tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60320123204162858702024-03-05T19:28:18.629-05:00rare oatsIt isn't really a blog. It's an essay.tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-14116257185923162932015-07-05T12:20:00.001-04:002015-07-05T12:20:10.385-04:00Broken Bear Blues: The GuiltMy three year old daughter broke her arm four days ago. It's been such an exhausting, joy-sucking crisis - all the panic, helplessness and sleep deprivation associated with her birth, minus the radiance of a brand new life. I have lots of feelings and a few thoughts as we forge through her healing process, so I've decided to rekindle my relationship with this digital space. Hey, Rare Oats - haven't seen you in a spell.<br />
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Since I blog more for the therapeutic benefits and less for the chance to sharpen my storytelling skills, I'm gonna skip over the series of events and go straight to the guilt. Oh, the guilt. I'm a mom, who was brought up Catholic, so this feeling is nothing new. But, man, how it gnaws at me (way worse than usual). The accident happened on my watch. I should have been more careful, but I was too focused on placating her while I worked on something else. We'd been bickering. I didn't know how much worse things were about to get. And on day two of her wearing this enormous, cumbersome cast, I realized I'd been tying the sling wrong and her back was starting to hunch. In quiet moments, my mind wanders back and forth between these incidents of deep regret, as if constantly revisiting them will somehow allow me to push that elusive "rewind" button. <br />
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But then there's another, unexpected kind of guilt. As we move away from the trauma and adjust our daily lives to my kid's recuperation, it means a lot to know that other people are thinking about us. I feel so humbled by my loved ones' thoughtful words, because I know I haven't always been there for them when they were experiencing strife. It wasn't that I didn't care or have them in my thoughts. More likely, it was that I couldn't think of something more original to say than, "I'm so sorry this is happening," and decided it just wasn't worth saying. But if you let your stupid ego keep you from showing people how you feel about their situation, they're never going to know. The truth is that I'm a very emotional person, so much that I've learned to temper my expression for fear of freaking out the people I like. That reserve doesn't help when it's time to comfort others, and then I wind up behaving like some common dude.*<br />
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So to anyone who thought I just didn't give a shit when you were suffering, I'm really sorry. And deepest apologies to my sweet girl, who is definitely not allowed to see all my feelings until we're well past this chapter. For now, I must maintain a semblance of emotional stability. By the time you're old enough to read and comprehend this essay, I'll be ready for you to know just how I awful I feel.<br />
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*No offense to the guys in my life who've been so kind - thank you.<br />
<br />tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-50519854864298130912014-09-02T16:24:00.002-04:002014-09-02T16:24:32.592-04:00How I Spent My Summer VacationYou'd never know it from my inactivity here, but I've been extremely busy with multiple creative projects this summer. Commence shameless self-promotion!<br />
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<b>I wrote a fun feature for TV blog What Else is On</b> ABC's Nashville went on summer hiatus and I didn't have any weekly writing assignments, until my editor came up with this clever idea. For <b>Binge or Purge</b>, I binge-watched and reviewed several TV shows from the 1980s and 90s, all for the purpose of telling you whether they're worth viewing now. My picks included <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/06/05/hold-21-jump-street/#.VAYi5pRdU4M">21 Jump Street</a>, <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/06/19/binge-purge-young-ones/#.VAYjIpRdU4M">The Young Ones</a>, <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/06/26/binge-purge-alf/#.VAYjRpRdU4M">A.L.F.</a>, <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/07/11/binge-purge-sports-night/#.VAYjd5RdU4M">Sports Night</a>, <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/07/18/binge-purge-beverly-hills-90210-season-one/#.VAYjrJRdU4M">Beverly Hills 90210 season 1</a>, <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/08/01/binge-purge-miami-vice/#.VAYj1pRdU4M">Miami Vice</a> and The X-Files (broken down <a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/08/08/binge-purge-x-files-seasons-1-3/#.VAYj9ZRdU4M">into </a><a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/08/15/binge-purge-x-files-season-4-6/#.VAYkI5RdU4M">three </a><a href="http://whatelseison.tv/2014/08/29/binge-purge-x-files-seasons-7-9/#.VAYkRpRdU4M">installments</a>). If you ever loved these programs or care to watch one now, please give my reviews a read. All shows are streaming on Netflix or Hulu Plus, and most hold up quite well.<br />
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<b>My friends and I started a podcast</b> Hayley Thompson and Saladin Ahmed (old friends who are parents of four year old twins) kindly invited me to be part of this podcast in which we review children's media. In <a href="http://canwewatchitagain.com/">episode 1 of</a> <b>Can We Watch it Again</b>, we discuss Disney's 1973 animated version of Robin Hood. It's a fun project for several reasons, not the least of which is that I get to do something with all these opinions about my kid's entertainment (stuff I would never watch if I weren't a mom). Exchanging opinions with two of my favorite pop culture nerds makes it even better. I hope the conversation is as enjoyable to you. Episode 2 coming soon!<br />
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p.s. I also appeared on Hayley's other podcast, <b>Stylemother</b>. In that <a href="http://stylemotherpodcast.com/?p=45">episode</a>, we chatted about summer TV shows. This one's special to me because we spent a weird amount of time discussing El Debarge and Kenny Loggins.<br />
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<b>Another friend and I started a joint blog</b> At <b>400 Words</b>, my pal Andrew Stout and I take turns writing <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/fourhundredwordblog">short essays on random subjects</a>. Our first two installments include Meat and Parliament. This project appeals to my love of a fine order/chaos blend - I dig the parameters and deadlines but also love how the prompts send me in unexpected creative directions. Best of all, the finished product is 400 words or less. If my wordier stuff scares you (I understand), you may find these bite size portions more digestible. Other bonus - Andrew is a great writer but with a very different voice. It'll be fun to see how each of us respond to a given topic. We publish every Wednesday afternoon.<br />
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<b>I started yet another blog and "came out"</b> This one's called <b>Remember the Abortion Episode?</b> It's another pop culture review, with a twist. Isn't it strange that with the preponderance of surprise pregnancies on American TV shows, hardly any of those women characters even talk about having an abortion? In reality, 3 out of 10 American women have an abortion at some point in their life. Clearly we have a taboo. <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/remember-the-abortion-episode">On this blog</a>, I review and rate those rare TV episodes that deal explicitly with abortion, for <a href="http://remember-the-abortion-episode.tumblr.com/post/95472598815/maude-maudes-dilemma-parts-1-2">better </a>or <a href="http://remember-the-abortion-episode.tumblr.com/post/93879179370/beverly-hills-90210-heartbreaker-and-the-labors-of">worse</a>. My interest in this subject, as well as my assessment, is largely based on my personal experience of having had an abortion when I was 22 years old. <u>Just to be perfectly clear</u>: I have never once regretted that decision.<br />
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I was anxious about publishing this blog at first. Opening myself to other people's judgement frightens me. But that discomfort is nothing compared to my concern for American women's reproductive rights. For fifteen years, I've held tight to my experience for fear of being shamed or misunderstood, all the while knowing it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. And as I sat silent, I've watched our access to abortion dwindle. While I would never pressure any individual woman to discuss her personal medical history, I can't help feeling that those of us who stand by our abortions need to start talking about that choice like the normal, reasonable, often-complex yet everyday decision it is.<br />
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I'm doing just that, in a couple ways. I've wrote a memoir piece about my experience, which I intend to publish later*. In the meantime, I decided to do that "be the change you wanna see" thing and commence Abortion Real Talk via this new blog. Most people who know me didn't know about my abortion until I started publishing RtAE in July. You might say, "That's a weird way to tell everyone," and I'd say, "Yeah, I guess that's true." But I'm a pretty weird lady and I contend that nothing I've done - either by having an abortion or writing about it - is wrong. Plus, I think this blog is insightful and funny.<br />
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My deepest gratitude to all who've been supportive of RtAE in any way - it means <i>a lot.</i> Compelled as I am to openly discuss my experience with abortion, it's an intimidating project. I haven't received any vitriol from haters, mainly because I'm not widely read. It will certainly happen if I ever am. The silence from others - especially those of my usual readers who I'd assumed to be pro-choice - is its own weirdness, but I try to not read too much into that. Many folks who are fine with discussing abortion in the abstract turn awkward when it gets personal. I just have this gut feeling that making it personal is the key to our liberation. If we all knew how many of our women friends and family members have had abortions, maybe we wouldn't be so awkward about it.<br />
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I publish this blog every other week, hopefully more often in the near future.** I'll keep you posted.<br />
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...and that's why I haven't posted anything here at Rare Oats since May. Maybe we're nearing the point when I wrap up this blog for good. But I still have a few other things to say that don't fit anywhere else, so I'll be back. It's funny to think that just over a year ago, this was the only creative project on the docket. Being busy as hell feels great.<br />
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*Still in the reading-and-editing phase, but I am determined<br />
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**I'd love to bring other writers in. If you've had an abortion, love talking TV, have a way with words and can keep it under 500, message me.<br />
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<br />tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-56414759577292407052014-05-09T09:51:00.001-04:002014-05-09T10:02:28.588-04:00Why I Don't Judge People Who Buy Cheetos with Food Stamps<div>
I made a recent and rare foray into online debate with complete strangers. The topic was welfare. By the time one of the participants inferred that I am a wealthy, clueless and hysterical liberal who knows nothing about how "these people" really are, I recognized the innate pointlessness of bickering with someone whose world view is fundamentally different from mine. Apparently, this gentleman gets really mad at welfare recipients who squander their limited, partially tax-funded resources on unhealthy food, booze, cigarettes, and expensive gadgets. I, on other hand, do not get mad. </div>
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My lack of bitterness isn't because I don't pay taxes or care how small my annual contribution is*. Nor do I naively assume that only a few "bad apples" make costly choices while all the other "good" poor people live lives of irreproachable virtue. To me, getting mad about poor people spending money imprudently is like getting mad that shit floats downstream. Poverty is full of expensive traps and temptations that keep you broke. I know because I made lots of unfortunate financial decisions when I was poor - borrowing money at bad rates without a considered repayment plan, always choosing short-term cheap over long-term affordable, avoiding my debt out of shame, and indulging in stress-dulling creature comforts. Even when I was earning decent money in my late twenties, I had acquired so many debts and bad habits that I remained perennially broke. I'd probably still be that way, but I got really lucky around age 30 and stumbled into some opportunities to learn thrift and economy.</div>
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- First, I hitched myself to a guy who's good with money. Dan is especially talented at managing debt. (If he were the author, this is where he'd insert a Jew joke, because he's Jewish and thinks that's funny.) He convinced me to face my debt head on and not let it get worse.</div>
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- Shortly after we got married, I took a personal finance class offered free-of-charge by my employer. It literally changed my life. They taught me how to make a sensible budget and stick to it. Within days, Dan and I opened a savings account. I immediately began tracking my everyday spending, a habit I've kept up fairly consistently for the past six years. I don't need to be as obsessive about bookkeeping now because we're more financially stable. But that initial determination to live well within my means and pay down debt saved me during those slim years when Dan was finishing grad school. </div>
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- For years, I'd been visiting a therapist who charged sliding scale rates for low income patients - he helped me make lots of smart choices that paved the way for good fortune (like snagging Dan). When I told him about my frugal fever, he recommended Amy Dacyczyn's Complete Tightwad Gazette. I checked out a copy from the public library and made it my bible. Especially now that I'm the house boss, I draw upon its lessons every day. Back then, it taught me to love canned tuna, bulk savings, and nylon net onion bags repurposed as scrub brushes. My favorite tip these days is keeping my house tidy and pleasant so I don't feel the need to go somewhere else and spend money. Even though I don't earn wages for my housework, my labor definitely transfers into money saved and that's pretty damned satisfying, too. </div>
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If those three things hadn't happened, I'd probably still be eating takeout most nights a week, paying ATM fees, smoking a pack a day, buying toilet paper and cleaning supplies at the gas station, and wondering how my paycheck disappears so fast. I'll give myself some credit - for finding a clever mate, attending the optional finance class, reading the book, following the lessons. Conscious change requires initiative. But the fact remains I had to learn thrift and those learning opportunities came to me by luck. NOTE: Learning this stuff from your parents also qualifies as damned good luck.</div>
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If seeing a welfare recipient with a fancy cell phone makes your blood boil, probably none of this has moved you. After all, we're just talking about our feelings, right? That's what irks me about most online political arguments I see. Almost everyone is just spouting off their emotions, based on whatever anecdotal information they've absorbed. Few of us are arguing on the basis of research or data. We get excited when we happen across a more informed argument that supports our strong feelings, so we can point to that and say, "See!" All I can say for myself is that the anecdotes I've shared here come only from my personal experience. I suspect my story is relatable to some, but I don't venture to guess how life is for any other individual. So if your knowledge of "these people" is limited to what you've heard from others or what you've seen in a grocery store line, I'm not interested in your point of view. I'm more curious how you became a person who isn't poor or dependent. You can tell me all about that.</div>
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It's a matter of perspective. My anger is a limited resource and way more of my tax money pays for endless war, which bothers me more.</div>
tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-77162304075502432022014-04-28T11:00:00.001-04:002014-04-28T11:01:31.786-04:00Psychedelic Stuff My Kid Has Said to Me<div>I eat the sunshine.</div><div><br></div><div>The cow is jumping on the milk.</div><div><br></div><div>I see the baby piggies in the wall.</div><div><br></div><div>Clap your hands, clap your feet, clap your armpits!</div><div><br></div><div>I have a sticker on my giant poop.</div><div><br></div><div>Is that the number Y?</div><div><br></div><div>(pointing at childproof outlet covers) Those are the questions. </div><div><br></div><div>See the orange juice door?</div><div><br></div><div>I put my mouth in my hair.</div><div><br></div><div>That's the moon in the flower. That's the flower moon in the flower.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm washing the water.</div><div><br></div><div>The sky! Up and grey and tall.</div><div><br></div><div>I wanna go see Mama, Mama.</div><div><br></div><div>You're my bear of the sun.</div><div><br></div><div>Bernadette can be a pizza.</div><div><br></div><div>That shadow is exactly.</div><div><br></div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-12541773956877430202014-04-17T22:23:00.001-04:002014-04-18T15:17:45.798-04:00Greedy for Greener Leaves<div>
It was 70+ degree and sunny for a week, then mild and rainy on my birthday (not unwelcome - it is April, after all). On Tuesday, the temperature plummeted in the wake of a pelleting rain, and so did my mood. Premenstrual syndrome conspired with post birthday blues to burgle every remaining morsel of joy I'd felt just one day prior. But mostly it was the shitty cold weather's fault.</div>
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I used to think the most perfect time of year is that series of spring days when all the chartreuse trees have blossomed and bloomed to some degree but no single leaf is yet full grown. The lilacs and tulips come with their hard, shellacked hues of purple, yellow, and cranberry-orange. The fragile newborn flora grow more resilient and sprightly. The fauna turn manic. Birds perform their wall of sound, dawn and twilight symphonies. Bunnies emerge. Humans dine al fresco and fornicate.</div>
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That was last week, and I loved up every one of those days as much as I could. When I eyed Tuesday's forecast, part of me felt wistful knowing this perfection would all pass too soon. But another part of me just shrugged and wondered, "When's the real show gonna start?"</div>
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This is the real show - lush, dewy leaves and grass sizzling in the hot sun. Fences festooned with morning glories. The inevitable kudzu carpets rolling over the mountainside. Stepping out of my air-conditioned house into a honeysuckle scented sauna. Roses and rosemary. The flavor of meat cooked outdoors, over smoke. Bare skin on slow moving limbs. Never shivering. Losing my lip balm to the medicine chest until November.</div>
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It seems my preferred environ is densely floral and humid. Who knew? I always hated hot sticky days in Michigan, but that's probably because I usually didn't have central air conditioning. I may have once loved springtime most, but it was harder earned back then. Without a dramatic thaw, the chartreuse week just isn't as big a deal. It rather intensifies my rainforest cravings, because air just can't get muggy enough on mere baby leaf fuel. It's the succulent vegetation that brings the sultry breezes.</div>
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tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-85064831389849156622014-03-12T12:51:00.001-04:002014-03-12T12:51:06.479-04:00The Reasonable Cost of Being Authentic<div>Big surprise - I don't care for bridal or baby showers. In addition to the dopey games and the general awkwardness of daylight gatherings with strangers, I find the public unwrapping of presents very strange. I remember kvetching about this to my friend R. "Wouldn't it be better if we all just gave each other cash and skipped that part? The last way I wanna spend a weekend afternoon is watching someone else tear into a bunch of kitchenware they'll never use or clothes their kid will outgrow in a week. That isn't my idea of fun."</div><div><br></div><div>"Yeah," she agreed. "But you gotta play the part, right? I mean, you just have to sit there, ooh-ing and aah-ing over the gifts."</div><div><br></div><div>My sense of indignation flared and I replied, "No, I don't. I'll just stare off into space and think about something else."</div><div><br></div><div>R gave me a funny look. And since she's older and teaches psychology, I take her funny looks to heart. She never revealed what that facial expression meant, but I arrived at this conclusion a couple days later - when it comes to showers, I can either play the part of an excited, envious girlfriend and bitch about it after the fact, or I can zone out in the back of the room and not whine about having to be there. But I can't have it both ways. That's double-dipping.</div><div><br></div><div>I've come to a similar conclusion about being a social creature in Chattanooga. My kind is quite weird in this town, where sarcastic, introverted, over-thinking, lefty, atheist, hippie chicks with midwestern accents are rare. I certainly don't wish to live in a place where everyone is just like me because that would be creepy and boring. And it isn't as if all the other people in Chattanooga are exactly like each other. I'm grateful for that human variety because people-watching will never be dull. But it is hard to find others with whom I can relate and sometimes my loneliness sours.</div><div><br></div><div>That's when I begin resenting all the places where I don't fit in, which is just about everywhere. I notice it most when I'm out to eat - ugh, like that meal at the new farm-to-table cafe, where the hipster servers try too hard at looking cool and not enough at doing their jobs well. "Yes, my lunch was scrumptious, but that guy with the handlebar mustache who took twenty minutes to brew my coffee? And the smug, yuppie clientele? Ick, I may never go back." Then I remember my last birthday brunch, at the all-you-can-eat fried chicken place on the edge of town. I'd waited months for that down home feast. At the end of my meal, the polite, standoffish, middle aged waitress asked me where I'm from. "Just a couple miles down the road," I said, but her quizzical face told me exactly what she was thinking - "No, where are you <i>really</i> from?" </div><div><br></div><div>Okay, the scene isn't usually that alienating, but I do so often feel self conscious about my clothing and manner when I'm out in society. I figure that's apt to remain the case so long as I choose to be myself. And since I'm stubborn and lazy and don't want to style my hair or go to church, I've learned to accept that and expect nothing more. That's the cost of being myself in this mostly conservative Bible Belt city. When I start to feel lonely or uncomfortable, I stave off grumpiness by appreciating my loner superpowers - the ability to roam solo in a social setting, the capacity to amuse myself without attention from others. And though I'm shy, I can engage in surface-level, polite banter. The locals may not be friendly enough to overcome my deep reserve (and I know that's all on me), but they are almost unfailingly civil. I could certainly do far worse in the many other parts of this country where I don't click.</div><div><br></div><div>In the early 1990s, I was part of a rapidly shrinking white student population at a largely Arab/Muslim high school. I was also a morbid, pale, extremely serious alternachick, so there was no chance of my being normal there. Getting used to being a freak took a couple years, but overall it was an invaluable experience. Being forced to spend long hours with very different people made me more tolerant, compassionate and open-minded. Those lessons probably outstripped the whole of my sub-par public education. In fact, racial and class integration is one of my top concerns as I explore my daughter's education options; I've felt very strongly about this since long before I became a mom. So it's funny that I wound up in this place where I find myself so weird again. Again, learning to feel secure in my freakiness is an everyday challenge, but I feel like this experience may be just as good for me in the long run. </div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-60634143650191100982014-02-05T18:58:00.001-05:002014-02-05T21:25:49.191-05:00In Honor of the Friends I Didn't Help<div>Ever since I became a parent, I often think about two childhood friends whom I believe were molested by their fathers. In both cases, obvious signs flashed before my young eyes, but I was either too naive or distracted at the time to notice. Contemplating those horrors now invites a tidal wave of feelings - anger, sadness, frustration, guilt. Maybe I'm no more culpable than any other person in my friends' lives who did nothing to help them. As far as I know, the crimes never came to light, just as we never discussed them at the time. But you recognize certain patterns as you get older. You meet new friends and listen to their stories. You gradually discover that incest and pedophilia are much wider-spread blights than any child wants to know. </div><div><br></div><div>This has been extra heavy on my mind in light of Dylan Farrow's open letter about her estranged father (and accused molester) Woody Allen. Without speaking about them specifically, I will make the following points, beginning with the most obvious -</div><div><br></div><div>- People who want to sexually assault children need to be kept away from children. It is our social responsibility to sequester predators from our young.</div><div><br></div><div>- Abusers tend to have been abused. It us our social responsibility to stem the cycle of sexual violence by helping victims deal with their trauma and holding perpetrators responsible.</div><div><br></div><div>- None of this works if we ignore symptoms, shame victims who speak up, or otherwise close our eyes and pray it isn't true. </div><div><br></div><div>- It especially doesn't work when we are distracted by a predator's clout, money or prestige. Consider Jimmy Savile, the late English celebrity who is now accused of raping dozens of kids. Through his career and philanthropic work, he positioned himself in such a way that he had easy access to children. So did Jerry Sandusky. These two men were able to abuse many, many young people <u>because</u> they had the power and privilege to do so. Preventing such predators from inflicting that level of damage requires greater vigilance, not less. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm not telling you how to feel about Woody Allen as an individual or artist, because I don't think that matters. But your gut reaction to Farrow's accusation does. If it was something like, "Say it isn't so!" followed by a firm resolve to not believe it, then you aren't ready for your social responsibilities. I implore you to make yourself more ready. Because after all, Woody's just some famous guy you don't even know. How will you react when the alleged predator is someone you do know?</div><div><br></div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-78613377945497861522014-01-20T18:59:00.001-05:002014-01-20T19:01:16.539-05:00Tug of War<div>Tomorrow will be my last day as a part-time cheesemonger. After that, I will return to being a full-time mama. I am very excited and very freaked out.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm excited because</b> I get to spend more time with my daughter and less time worrying about her when we aren't together. I'm not a worrier by nature, but you see a lot of sad families at a grocery store. Sour thoughts can be so persistent.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm freaked out because</b> in the first eight months of my child's life, when I stayed home full-time, I kinda forgot how to talk to people and I'm worried that's gonna happen again. I'm mostly happy to be a hermit, but I do require some social interaction.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm excited because</b>, in addition to the time I won't be working outside the house, I'll get back those three hours I spend commuting through the ugliest part of town every week. We've been juggling two jobs with one shitty, dying car. We're over it.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm freaked out because</b> of money.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm excited because</b> once again, I shall delve into a thrift obsession. I get off on seeing how frugal I can be. </div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm freaked out because</b> I come from the land of Yankees and their annoying work ethic. I can't help feeling like a loser when I'm unemployed because working hard (even for a shit wage) is what good little children do. I don't completely buy this philosophy, but it does rule a bit of my heart.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm excited because</b> I'll have time to work harder at more personally fulfilling endeavors - raising my kid, thrift, fitness and writing.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm freaked out because</b> of the cheese loss. I'm really gonna miss snacking on all that luscious cheese.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm excited because</b> of autonomy. This is probably the closest I'll ever get to being an entrepreneur.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm freaked out because</b>, as Dylan said, "You're gonna have to serve somebody." For me, that somebody is a two year old. And while she's the cutest, most lovable boss I'm ever gonna have, she's also such a temperamental naysayer.</div><div><br></div><div> </div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-3293063463685739292013-12-13T07:49:00.001-05:002013-12-13T09:39:32.396-05:00Tips from a Cheese Lady: Having Fun with Fromage this Holiday Season
and Beyond<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Don't call me an expert. Those people exist but I'm not one of them. I package and sell cheese, but more so I just love it. Nothing unusual about that, most people do. But I also notice that most people stress about cheese on some level, be it the calories, the cost or the pressure to appear urbane. How unfortunate we should fret over something that ought to bring us pleasure. Kinda sounds like the holidays, right?</div></div><div><br></div><div>I say, 'tis the season for chowing on big globs of coagulated milk. Let's have fun with it. The following tips are meant to help you do just that:</div><div><br></div><div><b>Stop trying to make it be good for you</b> Cheese has nutritional value but you can easily find leaner, richer sources of calcium and protein. Goat and sheep milk varieties are better for you only by being kinder than cow to your digestive system. They're still loaded with cholesterol. All cheese worth eating is quite fatty. You could sweat details like, "Is it organic or raw or grass fed or hormone free?" - if that's for ethical or aesthetic reasons, I get it. But if you're banking on those options being substantially healthier, just stop. It's the loveliest indulgence. Why not make the most of it by seeking good flavor instead? As with any food, I recommend avoiding anything highly processed. I know, that stuff also tastes good and it's usually cheaper, too. But I believe the tastier, not-as-bad-for-you cheese is worth the extra cash. Maybe it's better to be frugal by way of abstention. We shouldn't eat too much of this stuff anyway.</div><div><br></div><div>Having said that... <b>If you have it, just eat it</b> Don't obsess over preservation. If you need to maintain a big chunk, wax paper and aluminum foil make better long-term wraps than plastic (which suffocates cheese and leads to more rapid molding). If plastic is what you have on hand, wrap it tight. Keep it dry. Don't set it on a wet chopping surface. If you do find mold, cut it away and enjoy the good cheese underneath. Just don't freeze it. That ruins texture and flavor. Besides, you probably have regular access to a grocery store, right? If you can, buy smaller quantities. Or share it. Don't hoard the cheese, it will only lead to sadness. </div><div><br></div><div><b>Snobs are jerks. Don't be one of them</b> I once attended a cheese-selling class when I worked at Foodie Delight*. They dealt a fab selection, most of it unattainable to me for being in the $30 to $40/lb. range. I was excited but also intimidated. When the manager/teacher asked us to name our favorite cheese, I was too embarrassed to say Cambazola because I'd just seen expert Steven Jenkins trash it in his <i>Cheese Primer</i>. Now I feel silly for being so self-conscious. Screw Jenkins, Cambazola is yummy. True, it's no longer my favorite. I'm less satisfied with a lot of stuff I used to love because I've tried better things. Certainly, if you're so privileged that you get to sample cheese the world over, mainstream fare is gonna suck in comparison. But if stinky, gooey, sweet, crumbly-bits-o-blue laden Cambazola were the best thing around, I'd still be pretty passionate about cheese. And if you serve it at your party, I will be very excited. I will also be excited if you serve Velveeta nacho dip and corn chips.</div><div><br></div><div><b>Guilt-trippers are jerks. Don't be one of them</b> Please don't balk at what your friends pay for quality goods. I can't stand customers who come to the counter just to groan, "Eighteen dollars a pound!" I don't stand in front of the Ferrari dealership and moan, "You want how much for a car?" Nor do I begrudge a Ferrari owner their deep desire for something that matters not to me. My feelings about jewelry and shoes are the same. On the other hand, I think it's totally worth spending ten bucks every once in a while on a memorably delicious cheese I can share with a few friends. And if that helps you feel better about occasionally blowing a small fortune on fromage, you're welcome.</div><div> </div><div><b>I didn't avoid soft or raw milk cheeses during pregnancy</b> and both my daughter and I lived to tell. Preggo ladies, take note - you can get your unpasteurized goods from me. I offer a zero judgement guarantee.</div><div><br></div><div>FYI <b>0.25 lb. yields 1 cup, shredded</b></div><div><br></div><div>Speaking of cooking... <b>Here's my favorite, ridiculously easy recipe for delicious Slow Cooker Mac and Cheese </b>(adapted from Stephanie O'Dea's <i>Make It Fast, Cook It Slow</i>) This is basically a cheesy, carb-y custard and it is divine. Like any great slow cooker recipe it's very low maintenance, but you can't leave it alone all day. You have to stir occasionally and it cooks fast. Make it when you're gonna be around the house anyway; most of that time can be spent doing other things.</div><div><br></div><div>A note about the cheeses - I love me some intense, aged cheddars but they don't melt well. I usually get something medium sharp, aged no more than a year (Henning's Mammoth is a great mild-but-flavorful, kid-friendly option). The fontina brings light sweetness and luxurious, gooey texture. </div><div><br></div><div>1/2 lb. fontina, shredded</div><div>1/2 lb. young, mild or medium cheddar, shredded</div><div>4 cups milk</div><div>8oz. (1/2 box) elbow macaroni</div><div>1 egg, beaten</div><div>1 tsp. dry mustard</div><div>1/2 tsp salt</div><div>1/2 tsp pepper</div><div><br></div><div>Spray crock pot with oil. Mix milk and egg, then blend in spices. Mix in the cheeses and macaroni. Pour mixture into crock pot. Cover and cook on low 2 to 5 hours or on high 1 to 3 hours, stirring every 30 - 45 minutes. Serves 4 - 6.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>*not a real name</div><div><br></div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-34148001604257687992013-11-26T09:17:00.001-05:002013-11-26T09:17:02.237-05:00Heeding the Hills<div>Something strange started happening a few week ago. The hills and valleys of my lovely, leafy neighborhood, augmented by crisp autumn breezes and the grand annual color show, seemed to call, "Run, Tara." I told Dan, "I don't know what's going on, but I feel compelled to start running, like it might be fun." He said, "That's weird," and I agreed. Still the compulsion remained. It was an unprecedented urge, and unlikely to recur if I didn't act.</div><div><br></div><div>I've embarked on several neighborhood runs over these past few weeks. For those of you who are runners this is no big deal, but for me it's a revolution. I thought I hated running. Until three years ago, I never ran of my own volition. Treadmill jogging was enjoyable during pregnancy, mainly because I wasn't allowed to over-exert myself and still felt like a badass. Once Bernadette was born, I went back to hating it.</div><div><br></div><div>And running in public, where my neighbors could see me all slow, sweaty and sputtering? That fear was the last vestige of grade school gym class anxiety. But something broke in my brain and I just stopped caring about that. Or rather, my yearning for a specific sort of exhilaration overcame concern for what others might think.</div><div><br></div><div>So I listened to the hills and valleys, and they were right. I love my runs. They leave me feeling so vital. I usually start by jogging down the steep part of the ridge beside my house, which helps me build momentum for the jog up the side of the mountain. Every course is a little different. The distance and altitude changes depend upon various factors like time, traffic and whether I'm alone or pushing Bernadette in her stroller. I try to make each new journey a little more challenging. Halfway through, I like to reward myself by landing somewhere with a beautiful view (usually at the end of the mountainside lane pictured below). I slow down, catch my breath, let my well-worked lungs enjoy the sweet, piney air. And once I get going again, I don't stop until I get home.</div><div><br></div><div>It's a fun way to take in my favorite neighborhood sights - the stately Victorian palaces that line St. Elmo Avenue, the yellow brick Baptist church with the picturesque spire, the row of stubborn, still-leafy pear trees at the center of the valley, the goofy, geriatric Jack Russell terrier down the block. I see it all in such pleasing succession, like a montage - faster than a walk, slower than a drive.</div><div><br></div><div>The best part is how I feel at the end. I'm immediately energized and later I'm really, really calm. My breathing is improving so the finish isn't as overwhelming as it was initially. T, my fitness guru, explained it well. "Your blood is pumping and your muscles are moving fast, so your lungs start to think they need to breathe rapidly. But they don't. Eventually, you'll get to the point where you can finish a three mile run and immediately carry on a normal conversation." This recovery check is my favorite measure of progress. How quickly can I return to conversational breathing? I prefer tracking that over time or distance, I guess 'cause I'm a weirdo. But that's just another thing I enjoy about running, the freedom to take whatever course you like. The options are infinite. </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZgAGDxfDToaFK4ufnidGdJthdzWLBaGLlgW4WgGMnqtVquizsgWrnF0a5upxdmR77HUHISBrX4nYHfLy6woxLqGdS5x3YILE4dTkPpsPLOC2px7T0Pqxl7NOetKcSl4Hsqd64BODhqs/s640/blogger-image--1433935093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZgAGDxfDToaFK4ufnidGdJthdzWLBaGLlgW4WgGMnqtVquizsgWrnF0a5upxdmR77HUHISBrX4nYHfLy6woxLqGdS5x3YILE4dTkPpsPLOC2px7T0Pqxl7NOetKcSl4Hsqd64BODhqs/s640/blogger-image--1433935093.jpg"></a></div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-7914893776420408432013-10-31T10:13:00.001-04:002013-10-31T16:01:28.918-04:00The Internet-Light Brain Diet<div>I recently decided if I want to improve at writing I must make better use of my time. And when I wondered how I might do that, the answer was immediate. I must spend less time online.</div><div><br></div><div>Here's my new approach - I check email as needed. When I'm curious how friends are doing or need to crack wise, I visit social media. When I must answer a random question like, "Who's that guest actor on 'Murder She Wrote'?", I google it. And when I'm done, I put the computer away. I don't wander aimlessly, back and forth, one app to the next, searching for amusement. That was the black hole that sucked so many hours.</div><div><br></div><div>To be clear, I'm not vilifying the internet. It's how I keep up with a lot of cool people from my past. It's the medium by which Bernadette's grandparents watch her grow. Facetime, are you kidding me? When I was a little girl, I used to hold a book open on my lap and make believe I was video chatting with friends, like they did on "The Jetsons". I didn't expect that it would actually happen, or that the machine itself would be lighter than a book. Perhaps my favorite feature is that when I'm dead tired and craving Indian food, I can get that grub to my front door and the only human interaction involved is twenty seconds spent with the delivery guy. Thank you, technology!</div><div><br></div><div>But just as I cannot indulge in carry-out or human isolation every day, I must limit my internet consumption. And here is the result - not only do I have more time, I'm simply happier. The benefits of my fast speak to the ills of the medium ~</div><div><br></div><div><b>My house has never been so clean</b> The internet is great for stabilizing my nervous energy and isn't as deadly as nicotine. Now that it's presence is reduced, I have to be active. The never-ending laundry pile keeps me busy. I've been cooking more complicated meals, which is fun (the extra dishes less so, blech). I've already planned Thanksgiving dinner and even mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors last week. Honestly, I've become a little obsessive about these chores, but at least I have something to show for it. Eventually, I'll tire of domestic labor and replace some of it with reading and writing. </div><div><br></div><div><b>If a troll screams in the forest but there's no one there to hear him, he doesn't make a sound</b> I'm thinking of this one guy who's Twitter famous for being a skeevy jerk. He calls himself a feminist but seems to hate women. Some of his enemies have worked very hard to prove this, which means he gets LOTS of attention. Eventually he had a mental breakdown and surrendered his account password to some very concerned friends. And then a month later, he came back under a different account. He tweeted selfies so everyone would know it was actually him and not some imposter. And then he had another mental breakdown, but not before he pissed off a bunch of other people.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm not saying that trolls don't matter, that their misdeeds aren't hurtful or that they shouldn't be held accountable. I am saying, thank goodness I never followed that guy. I've had my share of days ruined by trolls and I just don't see any point to that.</div><div><br></div><div>Speaking of narcissists... <b>My ego isn't so full of bullshit</b> P90X classes have taught me that an occasional ego beatdown is a very good thing. There's virtue in trying even when you lack aptitude. You develop humility, which opens you up to exploring all sorts of new things. You might even improve at something you thought you did well enough already. </div><div><br></div><div>I feel like social media has the opposite effect of a proper ego beatdown. The more time I invest in Facebook or Twitter, the more attention I get out of it. The more often I update my status, the more "likes" I receive. The more attention I give to friends, the more they return. But I always want more favorites, comments and retweets. And when I don't get the number I expected, I feel a little sad. For what? What have I said or done to warrant any acclaim? When I limit my time with social media, I feel a little lonely at first. But then those red and blue lit flashes of attention mean less to me, and the desire to feel important wanes.</div><div><br></div><div><b>I'm more present for others In Real Life</b> I use the term "IRL" hesitantly because our online lives are very real. I relish a handful of ongoing conversations with a few wonderful people I see once, maybe twice a year. But for those couple people who see me every day, I must refocus attention because I'm already such a space case. Written communication suits me too well because I'm so daydreamy. I think way more than I talk, which is theoretically fine, but not so much when you're dealing with a two year old. They need you to be interactive in the moment. And that's hard enough for me to do without the distracting lure of bright, flashing, nonstop, electric entertainment. Anyway, my daughter been to the playground about four times as often in the last fortnight as in the previous two years put together. My fast is helping me be a more fun and attentive mom.</div><div><br></div><div><b>It isn't as easy to forget my feelings, so I'm less anxious</b> Louis CK touched on this subject in a recent appearance on "Conan". He went on a rant about smart phones, which was definitely more curmudgeonly than the tone I wish to take here. But he shared this wonderful anecdote about listening to a sad Bruce Springsteen song. When he felt himself getting bummed out, his instinct was to seek distraction by texting a bunch of friends. But then he chose to just ride out that bad feeling instead. So he cried, and it was a beautiful moment, and then he felt better.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm grateful for that story, because now I pay more attention to unpleasant psychic nudges. For instance, when I read a friend's brash remarks on some social medium and feel irked, instead of swiping to the next app, seeking the next entertainment, I ask myself, "Why does this bother you?" And I ponder that until I figure it out. Maybe I decide to hide or unfollow that friend, or maybe I just shrug my shoulders and say, "Well, that's how they've always been, what's new?" Maybe Bernadette says, "Go outside!" twenty times until I finally hear her and then we head to the playground. And at that point, I'll probably decide to just release that frustration because even if both of these lives are real, the breathing one is where I'd rather invest my concern.</div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-54969751705100057582013-10-04T12:30:00.000-04:002013-10-04T12:30:43.990-04:00Facebook Notification - Everyone Dislikes Your Disgusting Belly<div class="Body1">
At age 36, I'm the fittest I've ever been. Mind you, I didn't say
"skinniest". I'll put it this way - I still can't do a real push-up yet, but I'm way closer to that goal than I ever was. I owe it all to
this P90X class I've been taking off and on for the past 11 months. When I
attend diligently and really give it my all these are the benefits I feel most,
in order of importance -</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->A sense of calm and very
little desire to smoke cigarettes</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->I look better than I did
before</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->I don't have to feel guilty
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So, yeah, vanity is almost at the top of the list, but I don't stress the
details. I don't know my weight at this moment or how my waistline measurement
compares to six months ago. I just know my jeans are looser and that feels
great. </div>
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But
Facebook advertisers won't let me forget my stomach is still a pile of jiggly,
flesh covered lard. No doubt, belly fat or lack thereof is a great indicator of
progress. I check that flab every time I shower. Yes, I like to see it shrink.
Then I cover it up with some flattering threads and move on with my day.
"No, wait!" says Facebook. "You need to remember you're
disgusting." Apparently, I require that reminder every time I scroll for
cat videos or photos of my friend's newborn baby. </div>
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I usually
keep scrolling - of course I never click - but I don't doubt that that these
ads have some subtle psychological effect. Their messages are supposed to
resonate deep within my subconscious mind. Maybe I don't feel it until later.
Like when I'm premenstrual bloated, laying on the couch, eating chips and dip
and I sigh at the sight of a muffin top roll sticking out of my shirt, maybe
the Facebook advertisers win. But when I actually stop to look at these ads and
really consider what they're saying, my inner wiseass always has a silly
response, such as:</div>
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WTF is
with that mess? I can't post a pic of me breastfeeding my kid, but Diet Tricks
can show pubes?! WAIT false alarm. It's just an ill-fitting thong. That gets me
every time....</div>
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Fatty
doesn't get new underwear TIL SHE <st1:stockticker>HITS</st1:stockticker> 25%.</div>
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You can
definitely lose weight quickly <st1:stockticker>AND</st1:stockticker> have kick-ass abs. Price to pay - you become an obsessive
selfie-shooting asshole with a dumb iPhone case and nobody likes you. </div>
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Dr. Oz
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7K_pTgKGZMVW3PvtXK5YBLZs7PQ0WZlONdikhklVYBLN1_v-Kv0JpQnI8EOA4uxNNU8iTbxLaLPKZyKHKpE35R1Po3XXl53Hi26XaVbTsR3pZ7pOW_n5Zz7OLg0n8u7BI4usLtsLCbnE/s1600/weird+ld.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7K_pTgKGZMVW3PvtXK5YBLZs7PQ0WZlONdikhklVYBLN1_v-Kv0JpQnI8EOA4uxNNU8iTbxLaLPKZyKHKpE35R1Po3XXl53Hi26XaVbTsR3pZ7pOW_n5Zz7OLg0n8u7BI4usLtsLCbnE/s1600/weird+ld.JPG" /></a></div>
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Whatever,
my belly is way flatter than that... and I'd trade it in a heartbeat for those
boobs. <st1:stockticker>JUST</st1:stockticker> KIDDING I didn't get that ad
from Facebook. For some weird old reason I never see it there. Instead, I
always see it when I google recipes like this:</div>
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Fair
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tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-9990883281030433972013-09-19T15:52:00.000-04:002013-09-19T15:52:19.042-04:00My Dirty, Shameful Bias<div class="Body1">
I have a
deep-rooted prejudice toward wealthy people. I don't get them and I usually
don't trust them. What is my definition of "wealthy"? Quite simply,
it means having/expecting to have lots more money than me. It's all relative
and quite subjective, but my class awareness very much colors my perception of
others. If you know me personally I've wondered all these things about you:</div>
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Did you
attend a four year college or university? Is that something everyone in your
family just does? Did your parents pay at least half your tuition and expenses?</div>
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Did you
take piano lessons as a child?</div>
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Do you
now or have you ever ridden a horse for leisure?</div>
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Have you worked in any facet of food service?</div>
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Did your parents
ever give or buy you a car?</div>
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Do you go
the doctor any time you feel off?</div>
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Was
riding the bus ever your only option for getting to work?</div>
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Have you
ever spent a summer in college either backpacking in Europe or working an
unpaid internship?</div>
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Are you capable
of ordering the most expensive item on the menu without a second thought?</div>
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I'm not
saying a "yes" or "no" reply to any of these questions will
determine whether or not I like you. But I am hyper-aware of how similar or
different your answers are from mine. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that
most of my intermittent social anxiety stems from feeling out of place around wealthier
people. I recently attended a party with lots of other thirties-ish adults,
most of whom have salaried jobs, houses and multiple children. I felt so
uncomfortable. "Am I not dressed well enough? I bet I'm the only one who
works for an hourly wage. But I'm also a part-time stay-at-home mom, so that's
kind of bougie enough, right? But I don't take my kid to any activities so now we
have nothing to discuss. FUCK, THEY PROBABLY THINK I'M A BAD MOM. But we only
have one car and it's tricky. Oh, christ, that lady's wedding ring is probably
worth more than our one shitty car. I definitely don't belong here."
Sadly, some version of this internal dialog often comes between me and a good
time.</div>
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Further
complicating the matter is the fact that I can sometimes pass for an
experienced, third or fourth generation upper middle class person. Perhaps this
is because I use the word "perhaps" conversationally. Anyway, when
I'm mistaken for a rich person, my knee jerk rage is a bit shocking. I still
remember when a snotty goth coworker once made a crack about my assumed
"prep school background." Bless his sad little black-clad heart, he didn't know what was coming. "No," I shouted, like a self
defense class pupil. "I'm from a factory town and a seven kid family. We
had one bathroom. I know all about Kroger Cost Cutter Corn Flakes in the sad
yellow box. My public school education blew. Here, look at this fifth grade
class photo of me in my brother's hand-me-down sweater, JC Penney eyeglasses,
and mullet cut with rusty scissors from the kitchen drawer."</div>
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I am
actually more ashamed of being assumed wealthy than I am of that photo.</div>
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My
prejudice is problematic for a couple reasons. In truth, I am wealthier than a
lot of people... like, most of humanity. Literally. I try very hard to remember
that this myopic "us vs. them" viewpoint is practically meaningless
on a global scale. It would be different if I still felt the stress of being
poor, if I still felt sorry for myself for having less. I actually feel very
comfortable with my household income and fortunate for that sense of ease. But this bias is so
visceral, so embedded in my subconscious that reasoning it away simply doesn't
work. I know it's unhealthy. Whatever, I'm not worried about you,
rich person. Especially if you're white, you're gonna
be just fine. Please enjoy your privilege. I'm more concerned that this
bitterness is bad for me, as bitterness generally is. And the only reason I'm
blogging about it is because this sometimes helps me
overcome a problem, or at least release some of the burden. And if it doesn't, at
least you get to know who I really am. </div>
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And truly, some of my favorite people are wealthy. You may be one of them, and
that's fine. Just know that if I ever see you treating a service worker
disrespectfully, I will secretly decide you're a horrible person.</div>
tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-21445366772341422352013-08-21T21:15:00.001-04:002013-08-21T21:15:33.119-04:00Deluge<div>In early July, I began a ten week online memoir writing class through Gotham Writer's Workshop. Most of my classmates - many of whom have lived extraordinary lives - came to this course with a specific story to tell. I did not. After all, my life is pretty ordinary. I just figured memoir was the literary genre closest to what I do here* and it seemed an excellent opportunity to sharpen my storytelling ability. I looked forward to reading lectures and writing short weekly assignments. But when it came time to submit a lengthier piece for peer critique, I didn't have a plan.</div><div><br></div><div>And then I remembered, "Oh yeah, there's That One Thing." I am vaguely referring to my most traumatic personal experience. The matter is prickly enough that I don't want to discuss it here, not yet anyway. But I've long desired to tell this story and I do intend to publish it. So, kudos to me for taking the balls out approach!</div><div><br></div><div>It's been a crushing exercise in self expression. I submitted the first draft four weeks ago. My classmates' comments definitely helped me mold a much better revision, but the sense that I'd misrepresented myself in the initial version still irks me. As a blogger, I've developed a voice that's familiar to my readers. More to the point, pretty much everyone who's read this blog already knows me, or at least something about me. Writing life stories for strangers requires a thorough and articulate self awareness that's quite fucking tricky to learn. I had no idea what a novice I am.</div><div><br></div><div>I submitted the second draft on Monday. This is my last chance to get my classmates' feedback, for which I'm dreadfully unready. I'm afraid of being misunderstood again and, at the same time, I don't want this grueling experience to be over. I'm already exhausted from writing the piece itself, which is packed full of sensitive details I've not shared with anyone before. All these weighty feelings seem to devour my energy. And when you add the rest of my course work and the rest of my life to the deluge, I've scarcely any pep for posting on this here blog. </div><div><br></div><div>All of which is to say, I'm still here. Just wanted to let you know what I've been doing.</div><div> </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>*It's actually quite different, but that's another subject.</div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-26728027565747283392013-07-23T21:46:00.001-04:002013-07-23T21:46:39.846-04:00"She wears a long fur coat of mink, even in the summertime"<div>The summer of 1984 was the summeriest of all summers. I distinctly remember that lazy last day of first grade. Thumbing through a copy of Clifford the Big Red Dog, something clicked in my brain and it fully sunk in that mean Mrs. B would never be my teacher again. She was the first grown up I actively disliked. Most of my classmates claimed she was their favorite when we wrote "My Story About Me". But that was dumb because Mrs. D, the kindergarten teacher, was the only other one and she was way nicer. I smirked to myself. <i>It doesn't matter now. First grade with Mrs. B is over. I'm glad I never pretended to like her!</i></div><div><br></div><div>My oldest brother P's high school graduation was that evening. I was geeked to attend commencement but it rained and there wasn't enough room in the gymnasium for everyone's big family. I hung back at the house with the other older kids and my baby brother. While P and my parents were gone, my sisters arranged a dazzling array of snacks usually reserved for Christmas eve and Kentucky Derby day - chips and dip, cold cuts and potato salad, sweet and sour meatballs and loads of cold, refreshing pop. <i>Wow, graduation must be a big deal. I can't believe P is THAT OLD!! </i></div><div><br></div><div>The following days saw the establishment of our daily television routine. My siblings and I generally agreed that the ten to eleven a.m. hour was locked on TV20's airing of "Gidget" and "The Gong Show". Then it was time for "The Price is Right". The five to six p.m. slot was more debatable, because channel 50's "What's Happening?" block coincided with a music video show on TV20. There was a lot of dial turning during that hour. </div><div><br></div><div>(Later that summer, the "Gong Show" episode of "What's Happening?" blew my mind, and a pop culture nerd was born.)</div><div><br></div><div>Most of my '84 summer memories center around music and especially the videos - The Cars' "You Might Think", Ray Parker Jr.'s "Ghostbusters", Bananarama's "Cruel Summer", Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark", Huey Lewis and the News's "If This is It". We didn't have cable so we didn't have MTV, but we tuned into every music video show on broadcast TV and there were a few. When my sisters and I stayed overnight at my Aunt M's condo one evening, it was a very big deal that she let us watch MTV all night. I remember seeing the video for Dan Hartman's "I Can Dream About You" and thinking, "Why is that white guy pretending this is his song?"</div><div><br></div><div>It was the first summer of sleepovers at my best friend E's house. We had such a blast, shoving Doritos and candy in our mouths, building Barbie villages in the basement, seeing if we could stay up late enough to watch the midnight airing of "Bosom Buddies" on channel 50, singing along to the Billy Joel theme song before passing out in our sleeping bags. I'd usually wake up at some point before dawn and stare at the giant furnace with the scary octopus arms, wishing I was home in bed. When I'd awake in the morning, I wasn't afraid anymore. E's house was fun again. </div><div><br></div><div>The coolest sleepover was when she met me at the front door and said there was a surprise in the basement. She took me to the little wood paneled room where her dad kept his shop tools. It was cleaner than usual and there was a small table with two chairs set up in the corner. When we sat down, her older sister J brought us two cups of Tang and a plastic plate topped with saltine crackers and American cheese cut into triangles. "Welcome to my night club!" she announced, then flipped the switch on the overhead light. A bare bulb lamp shone in the corner, where she danced and lip-synched to Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop". We applauded wildly when she finished. She almost started another song, but then she got a phone call and forgot about us. But I never forgot about those ten minutes in the club. At that point in life, it was one of the coolest things that had ever happened to me.</div><div><br></div><div>That was the summer of "Purple Rain". One of my favorite childhood memories is sitting on the cool basement floor, playing with my awesome hand-me-down Fisher Price house, hospital and village while listening to "Let's Go Crazy" on the radio. I had two Little People girls with identical brown bobs. One wore orange and the other blue. I decided they were twin sisters in a rock band and named them Wendy and Lisa.</div><div><br></div><div>It was an Olympic summer, the one that all those Eastern Bloc nations boycotted. McDonald's ran that disaster scratch off ticket campaign that rewarded you every time the Americans won some event the Russians would normally dominate. We ate so much free McDonald's. For just a small up-front investment, you could keep accumulating winning tickets at every visit. It was the dreamiest racket a seven year old could imagine.</div><div><br></div><div>The Tigers dominated baseball. My sister K showed me where I could find their daily ranking in the Detroit Free Press. It was always a big, sparkly 1. And then they won the World Series that fall when I was in the second grade. That was a great school year, my favorite of all. Mrs. K was very nice and quite fond of me in particular. Kids were still sweet at that age and I wasn't wearing glasses yet. When the summer of '85 rolled around, I wasn't so eager for school to end, yet I knew all the fun that awaited me - long days spent playing and watching TV, just like the old days before kindergarten. There would be fun music, sleepovers, baseball and fireworks on the 4th of July. And all those things did happen, but it was never quite so exhilarating as the summer of '84. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm still searching for that ancient sense of newfound pleasure. It's impossible, I know, but I always feel just a smidge of it when I hear Sheila E's "The Glamorous Life". For me, that will always be the summeriest song that ever was.</div><div><br></div><div> </div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-71120405443861817482013-07-08T16:58:00.001-04:002013-07-08T17:10:08.365-04:00Post Script (My Piece of Shit Neighbor)<div>A few nights ago, I blogged about the shock of seeing a Nazi flag hanging in my neighbor's bathroom. I've been in a pretty yucky mood ever since, hence this attempt to exorcise some of that disgust.</div><div><br></div><div>First, I would like to emphasize that I'd known this guy for all of three hours prior to that discovery. My impression hitherto that moment was rather positive, which made the immediate aftermath all the more confusing. My friend A's Facebook comment on the blog post link pretty perfectly described my reaction. In response to my neighbor calling his Nazi flag a "funny shower curtain", A wrote:</div><div><br></div><div>"The 'funny' part of it is baffling to me. I'd imagine most neo-Nazis don't find the swastika funny. Was he just trying to gauge your reaction to see if you're in the club, or is this some sick new depth of southern hipster irony that found the wrong audience? I suspect the former, but it's incredibly depraved either way."</div><div><br></div><div>Initially, I also assumed my neighbor must have been assessing my sympathies. And the notion that a white supremacist would ever wonder if I'm "on the team" was perhaps the single most revolting piece of this richly fucked incident. Well, a bit of new information has emerged by way of a friend-of-a-friend. This person (whom I've never met) knows and detests my neighbor despite the fact that many among their music scene peers regard him highly. Her impression, as far as I can make out, is that he embraces offensiveness as a way of being avant garde. So maybe - big, FAT maybe - he's just one of those dudes who likes to get a rise out of people, a.k.a. a troll. As far as my primal sense of safety is concerned, that's a smidge better than living down the block from someone who dreams of human genocide. But as far as his character is concerned, all it really means is that he's a narcissist and a sociopath in addition to being a bigoted piece of shit. Nazi or not, nobody gets a pass on that void of basic human respect.</div><div><br></div><div>I'd also like to mention that my piece of shit neighbor is a Philly native and a recent transplant from New York. My guess is that he thinks he can get away with bandying hate symbols "ironically" and passing it off as art in a place like Chattanooga because he assumes the local hipsters are too apathetic, ignorant and/or racist to call him out. But I suppose I'll never know for sure as I have no intention of sharing a civil word with him again. </div><div><br></div><div>Besides, the details matter little. It's pretty simple - fuck that guy, fuck his flag and fuck his idiot friends for associating with such garbage. No gray shades here. It's all chiaroscuro. </div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-16877106027779240752013-07-06T01:11:00.001-04:002013-07-06T01:11:46.410-04:00Nightmare Friday Night<div>I kinda wanna throw up all over myself at this moment. So our neighbor (roughly our age, artsy-seeming) invites us to a tiki bar party in his basement. We don't know him at all but it sounds cool so we say "sure". Turns out there's a cover charge and bands all the way from Boston plus exquisite tropical drinks, so we oblige. We have a wonderful time. I mean, the bands are really noisy/electronic-y and really not my thing, but that's cool - they're different and the venue is funky and I'm just excited this is happening down the block from my house. After a few hours of acting the polite audience member during sets and an eager conversationalist in between, I ask the host if I may use his restroom. He directs me to the first floor and notes, "You'll see the funny shower curtain."</div><div><br></div><div>When I find the bathroom, I see a bright red curtain emblazoned with a human-sized, stark black swastika. Upon exiting the facilities, I immediately find the host. "Dude, what the fuck is up with your shower curtain?"</div><div><br></div><div>He chuckles and pats me on the arm. "I told you it was funny."</div><div><br></div><div>I nab Dan, tell him what happened and we bolt. I say to him after we get home, "The only good thing to come from this is that maybe I'll never be shocked by southern racism again," at which point he reminds me, "He's not even from here. It's like he sought the south."</div><div><br></div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-36336880419252660152013-07-02T21:29:00.001-04:002013-07-02T21:29:44.880-04:00Meeting Mini Me<div>I just figured out why I've been experiencing a silent, mini-meltdown these past several days. It started Friday when Dan told me Bernadette's day care provider referred to her as being "shy" with other kids. That was the precise moment this black cloud first crossed the sun. I grimaced. "Oh, no. But I don't want her to be like me!" </div><div><br></div><div>That's all she seems to want these days, to be like me. Every other word out of her mouth is "mama". And as I decipher some of her other pronunciations and gestures it seems she's impersonating me. Today we were watching a family photo slideshow on my iPad and I noticed that she no longer squeals loudest in response to her own image. Her greatest delight is in recognizing me. </div><div><br></div><div>Maybe this sounds like fabulous ego fodder, and it kinda is, but the novelty is wearing off and I'm starting to panic. It's too much pressure. I never wanted her to be like me as much as I wanted her to be <i>better</i> than me. And the shyness is the last thing I wished for her to emulate.</div><div><br></div><div>Blogging can be such swift, sharp tool of self discovery. It often seems that once I make some pronouncement about myself, I immediately discover it isn't entirely true. Specifically, I've started to wonder if I'm really quite so introverted as I am customarily afraid of other people. There's good reason for me to be that way - I've spent big chunks of my life in the company of mean, unstable people and I'm pretty sensitive to be dealing with that sort of thing. Sequestering myself was how I found calm and maintained my sanity. Good for me that I happened to enjoy spending time alone. But there's no question I've always been shy in addition to being introverted. I'm way more outgoing now than I was as a child, when I could barely look anyone in the eye. I've also gotten pretty good at avoiding assholes, too. Overall I'm proud of my progress, but I must admit I'm not yet the model I wish for my kid. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm really not sure what to do. Fortunately, just prior to hearing someone describe my daughter with the "s-word", I'd already resolved to be a bit more social. A recent solo trip to Michigan reminded me how much I love good conversation with grown-up friends; much as I try to convince myself otherwise, the internet just doesn't provide a suitable substitute. I'm pretty sure I could experience more of that in Chattanooga if I made the effort. And that's fine. But now this other factor is increasing my sense of urgency, leaving me overwhelmed. I hate the idea that my kid could suffer undue loneliness because she's trying so hard to be like me.</div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-77607995504690973702013-06-14T08:14:00.001-04:002013-06-14T08:14:47.281-04:00The Unique Comfort of Not Caring<div>For someone who regularly broadcasts her neuroses online, I'm a pretty discreet individual. Certain aspects of my personal life have not/will not be discussed by phone, email, Facebook or Twitter, and I'm certainly not going to talk about any of that stuff here. Part of my reserve stems from a deeply ingrained sense of propriety. I'm like big sister Elinor from<i> Sense & Sensibility</i>, really uptight about decorum. But it also comes from a sort of paranoia. You see, getting in trouble is my biggest fear and I've long found keeping quiet the best way to avoid it.</div><div><br></div><div>So it wasn't really for myself that I worried in the wake of last week's big news about NSA surveillance, or at least not at first. Nor was I that surprised to learn our government has direct access to just about everyone's phone activity, email and messaging. But once laid before me, the absolute scope of that truth left me astonished. I keep thinking what my friend J said a year ago about being active online in the mid-90s. "Back then I didn't get that the internet is forever." Only in light of this recent news do I begin to grasp the implications of that notion. I think of myself as a generally good person, but what could be said of me based on my digital footprint? For instance, it wouldn't be difficult to deduce some dumb financial decisions I made in the past. And that's just one bad-looking thing. How many steps are you and I from potential character assassination? There's just so much available information about us all.</div><div><br></div><div><i>Too much, right? I mean, who am I but another one of the faceless millions? Besides, I'm lucky because I'm white and somewhat middle class so nobody bugs me. I can just blend in. And I never get in trouble anyway so I'll probably be just fine.</i> Such is my knee-jerk inner dialog when pondering the NSA scandal inevitably leads to silent panic. And yes, there's a very good chance I'll live my whole life without being persecuted on the basis of some misconstrued information from my vast, intricate digital portrait. But that isn't really the point. Clearly, this trove of information is just too damn ripe for misuse. Because I'm a quiet, middle class white person (and not, say, a muslim), I've had the luxury of waiting until now to connect those rather obvious dots. And that's just one small aspect of this enormous debacle, of which I have much to learn. Certainly, choosing to not think about it is a more attractive option. I regularly struggle with that inclination, about so many bad things...</div><div><br></div><div>So if you've been thinking this NSA story is no big deal, I'm gonna assume that you haven't given it much consideration. I sympathize with that strategy but still think the matter deserves your attention. On the other hand, if you've thoroughly considered the issue and still find yourself feeling blasé about it, I have to conclude you're a very comfortable person who isn't bothered by any injustice that doesn't impact you directly. And if that is the case, I think you have a really big problem.</div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-7545275817291719972013-06-05T22:11:00.001-04:002013-06-05T22:11:37.178-04:00Is It a Bump or a Plateau?<div>Ever since I got pregnant about two and a half years ago, my body has been subject to drastic hormonal shifting. There were the various stages of pregnancy, then childbirth, then nursing and the steady, year-long decline into weaning. If I could count on one thing, it was the sense that none of the symptoms would last for long. Disgust toward poultry in the first trimester gave way to intense beef cravings in the second. Postpartum joint pain faded over the first few months of my newborn daughter's life. When breast milk was her only sustenance and I was a busy, full-time wet nurse, I didn't need exercise, cigarettes or a job to consume my then-nonexistent nervous energy. Once she started eating solid foods, I needed other outlets again.</div><div><br></div><div>She fully weaned a couple weeks ago, and even though I breastfed her just once a day for the previous two months, the hormonal impact jarred me. For the first forty eight hours, I felt as if I'd caught a crying virus - sub sneezing fits with random, heartfelt sobbing and that's why my face was so red and splotchy. Thankfully I've moved past that, but now a new batch of bodily oddnesses have caught me off guard. Onions gross me out. Certain cheeses I usually enjoy suddenly taste sour. Perfumes overwhelm me. I'm no longer attracted to Detroit Tigers pitcher Doug Fister. They're little things, yes. But when experienced en masse, they make me feel as if I awoke in a slightly different woman's body. </div><div><br></div><div>And again, I've kinda gotten used to that sense of weirdness, except there are two key, disturbing differences at this point in the journey - 1) I'm not distracted by the daunting prospect of birthing or raising a brand new person; I'm rather well settled in this life which gives me time to think, and 2) Now that I'm at the end of this pregnancy/childbirth/nursing experience I have to wonder, are these changes permanent? Or is there another change in the near future? And which scenario is more discomfiting? I'll just have to wait and see. Having no control is my dual comfort and frustration. </div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-62082511432278803622013-05-27T20:44:00.001-04:002013-05-28T09:01:50.461-04:00Living in a Material World<div>For the first time ever, I find myself in a steady, long-term state of financial stability. We have health insurance, ample living space and savings in the bank. We keep plenty of delicious, nourishing food in our kitchen, including at least one but usually three excellent cheeses. We're paying down debt and using credit cards infrequently. The best part of this life is that money worries rarely trouble me. I know plenty of other people raise multiple kids on way less, so as far as I'm concerned, we're loaded. </div><div><br></div><div>But if we lived according to true middle-class standards, we'd be super broke. Fortunately, I don't care that my 2002 Pontiac Sunfire is the last car in the country with manual locks and windows, because it's paid off and it works. The rent on our century old house is way lower than the mortgage we'd pay on a more solid abode in a superior school district, plus we don't bother with the upkeep. I spend zero money on makeup or hair styling products and tend to wear clothes out before I buy more. If this sounds like a boast, it is, but only insofar that I feel blessed for my indifference. Do I think I'm better or cooler than people who are more concerned with looking good and owning high quality stuff? Not really. I actually envy their ability to blend into society. Maybe I worry less about money, but I bet they worry less about sticking out.</div><div><br></div><div>Case in point - the yard sale. I hosted my first one this past weekend and I am never doing that again. The sum of money I made did not justify the long, dull hours spent feeling self-conscious about my freaky-deaky image. Here are some choice social interactions from that affair:</div><div><br></div><div>- An elderly lady looked at our five tons of baby stuff for sale and said with apparent confusion, "Aren't you going to have more?" Ugh. </div><div><br></div><div>(p.s. I plan to save a lot of money by having just one kid.)</div><div><br></div><div>- A nearby neighbor introduced herself then unleashed her two toddler sons upon the merchandise. My organized porch became a playground swept up in a whirlwind. As the older one grabbed at every brightly colored toy, giving me false hopes for a sale, the younger one tore into all the bagged items before turning my coffee cup upside down upon his shirt. His mom was really embarrassed, especially about the puddle on the porch floor. Perennial renter that I am, caring about that didn't even occur to me. I offered a free boy's shirt for him, but she was really fixated on cleaning the puddle, using his coffee-stained top as a mop. Once clean-up ended, she hastily selected a pair of one dollar maternity shorts, explaining, "They just look so comfortable." But then she didn't have a dollar. So I said, "Oh, just come back later," and there was this weird silence. "You can take the shorts with you," I added, but I think she really wanted me to say, "Oh, just take 'em for free." And I almost did, but a little voice in the back of my head said, "Hell no." As I watched her walk away in her neatly pressed Eddie Bauer ensemble, I had to wonder if this whole thing was one of those weird, elaborate, southern lady mind games I just don't get. </div><div><br></div><div>(p.s. I don't host a yard sale so I can overlook one dollar purchases. Almost everything was priced one dollar.)</div><div><br></div><div>- While all that was happening, another neighbor showed up with her tot. We've met a couple times. From her, I get a definite "Why are you talking to me?" vibe, which may be because I always note with great enthusiasm that our daughters were born one day apart at the same hospital (we all cohabited the maternity ward, it's so magical!!!). I thought, maybe this will be our first normal interaction. But no. After chatting with whirlwind mom for a few, she glanced at a couple maternity shirts and said to me, "Well, I'm gonna keep moving." A simple "goodbye" would have sufficed. </div><div><br></div><div>(p.s. I later noticed that those same shirts - which I'd purchased used and wore throughout my pregnancy - both had armpit stains. AWESOME.) </div><div><br></div><div>- A first-time expectant grandma rifled through a one dollar bag full of baby socks. "Are all these grouped together? Because these are both boy and girl socks." I replied honestly, "Um, yeah, I never really saw the point in discerning between the two, especially when it comes to socks." </div><div><br></div><div>(p.s. ...or pajamas, or shirts, or pants. The conventional girls' color palate is very limited and why shouldn't she get into football and trucks, too? I know this sounds like obnoxious liberal garbage, but really we're just sick of pink and I forget that cross-dressing my kid confuses other people because I'm tired <i>all the time</i>. Besides, I swear boys' socks are cheaper, you get a whole bunch at once!)</div><div><br></div><div>In the end, I was pleased with my profit if I only considered the time spent getting ready for the yard sale. My mistake was expecting the experience itself to be a relaxing, book-filled day in the shade instead of a relentless, six hour reminder that I don't understand how other people value material things. And then I remember that I probably look pretty weird, with my old clothes and my one boy-dressed baby girl and my coffee stained front porch. But I still don't care to change any of that, so I'm not going to think about it. Rather, I will return to a state of blissful, distracted indifference and never, EVER do this again.</div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-26872964842311342542013-05-23T22:21:00.001-04:002013-05-24T02:39:36.924-04:00"There ain't no such animal."Upon sharing with me the legend of Kokomo, Indiana's "Old Ben", my mother-in-law dug up this vintage postcard. It is now my favorite fridge ornament. The inscription on the back reads:<div><br></div><div>"OLD BEN", WORLD'S LARGEST STEER</div><div>HIGHLAND PARK, KOKOMO, INDIANA</div><div><br></div><div>At birth, Ben weighed 135 lbs.; 1,800 lbs. at 18 mos.; 4,000 lbs. at the age of 4; and scaled 4,720 lbs. at the time of his death in Feb., 1910. About 8 yrs. old at the time, his height was 6' 4" (at the forequarter), he was 16' 2" long (from tip of tail to end of nose) and his girth was 13' 8".</div><div><br></div><div>Ben was raised by Mike and John Murphy on their farm 3 1/2 miles west of Miami, Ind. His sire was a registered Hereford bull and the mother cow a long, rangy, grade shorthorn. Death came at the height of his fame when Ben slipped and fell on some ice, broke his leg and had to be destroyed. The mounted steer was presented to the city of Kokomo by the Murphy brothers in 1919 and placed on display in Highland Park, where it stands as proof to all those who might say, "there ain't no such animal."</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Surely Leslie Knope wrote that, am I right?</div><div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTka27MgfDiabB6NetP2WJNLUj-xHxoSKAb9u2ty1o9nl9c3OdLAh99FvA8-5s0MeLFqg2qpgJnLycOwqOzD60jfvbXl7pMcmUPY2nq6o8kg4eIxBkUNhWb-Xi0mvMds649NyhGmUJjs/s640/blogger-image--584954580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTka27MgfDiabB6NetP2WJNLUj-xHxoSKAb9u2ty1o9nl9c3OdLAh99FvA8-5s0MeLFqg2qpgJnLycOwqOzD60jfvbXl7pMcmUPY2nq6o8kg4eIxBkUNhWb-Xi0mvMds649NyhGmUJjs/s640/blogger-image--584954580.jpg"></a></div></div>tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-86545822978678843112013-05-10T07:27:00.001-04:002013-05-10T07:27:59.871-04:00Riding Rougher WavesAt the beginning of April, I rejoined the P90X class I'd attended in February. It being such a rejuvenating three-hour-a-week beat down, my plan is to keep going forever and ever, amen. I've never felt so fit and I'm definitely seeing results, especially when I look in the general direction of my feet. My biggest challenge is discipline. I've missed several classes, some due to illness and some because I just couldn't get it together that particular morning. Fortunately, the other students are an ongoing inspiration. Those who have stuck with it this whole time are looking extra strong, healthy and hot. I want to be like them. <br />
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I'm feeling especially positive about the class since this recent mental breakthrough - the P90X workout totally reminds me of childbirth. Most of the time it's pretty exhausting and painful and there are some moments of excruciating exertion. But then there are the duller, more manageable pains in between, the ones you get on top of and actually savor. Those are your breaks. They're not easy, just easier, and you've got to find them where you can. When we sprint back and forth across the gym, the pivot's the movement that takes the most out of me. Getting past it makes the actual running feel less bad, more do-able. And that's a freaking trip, because I never thought I'd prefer running to any other thing, I hate it so much. In fact, I used to think the only thing worse than running was puking, which I did three times during labor and it was nothing compared to all the other stuff my body was going through at the time... do you see what I'm getting at?<br />
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So now that I recognize this ebb-and-flow pain pattern for what is, I'm a little less fearful of going to class. It's funny, one of the main reasons I chose natural childbirth was needing to know I possessed the physical strength. I thought, "If I can do this, I won't ever be afraid of anything at the gym." Well, that hasn't proven true at all and it's just as well. As T the Trainer says, if you want results you should be 40% excited and 60% terrified of working out. When it comes to this gig I'm more 25/75, but I'm improving. Besides, it isn't really about overcoming the fear, it's about developing the tenacity to face it regardless. That's my goal, anyway.tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-16826717194969170212013-04-30T08:40:00.001-04:002013-04-30T08:48:39.413-04:00Psychedelic Stuff I've Said to My KidDoes gnawing on that cow's butt make you feel better?<br />
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Peek-a-boo doesn't work with plastic wrap.<br />
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Are you brushing my hair with the phone?<br />
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Stirring your tea with a dog bone, good plan.<br />
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We're going to leave the tilty banana naked.<br />
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Mr. Ghost Foot is calling. Would you like to speak to him?<br />
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We need a key ring for all your q-tips.<br />
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Does this cake belong on your head?<br />
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That discount card must be telling some really good jokes.<br />
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Whoa, there's a body with a sock, that's so weird... PEEKABOO! <br />
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It feels rough, right, like the tiger's tongue?<br />
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Oh, so you're eating your jammies because I wouldn't give you more cheese.<br />
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Hello. Who's calling? Oh, hey, Bernadette! Lemme see if you're available - Hey, Bernadette, it's you calling. Would you like to speak to yourself?tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6032012320416285870.post-82638415659672663262013-04-23T07:59:00.001-04:002013-04-23T07:59:40.750-04:00Dusty MirrorWhen my daughter knocked a battered old book off the nightstand and I was gathering its unbound pages, I happened upon a couple loose leaves of journal written many years ago. It was everything I could fit on two legal pad pages during an extended train ride from Chicago to Ann Arbor immediately following a blizzard. I didn't have a notebook on me at the time, or perhaps I'd filled the one I'd packed for that New Year's journey, for I hadn't expected to be stranded at my friend's aunt's house for two days. Anyway, it was an illuminating read.<br />
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Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was steadily descending into an era I now consider the absolute nadir of my so-called adulthood. I was in college, barely supporting myself on part-time work and student loans with zero clue about juggling money, classes, my job, leisure time or relationships, nor had I concocted anything nearing a realistic plan for my future. I was drifting toward some very regrettable choices, but again, I didn't know that then. <br />
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Upon glancing the date at the top of page one, I cringed. But once started, I couldn't stop reading. It's funny, I've harbored certain vivid memories of that train ride - shivering in my seat, the broken door at the front of our car that would latch only when forcefully shut and the way the snow infiltrated those breezy connectors between cars and gathered in thick ridges along the walls. But in that journal entry, there were memories I'd forgotten - how grateful I was for the hospitality I'd received in Chicago (the primary emotion I recalled prior to reading was sullen impatience), a funny toddler who begged his mother to let him visit a cute eight year old girl at the back of the train, drinking a warm Heineken and being glad it wasn't warm Budweiser. Most surprising was the frank rendering of my feelings toward my new boyfriend. When I recollect the advent of a doomed relationship, I always assume I must have been fooling myself. Turns out, I knew exactly what I was getting into, incompatibilities and all. And when I talked about him being funny and secretly sweet, I remembered why our courtship seemed like a better than bad idea at the time.<br />
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I've kept journals on and off (mostly on), for the last twenty years. Save the one lost to a returned rental car during my pregnancy, I believe I've kept them all. I don't document my daily life for posterity. I'm rather frightened of the finished product, especially as it gathers dust and age. Keeping a diary suits me because the process itself is therapeutic. But then I'm left with all these inked up notebooks full of memories I don't remember, packed in boxes, stacked in closets, moved from apartments to houses and across the country. I think of them the same way I consider my childbirth photos - "Ick... I mean, sure, I'll look at those.... someday." Perhaps my densest, most deep-seated fear is that I'll die suddenly, my grieving loved ones will read those tomes and then they'll learn what a grody jerk I really am. A couple months ago, I thought, "I know! I'll organize all my old journals, which will be super fun for me, for real. And then I'll read them chronologically and then I'll burn every one I wrote before Bernadette was born!" It isn't a terrible plan, but maybe the bonfire finale isn't really necessary. We shall see.<br />
tara rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390399466156696007noreply@blogger.com2