Reading this post on Gin and Tacos led me to this video on AT&T’s archives.My grandparents still have their rotary phone, which I regarded with disdain when I was young. If I was spending the night there as a kid, I had to think long and hard about how badly I wanted to call my parents, because our phone number had 8s and 7s and even A ZERO AND DEAR GOD LIFE IS TOO SHORT. Now, it’s kind of cool to use it. The whirring zip of the dial gives me the tiniest thrill and the action of moving it around with my finger makes me feel like I possess some mysterious old skill.
The husband and I were watching Adaptation the other night, which we love and I was struck by this scene in which Meryl Streep’s character, deep in an experiment with mind-expanding orchid powder and finally fascinated by something, has a winding phone conversation with her article subject and soon-to-be lover.
I remarked to the husband, somewhat sadly, “People soon won’t remember what dial tones sound like. Cell phones don’t have them.” I never noticed it before, but it really is quite a beautiful sound.
Over the long weekend, we made our annual pilgrimage to Detroit. After carefully considering the lineup and cost for this year’s festival, we decided to not attend the festival proper, and instead save our time, money, and energy for the after parties and the city at large.
It felt a little weird to not be marching down Jefferson toward Hart Plaza every day. But, as I explained to someone who asked, I just don’t feel like it’s for me anymore. The promoters are catering to a different crowd (read: wealthier and, I’m sorry, not at all sophisticated in musical taste or public behavior). The lineup is just not as worthwhile for me to endure the discomfort of sharing a space with people who are either too young or too old to act the way that they do…not that there’s a good age to wake up and say, “Today I think I’ll experiment with wearing just underpants.” Although, from what I understand, the behavior of festival attendees in general was extremely subdued compared to that of people in town a few weeks ago for a country music festival. Apparently, nightmares came to life and rode into town on John Deere tractors.
Anyway, our loose plan was to do some touristy things that had been on our list for awhile, take it day by day as far as the festival goes and set aside money for daily admission if there was someone who we really wanted to see and didn’t think we would have another opportunity. We would eat well, check out the sights, head back to the hotel for disco naps, and then enjoy the nightlife.
This worked out wonderfully.
My Twitter and Facebook remained virtually silent throughout the weekend, until finally I stopped laughing long enough to report:
By that point, I had spent nearly every minute since Friday afternoon with the husband, the sister-in-law, the sister-in-law’s boyfriend, Frank, and Noleian, plus other groups of Pittsburghers like Jwan, Liz, Adam, Preslav, Shawn, Kristine, Curt, Amanda, Tony, Sarah, and Arnie. We had been all over the city, exploring eateries and neighborhoods that we’d never seen before. Then we would go out and dance ourselves silly before returning to the hotel and waking the birds up with our slumber party antics. We had so much fun.
There was a decent amount of cutting loose, including an ill-advised plan on Friday to sample Four Loko and Blast by Colt 45. As I heaved the cans down from their shelves at the party store, I explained, “We’re all going to try a little bit of each. It’ll be like a wine flight!”
I took some tasting notes from the assembled imbibers:
“It smells like…something I’ve smelled before.”
“It looks like…something I’ve seen before.”
“Hmm…It’s like you soaked a urinal cake in beer and drank it.”
“Gives you corpse tongue.”
“Tastes like they had a bum swish this around in his mouth and then spit it in a can.”
The Strawberry Watermelon was terrible. The Blueberry Pomegranate was okay, but we were alarmed when a small amount spilled on the nightstand and stained it immediately, as we suddenly became aware of what this concoction might be doing to our insides. The Lemonade Four Loko was almost pleasant, but it’s worth remembering that we were probably irrevocably brain-damaged by the time we cracked that bad boy open.
With that milestone behind us, we headed out to see Suburban Knight and Juan Atkins. Suburban Knight was awesome. Juan was apparently hiding a wet blanket in his leather pants because he immediately made things weird and not fun, so we left.
On Saturday, the sister-in-law and her boyfriend and I went to Hamtramck, which is a city within Detroit, and met up with the husband, Frank, and Noleian at Detroit Threads. It was a cool record store but is also a vintage clothing store. This was a huge bonus for me. When I go on record shopping trips with the husband, I usually poke around for a little bit and keep an eye out for stuff that I know he’s looking for, but I can’t help but get bored after awhile. The selection of clothing that they had was really impressive and well-organized. The sister-in-law and I both actually found a number of items that were a) cute, b) decently priced, and c) fit us. It’s pretty hard to find all three of these qualities in many vintage stores, in my experience. I bought two dresses and a totally badass coat that I’ll have to take pictures of and show you. So excited about them.
We were going to go to Slows BBQ for dinner but they had a two-hour wait and we were getting murderously hungry. We ended up at Mexican Village, which was decent but not outstanding. I was pretty proud of us for going through multiple pitchers of salsa (yes, pitchers of salsa) and margaritas.
That night, we went to a cafe/performance venue to see Kai Alce and Omar S, which was so, so great. The venue is notoriously hot and within minutes we were all sweating. This did not deter us from going crazy the rest of the night, especially since Omar S’ set was completely bananas. I kept looking at the husband and saying, “What is this track?” and was frankly disturbed when he didn’t know any of them, because that dude is a veritable walking encyclopedia of dance music. I then said out loud, “I think maybe Omar S was abducted by aliens and they gave him a stack of records to play. I’m concerned.”
We finally got to a point where we had to step outside, and the husband and I bumped into Scott Grooves. He and the husband needed to exchange records, so we walked with him to his car. It was a unique kind of delight to come upon Scott’s mid-80s Pontiac Parisienne and to watch him open the trunk to reveal a meticulous collection of plastic bags. What an odd fellow.
On Sunday, we went to a Detroit Tigers/Boston Red Sox game at Comerica Park. It was slightly miserable for the first inning or so as it was in the mid 90s and sunny. But it eventually cooled down. It was cool to see a Major League baseball game somewhere other than PNC Park and we got to see Big Papi hit a home run. Comerica Park is very…busy. It seems like when it came time to decorate it, anything that was standing still was outfitted with a tiger, a baseball, a bat, a Chevy, a fountain, a bridge, or sometimes all six.
Also, this happened:
Which only bolstered my suspicions that aliens were present and indicated to me that CLEARLY I need to drink and get little sleep more often since it does so much for my critical thinking capabilities.
For dinner, we went to Buddy’s Pizza, which was ridiculously tasty. I’ve not done extensive pizza taste tests over the country, but I feel like, objectively, Buddy’s has some of the best.
The after party that we had planned on attending was shut down and without a real back-up plan we ended up just staying in for the night, which was kind of dumb. We should have just gone out, but oh well.
Monday we finally made it to Slows which was OHMYHOLYGOD delicious. Let me blow your mind here for a second (vegetarians, look away).
Green beans, pulled pork, chicken, and brisket. The brisket literally melted in my mouth.
An unfortunately too dark picture of our ribs, macaroni and cheese, black eyed peas, and baked beans. I wish I could have documented the meal better but my hands were shaking in anticipation from the meat fumes.
Banana pudding with banana slices and Nilla wafers. Swoon!
Then we were all kinda meat-drunk.
Since we were right by the iconic Michigan Central Station, we decided to walk off a little bit of our meal and check it out like good yuppie wannabes post-industrial ruin tourists urban explorers I-can-see-this-becoming-some-really-wonderful-loft-apartments-starting-in-the-low-300s!
It’s just…stunning. It’s huge and smells kinda weird but is still really, really beautiful.
Someone who used to work there just happened to drive past and told us how gorgeous and busy it used to be. He didn’t sound sad. Just matter-of-fact.
I felt kind of bad about the pictures that I took this year, since so many of them capture what people would see as negatives. But it’s hard to capture stuff like this:
…a grown man and his friends, laughing, for a few precious days not caring about whatever has them down, genuinely having a wonderful time with people who truly understand each other. Or this:
…the beauty of a renaissance center shrouded in fog late at night. If you’ve been there, then maybe you understand what I’m talking about.
Anyway, our last night was going to be at a house party featuring Andres and Malik Pittman, both of whom I adore. I was especially excited about Andres since he’s responsible for one of my personal anthems.
Unfortunately, the barbecue turned on me and I spent an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom. I resigned myself to the fact that I was too sick to go out. I crumbled into bed and turned on TV while everyone else went out. I was in the middle of a really depressing program about Gettysburg (the average time of a limb amputation in field hospitals was 12 minutes) when Frank texted me and asked if I felt like I could possibly make it out. “Maybe,” I replied. Then I decided that there was no way that I was spending our last night there in bed. The husband drove back to the hotel to get me and I shuffled to the car, ginger ale in hand. When we got to the venue, the bouncer let me in for free because I was wearing my Northland Roller Rink shirt. I was pretty proud of myself for rallying, even though I had to elbow some people out of the way to get some choice real estate near a window, as it was too hot for me in my, er, sensitive condition.
I came home to Pittsburgh feeling tired and kind of gross, but my spirits were totally rejuvenated. I love my friends. I love my husband. I love that we do this together every year.
“Alright, let’s get going. We still have to go to the store.”
I gathered up my purse and my camera. The baby girl stared up at me from her swing and I bent down to tickle her behind her ears one more time and pressed her tiny, round feet in between my forefingers and thumbs. We hugged her daddy good-bye and walked outside into the late afternoon sun.
The smell was almost intoxicating. The ground was warming up on the first legitimate spring day. It inhaled the sun and exhaled the possibility of life beginning again, much like how the baby girl’s sighs and giggles had filled the room. The nearby steel mill pumped its scent into the air. The baby girl’s mother had commented on it earlier with a somewhat weary tone, not looking forward to another hot summer with that smell permeating the humidity. “I kind of really like it,” I admitted. “There was a mill in my neighborhood where I grew up. I’d forgotten all about that smell.” That mill was long gone now, the land being reborn into luxury apartments and townhomes. Those don’t have a scent, as far as I know.
The train roared past, announcing our departure from Braddock. Entering that small town had been like a trip back in time for both me and the husband. Despite the tremendous efforts pouring into the community to restore it, it remained a worn version of itself from when it started its rapid decline when we were kids. “This is exactly what Pittsburgh looked like when we were little,” we marveled. “All of it. The houses, the streets…” and the intangibles that we couldn’t quite grasp, like the way your dad smells when he comes in for dinner after working outside. Everything seemed…slower…drowsier. Happy and sad with the knowledge that life just keeps on going, like spring afternoons and baby toes and a groaning, creaking steel mill that used to pump the lifeblood of a community and now just pumps weird scents into the air.
We rode toward our end of town and I let the wind create small knots in my hair, brief suggestions of red lace. We sped past Carrie Furnace, which imposed itself against the landscape of still brown trees aching to burst with yellow-green buds. The rusty red stairs and bridge demanded that you look and respect it. As my baby dozed off in the back seat, the husband turned up the song that had come on.
Home is where I want to be. But I guess I’m already there.
I was sure I’d been somewhere else all this time, lost and alone with no way back. Looking at that huge furnace and its bright red appendages, my chest suddenly ached. This is my home. This landscape created me. It shrivels and dies and seems to disappear, but its elegant beasts remain, landmarks to remind me of where I’ve always been.
If you are a cashier at a coffee shop/cafe and you suddenly resume your conversation about meatloaf with a co-worker who is invisible to customers behind a stack of boxes, some confusion may occur. You see, the frazzled secretary waiting to pay for the somewhat dodgy sushi lunch will assume that your question, “So, you don’t like it with gravy?” is regarding her impending meal. And she may be overly polite and will produce an answer, despite the terrifying nonsensical context, and reply, “Um…no, I don’t think I’ve ever put gravy on sushi.” And you and your co-worker, who has suddenly peered from behind the boxes to study this odd creature who allows words to just tumble out of her mouth about meatloaf and gravy and sushi, will suddenly become just as confused as the now thoroughly embarrassed secretary. And eye contact will no longer be bearable.
So, you know, don’t do that.
* * *
The husband whisked me away for a restorative weekend of food and walks and TV because I’ve been really sad lately. We watched many episodes of Food Network’s offerings to the reality TV gods, including Chopped, Cupcake Wars, and…I don’t know…manufactured drama over fondant. Much like the tic of reality stars of other competition-based shows to say, “I’m not here to make friends,” competitive chefs have a tendency to say, “Go big or go home.” This makes sense when you’re talking about cupcakes, as they’re known for their gigantic size. The husband, who doesn’t absorb bumper sticker folk wisdom or cliches very readily, which is odd since one of the first gifts he ever gave me was a book of cliches, took note of this repetitive boast: “They keep saying…like, ‘If you’re gonna go, go big.'”
We took great delight in reconstructing cliches in this manner over the rest of the weekend.
There’s a box and you’re outside it. Thinking.
That’s evil but less so than this other evil.
If there’s something that you can do now, you should do it and not wait because procrastinating is doing stuff later.
Mi casa es mi casa but you can come over whenever.
* * *
We watched most of Sex and the City 2 last night. It was offensive. And terrible. And offensively terrible. And two and half hours long. The husband and I have a really unhealthy habit of watching particularly bad movies for the sheer delight of giving them the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 treatment.
“What happened in the first one?”
“Uhhhh…you know, honestly, I think I blacked out in the middle of it. But it was also two and a half hours long and I remember the realization that I had been watching it for hours depressing the hell out of me.”
Upon seeing Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda peek around a corner wearing burqas:
“I know that it is not in any way okay to say this, but I’m pretty sure this is why planes get flown into buildings.”
“Maybe the 9/11 terrorists saw this movie and traveled back in time to try to stop it.”
“Like Terminator?”
“Yeah…I think.”
“Maybe John Connor wrote Sex and the City 2?”
Upon watching Carrie, insecure in her marriage after confessing to kissing her old flame in Abu Dhabi, come home to a Big-less apartment and the TV missing:
“I bet he’s just out buying a new TV.”
“I hope she goes totally Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale and is halfway through burning all of his clothes when he comes home.”
Pondering the last five minutes of the movie, in which all plot development abruptly stopped and the writers just threw all of the characters back together happily with their spouses:
“Huh. They must have been two hours and 25 minutes into the movie when they realized that it was going absolutely fucking nowhere and were like, ‘Okay, let’s just end.'”
“Orphan is coming on. That movie was also terrible. Come to think of it, Orphan was similar to Sex and the City 2. This girl is being weird and killing people for over two hours and you’re supposed to be thinking, ‘What could possibly cause this little girl to go on this rampage with this ridiculous accent?'” And the big reveal is that it’s because she’s actually 35 and you’re like, ‘Uh…’ That’s not even a twist. Someone being 35 is not a twist. That’s just starting a whole other movie.”
I had made a half-hearted promise to myself to impose a NaBloPoMo-type requirement for February, since I just don’t post here enough and it’s silly because this is my space. This is where I should hang out. I have a few more hours of February 1 and it’s a short month so I think I can swing it.
Today was one of those tough days, too many big things going on, too much grown-up stuff, too many realizations that the people who were the grown-ups for us aren’t always going to be around. It makes me feel vulnerable, like soon there won’t be any grown-ups left in the world, or maybe they were never there. Just big people who managed to make me feel okay.
This afternoon, I found my thoughts wandering to Sunday’s episode of Big Love. Bill’s mother is exhibiting signs of dementia and Barb says to him, “I’m strong. Let me shoulder some of this burden.” I didn’t feel at all strong or capable or grown-up until I was able to grab the husband’s hand and ask if he was okay. Later, he let me hug him a little longer than he usually does and I felt strong. I felt like I could shoulder some of his burden. I never think I can be strong until I just flex my heart muscle and carry some of this big world around.
Way back in 2000, just a few weeks after the husband became the boyfriend, I came down with a really disgusting stomach virus. It was a total disaster because as poorly as I handle vomitous situations now, I was way worse back then. I wouldn’t calm down about what was happening and kept trying to find what I considered, in my no doubt delirious brain, the most appropriate receptacle for my stomach contents. Because I was sick and weak, I never made it to any of the arbitrary destinations I had in mind, and ended up throwing up all over the goddamn place. It was pathetic. I’m pretty sure that I begged to be taken to the hospital mid-heave on the dining room floor.
My mom had to come and help mitigate the situation, but the husband stayed right by my side the whole time as I ran from room to room, ruining carpets, and slept on the couch with me while I watched The Outsiders and clutched a bucket.
Ten years later, almost to the day probably, in some weird, messed up cycle, I came down with another bug. It wasn’t quite as intense as the original version and I’m slightly less of a baby about the whole thing. But…ugh.
I was fine yesterday, but in the car on the way home, my stomach felt a little uneasy and I suddenly became very sensitive to smells. “I smell burnt plastic,” I snarled, but no one else did.
When we got home, I headed to the kitchen to make dinner, but spun around and told the husband and the baby that they should dip into their soup reserves because I wasn’t feeling good and didn’t want to make anything. Then I headed upstairs because I needed to go to the bathroom.
I sat there, slightly concerned, but figuring/hoping that going to the bathroom would take that away. But then I started sweating out of nowhere and thought, “That…generally doesn’t happen.” And, of course, the baby was talking to me about…something through the door until I had to tell him to please stop because I was physically unable to talk anymore.
I stood up, flushed, and tried to evaluate the situation. “Yeah, I think maybe it’s going to happen. It’s okay. You can do this. Try not to think about what you ate for lunch today and how that will look in reverse. You don’t know how long you have at this point. Best to get ready. Take off your sweater. Secure your hair. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be–HHUUUUUUGHGHHGHHUUUAAAAAAAAHGHGHGGHHHH.”
The baby had still been talking until he heard the unmistakable noises of hurling. As soon as there was a break in the (very graphic…believe me I am sparing you SO MUCH detail) action, he sweetly called out, “Mum? Are you okay?”
“Bleh. Cough. No.”
Once everything had calmed down and I had cleaned up the bathroom, I shuffled into my room and changed into pajamas.
And so it continued for the next few hours, though thankfully not as dramatic as the initial episode. The husband and baby kept their distance, but brought me Saltines and ginger ale and the baby made me the sweetest get well card which he ended with, “P.S. Don’t throw up on this leter.”
It was much like this, but without the drinking and the shame:
…the moment I saw you walking toward my house and I put out my cigarette because I knew you didn’t like it.
…the distance that shrank between us on the couch as Pi flickered on the screen in front of us.
…the blissful half-sleep that we fell into on the floor.
…the kiss that I gave you, the only thing that I could do at that moment.
…the countless kisses that came immediately after.
…the yawns that I stifled the next day at work, in between beaming smiles thinking of the night that never really ended.
…the stunned silence that we shared a few days later when we both blurted out, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
…that walk we took back to my house, arm in arm, gasping at the beauty of the late-night snowfall.
…that kiss, the one in the midst of one of our early “should we or shouldn’t we stay together?” tiffs, the one that made us realize that maybe it wasn’t really up to us.
…those first, shaky, “I love yous.”
…the terrified hug that we gave each other, a positive pregnancy test in the background.
…the tears that we shed, hoping that we were doing the right thing.
…the funny smile that appeared on your face when we first heard the heartbeat.
…focusing on your eyes as you stroked my forehead and told me jokes to keep me calm while our son was being born.
…how you’ve always pushed me to be stronger, but have always been there to catch me when I’ve collapsed.
…how you’ve never once entertained the notion that I was anything less than kick-ass.
…how you show your weaknesses and fears in tiny ways that only I can understand.
…how you’re basically the coolest father any kid could possibly hope for, even if you do yell too much.
…how you looked at me and told me that I was your strength as you became my husband.
…how you never, ever compromise on what’s important to you, even when it frustrates me.
…the countless laughs that we’ve shared.
…the way that our arguments just kind of dissolve.
…the fact that we know that we’re the best partner for each other.
…the way you can ask something like, “What was the name of that chick who was in that movie?” and I can usually provide the correct answer.
…the moment in between being awake and falling asleep, when I’m in your arms, and I know that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
…how, just when I think I couldn’t possibly fall more in love with you, I do just that.
Here’s to ten years together, through good and bad. I love you so, so much.
It occurs to me that a lot of stuff happened in October that I didn’t write about here. Nothing life-altering, but events that would normally go here if I had time to write about them. I was frustrated by my lack of down time, but it’s good in a way that I wasn’t able to document anything. I was too busy living.
So, back at the beginning of the month, Frank got married. I didn’t take any pictures of that, but I did take a grand total of two at the rehearsal dinner.
There’s the bride and groom, a large centerpiece, and the best man. I believe I took this during the father of the bride’s “toast,” which was more of an undulating monologue about his job and his recent birthday and I think snails or something. After meeting Andrea’s dad, the picture that she had shown me of him in which he had fallen asleep while repairing the kitchen sink suddenly made perfect sense.
The next weekend, my cousin Jeffrey got married. The ceremony was at Heinz Chapel on the University of Pittsburgh campus.
Yes, I’m wearing the same dress that I wore to Frank’s wedding. It’s my new October Wedding Uniform.
I had never been inside Heinz Chapel before. It is indeed gorgeous. But I found that my attention span during Catholic masses is approximately the same as it was when I was six. I kept staring at the stained-glass windows and going, “Mom, look. Look. Look at those stairs! Mooooommm!” And then Jeffrey and Kristy were married.
Newton’s like, “Tsk! Stupid apple done messed up my coiffure!”
Their reception was in the Carnegie Museum Music Hall, which is also insanely gorgeous.
Carnegie may have been kind of a jerk, but he had awesome taste.
The next day, we celebrated my mom and grandfather’s birthdays.
My kid is so sweet.
The weekend after that, our friends Jwan and Karen got married.
It was a really nice time. Our group of friends doesn’t have a chance to get together that much anymore and the wedding was really casual so we spent most of the evening talking, drinking, and dancing. Afterward, we went to Jwan and Karen’s house were things got progressively sloppy.
That’s Jwan’s brother on the right, who is a very nice guy, but also very blunt. Late in the evening, he sat down next to me and explained that he could tell I was, “kind of insane.”
Tiny dogs attacked the husband and not long after this, said husband had some, er, digestive issues and we had to leave abruptly, though our buddy Alison protested vehemently. The sister-in-law and her boyfriend had to chase our car down the street. It was all very goofy.
Then there was another weekend, and I know we had some kind of social obligation but I can’t remember what it was at all. We also went roller skating. And I think this was the weekend that we made our annual trip to Trax Farms. I forgot to bring my camera so I don’t have any adorable pictures of my kid frolicking in a pile of pumpkins. I’m pretty sure that means my mommyblogger membership is revoked. However, Michelle was there at the same time and shetook pictures of her cute kid. So I’ll just piggyback on to her post and say, “Yeah, us too. Also: petting goats.” I also forgot cash so we couldn’t buy a cup of feed to give to the animals in the petting zoo. We kicked it old school and just petted (is that the proper conjugation?) the animals. I want an alpaca. Aside, goats’ eyes, or their pupils anyway, are rectangular.
This kept freaking me out because goats and their rectangular eyes would silently appear beside me and, in the absence of the feed cup, would start gnawing on my hoodie or my purse or my hair. Surreal.
Then came last weekend. Saturday was the Halloween parade in our neighborhood. The baby’s costume was inspired by the hopping vampires in this old, Chinese vampire movie called Mr. Vampire.
Obscure interests much?
When the husband and the baby were in New York this summer, they visited Chinatown and found various elements of the baby’s costume. We basically just had to take care of some makeup and the little prayer sheets.
It turned out pretty good, though nobody knew what he was and…well, I’ll come back to that in a sec.
The other big thing that happened this past weekend was that I turned 32 on Sunday. We celebrated at my mom’s house Saturday night.
I got some really nice stuff from Anthropologie (swoon!).
And there was cake and champagne and then my dad made the most absurd argument about how people can’t truly enjoy sports if they haven’t played them because they don’t appreciate how hard they are and for some reason this leads my dad to dismiss the entire Pittsburgh Penguins’ fan base (but no other sport) because he believes none of them/us have played hockey. Does your brain hurt after reading that? Yeah, imagine hearing it live. I pointed out that I’ve never practiced medicine but I appreciate it any time a doctor, like, gives me an emergency C-section to save the life of me and my child.
Sunday morning at 8:30 am (ugh) the baby had his last soccer game of the year. His team has had a rough season, winning only two games. It was a tough lesson for them, understanding that if you don’t try (which they often weren’t) you don’t get the results that you want. However, they were awesome during their last game, and even though they still lost, they looked pretty bad ass.
Their coaches gave them all trophies for their hard work. And though they were disappointed that they lost, I was secretly pretty glad that we were done for the year.
Sunday night was trick-or-treating. Now, we didn’t expect anyone to know what his costume was and I was really apprehensive about the assumptions that people would make. A lot of people responded simply, “Oh. Okay!” when he told them he was a Chinese, hopping vampire. But plenty of other people took a guess and said…sigh…”Chinaman.”
I know people get all irritated about political correctness, which is stupid because political correctness is just an admittedly poor term for a good thing: treating people with a equal amount of respect and not calling them things that they don’t wish to be called. There’s no legislation, there’s no censorship, it’s simply, “Hey, could you do me a solid and not be a douche and refer to my ethnicity/sexuality/religious/etc group as…?”
So, really, if you weren’t sure, “Chinaman” is not okay to say anymore. So stop.
Anyway, trick-or-treating went well. We had a perfect fall night and we’ve all been gorging on candy ever since.
The obvious answer here again is the baby. In a post that I wrote last year, I described the first time that I saw him thusly:
When I first saw him, it was like everything slowed to a complete stop for just an instant, but an instant that seemed to stretch on forever. Everything that I understood about life and time and love ended. And when the earth started spinning again a few milliseconds later it was in a new direction or had switched tracks. Even in the next few weeks, when things got really dark inside my head, that feeling was my touchstone.
I’m not going to act like I always have my priorities straight or that my perspective on life is always aligned correctly. But that moment has never dulled in my memory as the beginning of the life that I was meant to live. So whenever I’m stressing over something that I know really isn’t as life-or-death as I’m making it out to be, I call that moment to mind and things get a little bit clearer.
The husband also qualifies for this, but I’ll save most of that gush for a post that I’m working on for our anniversary. (Hint: get your barf bags ready because it’s going to make you sick. Plus, he’ll probably divorce me for posting something so Hallmark.)
But another obvious person who made my life worth living is me. I can get pretty down on myself, but every once in awhile, I recognize something good that I’ve done and I admit to myself that I’m a pretty decent person and perhaps the world is, in fact, a little bit cooler with me in it.
Day 01 Something you hate about yourself. Day 02 Something you love about yourself. Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for. Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for. Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life. Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
There are a number of small silly things that I could put here. Not sticking to my Monday/Wednesday schedule for this exercise this week or standing outside of the bathroom plugging my ears while my kid puked on Monday, helpfully calling out, “Just let me know when you’re done, sweetie!” lest I hear, see, or smell his digestive malfunction and join him over the barf bucket. (By the way, the puking of Monday and the ensuing catch-up on Tuesday explains my truancy on my 30 days of truth schedule, so I figure that absolves me on that count.)
But there are, of course, some big things that I should probably tackle.
As horrible as this sounds, I need to forgive myself for having the baby. This ties in very closely with day 1’s truth.
Now, just to clarify, this does not mean, “How could I do this to myself?” This is about my insecurity as a parent and as a good person. Like I’ve explained (or at least attempted to) several times, my pregnancy was a pretty tumultuous time. There were countless reasons to not continue my pregnancy and they were all rational, good reasons. And given another time and another alignment of the stars, they probably would have prevailed. But I could not get my head past the fact that I wanted that baby beyond all reason and rationality. I wanted a tiny family with the husband and I wanted it to start right then and there. Mind you, this was not a Veruca Salt style, “I WANT IT NOW!” but just a certainty deep down inside of me that moving forward was the right thing to do.
But, as anyone who’s lived knows, certainty is a fickle bitch and there have been plenty of moments that I doubted myself. Pretty much as soon as I uttered the words, “I’ve decided to have the baby,” I started to have moments of panic because more than anything, I wanted to do right by the child that would have to live me and the husband as his parents. And I mean, really, how often would you look at these two people and willingly put a small child in their care?
Yeah, not so much
Those moments aren’t as intense as the first night we had him at home, which was one of the roughest nights of my life. I remember stumbling aimlessly around our apartment, exhausted from not sleeping in days, terrified at the weeks or months of sleepless nights stretching out in front of us, my body in pain and rebellion as things healed, swelled, bled, and leaked, and a tiny, squirmy child who needed every crucial thing in life and he needed me to give it to him. I remember sobbing, wondering who the hell I thought I was to thrust that poor kid into this mess that was my life, and volunteering for the immense duties of teaching him how to live and cope and be happy.
Now, I have some variation of that first night when I’m staring into our murky future, wondering how we’re going to make it, and letting the pressure and stress of that turn me into a madwoman. And I wonder what I was thinking to put him through this.
I’m not qualified to be his mother, but then none of us really are. And I need to forgive myself for that and keep on finding the joy in my absolute best goof.
Day 01 Something you hate about yourself. Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
