey-and-cigarettes voice. Then I think it's kind of cute.
Jerry Orbach is my all-time favorite movie dad, I loved his character in Dirty Dancing. It was pretty heartbreaking when he left Law & Order, and then died.
My tadpoles aren't doing well, there's only one left. And even though I was forewarned that they're hard to raise, it still makes me a little sad.
Speaking of Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey was in a short-lived sitcom about L.A. called it's like, you know, that I really enjoyed. But she had such radical rhinoplasty that she really didn't look like herself any more. She didn't look bad, but I think her nose was kind of her signature, and after that, her career didn't seem the same.
I miss going out dancing with NSA a lot. We used to go out clubbing at least a couple of times a month. I miss not dressing up in fabulous clothes and shaking my ass in a gorgeous place with fun people; staying in on Friday nights makes me feel old and boring.

Peter Scolari Syndrome

What, you might ask, is Peter Scolari Syndrome (PSS)? Good question. You might recognize the name, particularly if you're a fan of Bob Newhart. But maybe not, not in the way you recognize, say, Tom Hanks, who is a cultural icon on par with Jimmy Stewart. And that's where PSS comes in, since once upon a time in the early '80s, these two young actors starred in a sitcom together. Neither of them had much success before the show, and both of them have had acting careers. It's just that in 1993, Tom Hanks had his Oscar-winning role in Philadelphia, while Peter Scolari starred in Infected (also titled Ticks, a horror movie about, you guessed it, mutant ticks). I'm not dissing Peter, he's spent his adult life acting, which in itself is an amazing achievement, but you gotta wonder how he feels about Tom. Is he resentful, envious, a tad bitter, or is he just grateful that he's been able to spend his time doing what he loves? He appeared in That Thing You Do!, which was written and directed by Tom, so his resentment (if there is any) doesn't likely run too deep, but I think it must rankle him at least a little, to look back and think, Why him? Is he that much better than me? And I wonder if he blames his height, his mother, his first acting coach, or maybe just dumb luck.

Nasty Little BASTARD!

A few days ago, a client comes into my office and proceeds to chew my ass ROYALLY! Screaming and swearing and practically hopping up and down he's so angry. I'm rather flabbergasted at this rat's asshole, especially since his complaint is completely without merit, but I manage to keep it together, for about ninety seconds. Then I let loose on him, minus the swearing, and escort him out of my office. I was completely rude. After I shut the door in his face, I immediately called and left my supervisor a message to let her know what went on. Then, I called our lawyer just to make sure I was in the clear. The attorney was very reassuring, stating that even if the client's complaint was legitimate, that's no excuse for (dumping a pile of shit on me) abusive behavior, and that his actions were borderline criminal.
My supervisor returned my call, sounding a little nervous and saying that she'd have to talk to the higher-ups about the incident, which made me nervous and antsy, since I didn't feel like I'd done anything wrong, but sometimes you get fired even when you haven't done anything wrong. And so I waited to see how this would turn out, not sleeping well, reprimanding myself, and obliterating my right pinkie nail with my teeth.
Yesterday afternoon, I get a call, my supervisor wants to see me in her office first thing in the morning. And I'm thinking this is not a good sign. Usually we communicate through phone and email, a face-to-face meeting is rare. So I get to her office and she does this thing where she looks you over from head-to-toe, not subtly I might add, and either says "You look nice today," or says nothing at all, which you can take to mean she thinks cat puke looks better than what you're wearing. This day, she likes my outfit. And then she wants to chat, haven't seen you in a while, how's the family, blah, blah, blah. And the whole time, I'm just waiting for the axe to fall. But it doesn't. Instead of the write-up or, at the very least, verbal reprimand that I was expecting (and sort of felt I almost deserved), she tells me that she's sending a letter to the client about how abuse of the associates will not be tolerated and if he doesn't behave civilly in the future, then he can take his business elsewhere. YESSSSS!! Score one for me against the little shitheads of the world. Now I'm just trying to figure out how to provoke the Napoleonic douchebag into going off on me again so that I won't have to deal with his vile self any more.