Ok, Where Was I?

Friday's Almost Photos

Ok, so even though my unexpected mini-break from blogging this past week was fun-filled—there was the extra two year old (who had a cold, by the way, and guess who is typing this with that funny but not fun tingly-burny feeling in her throat), scratchy phone calls to India, and a satellite cable patch repair kit only available 40 miles from my house—I have to say that I sure missed visiting everyone. This blogging thing has been mucho funo, and I certainly do look forward to finding some free time (like maybe when I let babe2 pour water all over the bathroom floor and then float two rolls of toilet paper in it) to get on the computer and chat with people I now think of as friends.

And yeah, I hear how corny-ass that sounds, and I do not say it lightly b/c for one, I don’t like a lot of people in general, and two, I think it makes me sound a little pathetic, like I don’t have real life friends. But I do. Really. In fact, once every two or three weeks, I actually get to go hang out with my token gay friend…uh, I’ll call him Fernando b/c I don’t use anyone’s real name on this thing except mine. We're like an old married couple doing the same thing--eat some fattening meal, go to the bookstore and eat/drink some more fattening stuff while we talk trash about everyone we know, watch some bad movies, then go to bed.  My plan is to interview Fernando sometime b/c he’s crazy funny, even though based on what I just said it doesn't sound like it.

 
Where was I? Oh, so my point was that I really appreciate the comments (and not b/c I like to feel like a popular prom queen) and will catch up on all the blogs I’ve fallen way, way behind on.

So…. 

I’m new to the whole flickr thing—hell, I’m new to socializing in any capacity on the internet. So I first started throwing photos up there for friends and family. I used to use a webpage through school, but this was much easier. And it only took me about 6 years to figure that out.

 
So when I started this blog thing, I threw some photos up and linked to them just b/c I thought, Well, if this is about my life, then I’ll post the photos that show my life b/c all I take pictures of is stuff in my immediate vicinity b/c I don’t travel, I rarely do exciting things, and I hardly meet any new people.

 
Then just last week I saw that flickr keeps track of visitors and commentors. And so then I noticed that I had some comments. Yippee! I couldn’t imagine why, but, of course, I read them eagerly b/c I love feeling wanted.

 

One of the first things I noticed on the “popular” link (which totally causes flashbacks of not being popular in high school every time I click on the link) was the list of most viewed photos and the annoying observation next to all of them that “nobody counts [insert photo title here] as a favorite.”

 

 

Now, I never would expect anyone in their right mind to favorite my photos. They’re not those kinds of photos. But to repeat it over and over. I mean, I get it. I’m not that good. I never said I was or even thought it for a second. Thanks.

Most of my photos have zero, one, or maybe six views. But not this one.

The one where my kid looks like he’s taking a dump in the front yard is definitely my most popular one, reaffirming my ties to the topic of poop.

 
So imagine my surprise when I look tonight and see that not one but EIGHT of my photos have been favorited.

 

 

WTF? So I click on “1 person”.

 

Terry730a? Nobody leaves a comment here with that name. Then I freak. It’s totally illogical, and she wouldn’t favorite it anyway, but the only person I know with that name (though it’s an ‘i’) is my ex’s mother. A total bitch. And one whose computer skills are rather limited, so it makes no sense that it would be her, but still, sudden surges of adrenaline don’t have logic.

 

Well, let’s see who this crazy photo bitch is who’s favoriting my barns and trees. Eight of them actually. It’s kind of like I have a fan. A Friday Photo Fan who sees that my skills are evident even though the camera’s kind of crappy (yeah, I blame it all on the camera).

 

In fact, Terry730a is probably someone from National Geographic who wants me to do a whole shoot entirely from my house so I don’t have to travel anywhere. I’m almost photo famous.

 

Ok, so Terry730a only has 3 photos and they’re kind of weird. Though professional looking. But definitely odd. Still, s/he makes me feel a little popular.

 

And this link definitely does not.

 

Invites for you??? It’s like when Charlie Brown goes to his mailbox, desperate for just one letter or party invite. What happens when you click on it?

 

YOU DON’T HAVE ANY OUTSTANDING INVITES.

 

I don’t even know what that means, but it feels depressing. And lonely.

 

So yeah, thanks for stopping by even though I’ve been MIA from everyone’s blogs. If I am getting a cold from all those two-year old, day-care germs, I’ll have all kinds of time to catch up this weekend.

Sincerely 'Fro Me to You: Prom

This "Sincerely" thing is a carnival started by super funny Kristen at We Are THAT Family, and since I got a little serious with last week's contribution, I thought I'd revisit something lighthearted as well as seasonal this week.  Prom.  And a photo I've already posted.

Yeah, this one.

Actually, this is a stand in.  I wanted to post a photo from prom, but wouldn't you know, I've thrown away every photo of me from the two proms I attended. So I had to use this one b/c it's the dress I wore to one of them.

Despite the fact that I went to a crazy small school (or maybe b/c of it), like Omish small, 100 people in the whole high school, the graduation ceremony from 8th grade was formal.  Like lace and hoop skirts formal. 

Some class some time before mine decided that the girls would wear formal dresses, and that meant, of course, that each girl kept on doing it through the years so as not to suffer the near death experience of being an outsider.

So yes, what I'm saying is that this very dress saved me the trauma of social castigation.

This pink lace dress has never said one single thing about my personality.  I've never been pink and lace, never fantasized about being a princess or even getting married, but for some reason, out of all the dresses I saw at the mall the spring of 1988, this is the one I had to have.

I can still remember seeing it on the mannequin.  I can't remember the ending to North by Northwest even though I've seen it twelve times, but I remember seeing that pink dress standing next to a mint green satin sister.  And I remember thinking, THAT is fru fru enough. 

Maybe it's b/c I played sports.  Maybe it's b/c I didn't have a mom who wore makeup.  Maybe it's b/c I don't have any sisters and only three younger brothers who kidnapped my Barbies and beheaded them.  But I wanted something bulky, lacy, and pink. 

And hideous.

I look like a virgin bride. 

So anyway, back to prom.  This photo is from the night of my 8th grade graduation, but the following spring I broke out the dress again to go to prom. 

I was a dork, but in a class of 22, no one could really be a social outcast.  So I got asked to prom when I was a freshman.

I could have had a cool boyfriend if I wasn't terrified of boys and penises.  But I was, so I was just friends with Steve. Steve was a couple of grades ahead of me, and I thought he was hilarious.  And he was cute, and he was interested in me, but that made me suspicious.

So I didn't go to prom with Steve.  I just made out with him once the following school year and then could barely ever talk to him again.  But Steve did suggest that one of his friends, Frank, ask me to his junior prom, so I went with Frank. 

I had never even spoken to Frank, and coupled with my fear of penises, we said all of ten words to each other that night.  I think we may have danced once, but I definitely didn't look at him while we danced.

That wasn't the reason I went to prom anyway.  I had a crush on one person all four years of high school (remember, my class had 22 people in it, so my options were limited), and he had been asked by a girl also two grades ahead of us.  So I went to watch them hook up. 

They stayed together all four years of high school and are now married.  That's almost TWENTY years.   I just saw them at Target last weekend buying their married people stuff.

Can you believe he didn't pay any attention to me in this dress?!  That I didn't steal him away from his older woman?

Whatev.  I spent the night not dancing with my date and then ditching him (or rather, we ditched each other) for another guy I thought was hilarious but never dated and we got drunk. 

And that's the end of the story of this dress b/c, thankfully, it never saw another prom or graduation.

I'm Already Bored, and I Haven't Started Typing Yet

This was going to be my big “Dear Diary” day, but last time I got freaked b/c it sounded like everyone would find it insanely boring. And then I got freaked b/c those type of comments suggested that people reading this are not already bored. What?!

 

My big deal was that I don’t think I do a good job capturing those special kid moments. I don’t scrapbook (although I bought some stuff years ago and it’s…somewhere), I haven’t made these earth-shattering, edited videos from the tapes I’ve recorded over the years, and I’ve sucked at writing down when each and every milestone has been with my kids, like when tooth #3 came in on babe2, or when babe1 finally pooped in the toilet, or when babe2 started saying “shut up” and babe1 stopped saying “fuckins.”

 

But when I look back at the last week, that sort of stuff isn’t standing out. What does stand out is that the most hated internet company in the world left me without internet service for days again. I’m not even going to get in to it b/c it’ just gets me all wired, but I’ll just say that part of the saga involved listening to an Indian Madonna sing “La Isla Bonita” on a loop. 

I discovered that I still know all the words.

 

Oh, and dialup is even slower than you remember. Even if you pay the extra $5/month for the “high speed.” I just had to give up trying to load PW’s site to see if I won the camera that I was already taking pictures with in my mind.

 

(I didn’t.)

 

And something else I learned. As much as I love my kids, I’m super glad I don’t have two two year olds in my house everyday. We had unexpected company the last two days, and one of them was an almost two year old. While they’re adorable, they’re so totally aggravating. And so I’ve rediscovered how poorly I am suited for daycare work.

 

So, I thought there would be no better way to go back online than to write the most boring post in the world. Just for you!

 

Actually, I had every intention of writing the next part of the Temístocles tale, but I’ve been spending a good deal of time with my toilet this evening. As someone who eats mostly chicken and turkey (the occasional McDonald’s cheeseburger, which probably doesn’t contain meat anyway, and the occasional hotdog), I thought it would be fun to eat not just one but three pieces of pizza with sausage AND pepperoni.

Momentous Photo Event

In an effort to do something slightly more healthy than sitting in front of the tv, the chilluns and I have headed outside after babe2's nap and before dinner to walk all over our turd-infested property.  I usually grab the camera since the sun is starting to set and the lighting is good.  And I think it will be riveting to look back on photos from this time and see the exact same orangey-red light cast over everything.

So when I dumped my photos to keep up with my project 365 thing that I did for one whole day last week before taking the next three or four off, I got confused.  They were all out of order in my folder, today's photos in front of those of yesterday and the day before.  And then I saw why.

Just like when the odometer in my stylin' '99 Honda Civic flipped and I didn't notice for about 700 miles, my camera's photo numbers flipped and started over at 0001.  I'd hit a milestone and not realized it.

So even though I thought I'd post photos about how exciting my hillbilly afternoons are today, I must post these momentous photos instead.

So are you ready for photo#9,999?  To see how the 9,998 photos preceding it since October of 2004 helped hone my photographic skill and develop my eye for important subject matter? 

I know, take a moment.  I'll wait....

You see, I have learned that one of the ways to compose a good photo is to have a front, middle, and back.  So I'll walk you through b/c there's a lot here.  In the corner, up front, you're right.  It is a sled.  As in for snow.  In addition, you might like to know that it's also broken, so technically, it's not even for snow anymore.  Hasn't been for years.  I'm not sure how it ended up here by the house, but lately I've put it to good use b/c that red runner is just the right length to fit under the flower garden gate (to the right) and keep the dogs from scooting out underneath.

I'll get to the middle of the photo in a second b/c that was the point of the picture.

In the background, you'll notice something day-glo orange.  A different, harsher orange than the light cast from the setting sun.  That's a snow fence.  Around a pool deck.  A pool deck without any stairs.  (Are you seeing now how this photo tells a story?)

Ok, so back to the middle.  What is it?  Here, let me show you.

This is photo 9,999.  3 1/2 years of photo taking have led up to this moment.  My dog, Hurston, peeing, and another dog, Belle, looking on. 

But there's a story here too.  Hurston, you might remember, is a she.  And she has many issues, from OCD, to separation anxiety, to a rather disgusting penchant for eating her own poop.  Add to that list gender dysphoria. 

It's hard to tell, but her hips are slightly askew as she pees.  Why?  B/c her right leg is cocked.  Our third dog, Dora the Explorer, had just pooped somewhere in the vicinity, and that meant Hurston had to stake out her territory.  She marked over the poop, cocked leg and all.

But wait.

Belle is on the move.  She's headed to Hurston.  What does she have planned?

Yes, she too marks territory.  With a leg cocked.  High, I might add.

Where's little Dora the Explorer?  She's off eating cat food with babe2.  But yeah, she does it too.  She not so much of a leg cocker, but you can tell she's marking b/c she humps the air while she pees.  In fact, there are, at times, seemingly endless circles of marking as each one lines up to mark and remark vital territories in the plot to own the fenced in front yard. It's like a real life game of Risk taking place everyday outside my window.

This is a classy, classy place, yet one where you can feel comfortable talking your shoes off (though I wouldn't recommend it outside).  I just didn't want you to forget. 

Sincerely 'Fro Me to You, Throwing Away Someone's Entire Life

I totally spaced about the whole linking to the blogger who started the carnival.  Sorry! 

..........

Ok, maybe not their life in that sense.  But this past year I learned I’m no good at moving an old person out of a house. It’s way too depressing. I did my first, and if I have anything to say about it, my last house this past summer and fall.

There are those types—and I certainly know them—who get a little excited at the prospect of finally getting their paws on some family grub. Some old wedding ring, maybe some valuable antique furniture. But I’m not one of them.

Last spring, my grandfather came to live with us, briefly, b/c he could no longer live alone. Plagued with the varied problems of dementia, he was leaving the gas on, thinking about walking to a grocery store five miles from his house, not eating properly, looking for his dead-for-six-years wife in the backyard at 2 am with a flashlight, and god only knows what else.

Within a week it was clear that his living with us was going to be impossible. It turns out that I actually do need to sleep at night and about hour 35 is when I start to get tired enough just to cry randomly.
 

So he went to an old people place and lives there now, which meant that his house would need to be sold. And so it would first need to be emptied. Yikes. A lifetime of shit
 

I think my mom and her siblings got tired of the idea of my helping b/c walking into their old home made me cry. And they were trying to save their crying for when they were all done working. Kind of like a movie wrap party.

This was not their house. Their stuff in garbage bags, shelves emptied. Everything lifeless (and dirty). There were two chairs there, my grandmother’s on the left and my grandfather’s on the right. And on the shelf to the right of my grandmother, god help her, was a radio that blasted Rush Limbaugh, who apparently is on 24/7 b/c when I’d stop by while in college, he was on no matter what time of the day it was.

 
Their kitchen was easily a place I could think of as a second home.

Growing up just a few miles from here, I spent much of my childhood in their house and enormous back yard. Emptying their house seemed not only a violation to them but to my own childhood as well. Something as simple as the missing bulletin board next to the phone that stored photos from even before I was born of missionaries from their church and poorly photographed natural habitats for bank calendars screams that all is not right.

 

Yes, I’m one of those people who appreciates everything staying the same. Unless I say it’s ok to change. And I definitely didn’t ok this.

I mean, if things hadn’t changed, I’d still be able to find sugary cereal in that upper left cabinet. And I think I’ve mentioned before how much I love cereal. As kids, my brothers and I weren’t allowed chocolate cereals or cereals with marshmallows. We got Cheerios, oatmeal, granola. But when we spent the night at our grandparents, we got to drive up the road with my grandfather (my grandmother never learned to drive) to pick out a box of cereal. And not just something that passes as a sweet cereal like Honey Nut Cheerios. This was full on diabetic coma cereal. We could eat bowl after bowl.

 
Just now as I type it and feel all that excitement all over, I’m wondering if that’s the root of my cereal love. And my jiggly belly.

 
In its later life, though, the kitchen witnessed less domestic activities. Cooking on the stove was replaced with warming up in the microwave and eating straight from the fridge. And then there were those shelves peeking from the left of the photo. There were matching ones on the other side of the sink. My grandfather, in his demented state, used them to hold a wide array of old prescription bottles that he had refilled with a truly unique collection of crap. One held pieces of lint he hand-picked off the carpet (and I’m sort of curious here if anyone else’s dementia peeps have done this b/c my grandma handpicked feathers off the chairs and couches, even though SHE WAS BLIND).

 
Another held tiny pieces of broken glass, also from the carpet, where something had obviously been broken. But my grandpa thought maybe they were bits of diamond. B/c in it’s former life, their living room housed an industrious diamond crushing business.

 

And so, over a span of a few months, much of their house’s contents ended up here.

I don’t know which screams out more inside, the inner child who wants everything to stay the same or the inner environmentalist who sees an entire dumpster full of shit that will not be recycled or biodegrade.

 
So what did I get? A ring? A two-hundred year old dinging table? Nope, I got old photos. Boxes of old photos, scraps of newspapers, and totally random notes scratched on slips of paper. Can you believe that no one else wanted them? Oh, and my two boys got a Johnny Cash cassette tape that they love. My two year old asks for “fire” when we get in the car. Thank god they didn’t pick any Rush Limbaugh.

 

 

Dear Diary, You Suck

update: By "ordinary" I meant mundane, everyday.  Not necessarily dull or normal or unappealing.  My favorite stuff, actually, is the ordinary made funny, thoughtful, and brilliant.  Think Jean Shepherd (the Christmas Story guy; and if you don't know, he's got some other stuff that is just as funny), who was totally brilliant writing about the everyday.

..........

There have been so many times I’ve started a “journal” in the past and not once maintained it for even one solid month. Perhaps it’s b/c I’ve always thought of it as a “journal” and not just a journal.

 
Every time, I’ve always been motivated by two things. Fame and Fortune.

 
No. One, I’ve simply wanted to be able to look back at the daily grind at some future point and see what it was I thought was important, the things I did. The panic attacks I had.  The guys (and girls, if we're keepin' it real) I had sex dreams about. 

 
And second, I wanted to do my part in leaving something. I’ve got issues with the women in my family. I would go nuts over having some kind of writing by my grandmothers. Something that let me in to their young selves. Not only do I not have anything like that (and as whiny and self-pitying as this sounds, I’m totally aware that people have bigger issues than this; it’s just to make a point), but both of my grandmothers had communication problems—health problems that made talking either impossible, in one case, or nonsensical, in the other case.

 
Combined with my interest in women’s history and writing in general, I like the idea of doing my part. Of leaving something (though here’s where I start to have a little panic attack about the whole death thing: when will it happen? Will my boys be old enough to be ok? What will happen? What happens afterward? Will I really be dead, or will “they” make a mistake and then put me in a coffin when I’m still awake? Will I actually be able to punch through the coffin like Uma does in Kill Bill? Will a serial killer really come into my bedroom while I’m sleeping? Will I really be able to do ninja moves to protect my boys like I envision for that kind of scenario? The usual stuff) behind so that some future nerd can see what totally ordinary, random, daily life was like for some recovering academic living the anti-social country life of a non-farmer on a farm.

I’m completely lost at this point.
 

Despite these strong desires, though, I’ve always stopped after about three or maybe five entries. Then huge gaps. Then a random entry. Then nothing for years. Now, they’re all over the place. Different notebooks somewhere in my office. Some stuff on the computer.

So then I randomly thought one day, a blog? What is it? I should have one.
 

I thought it could organize the chaos of my very ordinary days in visually pleasing ways. Plus I love the idea of organization.

 
And then I didn’t write about my days. I wrote totally absurd things, and I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t even that I thought I was writing something important, or worthwhile, or good even. It just happened and I couldn’t stop it.
 

But then I go to other people’s places and see that they’re doing just what I meant to. And they’re doing it well. And I don’t mean the mega star (my BFF, of course) PW. But the rest of us ordinary folks. Like Domestic Goddess. She writes exactly what I’d hoped to write about my boys and my general life with them at this stage so that when it’s passed I can sit around and read my old posts and cry.  Or Hallie, who writes about the ordinary stuff that happens in an ordinary day and is always funny and makes a great post to read.

 
And now I’ve gotten to the point where I meant to try it out, to scratch something out so that in 37 years when I wonder why the hell it’s still taking me so long to get my PhD, I can look back and go, “Oh, yeah. B/c I was doing that.” But I’m drawing blank. And I think my blank must be that I’m just not that honest and real here. I mean, I pretend that I am, but really, I present myself as pretty much living the life of a rock star.

 
But that’s a big, fat lie! I’m not rock star. You should see the outfit I wore today. Dreadful. In fact, it can’t be counted as an “outfit,” which somehow implies pieces assembled together with purpose. I wore a man’s t-shirt even though Stacy and Clinton tell me it’s wrong every Friday night. Even though they tell me it makes me look much boxier than I am. And I didn’t even dry my hair before I went out. Where is “out?” To the store and McDonald’s. The only two places I ever go. I want to be sure to add a weekly stop to McD’s since I’ll be in my swimsuit fairly soon and will appreciate maximum dimpleage. Oh, and here’s a random sentence out of the book I’ve been reading today—there’s nothing edgy or sexy or rock star about it: “geographers too have felt some anxiety about the consequences of modernity, the growing dominance of global forms of capitalism and the assumed loss of belonging to a local place.” 

I know, can you believe I'm not dating anyone right now?

 

So maybe now that I’ve introduced the whole journal impulse that started this thing, I can attempt it here—like maybe try it out on Wednesdays—is today even Wednesday? Or is it Tuesday? Well, whatever. I’ll give myself 6 or 7 or 8 days to mull it over and pay attention to the daily grind. And then won’t you be in for a treat! I’ll write about stuff for a change.

Temístocles, Part 5 or 6...or 12?

Last time, on As the World Turns, I flew back to Florida and then had the pleasure of my first greyhound ride from the airport to my college town. I smelled someone’s nasty feet for two hours and wondered what was going to happen next. I had tons to occupy me for the next month, as I had to grade tons of student papers as well as write my own end of the semester whoppers. That would have been enough stress for my anxiety prone soul, but then something else happened. Or didn’t happen. I also missed my period. 

 

With the exception of the year that I wanted to get pregnant and waited for the “right time” with my ex, Crackhead, I never paid any attention to when Aunt Flo arrived. She came, she went, she came back. She seemed to have regularity, and other than her presence was entirely uneventful.

So by the time I realized I had missed a period after my last visit with Temístocles, I immediately panicked b/c if I had realized it was late, it must be really, really late. I quickly tried to remember being inconvenienced by it to remember when it was. Absolutely nothing—no holidays, no forgotten tampons during a movie, no unexpected arrivals while on campus—came to mind. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember when I had it last. But I did know that I hadn’t had one since I’d been back, and that meant that by the time I noticed during finals week, I was at least a little late.

It’s obvious that I was stressed, right? The crazy thing was that I was able to pretend that all that stress was just school related. I’m a horrible procrastinator, and not one semester in grad school (and there were many) did I ever write my end of the semester papers (between 15 and 25 pages) at any time other than the one or two days before they were due. Sometimes just hours.

And so I was crazy stressed about school. I had the classes I was teaching to finish up and fifty pages of brilliant scholarship to produce in less than a week. I simply didn’t even wonder if I was pregnant. I wondered where my period was, but I was more likely to attribute its absence to uterine tumors than to a baby. It didn’t even occur to me to buy a pregnancy test—b/c, after all, I was not even remotely considering that I was pregnant—until a girlfriend mentioned it as a way to alleviate the added stress during finals.

A pregnancy test? Really?

 

As in the stick you pee on?

 

So I bought one. I drove to the other side of town, as if that made any difference b/c I knew equal amounts of people on both sides of town—2—but I figured I wouldn’t run into my neighbors. Not that I knew any of them, but they were all crazy. I lived in cheap apartments, so they were very appealing to groups other than students who need cheap living—people hooked on drugs, people who had various disabilities and consequently had lower paying jobs, and your garden variety wack jobs who didn’t even know whether they were supposed to go to work. There was one woman in particular that I was sure I’d see if I had gotten a pregnancy test at the grocery store down the street from my apartment. She kept chickens in her apartment—her 550 square foot apartment. She rode her bike everywhere, so she had rock hard buns, but she was always hanging around outside looking to pick someone up. And she was super loud. I imagined that she’d shout out that I got a pregnancy test to the complex, and that would somehow make me pregnant.

I got home, took the test out of the bag and set it on the bathroom sink, read the directions, and looked at it. I sat on my toilet, lid down I mean, and looked at the stick on the box (I didn’t dare take the one in the box out).

 

Surely I would feel pregnant, wouldn’t I? Don’t you feel all maternal and earth mothery? Don’t you want to make people stop swearing around you and eat pickles?
 

I didn’t take the test. I threw it away—in the dumpster outside so that I would not be tempted to get it out and look at the box all night. That box was making me think of Temístocles’ phone call two weeks after I got back from my last visit with him.

 
We spoke regularly on the phone, but not exactly frequently. I mean, after all this time we were both still playing it casual. I wasn’t casual, but I was trying to force myself to be. And I still don’t know what Temístocles was. I had a feeling he was pretty serious about finding a serious relationship. Even potentially another wife. But I never believed he thought that way about me. I figured I was something to pass the time.

So when he called and immediately played “guess what? I might be moving down there!” I was totally shocked into silence. Part of me was thrilled, but I’m so cool I don’t show that. I was certain he didn’t mean to be near me, or even that my nearness would be of any interest to him once he was here/there/wherever “down there” was. I literally could think of nothing to say and there was a tremendously awkward and long pause.

Temístocles played it cool and laughed that he had freaked me out. I said, no, not at all, and asked for the details. He told me all the job-related details, and I didn’t ask about anything else. I didn’t think that it had anything to do with me, so I didn’t want him to think that I thought that. God, how awkward would that be? He did ask what I thought of it, like, would I be annoyed? Glad? I told him it would be great, but managed to convey it in that “whatever” tone so he wouldn’t think I liked him. After four plus months, we just weren’t ready for that.

So we talked about it a few times from that first call until I sat before my pregnancy test box for 45 minutes. I never got the impression that Temístocles wanted to move to Florida for me, but he definitely suggested that I was something to consider in the move. That it certainly wouldn’t hurt matters that I would be two hours away from his new home.

 
This was absolutely terrifying terrain. I had fantasized many times of his simply showing up some weekend unexpected. We had talked many times of our love of the ocean and beaches (and long walks, candlelit dinners, and Lionel Richie), and I desperately wanted to be in that environment with him. So the thought of his moving there was beyond exciting. But the thought of telling him that was beyond terrifying. I couldn’t. And I didn’t. I made it clear that it would be fun if he chose to do it, but I never even hinted that I wanted him to. That it would mean something.

 
As I stared at the pregnancy test box, I could only just barely touch the edge of those conversations in my mind. The combination of thinking about a pregnancy and that his moving there could be anything other than the opportunity to live somewhere warm was major overload. Besides, I had research papers. I had grading. I had driving back to Illinois for the winter break.

So after I threw the test away, I pretended not to think about it. And I was pretty successful if only as a result of utter lack of time or mental energy. I finished the semester and packed some things to go back to Illinois. I had made plans, by that point, to see Temístocles, but not until New Year’s Eve b/c of all the holiday traveling and visiting. Plus I needed to unwind, big time.

The morning after I had packed, I loaded up my dog and started heading north. I hadn’t even gotten to the Florida-Georgia border seventy miles away when I had to find an exit. My rule, no matter who was in the car with me, was at least 200 miles, but, mercifully, I had started my period. Probably about three weeks late, I found myself only entirely relieved. I’d like to say that it was one of those scenes where I felt a little sadness, but I didn’t. Not one single part of me wanted to be pregnant, and not one part of me wanted to think about what being pregnant would mean in terms of being forced to reveal certain feelings.

So as luck would have it, I was free to go on pretending to be casual.

Grandmas and Raw Sewage

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you said the white is better reading.  I felt like I was wearing someone else's underwear.  Every time I saw it I was like, eesh.  And that's all I'm saying b/c I've beaten that dead horse (or, as my 2 year old likes to call them, whore) enough.

I wish I had a good story to tell about that title, but I don't.  Two other people do, though, and who doesn't love grandmas, and who doesn't love a good story about raw sewage?

Monday's find me a little lacking in the blogging department.  I don't know what happens exactly over the weekend b/c those days look just like the week days--there are kids, dogs, poop, cereal, sand, laundry, whining, and probably some swearing.  Nevertheless, I've repeatedly found myself wanting to get back to posting but feeling like I've run out of time before my bed time. 

But b/c I'm a genius, I thought, maybe I could just share some stuff I look at online (the non porn stuff) b/c I love it when I find good links on other people's blogs, especially when I find my way to another blogger that I instantly fall in love with.

That happened a little while back on Foolery's blog.  I must have clicked on a comment, and it took me to The Jason Show and one of the funniest posts I've EVER read.  And here's a little taste:

Picture, if you will, a staircase leading from an unbelievable mess of a kitchen (that's a whole other blog) down to a dank, dark basement. Let's decend. Be careful! There aren't really actually stairs anymore since my little brothers recarpteded. Oh, it certainly needed to be done. However, for some reason, they didn't tear out the old carpet and padding. They just put the carpet right over the old, which turned it into kind of a cushy, bumpy carpet slide. Be aware as you walk. You have to kind of turn your feet so they fit in the three inch landing on each step. 

Keep reading this freakin' hilarious post.  Oh, and if you're wondering, this is the raw sewage story.

Now for the grandmas, b/c those two topics are like peanut butter and chocolate in a Reese's Peanut Butter cup. 

I'm always excited when Scarlett posts at I'm No Belle.  I love them all.  Still, this one is so snort-worthy, or in my rating system reserved for Scarlett,  a 5 nipper.

It's a phone conversation with her grandmother, and it's another freakin' hilarious post for anyone who's even heard of the word "grandmother."  I love it b/c this is exactly the kind of conversation I would have had with my grandmother...if I were like Scarlett and would tell people I know that I blog.

Something about Photos

One of the things that sucked me into this blog thing was the organization.  Or the illusion of it.  I love all the different layouts and themes.  What I should have done was probably just start up a bunch of free ones with different looks.  No posts, just various templates.

And so in all my cleverness, I thought I'd steal something MamaMo has been doing with her Fav. Foto Fridays and combine it with my desire to organize.

See, my photos are a mess.  They're organized by month and year, so that's good, but beyond that I have no method for keeping track of which ones I've edited, uploaded, scratched, whatever.  I've tried renaming some of them, but then I just have 14 different names for the same photo, and I don't know which one is the "right" one.  And that bugs me, b/c--and those of you who read this thing have seen parts of my home and now how true this is--I LOVE ME SOME ORGANIZATION. 

I love storage containers, photo boxes, office trays and pencil holders.  I love the idea of everything having a place and my knowing where that place is at any given moment.  I love the idea of starting some project, whether it be a photo album, a dissertation, a blog post about photos, and having everything right at my fingertips.  And I love the idea of my desk being clean enough for me to sit down with a cup of tea and have a place to set the mug down when I want to type. 

In other words, I'm a riot.  F.U.N.

But nothing in my life is that organized, and so I like that no matter how chaotic my ramblings here are, they appear a little organized as they're date stamped and presented in 500 pixel column with other well-organized stuff in the margin.

Where the hell was I going with this?  Oh yeah, so in an effort to "do something" with my photos, I thought I'd join in on one of those group thingies as a way to try to get me motivated both to learn more about taking them in the first place, and have a better sense of where the good photos are in the swarm of bad ones on my computer.  I might even get inspired to print one or two.  And then on Fridays (see, I'm coming back to the point), I could post something rambling and incoherent about them.

So far, it's been a roaring success, as everything tied to this blog usually is.  I meant to take a picture of something green and post it to this Project Green thing at Anna Carson's Photography blog.  Well I didn't exactly get a picture, and then when I got one that I thought was ok b/c even though it wasn't really green, it was the very first mow of the season, and that's pretty darn exciting,

I forgot about the whole thing.  It's passed, moving on.

So then, in the spirit of Bill Murray's Bob Wiley, I thought, baby steps.  What other group could I join that would prompt me to take a photo here and there?  I know, how about Project 356 on flickr.  It's only ONE photo.  Every single day.  For an entire year. 

So at 11:45 pm, I posted this one, and got to enjoy a whole 15 minutes of having that day's photo taken care of.  I'm already due up for another.  I don't see this as working out so well.  I've never been in to high maintenance relationships.  But we'll see, b/c I've also never really been into healthy relationships either, and this one seems like it will be hard.

Sincerely 'Fro Me to You, Afternoon Light

I thought I’d get hip to some of the potential for interacting that comes from these carnivalesque type things that float around.

 

Kristen at We are THAT Family has some great posts under the concept Sincerely ‘Fro Me to You that lets you blog about all that crap you’re never going to get around to putting in a scrapbook. Or in my case, even printing off the computer file.

 

I thought it would be fun, but Kristen is really good at it and so I sort of thought of bailing. But that would be a crappy thing to do since I already said it sounded fun—and again, I have to remind you, when I say something “sounds fun,” I always mean for me, not for you. I think that goes without saying.

 

So I thought for this first one, I’d use one of my favorite early pictures of babe1.

 

It’s a favorite not b/c I think it shows off any skill I have as a photographer. I’m sure it’s too dark, poorly composed, or whatever.

But it’s one of those photos that transports me. It seems to sum up so much of those first months of being a mother for the first time. I can actually feel that room just through the way the afternoon light hits him in this picture. I can feel that leather desk chair I sat in at the computer as I pretended that I was going to be a brand new mom and still get a bunch of work done. And if I close my eyes, I can even feel his little presence sitting behind me, babbling, and bouncing in that seat. I can feel what it was like to know that I’d have less time to sit at the computer than I needed, and that he would get bored or hungry.

I can also remember what it was like picking him up in those little onsies when he was tired of watching me pretend I was one of those working moms. If somehow that picture will remind me of what his little body felt like when I picked him up even into my 90s, I’d be grateful. I think that might be one of those things you can’t make yourself remember as more time passes. But if that’s true, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know that I’ll forget that feeling.

It was just the two of us almost all the time b/c his father, though living in the same house with us, was not terribly interested in being at home and taking care of a baby. He once told me that he cared about babe1 but didn’t actually love him until he was nine months old. He said it in all seriousness and with no shame, which suggested to me that he’d run that thought by his “friends” at the bar who had children and somehow confirmed his suspicions that this is what all men go through. By this time we were already through, though, so I didn’t have to leave him. 

I, on the other hand, loved it. I never thought I’d have kids b/c I didn’t want to have to worry about taking someone to the doctor on time, wiping anyone's butt but my own, or buying him shoes when he needed to walk outside. But I loved it from about one week after I found out I was pregnant (that first week I was a little freaked out).

And those first months—up to 18 months actually—were beyond words (he didn’t change at 18 months, but I moved out of this living arrangement). They were extremely difficult b/c I was alone with him constantly, but wonderful for the same reason. My family was far away and my boyfriend’s family was a little less than helpful. They had us to dinner sometimes, but they weren’t family like I knew family. We didn’t hang out, they weren’t that pumped about seeing my baby, and they never, ever offered to babysit (thankfully, b/c they were so inept I would have had to come up with an excuse).  Plus, they simply didn't like me.  (I know, can you imagine?!) 

And so, it was just the two of us around the clock. I nursed him, so I was up at night, and he LOVED to suck on a boob, but then I was also home with him all day. Every day. And it was all new. Including the realization of what life could be like when you have someone in it to love that much. I had no idea.

 
I was exhausted a lot, but there was never a day where I wished I was doing something else. I wished daily that I could do it with more sleep, but I felt like the luckiest person on the planet.  I adored him. And I adored our days together. They were very ordinary and trite. We had a routine, and I knew everything about him. I marveled at his existence—that I made that!—daily. 

And somehow, that’s what I can see in that photo. No, it’s what I can feel. The afternoon light hitting his face as he sits in that bouncy seat and looks out the sliding glass doors in the bedroom was ordinary and amazing all at once. That time and place are so clear I almost can’t believe that that very scene won’t unfold tomorrow when the sun comes up. But he’s six now and will be sitting at his own computer, adjusting the blinds all by himself if the sun hits him in the face while he’s trying to steer Speedracer around the track in U.B. Funkeys racing complex. How can that be?