the pieces of my life

I’m feeling really tired today, probably because Adam and I actually went out last night. We saw Springtime for Henry at the Huntington Theatre (even though it annoys me exceedingly when American theaters use the British spelling of “theatre” in their names). Surprisingly, I found it quite funny and I thoroughly enjoyed the production, even though one of the leads looked distractingly like Reese Witherspoon. Why is it I have such a difficult time enjoying theater? I can’t seem to lose myself in the same way I can in a movie. Is it just that I’m low-brow? I fidget a lot in my seat, trying to get comfortable, which I also do in boring movies. But when I get into a movie, I don’t even notice the seat. The play was compelling. It made me laugh. But I just couldn’t lose myself in it. Adam doesn’t seem to have any problems enjoying theater–he falls asleep just as quickly at a play as he does at a movie. Only at a movie I’ll sometimes let him sleep whereas at the theater, I poke him because I find his head nods a little embarrassing. It seems like such an insult to the actors. But the play was delightful. First of all (not that I’m in any way turning into my father here. No, not me!) it was short. Short is always excellent. Second of all, not having seen the film, I was completely surprised by every turn. I didn’t guess a single twist. Third of all, I have a great passion for the time period (late 1920s, early 1930s; it’s why I collect WPA travel guides. Well, that and my fondness for road travel). I’ve always aspired to be a modern-day Dorothy Parker (without the alcoholism and suicidal tendencies, which does, I suppose, defeat the entire purpose), and anything tinged of that time period interests me. I always thought I’d fit in quite nicely at the Algonquin Round Table, after all I’m bitter and cruel, occasionally funny, and I love my martinis.

So today I’m more or less sleepwalking through the day, which means my tolerance for people is about nil. Especially the office lonely lady who feels the need to not just comment on the fact that it’s supposed to be a cold summer (gee, thanks) and that I of all people will appreciate that (doesn’t everyone know how much I adore the heat? Seriously!), but that she feels the need to tell me all this while I’m in a bathroom stall. Is nothing sacred anymore? While it’s sweet that everyone is so nice to me now that my belly is hanging out for the world to see, it does grate on my nerves. It’s not that they ask how I’m feeling. It’s the tone. That saccharine-sweet verging on baby talk tone that people now use with me, accompanied by a look of poignant concern. It’s being asked every five minutes. It’s asking as if I’m going to say, “Well, I’m actually having a lot of pain in my ligaments as my uterus stretches out my belly and I find that I’m short of breath and all of my bras are cutting into my rib cage, but I haven’t had a chance to buy new ones, and the sciatica is bad in the evenings and my bladder….” when really, all I’m going to respond with is “Oh, just fine!” The only ones who really hear how I feel are the ones who don’t ask (I know, life is so unfair that way, but my friends know better than to ask and they’re the only ones I’m going to be honest with). If I crouch next to someone’s computer to work on something with them, they leap up and say, “Oh, no! You must sit,” no matter how much I insist that I’m fine where I am (and for the record, squatting is one of the best exercises a pregnant woman can do). I really appreciate being offered a seat on the T. It’s very kind. But when I’m going two stops, please don’t insist that I must sit, even though I’m saying, “I’m fine. I only have two stops to go.” People grab bags from my hands when I’d prefer to carry them myself (even my own parents–twice!–tried to carry my purse–my purse!–for me. Let me tell you, Nine West is not an attractive look on my father). Folks (except for my grandmother) try to force food on me (apparently, “I’m full, and I shouldn’t be loading up on sugar anyway” is not an acceptable answer). I know people mean well when they call me “Mom” or “Mama,” and it is occasionally cute, but not when I hear it twelve times a day!

I’ll tolerate it a lot more once I’ve had a good night’s sleep. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with one of my favorites, Dorothy’s “Love Song” (from Enough Rope) (and this is no reflection on my own love life):

My own dear love, he is strong and bold

 And he cares not what comes after.

His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,

 And his eyes are lit with laughter.

He is jubilant as a flag unfurled-

 Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.

My own dear love, he is all my world-

 And I wish I’d never met him.

My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,

 And a wild young wood-thing bore him!

The ways are fair to his roaming feet,

 And the skies are sunlit for him.

As sharply sweet to my heart he seems

 As the fragrance of acacia.

My own dear love, he is all my dreams-

 And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,

 And he makes no friends of sorrows.

He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon

 In the pathway of the morrows.

He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,

 Nor could storm or wind uproot him.

My own dear love, he is all my heart-

 And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

As I read lots of baby sites and baby blogs, one thing that strikes me is phrases such as, “I never would have thought that much pain was possible” or “I thought I was strong and could handle the pain of childbirth. I was wrong.” To avoid panicking (which I’m frequently near), I’ve decided that the whole childbirth intense-primal-nothing-like-it-the-world-is-going-to-end pain is just a big lie that women perpetrate to get a little respect from otherwise lackluster mates (I’m not referring to my own here). That secretly it’s simply a breeze and that all that moaning and groaning is just a show. And I’m happy to do my part and complain and complain as long as it doesn’t really hurt too much. That’s what they’ll really teach us in our childbirth class, how to fake the pain, right? Right?

So I had every intention of ranting about something that I saw today. I was going to rant about how, when I was walking from one end of campus to another, there was a car that was stopped at a red arrow light in a turning lane. This poor sucker (who is usually me) was waiting for the light to dutifully change, when the line of cars behind him begins to honk. And you can see the sucker wavering. He inches up a little. And then stops. Because he doesn’t want to run a red light. But peer pressure is a terrible thing and those cars just won’t stop honking and you can see the driver stressing, “Do I run the red? Or do I hold my lawful ground and deal with these honking morons.” Today, the guy in question inched and stopped and inched and stopped and ultimately ran the light. But I was rooting for him to stand his ground. My temptation is always to get out of the car and yell to the drivers behind me, “Do you see the f’ing red arrow? Well, do ya? Because it means I can’t go!” But I have yet to have the courage.

That was the intended rant. But then I went to look up the law to prove my rant. And get this! I’m wrong! (Make note of that: you may never hear those words coming from my mouth–or my keyboard, as the case may be–again.) Apparently, you can make a right on red even on a red arrow! Now all I can do is curse all that time I wasted waiting for the light to change.

(On a side note, I’m famous for being critical of everyone else’s unsafe driving, especially Adam’s. Turns out, Adam has been driving strictly by the Massachusett’s Driving Rules [especially rules 3 and 7; I’m afraid I may have broken him of rule 2, for which I apologize]. Who knew what a native he really is?)

Life is filled with work right now. Not so much the nine-to-five kind. In anticipation of being a freelancer, I’ve started taking on a few writing/editing projects now so I can smoothly segue into life as an at-homer. The at-homer part is pretty much a done deal. My boss knows that I’m “strongly leaning” in that direction, mainly because it isn’t economically feasible for me to do anything else. And unfortunately, my department can’t afford to keep me on as a part-timer (which would still be a wash between my salary and day care, but feels justifiable part-time; full-time it just seems dumb). I’m feeling pretty good about my decision, only because it does seem there will be work for me to do. It’s not so much a matter of requiring the income (which, of course, goes without saying), but a matter of personal sanity. As someone who has always identified through her career (or cool slacker lack thereof), I find the notion of becoming a stay-at-home mom (SAHM) frighteningly depressing. I need to be working. I need to be earning an income. I need to feel like I’m doing something. I need intellectual stimulation and projects to complete. I like writing and editing. Listen, I respect SAHMs. Really I do. I just can’t fathom actually joining their ranks. It feels like such… well, defeat, after building a career for fourteen years, investing time in graduate school, and finding a niche doing something at which I’m good. I know that SAHMs work harder than many working-at-an-office moms. I’ve spent a long time on the baby boards reading about how horrible mothers who work are. It seems that many SAHMs are much more secure in their identities than working moms are. This is pure ego on my part, and I’m fully aware of that and that even as a freelancer, I shall in fact be a SAHM. But the idea of going to a party and someone asking me, “So what do you do?” and only being able to respond, “I take care of my son,” just horrifies me. How is that an identity? How is that a life? Of course, I could always respond with my true identity, “I am Jenny, master of the universe and ruler of all things,” but then they’d look at me like I was crazy, and I’d have to smite them, which, really, is a good way to ruin a nice party.

Sometimes I have nothing to blog about. Other times, I have nothing I can blog about. With certain subjects taboo, I can’t entertain you with the daily warfare currently occurring in my extended family. All I can do is tease you and promise you that once a few folks die off, I’ll write the tell-all book to end all tell-alls.

In Miami, I don’t sleep. I don’t know why, but I just end up staying up later and getting up earlier. And even though I am still getting up on average three times a night because Brown Brown is perched on my bladder, I don’t feel exhausted. I did take a short nap today, but I’m more awake here. In Boston, I’d be a zombie. This always happens in Miami. It also happens in New Orleans too. I don’t think it’s just a vacation thing, because when I went back to Seattle I was beat (although there is the time difference and I was just finishing up my first trimester; this actually is the first trip I’ve taken since I was living in Seattle and Adam was in L.A. where I didn’t have to change time zones–it makes for a much smoother trip).

We haven’t done much while we’ve been here–seen family, caught up with high school friends, gone through family photos. Yet, Miami is a more exciting city than other cities (although my father would disagree–he hates it here and has been trying to get my mother to move north for as long as I can remember, which is pretty much when we moved back here in 1983). There are cities that have an edge to them and cities that don’t. I like towns with an edge to them. New Orleans has edge. Seattle doesn’t (although I still very much like Seattle; just in a different way. In an “I just want to be friends” way). New York has edge. Boston doesn’t. Miami has edge. Edge is that undefinable quality, that feeling that anything could happen. I’m not saying it has to be something good. Whenever you hear of some nutjob or some wacked out thing happening, the odds are good it’s happening in Florida. Carl Hiaasen may take things to an extreme, but really he’s not so far off base. Not just Florida, but Dade County specifically (and what is up with Dade County changing its name to Miami-Dade County? I call bull on that). Of course, what can you expect from a state that elected Jeb its governor, a man who appointed “an Orlando judge to appoint a guardian for the fetus of a severely disabled 22-year-old woman who also became pregnant following a rape.” Don’t get me started.

Hmm, reading this over, it seems as if I’m writing against Miami. Not at all. Cities with edge are simply more exciting. I also thrive in heat. Tropical heat makes me want to write. Of course, it also makes me want to drink, which Brown Brown has effectively put a stop to, but I’ve always envisioned myself with a small house that opens up onto a beach and sitting in the airy living room cum office with the French patio doors wide open, a breeze flowing through, a glass of cold white wine next to my computer as I work on my novels. I’m not sure that house even exists (maybe in Key West or on one of the other Keys?). But it occurs to me that I’d need to revise that picture to be within commuting distance of a private equity firm where Adam could work and the house couldn’t be that small because if I’m writing at the computer with drink in hand then there’s going to have to be a nanny around to watch Brown Brown and she’s going to need her own room and…. Well, let’s just say that I need to update my plan.

Some of the edginess in Miami is simply my family. You never know who’s going to be exploding at whom. (And by family I mean family as a whole. In my immediate family, this doesn’t happen. In my immediate family, you know exactly who is going to be exploding at whom.) Today my grandmother uttered some of her classic lines, including one to me at a brunch buffet after I said, “Hmmm, I can’t decide if I want to go get a second dessert,” she responded with, “Well, you’re already fat.” Um, I think everyone else simply refers to that as “pregnant.” I got the second dessert (and it was a wise decision on my part–chocolate cake. Mmmmm).

I love the flat terrain (I hate walking to Arlington Heights Center because of the massive hill I need to climb back up to go home). I love the heat. I love being near water (someday maybe in Massachusetts we’ll move closer to the shore). But I hate the way this city takes humidity to an extreme. I hate the horrible drivers (dare I say, worse than Boston drivers?). I hate the skinny young tourists who have taken over the city. So, no fears about our moving south any time soon. Although if the next winter is as bad as the last ones, don’t quote me on that.

It is hot. Hot hot hot. Most likely because Adam and I are in Miami Beach for the long weekend. And even with AC this place is hot. Makes me reconsider my threat to move back here if the winters in Boston don’t get any better. I don’t have much to report because we just got here last night. Had breakfast this morning with my cousins Harold and Deena (Deena, let me know when I’m allowed to link to your blog) at Van Dyke, which was good but I couldn’t have my favorite brie sandwich, because brie is on the no-no list. Now, Adam is advising my parents on computer stuff–my father needs help with WiFi and my mother’s CD-ROM is stuck. You can tell this will be an exciting weekend. Amazing that just a few short years ago my mother was a complete technophobe and now she has the most sophisticated computer system of anyone in the Brown/Brown-Medros family.

The airport was a mob scene yesterday because of the holiday, but I have to wonder if the lines weren’t increased because of the orange alert. It didn’t feel any more secure than usual but then, to me, Logan Airport always seems to be in the midst of chaos. We got there in what I thought was plenty of time–we were there at 4:45 for a 5:50 flight. And we used miles to upgrade to first class (my CWITness shines through; I adore flying first class) so we were in a shorter line, yet it was still reallllllly loooong. So at 4:55, they came through and grabbed everyone for the Miami flight and we went to the head of the line. Ditto for the security line. So of course, we ended up at the gate a full fifteen minutes before they started boarding. I can’t figure out why the mad rush so long before the flight left. Brown Brown either really loves or really hates flying, because he was just poke-poke-poking away the entire trip down. Some were a little fierce. We got in at about 10ish and we stayed up talking with my parents till just after midnight, which is way past when my mother wanted to go to sleep but she didn’t want to go to bed for fear of “missing out on something good.” Like we were going to discover the cure for cancer the moment she went to bed.

To completely mangle Tolstoy, every weird family is weird in its own way, and mine is no different. You have to be alert for a visit to the Brown household–it’s not for the faint of heart. I’m not sure the weirdness translates well to blog, so I won’t even try, but visiting is always an adventure (okay, here’s an example: right now my mother said, “When we die, they can just have those photos.” But Peter said, “But she’s got to know where to find them.” Carol: “Well, that’s half the fun. She’ll get to search the apartment looking for them.” Peter: “What? You want to die in this apartment? Don’t you want to die somewhere better? I hope we’re not still in this place when we die.” Carol: “It’s better than dying in the streets.” Peter: “Not if it’s Broadway. I wouldn’t mind dying on Broadway.”). I will note that my father made sure to collect his dollar from a bet we made three years ago (he had the date the bet was up in his calendar). During downspin of Amazon’s wild ride, I had hopes for the stock. “It’ll hit 70 again,” I said. Peter said, “It will not hit 70 in the next year. In fact, not in the next two years. Not even in three years. I’ll bet you ten to one odds that the stock does not hit 70 within the next three years.” The bet came due last week. And even though I pointed out he was taking food from Brown Brown’s mouth, he collected.

When you go out for a lunch date with the woman to whom you are married (see how deftly I avoided the word “wife” there?), a woman who is beginning to feel weighed down by her ever-growing belly, a woman who has resigned herself to the fact that she is probably going to be a stay-at-home mom not out of a burning desire to stay at home with her child, but because her salary won’t cover both day care and, say, a pack of gum, it’s probably best not to muse, when talking about your two week vacation between a fanciful year at school and a mere twelve-week internship: “You know, I could never be a stay-at-home dad. I mean, with all those errands and stuff to be done, it’s like the day is gone and what have you done? It would just drive me insane. Absolutely insane.”

I mentioned to the Tweedle Twirp yesterday that according to my baby calendar, Brown Brown’s rapid eye movement has begun. She asked if that meant that Brown Brown now dreams when he sleeps, and if a baby does dream, what the heck would he dream about…. Hmmm…..

One of my travel essays has been accepted to be published in Natural Bridge, the literary journal of the University of Missouri, Saint Louis. I think it will be in issue number 10 (due in the fall). You can be sure I’ll blog about it when it happens. Maybe this is the motivation I needed to get back to work on my novel already! Brown Brown is pretty excited about the whole thing–he hasn’t stopped kicking about it all night.