The end of this post made me laugh, because I can so see myself doing the same thing. In fact, I did something similar last March. At least, I think it was March because there was still snow on the ground.
Hym got up early to go to work. His shift usually starts at 5 AM, and I heard him get up and then I fell back asleep. I woke up again a few minutes later because I heard him talking on the phone about, two guys...yes, they're across the street...one is yelling...I don't know...our address is..., etc. I realized he was on the phone with the cops, and then I heard him go back downstairs.
I laid there for a few minutes in a semi-alert fog, but figured if it was anything serious he would wake me up. I heard the garage door open and close, and I assumed he had left for work. But now I couldn't sleep. I got up and looked out of the bedroom window that faces our street, and saw that there were two guys across the street and one of them was yelling at the other, who was on the ground. In the snow. Knowing that the police had already been called, I laid back down and waited. Frankly, I was kind of shocked that he had left for work with some sort of situation going on this close to our home.
As I lay there in the dark, I heard a sound come from one of my dogs. We keep them downstairs behind a gate at night because one of them is the kind of dog who likes to get into shit just because she can. Now, I am accustomed to a whole host of sounds from my dogs, but this particular growl from a particular dog freaked me out. I got up and ran down the stairs, and all three of my dogs were standing at the glass door in the dining room. Growling. Not barking, which is their default noise, but growling those kinds of growls that get under your skin.
A smarter person would have not moved towards the door. I, however, went to the glass door and looked outside. I could see a light to my right. I didn't even have time to process what was going on, but figured it was either a cop or not-a-cop, and if it was not-a-cop, I was turning the dogs loose. I did what any sane, responsible, person would do--I opened the door, with the dogs behind me, and said, WHAT THE FUCK?
I didn't say who's there? or get out of my yard or I have big dogs and I'm not afraid to use them. I said, WHAT THE FUCK?
The answer was, Police officer ma'am. Please close the door and go back inside. I'm sure he was pleased that I was precariously holding back three large dogs with my foot.
They had a guy, in my back yard, cuffed. Before I had a chance to close the door, the other cop said, wait, do you have a gate?
Yes, but it's locked and I don't remember the combination. Let me call my husband.
While I was looking for my phone, I heard the garage door open. I went outside, and Hym was there. I said we need to open the gate.
He'd been there the whole time and had already talked to the cops in the front and was opening the garage door to the backyard to bring the guy through that way.
Here's what happened. Hym was getting ready to leave for work, and he sees these two guys across the street. One is on the ground, and the other is yelling at him to get up. He called the cops. Then he went ahead and pulled his car out of the driveway, and parked at the end of the street to watch what was going on. He hadn't left for work after all. That's what I get for doubting him.
When the cops showed up, the guy who was standing tried to flee. He hopped my back fence. When we told the neighbors this story, they all said, oh, it's too bad Shotu wasn't in your backyard. Shotu is the dog who was making that sound. He is a chow. He is a big fluffy sweetheart to those who know him, but I wouldn't try to flee into his territory.
Turns out that the guys had wallets and stuff from a few streets over. They'd robbed a few houses. There was a third guy, but he had already disappeared by the time Hym saw the other two outside. The guy who was on the ground apparently passed out drunk, but then had to be taken to the hospital because his friend had beaten on him trying to wake him up.
There were cops on our street for the next two hours combing the neighborhood for clues about the third guy and/or stuff that had been stolen from other houses. None of the neighbors even woke up! The police were incredibly thorough. Of course, they probably didn't have anything better to do on a Sunday morning in Grand Forks, ND.
After the fact, I wondered, what the hell was I thinking opening the door? What if that had been a really bad person on the other side?
The point is, I wasn't thinking. I wanted to know who the hell was in my yard. I was used to this kind of tomfoolery in Phoenix, but I would have never opened the door like that. Here, it was so out of the ordinary that I was just plain pissed off that someone would have the audacity to hop my fence. Plus, I have three big dogs. I feel safe with dogs, and am sure that at least one of them could be a badass if necessary. Dogs will fight for the ones they love. It's their most admirable quality. I can't imagine living without one.
So I completely understand where Mani was coming from, and I laughed out loud even though I'm not sure it was meant to be funny. I think we may have the same kind of temper...and apparently we don't like our sleep disturbed by assholes!
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Thursday, December 23, 2010
New Name
Prompt for December 23: New name. Let's meet again, for the first time. If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?
I like my name and think it suits me. But there is another name that I adore.
When I was finishing up my dissertation, I was so overwhelmed and out of my mind that I couldn't write at home. I couldn't write in my office either. Both of these places had become triggers for waves of anxiety that I couldn't overcome. So I wrote in a coffee shop. Not just any coffee shop. Certainly not a coffee shop that was close to my house. I wrote at my favorite coffee shop: Lux. I used to live a short walk from Lux when I first met my dear husband, so it is a place of great memories for me. It was a 30+ minute drive from my house in Mesa, but it was conveniently located next door to what may be the best sandwich shop in Phoenix (Pane Bianco). My mother took a few weeks off from her job to come to Arizona and watch the boy so that I could successfully achieve the impossible. I would go to the coffee shop early in the morning, find a spot, and plant myself there for several hours. Thus, the final days of my dissertating were fueled by outstanding lattes, delicious sandwiches, and fresh baked delights.
Those final days were also fueled by music. I liked writing there because the music was typically LOUD, which would normally be a distraction. In this case, it was loud enough to suppress my crazy so that I could work. Notably, the album that seemed to be a big favorite with the baristas at the time was a Rolling Stones best hits album that included Mother's Little Helper. This was significant to me, because I was bombed out of my mind on the Little Helper's more modern cousin, clonazaSHAZAM!.
One of the baristas kept calling me by a particular name. At first I didn't correct her, but then I finally smiled and told her what my name actually is. She was shocked, because she so thought that this other name was a perfect fit. I asked her how she would spell it.
Aeryn.
What a delightful name! I couldn't see myself as an Erin, but by golly, Aeryn was a different story altogether. Very elfin. Very magical.
I would never take this name for myself, though, because if I ever have a daughter, this name belongs to her. This would be especially meaningful since my brother's middle name (that he chose for himself when he was 7 or 8) is Aaron.
I hope I get to bestow this name some day.
I like my name and think it suits me. But there is another name that I adore.
When I was finishing up my dissertation, I was so overwhelmed and out of my mind that I couldn't write at home. I couldn't write in my office either. Both of these places had become triggers for waves of anxiety that I couldn't overcome. So I wrote in a coffee shop. Not just any coffee shop. Certainly not a coffee shop that was close to my house. I wrote at my favorite coffee shop: Lux. I used to live a short walk from Lux when I first met my dear husband, so it is a place of great memories for me. It was a 30+ minute drive from my house in Mesa, but it was conveniently located next door to what may be the best sandwich shop in Phoenix (Pane Bianco). My mother took a few weeks off from her job to come to Arizona and watch the boy so that I could successfully achieve the impossible. I would go to the coffee shop early in the morning, find a spot, and plant myself there for several hours. Thus, the final days of my dissertating were fueled by outstanding lattes, delicious sandwiches, and fresh baked delights.
Those final days were also fueled by music. I liked writing there because the music was typically LOUD, which would normally be a distraction. In this case, it was loud enough to suppress my crazy so that I could work. Notably, the album that seemed to be a big favorite with the baristas at the time was a Rolling Stones best hits album that included Mother's Little Helper. This was significant to me, because I was bombed out of my mind on the Little Helper's more modern cousin, clonazaSHAZAM!.
One of the baristas kept calling me by a particular name. At first I didn't correct her, but then I finally smiled and told her what my name actually is. She was shocked, because she so thought that this other name was a perfect fit. I asked her how she would spell it.
Aeryn.
What a delightful name! I couldn't see myself as an Erin, but by golly, Aeryn was a different story altogether. Very elfin. Very magical.
I would never take this name for myself, though, because if I ever have a daughter, this name belongs to her. This would be especially meaningful since my brother's middle name (that he chose for himself when he was 7 or 8) is Aaron.
I hope I get to bestow this name some day.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Travel
I just started the Reverb 10 writing prompt "online initiative." They send a writing prompt every day, and you write about it. I found out about it through Sweet and Salty's blog.
The prompt for December 22 is:
Travel. How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year?
I'm not sure how to define "travel"? Is it only travel if I sleep somewhere else for a night? Or perhaps if it would have been advisable to sleep somewhere else for a night? Is there a certain distance from my house that counts as travel? I'm not sure. We drove to Fargo to go to the charming Red River Valley zoo several times during the summer and early fall. Does that count? Feels like a road trip--an hour on the highway. But I feel like the threshold for "travel" should be higher, though I have to tell you that I LOVE those trips to the zoo and they feel like an adventure because we get to go to the (very small but relatively large compared to Grand Forks) CITY of Fargo. We'd go down a little early in the day to hit the Mexican market that serves chorizo and egg, or potato and egg, or egg and cilantro and tomato tacos. We'd sit out front of the store and scarf them down, and then head to the zoo. I call the weekends "Family Days" with the boy to set them apart from school days as something special. And to remind myself that they are something special.
With regards to more travel-ish travels, I flew to Las Vegas in January for the Society of Personality and Social Psychology conference. It's the big conference for my field. It was nice because I got to see many of my friends from graduate school--both those who graduated before me and those who were still students. Vegas, however, was overwhelming. Next time (if ever) I visit there, I need a firm plan for what to do with my time, otherwise I just walk around confused. It doesn't help that I was trapped in bit of an existential funk while I was there. And five days may be a tish too long for me to spend in Vegas. A three-day max is probably advisable.
A few things really stand out about that trip. First of all, my husband and I were having some serious problems at that time (i.e. he was being a moody prick), and I was having a complete and total (self-absorbed, melodramatic) identity crisis. While in Vegas, over drinks and cigarettes with my friend Steph, I told her about everything that was going on and that I was thinking about seeing a therapist. She said, "do it," and then proceeded to tell me about how she almost lost her shit one year in grad school, saw a psychiatrist, took meds for awhile, stopped the meds when she was better, stopped seeing the shrink a little later, and now she's fine. She said it was really nice to talk to someone. End of story.
Y'all know I have a degree in psychology, right? I mean, not a clinical degree (I can't counsel people, nor would I really want to). I don't deal with disorders, and I'm not going to analyze you (any more than I would have analyzed you before I got a degree, anyway). I'm more interested in how people's thoughts, feelings, and behavior are influenced by other people, and how we navigate our social worlds. Rather than making me more likely to seek help, my psychology background actually makes me incredibly distrustful of the profession. I am not a therapy virgin--I saw a psychologist several years ago, and it was largely unproductive. That was largely due to the fact that I didn't want to change.
When I went bonkers during my dissertation, I saw another psychologist (who I LOVED LOVED LOVED) for a few visits. I wish I could have kept seeing her, but 1) we were moving and 2) she works for the university and her role is really to be a short-term crisis intervention specialist.
As I said, I was not a therapy virgin, but to go and talk about my marriage? And really talk about me? And be truthful? And really try to change the maladaptive behaviors that had become so familiar (and suffocating)? To talk about my father and alcohol (because alcohol was fueling many of our problems and my personal problems)? THAT was an entirely different story.
But because of Steph, when I got home, I called our Employee Assistance Program and went to see a counselor. She had a degree in social work. She briefly mentioned Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing as an option for my anxiety, and I forgave her for it. (There is no empirical evidence that it is any more effective than other, less pyramid-schemey types of therapy and it's essentially just a fancified version of exposure therapy; I may not be a therapist but I know what good science is.) I didn't even tell her that EMDR is bullshit because I liked her. She was a good listener and she asked good questions and I felt good, or at least better, when I left her office.
Here's a dirty little secret about therapy--most forms of therapy are about as effective as any other type of therapy. Within reason. Some of it's just total bullshit, of course. Sometimes the therapy is solid but the therapist sucks. Sometimes you're going to feel better after time passes, regardless of whether you get therapy. For serious disorders some treatments are ABSOLUTELY better than others. Schizophrenics don't respond well to talk-therapy, but many DO respond to drugs well enough to be functional. For most existential crises and relationship snafus, however, it's generally the showing up that matters. It's the telling your story and hearing it fall from your lips to a stranger who asks hard questions that matters. It's the FINDING your story and finding your PLACE in the story that matters.
After a few visits, I hauled my husband and I into a different counselor's office (because you can't see the same counselor as a couple that you see solo) and we went for two visits and that was really all it took to get us back on track. It wasn't a magic fix, but it was the little bit of elbow-grease we needed to get unstuck.
The Vegas trip was also noteworthy because as I was flying out of Vegas, I could see the desert landscape, dusted with snow in the high altitudes, and I started crying. I was so homesick for the desert. Even now, that memory takes my breath away. I kicked myself for not renting a car and getting OUT into the desert for a day while I had the chance.
The third reason that the trip was meaningful is because I was socializing with my grad school friends from the other side of the glass. That invisible barrier that separates grad students from faculty was made real for the first time. Their worries about the unknown land of JOBS were not my worries, and I felt relieved to be on the other side. I still have plenty to worry about, and I worry about jobby stuff all the time. But I've actually been through the interview process and I have actually worked as a professor and no one has figured out I'm an impostor yet. Or if they have figured it out, they don't say anything because they are all impostors too :) I have one less unknown to obsess about.
The next further-away-than-Fargo trip I took was to drive to Minneapolis in April. I left home early in the morning, drove to Minneapolis, spent $400+ at Trader Joe's, packed it all into the car, and drove home. I count this as travel even though it was not an overnight trip. You may say THAT'S CRAZY and tell me that my shopping trip was "expensive". I am here to tell you that even with the gas money and car maintenance costs, it was still fiscally responsible because food is kind of pricey here, and good food is either non-existent or ridiculously expensive. Also, you cannot put a price on the joy that comes from a pantry full of TJ's goodies. The JoJo's cookies were almost worth the trip by themselves. God I love those things. I also bought $100 in soy milk that would have cost closer to $200 here. I don't drink soy milk anymore, but it was a big win at the time.
I logged 10 hours of driving that day. Totally worth it. And I actually love to drive, so it was really nice to just be by myself, in the car, with my music, for an entire day. Spring was springing and it was a nice adventure. Plus, TRADER JOE'S, folks...We don't have one here. Oh, you have no idea how much I miss it.
In June, I traveled to my friend Sean's wedding. Sean was one of my best friends through high school and into college. We met at band camp and both loved jazz. He played guitar, and he was good at it. Hell, we both loved music, period. At band camp, we would sneak off to smoke cigarettes together. Once we got to college, we smoked pot together. A lot of it. We *may* have tried other things too. Maybe. I won't admit to anything, but I might wink at you.
We used to get stoned and drive out on backroads in his jeep listening to Bob Marley. I used to stay at his parents house on Wednesday nights because he and I had an early morning class and I lived 45 minutes away. He took Women's Studies courses in college before he dropped out. He loved that class. We would talk and laugh our asses off hours into the night. I think he was in love with me, but I didn't realize it until years later. I loved him too, but thought we weren't really compatible. I now realize we totally were, but I just didn't know what was really important at the time.
I hated his fiance--now his wife. I hate his life. I visited him a couple of summers ago and was appalled by his lifestyle. People coming in and out all hours of the night. Too much beer. Too much heavy metal music. Too much of her histrionic personality. Too little ambition. I felt a little guilty, because I wondered if he might have been something "more" if we'd become something more. I wanted to visit him again, especially since I was in Phoenix and he was in Prescott and that's a nice little day trip. But honestly, I didn't want to ever be in a room with his lady friend ever again if I could help it.
When he told me he was getting married, my heart sunk. But I bought a plane ticket and went because I love him.
The wedding was at her parents house (a trailer, but to be fair it was a nice trailer on a large plot of land) and featured guests with white power tattoos, someone in a top hat who I think may have been schizophrenic, a lot of canned beer, Led Zeppelin wedding vows, a bunch of religious stuff even though I have NEVER heard him say a word about Jesus Christ in our 17 years of friendship, a potluck, and no soap in the bathroom for washing hands. Seriously? How do you not make sure that there is soap in the bathroom for a wedding? I didn't stay for the potluck.
When I arrived, I felt out of place because I didn't know anyone. Soon, I felt out of place because I didn't WANT to know anyone. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I felt lucky that I escaped to something better. It sounds snobby, but it's how I felt. Lucky.
As I watched him, I realized he was happy and that he loved her. I realized he was happy with his life. I was happy that he was happy and also relieved that he wasn't really "trapped" in any way. She has a son by someone else, and I had worried that maybe he was doing this out of some sense of duty. Nope.
His happiness also made me feel terribly sad because I knew that the fact that he was happy with this and with her meant that we lived in totally different worlds now. I cried when I drove away (after lying about having to return the rental car that night so that I could leave immediately without feeling bad). I cried because I didn't know if I'd ever have a reason to see him again. And I cried because it's true--you can't go home again. I've known this for years, but it felt like the final link to my adolescence was severed.
We debated traveling for Christmas this year, but I really wanted to be in our home for Christmas. This will be the first year that we didn't spend Christmas morning with my in-laws. I love them. Truly, truly, love them. And Christmas at their house is AWESOME especially when all of Hym's siblings come home. I come from a small family that was always grouchy on Christmas, so experiencing Christmas at their house makes me feel like a kid again. But the boy is almost four and I really wanted to do our own thing this year. I looked into flights that would be before or after Christmas (we are blessed to have an Allegiant route from here to there), but they weren't nearly as cheap as the flights that would have kept us there over Christmas.
I am homesick and I miss my family and I miss the desert. But I am also joyous that we will have our own little family Christmas this year, to start our own traditions and celebrate our beautiful life here. It's the first year that we've gotten a tree, and every time I look at it I am filled with comfort and delight. It smells good. There is snow here. I don't think I've ever had a white Christmas... What a treat!
I didn't address the second part of the question about travel in the upcoming year. I'm okay with that.
The prompt for December 22 is:
Travel. How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year?
I'm not sure how to define "travel"? Is it only travel if I sleep somewhere else for a night? Or perhaps if it would have been advisable to sleep somewhere else for a night? Is there a certain distance from my house that counts as travel? I'm not sure. We drove to Fargo to go to the charming Red River Valley zoo several times during the summer and early fall. Does that count? Feels like a road trip--an hour on the highway. But I feel like the threshold for "travel" should be higher, though I have to tell you that I LOVE those trips to the zoo and they feel like an adventure because we get to go to the (very small but relatively large compared to Grand Forks) CITY of Fargo. We'd go down a little early in the day to hit the Mexican market that serves chorizo and egg, or potato and egg, or egg and cilantro and tomato tacos. We'd sit out front of the store and scarf them down, and then head to the zoo. I call the weekends "Family Days" with the boy to set them apart from school days as something special. And to remind myself that they are something special.
With regards to more travel-ish travels, I flew to Las Vegas in January for the Society of Personality and Social Psychology conference. It's the big conference for my field. It was nice because I got to see many of my friends from graduate school--both those who graduated before me and those who were still students. Vegas, however, was overwhelming. Next time (if ever) I visit there, I need a firm plan for what to do with my time, otherwise I just walk around confused. It doesn't help that I was trapped in bit of an existential funk while I was there. And five days may be a tish too long for me to spend in Vegas. A three-day max is probably advisable.
A few things really stand out about that trip. First of all, my husband and I were having some serious problems at that time (i.e. he was being a moody prick), and I was having a complete and total (self-absorbed, melodramatic) identity crisis. While in Vegas, over drinks and cigarettes with my friend Steph, I told her about everything that was going on and that I was thinking about seeing a therapist. She said, "do it," and then proceeded to tell me about how she almost lost her shit one year in grad school, saw a psychiatrist, took meds for awhile, stopped the meds when she was better, stopped seeing the shrink a little later, and now she's fine. She said it was really nice to talk to someone. End of story.
Y'all know I have a degree in psychology, right? I mean, not a clinical degree (I can't counsel people, nor would I really want to). I don't deal with disorders, and I'm not going to analyze you (any more than I would have analyzed you before I got a degree, anyway). I'm more interested in how people's thoughts, feelings, and behavior are influenced by other people, and how we navigate our social worlds. Rather than making me more likely to seek help, my psychology background actually makes me incredibly distrustful of the profession. I am not a therapy virgin--I saw a psychologist several years ago, and it was largely unproductive. That was largely due to the fact that I didn't want to change.
When I went bonkers during my dissertation, I saw another psychologist (who I LOVED LOVED LOVED) for a few visits. I wish I could have kept seeing her, but 1) we were moving and 2) she works for the university and her role is really to be a short-term crisis intervention specialist.
As I said, I was not a therapy virgin, but to go and talk about my marriage? And really talk about me? And be truthful? And really try to change the maladaptive behaviors that had become so familiar (and suffocating)? To talk about my father and alcohol (because alcohol was fueling many of our problems and my personal problems)? THAT was an entirely different story.
But because of Steph, when I got home, I called our Employee Assistance Program and went to see a counselor. She had a degree in social work. She briefly mentioned Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing as an option for my anxiety, and I forgave her for it. (There is no empirical evidence that it is any more effective than other, less pyramid-schemey types of therapy and it's essentially just a fancified version of exposure therapy; I may not be a therapist but I know what good science is.) I didn't even tell her that EMDR is bullshit because I liked her. She was a good listener and she asked good questions and I felt good, or at least better, when I left her office.
Here's a dirty little secret about therapy--most forms of therapy are about as effective as any other type of therapy. Within reason. Some of it's just total bullshit, of course. Sometimes the therapy is solid but the therapist sucks. Sometimes you're going to feel better after time passes, regardless of whether you get therapy. For serious disorders some treatments are ABSOLUTELY better than others. Schizophrenics don't respond well to talk-therapy, but many DO respond to drugs well enough to be functional. For most existential crises and relationship snafus, however, it's generally the showing up that matters. It's the telling your story and hearing it fall from your lips to a stranger who asks hard questions that matters. It's the FINDING your story and finding your PLACE in the story that matters.
After a few visits, I hauled my husband and I into a different counselor's office (because you can't see the same counselor as a couple that you see solo) and we went for two visits and that was really all it took to get us back on track. It wasn't a magic fix, but it was the little bit of elbow-grease we needed to get unstuck.
The Vegas trip was also noteworthy because as I was flying out of Vegas, I could see the desert landscape, dusted with snow in the high altitudes, and I started crying. I was so homesick for the desert. Even now, that memory takes my breath away. I kicked myself for not renting a car and getting OUT into the desert for a day while I had the chance.
The third reason that the trip was meaningful is because I was socializing with my grad school friends from the other side of the glass. That invisible barrier that separates grad students from faculty was made real for the first time. Their worries about the unknown land of JOBS were not my worries, and I felt relieved to be on the other side. I still have plenty to worry about, and I worry about jobby stuff all the time. But I've actually been through the interview process and I have actually worked as a professor and no one has figured out I'm an impostor yet. Or if they have figured it out, they don't say anything because they are all impostors too :) I have one less unknown to obsess about.
The next further-away-than-Fargo trip I took was to drive to Minneapolis in April. I left home early in the morning, drove to Minneapolis, spent $400+ at Trader Joe's, packed it all into the car, and drove home. I count this as travel even though it was not an overnight trip. You may say THAT'S CRAZY and tell me that my shopping trip was "expensive". I am here to tell you that even with the gas money and car maintenance costs, it was still fiscally responsible because food is kind of pricey here, and good food is either non-existent or ridiculously expensive. Also, you cannot put a price on the joy that comes from a pantry full of TJ's goodies. The JoJo's cookies were almost worth the trip by themselves. God I love those things. I also bought $100 in soy milk that would have cost closer to $200 here. I don't drink soy milk anymore, but it was a big win at the time.
I logged 10 hours of driving that day. Totally worth it. And I actually love to drive, so it was really nice to just be by myself, in the car, with my music, for an entire day. Spring was springing and it was a nice adventure. Plus, TRADER JOE'S, folks...We don't have one here. Oh, you have no idea how much I miss it.
In June, I traveled to my friend Sean's wedding. Sean was one of my best friends through high school and into college. We met at band camp and both loved jazz. He played guitar, and he was good at it. Hell, we both loved music, period. At band camp, we would sneak off to smoke cigarettes together. Once we got to college, we smoked pot together. A lot of it. We *may* have tried other things too. Maybe. I won't admit to anything, but I might wink at you.
We used to get stoned and drive out on backroads in his jeep listening to Bob Marley. I used to stay at his parents house on Wednesday nights because he and I had an early morning class and I lived 45 minutes away. He took Women's Studies courses in college before he dropped out. He loved that class. We would talk and laugh our asses off hours into the night. I think he was in love with me, but I didn't realize it until years later. I loved him too, but thought we weren't really compatible. I now realize we totally were, but I just didn't know what was really important at the time.
I hated his fiance--now his wife. I hate his life. I visited him a couple of summers ago and was appalled by his lifestyle. People coming in and out all hours of the night. Too much beer. Too much heavy metal music. Too much of her histrionic personality. Too little ambition. I felt a little guilty, because I wondered if he might have been something "more" if we'd become something more. I wanted to visit him again, especially since I was in Phoenix and he was in Prescott and that's a nice little day trip. But honestly, I didn't want to ever be in a room with his lady friend ever again if I could help it.
When he told me he was getting married, my heart sunk. But I bought a plane ticket and went because I love him.
The wedding was at her parents house (a trailer, but to be fair it was a nice trailer on a large plot of land) and featured guests with white power tattoos, someone in a top hat who I think may have been schizophrenic, a lot of canned beer, Led Zeppelin wedding vows, a bunch of religious stuff even though I have NEVER heard him say a word about Jesus Christ in our 17 years of friendship, a potluck, and no soap in the bathroom for washing hands. Seriously? How do you not make sure that there is soap in the bathroom for a wedding? I didn't stay for the potluck.
When I arrived, I felt out of place because I didn't know anyone. Soon, I felt out of place because I didn't WANT to know anyone. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I felt lucky that I escaped to something better. It sounds snobby, but it's how I felt. Lucky.
As I watched him, I realized he was happy and that he loved her. I realized he was happy with his life. I was happy that he was happy and also relieved that he wasn't really "trapped" in any way. She has a son by someone else, and I had worried that maybe he was doing this out of some sense of duty. Nope.
His happiness also made me feel terribly sad because I knew that the fact that he was happy with this and with her meant that we lived in totally different worlds now. I cried when I drove away (after lying about having to return the rental car that night so that I could leave immediately without feeling bad). I cried because I didn't know if I'd ever have a reason to see him again. And I cried because it's true--you can't go home again. I've known this for years, but it felt like the final link to my adolescence was severed.
We debated traveling for Christmas this year, but I really wanted to be in our home for Christmas. This will be the first year that we didn't spend Christmas morning with my in-laws. I love them. Truly, truly, love them. And Christmas at their house is AWESOME especially when all of Hym's siblings come home. I come from a small family that was always grouchy on Christmas, so experiencing Christmas at their house makes me feel like a kid again. But the boy is almost four and I really wanted to do our own thing this year. I looked into flights that would be before or after Christmas (we are blessed to have an Allegiant route from here to there), but they weren't nearly as cheap as the flights that would have kept us there over Christmas.
I am homesick and I miss my family and I miss the desert. But I am also joyous that we will have our own little family Christmas this year, to start our own traditions and celebrate our beautiful life here. It's the first year that we've gotten a tree, and every time I look at it I am filled with comfort and delight. It smells good. There is snow here. I don't think I've ever had a white Christmas... What a treat!
I didn't address the second part of the question about travel in the upcoming year. I'm okay with that.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Books for Preschoolers that don't make me want to gouge my eyes out with a...
We have a lot of children's books in our house. A LOT of books, period. I lug them around every time I move. I wish I could part with more of them, but this is my hoarding achilles heel.
Many children's books bore me. They make me want to read them quickly to get them over with, especially after the umpteenth reading. There are a few books, however, that stand out from the crowd. The boy loves them and I love reading them to him, over and over again.
Spoon. Written by Amy Krouse Rosenthal with illustrations by Scott Magoon.
My best friend and I discovered this book at Powell's when we spent a weekend in Portland during the summer of 2009. It made such an impression that she was sure to order it for the boy last Christmas. From the Powell's website:
"Young Spoon lives a fairly happy life with a large extended family (including a ladle and a very fancy Aunt Silver), but he can't help being a bit jealous of some of his friends. Knife, for example, 'is so lucky! He gets to cut, he gets to spread.' Not to mention Chopsticks: 'Everyone thinks they're really cool and exotic! No one thinks I'm cool or exotic.' Spoon's mother doesn't try to change his mind, but reacts neutrally. Outside conversations let readers know that Spoon is being envied right back: 'Spoon is so lucky!' sigh the Chopsticks. 'We could never function apart.' At bedtime, Spoon's mom offers encouragement ('Your friends will never know the joy of diving headfirst into a bowl of ice cream') then invites him into the big bed — to spoon, of course. The talented Magoon (Mystery Ride!) gives the utensils plenty of personality, with wide eyes and expressive antlike appendages, and Rosenthal's (Little Pea) skillful storytelling moves along briskly. The humorous but earnest message about valuing one's own talents comes through loud and clear. Ages 2 — 6."
I simply love that he is invited into the big bed to "spoon" at the end. It never fails to make me laugh. The humor is clever and the story is endearing.
Instructions is a book that grew from a poem by Neil Gaiman, with illustrations by Charles Vess.
I adore Neil Gaiman. I read American Gods several years ago, and it quickly became one of my all-time favorite books. The book is based on the premise that the old gods still walk among us, and that they are organizing to fight against the new, modern gods--like the Internet, television, credit cards, etc. That book was written for grown-ups, and if you haven't read it, you should. Especially if you like folklore and Norse gods in particular. But this isn't about American Gods.
Gaiman also writes books for young adults and preschoolers. Instructions, based on poem by Gaiman, is my favorite book that he has written for young children. It's rapidly becoming one of my favorite books, period. Gaiman has described it as a how-to-survive-should-you-ever-find-yourself-trapped-inside-a-fairy-tale book. You can read the poem here. You can watch a fantastic video below that shares many of the illustrations and features the author reading the entire poem.
Even after watching this enchanted video, it's still worth it to buy the book. After all, it offers damn good advice to live by:
"Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have
helped to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story."
And these last few words make me weepy each time I hear them or read them aloud:
"When you reach the little house, the
place your journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden
gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
Or rest. "
Crazy Hair. Also by Gaiman, with illustrations by Dave McKean.
This book is just plain silly. And it rhymes! I love the cadence and the illustrations are funny, fantastical, and just a tad creepy. I have fun reading it every time.
When I read this book, I am struck by the depth of its poem. Seriously. It's a deep poem, no?
I am the only Me I Am
Who qualifies as me,
no Me I AM has been before,
and none will ever be
No other Me I Am
can feel the feelings I' ve within,
no other Me I Am
can fit precisely in my skin
There is no other Me I Am
who thinks the thoughts I do,
the world contains one Me I Am
There is no room for two
I am the only Me I Am
this earth shall ever see,
that Me I Am I always am
is no one else but Me!
This book is based on the above poem by Jack Prelutsky, the first winner of the Children’s Poet Laureate award. The poem is beautiful, and the illustrations that accompany it are great fun to look at with your child because there's a lot of "stuff" going on in the picture that they can ask questions about. In searching for more information about him, I discovered this section on the scholastic website, and he offers great tips (I think) for writers--child and adult alike. I also like that this book will serve as an early reader book because most of the words are simple.
Chip Wants a Dog.
This book is weird, but fun. The photographs and story are by William Wegman, who apparently luuurrrves weimaraners. Chip (who is, very obviously, a dog) wants a dog, but there are barriers to this goal, such as the fact that his parents (who are also dogs) won't allow him to get a dog because dogs are a lot of work, and his mother is a cat person. In the end, Chip realizes he doesn't need a dog--HE IS A DOG. I'm not sure what the "moral" is, but I think it's something about not needing someone to make your life complete. The photographs of the beautiful weimaraners (dressed in clothes, reading magazines, etc.) are hilarious.
The Human Body: A Magic Skeleton Book. Written by Janet Sacks. Illustrated by Jan Smith and Peter Bull.
When the boy was potty training, he wanted to know where poop comes from. It wasn't enough to know that poop came from food--he wanted to know how food turned into poop. I tried showing him images online, but they are confusing for a little guy. I looked at several books before finding this one. Most of the children's anatomy books are either WAY too detailed for a 3-4 year-old, or they are (in my opinion) just plain stupid. I was really excited when I found this book. You can't tell from the Amazon images, but each page has a slide-out tab, so that you can first see the skeleton (or digestive system, or brain, etc.) and then when you pull the slider out, you see where that particular organ (or skeleton) resides in the body. The book includes pull tabs for the skeleton, the brain, the heart, the lungs, and the digestive system; simple information about cells, teeth, and nutrition is also included. The boy loves it, and when he took it to show-and-tell, his teacher wrote the information down to order one for the classroom because she had also had difficulty finding something that was both appropriate and informative for young children. You do have to be a little gentle with it because if you pull really hard the tabs will come all the way out or get torn, but overall the book is sturdier than I thought it would be. The book will grow with him because there are sort of layers of information in the book, so that we can move from just enjoying the pull tabs to reading more of the details in the book.
Frog and Toad stories, written and illustrated by Arnold Lobel.
Chip Wants a Dog.
This book is weird, but fun. The photographs and story are by William Wegman, who apparently luuurrrves weimaraners. Chip (who is, very obviously, a dog) wants a dog, but there are barriers to this goal, such as the fact that his parents (who are also dogs) won't allow him to get a dog because dogs are a lot of work, and his mother is a cat person. In the end, Chip realizes he doesn't need a dog--HE IS A DOG. I'm not sure what the "moral" is, but I think it's something about not needing someone to make your life complete. The photographs of the beautiful weimaraners (dressed in clothes, reading magazines, etc.) are hilarious.
The Human Body: A Magic Skeleton Book. Written by Janet Sacks. Illustrated by Jan Smith and Peter Bull.
When the boy was potty training, he wanted to know where poop comes from. It wasn't enough to know that poop came from food--he wanted to know how food turned into poop. I tried showing him images online, but they are confusing for a little guy. I looked at several books before finding this one. Most of the children's anatomy books are either WAY too detailed for a 3-4 year-old, or they are (in my opinion) just plain stupid. I was really excited when I found this book. You can't tell from the Amazon images, but each page has a slide-out tab, so that you can first see the skeleton (or digestive system, or brain, etc.) and then when you pull the slider out, you see where that particular organ (or skeleton) resides in the body. The book includes pull tabs for the skeleton, the brain, the heart, the lungs, and the digestive system; simple information about cells, teeth, and nutrition is also included. The boy loves it, and when he took it to show-and-tell, his teacher wrote the information down to order one for the classroom because she had also had difficulty finding something that was both appropriate and informative for young children. You do have to be a little gentle with it because if you pull really hard the tabs will come all the way out or get torn, but overall the book is sturdier than I thought it would be. The book will grow with him because there are sort of layers of information in the book, so that we can move from just enjoying the pull tabs to reading more of the details in the book.
Frog and Toad stories, written and illustrated by Arnold Lobel.
These are by no means new books. They were published in the 1970s, but I didn't read these books as a child. Now I feel like I was deprived :) If you were similarly deprived, buy them now so that you can enjoy them with your child. They are simple, sweet, and funny stories about two best friends--Frog and Toad. I would probably read these by myself even if I didn't have a child, now that I've discovered them.
Friday, December 10, 2010
On Prefixes, Priorites, and Breast Milk
I am an affiliate of the Women's Studies program here. There is no actual major in Women's Studies, just a program, and I am grateful that we have that.
Apparently the state's higher board of education want our university and the other university to have the same prefix for their programs to make it easier to transfer credits. I get it. This is one of those little annoying things that isn't a big deal until you find yourself dealing with people's mistakes too much of the time. Go ahead--change the program name and/or the prefix. Let's move on.
Move on? But no. No, no, no, no, no. We can't just get it done and move on, because academics are a bunch of narcissistic crybabies. Not all of them, but too many of them.
Narcissistic crybabies. There, I said it.
I don't go to the Women's Studies meetings because it seems like a lot of drama. I feel bad about not attending, but there are a handful of people that really get under my skin who faithfully attend and I only have so much patience. I try to save it for my child :)
There is an awful lot of mental masturbation (i.e. big words that serve no more function than smaller words, theorizing for the sake of theorizing, using hard-to-understand, insider terminology) going on in this department. My friend C calls it academic masturbation. I think academic masturbators are just subsets of mental masturbators. My ex-husband was an MM, but not in the academic category. He was a music snob MM. Like High Fidelity, but way more "underground."
My friend, K, is a member of the Women's studies curriculum committee. Regarding the meetings about name changes: Oh my god. There was pointing and yelling and crying and all sorts of drama.
Narcissistic crybabies. I told you.
K then went on to say that she must be a bad feminist, because she just didn't care that much about the prefix--she wanted to get on with other challenges and problems in the curriculum.
The thing is, I totally understand why this kind of thing matters. They are currently debating two options to rename the program: Women and Gender Studies vs. Gender and Women's Studies. I find the second-wave feminists favor the first option and third-wave/queer theorists want the second. So while the some of them are duking it out, there are others (4th wave pragmatists?) who are like, um, hey, uh, we just need to get this done so we can move on to important shit.
Personally, I prefer the first option: Women and Gender Studies. I think it's important to include both Women and Gender in the title, but I think Women should come first, if for no reason other than to pay homage to those early programs that were hard to start and controversial. In this regard, I agree with the 2nd-wavers. If women will be subsumed under "Gender," then you might was well just take "Women" out of the name.
Yes, I have an opinion. But at the end of the day, I'll go with any of the options as long as we still have a program and funds to expand. I'm nauseated that this kind of thing is taking up so much time. Let's celebrate that we have a program that needs a name and that we have freedom to bicker about this bullshit. And then move on.
Because seriously, stuff like this is happening, and once again, women are being chastised for daring to assert that they know what is best for their children, even though they are in agreement with the recommendations from the World Health Organization. The overarching message is that women are too irresponsible to be able to care for their children appropriately. The overarching message is that women are really just children, after all. They can create life, but are obviously too feeble-minded to figure out how to boil milk. Obviously, we shouldn't trust them to cook meat to a proper temperature either. Those dirty, weak, imbeciles can't be trusted.
I'd rather put my time and effort into political action like this. This is where academic feminists should be putting their time and energy. The Eats on Feets "movement" didn't initially set out to be political; it has, of course, become political. Anytime women assert control over their bodies, it becomes political. There is always backlash. The medical-pharmaceutical-agricultural-industrial complex always knows best.
This woman started the first Facebook page. She is simply amazing, and I feel honored to know her:
"I'm not saying we need to discount possible concerns because they are real and legitimate," said Walker. "But women are smart enough to figure these things out."
Amen to that.
Apparently the state's higher board of education want our university and the other university to have the same prefix for their programs to make it easier to transfer credits. I get it. This is one of those little annoying things that isn't a big deal until you find yourself dealing with people's mistakes too much of the time. Go ahead--change the program name and/or the prefix. Let's move on.
Move on? But no. No, no, no, no, no. We can't just get it done and move on, because academics are a bunch of narcissistic crybabies. Not all of them, but too many of them.
Narcissistic crybabies. There, I said it.
I don't go to the Women's Studies meetings because it seems like a lot of drama. I feel bad about not attending, but there are a handful of people that really get under my skin who faithfully attend and I only have so much patience. I try to save it for my child :)
There is an awful lot of mental masturbation (i.e. big words that serve no more function than smaller words, theorizing for the sake of theorizing, using hard-to-understand, insider terminology) going on in this department. My friend C calls it academic masturbation. I think academic masturbators are just subsets of mental masturbators. My ex-husband was an MM, but not in the academic category. He was a music snob MM. Like High Fidelity, but way more "underground."
My friend, K, is a member of the Women's studies curriculum committee. Regarding the meetings about name changes: Oh my god. There was pointing and yelling and crying and all sorts of drama.
Narcissistic crybabies. I told you.
K then went on to say that she must be a bad feminist, because she just didn't care that much about the prefix--she wanted to get on with other challenges and problems in the curriculum.
The thing is, I totally understand why this kind of thing matters. They are currently debating two options to rename the program: Women and Gender Studies vs. Gender and Women's Studies. I find the second-wave feminists favor the first option and third-wave/queer theorists want the second. So while the some of them are duking it out, there are others (4th wave pragmatists?) who are like, um, hey, uh, we just need to get this done so we can move on to important shit.
Personally, I prefer the first option: Women and Gender Studies. I think it's important to include both Women and Gender in the title, but I think Women should come first, if for no reason other than to pay homage to those early programs that were hard to start and controversial. In this regard, I agree with the 2nd-wavers. If women will be subsumed under "Gender," then you might was well just take "Women" out of the name.
Yes, I have an opinion. But at the end of the day, I'll go with any of the options as long as we still have a program and funds to expand. I'm nauseated that this kind of thing is taking up so much time. Let's celebrate that we have a program that needs a name and that we have freedom to bicker about this bullshit. And then move on.
Because seriously, stuff like this is happening, and once again, women are being chastised for daring to assert that they know what is best for their children, even though they are in agreement with the recommendations from the World Health Organization. The overarching message is that women are too irresponsible to be able to care for their children appropriately. The overarching message is that women are really just children, after all. They can create life, but are obviously too feeble-minded to figure out how to boil milk. Obviously, we shouldn't trust them to cook meat to a proper temperature either. Those dirty, weak, imbeciles can't be trusted.
I'd rather put my time and effort into political action like this. This is where academic feminists should be putting their time and energy. The Eats on Feets "movement" didn't initially set out to be political; it has, of course, become political. Anytime women assert control over their bodies, it becomes political. There is always backlash. The medical-pharmaceutical-agricultural-industrial complex always knows best.
This woman started the first Facebook page. She is simply amazing, and I feel honored to know her:
"I'm not saying we need to discount possible concerns because they are real and legitimate," said Walker. "But women are smart enough to figure these things out."
Amen to that.
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