Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!

Ah, 33. A very bulbous number, full of lumpy curves. Like a 33-year-old mom who doesn't get enough exercise.

I've been thinking about mortality lately, for reasons other than my birthday, though I suppose it contributed, and it really is most unpleasant. The abstract idea of an "age of innocence" takes on a sharper edge when you get old enough to realize how very innocent you were in the days of youthful immortality.

Funny thing about youthful immortality. It has the effect of making everything look like it's standing still. There you are with your youthful energy raging at the stodgy old world and its standing stillness, when all the while everything is incessantly, unrelentingly changing. And by the time you realize it you'll start to see it not as change but decay, and you'll fight for everything to be the same always and forever.

Today is perfect, in all its dying glory. So was yesterday, though it's now dead. If we're lucky, tomorrow will be perfect too before it goes. Happy Birthday, Anne.

count them happy that enjoy the sun?

I haven't posted in quite a while, although I have a half-dozen abandoned draft posts in the queue. I'm not sure what or why but I've been avoiding something here. When I start to write I feel that reluctance you feel when you're getting vulnerable and you're not quite ready. For some reason I just don't want to live the examined life right now. MY GOD, what is it I'm hiding in there? What is it that makes me shrink from opening the door to my inner consciousness?? What will I find??? Or maybe I've been reading too much Virginia Woolf.

And now I have a great excuse for any sort of procrastination or avoidance: my study program for the Washington bar has begun in earnest, and I am Buckled. Down. To the blanket spread out on my sun-dappled lawn, with my head resting on a contentedly snoring dog. I'm getting serious, here. Do not disturb.

Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat

I recently read Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson, which is set on an island in the Pacific Northwest in the 1950s. It contains a lot of descriptions of people gathering or growing their own food; fishing, digging clams, growing strawberries, raising chickens, etc.--which, I imagine, was so mmuch more common back then than it is now. For some reason I was really captivated by this, and I've been kind of obsessed with the idea of producing or gathering my own food ever since. And then today I read this article by a woman who was forced by the "Great Recession" to start living a more sustainable life--she went from buying goji berries and espresso at Whole Foods and Starbucks to buying seeds for a vegetable garden with food stamps, and dumpster diving to find fresh produce for her family. I was alternately horrified and shamed in reading it.

Shame or no, I don't think I'll be diving into any dumpsters anytime soon. But I do have half a mind to plant a vegetable garden. Only thing is, I'm really lazy. Producing or gathering one's own food require commitment and work. Also readiness to learn about and understand plant and animal life. And then there's my picky eating habits--hard to live off the earth when you refuse to eat zucchini, eggplant, mushrooms, shellfish, and many other gifts of Mother Nature.

I do eat eggs (and willingly pay three times as much for eggs from vegetarian-fed, "free-range" chickens), and I like the idea of harvesting my own eggs from a backyard flock. The main deterrent there is filth. I imagine that chickens relieve themselves, and that it smells, and that someone has to do something about it. I'd rather that someone not be me. So I'll put that one off at least until my son is old enough to shovel chicken poop.

The lady who waxes my eyebrows (see? I can't even wax my own eyebrows) told me yesterday that she and her husband just got some goats. Her husband wants to use them for packing on hikes, she explained. Confused, I imagined a goat strapped to her husband's back. For the fresh milk? I asked, still obsessed with home food production. No, she explained: to carry his stuff. Oh. Goats are good at walking on mountains. Really hope she didn't realize I was picturing her husband carrying the goat up the mountain. Her goats are male. But I could get a female goat if/when we move outside the city limits, I thought. That would be cool. Also has to wait for Nugget to grow into his poop-shoveling duties though.

For now, I think I'll start with an herb garden on my windowsill. If the plants live, maybe I can move up to an outdoor vegetable garden.

Speaking of keeping plants alive, it just occurred to me that I was twice chastised by strangers today with regard to my dog. First for not having her on a leash and then for leaving her in the car while I went in the library (although technically I was not actually chastised for the library thing because I did not respond when the librarian asked "the person who owns the blue station wagon with the dog inside to please come to the front"). I don't believe I was endangering her (or anyone else), but my position also was not all that defensible in either case (thus my decision to slink away rather than argue about it with the librarian while everyone in the library craned their necks to see the abusive dog-owner). In general, unleashed dogs and dogs unattended in cars are a bad idea, I get it. But the encounters left me irritated at the way having responsibility for other beings--kids and pets--makes one particularly vulnerable to criticism for your choices. So maybe I should skip the goats and chickens.

Anyway. I'm off to the grocery store.

Out, damned spot!

Nugget continues to be pitiful about going to school, whimpering to break your heart all the way there about why he can't stay home with me. My certainty that this is what is best for him and for me is unflagging, but that does not make it easy. And while I maintain I do not feel guilty, it should perhaps be noted that when I picked Nugget up today (early), we went straight to Wal-Mart (sigh, shoot me, I know, but this is a small town and I don't have a lot of options, ok?), where I purchased: Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, a Cat in the Hat movie (the one with Wayne Campbell), cinnamon graham goldfish, a goldfish-shaped goldfish dispenser, and whipping cream to put on our strawberries.

And then a dinner that can only be described as trying, except to the extent that it might also be called tedious, reminded me why I don't have what it takes to spend 24/7 with a toddler. It's not that he is a picky eater. God knows I can thank karma for that one. (Hmm. I'm not sure that sentence is consistent, theologically speaking.) It's that he forces us to stand on our heads and juggle to get him to eat even when he likes the food. That's the part that drives me crazy.

To the extent I have any guilt about daycare, I would argue that it is due to my failure to use my free time appropriately, not to the existence of said free time. Even without any napping or novel-reading or tv-watching, today felt unproductive. Yet when I tallied it up like I was billing my time it wasn't a bad day at all. (See? this is why I miss it. Writing down everything you do in 6 or 15 minute increments can be surprisingly satisfying.) I went to the post office and the bank, finally rolled my 401k over, finally canceled my recurring contribution to Chicago's NPR station (plaintively assuring the lady on the phone, who did not care, that I moved and I really do plan to support my local station), finally replied to some week-old emails, researched local estate planning lawyers (finally getting around to a will ...), looked into transferring my vehicle registration (I'm still driving around with Illinois plates; which did prove useful when those people outside the post office with their unbelievably offensive Obama-with-a-Hitler-mustache (this is somehow linked to that ridiculous birther thing? I don't get it) poster didn't bother trying to talk to me; although the growly stinkeye I gave them probably helped), paid bills, created a chart to analyze our household cash flow (that's normal, right?), did laundry, flooded the laundry room twice (ok, three times. but more like two and a half), cleaned the laundry room (not by choice, clearly), and probably a few more things I'm forgetting (and/or are not interesting enough, even for this catalog of domestic minutiae). Here's the thing: I'm not convinced all that would not have gotten done with Nugget in tow. I don't need daycare just for that.

(Did you ever hear that story about the man who came home to find his house a mess and his kids eating cereal? His wife was in bed with a book, and when he asked her what was going on, she said, you know how you asked what I do all day? Today I didn't do it. Yuk yuk, stay-at-home moms work too, and all that. The thing is, families with two parents working outside the home do manage to get along somehow. You find a way to get things done when you have to. Qualitative differences and lifestyle choices aside, I hasten to add.)

Anyway, the point is, I really need to sit my butt in a chair and stare at a computer screen putting words on paper for a few hours every day if I'm going to be able to justify to myself sending Nugget to school. Even on days like today, when it felt like the domestic minutiae awaiting my attention was piled too high to be ignored. (Is it still procrastinating when you procrastinate by doing things you've been procrastinating about?)

It would also help if Nugget would hurry up and realize that other kids are way more fun than I am. Not to mention a dog and a rabbit and an orchard and a pumpkin patch. All I have is a recurringly flooded laundry room. And if you think I'm going to let you put on your rain boots and splash away in there with a toy boat? Hello. I'm your mother. I don't think we've met.

what visions have I seen!

I have awesome dreams with some frequency. No, not that kind. These dreams are like a really good thriller/action movie, full of suspense and amazement. I'm not kidding, they are really good. Upon closer examination they might not make much sense, but there is more linear narrative than a David Lynch movie. If only, it has occurred to me, there were some way to record a dream. I could become a famous dream author, and all I would have to do is sleep.

sound and fury

All through the years that everyone asks you what you're going to be when you grow up, I thought I was going to be an English professor. My last year of college, I took the GREs and read up on PhD programs. Then I realized that I like books too much to study them for a living. I didn't want to read from a critical distance. (I don't regret that I didn't pursue that path, but in writing that last sentence I just realized that I'm not sure I agree with my younger self on that point anymore. At least if I had been an English professor I would have gotten to read literature all the time; as a lawyer I never had time to read literature, and it hurt.)

Once I'd decided not to be a professor, I was at a loss. I actually used the phrase "existential crisis" to describe how I felt, without irony. The path to be an English professor was well-mapped, and there were reassuring plaudits at each stage: grades and test scores and recommendations and awards and other stamps of approval from comfortingly elite institutions. Leaving that path forced me to ask myself what I wanted out of my life, which is another way of saying, what is the meaning of life? It's a big question that most people can't answer, and confronting it directly feels empty, and lonely.

For lack of any other ideas about what to do with a BA in English, I went into book publishing, and a few years later ended up in law school. I'm eliding a lot here, but it's not my intent to tell the story of my life here.

The point is, the way I feel right now about my life and career feels very similar to how I felt when I graduated from college. The pretentious and melodramatic phrase "existential crisis" is once again inescapably apt.

At times it leads me to ask, "what have I done?" I left a job that I enjoyed and at which I was pretty good, and now I feel adrift. But I also know that my satisfyingly high-powered job did not shield me from existential crises. It kept me too busy to dwell on it much, but I still felt like I was wasting my life on something that did not in the end matter to me very much. Which is exactly why I left. That and the needs of my family. It's one thing to waste your life on something you don't care about; it's another to see your family making sacrifices so that you can do it.

Exit, pursued by a bear

Nugget and I went on a safari this morning at the Olympic Game Farm. It's called a game farm because it is privately funded and not because you can shoot the animals. You can't. But I did bring the bright orange vest my mom bought Nugget when we moved here, just in case.

Visitors are permitted to feed the animals bread, and the animals have come to expect it. They were unbelievably pushy about begging for food. Had I stopped long enough, I think the car would have gotten surrounded, stranding us out there. We did not feed them bread, which did not stop them from terrorizing us in the hope that bread would be produced. In fact, I was afraid to even open a window most of the time.

The bison and elk did not bother to get up and come look for food, which is good because they really could have done some damage if they were hungry enough.

But the yaks and llamas, sometimes working collaboratively, were diabolically clever: they walked directly in front of the car first, forcing us to stop or slow down to a crawl (I don't think I ever got up to the 10 mph maximum), and then they came alongside and pushed their noses against the window. Nugget thought it was hilarious. I thought it was creepy. Some of the llamas even ran to get in front of the car to make us stop. Sneaky devils. No way was I cracking the window.

The carniverous animals--including lions, a tiger, cougars, wolves, and bears--were behind fences or in cages, fortunately for us. Unfortunately for them, some of the cages were quite small and depressing and I'm not sure I want to go back for that reason. Also because I may have nightmares about the llamas.

All of which is not the point of my post. I have a bad mom confession. After a while when I realized that Nugget could not see the shorter animals--rabbits and roosters and peacocks--that were all over the place, I freed him from his car seat and let him sit on my lap as I drove, Britney Spears style. And when he started complaining that he wanted to take a nap, which I did not want him to do because I paid $11 to get in and he was going to enjoy the hell out of my $11 whether he liked it or not, damn it, I fed him candy to keep him awake. I am going to mommy hell.

*
Back to the stay-at-home vs. working mom thing, because a dead horse can always use more beating, to my way of thinking. I have discovered that Trent was right--being home with a kid full-time is incredibly  hard, in many ways, some of which I did not really expect. Some things don't bother me, like the isolation. It may not be good for me, but I like to be isolated. So that's not affecting me yet, although if I don't force myself to get out and talk to people I likely will become increasingly weirder and sketchier until I have reached the Emily Dickinson stage and my doctor has to examine me from the other side of a closed door.

I think I have written already about the mental, emotional, and physical strain of having a very needy appendage that makes frequent demands, has a shallow grasp of reason, is subject to volatile mood swings, and requires that I be on my guard even when it appears to be content or at rest. By which I mean my beloved child, of course. I think I am coping pretty well with that, better than some but certainly no supermama farting sunshine.

Then there is the feeling that I am allowing valuable skills to lay fallow while the rest of the world toils on. The lazy sow rooting in mud with her piglets when she could be feeding the world bacon. OK, bad analogy because it implies self-sacrifice and I don't believe that's necessary. Which gets me to the breakthrough I had in thinking about this. SAHM vs. working is a continuum, not a choice between two exclusive extremes. I wasn't happy working 60-80 hours a week, and I won't be happy devoting myself exclusively to child-rearing and homemaking. That much is clear. There is a balance to be struck.

What's more, that balance is different for everyone. Some parents are happier at the extremes, most are probably happiest somewhere in between, but we all fall at different points along that continuum, and that's ok. It's ok for us as women, so long as we are the ones making the choice, and it's ok for our kids. If mom and dad aren't happy, the kids won't be either. There are no hard and fast rules about life and parenting, except maybe the one about not feeding your kid candy while you drive with him on your lap. We all have to find our own way. The tricky thing about that is that when you know you were miserable at a given point in the spectrum, it's hard to understand why other moms seem to be happy there. And so we get into these arguments about what's best that can never be satisfactorily settled because the answer is different for everyone. So stop it already. You're all right.

Sorry, I think I just farted a little sunshine there.

in thy orisons/ Be all my sins rememb’red

Hamlet has resonated with me more and more as I grow older because I think of him as paralyzed by thinking too much. It seems to me that is something that becomes more of an obstacle as one grows older and acquires more knowledge. Harold Bloom argued that it's not that Hamlet thinks too much, it's that he thinks too well. He may be right--I haven't done any careful reading to assess his viewpoint, and I certainly have not thought about the play as much as Bloom--but I don't find his interpretation nearly as compelling. Which is counterintuitive; surely it be more comforting to think that I don't act because I'm such a profound and incisive thinker. But it is much more satisfying to identify with a tragic figure than with a hero. I can't tell you why, but there is plenty of evidence. The best-loved characters in literature always have flaws. Maybe it's what makes them seem human. You can't identify with a god. That's what Jesus is for. He's human; he doubts. It's funny though, that most of us tend to spend a lot of time trying to convince other people that we don't have any flaws, as if no one will love us if they know we're not perfect. (That's not just me, right?)

ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country s friend

I am considering renaming this blog "Ratquest: The Resistance" or "The Bureau of Rodent Control: A Case Study in Ghost Payrolls of the Chicago Political Machine" and using it to chronicle my vain attempts to get the city to bait the rats that have colonized my alley. My alley is like Eden before the fall, if Adam and Eve had hairless tails: vacant lots full of weeds and restaurant garbage that has to be violating multiple city codes.

***

In other news. One of my webmail accounts was hacked, for the second time in like two months. Is it paranoid that I think someone is cyberstalking me? Is it ever normal to be paranoid?

***

Also, I seem to be doomed to romantic entanglements with men who obsess with DFW. What is it about me that appeals to men who love self-sabotaging hyper-intellectualism? That is certainly not me, self-sabotaging part aside. Maybe it's my footnotes.

sundry contemplation of my travels

Continuing my last post: I think I must acknowledge that a significant reason I never try my hardest is because I enjoy not knowing my limitations. If you don't know what your limitations are, you don't have to acknowledge that you have any. Thus I am able to go through life with the firmly held belief that if I had really wanted to I could have done X or Y or Z, where X, Y and Z are whatever truly amazing feat catches my fancy that day.

Of course, there are areas where even I must acknowledge that I could never have excelled. For example, I could not make a living as a Mary Kay saleswoman. I also could not be a professional golfer, tennis player, figure skater, or really any other type of athlete. I could not have a job that required me to drive one of those big rig trucks. Or really any job involving driving. I do not think I am cut out for teaching children. High school I probably could do. But not alternative high school students who don't know how to read, like in Push (aka the Precious book, which incidentally I don't see how it could have been made into a movie without losing much of what made it great). Anything that requires patiently dealing with people who are slow to grasp things or have limited understanding I could not do. Actually anything that requires patience period. I tried learning computer programming once and had to rule that out too. I had perfect scores on everything going into the final, and then I hit a brick wall. I could not have completed that final -- I think you had to set up a sort of web site arcade that kept track of high scores on a game or something -- to save my life, in the improbable event that a web arcade would save my life. I could not be a chef. Or a waitress. Or anything else that requires being on your feet all day. I once had a job as a security guard at a museum and had to periodically find an empty gallery to squat down and rest in. I also once had a job as a receptionist and was fired because I couldn't get the hang of the phone system and kept hanging up on customers. But I wouldn't rule out receptionist entirely. I think I might be able to handle answering phones now.

On the other hand, I think younger versions of myself might be very surprised that I became a lawyer, and might have thought I wouldn't be any good at it. When in fact I am very good indeed. But not as good as I could be.

like a duck

I swam the long distance events in high school -- 500 and 200 yard free. I wasn't bad. I wasn't that good, either. I will say with all immodesty that I have a beautiful stroke. It is strong and efficient. I sliced through the water with grace. Just not with speed. Slowly my arm cleaved the water, and slowly it pushed down and through and around in a patient, carefree arc. Like I was strolling through the park, nice and easy. The coach would pace up and down, covering his mouth and chin with his hand, shaking his head. Why won't she move her arms faster? I could have, no doubt. But my beautiful stroke was so strong and efficient that I really didn't have to. I'd keep an eye on the other swimmers and keep pace with them (I was not in a terribly competitive league, so this worked), and then kick it up a little higher for the last lap to try and close in on the win. Which sometimes happened and sometimes didn't, but it didn't bother me a whole lot, as long as I made a decent showing.

That image of my coach pacing in frustration as I leisurely stroked through the water has been in my head a lot lately. It seems like a paradigm for me. I haven't had to try very hard to do pretty well, so I haven't bothered. Frankly, I'm not entirely convinced it's a bad thing. Life is too short. It should be enjoyed. But I wonder if this sort of thing, never really reaching my full potential, contributes to my dissatisfaction in some way. Would I feel more happy and fulfilled if I were trying my hardest? I'm not sure I'm capable of trying my hardest at this point. It's seems too ingrained.

I've been thinking about this in relation to Nugget, too. I don't care if he is "successful," as long as he's happy, but if people who strive are happier, then maybe I should want him to strive. How do you raise a kid who strives, particularly when he's likely to inherit my ability to get by without trying too hard? It seems to me that the problem started when I was in school and not being sufficiently challenged. How do you make sure your kid is challenged without pushing your kid so hard you take away his childhood? I had such a marvelous childhood, I really want him to have that. I worry that kids seem to grow up so fast these days. You wouldn't believe how long it took me to grow up. But that's another story. Sometimes I think "unschooling"--a type of home schooling where you let your kid do nothing until he gets so bored he starts to find learning interesting, and then follows his own interests to learn about the world--might be an answer to this. The thing is, the one time I realy do try is when I'm interested. I think that sort of lack of discipline is part of the problem.

Speaking of discipline though, I should get back to my brief.

O, Reason Not the Need*

I took a class in the spring of my senior year of college called something like How Fiction Works, which was much less interesting and useful than it sounded and mainly involved the professor-- who had published a dozen or so novels but never achieved much success and was sort of lesser Saul Bellow--recounting anecdotes about famous writers he had met or known. There was a grad student in the class, a PhD student in comparative literature. He was odd. At one point he informed me that my feet were lovely and he derived great pleasure from admiring them during class. Eventually I realized that was him hitting on me, and was mildly disturbed.

But that's not the point I was heading toward. One day after class I was telling him that I had taken a job in a smallish town in Minnesota. I guess he was shocked that I would do such a thing, and in explaining why I was doing it I focused on the fact that the people there were very nice.** "Is that important to you?" he asked. I don't know what I said. I think I was speechless. It was not a question I'd ever thought to ask. In a way he had a point, because it turned out I didn't like living there. Of course, it turned out that the people were not that nice, they were mostly just passive aggressive. So I don't think it really proves he was right. I till value that a lot. And I really don't understand why anyone wouldn't, although I guess I know now that not everyone does. I just can't understand it.

Tonight my wallet was stolen. And then someone was rude to me for no apparent reason. And I'm not sure which event upset me more. I can understand why someone would steal my wallet. There are possible motivations there that I can comprehend, even if they're not nice and I don't agree with them. But the person who was rude to me for no apparent reason? I just can't understand that, and that makes it so much more upsetting. Even though it didn't cost me anything or require that I spend an hour on the phone cancelling credit and debit cards. Even though it didn't rob me of the little scrap of love note I've carried in my wallet since my husband gave it to me in the early days of our relationship.

Is there something wrong with me, that I need people to be nice to me? Or is there something wrong with the idea that being nice shouldn't be important?

* This is my favorite speech and scene in all of Shakespeare.
** I use the word "nice" in its bland modern sense. The history of the word is interesting but not relevant to my point. And the broad vagueness of the word suits my purpose. Don't be nice about it. If you don't have anything nice to say . . .

How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep

Pet peeves

1. Misspelling the word "yay" as "yeah." I will accept "yea" although it is somewhat arcane, but I will not accept "yeah." "Yeah" means "yes." Imagine yelling "Yes!" when you mean to yell "Yay!" Douchey, isn't it? So don't be a douche. Learn to spell.

2. Misspelling in general. Seriously, how hard is it? It's not hard. I have no desire to think you are stupid, believe me. I want to believe the best of you. But if you cannot spell, I will not be able to help myself.

3. Using the right turn lane to jump ahead of a line of cars - if you try to do this to me I will gun my turbo-charged subaru and dare you to a game of chicken. Consider yourself warned.

4. Reclining on an airplane. If you happen to sit in front of me on a plane and you're wondering why your seat won't recline, it's because my knees are in the way. If I want your head in my lap, I'll let you know.

To be continued