rare oats

How I Torture Myself Every Day

2012-01-20T16:10:00.000-05:00

I should have flossed.

I should drink more water.

I should make up that 5K I didn't do last week.

I should revise our budget.

I should do more tummy time with the baby.

I should be a more adventurous cook.

I should post blogs at least three times a month.

I should take the dog for longer walks.

I should be writing my congressmen about so many things.

I should mop all the floors soon.

I should eat three servings of fruit daily.

I should call all the people I haven't talked to in a long time.

I should pay more attention to the news.

I should try to be less judgmental.

I should sell all that old stuff on eBay.

I should do Kegel exercises every day.

I should be stockpiling breastmilk.

I should sleep when the baby sleeps. I should be sleeping right now.

Miscellaneous Reflections on Life With My Daughter

2012-01-14T21:06:00.001-05:00

Ever since Bernadette started smiling, I see a personality emerging. It's almost as if her baby-ness is gradually melting away, revealing a distinct character that isn't so much me or so much Dan. She is definitely her own person, one who strikes me as a very old soul. Sometimes it feels like she's this really cool chick who just decided to be our baby, and I get the feeling we're going to have to make ourselves a bit more interesting if she's gonna hang with us long term.

B is obviously way more social than either of us. But if she's happy, we're happy, so we've been entertaining more visitors in the last couple months than in the previous two years combined. Oh, she also makes us way more popular than we could ever be on our own. She's cuter than us, too.

Raising a baby in the Facebook age is weird but mostly awesome. I love that B's long-distance admirers can watch her grow in pictures and videos. I mean, it's nothing like the real thing but it's way better than nothing. Managing that visual stream is an odd responsibility. For grandparents alone, I feel morally obligated to post photos regularly. At the same time, I recognize that doing so is a quick and sleazy way to score something I call "Facebook fix". Facebook fix is that tiny jolt you get when you see the little red globe lit up with endless likes and adoring comments. Nothing gets you a bigger Facebook fix than posting super cute pictures of your baby. My question is, when I get off on that, how very different am I from a "Toddlers & Tiaras" mom? So if you wish that I would share Bernie photos more often, please know that I don't mean to deprive you any pleasure. I just don't wanna feel like an icky attention whore.

I can't believe that this little person is so soothed by the sound of my singing voice. "Hey, Baby! What's the matter? Oh, nothing a little cable karaoke can't fix? I'm on it." Many a time Bernadette has mellowed to my rendition of Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam's "Lost in Emotion" as I dance her in the sling. This makes no sense to me, but it works and it's fun. Then there are my Diaper Time Ditties, a cappella versions of songs I know by heart - The Chords "Sh'boom", The Beatles "In My Life", They Might Be Giants "Birdhouse in Your Soul". She really digs that last one, so yesterday I added this to the repertoire ~

She loved it so much. Her face was a non-stop smile fest, and when she's smiling she relaxes and it's easier to put her diaper on. Sometimes singing is the only way to get through diaper time without a lot of crying. Those are the moments when I find the tone of my forced happy a cappella voice a little creepy, because I know how stressed I feel inside. The repetition doesn't help my sense of frustration. Perhaps I need to add more selections to the Diaper Time Ditties catalog, just to make it more fun and interesting. I do believe we've got some Cole Porter on deck.

I'm so glad Bernadette has a really nice dad, one who can't wait to get home to her when his work is done. Dan calls B "baby drugs", I suppose because he's been jonesing for her all day.

I'm so grateful to him for busting ass so I don't have to know how that feels. With the exception of this past Sunday, when my sister M babysat and the two of us went out on a date, I haven't been away from B for more than three hours at a time. This is what my life has been these past few months and this is how it'll be for a few months more. It's awesome. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Everyone who has adult children tells us to enjoy this time. I know several parents of small children who find that shit annoying. The problem with getting that advice from the former is that they don't seem to recollect the tribulations experienced by the latter. No, I did not enjoy those evenings during the first four weeks when Bernadette would scream for two straight hours. But I do find I'm unusually present these days which puts me in a good position for enjoying the little things. For someone so prone to nostalgia, I've spent little time mourning my pre-baby existence. I do have a recurring dream in which I can't quite make it to the karaoke bar (a personal symbol for all foregone freedom), but I'll gladly leave that yearning to my subconscious. My conscious mind is mostly focused on this baby and helping her become the best Bernie she can be. I'm luckily blessed with a propensity for patience, and a baby who happens to love living room karaoke.

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "Sweet Genius"

2011-12-20T19:47:00.000-05:00

Being at home with an infant, I watch a lot of TV. In this blog series, I examine some of my favorite televisual guilty pleasures and answer the question, "So, why do I like this crap?"

"Sweet Genius" on Food Network

I can spend entire days watching TV food shows and consume only a wee fraction of the airtime devoted to this subject. I have to admit, this rampant habit of fetishizing a basic human need is rather perverse. I know this. But I don't get out much and foodie porn keep me entertained. I especially enjoy travel logs like "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations" and instructional shows like "Lidia's Italy". These programs never bore me.

Then there are the competition shows, with which I have a more tempestuous love/hate relationship. It seems like it all started with the Japanese version of "Iron Chef". I can groove on "IC" and its American spin-off because it's fun watching cooks get creative with a wacky parameter, like making five courses that incorporate elk. Perhaps more importantly, I don't feel the urge to murder their generally good-natured panel of judges (which usually includes one very quiet celebrity who only wants to be taken seriously). On other shows, like "Chopped" and even the dangerously addictive "Top Chef", some of these self-important mofos have gotten way out of control. Attention, Celebrity Foodie Judges - While I respect your dedication to professional integrity, please remember that you are evaluating a luxury item. Your indignant response to less-than-stellar gourmet cuisine makes me want to tenderize your face.

Given that, I guess it's pretty weird that I should love "Sweet Genius", Food Network's latest contribution to the pastry competition genre. Host Ron Ben-Israel is the ultimate Celebrity Foodie Asshole, to the point of being absurd. But it's that quality that makes his show exceptional. It's as if the producers wondered how far they could go with the torture-the-contestant paradigm and then took the concept a few steps further. For instance,

The host is an absolute creep. Just look at this guy -

As Dan said, "He definitely has someone locked in a basement." He's even spookier when he smiles, but that doesn't happen often. Talk about self-important. According to this premise, Ben-Israel is the sole arbiter of pastry proficiency. The set is his torture lab, where four chefs compete in three elimination rounds for the Sweet Genius title and $10,000. Any reasonable viewer has to wonder, "Who the hell is this guy and why does his opinion matter so much?" Apparently he is an industry icon, at least according to his awe-struck contestants. I suspect many of them were drawn in by his good name, only to find themselves immersed in a bizarre and terrifying culinary labyrinth (more about that later).

Ben-Israel is certainly a sadist, which doesn't make him different from any other reality competition judge. He's just more obvious about it, and I appreciate that. Unlike, say, "America's Next Top Model" host Tyra Banks, he doesn't pretend to give a shit what anyone else thinks. There's no panel of shills, just him. So unlike those catty bitches from "Chopped", he does not partake in hushed-tone confabs at the judges' table as the poor chefs slave over their courses. Instead, he heckles his contestants as they work. "Show me everything you know about chocolate," he bellows, occasionally interjecting an inscrutable, "Genius!" It's hard to not laugh, and yet you know the fear in the competitors' eyes is very real.

Wacky Parameters GALORE The competition is divided into three rounds - frozen, baked and chocolate. Each round begins with the introduction of a key ingredient and an object of inspiration, which are rolled out on a conveyor belt and described by a Euro-accented robot lady. Each dessert plate must incorporate the ingredient and somehow reflect the inspiration. The former tends to be either low-brow (i.e. candy corn) or ill-suited to dessert (cactus). The latter is just random (a disco ball, a unicorn). And then, halfway into the round, Ben-Israel introduces another weird ingredient, like seaweed or Pop Rocks. The chefs must then incorporate that into whatever they're already concocting. BOING! It's a pretty evil experiment, but it does inspire some creative brilliance. And beware to those who dare to bitch or whine - as Ben-Israel loves to say, "A Sweet Genius can adjust to any situation," or, more ominously, "You were warned."

The White Knuckliest Judges Table Ever The judge's table is the best part of any competition show. You get to see the contestants' finished products and witness the evaluation, which is the next best thing to tasting it yourself. In keeping with the general ridiculousness that makes "Sweet Genius" so special, Ben-Israel's minimalist, one word sentence laden, twisty-turny evaluations really do put me on edge. These moments often remind me of that famous "What do you mean I'm funny?" scene from Goodfellas. No matter how well it begins, you're never quite sure how this nutjob is going to feel in the end.

All nuttiness aside, "Sweet Genius" is worth watching for the chefs' inventive and often beautiful creations. My favorite was a sand-inspired chocolate competition in which the contestants had to use marrow bones and coffee beans. One woman created a beach scene with coffee, chocolate and marrow flavored sands. She painted the marrow bone with chocolate to make it look like a piece of driftwood. It really was lovely. Even Ben-Israel referred to her presentation as "ingenious". That made her cry, which was a bit sad and Stockholm Syndrome-y, and I had to wonder if her gushing, "I have so much respect for you!" was the real reason she won. After all, the other guy's Coney Island themed bone marrow hot dogs were pretty clever, too.

That was the rare competition when Ben-Israel acknowledged genius on both sides ("...but there can only be one.") Unlike most competition shows, the winner is revealed when the last loser is announced. Ben-Israel says, "So-and-so, you were no Sweet Genius," and you have to sit through that chef's final humiliation before you get to see the other guy exhale and smile. I'm waiting for the episode when Ben-Israel flunks the entire class and no one gets the ten grand. Just because that never happens on any other show doesn't mean that it can't happen here.

Planning for Peanut: Peanut! part 2

2011-11-25T11:23:00.009-05:00

In part 1, I recapped the events of pregnancy week 40, during which I was under a lot or pressure to induce labor. I managed to avoid an induction, but made a deal with my obstetrician that I would be induced on Sunday, October 30th if little Peanut hadn't arrived by then.

Week 41

On Tuesday, October 25th, I awoke relieved. I didn't have to go to a hospital or doctor's office that day, or the next day, or the next day. I could finally enjoy my sister M's visit and work in some sight-seeing before the baby's arrival. The lower half of my body was recovering from the previous weekend's ill-conceived castor oil experiment. I was ready to enjoy my last several days of pregnancy.

Of course, I told myself the same thing I'd been telling myself for weeks - all that could change if little Peanut decided to emerge from the womb. But having been aware of that possibility for a whole month and having been through the medical interventionist wringer that was week 40, I couldn't help wondering if that was ever really going to happen. Maybe she just wanted to stay in her cozy, uterine clubhouse. With all the nonsense she'd be apt to encounter every day, I could hardly blame her.

After Dan left for work and before M got out of bed, I called my best friend S and recounted the events of the previous days. S is the father of twin toddlers and his knowledge of certain terms I used - like preeclampsia, for instance - made me realize that I was joining a special club called parenthood. I didn't know what "preeclampsia" meant a week ago. And I bet that two years ago, S didn't know what it meant either. But if you or your spouse has given birth, you just know this stuff. He knew about the castor oil trick, too. He laughed and groaned simultaneously when I told him of my effort. "I think if you want to avoid induction, it's probably best to avoid self-inducing, too."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But hey, it gave me a preview of coming attractions. That's something, right?" He laughed at me some more. I added, "For what it's worth, I'm having contractions right now. Who knows? Maybe today will be the big day."

If this were a movie, my water would have broken two minutes later. M would rush me to the hospital just in time to avoid an automobile birth at the junction of I-24 and I-75. But the mundane truth of the matter was that I'd been feeling contractions for days, even before the castor oil debacle. I didn't know at the time that what I was sensing was more than just a strong Peanut kick until I was hooked up to a non-stress test monitor. But there it was, registering a neat, little bell curve on the pink graph paper printout. Contractions are no big thing until they start coming hard and frequent, and even then they can stagnate. I met a woman who told me she'd had contractions six minutes apart for ten days before she gave birth. Now that's a bummer.

After I hung up with S, I drank coffee and nibbled some food with M. Though I was in a good mood and happy to have some mellow time at home, my appetite remained elusive. I can't eat when I get nervous or anxious, but what was there for me to sweat? Sure, those contractions were more intense than any I'd felt before; the castor oil contractions made my uterus feel like a balloon that's being inflated, but now I felt grinding cramps rising from the cervix. But these were still too infrequent to be taken seriously. I decided to think about other things. M and I made sight-seeing plans for that afternoon and eventually rose from the sofa to get ready.

When my obstetrician Dr. B described contractions to me around week 37, he said, "It's enough to stop you mid-sentence, if not to stop you in your tracks." I was walking Dulce when I felt the first one of those. I remember standing in the middle of the street, staring at my neighbor's yard, thinking, Oh, that's what he meant. Several minutes later, when I was gathering my purse and cell phone, I felt another one. By the time we had buckled our seat belts in M's car, I told her, "I've been feeling pretty regular contractions for a little while now. I'm going to start timing them." That was at 2:30pm.

We drove up Lookout Mountain to Point Park, a Civil War memorial that boasts the best view of the city. I reminded myself of the number one bit of advice given to women in early labor - just go about your business as usual. Buy your annual Point Park pass because the old one expired. Show M the beautiful view of the city. Go to the bathroom. Nothing to see here, move along! But I couldn't help leaning against a rock or sitting on a bench every time I felt that grinding cramp, and the clock sure wasn't lying. Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Ten minutes. Back to eight minutes. I knew I was a long way from the finish line, but it seemed like this might really be happening.

By 3:30pm, I gave up any pretense of continuing our sight-seeing tour, but I definitely had to eat. Doing that would only get harder as labor progressed. We headed to The Terminal, my favorite restaurant/brewpub in Chattanooga. Thinking with respect for my stomach and the work ahead of me, I eschewed the root beer and bison burger I really wanted and ordered a water and salad instead. We sat at a high table in front of the bar. The stools looked more inviting than low chairs or wooden booth benches, though I still had to stand up and stretch as each contraction rolled across my belly. I think I caught our waiter smiling excitedly as he passed our table. If this were a movie, they'd lay me on the bar while the brewmaster shouted at his minions to fetch the hot water and towels. What's with the hot water, anyway? Is it really going to stay hot throughout the entire labor?

I'd called Dan at the start of our meal, just to let him know that something might be happening. Like me, he was cautiously excited. "Oh. Okay... why don't you call me back in a little while and let me know how it's going?" Before we left the restaurant, I did just that, telling him he should meet me at home as soon as possible.

I found the remainder of my early labor hours very difficult. Trying to go about business as usual when you know you're about to give birth seems like trying to do your income taxes while tripping on acid. How does one focus on everyday stuff when your whole world is suddenly bathed in a fresh, strange light? I tried watching "Pootie Tang" with M. I tried tackling simple household chores. But by 7:30pm, I was sitting in bed, attempting to eat crackers and apple slices with my eyes closed, bracing myself for those ever-increasing contractions. I'd phoned our doula A earlier to let her know I was in labor. She said that she would come whenever I felt I needed her there, allowing one hour of travel time. The natural birth books say that you move to the next stage of labor when you find yourself getting "very serious". Was I there yet? I mean, I felt a little uneasy but I was still able to mock Alex Trebek as Dan and M watched Jeopardy in the other room. If I could still joke around, did I really need A to come over quite yet?

I held out until around 10:00pm. By then, my contractions were three to five minutes apart and I was starting to get a little freaked out. It wasn't the pain that worried me as much as the feeling that this was all suddenly moving way faster than I could handle. A arrived at 11:00pm, along with her young apprentice E. NOTE: When I hired A in August, she knew she'd be busy in October and asked if we'd mind her bringing in E, a doula-in-training. If another client's birth prevented A from getting to us in time (unlikely, but not impossible), E could step in. Otherwise, we would have two doulas instead of one. The latter scenario came to fruition, which is greater proof that I am the luckiest of bastards.

The first thing I said to A and E was, "I think it's getting serious, but it's so hard for me to tell because I make a joke out of everything!" A nodded in her sympathetic but not exactly agreeing way, and I suddenly felt calmer. She was carrying a Pilates stability ball and suggested I use it to make myself comfortable. I got on the floor, my knees resting on a pillow and laid my chest upon the ball. I rolled gently, back and forth, as I awaited the next contraction. A encouraged me to breathe deeply as she and E rubbed my back with silken fingers. After the contraction passed, I turned to them and said, "Thank you very much. That felt really nice."

I now realize that would be like taking one bite at the start of an exquisite twelve course meal and saying to the chef, "Thank you very much. That tasted good." Between A, E, M and Dan, I had people massaging and comforting me until we left for the hospital around 7am. Sometimes I had all four of them at my side. Other times they would work in shifts, taking turns to eat, go to the bathroom and nap. I spent most of those eight hours leaning over the stability ball, my eyes shut. But sometimes I would stroll around the house, pressing my hands against a wall as I slowly breathed my way through the steadily longer, harsher contractions. I took a bath at one point. I threw up a couple times, too.

I used to think that vomiting was the worst physical malady, but labor pains gave me a new perspective on that. Puking was just a big relief. Contractions are such a different beast. I kept in mind what I'd read in the natural birth books, that each contraction brings you one step closer to meeting your baby. The best thing to do is to not fight it, but just let it happen. Early in the night, A advised me to make low, deep grunting noises as the contractions occurred. I felt a little silly at first, and then I got scared. I whimpered and nearly cried, but A cut me off. "Tara, no. Breathe deeply. Low, deep grunting sounds." That shook me from my panic and honestly - no shit - I never lost my cool after that point. Making those noises gave me a focus. When I felt the pain rising within me, I knew exactly how I had to approach it. I just had to be like the dude from Crash Test Dummies.

Throughout the night, I kept thinking, If this were a movie, I'd be screaming and saying mean things to my husband. According to my witnesses, I was actually very quiet and polite. The movies make you think that the experience of childbirth turns every woman (regardless of her usual temperament) into a raging shrew, which is okay because she's giving birth. And really, if that happens it is okay, but it didn't happen to me. And I take some satisfaction in knowing that even in those most trying moments, I was absolutely myself.

Having an attentive entourage sure as hell helped. But it wasn't until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning that I noticed the littlest helper of all. After a contraction passed, I lifted myself from the stability ball to take a sip of water and saw my cat Zenobia laying at the edge of the bed. She stared at me, with her front left paw outstretched, as if she were ready to rub my back. E said, "She's been at your side all night." And she followed me the rest of the night, too. Since then, Dan has referred to her as a Certified Nurse Midcat*.

Zenobia - Queen of Palmyra/ Therapy Cat

Around 6:00 or 6:30am, I thought my water broke. I now know that it was actually more of the show that I'd seen on Saturday night (a lot more), but that's when we decided it was time to go to the hospital. I'd told A earlier that I was afraid of the ten mile car ride. I imagined every railroad track, bump and abrupt curve, and how the contractions would magnify those seemingly minor discomforts. She smiled serenely and said, "But in the grand scheme, it's not such a big deal, is it?" It wasn't. Again, I was calm. We left at 7:00am. The earliest glimpses of dawn and the cool, dewy October air was just the refreshment I needed as we slowly made our way to the car. Believing that my water had broken, I was slightly alarmed when I didn't feel any contractions on the way to the hospital. Shit, am I almost to the pushing stage?

Alas, I still had several hours of work ahead of me. The contractions resumed after I got to my room. The nurse verified that my cervix was 6 centimeters dilated and my water bag was intact. And as the long hours passed, I knew I'd stay in a holding pattern until that water broke.

Around 11:00am, I was sitting with my chest against the inclined back of the hospital bed, my arms dangling over the edge, waiting for the next grueling contraction. If I were to fulfill most people's expectations, this would be the moment I'd be begging for an epidural. Most women get to some point in their labor when they start to think, "I can't do this." It's usually when they're really close to the pushing stage (which is generally easier and more satisfying than the stage I was in). I wasn't doubting my ability to handle the situation, but I was starting to believe it would last forever. There was no way I'd ask for an epidural; after all my fussing for a natural, un-induced childbirth during week 40, my pride just wouldn't allow that. And I didn't think it would help anyway. I considered asking the doctor to break my water bag, but my experience thus far was that every intervention seemed to involve more difficulty. Every simple test involved marathon monitoring. Every quick IV injection of antibiotics led to an hour of being hooked to a machine. No, I was determined that little Peanut and I were going to do this together. Yes, I'd have to endure more contractions. So what? You've already been through a whole day of this. Pain is just a thing and you can put it aside. Why fear it?

Eventually, A convinced me that resting on the toilet would be the best way to get my cervix to open up. I was sitting there, leaning into Dan's arms, and I could feel Peanut pushing against the water bag. By this point I was no longer just letting the contractions happen. I was actively working with that pain to push baby Bernadette toward her destiny. I buried my face in Dan's belly, grunted and pushed, and then I heard the second happiest sound of my life. Splash!

A, E and M cheered. I exhaled and laughed. The nurse barked, "Okay, that was the water. Get up! I'm not having any toilet babies today." I begged for a moment to rest, but she wasn't having any of that. As I stumbled toward the bed, she called Dr. B and I readied myself for that glorious, much-touted pushing stage.

If this were my everyday life, I would be so embarrassed right now. Forget the fact that I'm not a particularly touchy-feely person and I shy away from massages. Forget that I tend to avoid being nude around anyone who isn't Dan. I'd been walking around half-naked, falling into other people's comforting arms for hours. But now I was expelling all sorts of liquids from the space between my legs. I didn't care. The nurse was of a much different opinion. "It's going to take me hours to clean this up!" she muttered. And though I usually take pains to avoid being a bother to anyone (especially workers), I didn't care about that, either.

When Dr. B arrived, I could tell he was uncomfortable with two doulas in the room, though I'd told him on several occasions to expect them. He seemed to have completely forgotten about my birth plan, too. "No stirrups - what?!" He just couldn't handle all of this previously discussed information, so he behaved like a douchey buffoon. Out of nowhere, this trusted professional started talking to me in this weirdly bombastic, too-loud tone. Occasionally he'd take a time-out to flirt with the nurse. How did my high school gym teacher get in the room? Is this guy actually going to deliver my baby? At one point, he looked at A's DONA shirt and asked, "What's a donna?"

"Um, it's DONA. It stands for Doulas of North America."

A blank stare and "Huh," was all he could muster. He turned to me. "Okay, Tara. Now you're getting ready to push. This is the one situation where I think it's better for a woman to not have an epidural". Translation: it's the moment when it's more convenient for him that I didn't have an epidural. "I need you to take all your energy and push where you feel pressure, right here," he said, reaching into my vagina. "Push like it's a bowel movement. Okay... now! Push!"

I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pushed, but the results did not please him. "No!" he said. "C'mon, like a bowel movement!"

I was beyond unembarrassed. I felt like taking a dump right then and there. Bowel movement? Here's your stinkin' bowel movement! Thankfully, A chimed in with other advice. "Don't let your breath out. Use it to help you push. When you feel the urge, you'll probably push a few times. Just make sure to get a deep breath between each one. And take a break whenever you need to. "

Oh, how I relished those breaks! This stage is supposed to be so great because you get to take control and really make that baby move. But it requires a lot of energy and I was oh so spent. I'd been awake for 30 hours, I'd thrown up everything I ate in that time, and here I was at the end of the most physically exhausting trial of my life, trying to push a baby through my vagina. Yet, when I felt that urge to bear down, I had no choice but to give it my all.

Dr. B saw some progress. When I got some good pushes in, he encouraged me to stick with the same technique. And then he started saying, "Push through the Bern!" Well, that's a weird way to refer to my baby. How does he remember her name is Bernadette when he can't remember that I have a birth plan? Then I realized he was really saying, "Push through the burn!"

That was actually helpful. Push through the pain. Don't hold back. Each time I did, my audience would coo with delight. "Oh my god, we can totally see her. She has hair!" they told me. I'd spurned the birth mirror - I had enough on my plate without having to look at the mess between my thighs - so I only had their reaction to track the baby's progress.

Even Dr. B got excited. "Yes! We can see her head. It's about the size of a dime."

WHAT?! This much pain and all they could see was a dime-sized bit of baby head? But my body was too busy for me to stew. I pushed some more. I pushed through the burn. As everyone got more excited, I was more eager to be done. And when I heard Dr. B say, "Here she comes," I took a deep breath, pushed into the most excruciating pain I've ever known and screamed in agony. And then I heard another scream. And that's the best sound I ever heard in my life.

At 2:10pm, I cried, "She's here! She's finally here!" And there was my little Peanut, Bernadette, dangling in Dr. B's hands. By that point, there seemed to be about 20 other people in the room. Though I had wanted to hold her immediately, they took her away for a cleaning since there was meconium in the fluid (apparently, Bernadette wasn't shy about pooping either). Since all I ever wanted was for this baby to be strong and healthy, I honestly didn't mind waiting for them to get her ready. But it felt like forever before the nurse laid her across my belly, where she immediately latched to my breast and began feeding. "Well, hello there!" I said. "You're just beautiful." And then I fell into her twinkly eyes. That's how I met my daughter.

So, yeah, giving birth naturally is definitely the coolest thing I've done in my life. It gave me a new perspective on pain and a new measure of my endurance. I felt enormous pride when A leaned over the bed and said, "You are a strong woman." I certainly don't think that anyone who chooses to use drugs during birth is wrong for doing so. Rather, I wish all women felt comfortable, sufficiently informed and empowered to make whatever decision suits them best. I'm just so happy that I got to do this how I wanted, especially since my moments-old baby looked like this -

Healthy and strong, just as I'd wished.

*Contrary to our fears, Zenobia has been an absolute sweetheart to Bernadette. She seems to regard the baby with a certain maternal awe, gingerly leaning in to sniff her head before shyly backing away. Z also continues to comfort me. For instance, there was a night during the first week when B screamed for hours. Dan offered to walk her around the house while I tried to get a few minutes of sleep. I was laying in the middle of the bed with the blanket pulled over my head when I felt Z crawl under the sheets. She used her front left paw to press my hand against the mattress. Then she retracted the claw in her right paw and used that to caress me. I had no idea she was so coordinated, or so sensitive! Well that just melted my heart into grateful, sleepy tears.

Planning for Peanut - Peanut! part 1

2011-11-11T13:03:00.008-05:00

Part 1

Week 40 - Worst Week Ever

Tuesday

Though I had no expectation little peanut would arrive on her due date, I chose to greet Tuesday, October 18th with a celebratory spirit. Though I could no longer wish for an early arrival, I took the date as a reminder that she would likely show up in the next couple weeks. And what's two weeks compared to nine months of waiting? Other than the frustration that comes with fielding the ever-increasing inquiry "Is she here yet?" I happened to feel perfectly fine.

Still, I anticipated my 40 week doctor's appointment with some trepidation. I knew that my obstetrician, Dr. B, was out of town and that I’d be meeting with his colleague, Dr. C, instead. All I knew of her was a particularly harsh online review I'd read when I was researching their practice (though I knew it wasn't fair to put too much stock in a single internet rant). And I also knew that this is when they would start with the twice-a-week ultrasounds and non-stress tests to monitor the baby's health. Though gestation is commonly anywhere from 38 - 42 weeks, as far as these doctors were concerned, 40 weeks is when you raise the red flag.

But again, I felt fine and other than testing positive for beta strep (a somewhat concerning condition that meant I’d be treated with antibiotics during labor - no biggie to me), I'd had absolutely no prenatal issues. So I was a little surprised when the triage nurse stated my blood pressure reading - "138 over 90".

140/90 is when you start to worry. I think my previous week's reading had been 110/70, so this was definitely abnormal. But since I felt fine, I wasn't too upset.

A woman wearing a loud plastic smock showed me to a room where I was hooked up to a non-stress test monitor. She was neat in appearance but quite sloppy in spirit; I immediately found her unnerving. In introducing herself, she mumbled something about "Dr. C", which led me to believe that she was the doctor (though she was dressed more like a nurse). Oh, boy I thought. This woman does not give me confidence. Dan thought I would be having just the ultrasound that day and asked her to check if the NST was really necessary. She nervously scurried away and returned a few minutes later, bearing a desperate, "Please don't scream at me!" expression.

"We have you scheduled for an NST and an ultrasound, but actually the ultrasound machine is broken so we may have to send you somewhere else to have that done or we may need you to come back tomorrow."

Ugh. I'm not a complainer and I certainly don't scream at anyone, so I decided to just suck it up and do what needed to be done. I just had to relax and get through the day. Hopefully little peanut would show up before my Friday appointment so I could avoid any further tests.

Relaxing in that atmosphere was no simple task. It seemed that all the staff I encountered were handling me with something I call "suicide watch kid gloves". That's when everyone seems to think you're about to lose your shit at any given moment, but you have no idea why. It would be like going to work on a day when everyone but you knows you're about to get fired. This was on top of the general atmosphere of mayhem that permeated the office that morning. With two physicians out and the ultrasound machine broken, I could tell they were all having a bad day. And then the NST monitor - which looked like it belonged in my elementary school's computer lab, circa 1985 - started chewing its paper printout, which could give the impression that little peanut's heart rate was plummeting. Dan alerted the lady in the loud smock, and she freaked out a bit more as she tried in vain to re-feed the dispenser. At some point, she reread my blood pressure - 138/80.

Finally, around 1pm, we were ushered to another room where I was to have my cervix checked. A few minutes later, a woman in a long white coat came in and introduced herself as Dr. C. Well that's a relief. (Later, I told Dan, "I thought that nurse said she was the doctor." He told me, "No, she introduced herself as Dr. C's nurse." Hmm.) "Your blood pressure has gone up. If you were past your due date, we would be really concerned about this. But since today is your due date, we'll let it go." Okay, that's completely arbitrary, but whatever. "We're going to send you down the road to get an ultrasound, just to check the baby's weight and fluid. That's at 3pm. And then you'll be coming back here on Friday. But I'm going to give you a list of symptoms and if you have any one of these, you need to call me immediately." I know now that she was looking for signs of preeclampsia - a headache that doesn't go away, increased swelling, upper abdominal pain, etc. I promised to call if any of those symptoms occurred. She checked my cervix and gave me one of those damned nervous smiles. "Still just one inch dilated," she said, as if this little ditty were playing in the background -

But I wasn't worried. Plenty of women go from one inch to fully dilated in a matter of hours. As Dr. B said on several occasions, "You really can't predict when labor will happen."

Since our one hour doctor's visit was turning into an all-day affair, Dan and I treated ourselves to a big lunch before heading to the other office for the ultrasound. Of course we'd hoped they would get us in right away so we could get that lousy day over with, but that just wasn't the case. As Dan pondered a Sudoku, I tried to build an interest in the General Hospital episode that was airing on the waiting room TV. Finally, a nurse approached us. "Excuse me. Are you the woman who is 40 weeks today?"

I smiled and affirmed. She laughed. "Wow, that's amazing that you're exactly 40 weeks and the baby isn't here yet. My daughter is 39 weeks and she is not happy." I made some vague pitying noises on behalf of her child. She continued, "I mean, I look at her and I look at you and I wonder, why don't you just get it over with?!" She laughed some more. Assuming she was about to take us to the ultrasound room, Dan set down his puzzle and stood up. But then she just walked away.

Friday

Since the ultrasound checked out fine and I hadn't experienced any of Dr. C's concerning symptoms, I had no worries about my Friday appointment. I dropped Dan off at work before heading to the office. Dr. B was still out of town, but I could tell that the workplace vibe was much calmer than it had been on Tuesday. But again, the blood pressure reading was higher than I'd hoped - 139/85.

The loud smock nurse was dressed in regular clothes and her hair was coifed with lots of gel. It was casual Friday. She attached me to the NST monitor again and I lazily read a magazine, knowing this could take much longer than the half hour that they generally claim. I didn't think much of it when she came back to check my blood pressure again (or the fact that it had barely changed since the first reading).

Moments later, Dr. C made an abrupt appearance. "Tara, your blood pressure is high. I'm diagnosing you with gestational hypertension and I'm going to recommend delivery."

I felt every muscle in my body stiffen. "When?"

"Tonight."

"You mean you want me to be induced?"

"Yes."

"Oh... I really don't feel comfortable with that."

"If we don't induce, your condition can develop into preeclampsia really fast and then your placenta could detach from your uterus and your baby could DIE."

And that was the first of many times I burst into tears during week 40 of pregnancy. NOTE: While I tend to have a pretty good memory, I admit I cannot remember most statements word-for-word. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that her sentence ended with the words "and your baby could die." I don't think that's something I could ever forget.

Dr. C was obviously surprised by my reaction. "I know you'd feel better if Dr. B were here for this."

Well, yes, but that's hardly the main reason I'm freaking the fuck out. "It's just that I really wanted to do this naturally. And I know I need to do what's best for the baby, but I didn't want it to be this way."

I can't remember how she reacted to that. I just know that a couple minutes later I was alone and the first thing I did was call Dan. He was in the middle of teaching his class, so I had to phone his department's office and ask the secretary to alert him. She was absolutely giddy when she realized it was me calling. She thought I was in labor. As I waited for Dan's return call, I imagined her excitement as she walked to the lecture hall. I thought of his students' reaction as she told him to call his wife, and how thrilled he would be to finally get that news. And it broke my fucking heart.

It was a terrible moment to be alone. I couldn't help remembering my wedding day, when I went to the salon to get my hair done. I'd been thinking of it as just a mundane task, not some sacred lady ritual that required the presence of an entourage. So I went by myself. And it wasn't that I suddenly wanted to make it into this special bonding moment with my non-existent bridal party. But as I sat and observed all the other brides on that June afternoon, I felt conspicuously out-of-place. The stylist was clearly confused by my being alone, and that I had no idea how I wanted my hair arranged. It would have been really nice to have a friend there, if only to say, "Hey, someone in this world thinks I'm normal for being this way."

The phone rang. My tearful greeting was a curt coda to Dan's happily anxious, "Hey, Tara!" When I told him what happened, he quickly reassured me that we were doing what was best for the baby. He asked if I had called our doula A. I hadn't, so he agreed to do so and promised to get there as soon as possible.

By the time he arrived, I was calmer but also more frustrated. Loud smock nurse had revisited my room several times and told me not to cry. "If you cry, you're going to make me cry!" she pouted, as if I cared. When he and I had a moment alone, he mentioned some of the things he and A had discussed. As a doula, A's job is to assist us in having the birth that we want. She doesn't give medical advice, but she's knowledgeable enough to express a variety of options. Sometimes, she just asks really good questions, like, "Were you diagnosed with gestational hypertension or were you diagnosed with preeclampsia?" or "If high blood pressure is the main concern, did you talk about alternatives to induction, like bed rest?" Hearing those questions made me realize that I had the right to slow down the process and at least ask for other options. It also reminded me that the ultimate decision was ours to make.

After the NST and ultrasound indicated a perfectly healthy baby, Dan and I spoke to Dr. C again. "Are there any alternatives to induction that we could consider?"

She sighed. I said, "Look, I know induction is pretty common here in Chattanooga, so it probably seems weird that I'm so upset about it - "

She became self-conscious and mumbled, "Yeah, it is really common."

"-but I really want to avoid having a C-section, and I know it's way more likely if I get induced."

In a slightly louder tone, she added, "Yeah, it's a 50% chance."

All I could say was, "Wow." I knew the rate was high, but I had no idea it was that high.

Suddenly, the doctor was open to alternatives. We agreed that I would have blood work done and that my blood pressure and the baby's stats would be monitored for six hours that afternoon. I would also complete a 24-hour urine sample (yep, that means collecting bits of urine in a big plastic jug over a 24-hour period). If there were any concerning symptoms, including a high level of protein in the urine, I would be induced asap. "And I want to go ahead and schedule induction for Sunday evening." This felt like a blessed reprieve, so I agreed. Dr. C sighed again. "If Dr. B finds out that I let you go, he's going to kill me!"

That's when we found ourselves in the odd position of comforting her. "Oh, he'll understand. We showed him our birth plan and he knows - "

"You have a birth plan? Ugh!" She actually groaned.

"It's just one page! We're very reasonable!" She whined a bit about parents with seven page birth plans, we demonstrated pity for the burden of her well-paid profession, and about a half hour later, we arrived at the hospital for my extended monitoring session.

After we got settled in the room, I told Dan that if peanut didn't arrive by Sunday night, I was willing to go along with the induction. I was a little surprised by his disappointment, but now I'm really grateful for it. If six hours of laying on a bed, hooked to a machine showed me anything, it's that being stuck in bed and hooked to a machine is miserable and a bit terrifying to me. I began to feel as if I were sick and weak, though I actually felt perfectly fine. And when I really considered why I was willing to go with induction, I had to admit that it came from a fear of confrontation more than concern for me or my baby. Frankly, I'm just really bad at sticking up for myself.

Just as I expected, the monitoring revealed no symptoms other than my higher-than-usual blood pressure. After reviewing the data, Dr. C decided I was fit to go home. By the time we left the hospital, I had decided that if my condition remained the same, there was no way I was going to let myself be induced on Sunday evening. And yet, I dreaded that inevitable confrontation with the dctor. It seemed that the best possible outcome would be giving birth before then. And that’s when I figured it would be a good time to experiment with castor oil.

The Weekend

Perhaps it seems odd to self-induce labor when an induction is exactly what I sought to avoid, but there are enormous differences between taking castor oil and being dosed with Pitocin. One of my main desires was to labor at home as long as possible before going to the hospital – not only because home is a more pleasant and comforting environment, but also because this is a smart way to avoid an unnecessary C-section. And unlike natural or even castor oil-induced contractions, Pitocin-induced contractions tend to be constant; you don’t get that rest in between that makes the experience more bearable (which is why induced women are way more likely to opt for an epidural).

Nevertheless, I jumped into the castor oil decision without doing much research, and I don’t think I'd be so eager if I knew then what I know now. I was wise enough to wait until I had completed my 24-hour urine sample before ingesting the oil on Saturday afternoon. In the meantime, Dan had enlisted our friend M in Wilmington, NC to drink some castor oil that same day, as a show of solidarity. M enjoys food challenges (especially those pertaining to hot sauce and spicy peppers), so he promptly agreed. We settled on Saturday afternoon as our “chug time”, though I was a bit delayed as I was waiting for Dan to get back from dropping off the urine sample at the hospital lab. M called me around 1:30pm. “Did you drink it yet?” When I told him I hadn’t, he warned, “You definitely want to mix it with something.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna put it in a smoothie. Why, does it taste gross?”

“No, that isn’t so bad. It tastes like wooden tongue depressors. But it’s just so slimy and viscous!”

Eww. When I poured the oil into my beverage, I saw exactly what he meant. That puddle of slightly yellow goo hung on top of my drink until I thoroughly stirred it in. Oh, well. Bottoms up!

The contractions started just a few minutes later. It was never too painful or intense, but they were consistent, coming every five to ten minutes. I got really excited, but within a couple hours they had all but ceased. I took my second dose of oil shortly thereafter. Not much happened at first, but within a couple hours I was having stronger contractions at eight to fifteen minute intervals.

Again, the pain associated with the contractions wasn’t bad. The real pain was from the diarrhea, which went from “Okay, this isn’t so bad” (at around 6:30pm) to “Oh my god, what have I done to myself!” (by about 9:30pm). At some point in between, M sent Dan what may be the best text message I’ve ever read –

“My anus is a hose. How’s Tara doing?”

Solidarity, indeed. This was a base, dirty pain, but at least I wasn’t feeling it alone.

The contractions lasted throughout the night and when I went to the bathroom at 3am, I noticed a small bit of the mucus plug (which can be a sign that true labor is imminent). I felt great joy at the pulsation in my belly and for being at home while it was happening. I knew at that moment there was no way I was going to let anyone take that experience from me.

But by 10:30am on Sunday morning, my resolve was all I had left from the castor oil experiment. Just as the diarrhea waned, so did the contractions. I made a quick decision and asked Dan to call the doctor’s office and tell them that I had been experiencing regular contractions every fifteen to twenty minutes - which was still true as of 10:45am - and that there would be no need to induce that evening. Technically, we weren’t lying (which is sadly important to my irrepressible inner Catholic) and even if I wasn’t really in labor, I’d be able to avoid the induction and another interaction with Dr. C.

Dan spoke to the on-call certified nurse midwife, who happily agreed to cancel the induction. She reminded us that it would be best to go to the hospital when contractions were every five minutes and lasting one minute in duration. If we didn’t get to that point by Monday morning, I was to schedule an appointment to see my regular physician, Dr. B. That’s when I cried tears of relief.

Ah, but that respite was short-lived! The CNM left a message for me a couple hours later to let me know that she’d spoken to Dr. C, who now happened to be concerned about my low platelet reading from Friday’s batch of blood work. Since this could be construed as a symptom of HELLP syndrome, she and the doctor were still recommending induction that evening. Just to clarify, I was not being diagnosed with HELLP syndrome – that would require the presence of other symptoms, such as high protein in my urine. When I called the CNM back, I asked if we could consider the 24-hour urine sample results before proceeding. She was silent for a moment. “Actually, there’s been a snafu and for some reason the lab didn’t process your sample. Dr. C told them to cancel it since she thought you were getting induced anyway.” Well, now I was just getting mad.

After a bit more haggling, the CNM consulted Dr. C and they asked that I go to another hospital to have my platelets and blood pressure checked again. If the platelets were still low, I would be induced. I was assured this visit would be brief, but of course I wound up being monitored for another 2 1/2 hours. Hello, uncomfortable bed and monitor cords! Haven’t seen you guys in a couple days.

At the end of that session, a young resident came to my room and essentially asked me, “What’s up?” I told him the whole story about my weekend (minus the castor oil experiment, but acknowledging that my contractions had all but ceased during the course of the day). Though I had answered all of his questions to so many people, so many times, he seemed unaware of the most basic details. “What’s your due date?”

“The eighteenth.”

“Of..?”

Sigh. “October. I’m 40 weeks and 5 days.”

He was clearly perplexed. “And you don’t want to be induced?”

I gritted my teeth. “Actually, despite the blood pressure readings, I feel just fine. And since I’d really like to avoid a C-section, and induction comes with a 50% chance that I’ll have one, then no, I don’t want to be induced.”

And as if I had spoken the magic words of the medically informed, he told me I was free to go.

My sister M was waiting for us when we got home. Our initial plan was that she would come to Chattanooga from Greensboro, NC when I went into labor. But it seemed silly to make her wait when that day seemed to be coming soon, one way or another. Her company was a balm to my increasingly angry mood, but at 2am, my rage was getting in the way of sleep.

“Why don’t you listen to the hypnobabies CD that A gave us?” Dan suggested. As he held my janky laptop on his belly, I listened to the dulcet tones through headphones. The woman on the CD cajoled me into a state of relaxation. “Breathe deeply. . . with every breath, let more tension go. . . Goooood. . . now give yourself an A+!”. It wasn’t exactly hypnotic, but I did get to sleep after that.

Monday

Having made it through the weekend without an induction, I was now eager to meet with my OB, Dr. B. We made an appointment for that afternoon. M drove me there, where Dan met us after he left work. Sitting in the waiting room, I wondered if Dr. B would push me for an induction, whether or not my blood pressure remained high. It seemed a strong possibility. But just knowing that he was aware of my intentions and that he was unlikely to say anything as brash or clumsy as, “your baby could die,” made me feel better about it. I happened to catch a glimpse of him when the door to the back swung open. That’s when little peanut gave me three strong kicks. She knew my sense of relief!

It was all uphill from that moment. Blood pressure reading – 132/80. NST and ultrasound – baby was doing absolutely fine. I certainly bristled when the ultrasound tech said, “I thought Dr. C was going to take her on Friday because of your blood pressure?” . . .“Take her”. . . language can be so revealing.

I sensed a mutual nervousness when Dr. B came to my room. First we discussed the contractions that had started and stopped. Then he noted that my blood pressure was back down and that the baby was checking out fine. Maybe because things seemed to be going our way, I felt emboldened to say, “It’s funny to me that when she first recommended induction, Dr. C said my baby could die. But then, when I started speaking to her in informed terms about why I wanted to avoid it, there were suddenly other options for us to consider.”

Of course, Dr. B was inclined to defend his colleague. And he did so rather convincingly, explaining that even though there may be only a 0.5% chance of the baby dying, no doctor wants to deliver that dead baby. And then he got a bit more defensive, which led to a long lecture about big babies and the perils of shoulder dystocia. Eventually, Dan found a break in the rant and asked, “Where do we go from here?”

And for the first time in week 40, we reached an agreement that I could comfortably honor – if peanut hadn’t arrived by Friday, I would return for another round of NST monitoring and an ultrasound. If she didn’t arrive over the weekend, I would go in for an induction on Sunday, October 30. Before meeting with Dr. B, I had spoken to a friend who had managed to labor on Pitocin without getting an epidural. I asked him if I would have the option of doing the same. He sort of rolled his eyes, sunk into his chair and said, “I mean, you can do whatever you want.”

Again, language is revealing. Granted, he said it in that kinda jerky, “Sure, you can jump off a bridge just because your friends are doing it, “ sort of way. But the point is that those words came out of his mouth. And though I already knew the statement to be objectively true, to finally hear it from a medical professional seemed a glorious turn of events. And as far as agreeing to the eventual induction was concerned, I truly felt okay with that choice. One way or another, I was almost done with the long doctor’s visits and the excess monitoring. I was grateful to have a few days to recover my good spirits and regain my mental and physical fortitude. If I were going to experience Pitocin without an epidural, I’d need it.

Dan made fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits for dinner that night, and I ate with a pregnant glee I hadn’t felt in days. Dan, M and I enjoyed a lovely meal, with lots of joking and fun story-telling. At the end of Week 40, I finally felt just fine, both physically and emotionally.

And in one week or less, I would finally be meeting my daughter!

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "I Used To Be Fat"

2011-10-19T11:15:00.014-04:00

Welcome to my new blog series! Here at the end of my pregnancy, I find myself watching more TV than I have in years. And since I'll be housebound with a newborn for much of the next several months, that trend is apt to continue. That's why I bother to pay for cable these days.

Don't get me wrong, I've always loved me some good TV. Even having eschewed cable for so many years, I've exhausted much of the critically-approved, highfalutin fare via video rental ("The Wire", "Freaks and Geeks" and my current obsession, "Deadwood", to name a few). But now that I have access to 200 channels of mostly crap, I'm sometimes surprised by what entertains me. There's plenty I don't like - home-remodeling shows or true crime stuff, for example - but it turns out there's plenty I do. And I'm going to tell you about it, because frankly, I don't have much else going on right now.

"I Used To Be Fat" on MTV

"I Used To Be Fat" is a reality show in which obese teens set ambitious weight loss goals that they try to meet with the help of a professional trainer. In the episode I watched last night, Michigan high school graduate and once-accomplished dancer Terra decides she wants to revisit her hobby and also lose 96 pounds. But, she's thwarted by her family's poor eating habits and her mother Janey's unsupportive attitude. Terra needs an at-home intervention from trainer Jimi to help keep her on track.

I would never have watched this show if not for the fact that Jimi is the brother of an old schoolmate. It's not often I get to say, "Hey, I know that guy on MTV!" (It doesn't matter that I haven't seen Jimi in well over 20 years, it's still cool.) And being a reformed fitness-phobe who's made modest strides toward wellness through the assistance of trainers, I was also interested to see how he would inspire this young woman to meet her lofty objective.

OMG, this show blew my mind! More than ever, I feel like great trainers are right up there with great therapists in the pantheon of Earthly angels. But even the best of these people are no good without a diligent client, and Miss Terra is certainly one. What a remarkable young lady.

At the start of the show, Terra talks about the troubles that led her to this challenge - wanting to dance again but not being so light on her feet, the years of bullying, not liking her body - but she isn't self-pitying. She's just very self-aware, especially in her recognition that emotional eating is the way she bonds with her sister Janecia and their mother Janey (to mom's credit, she also acknowledges that she sets that model for her daughters).

When Jimi arrives at Terra's home, they discuss her goals for the following 90 days. Then he inspects the kitchen. He quickly disposes of the cookies, snack cakes, ice cream and the contents of their cheese drawer (which actually surpassed mine in quantity; this says a lot, even for a family of four). Relatively slim father Jerry calmly removes the bulging trash bags to his truck. Janey is obviously pissed.

Terra's first workout is almost enough to make her quit as she is nearly overwhelmed by the pain. Jimi invokes an impressive paradigm shift - "Pain is weakness leaving the body." Whoa! Terra doesn't give in. But by way of montages and periodic weigh-ins, we learn that despite her hard work, she is not dropping pounds at a pace to meet her goal. Clearly, the food is the issue. Here's an example: just a few days into the program, Terra gets ready to host a graduation open house that Janey and Jerry want to cater with their typical deep-fried meaty/swimming in mayo/cheese-encrusted fare. As Janey dictates the shopping list, Terra wonders why they might need four tubs of Cool Whip (banana pudding, duh!). Janey pauses from list-making with a dramatic, hands-gripped-to-the-migraine gesture and says to her daughter, "The whole day is about you. The decision you have to make is, which 'all about you' do you want it to be about?" But like, no pressure, right?

Terra chooses to go with the flow and allows the open house menu to represent her old habits. She heroically sticks to salad and doesn't eat any cake. But over the following weeks, Janey and Jerry restock the kitchen with all the same crap that Jimi disposed on day one. Eventually, Jimi figures this out and offers to talk to the family on Terra's behalf. It does not go well. As Jerry weakly, almost silently tends to his grill and the five types of meat upon it (including a vat of deep-fried something - yes, he's deep-frying on the grill), Janey holds court in her lawn chair and chuckles about smothering Terra's shrimp in melted butter. Jimi suggests using a marinade instead, to which she snaps, "Jimi... No! Food tastes better with stuff on it." (Quick, someone explain to Mom what a marinade is.) Then, when he asks her what she thinks of Terra's weight-loss difficulties, Janey whines about her daughter using the car to go to the gym and says she can't wait for the summer to be over.

Now, being that this is reality TV, that would be the moment when you want Jimi to flip Janey out of her lawn chair and flat on her face. But, it isn't his job to blow up their family, as incredibly satisfying as that might be. He just needs to get them to help Terra stick with her plan. So he takes the smarter approach and talks to Dad and Sis when Mom isn't around. He convinces Janecia to go to the gym with her sister, if only to give Terra the company she needs to make exercising more enjoyable. And it works! Terra's lovely, sunshiny face lights up when she feels like she's setting a good example for her little sister, and I have to stop writing about it or I might cry. Witnessing that sort of moment, when a loving sibling steps in where a parent failed, almost makes me want to have a second child.

But Jerry winds up being pretty cool, too. He learns how to make salad into an entree and talks to Terra about maintaining her diet when she goes to college. And in a really awkward moment, he tells her that he's proud of her. Even though it was weird and sadly unprecedented, she appreciates it.

At the end of the 90 days, Terra has lost 30 pounds. Though it is way less than she intended, she's nevertheless thrilled and determined to lose the rest of the weight. She asks her mom, "Do you think I can do it?" Janey responds with baffling trepidation, "Yeah... if that's what you're gonna do." Terra smiles and says, "I'm going to."

In the epilogue, Terra goes off to college where she makes nice friends, goes to the gym regularly, eats responsibly and loses even more weight. She gets a sassy new 'do before a weekend reunion with friends and family at home. When Jimi sees her, he's glowing with pride. He tells her that she looks great and asks, "Are you where you wanna be?" She thinks for a moment and says, "With my weight and how I look, I'm not where I wanna be. But how I feel? Oh, definitely!"

Now that's some profound shit for an eighteen year old. It reminds me of psychologist Daniel Kahneman's theory about happiness being defined by the remembering self and the experiencing self. If someone were to ask you if you're happy, chances are you would consider the story of your life before you answer that question. Have you accomplished your goals? Are you making as much money as you'd like? If you died today, what would be your legacy? But that's just the happiness of the remembering self, and it's only part of the equation. Consider this - how do you feel right now? Are you having a good time? Those questions pertain to the happiness of the experiencing self. Fitness is such a wonderful and worthwhile endeavor because it combines both types of happiness. You need to set objectives to measure your progress and I think most of us who come from a place of unfitness find meeting those marks incredibly difficult; that just makes success all the more satisfying. But the trying makes you feel good, too, not to mention all the tangible side benefits like better breathing, better mobility, better sex. Yeah, we all want to be stronger and skinnier, but you get so much out of the journey in addition to the goal.

For coming to that realization fifteen years earlier than I did, Terra is my hero of the day. And that's pretty cool, because we pronounce our names the same way.

Planning for Peanut: She's Coming Soon, I Promise!

2011-10-16T11:13:00.002-04:00

I hadn't intended to write another PfP post before giving birth. But as I approach my due date (this Tuesday), I find myself eager to write and at the same time reluctant to engage in most forms of social activity. It's a perfect time to passively update my progress.

To answer the top two questions everyone has been asking me lately, I'm doing fine and no, little Peanut has made no indication that she's ready to come out yet. I mean, my body is ready and presumably hers is as well, but until the regular contractions commence, there are no other indicators. It could be a couple more weeks before anything happens. It occurs to me that this may seem unusual, because these days many women and their doctors pick a date and have labor induced. This is especially common in Chattanooga; a nurse at our hospital estimated that 90% of their labors are induced, while my OB's more conservative estimate is 75%.

Since I'm planning a drug-free, vaginal birth, I have a very strong interest in avoiding induction. It increases my chances of experiencing several unnecessary medical interventions, including a Cesarean section. As I like to say, a truly natural childbirth is like a baseball game - there is no clock. It just takes as long as it needs to take. Unfortunately, hospitals don't operate that way. Generally speaking, once you get there, the clock is ticking toward that moment when the baby comes out of your body, either through your vagina or your belly. And since choosing induction automatically starts the clock, I'd rather wait for my contractions to begin naturally, labor as long as I can at home, and go to the hospital when my body is much closer to delivery.

Of course I can't wait for the big day to arrive, but all I can really do for now is be patient and make myself as comfortable as I can. That latter endeavor gets harder every day. Sleeping is really unpleasant and seems to offer soreness and rest in equal measure. Exercise is the best preventive form of pain relief, but I don't always feel like going to the gym and walking around the neighborhood involves certain social obstacles I'd rather avoid. Frankly, I'm tired of strangers yelling questions like, "When's the baby due?" or "Do you know what it is?" These queries are not inherently annoying, but imagine having that same conversation with several people every time you leave the house. It exhausts me.

So, my current strategy is to be a somewhat physically active hermit. And for this reason, I apologize in advance for being a terrible correspondent in the coming days. I'm getting worse and worse about responding to emails, phone calls and texts (and I was never that good at it anyway). It isn't because I'm busy - I have loads of time on my hands. Honestly, I'm sick of talking about myself and that one big event on the horizon, the start of which I have surrendered all control. In fact, I'd love to hear how you're doing. Please, send me an email about the events of your life. I'd love to think about something outside of my enormous belly!

Today's agenda is much like any other day - read, write, maybe watch a movie, cook. Sounds pretty nice, right? It is, and I'm trying to enjoy that leisure time while I can. Also, I will get off my lazy bum and go to the gym so I can get my "pain killer" fix. The great thing about the gym is that it's almost all dudes there. Many of them stare at me, but almost none of them say a word to me about anything, especially pregnancy. I suspect that many of them find me creepy. And that bit of social awkwardness is my respite during this challenging time - ha! If I could just tell my fourteen year old self how it would all be twenty years later...

Planning for Peanut: Into the Home Stretch

2011-09-27T08:55:00.004-04:00

I now feature a built-in end table.

I'm at 37 weeks, which means I could give birth to a healthy baby any time now! It could be tomorrow or it could be in five weeks. Since I have no idea how often I'll be able to write during that time (or the next couple months, years, etc.), I figure this is a good moment to tie up a few loose thoughts and observations, one last pause at the threshold of a new life.

Little physical things I will no longer take for granted post-pregnancy

Sleeping on my back and belly.

Doing any of the following without a "plan" - clipping my toenails, putting on socks, picking up anything I dropped on the floor, getting in an out of the car.

Not crying every time I laugh or smile. I've sad-cried only once in recent months (after a truly awful experience with a customer at work), but in the last few weeks my eyes have turned to faucets any time I feel the slightest joy. I mean, it's better than being bummed, but it's a little embarrassing.

Unswollen fingers and feet. Regarding the former, I feel pregnancy has given me some small notion of how arthritis must feel, and you know what? It really sucks! Also, I miss my wedding ring. As for the latter, I've come to accept that I have one, sometimes two pairs of shoes that fit these days. That's okay in the short-term. More than anything, I miss the way walking used to feel, when I didn't really think about it.

Speaking of swollen feet, where did those pools of blood come from anyway?

Definitely from my head. The vessels expanded and the blood that once powered my better-than-average brain crashed to my lower extremities. As a result, I have experienced moments of startling stupidity during this pregnancy. But what happened last week was the worst...

I'd just dropped Dan off at work and was heading down Amnicola Highway toward downtown Chattanooga. A quarter mile ahead, a long line of cars with hazard lights flashing come off of Dupont Parkway. They were getting into my lane (on the left). My immediate thought, based on I-don't-know-what, was, "Hmm. They must be from the new Volkswagen plant and going to an auto show." (???) Since that didn't strike me as being altogether urgent, I made no effort to move out of the left lane, but just fell in the middle of the pack. When I stopped at the next traffic light, a driver behind me honked - a barely audible, mere tap of the horn. Was that intended for me? Well, what was I going to do, run a red light just to get out of their cool kids' caravan? These VW dudes sure are clique-ish.

Well, I wasn't going to ruin their party. When the light changed, I moved to the right lane, which was delightfully empty. Amnicola was usually a mess that time of day, but there was just the merest dot of a car visible in the rearview mirror and absolutely no one ahead of me. I'd never driven down this road with such ease! Those suckers in the left lane were all slowed down and I felt like I was flying, even observing the speed limit. Occasionally I'd hear a couple of blippy little honks as I passed the long line of cars. Geez, do these guys think they own the road or what? At some point I noticed that none of the vehicles were VWs or particularly new or particularly alike, which didn't jibe with my auto show theory. Hmm, that's funny. It's almost like a funeral procession, but they don't have the little flags, so it can't be that (have I mentioned that I've been a licensed driver for only two years?). Whatever. Aww, yeah - Andy Gibb's "Shadow Dancing" came on the radio. What a jam! I rolled down the window and cranked the volume as I merrily cruised toward the green light at Wilcox Avenue.

And then, in the left turn lane, I saw the long white hearse. No doubt it was heading toward the National Military Cemetery, for the burial of an extremely popular veteran whose beloved memory I had just dishonored with my asshole joy ride down Amnicola. I wanted to die. I was just so grateful that I didn't get caught at that light. My immediate reaction was paranoid Yankee fear. Oh god, what if one of them comes after me? I will totally fake early labor. Then I recalled the gentle honking and realized that most people around here are too polite to exact revenge in the midst of such a solemn affair. Once the fear passed, I was left only with my immense mortification.

I now understand that my mind and my instincts and my normally acute sensitivity are all tied together and without enough blood powering the brain, I am sometimes an utter jackass. I also understand that my body has reallocated its fuel for the sake of the placenta and I'm cool with that. But forget the swollen feet and the big belly and the nausea and sleepless nights. As far as I'm concerned, brain function is a pregnant woman's greatest sacrifice.

Lucky

Contrary to some of the sentiments expressed in this blog series, I don't have a lot of complaints about pregnancy. If anything, being preggo has only proven to me how great my life is. I got knocked up really fast, with no effort beyond old fashioned, unprotected sex. I haven't experienced complications or medical issues of any kind. My husband is kind, considerate, smart and supportive, and has a good job that provides us with health insurance. I've worked part-time most of this pregnancy - just enough so I can bring in a little extra cash and not die of boredom, but not enough to really wear me out. We found a gem of a house rental in a beautiful neighborhood. I enjoy the resources that come with good friends and family, from thoughtful advice to gifts to kind words of encouragement when I feel overwhelmed. We have this super nice, calm doula who is going to assist us through the birth, and every interaction with her gets me more excited for it. And for those and many other reasons, I feel really good. Even though it's getting harder to move around and I ache more easily, I still feel pretty damn good.

I don't know why I get to have this awesome life when so many other people struggle in ways that I haven't, but I sure do appreciate it. I guess I can take some credit for my mental and physical health, but mostly I think I've just been lucky. I just hope the streak lasts long after Peanut's arrival. Of course, she'll gets to enjoy all the aforementioned bennies. And to the extent that our good fortune has contributed to the creation of a warm, love-filled nest, I think she's set up for success. So I continue to trust in the alright-ness of our affairs, as only a lucky bastard would.

Planning for Peanut: Consumer, Know Thyself!

2011-09-20T14:16:00.003-04:00

If hell is real, I will spend eternity roaming the aisles of this place.

I was so tired. It was around 11pm at Dan's birthday party and our guests were having too much fun. Most had yet to approach their peak levels of drunkenness; I estimated at least two hours of celebratory verve in their systems. After a long day of work and party-prep, I could have gone to bed at 9:00. I'd have been fine if it were someone else's shindig, but hosting involves too much conversation and not enough eating. "Why do I suggest these exhausting social affairs when I'm seven months pregnant?" I thought to myself. As I stood in the dining room, listening to another mother tell me how I should go about hiring a doula, I actually considered swiping all the food off the table, climbing atop and going to sleep. Instead, I took her chattiness as an opportunity to shove cheese in my face.

"And don't just settle for the first doula you meet. You'll definitely want to interview three or four candidates. And be sure to ask them lots of questions. And if you need help interviewing them, just call me and I can help you come up with a list of questions. It's really important that you find the person who is just right for you."

Between mouthfuls of cheese and pulled pork, I muttered, "Oh, yeah. Uh huh. For sure," but even in my half-conscious state, I knew that would never happen. That isn't how I shop for anything. It would play out just like the obstetrician search - do lots of advance online research (to eliminate anyone who is a definite "no" - doctors with creepy photos, those who are explicitly pro-life, etc.), come up with a short list of "maybes", call the person at the top of the list, schedule an appointment, hope they're cool so I can hire them immediately but give myself the option of backing out if they seem weird. And since I really, really hate shopping, I always have strong hopes that candidate #1 will be great, which may give that person an advantage they don't deserve.

Yeah, that's almost exactly what happened with the doula, except the first person I called wasn't available. So I called the first person she recommended, set up an appointment and met her the following week. We all got along great, so we hired her. And I fully expect that she'll do an excellent job assisting me through my natural birth, just as my OB has been the sort of calm, easy-going but thorough medical professional that I wanted. I guess I've been lucky. So why do I feel guilty for not comparison shopping as that mother had suggested?

I think of myself as a responsible consumer. I try to avoid purchasing products that are toxic to our planet or to the people making or using those goods. And I try to be thrifty. Often, those two endeavors combine in such a way that I ultimately decide, "I don't need that," which is my favorite consumer choice of all. But then there are the things you really must have - a bed, clothes, food - and when you decide to have a baby, the "need" list gets way longer. Even eliminating things that won't be immediately necessary (like baby-proofing gear or a high chair), the stuff we need to be ready for Peanut's arrival include:

An OB

A crib with a mattress

A car seat

Diapers and wipes

Baby clothes

Maternity clothes

Bottles (in case of a nursing emergency)

Then there's the Strong Want/Almost Need list:

Doula

Stroller

Sling

Nursing pillow

Reference books

Bouncy thing to mellow out the baby

I never required any of this stuff before I got pregnant. Researching and registering/purchasing each of these items represents a massive increase in the amount of time I spend shopping. That doesn't even account for the hours I've spent delineating "necessary" from "desirable" and "absurd". I've found this spree a dreadful experience and I admit that my primary goal is to just get it over with.

But it never really ends, especially since we recently decided that I'm going to stay at home for the first six months. Mostly, I'm thrilled about this decision. I'd been trying to figure out a way to go back to my part-time job after one month. Instead, Dan had the brilliant thought that I could just not work until he's done teaching at the end of April, he can switch to being at-home parent and I can (hopefully) find work beginning in May. Initially, my biggest concern was that we will likely accrue debt when I'm not working. Having been a very irresponsible consumer in the past, I look at debt the way a recovering person looks at alcohol - I just don't let myself go there. But when I consider it as a long-term investment (especially because I can keep Peanut out of daycare for the first ten months and nurse her without breast-pumping for the first six), I realize that it's totally worthwhile. The other advantage to having a parent with the baby at all times is that cloth diapering becomes a more convenient option, and no matter how high-end you go, cloth diapers will always be more economical than disposable. So given this change in circumstances, switching to cloth seems like an easy choice. Right?

Wrong. Of all the baby items we've researched, cloth diapers come with the greatest number of choices. Ah, choices - the bricks and mortar of capitalism's pretty prison. Isn't great to have so many options? If you love shopping, then the answer is a resounding YES! But if you're like me, sorting through the possibilities is pure drudgery. Fortunately, I have several friends who've gone the cloth route, so I contacted three sets of parents who've used them in the past year (just like cell phones and computers, the models change and upgrade frequently). They were able to give me some good starting tips, which made the task less overwhelming. I accidentally revealed my search on Facebook, leading to lots more advice. I think the most common tip was, "Try a few different models and see what works for you," which is a really smart idea. And yet, I know I'm definitely not going to do that.

And again, I feel guilty. If I were truly a responsible consumer and a good mother, shouldn't I make the effort to comparison shop? Isn't it important that I find the type of diaper that is just right for little Peanut? Ridiculous as it sounds, this was really wearing on me until it occurred to me a few days ago - even trying two or three options with the expectation that you'll find "just right" is like going on dates with two or three different people and expecting one of them to be your soul mate. Even if "just right" exists, who's to say you'll stumble upon it when there are so many choices available? So, I'm going to stick with my trial and error approach. If one type of cloth diaper (or bottle, or sling, or whatever) doesn't work out, then I'll try a different one. But knowing myself and how much I hate to shop, I imagine I'll often compromise and adapt. Poor people do that all the time, and some of them make awesome parents.

I'm really excited to have resolved this issue, if only in my brain. As I get ready for life with a newborn, one of my goals is to make those first couple weeks of sleep-deprived zombie mode as pleasant as possible. I want to give Peanut and us a great head start on our new life together, which is why I'm so focused on natural birth. I also have my sister M on call when I go into labor (I've never been so grateful for a mere six hour drive from Greensboro, NC to here!) and some local friends lined up for dog-walking and food-bringing. The last thing I want to be doing when all of my efforts will be focused on feeding and caring for my baby is comparing consumer goods. If taking a shower, cleaning the house or socializing can wait, so can the shopping.

Useful Stuff My Mom Taught Me

2011-09-13T11:06:00.009-04:00

Don't eat cereal that changes the color of your milk. It can't be good for you.

You'll never have enough shelf space, so don't buy any book you could get at the library. Why spend the money? Are you really going to read that book again? Sure, you could give it to someone else to read, but the library does that for you. (A good reference book, on the other hand, is totally worth buying.)

Old, unwearable socks make great dusting rags.

When I was five or six years old, I asked my mom, "What's a Democrat and what's a Republican?" After a brief explanation of what a political party is, she said, "Republicans usually care more about things like money and Democrats usually care more about taking care of other people." I thought about it for a moment and said, "Well, I think it's more important to take care of other people." She smiled and said, "Oh, that's what I think, too!"

If you get bored sitting in a waiting room and you don't have anything to read, look at signs around you and anagram the words into other words.

When making deviled eggs, don't get stressed out if you tear one of the hard boiled egg whites and can't use it. You'll just end up with extra yolk filling and that's the best part of it anyway.

Forbidding your child from watching TV shows like "The Dukes of Hazzard" and "Three's Company" will make those programs seem really attractive, and he or she may sneak over to a friend's house to watch. But when that child grows up, they will eventually realize that you banned those shows because they were stupid.

When traveling, pack light. If you're flying, stick to just a carry-on bag. Who cares if you wear the same things over and over? Either you're visiting friends (who shouldn't mind) or you're seeing people you'll never see again.

Avoid buying clothing that says "Dry Clean Only".

It isn't fair to dislike a group of people because of the way they look, what they believe, or how they live, as long as they aren't hurting anyone.

Yes, childbirth is painful, but it's what your body wants to do. When you're ready, you're ready. And during pregnancy, when the baby reaches up under your ribs, it doesn't hurt. It's just sort of... awkward.

If you smile a lot and you're a really good talker, you can brighten the grumpiest customer service worker's day, even the surly, underpaid grocery store cashier. I'm more of a "make the interaction brief and polite", path-of-least-resistance kind of gal, but engaging in friendly banter with everyone is my mom's default. And I have to believe her success rate - measured by the number of people who reciprocate with a sunny response - is in the ninetieth percentile. I'm just glad there are a few people like her in this world, to help make up for all the jerks and the self-absorbed cell-phone talkers and the introverts (like me).

Planning for Peanut: New Adventures in Pleasure Seeking

2011-08-25T13:12:00.013-04:00

There's nothing quite like pregnancy to alter one's experience of pleasure. It isn't just about contending with the lack of booze or the dietary restrictions. It's also the fatigue, which (according to everyone I know who ever had a baby) is nothing compared to those long, sleepless days and nights of constant nursing and dirty diapers. Friends be warned - I'm not such fun company as I once was and it's only going to get worse before it gets better.

But I still long to be good company for myself. I've been surprised to discover a few new avenues for good time havin' ~

Non-alcoholic Beer

I know. It's sad. You know what's sadder? Fetal alcohol syndrome. Okay, I kid! Even if there were no such thing as N.A. beer, I wouldn't be pounding the real thing. But you see, I love the taste of the real thing and I miss it. Honestly, most of this stuff tastes like crap beer that I would never buy, but wouldn't turn down if it were the only option offered to me - think Rolling Rock (not Natty Light, which I would definitely turn down). So far, I've yet to encounter one that tasted even half as good as, say, Bass Ale (in my opinion, an excellent "macro-brew") but it's better than nothing. O'Douls tastes like shit and really isn't worth the bother. I tried one called Clausthaler that was okay, and I appreciated the German name and obscure label for contributing to the overall placebo effect. Ultimately, I think St. Pauli N.A. tastes best and now that I know they sell it at the grocery store where I work, I can get a 20% discount on it. Bonus!

That placebo effect is an interesting thing. At the end of a long work day, I do find a bottle of fake beer soothing. The flavor and the ritual have as much to do with that sense of unwinding as the actual alcohol content. And as I get deeper into the third trimester, I find myself "imbibing" more frequently. Somewhere in Chattanooga, a green glass recycling bin is overflowing with all those bottles I've emptied this summer.

Driving
Goes great with non-alcoholic beer! I learned how to drive just two years ago and at the time I wasn't particularly excited about it. It just felt necessary. I was 32 - twice as old as most people are when they get their first license - and I knew I'd eventually have a kid and would need to drive that kid places. As I've become more driving-dependent, I've come to find the experience less dreadful, though I would still prefer busing to work if I could.

But at some point during the first trimester, I began to find driving somewhat enjoyable. Perhaps it was the solitude or maybe it was the sense of controlling something bigger than me, which feels good when you can't control what's happening inside of you. Now that little Peanut is bigger and quite active, driving while listening to music is lots of fun. My favorite is driving to the gym. I bounce between the oldies and classic rock radio stations, sing loudly with whatever I hear and see how she rates my rendition with her kick-o-meter. So far, Queen is a big winner. She seems to like "We Will Rock You" best - that always gets a few solid kicks. By the time I get to the gym, I'm pretty pumped for a workout. Exercise almost always makes me feel better, so the drive home is even more fun. I'll grab a couple Tums from the stash in the center console and chug some water. Maybe I'll stop by Whole Foods to pick up some groceries and offend the yuppies with my sweaty clothes and foul smell. Then I hop back in the car and take a different route home, as I sing to a different set of radio jams. If I'm lucky, one of those three stations will play "Bennie and the Jets" and Peanut will kick a bit more. I now look forward to this ritual.

Cable TV
We'll be getting cable around the end of September, just in time for post-season baseball and Peanut's big arrival. I have this "thing" about not paying for cable - I'll certainly take it if it's free, but I resent paying so much money for something that's junk food to my soul. We got cable the last six months we lived in Michigan so we could watch Tigers baseball (reasoning that it would be less expensive to our budget and our souls than going to the bar to watch games), but once we moved to Chattanooga, there simply wasn't any need for it.

I changed my mind after a conversation with my friend J about life with a newborn. I asked her, "What do you wish you'd had during those early days with an infant?" She said she wished she'd stocked up on food she could eat with one hand. "Oh, and I wish I'd had a smart phone." Of course! That was the smartest endorsement for a smart phone that I'd ever heard. I know I'll have to get one eventually because it will become a social expectation, but I figured I had a few more years before I'd consider it. Suddenly, it started to sound like a really good idea.

But in recent days I've had to reconsider. I find myself too often sucking on the teat of the internet in search of good times, only to feel depressed and empty in the end. I don't know about you, but I'm no good at being online. I enjoy blogging, of course, and Facebook, but there's only so much I can get out of those activities. I'm just not that curious or creative when it comes to surfing. So then I look at Facebook again or I check my email again, and then I just find myself compulsively visiting the same few sites and getting nothing out of it. It's weird how addictive the internet can be, even when you don't enjoy it much. Do I really need to make that experience portable?

So I'm going to revert to the old evil, mindless activity and get myself some cable TV! I figure the novelty should last for several weeks. I'm envisioning life with a newborn as an experience akin to an intense Michigan winter, when the elements short-circuit your brain and it's best to just give up on the notion of going out much. J told me that she watched a lot of daytime TV. Perhaps I will rekindle my bizarre affection for Wendy Williams, though more likely I will record tons of M*A*S*H reruns on the DVR and further develop my Alan Alda obsession. If we're really lucky, there will be an on-demand karaoke station and we can see how Peanut feels about mom singing Queen, post-womb.

Best Place Ever

2011-08-18T10:01:00.010-04:00

Have you ever been really good at something that didn't make you happy? My former therapist insisted this was a sure path to misery. It was nine years ago when we got on that topic, right after my boss offered to change my part-time accounts payable gig at a non-profit community theater to a full-time accounting position. I would have to give up the more enjoyable other half of my job as a three-night-a-week house manager, but it seemed like the smart thing to do. "Tara, if you take that job, I'll kill you!" said the shrink. I don't think he really meant that, but the message got through my silly 25 year old's notion that I needed an occupation that sounded grown-up. I refused the position (though my boss was not pleased), continued doing the fun, other half of my job which later turned into a full-time position I actually wanted. I'm glad I held out. Being the head house manager was the most satisfying job I've ever had.*

That idea of holding out for what suits me has been on my mind since we moved into our new home two and a half weeks ago. I love it so much! Our last apartment was certifiably hip, a broad, loft-like space that occupied one half of a refurbished auto garage. It had poured cement floors, a functional garage door at the front, stainless steel kitchen counters, and a sliding wall to make two big rooms out of a single giant one. As Dan said before we signed the lease, "If we live here, this is the coolest we'll ever be." And every visitor agreed. Even after I announced my pregnancy, some insisted that we could adjust the space to be more baby-friendly and if I'd loved that apartment as much as I thought I should, I would have. But now that I'm here, I understand why I was so eager to leave. That place was great, but it just wasn't me. This new place is most definitely me.

I had a good feeling from the moment we walked up to this expansive front porch. And all the trees! Check out that stone wall edging the sidewalk across the street. This sort of prettiness makes me want to take the dog on more frequent walks.

The front hallway is flanked by the living room and dining room on the left and the bedrooms to the right. I love the curtained front door with the window above. In the upper right corner of the photo, you can see that I found a perfect spot for my "My Man Godfrey" mini poster.

This is what you see when you enter the house. Hardwood floors and natural light abound (again, that's me all the way). Being on the side of a ridge facing a mountain, with trees all over the place, I expected St. Elmo to be rather shady and dark. It is compared to the nearly treeless valley where we used to live, but we have about twenty times as many windows as we had in our old cinder block compound. All told, I prefer this deal - more indoor light and a lower outdoor temperature.

Our pretty living room. What amazes me is that we have enough stuff to fill this space, even though we moved from two rooms to six. I keep looking around, thinking, "Where did we get all this extra stuff?"

A special space for the dining room table? Having both the room and the table is a new experience for Dan and me. This is also the first time that we've shared a whole house together.

This is where we sleep. I guess the fireplace is functional, but I'm happy just to use the mantel. We may switch over to Bernadette's room (not pictured - there isn't much to see yet), if we decide that this is a better space for her.

This house would be the best place ever if it only contained this best kitchen ever. An island, are you kidding me? Not to mention the dishwasher and garbage disposal. Now that we have all those amenities plus a garage door opener, Dan and I like to joke that we are officially middle-class. Anyway, I've been doing a lot more cooking, which is good, because we can't afford to eat out so much with a baby on the way.

The back office, which our landlord laughingly refers to as "the third bedroom". Fortunately, we don't need a third bedroom. I intend to do a lot of writing here, though right now I'm set up at the living room coffee table, where I can sit on the floor and practice my tailor sitting (shout out to all you Bradley method birthers).

The view from our back deck, which sits above the basement-level garage. Once the landlord showed us this, I knew I'd be super bummed if we didn't get to live here. You can just barely trace the edges of Lookout Mountain beyond the trees; it will be more visible in the winter. One of the things I love about living on the ridgeside is that I can get an upstairs feeling at the back of a ranch style home. Architecturally speaking, I get to have it all.

As long as we're living in Chattanooga, we don't see ourselves leaving this place. More than ever, I'm convinced that renting is the wisest way for us to go. Even if we could afford a house of this size and in this location (doubtful) we could never afford to outfit it as nicely as our landlord has. And wherever we do go later, this is going to be one tough act to follow. But that's the adventure of renting. It's fun trying out different spaces and making it work for you. I'm glad we lived in the old Southside pad for a year. It really was a blast. But other than having a lot of crossbeams from which we could hang plants, I don't miss it. I much prefer this sense of being at home.

*I had to give it up later when my boss made me take a promotion that certainly paid better and was satisfying in other ways, but ultimately wasn't a good fit. It was quite stressful - I started smoking again and lost thirty pounds in the first six months - and perhaps it was too "grown up" for me. I always felt like I was play-acting in the professional adult world, where it isn't so much about how hard you work as it is about how you present yourself. I gave it a couple years before I decided to take a huge pay cut in favor of my personal life.

Planning for Peanut: Advice to the Advisers

2011-07-29T09:48:00.002-04:00

Like so many great jokes, courtesy of "30 Rock"

I don't handle unsolicited advice well, which can make this business of being pregnant very difficult. It seems nearly every parent I know wants to share their top tips with me. I've learned to accept that all this wisdom comes from a place of well-meaning concern and that some of it is actually very helpful. But it's a lot to sort through. The volume of advice I received during a recent trip home to Michigan culminated into a roaring wall of sound, but not in a fun "Be My Baby" kind of way. Instead of a catchy, Phil Spector-produced groove, it was the voice of every parent I know (not just the ones in Michigan, but everyone I've talked to in the past several months), and all the absolutely essential do's and dont's they've shared without my asking. So dizzying was the din inside my head that I hardly said a word to Dan during our ten hour drive back to Chattanooga. It's taken days to process and sift through all that information - some of which I will strongly consider, some of which I will ignore - and frankly, I'm glad to be back in a place where I don't know so many people.

In response to that experience, I've developed my own set of tips for giving unsolicited advice to new parents. If you've raised a kid and you really care about your first-time expectant friends (which I honestly believe you do), there's something you feel they need to know and you want your message to stick, I suggest you do the following ~

Pick one piece of advice. Be specific. Why just one? Because, as I mentioned above, your new parent pals are getting loads of free advice from everyone they know. This is a simple marketing technique. It's sort of like Facebook updates - if I have an FB friend who posts twenty items every day, I tend to ignore most of what they're saying. But that phantom FB friend who only occasionally shares an intelligent, funny or interesting item usually gets my attention.

Let's talk specificity. Lots of dad friends have told us, "You're life is over." Though this warning is morbid, I don't think it's completely unhelpful. But it isn't very specific. I think dudes tend to say this because the change from childless, adult male to new father is quite abrupt. It literally happens overnight. But we pregnant ladies know our old lives are over when we can't get drunk, our breasts balloon, our ankles swell, and we feel a small person swimming around our insides. So instead, I ask you, why is life over? Because you can no longer be your top priority? Because you won't pee or poop in privacy for several years to come? What do you miss most about your pre-kid, lost life? If you want your friend to understand how tough the transition can be, you'll communicate it better by being precise.

Bonus! - if your carefully selected two cents is thoughtful and appropriate, you may find your buddies seeking your input at their own volition. My favorite free suggestion I received in Michigan came from our friend P, who is the father of a six-month-old boy (as well as two teenagers). As he was about to leave our brewpub gathering, he approached me and said, "I have one piece of advice for you."

He paused and I said, "Okay."

"Don't buy anything." He opened the laptop bag hanging at his side. "What is a diaper bag? It's a bag." He then revealed a small pack of diapers and a rolled-up, baby-sized yoga mat. "When the kid needs to be changed, we roll this out on the floor and change him there. It's simple as that. Don't buy anything." A brief but spirited discussion on the rip-off price of changing tables (and other infant "must-haves") followed.

Why did I love this advice so much? It isn't just that it suited my anti-consumerist spirit. It was the way P delivered it. He limited himself to one particular tidbit and saved it for the end of our visit, so there was no way it could snowball into a long lecture. By doing so, he implicitly recognized that I could take it or leave it. I really appreciated him showing me that respect and I'm apt to go to him for more advice, from one cheapskate to another.

Consider how your audience may be different from you. Are you the sort of person who likes to thoroughly research a new subject by reading lots of books? Did you and your partner believe that a midwife-assisted home birth was absolutely essential? Do you tend to plan around worst-case scenarios as a way of being prepared for difficult situations and events?

If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, that's cool. But you should know that you and I are very different people, and that's cool, too. I've found that a great deal of childbirth and parenting advice is based on the advice-giver's personal circumstances or character. For instance, someone who ate only organic and natural foods during pregnancy might be wealthier than me. A parent who recommends twenty books on childbirth is probably more interested in text research and reading than I am. I'm not saying that I can't learn something from their counsel, but I may not be as ardent in my approach.

So if you're inclined to phrase your free advice in terms like, "You have to blah, blah, blah, " or, "Every parent must do this and that," be prepared to be ignored. Rather, you may want to preface your statements like my friend J did when I asked her for book suggestions - "You should know that I'm really big on natural birth." It happened that I was interested in going that route, too, so it was a good thing I asked her. But I didn't feel like she'd snub me if I were eager to have an epidural. Her statement implied, "Though I have strong feelings about the subject, I know my beliefs aren't for everyone." I found that tone comforting. That was months ago, and I've sought her advice on many topics (from baby showers to prenatal classes) since then.

Limit yourself to one suggested book or video. This is in addition to your one piece of advice; think of it as that personal item you can bring along with your carry-on bag. Again, your friends are likely building a lengthy syllabus based on the advice of every parent they know. If your top pick is a repeat of another adviser's choice, even better. Your expectant buddy is more likely to read it.

Don't judge. My friend C's birth coach told her this when they first met, and I love it because it's the perfect summary of the best thing I've gotten out of pregnancy (besides the baby, of course). I haven't even given birth yet and I already find that I'm way more open-minded and sympathetic to parents and other pregnant women.

I've never felt so fucking vulnerable in my life and I know that feeling will just become more intense after Little Peanut arrives. I'm constantly wondering if I'm doing the right thing, if I'm on schedule for being prepared, if I put the right items on the registry, if I have my financial ducks in a row. The last thing I want to see right now is my friend's fallen expression, followed by a statement like, "You know, if you aren't working full-time you don't have FMLA coverage." Yeah, I know.

We all have our steadfast beliefs and we all judge, but I implore you to not give unsolicited advice based on that position of judgement. That "Oh my god, what are you thinking!" face is just too much for a sensitive new parent like me to handle. I suggest checking yourself internally before you say a word. This is what I say to myself all the time - "It's different for everyone." I felt like such a loser when I had to leave my job for a month during the first trimester because I felt like shit and my work was making me feel worse. Since I started feeling better in April, I've really been enjoying pregnancy, but I know that isn't every woman's experience. And yes, it's very easy for me to jump to judgmental conclusions - "If she took better care of herself, maybe she wouldn't feel sick all the time." That's a shitty assessment, based on little or no information. And then I wonder, how would I feel if someone were to judge me for laying around the house for four weeks because I felt nauseous and sleepy all the time? I'd feel really hurt, and that's humbling.

If you're confident in some aspect of your parenting, I wholeheartedly applaud you. In the midst of so much uncertainty, we all need to feel proud of ourselves sometimes. I just ask you to remember that what's easy for you may be very difficult for me, and vice versa. Or maybe my approach is different from yours, though no better or worse. I'm just going to trust that we're all doing our best. If I couldn't, we probably wouldn't be friends in the first place.

Affordable Trees

2011-07-12T14:56:00.002-04:00

I miss Ypsilanti, MI for many reasons, but especially now that we're looking for a new apartment in Chattanooga. Ypsi is this wonderful, underrated little secret of a town. Much of it is fairly ghetto - no matter where you live, you're probably within walking distance of a crackhouse - but I love its sleepy shopping districts, historic homes and expansive parks along the Huron River. My old Ypsi neighborhood is very pretty and a pretty hip destination for poor artist types and young families, which is to say that the living is rather cheap.

Like Ypsi, Chattanooga is a dilapidated blue collar town experiencing a rebirth, but unlike Ypsi all the hip, pretty parts of town are really, really expensive. That's just the way it is. If you want to live near downtown (which we do) and safety is a concern (more so since we're having a baby) there are three "cool" areas to consider ~

The North Shore The first bastion of Chattanooga's great gentrification. Covering several lush, hilly square miles, this is where you find the fancy pants school district and a riverside row of chic retail businesses and overpriced restaurants. Frankly, I'm not impressed. It's so much like Ypsi's upscale city next door, Ann Arbor - the neighborhoods are undeniably gorgeous (and home to the most expensive real estate and rentals in town) but the business district is little more than a shiny money trap. There isn't much to do there except blow your cash on a bunch of stuff you don't need, like designer dog biscuits and boutique clothing. Oh, and the people. On Sunday we dined at Taco Mamacita, a truly good purveyor of gourmet, completely unauthentic $3.50 tacos. Our meal was wonderful, but the atmosphere felt all wrong. As I glanced around the room, I said to Dan, "This crowd reminds me of D.C. Everyone is white in the worst way." Specifically, it felt like everyone in that restaurant had once belonged to a frat or sorority. Now that isn't necessarily a bad thing in itself. It's the homogeneity that frightens me. I'm an outsider and I have no desire to be "in". That's my general impression of the North Shore's business center. And other than the superior school district, which won't be relevant to us for several more years, this seems to be the neighborhood's most touted feature. I don't get it.

The Southside Our current locale and the next big phase in Chatty gentrification, this neighborhood is genuinely cool. We have a few art galleries and a sizable collection of excellent artisan foodie establishments - Niedlov's for bread and pastries, Link 41 for sausage, Velo for coffee, The Terminal for beer (though their burgers and entrees are way better than their brews). Our people are a mix of families, yuppies, older folks and hipsters. It's racially diverse for now and I hope that lasts but I'm not sure it will. The change from low income neighborhood to up-and-coming artists' hub has happened so fast. All of those businesses have come to the Southside in just the past few years. I'm wondering how long it will be before we can't afford the rent here. As it is, the only available spaces are way bigger and pricier than what we want. And the fact remains that for all its cool exposed brick interiors, this former manufacturing center is dotted with large, treeless lots and often reeks of the chicken rendering plant down the road. The Southside was just right for our childless selves, but the prospect of a much tighter budget means that proximity to galleries, artisan foods and brewpubs just isn't that big a draw anymore. I'll take clean, fresh air instead.

St. Elmo I hope we end up living here. Situated at the foot of Lookout Mountain and just above the Georgia state line, St. Elmo used to be its own little town before it became part of Chattanooga in 1929. They have their own downtown with a cafe, a few restaurants, a couple grocery stores and a public library branch. And it's just lovely, with it's craftsman style houses, thick, old trees and mountain view. With an infant on the way, I want a solid home with a big, shady porch, 'cause I don't plan on going out often. And that's good, because there isn't much happening in St. Elmo and it's a haul to downtown Chattanooga. The bummer part of the deal is that we still need to go to work, and getting in and out of this hillside burg can be a real pain in the ass. But when all pluses and minuses are told, I think that one sacrifice is worth making.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I find myself wanting to live in the 'burbs* and that feels pretty weird to me. Having a kid forces a complete reevaluation of what you want in a living situation. We still have our weirdo ways - choosing to rent instead of buying, wanting to live within a ten minute drive of cool businesses and happenings, valuing diversity at least as much as we value a good school district (and who knows how that will change when our kid is actually school-aged). But the fact that I'm desperately hoping we score a certain St. Elmo rental that will require lots of driving to and fro is strange, considering that walkability used to be my number one renter's concern. And this place ain't cheap, either. It's a fairly big two bedroom, which means big utility expenses. Still, I prefer this expensive choice to the more convenient but less-bang-for-your-buck North Shore, or even our current neighborhood. As I find myself settling into a lengthy nesting stage, affordable trees have gained greater priority.

*Again, St. Elmo is technically in the city of Chattanooga. But for it's sheer distance from the city center, it may as well be the suburb it was before it was annexed.

Planning for Peanut: The Build-up to Birth, and "Buffy"

2011-06-30T10:39:00.004-04:00

Sometimes it feels like everyone is fucking with the pregnant lady. The medical interventionists say that home birth is an insane risk. The home birth contingent insists that hospitals are traumatizing environments that can ruin your kid's introduction to the world. I've grown weary of all the books and websites, with their long lists of "don't, don't, don't" but then feel guilty that I don't spend more time reading about pregnancy. Various non-professional men have offered me unsolicited birthing advice, such as, "You should start practicing your kegel exercises while driving." Ugh, and the body assessments! Those have ranged from, "Hmm. You don't look that pregnant. The baby must be unusually small," to a certain acquaintance's typically tactless observation, "Well, now it looks like the baby's almost ready to come out." For real, dude? Wait til' you get a load of me in three and a half months... when the baby is actually about to come out.

This sometimes deafening chorus of "No, wrong way!" can be rather disheartening. I trust myself to do what's best for the baby and me, and I know I have good instincts. But I've experienced a recent increase in those Shit!-I-didn't-study-for-the-exam nightmares, and some days I just don't feel like talking to anyone. It's on those days, when I'm feeling down and defenseless, that I tend to think about "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".

Specifically, I'm referring to the late 90s/ early 00s TV series starring Sarah Michelle Gellar. It's certainly one of my favorite shows ever. Though I haven't re-watched it much since a DVD rental binge in 2005, I still consider Buffy to be one of the best heroines of all time. I now find her model especially inspiring, for two reasons ~

Buffy is never wrong Which isn't to say that she's perfect. She struggles with typical teen and college-age issues - school, dating, bouts of insecurity. More so, she faces the atypical struggles that come with being The Slayer, a young woman chosen to protect the world from demons and vampires. Endowed with a superhuman strength and healing ability, and assisted by her devoted friends (known as "The Scoobie Gang") as well as her trainer Giles, she usually comes out on top of any battle. But the singularity of her burden can be overwhelming, making her morbid and standoffish at times. It doesn't help that the love of her life, Angel, was a repentant vampire who turned evil after they slept together.

So Buffy's life is full of angst and she doesn't always react well to that. Who would? But even though her life can be super depressoid, it doesn't change the fact that her instincts and moral judgement are generally spot-on. This is perfectly exemplified in one of my favorite episodes, "Living Conditions". At the start of Season 4, Buffy and her pals begin their first year of college. Buffy's dorm roommate is Kathy, a chipper, annoying weirdo who listens to Cher's "Believe" nonstop, barrows Buffy's clothes without asking, openly clips her toenails, etc. As Buffy's anger and frustration mount, she insists that her roomie is dangerous and must be stopped. "Kathy is evil. I'm an evil fighter. It's simple. I'm gonna have to kill her." Fearing that their buddy has gone bananas, Giles and the rest of the Scoobie Gang trap Buffy so that she can't harm her innocent roommate, until it's revealed - SPOILER ALERT - Kathy is actually a demon. Even though this episode didn't fit into the larger Season 4 story arc, I see it as a major turning point in Buffy's character development. It's at that point I realized that when Buffy is actively trying to do what's right, she's never wrong. In fact, when other people try to dissuade her from doing what she thinks best, they are the misguided ones.

Given my aggravation with too much advice from too many questionable quarters, it's obvious why Buffy's correctness should comfort me. But may I just add that I can't think of another heroine who is portrayed this way. Consider two of my other favorites - Liz Lemon from "30 Rock" and Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Both are hyper-intelligent women who make a joke out of everything. Lemon can be sloppy, arrogant and dour. Bennett can be a terrible judge of character. I like their flaws because they remind me of myself. But isn't it nice to have a lady protagonist who is both righteous and rightly confident, one who really ought to believe in her choices? Dudes have Superman. We ladies have Buffy.

Buffy is physically strong Okay, that's an understatement. She has innate superpowers, but she also works at it, training daily with Giles to make herself a better Slayer. While child-birthing may not be a superhuman ability (though it sure as hell seems like one!), it is innate; your body wants to push that little person out. You may want some drugs or need some instruments to help it along, or you may need a C-section, but I've decided I want to try to do it naturally. And I have to believe that nourishing my strength through exercise will help me give birth with greater ease.

That seems like common sense, right? I guess I won't know until I get there. At the very least, my fitness routine has helped me maintain my energy through these first five months. There's really no replacement for it. Unfortunately, pregnant women aren't much encouraged to work out. Most sources I've read recommend activities like "a brisk walk." That's great advice for someone who rarely or never exercises. But if you're used to running 5Ks every few days and you're in the low-risk category (which most women are), there's no reason you should stop running during pregnancy so long as it continues to feel good. I follow my doctors advice - "Stop if it hurts." Even when I'm avoiding pain, I can still break a sweat.

Alas, advocating prenatal exercise falls under the "do" category. And perhaps because a misdirected "do" can get you sued, there's a lot more "don't" advice. Don't run. Don't drink coffee. Don't eat soft cheeses. None of these apply to every woman or every situation, but it's easier to assume that we're all physically inactive, caffeine chugging, raw milk guzzling morons who don't understand the concept of moderation (or pasteurization). We're just expected to distrust ourselves and follow lowest-common-denominator "wisdom" instead. This is the definition of infantilization.

Oh, it gets me riled up! That's just another reason why I have to work out. I can't afford to let this shit distress me. And ever since I identified Buffy as my pregnant woman's role model, I've been relishing my workouts with greater zest. When I think of her doing a back flip before slaughtering a demon, I find myself standing a bit taller on the elliptical machine or smiling as I carefully execute a proper squat. I now like to think of myself as Tara the Baby Birther, and my gut feeling is that I'm going to do just fine on the exam after all.

Planning for Peanut: Frequently Asked Questions

2011-06-12T17:35:00.003-04:00

Is it true that you're expecting? Congratulations!
Yup, it's true. Thanks : )

Is it a boy or a girl?
It's a girl! Here name is Bernadette. She's due mid-October.

Why did you pick that name? Is there someone in your family with that name?
The Four Tops song was the inspiration. It is beautiful and intense, as she will certainly be.

I will warn her, however, that if any suitor should express their love in such insanely jealous terms, she ought to run the other direction.

I don't think Dan was completely on-board with this name until he discovered it means "strong, brave bear." That seemed to seal the deal.

Oh, and it turns out that my great-grandfather's sister was Bernadette Rousseau! What a coincidence. Coming from the French explorer/Detroit pioneer side of the family, it's a fun one.

How are you feeling?
Still feeling pretty good. I'm definitely transitioning into that third trimester state of periodic anxiety. I had a couple sleepless nights this week that messed me up for a few days. When I was watching a recent Mavericks/Heat game, I recalled a sad scene I witnessed at The Palace of Auburn Hills three and a half years ago and that made me cry. I guess these experiences will become more common in the next four months. I'm trying fall back on that coping mantra I learned from menstruation - "These bummer feelings arise from physical changes, not actual problems."

Are you still training at the gym?
Why, yes I am - thanks for asking!

Okay, no one asks me this. But, I'm going to pretend because I'm proud I've kept up with my routine and I think it's done me a lot of good. A brisk workout is the best way to turn around an anxious mood. Since my current trainer doesn't spoil me with homework the way my old trainer did (shout out to T!), I've had to be more proactive in designing my program. At the end of the week, I don't tend to workout as often or as rigorously as I used to and that's okay. I'm still keeping up a good pace and challenging myself in little ways. Right now it's more about maintaining the less pregnant parts of my body and letting my belly do it's thing. Also, my generally liberal OB cautioned me against crunches, to which my response was, "You're giving me a medical reason to not do sit-ups? Yes, sir!"

I read "Exercising Through Your Pregnancy" by James F. Clapp, a very upbeat and carefully worded report on the author's study of physically active expectant mothers. His evidence suggests that working out throughout pregnancy can benefit the mother during labor and after pregnancy, and even bolster the health of the child on a long-term basis. Also, he found that a relatively high percentage of active women experience safe, early births (less than three weeks before the due date) - BOOYAH! That would be great, but of course baby can take all the time she needs (I say now). I already feel the benefits of exercise. It's energizing.

Have you had any of those weird, wacky cravings?
The unusual cravings are starting to kick in. I asked Dan to get me ice cream sandwiches the other night and all I want right now is a cinnamon roll. Those yearnings aren't that wacky, though I don't tend to have this much of a sweet tooth. For the past two months, the chief "want" has been red meat. Can't get enough of it. And it doesn't even upset my stomach like it used to. I was sampling sirloin at work last week, and when I tasted a juicy rare bit from the center I felt a warm fuzziness light up my whole body. It was like drugs!! I'm having fun with it.

But so far, no pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, or whatever. I'm kinda glad. That stereotype reminds me of a Cathy cartoon.

Are you going to have a baby shower?
Yes. We will definitely have one here in Chattanooga. Note the "we" - there shall be no gender sequestering. Nor will there be any silly games. I'm thinking Sunday brunch at our local karaoke bar. Dan and guests will be encouraged to imbibe.

I may want to do something extremely low-key when we visit Michigan in mid-July. In any case, we'll be registering online. This is weird for me because I don't like shopping and hate asking people to spend money on me (this is why I didn't do a wedding registry), but it isn't really about me. I will gladly cash in for my kid.

Will you buy sweatshop-produced clothing for your kid?
I should explain why this is a frequently asked question. At the start of 2010, I resolved to buy only sweatshop-free clothing or used clothing, and then blogged about my progress quarterly. I kinda regret writing about it, because documenting your principals can make people uncomfortable and act weird with you, and I'm pretty weak when it comes to dealing with that stuff. Nevertheless, these principals have made a big impact on how I shop for everything and I see that as a positive change.

I've always tried to acknowledge that this effort can be expensive and time-consuming, and that it's way more difficult for families and poor people. So, the short answer to the question is, yeah, probably some of it. I've already made exceptions for maternity clothes. I'll try to avoid buying sweatshop-produced goods for my kid, but more so, I'll opt for second-hand. I'm a huge fan of reusing. It's the most economically and ecologically sound option.

I think the best thing about shopping with a sweatshop-free mindset is that I just have less shit. I don't want to deprive my kid of any need, including fun and enjoyment. But, my mom taught me to appreciate minimalism and I'd like to pass that value down to her, as well. Or maybe she'll be a mall rat. That's fine, too.

Will you take a Lamaze class?/ Are you going to have a natural birth?
Yeah, I'm going for natural-as-possible. I'm looking into the Bradley method. The Lamaze breathing pattern seems weird to me.

Are you reading "Ina May's Guide to Childbirth?"
Yes, yes, but slowly. I like the birth stories - it's good to know what I can expect and to be reassured that I can handle it - but it's a lot to wade through. And then there are those wild hippie chicks. My favorite is the lady who said that when she started having contractions, she envisioned her yoni as "a big, open cave beneath the surface of the ocean, with huge, surging currents sweeping in and out." She continues -

I surrendered over and over to the great oceanic, engulfing waves. It was really delightful - very orgasmic and invigorating. Michael, my husband, was lying with me, and we experienced the wonderful rushing together for some time.

Finally, when it came time to call the midwives, the phone didn't work, so Michael delivered Jon himself. It all went very smoothly, and Michael and I were very clear, focused, and very high.

Whoa, lady! Is that some trippy shit, or what? I admit, I'm jealous. I will never be "far out" enough to have such a great time giving birth.

We thought about working with a midwife, but that just isn't where I want to put my money right now. I really like my OB. He's very relaxed and he works with midwives, which was one of the reasons I chose him. He knows that I want to go natural, but like me, he's into having a backup plan.

Will you nurse?
Yes. It's great for the baby and it's thrifty as hell.

Hmm, five months pregnant? ((stares at my body)) How much weight have you gained?
Let me answer your question with another question - where on Earth have your manners gone?!

Did I tell you about that horrible, scary thing that happened when my otherwise healthy kid was born?
No. Please don't. Why are you trying to freak me out?

Isn't it great to be getting all this attention?
Er, not really. Don't get me wrong, I love when family and friends check up on me and that everyone is so excited. But I've always hated situations in which lots of people are staring at me and/or I'm being interrogated; such experiences increase exponentially when you're getting married or having a baby. But I'm pretty good at protecting myself from that kind of thing. I stay at home a lot. And I'm lucky to live in a town where my condition is a cliche. Seriously, I see, like, ten pregnant women every day at work. Oh, and my boss is pregnant, too.

I've heard that the transition from center-of-attention pregnant lady to socially-isolated new mom can be really rough. Maybe it will help that I'm already such a homebody. We'll see. I never know exactly what's coming, but I trust that it will all be okay.

"Find a city, find myself a city to live in"

2011-06-08T18:55:00.003-04:00

- from "Cities" by Talking Heads

Ten years ago, I spent the summer working the opening shift at a faux-French cafe in Ann Arbor, MI. Waking up for the 5am start-time wasn't easy (and having no one to account for my presence, I often overslept), but once I got there I loved those first couple hours of alone time. First I would prep the frozen Vie de France pastries while listening to Talking Heads' "Fear of Music". Then I would get the kitchen and coffee bar set up, move the pastries from the proofer to the oven and unstack the patio furniture. If I made good time, I'd reward myself with a cappuccino and a cigarette as I watched delivery trucks pay their visits to all the Main Street restaurants in the brisk light of dawn. And as I enjoyed those last moments of solitude, I'd ponder the lyrics of my favorite song from my current favorite album. Sure, this gig and this town were okay, but I longed for a real city, with more than just a Main Street and breakfast pastries made from scratch. But where would I go and, more importantly, why?

It took several years, but getting together with Dan helped answer those question. His career landed us in Chattanooga, TN and we look forward to going other places from here. Our mutual wanderlust has introduced so many possibilities. I'm apt to say that each new place is my favorite of all; Austin, Nashville and the Pacific Northwest have all held those honors. New York is magical, of course, but unless I run into a big pile of money I'm way past the point where I'd try to hack it there. And if money were no object, I'd sooner choose San Francisco for its better climate, stunning architecture and proximity to fresh produce.

But truly, none of those places made as much an impression on me as New Orleans, which I first visited a couple weeks ago. In just 42 hours, I fell in love. As David Byrne sang, "There's good points and bad points," but it all adds up to the most beautiful and civilized city I've ever encountered. Here were the highlights ~

A Serendipitous Meeting with a Faraway Friend
Our buddy A happened to be ending a conference week the night we arrived. We picked him up from his Canal St. hotel and headed for the gayborhood bar next to our B&B in the Marigny. Though I've hung out with him only a few times (he and his beautiful wife L live in Chicago), A is definitely one of my favorite grad-school-friends-of-Dan. It helps that he loves talking about pop culture.

One of the first things he said was, "Have you guys been watching Treme?" Ah, yes! Dan and I are obsessed with this program (we don't have HBO, but we're catching up on the first season via Netflix). Anyone who loved The Wire will surely appreciate writer/producer David Simon's tribute to post-Katrina New Orleans and particularly its music scene. "You know Kermit?" Kermit Ruffins is a local jazz trumpeter who is prominently featured on the show. "I met him! He performed at one of our conference dinners." Oh, and Irma Thomas was there, too. Dan and I were practically drooling with envy. "You know that Black Eyed Peas song that goes, 'I got a feelin', that tonight's gonna be a good night'-"

"Oh, yeah!" I said. "I hate that song."

"Well, after playing a lot of jazz standards that was the last song he did, and it was ridiculous and awesome." I could appreciate that, but the story wasn't over. "I saw him in the parking lot afterward. He was wandering around with this gorgeous woman, carrying a beer in his hand. He looked like he was pretty high. He was about to get into an SUV and I knew I had to say something, so I went up to him and said, 'Wow, that was a great show. It was really an honor to see you perform.' All he did was smile, point at me, and say, 'I got a feelin', that tonight's gonna be a good night, that tonight's gonna be a good, good night...'." The three of us cracked up, Dan and I continued to laugh over that for days.

A Walk Without a Destination
I hardly slept that night. I felt like a five-year old on Christmas Eve. Finally at 7am, I accepted that there would be no more rest and I'd just have to nap in the afternoon (never happened). Being so excited but tired, feeling so suddenly pregnant (I swear little peanut's "apartment" doubled overnight), the sultry, early summer air seemed like it could overwhelm me. So I took a deep breath, drank some coffee and plenty of water, armed myself in sunblock and determined that I would just let the city wash over me. From that point on, I seemed to be wandering through a dream.

We leashed up Dulce and headed toward the French Quarter by way of Washington Square Park. As the innkeeper told us, "You'll see a sign at the park gate that says No Bikes, No Alcohol, No Dogs, and then you'll see all three there." I could already tell that the people of this city have an excellent attitude. And he was right. Despite the mild lawlessness, the park was lively and green, and Dulce got to meet a few new friends.

We meandered along Decatur toward St. Louis Cathedral. Once I'd satisfied my minor craving for touristy sight-seeing (yup, there sits an actual American cathedral; no need for a tour), I was content to just absorb the bright pastel cityscape surrounding me. The architectural style - largely influenced by late 18th and early 19th century Spanish rulers - is unlike anything I've seen in this country or abroad. This shot taken later that night shows a common ironwork gallery

I love the ways that some buildings and porches abut the sidewalks, forcing interactions between residents and pedestrians, while other establishments are shielded by mysterious, brick-walled courtyards. I could spend a whole day peeking through the cracks between walls and under gates, catching glimpses like this

We wandered north toward Louis Armstrong park, then through the lower end of Treme and back toward our inn in the Marigny, just east of the Quarter. That's about the time we encountered a Banksy mural. What a fun surprise, not to mention that the work itself was quite lovely

Days later, I encountered this Goete quote - "I call architecture frozen music." It's the perfect expression of how I feel about beautiful buildings. To live and walk about a city that has long dedicated itself to prettiness seems to me a dream come true. Oh, and the oak trees! Don't get me wrong, there's dirtiness, too, and the roads are terrible, but that's all part of the package*. That town just aches with romance.

Cochon Butcher Our research pointed to Cochon as one of the best restaurants, but A clued us into Cochon Butcher, the more economical deli next door. After Dan wisely steered my away from the roast beef (they specialize in pig) I settled on the pork belly sandwich, which reminded me of the rich, succulent pork roasts my mom would make on special occasions. The best part was where the juicy meat met the braised surface. That's exactly what was in my sammy - thin slabs of tender yet slightly crispy meat, layered with mint, cucumber and chili lime mayo. It was one of the best things I'd ever eaten.

I enjoyed another one of the best things I'd ever eaten twenty minutes later when we split their bacon praline. I'd never had a praline before and I think the best way to describe this Louisiana version is "pecan fudge". The big chunks of smoky bacon within were salty prizes at the end of every creamy, sweet bite. I chewed those bits of pork like bubble gum, and the flavor lasted just as long. $2.50!!! I'm kicking myself for not buying thirty more. It makes that $7.50 Vosges bar seem like silly kid stuff.

The Best Pregnant Cocktail Ever
Having discovered weeks ago that the Virgin Bloody Mary is the best non-alcoholic cocktail for a pregnant lady (it doesn't taste any different than the vodka version, and I love me some brine), I was quite pleased with the ones they were serving at the bear bar where we had taken A. The innkeeper informed us of their dog-friendly policy, so we took Dulce in the afternoon and I ordered a couple more. It was the perfect blend of spicy and salty, garnished with olives, dilly beans and pickled okra! It was practically a meal in a glass.

We sat at the bar near the open corner door and watched a gentle rain fall upon Elysian Fields. The owner approached us and introduced himself, shaking Dan's hand and giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then he showered the dog with affection as she wagged her tail and shed white, feathery fur all over his floor. He hushed our apologies. "With the things that happen in this place, trust me, dog hair is nothing!" He chatted us up for a while and then a periodic parade of kindly, middle-aged gay men came over to pet Dulce. We just don't get this kind of society in Chattanooga.

Pennies from Heaven
Feeling so sleepy, I wasn't inclined to see a live show at a smoky bar, though fortunately Dan convinced me anyway. After dinner we set out for the Bywater District to see Kermit play his regular Thursday night gig at Vaughn's. By then it was pouring outside, but there was a sense of celebration amongst the crowd as it was the first rain in nearly two months. Waiting for the show to begin, we hung around inside for a while (got to see the table where Elvis Costello sat in that scene from the first episode of Treme - my favorite moment is when Steve Zahn's character, Davis, tries to make Kermit understand why this is a big deal and the only response he gets is, "Elvis?!"). Then we retired to the veranda to watch the rain and the gathering crowd. Kermit came out for a moment, stood in front of Dan and sparked a big joint, which he then passed to the guy collecting cover at the door. A couple nerdy dudes approached him, trying to strike up some casual conversation, but they were clearly as awestruck as we were. I don't think we were the only Treme fans in the house.

The show was a blast. In honor of the rain, he began with "Pennies from Heaven" and continued with a long set of other fun standards, alternately singing and playing trumpet. I got to dance to "Ain't Misbehavin'" and "Skokiaan", and I think the heat I was emitting from my pregnant body had a way of moving people out of my way, because I was able to get pretty close to the stage. You see, there is some advantage to seeing a live show when you are with child.

Nevertheless, I was pretty wiped out after an hour, so we listened to the show from seats on the veranda and watched drunk people act silly. One more obligatory tourist trip to Cafe Du Monde and we returned to our room for a real night of sleep before our long drive to Dallas

****

I kept saying to Dan that I was glad we had more adventure awaiting us after New Orleans or I would have found the return to Chattanooga quite depressing. I'm glad to say that being back hasn't been depressing at all. I'd missed our cat, my workout, my routine. This is where my home is now, and home makes me feel complete. I also have a stronger desire to make the most of what I have here - for instance, instead of bitching about the lack of great restaurants in this region, I'm going to take advantage of the excellent local ingredients available to me and become a better cook. I still don't want to stay here forever, but now that I've met the city that suits me best, I don't feel so desperate to figure out where we're going. Whatever happens, it feels good to finally know what I want.

*Coming from Detroit, I don't feel comfortable in cities that aren't somewhat dirty, or where living well means spending a lot of money. For instance, I never feel like I'm dressed nice enough when I'm in New York. SF is kinda that way, too. And then there are places like Austin or Portland where it's cool to be a freak, but I suspect that really means "dress like a hipster". Being in New Orleans, I truly felt that you could be whoever you are- whether you're young or old, skinny or fat, chic or dorky - and as long as you don't act like a jerk, it's cool.

In Search of a Gray Shades Detector

2011-05-18T17:19:00.005-04:00

Last Wednesday, Lady Gaga provided one of the most satisfying TV moments in recent history and she wasn't even singing. Rather, she was mentoring American Idol contestant and metro-Chattanoogan Lauren Alaina during her rehearsal of Elvis Presley's "Trouble". When LA stumbled over the song's first of many "I'm evil"s, she confessed in an interview, "I don't want America thinking I'm evil!" Jimmy Iovine (Idol In-house Mentor and real-life producer) sort of rolled his eyes and said, "This is a character. Just change characters for me," but that advice was clearly going nowhere. That's when Gaga intervened, telling Lauren, "At the end of the day, the word 'evil' isn't that big a deal, is it?" And that was when the young woman stopped arguing and started singing with real passion.

Here's the deal - I really like Lauren Alaina, not just because she's from the town next door, but because she's talented and strikes me as a very sweet and humble young lady; I loved, for instance, her jaw-drop reaction when Jimmy informed her that she is actually a much better singer than Miley Cyrus. She also has this wonderful, unwitting way of using her stature and the nickname "Peaches" ("We're both from Georgia!") to make douchey Ryan Seacrest look just like the fragile man-child that he truly is, though he obviously adores her. So even though I don't care all that much, I think it would be nice if she won the competition.

However, if all this happened a year ago and I'd been witness to the "I'm evil" bit at that time, I may have had to switch players. Her illogical fear would have struck me as the pinnacle of blind, religious idiocy. I guess the difference now is that I understand Ms. Lauren Alaina comes from a community where many, if not most people often and openly discuss their faith (most likely some flavor of Christian Protestant). In this context, her concern is legitimate. I'm just glad that Lady Gaga was able to help her understand that singing "I'm evil" needn't express anything about your true identity.

Identity. It's at the heart of the biggest paradigm shift I've experienced as a southern newbie. I've never lived amongst such a large population of individuals who publicly identify themselves by their faith. Don't get me wrong, I knew plenty of religious people in the north. I'd guess that at least 20% of my high school female classmates wore hijabs, which clearly indicated that they were Muslim. I went to church every Sunday until I was 20 years old and I'd see several of my Catholic peers there, too. I had a sense of what others believed, but we didn't talk about it much. After moving to a college town, I was definitely hanging with a more agnostic crowd, but no one talked about that much, either. When I look at my northern Facebook friends' profiles, I find that most people hesitate to discuss their specific beliefs (either not responding to the query "Religious Views" or posting intentionally vague statements like "I have them"). Occasionally I'll see a specific designation, like "Lutheran", but that's the extent of it.

I can't express how different it is here, though I sense I've seen only a surface glimmer of the deep religiosity that pervades this region. The other day, I stumbled upon a neighbor's Facebook profile. I was surprised to learn that he's a minister in addition to the other job I knew he had. This never came up in conversation, but he makes reference to "the word" in the first line of his profile. Where I come from, that's unusual. But I've noticed this when I've happened across other locals on FB; So-and-so enjoys cooking, reading and Bible study. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I avoid "friending" these people, which certainly attests to my own prejudices. Though honestly, I'm also afraid I'll say or post something that will offend them (like this blog). After all, they aren't the weird ones in this part of the world. I am.

The thing is, I think that my weirdness is so obvious to some of the natives that they may hold back in my presence. If they don't know I'm godless, they at least figure I'm the wrong kind of believer, or the lazy kind, or a Satan-worshipper (which, near as I can tell, is the ultimate insult you can hurl at a weirdo; I don't think I'd heard it since the third grade, 'til I moved down here). Others favor me by assuming I believe in god, casually referring to some way in which he has "blessed" me. I'm always fascinated by those who broadcast their beliefs on t-shirts and bumper stickers with phrases like "Real Men Love Jesus". They aren't trying to start a conversation with any specific person, but I guess they're more than happy to engage in a chat if you're interested.

I am interested. More accurately, I'm curious. I prefer a society in which most people keep religion out of the public discourse because I think that's more polite. But as long as I'm living in the south, I'd like to get more familiar with these varying shades of religiosity. I suspect that the (generally pejorative) term "Bible Belt" is just too broad. I want to study the nuances. What inspires that dude at the gym to say, "If you don't finish all those reps, man, then you don't love Jesus!" Why do some people speak more about Jesus love while others focus on god's wrath? Is the community worship service at the local hipster coffee shop more or less exclusive than your average church, and how so? Is this town actually rather secular for this region (I'm pretty sure it is)? I can't imagine asking these questions outright, because that seems way awkward, so I'm just going to get spongy, do as much eavesdropping as I can, and see what I figure out via passive observation.

The day after Lady Gaga helped Lauren Alaina belt out a rather innocent Elvis song, I had a minor revelation while I was at work. It was family dinner night, when the store is overrun with hyperactive children and exhausted parents looking for a cheap, precooked meal. Compared to the rich, overindulged and manner-less brats I used to meet in Ann Arbor, these Chattanooga kids are angelic, so I don't mind 'em much. Plus, they always get excited to see me, the Free Food Lady. Anyway, a mother and her five sheepish moppets approached my table. As I chatted with mom about the on-sale olive oil and scooped samples, one of the girls quietly handed me a religious tract. I groaned internally, but did what I always do in that situation - say "thank you," tuck it in my pocket and wait until they leave before I throw it out. Again, I found her gesture rude but I certainly don't think it was meant that way. It may have even seemed a generous exchange - I gave her a bite of caprese salad, she gave me the opportunity to be saved. She and her siblings so well behaved in every other way, I couldn't help taking it as a mild compliment.

And then it hit me - so that's how all these families of five and eight and ten children maintain order! Coming from a seven kid Catholic family, I don't know why it took me so long to figure it out. How could two adults raise such an enormous brood without religion? It isn't impossible to produce that many well-mannered kids secularly, but a built-in community - not to mention the fear of god - sure as hell helps. For my siblings and me, the religion didn't seem to stick as much as the manners. Now if we'd lived in place where almost everyone believed in the stuff we were taught... I wonder how we would have developed.

Planning for Peanut: The Jury Has Reached a Verdict on Manners

2011-05-11T11:48:00.000-04:00

Hooray - this is my 100th Rare Oats blog post! I'm marking the occasion by commencing a semi-regular series about pregnancy and getting ready for "the baby" (otherwise known as "peanut"). Being the greatest undertaking of my life - not to mention the most interesting thing I'm doing these days - my kid's gestation could easily become the topic of every blog for the next five months. But I don't want to make this a parenting blog*, especially since writing is one of those little slivers of my identity I'd like to maintain even after I give up most of myself to raising a child. So, I'll bunch all of my discoveries, fears, hopes and other observations into an occasional Planning for Peanut post, which I hope you'll enjoy. And if you're sick of hearing me talk about this stuff, I've made the subject that much easier to avoid. You're welcome.

The Jury Has Reached a Verdict on Manners

It was a Monday in early April. I had just gotten my second (trimester) wind, which is a kinda like that first good day after a terrible flu. I was ready to conquer the world, or at least our messy apartment. I took even greater satisfaction in my highly productive domestic spree because I knew it would be a nice surprise for Dan, who really dreaded going to work that morning. I systematically attacked the dirty dishes and laundry mountain, taking breaks in between to clean the bathroom and vacuum the rugs. I mailed stuff, made annoying phone calls, picked up groceries and even made dinner (a task I had avoided as much as possible during those "I hate food" first trimester days). Our spotless abode and thoroughly checked to-do list made a lovely homecoming for Dan, indeed.

Since I'd bothered to clear the book and paper piles off the dining room table, I even set it for dinner. How nice, for a change, to look at each other instead of Alex Trebek as we digested our meal! When I finally sat down and laid my napkin upon my lap, I felt so contented. I looked at my husband and said, "I love you, Dan," which I'm apt to say any time (even while staring at Alex Trebek), but the moment deserved special recognition.

Dan looked up from his plate. "Even though I'm sitting here without a shirt, eating salad with my fingers?"

I laughed and said, "Yes!" but a little bug gnawed at my sense of mellow. I tried to let it go, as I had the couple other times that bug had made an unwelcome appearance. But I knew I couldn't let it go forever, and it seemed as good a time as any to embrace the issue. "Dan, I know how you feel about manners. That they're kind of dumb. I get that. And I respect that. But I want to teach our kid manners. But I don't want you to change. Or, at least, I don't think it's reasonable to expect that. So, what I'm thinking is that you can just be who you are, and I'll tell our kid to be like me and not be like you."

I couldn't help cracking up laughing, but I was worried I may have hurt his feelings. What a relief when he just nodded thoughtfully and said, "That's fair."

"I'm working on a couple lines like, 'Your father has cultivated a certain charm that allows him to get away with this stuff. Until you have that charm, you need to act like me.' Or something to that effect." He enjoyed that.

A good discussion on manners followed. As Dan noted, it is easier to pick up salad with your fingers than to use a fork. I agreed; good manners aren't about efficiency. It isn't even necessarily about being courteous to present company, for truly, I wouldn't have noticed he was using his fingers if he hadn't made a point of it. I guess it's mostly about practicing your politeness for the benefit of strangers. There's an excellent chance you could encounter someone who finds vinaigrette-coated fingers disgusting. And honestly, if I saw a shirtless dude manhandling salad at a restaurant (which Dan would never do), I'd be somewhat repulsed. As you get to know a person better and feel more relaxed in their presence, these things become less bothersome. Relinquishing manners can even be a rite of passage in a relationship, like the first time you fart in front of someone you're dating. It's when you know that you're totally cool with that person. I think that bond ought to be rare.

But how's a small child supposed to know the difference between private and public decorum? I guess you help them practice for the latter by setting a good example in the former. I'm hoping we can get our kid understand the difference between the two, or at least ourselves. Maybe? I don't know. I guess we'll find out. If nothing else, we have a preliminary plan and laughs to back us up.

*There are enough of those already. Also, I'm allergic to focus. I don't know enough about any one thing to have a blog dedicated to a single topic. I suppose this limits the potential size of my audience, and that's okay.

On Behalf of My Community

2011-05-02T00:50:00.014-04:00

Imagine the tallest tree in your neighborhood. Now imagine that tree torn from its roots and laying sideways down the middle the road. Imagine the tree crushing your neighbor's home. I don't think I could have envisioned these things a week ago, but I'm sad to say those images have become very real in the streets of my town.

Think of an exit along your nearest interstate, with all those sky-high signs advertising the nearest McDonald's or Days Inn. Now imagine every one of those signs blown out. That's the first thing you notice as you drive by the exit, before your eyes land upon the rubble that once was a restaurant, a gas station, a motel. That's how exit 350 along I-75 in Ringgold, Georgia looked when I saw it on Friday.

The storms and tornadoes that ripped through this region on Wednesday, April 27th made for one of the most frightening days of my life. I feel so lucky that my greatest losses were two days of electricity and the contents of my fridge. I want to be helpful to my community. Realistically, the best way to do that is financially. It isn't much, but I'm giving what I can.

It's weird being a relative newbie to the community during this time of enormous need. I wish I knew more people here so I could be helpful in those everyday, neighborly ways - offering a meal, a hot shower, a place to crash. So, I'm going to do the next best thing I can think to do, and that's asking my faraway friends to make their own contributions. I know that most of us are not wealthy and that there are a million meaningful ways you could spend the few extra bucks you may have. So I'm asking as a personal favor that you consider my community and make a donation in one of the following ways. If you donate, please send me a message with your mailing address so I can write you a personal Thank You letter.

Thanks for reading, and I hope to hear from some of you very soon ~

Quick and Easy
Text the word GIVE to 80888 to donate $10 to the Salvation Army or text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10 to the Red Cross

To Give to a Specific, Local Chapter of the American Red Cross
Chattanooga Chapter - Go to www.chattanoogaredcross.org, click the box in the upper right corner that says "Local Disaster Relief - Donate Now", and be sure to select American Red Cross Greater Chattanooga Chapter.

Northwest Georgia Chapter (which services Ringgold, GA) - Go to www.nwgaredcross.org, click the top red box on the left that says "Donate Now!", select American Red Cross of Georgia. When you get to the donation page, the first field will say "Gift Designation". Click "Other Chapters in the Region", then select "Northwest Georgia Chapter"

Verdancy and Verve

2011-04-28T14:08:00.001-04:00

On my last day at my worst job ever, my boss said something to me that I cannot forget. I was alone in the first floor kitchen of the elder women's bridge club, brewing pots of coffee for the early morning card players, oil painters, and other ladies of leisure who frequented this members-only establishment. Richard* wandered in and was surprised to see me doing someone else's task. "Isn't Sherry supposed to be setting up the coffee cart?" She, my psychobitch tormentor, had decided to get one last dig at me by showing up for her shift two hours late. But I'd stopped caring weeks ago, and was just as happy to work without her. "Oh, she's running a little late today."

Richard considered this for a moment, then launched into a description of that morning's hellish commute. This included an unnecessary racial description of the guy who cut him off on the freeway. I responded with the requisite number of "hmm"s as I silently counted the hours to my final release.

He was quiet for a moment as I arranged linens and cups. "Well, Tara, I'm really sorry that this wasn't the sort of work that felt right for you. I think you've done a great job." Though he'd been my boss for just five weeks (he replaced the woman who hired me), we'd hit it off pretty well. Being a barrel-chested, crew cut-sporting Marine, he was such an oddball for the position that I couldn't help enjoying his presence in this labyrinth of chintz and china. More importantly, he liked to tell corny puns and I liked to laugh. All other workplace problems aside, I don't know how long I could have played "dodge the racist commentary", but our brief stint together was amicable. I was grateful for his praise.

But it was what he said next that struck me. "You've got a lot of energy and you'd do well at just about anything. I'd be happy to give you a recommendation any time. You just let me know."

"A lot of energy." It stuck out because I'd never thought of myself that way before. But he was right. I must have had a lot of energy to work long days on my feet and keep my sense of humor, especially in a place where I felt like most of my colleagues hated me.

Overall, work has been a far better experience since those days at the bridge club. My priorities are different. I'd rather have an hourly wage job than be miserable making a salary. I look for good bosses and minimal drama. I have to be excited about whatever it is that I'm "selling", whether it's great food or a fun experience. But mostly, I have to be doing something that feeds off of and replenishes my precious energy. Draining is not allowed! After all, I don't want to end up like this again ~

My cousin J recently posted this on Facebook. Despite its hideousness, I love it as a historic document. The clenched hands and that grey and miserable expression say so much about my twenty-year-old self. I don't know if I looked that way all the time (I hope not!) but I don't think anyone would have described me as energetic back then.

Many issues burdened me at that time, and work was the least of those. But when you don't feel good about yourself, it's easy to get into exhausting and unpleasant situations in the company of exhausting and unpleasant people. I have more self-respect these days, which means that I'm more self-preserving. The unexpected bonus is that - surprise! - I do have a great deal of energy.

Fast forward to my first trimester of pregnancy... I admit that I'm a complete and utter baby when it comes to nausea. I know no one likes feeling queasy, but I'm pretty bad at just dealing with it. I also love to eat, so disliking food was a heartbreaker, too. But the fatigue was the most frustrating part of it. Doing my grocery store demo job (which requires standing in one spot for hours, and handling food) was just awful, so I quit.

The bummer was that I liked my job and I was good at it. My boss said he might have shifts for me later, when I was feeling better. But in the midst of that funk it was really hard to imagine myself wanting to go back to that sort of work. Everyone told me that the second trimester is usually much better, but I'd never experienced these things before. Would I be one of those women who feels like shit all the way through the pregnancy?

Fast forward to a few weeks ago... Our tax return bump was petering out. We needed more money. But I was feeling restless, too. Since age 16, I've never been out of work for more than a couple months at a time. Even the idea of being a stay-at-home mom (pure fantasy) wasn't appealing to me anymore. With a baby due in October, I wondered if someone would hire me. I scoured the local job postings, looking for anything that might fit my abilities. But I knew that excitement factor was key. I need to be interested in the business that's hiring and I'm just not interested in dentists' offices or real estate companies. As far as my enthusiasm and skills were concerned, the grocery store was definitely the best game in town. Might they take me back? It was worth a shot.

I sent my old boss a gracious email, explaining that my second trimester had nearly arrived, I was feeling much better and I would be happy to work any shift that might be available. To my enormous satisfaction, he quickly responded that he'd never found a suitable replacement for me and that I was welcome to return.

The only thing more surprising than the enthusiastic homecoming I received from my old coworkers (so many people I hardly were thrilled to see me) was how much I loved standing in one spot, cooking cod fillets and chatting with customers for hours at a time. Now that I've regained my energy, I realize that it needs a structured outlet. I know I have an unusual attitude about the job market; for being pretty clever, I'm not terribly ambitious. But the fact is, I like working and once I'm there, I work hard. Staying at home with a kid is one thing, and I have no idea how much I'll want that until the kid is here. But staying at home with no kid is frankly depressing. I simply don't have enough projects or hobbies to consume this verve.

On my first day off after returning to work, we met our friends J and L in Sewanee, a gorgeous little college town about 45 minutes west of here. The four of us hiked a rocky trail full of waterfalls, skipping stones, lacy foliage and occasional views of a stunning, pastoral valley. I was pleased not only with my renewed vigor, but that all these months of working out had clearly improved my balance. My footing was sure, even as I climbed a giant rock toward the end of the trail. I asked J to take a picture and I laughed maniacally for comic effect. But it turned out looking exactly how I feel these days ~

The third trimester will make July and August quite challenging, but I feel awfully lucky to experience the second one in the Spring.

*As always, all names are changed (in the case of weirdos) or abbreviated (in the case of friends).

"I'm just a soul whose intentions are good"

2011-04-13T15:46:00.004-04:00

I've lately learned something about myself. My biggest hangup is being misunderstood. I want to get over this gripe. I can't always control how I'm perceived by others, especially in a world where face-to-face and even voice-to-voice interactions are being superseded by electronic communication; without facial expression or vocal inflection, dialog is potentially rife with misinterpretation. I'm learning to work around this obstacle, but I also just need to accept it.

Still, I'm stubborn and I like writing, so I've decided to address what I consider to be some common misconceptions about moi. It's a fun exercise, and I may as well put it on the blog as no other venue is better suited to this sort of self-indulgence. I turn 34 tomorrow, so this is my birthday gift to me - one last chance to explain myself before I surrender to the power of an occasional yet inevitable false impression.

Vegetarian? No, but I love vegetables and fruit. All told, I prefer these to meat. If, for some reason, I had to choose between a diet that included lots of avocados but no pork or lots of pork and no avocados, I would definitely go with my guac-making friend. I adore sausage, but I love avocados even more. Fortunately, I don't have to make these dumb decisions so I get to eat what I want. Also, I enjoy meat substitutes like tofu and black bean burgers, but I am apt to cook the former with lard and order the latter with bacon when I go out to eat. Speaking of which, I tend to order vegetarian menu items when I eat out, unless the restaurant makes a point of telling me how groovy/sustainable/safe their meat sources are (though I often make exceptions for bacon, because I am weak). I have been on an almost entirely vegetarian diet during my first trimester but now that I'm in the second, I find meat more appealing. I even enjoyed beef the other day... until I had to go to the bathroom. Yeah, I tend to avoid beef for that very reason.

Democrat? Nah. I sometimes vote for Democrats because Republicans do have a way of taking a terrible situation and making it way worse, but truly these two parties are not so different. So I often throw a bone to the Green Party or the Socialist candidate in my vain attempt to foster the emergence of a viable third party. I certainly don't see myself ever campaigning for a Democrat, or any political candidate for that matter. All who seek office are to be distrusted.

But as that great cynic H.L. Mencken noted in his essay, The Politician, "After damning politicians up hill and down dale for many years, as rogues and vagabonds, frauds and scoundrels, I sometimes suspect that, like everyone else, I often expect too much of them." I made this mistake with Obama. I was genuinely excited to vote for the first black president and I still recall that moment with my ballot quite fondly. I didn't expect much from him, but I took his promise to close the Guantanamo Bay detention facility at face value. I now realize that was naive. In fact, he signed an executive order last month that reestablishes the indefinite detention of Gitmo prisoners, many of whom are being held without charges. This check against my unreasonable expectation is a valuable lesson. If I vote for him again, it will only be from fear of a worse Republican beating him. I no longer harbor any foolish "hope for change".

Certainly, I hold many values that are associated with Democrats. I think taxes are generally good and that rich people and corporations ought to pay more of them. I believe in government assisting poor people, kids and the elderly. I'm probably more disgusted by our foreign policy than your average Democrat but I don't worry so much about gun control. I think I should be allowed to get an abortion at any point during a pregnancy, for any reason. And if I ever find myself being forced to watch a sonogram when I want to terminate, I will bring popcorn and 3D glasses.

Mystic? I don't believe in god. If you know me even a little that should be no surprise. But theism isn't the only sort of mysticism out there. Though I've shed most of my Catholic inclinations, I find it's harder to rid myself of other superstitions. Mainly I'm talking about astrology. I learned a great deal about this when I was in my late teens. As far as western astrology goes*, I know the order of the signs, the start and end dates of each one, the associated element, and what each one signifies. I know a bit about eastern astrology, too. This belief in planetary alignment affecting personality doesn't jibe with my sense of reason, yet I fall back on it all the time. When I hear of a new couple getting together, one of my immediate thoughts is, "When are their birthdays?"

Honestly, astrology is a lot of fun, but it's also dangerous because it leads one to recognize patterns that aren't real, like "I always have problems with Pisces men." So when you find out that some dude you work with is a Pisces, that inevitably colors the way you see that person and how you interact with them, which is limiting. Any mystic belief system that cripples your sense of agency is worth questioning, and probably worth abandoning.

I'm facing a significant challenge to my latent astrological superstitions. My baby's due date is the same day as an ex-friend's birthday. This former friend had a toxic personality. I haven't seen her in fourteen years. I hope she's changed, though I doubt it. But that doesn't matter. The point is that I associate that date with her nutty behavior from a long time ago, and that just doesn't make any sense. So coincidence has provided me an excellent opportunity to get over this silly correlation once and for all, and I think that's good for me.

I admit, I still like tarot cards. I don't see it as a tool for prognostication. Rather, I think that symbols are a fun and useful way to tell stories about our lives, so we can make sense of ourselves; that's what dreams are, right? I don't do readings for other people (someone asked me to do one recently and it just felt useless), but I sometimes do readings for myself. It can be a good way to kickstart some healthy reflection.

Gleek? I admit that Glee is mostly a pretty bad show, though I still consider myself a fan. Salon's Matt Zoller Seitz wrote an interesting article that included this Yes!-worthy subheading - "The hit show's second season has been a chaotic, illogical, embarrassing mess. It's time for an intervention."

Yet while Zoller Seitz and I have a similar proportion of disdain and praise for Glee, our feelings about the specifics are quite different. Like many critics, he lauded the Grilled Cheesus episode ("an earnest, Afterschool Special-style contemplation of faith that improbably turned out to be one of the series' boldest, silliest, maybe finest hours"), which I absolutely hated - props for making Kurt an atheist, but it was downright infuriating that he had to learn a lesson about open-mindedness after being justifiably incensed at the sight of his pals holding a surprise prayer vigil beside his comatose father's bed. Needless to say, the story was emotionally overwrought. I don't mind Glee getting occasionally deep (Kurt coming out to his father was one of my favorite Season 1 moments), but I don't like when the drama is manufactured only for the sake of tackling a Serious Issue (unlike Kurt's outing, which was consistent with his character's development).

On the other hand, Zoller Seitz resents Season 2's removal of Kurt to the all-male Dalton Academy (a.k.a. Gay Hogwarts - I don't need to read Harry Potter to know that fan nickname is hilarious), saying that this "has been an unnecessary and mostly unenlightening detour." Wha-what? Gay Hogwarts' Warblers have provided some of this season's best performances, including "Silly Love Songs" and a version of "Teenage Dream" that is arguably the best of the series (not to mention that it got me to like Katy Perry).

My point isn't to nitpick a critic's appraisal of Glee. Rather, I think this disagreement highlights Glee's greatest flaw - its willful inconsistency. The show tries to be all things to all fans and in doing so, it succeeds about 10% of the time for everyone. But that 10% is golden! I simply can't resist a show about the redemptive power of performing arts. And truly, every episode has at least one joke that makes me laugh out loud. I wish that the musical numbers were as reliable as the humor, but when they score as they did with "Teenage Dream" I find myself immersed in repeat Youtube viewings. That's why I keep watching.

* I'm talking about the original twelve signs, not this facacta thirteen sign system that's got everyone freaking out

One More Way for Me to Be a Freak

2011-03-28T13:45:00.009-04:00

I really don't try to be this way. But I see life is a constant challenge to be truer to oneself, and this just happens to be another discovery.

Dan and I were having dinner the other night, discussing where we will move after we vacate out current space. As cool as it is (and it really is)

it just doesn't feel right for raising a baby. Of course, as one nosy mother told me yesterday, I can (and ought to, she implied) adjust any living space to fit my future kid's needs.* I suppose that's true, but I'm looking forward to getting out of this place for several reasons. One, it's pretty expensive per square foot. Also, cement floors and cinder block walls make this place a bitch to heat. Perhaps most of all, my pets have turned our see-through garage door into their performance stage for people walking to and from our neighbor's martial arts studio. If I see one more kid with his face pressed against my window, pounding the glass and whining, "Where's that cat?"...

So yeah, we're looking to move to another rental when our lease expires at the end of July. We're tempted by the bougie north side, with its rolling, woodsy hills and its proximity to useful, bougie businesses and Dan's work. But the north side's major draw is its excellent school district, which isn't relevant to us for the next five years.

"I'm leaning toward Orchard Knob or Highland Park," I said between nibbles. "We can get way more bang for our buck over there. We're gonna need a lot more space."

"Yeah, and if we're still in Chattanooga when the baby is ready to go to school, we can move to the north side."

I think I actually groaned - a sad, defeated, little groan. "Yeah. And then we'll pay, like, twice as much to buy a house there as we'd pay anywhere else in the city."

Dan looked up from his burger. "We don't have to buy a house."

I swear that a trumpeting angel descended from heaven (that I don't believe in). "Really?" I whispered.

The thing is, I have no interest in homeownership. But I'm still so far from being completely comfortable with my inherent freakiness that I bow to the sway of conventional wisdom until I'm given "permission" to consider my true desires. I know, it's sad, but at least I do figure these things out eventually. I'm lucky to have a bold and like-minded partner.

To me, any one of these three reasons would justify buying a house ~

1) You plan on staying in the same place for a very long time, and you believe your source of income is secure

2) Even if you don't plan on staying in the same place for a very long time, you're reasonably sure that the return on your investment will more than equal the money and time that you have invested in that property

3) Homeownership is a heartfelt personal goal, a form of self-fulfillment

I get that these three conditions are widely applicable, which explains why so many people want to own houses. However, when I ask myself if any of these apply to me right now, my answers are ~

1) No

2) That remains to be seen

3) No

Dan and I had talked a bit about buying a house when we first got together, but the discussion was more or less meaningless until he finished grad school and we got around to moving wherever his job would take us. Now that we're here, we both realize that this isn't something either of us really wants. That could change, but I honestly feel relieved.

"Danny, I don't want to obsess over walls."

He laughed. "Walls?"

"Yeah. Every time someone I know buys a house it seems like they spend all this time painting walls. And only then can they get everything set up in the house but pretty soon it's time to paint the walls again. I hardly ever care about walls. I'm usually fine with whatever color it is. I don't notice the things that bother other people."

I realize that this sounds nuts, but I swear to Jeebus that wall control is one of the main reasons people buy houses. And when I googled the phrase "I don't want to own a home," I found this weird dude's blog. Among his many personal reasons to not own a house

Walls. You can’t change the walls when you rent. A lot of people seem to want to tear down walls. Or paint them. Sometimes when you rent you can’t do these things. Well, make sure you have a landlord that lets you tear down walls. There must be some ancient evolutionary tic that makes us want to tear down walls or put nails in them or paint them. I don’t get it. I like the walls to stay right where they are.

"I like the walls to stay right where they are." I get that! You see, I enjoy the adventure that comes with occupying a new space that I don't get to define. As the blogger himself says in another paragraph, "I like to change things every once in a while." And part of that change is adjusting your stuff to a different environment. Though my current kitchen kicks ass with its stainless steel counters and giant sink, there's not much cabinet space and no drawers. Finding a place for our silverware and utensils was a challenge. Still, I figured it out. Our next place will probably have drawers, maybe even a garbage disposal! But it will lack something else that I'll miss about this place. And I'll make that work, too. To me, it's all part of this fun little game I like to play called, "Let's see how much money I don't spend at Ikea!" Rental living is a fun creative experiment for cheap people like me who don't enjoy accruing stuff, but still crave a little variety.

I like parameters. I like walls that I can't change. Sometimes I like forfeiting control because then I have one less thing to think about. I've already decided to spend the rest of my life in a partnership with one person. And together, we've decided to sacrifice the better part of ourselves to a little person. Those are some pretty big steps, but I haven't had a second thought about either one. But buying a house? That just doesn't register as a desirable investment. Again, I suppose that could change, but I've known for many years that I wanted to get married and have a kid. I've never felt that way about owning property.

*I automatically distrust strangers who give such specific child-rearing advice, and trust me, she had plenty.

Baby Fate

2011-03-18T12:51:00.012-04:00

As I begin this post, I'm sitting in a rather charming Chattanooga cafe. There's a Persian rug and some leather couches to my left, a bustling little business district view to my right, and some vaguely familiar indie rock playing on the speakers. I can't help thinking of a certain cafe in Ann Arbor, where I used to spend hours reading, writing and wasting money on cappuccinos every day. It reminds me of being in my mid-twenties. I'm feeling an unreasonable and unfulfillable urge to time travel. I am, again, nostalgic.

But whenever I get caught in one of these romantic snags, I always think of that line from They Might Be Giants' "Put Your Hand Inside the Puppethead" - truly, "it was not, not, not so great." I find comfort in that lyric, because I'm prone to painting that past grass greener than it actually was. I fixate on a good memory - a certain song, an outfit I loved to wear, or a fun day at an old job - and forget the often unpleasant context surrounding that treasured detail. Would I really want to relive that stuff now? More often than not, I must admit that the song didn't age so well, the outfit would be too girlish for a woman my age, and thank goodness I no longer work for that boss!

I have to engage in this internal dialog more often now that I'm pregnant. I haven't blogged specifically about this biggest change of my life thus far, so this is as good a time as any. I'm pregnant - hooray!!! Yes, it was planned, as much as it ever is. Despite my mother being a propagation pro (she birthed seven children, and is my chief go-to expert), I was actually worried that I might have trouble conceiving. In any case, I assumed I'd have to wait at least a couple months, like most women coming off birth control. Ha! I took my last pill on December 31st and was pregnant twelve days later. There's no shortage of surprises in life, no matter how much you think you've planned.

I don't think that any amount of time between quitting BC and getting pregnant would have prepared me for the overwhelming, overnight change that occurs when you realize you're sharing your body with another being. Suddenly, wine with dinner or the occasional cigarette was no longer an option. But that, at least, I anticipated. The decreased energy level, the need to feed myself on a very regular schedule coupled with the frustrating aversion to food - that's taken weeks of adjustment. And it hit me so fast! One day, I was totally fine working a job where I stood in one spot for several hours, cooking and dishing meaty tidbits for grocery store customers - I mean, it could get boring, but I took satisfaction in doing it very well. A week later, I couldn't stand there for more than an hour without wanting to puke, pass out and die. I didn't have the verve to hold myself up, much less perform my usual Jedi mind tricks. That was to be my last day of work.

I feel really lucky that my boss was so understanding, even offering to give me some work if/when I get my second trimester energy back. Kindness from others, especially other parents, has been one of the best aspects of this experience so far. As my friend M observed, "You get so much positive attention." I was worried it would be like getting married, when I got all kinds of unsolicited advice and questions about decisions that didn't occur to me (mostly because I didn't care). Or worse, would people bombard me with pregnancy, birthing and child-rearing horror stories, just like all those bitter freaks who decided to tell me all about their divorces right after saying, "Oh, you're engaged? Congratulations!"? Fortunately, none of that has happened. The thought of babies generally incites upbeat responses, even amongst those who don't want 'em for themselves. And my pals who've recently had babies have been especially awesome - check out this super sweet hand-me-down from new parents J and P ~

I especially value this sort of support as I've struggled to adjust to the new reality. Yeah, yeah, I know it's gonna be a helluvalot crazier for us when the kid is actually here. But for the pregnant lady, the "old" life is already over. I am officially, completely disconnected from mid-twenties me. I can't drink coffee all day and beer all night, which I don't want to do anyway, but as long as I want to be a healthy host to this kid, I don't have a choice. I used to sleep grudgingly, because I felt like I was missing out on life. Now, I'm a regular old napper. I foresee sleep becoming the next great fix, maybe even better than caffeine. But most daunting is the notion that every future decision of consequence will be considered with this child in mind. So, I find myself fondly recollecting when I was single... 'cause that was awesome, right? Actually, being single mostly sucked. I think the best thing about it was that I only watched the TV shows that I wanted to watch. But as I said, the urge to romanticize the past has always run strong within me. Now that selfish independence isn't an option, I find myself wanting it.

It's very easy to feel extra sorry for myself when I'm queasy and tired. Honestly, I've been pretty bummed for most of the past month. But a few recent developments have aroused my old pep and enthusiasm. A brief visit with family in Greensboro, NC reminded me that there are parts of the south that are much cooler than this town.* Verdant Spring, warmth and sunshine are certainly reinvigorating. I've got a new workout that increases my energy more than it makes me feel ill. Dan finally (though very gently) complained about my household laziness, which has encouraged me to be more productive. But the best occurrence was seeing our sonogram! Last Friday I experienced my first transvaginal ultrasound, which is sort of like a pap smear with a more pleasant instrument and a cool visual aid. I now know what my uterus and ovaries look like, but better than that, I got to see my little friend and hear its heartbeat - 171! That put so much in perspective. When my heart rate is 171, I'm in the middle of an intense cardio workout. Until week 14, this kid is going to be working that hard nonstop, which means I'm working, too. No wonder I'm so freakin' tired all the time!

I encountered a couple other revelations on Sunday. As I was laying in bed that night, I read that the cause of my recent constipation (according to my OB's info guide), "is due to a slowing of the bowels that allows an increase in nutrient absorption for the baby." In a sense, my kid is dumpster diving, finding nourishment in the stuff that my body was ready to throw away. Now that's a thriftiness I can respect! Learning that made the discomfort less bothersome. Still, as I laid in bed, I found myself feeling anxious and unable to sleep. My stomach wanted something but I didn't want to overstimulate it with food. Milk suddenly sounded like a really good idea (when I'm nauseous, it generally sounds like a really bad idea). I poured myself a glass, took a swig, and discovered a gustatory bliss I had not experienced in weeks. To me, right now, milk tastes like liquid Christmas cookies. It makes sense, of course - the baby wants calcium. But this was the first time I found that a food tasted better to me than it ever had before. I had no idea! That's a special bonus that the old me just didn't experience.

*Of course, there are plenty of great places in the north, but I heard about y'all's winter. I won't be ready to return to that for a very long time, if ever.

Busy Body

2011-03-07T09:32:00.000-05:00

About four months ago, I embarked on a body-changing adventure which will hopefully lead to positive, lifelong ramifications. Surprise! I'm not talking about pregnancy. Suck on that, pals.

Please pardon that flash of hostility. I blame the hormones. It's just that ever since I announced my pregnancy, I've had this sinking feeling that my new motherhood status is quickly becoming the only thing anyone cares to know about me. Granted, slow-cooking this kid inside my loins is the most important thing I'm doing right now. It makes sense that it's the number one subject that most everyone wants to discuss with me. But I do have a couple of other things going on. Obviously, I still write; it may not make me any money, but I try to treat it like a job (I've never had as much passion for an actual job). Anyone who knows me well enough to bother reading this blog probably gets that. In regard to the rest of my life... though I've touched on the subject in the past, I guess I haven't been entirely forthcoming about the other major use of my time.

I workout. Lots. Certainly not as much as C, the young woman at my gym who first convinced me to get a personal trainer, or T, the trainer who has taught me almost everything I know about fitness. But I've definitely worked out more often in the past four months than I did during the entirety of my 20s. More importantly, I've worked out intensely, using a combination of weight-training and increasingly difficult cardio routines. I push myself, I don't allow many excuses, I willingly look like a fool in front of my more skillful gym-going peers, and sometimes - though not often - I cry from sheer frustration. I'm far from my optimal physical shape (though I'm still unsure of what that is, I know I definitely want a much lower body fat percentage) and I'm still overweight. Nevertheless, I'm enormously proud of what I've accomplished in this time, and I'm excited that this is only the beginning.

I wish I had some simple measure to tell you how far I've come, like, "I've lost twenty pounds!" My weight hasn't changed that much, probably because my muscles are much bigger as a result of, um, usage. I can say that I've moved a comfortable notch down the belt (two notches if I want to hike my jeans up to my waist, which I don't). I now have plenty of breathing room when I button my favorite blazer; there's a third button by the lapel that I just discovered last week! Best of all, I've subtracted 2.5 points from my body fat percentage, and T assured me that such a difference is "huge". I don't know enough to make that assessment on my own, but I trust his judgement.

That trust has been the foundation for all of my progress. I was incredulous the first time T assigned me a mile run on the treadmill. I was okay with every other cardio device, even the upright bike and the stepper, but I feared the treadmill. I had Looney Toons-style visions of being flung through one of the plate glass windows, leaving just a jagged, Tara-shaped outline as a reminder of my prematurely dead self. So when I first got on that treadmill, I very gingerly worked my way up to a 4.2 mph jog. I didn't get thrown, but more impressively, I did the whole mile without stopping or slowing down. I ran into C in the locker room after that and told her the news. I'll never forget what she said. "Tara, you're working hard!" I was just about a month into my new regimen, but that recognition felt like a diploma.

When I spoke to T about it a few days later, he congratulated me, then asked what my mile time was. "That's good, but next time I want you to run fast. I don't care if you slow down to jog or walk, but I want you to go faster. See what your time is then." I did exactly what he said, and knocked no less than five minutes off my mile time. And I didn't slow down, either.

T has taught me so many exercises that I simply couldn't do the first time. He included most of those in my assignments anyway, and I just had to trust that I could succeed eventually. The mantra that I run through my mind in these situations is, "The only way there is by trying." I'm surprised by the number of times I've actually gotten "there". My favorite example is the full-body crunch. I think I laughed when T told me how to do it. I was to lay on a weight bench, with my bum near the edge and my legs stretched out in the air. Then I was to hold the edge of the bench and pull my chest and knees together. I've got a lotta leg and I couldn't keep those limbs taut for more than a couple seconds, much less lift them and my upper half into a crunch. T still made it part of a five day workout, which I was supposed to do for four weeks straight.

My first effort to do a set of full-body crunches was humbling. I huffed and puffed as I struggled to hold my balance; I doubt that I got my back even an inch off the bench. I had to look pretty funny to bystanders, but no one laughed, if they noticed at all. Sloppy as my form was, I counted each mangled attempt as a rep and repeated fourteen times. As I tackled each set (I did three total, with sets of dumbbell flies in between), I cared less about how I looked. I was doing my best, as my sweat-drench shirt could attest. I got better at it each week. Even knowing how hard I tried, it seems a miracle that by week four, I could do a solid set of fifteen full-body crunches with a modicum of grace. That makes me proud.

These long-term assignments have been instrumental in getting all that I can from my limited training schedule. I can afford only two training sessions a month. When I signed up for this, I had no expectation that T would provide me with all this detailed homework and I can't really express how much I appreciate it. At first, a twice-a-month consultation seemed like it could be a waste of time. But I've been able to work so much on my own, that I've actually built up three unused training sessions since the last time we met.

About a week and a half ago, the need to meet with my trainer became apparent. I'd known for several days that I was pregnant and of course I'd been wanting a fitness professional's opinion on how I should adjust my regimen. The timing was good, as I'd started to tell my friends and family the big news. I was a little over two weeks into the new assignment - two days of mixed cardio and weights, a 5k run on day three, rest on day four, repeat for six weeks - and then the morning sickness hit. Instead of getting easier, my routines were wiping me out. The running seemed to increase my sense of nausea. I found myself slacking. I skipped working out one day, then again a couple days later, then two days in a row. By the beginning of last week, the almost constant nausea and fatigue left me feeling bonkers. I made myself workout on Monday and though I found myself skipping again on Tuesday, I had to acknowledge that exercise was the only way to restore some of my energy. I was determined to get back on track. I just needed to learn how to tailor my workout to my first trimester symptoms. I guess I needed a kick in the ass, too.

That was the same day I found out C and T no longer work at my gym. I have no idea what the details of that change are (I get the feeling they went out in an awesome blaze of glory, and since I've starred in a couple of those departure stories myself, I can only hope they are well and continuing to enjoy themselves... I have a strong feeling that they are). I wasn't prepared for the initial sense of devastation. Dan could hardly believe my teary-eyed reaction to the text message news. "You did all this work, Tara. You're going to be fine!" Of course the gym would have to provide me with a new trainer - we do have a contract after all - but would that person be willing to give me multi-week homework assignments? Would they get the fact that I came into this clumsy and atrophied, very recently and with a non-specific desire to be stronger and healthier? Would they know anything about training a newly pregnant woman?

I've calmed down in the days since. The gym manager assures me that my new trainer is experienced and educated. We meet on Thursday morning. In the meantime, I will stick with the current assignment, but at a more moderate pace (I most definitely slow down and walk during those 5k runs). I've come to realize that what I actually miss most about C and T is the subtle yet frequent encouragement they offered - the approving smiles when they would see me check in day after day, the high fives and the goofy nicknames ("Hey, Champ" - I've never been a "Champ" before!). Just like working at a job, I workout better on my own. I enjoy the solitude of the run, the silent number-Mississippi timekeeping, the internal mantras that keep me from giving up when my body is screaming, "Enough!" But just like a job, I need to poke my head up every once in a while and see that someone other than me is aware of my progress. In lieu of a stunning and obvious measurement, I need that occasional reassurance that I have made a different person of myself. After all, I'm with me every minute of every day. It isn't always so easy to tell.

Bitchfest Movie Marathon! - "All About Eve"

2011-02-21T10:32:00.014-05:00

Bitchfest movies are all about women being awful to one another. I've chosen five films that I consider to be the best of the genre. Following the fourth installment (2010's "Black Swan"), I now present ~

All About Eve 1950 / Dir: Joseph L. Mankiewicz

SYNOPSIS Though still the toast of the New York theater scene, veteran stage legend Margo Channing (Bette Davis) is insecure about her age. Her playwright friend Lloyd (Hugh Marlowe) and director/boyfriend Bill (Gary Merrill) insist that her "ageless" talent and beauty make her fit to portray twentysomething women, but Margo isn't so sure. As Bill heads to Hollywood for a movie directing gig, she secretly worries about losing him to a younger woman. Her concerns are temporarily allayed when Lloyd's wife Karen (Celeste Holm) introduces her to Eve (Anne Baxter), an adoring superfan who has seen every performance of Margo's current Broadway hit "Aged in Wood". Flattered by Eve's idolatry and impressed with her excellent, unassuming manners, Margo takes the young lady under her wing and adopts her as a live-in personal assistant. When Margo learns that Eve has been casually corresponding with Bill in anticipation of his "Welcome Home" party, her fears resurface, especially when her wisecracking maid Birdie (Thelma Ritter) admits to finding Eve creepy. Margo's infamous diva-like temper explodes at the party, and she manages to humiliate Bill, Lloyd, Karen and Eve all at once - much to the amusement of acerbic theater critic Addison DeWitt (George Sanders). As Margo becomes increasingly suspicious of Eve in the days following the party, her obsessive paranoia further alienates her from the people she loves, leading to disastrous results.

I'm not sure if I've watched "All About Eve" more than any other movie, but I can't think of another film I've studied more intensely. I think it's brilliant and so it's a bit difficult for me to keep from writing about it hyper-analytically, even academically.* But that sort of piece could be interesting only to those who've already seen it, and one of my main reasons for engaging in this Bitchfest series is to make readers want to watch these great movies. So, if you've seen "All About Eve" and you're curious about my theory of the backstage crate that says "Handle With Care," let me know; otherwise, I will stick to answering the question, what makes this Bitchfest film so special?

Let's begin with writer/director Joseph L. Mankiewicz's unconventional script. Commonly known as The Bitchiest Film Ever Made, "All About Eve" is undoubtedly the gem of this genre and yet it upends all of the character types that we recognize in films like "The Women", "Mean Girls", "Chicago" and "Black Swan". Margo, our protagonist, is the common definition of a bitch. She's pushy, temperamental, inconsiderate and sometimes downright mean. The antagonist is polite and endlessly gracious. Without revealing too much, I'll concede that Eve isn't what she initially seems. And granted, the seemingly-good-but-secretly-bad girl is not a new sort of character, even in 1950. But unlike most Bitchfest films, in which the protagonist adopts the antagonists' tendencies in an effort to defeat her, Margo remains true to herself, while Eve does the aping in an attempt to overcome her adversary. Karen, who we would assume to be Margo's more sensible sidekick (and in most films, would serve to teach her ill-behaved pal a stern but positive lesson), is a self-unaware fool who does immeasurable harm by unwittingly unleashing Eve upon her friends. And perhaps most unusual is that the biggest bitch of all is Addison, a man.

But as Addison himself so snidely observes in the film's opening scene, the function of the writer and director is "merely to construct a tower so that the world can applaud a light which flashes on top of it." Witty as Mankiewicz's script is, only a seasoned and sympathetic pro like Bette Davis could be capable of delivering his heroine's words so deftly; this is arguably her signature film. Despite her bitchiness, we root for Margo, for the same reason we root for those no-good "Chicago" girls - she's entertaining, hurling bitter, hilarious barbs at both the innocent and the deserving with equal finesse. Take, for instance, when a justifiably incensed Bill complains that she's going to make him miss his flight to L.A. and his meeting with Darryl Zanuck (real-life Twentieth Century Fox exec and producer of "All About Eve" - so meta!). Margo merely replies in mocking sing-song fashion, "Zanuck, Zanuck, Zanuck. What are you two - lovers?"

Unlike "Chicago's" Roxie or Velma, Margo is also vulnerable, and Davis conveys this tenderness so convincingly that you almost believe she's playing herself. In one of her best scenes, she wearily confesses to Karen, "Funny business, a woman's career. The things you drop on your way up the ladder, so you can move faster. You forget you'll need them again when you go back to being a woman." Davis could have just as easily been describing her various failed marriages in light of her own lengthy career. In the course of this monologue, her character also reveals a keen self-awareness that sets her apart from most of the other principal players, especially when she admits, "Infants behave the way I do, you know. They carry on and misbehave - they'd get drunk if they knew how - when they can't have what they want. When they feel unwanted and insecure - or unloved." Ultimately, this cognizance is more important to Margo's personal success than either her assertiveness or her occasional willingness to be kind. Again, this is not the typical characterization of a "good girl".

Anne Baxter's portrayal of "bad girl" Eve is certainly less nuanced, just as her character bears fewer layers than our protagonist. Yet, Baxter does a great job of making us queasy about Eve long before she reveals her true nature. From her melodramatically delivered introductory monologue (a young widow's sob story that would suit reality TV perfectly) to her stoic poise in the face of Margo's most brutal tantrum, Baxter's portrayal throughout the first half of the film is a series of subtly unsettling alarms. Though her acting in the latter half verges on campy, it is certainly amusing, even rewarding. After all, we don't really want Eve to be as virtuous as she seems.

The other true star of the film - portraying a character who is a far more formidable force than Eve - is George Sanders. If Margo is correct in her initial observation that Eve considers the theater "all the religions in the world rolled into one, and we're Gods and Goddesses," then Sanders's Addison is certainly the Devil. Like Billy Flynn from "Chicago," he's the manipulator who can't be baited by any Bitchfest lady. But unlike Flynn, nothing so worldly as money interests Addison. His only love is the theater and his only desire is to control it by somehow possessing its stars. His love/hate relationship with Margo (which is all hate on her end) is a powerful dramatic undercurrent that becomes more apparent throughout the film, though Sanders is constantly foreshadowing. The opening scene (set months after the bulk of the action), in which he presents all of the major character via voice over narration, is the film's greatest gift to a repeat viewer and it gets better with every successive screening. As his eyes dart from a heavy-hearted Karen to a glowering Margo, Sanders's sneering expression says everything that his narrative refuses to divulge. But it's Sanders's outstanding, dulcet-toned delivery that perfectly complements Mankiewicz's biting dialog, especially in this scene with a very young Marilyn Monroe -

Though Bette Davis unfortunately lost the Best Actress Oscar (to a very deserving Judy Holliday for "Born Yesterday"; since Baxter was also nominated, it is commonly believed that she and Davis cancelled each other out), Sanders was rightly awarded Best Supporting Actor, his only nomination from the Academy.

In the spirit of recognizing great acting, I must give a shout-out to Thelma Ritter, whom you saw descending the staircase with the enormous sable in hand. Ritter was one of Hollywood's best character actors, the perennial wise-ass servant (you may recall her as Jimmy Stewart's macabre nurse in "Rear Window"). With her thick New York accent and salty manner, she brought the silver screen down to earth and helped millions of viewers suspend their disbelief. Her Birdie, the "fifth rate vaudevillian" turned maid, is no less important to this film. She connects us to the improbable world of "the thee-uh-TUHH" and, as the most prescient observer of Eve, she helps us accept that people this crazy can and do exist.

On a completely different note, "All About Eve" stands out amongst other Bitchfest films as an insightful study of jealousy. Margo's billowing resentment toward her rival is an irresistible train wreck. Her extreme, outward hostility only feeds Eve's popularity, which in turn fosters a more potent, self-defeating envy. I think that just about any woman (or man) who has engaged in catty behavior can relate to that experience. But while so many Bitchfest narratives reward jealous heroines by returning to them the "thing" (a guy, usually) that the bad girl somehow stole, that isn't Margo's path to redemption. As infantile as she can be, Margo is a grown-up and like real-life grown-ups, she eventually figures out that her jealousy is a manifestation of her insecurity. It doesn't matter if she's right or wrong about Eve. She must find her peace in the only place it could possibly be found - within herself.

*Honestly, the only thing I miss about college is writing ridiculously detailed, five page shot analyses for highfalutin theory classes.

The Persistence of Memory

2011-02-15T12:00:00.002-05:00

I've decided to take a break from my Bitchfest Movie series of postings to touch on a subject that's been gnawing at my brain - my better-than-average memory. Alright, I will abandon the false modesty. I have an excellent memory, not for facts and figures so much as for things that I have witnessed during the course of my life. For instance, I know that a year ago today, I had a nasty cold and had to miss my friend L's dance performance. Granted, that memory wasn't so tough to recall, because she was dancing at a show that happens the day after Valentine's Day. But I also remember that I wrote a Facebook status update in which I cursed the virus and wished her well (when she stumbled across that later, she thought it was nice). I was happy that I could see her next recital on March 26th, the day my friends' twin babies were born, and I remember thinking how lucky I was to receive that phone call only moments after her performance. That was also the day that I finished reading "Great Expectations". It was a sunny, crisp, early Spring afternoon. Dan and I ate Vietnamese food before the recital.

You cannot imagine how much time I spend mentally wandering through these associated recollections*. The most obscure minutiae trigger all sorts of flashbacks. Here's an example: yesterday, I used the word "elan" in a puzzle. Every time I think of that word, I think about a very clever and charming former housemate whose figure skating team name contained the word "elan" (mind you, I knew this woman years after she had left the team). When I think of "elan", it brings up all sorts of sentiments - how my feelings toward her vacillated between frustration (like when she would try to flirt with my boyfriend in front of me) and sympathy (we experienced a common tragedy, which made us oddly close for a few months). "Elan" reminds me of all the stories she told about her old job at a cafe that I never visited, and the kind of cigarettes she smoked. I could go on, but that isn't my point. My point is that, based on these memories, I could write a little bio about a woman I have seen just once in the past decade. Obviously, I don't know her whole story, but I still know so many details.

I used to be proud of this trait. It can be an entertaining parlor trick and sometimes it's delightful to surprise an old friend with a funny "Remember when?" that they had completely forgotten. But mostly, I consider this ability a curse. As with the word "elan", it brings up at least as many unpleasant memories as happy ones. And even when recalling memories of pleasant moments spent with loved ones, I know there's an excellent chance that I'm the only one who remembers. That loneliness might be the worst thing about having this good memory.

*My blood-related family can probably understand. I think this ability is definitely a genetic inheritance.

Bitchfest Movie Marathon! - "Black Swan"

2011-02-08T11:07:00.005-05:00

Bitchfest movies are all about women being awful to one another. I've chosen five films that I consider to be the best of the genre. Following last week's third installment (2002's "Chicago"), I now present ~

Black Swan 2010 / Dir: Darren Aronofsky

SYNOPSIS: Demure and technically flawless ballerina Nina (Natalie Portman) wins the lead role in her company's production of "Swan Lake". Though she is a perfect fit for the virtuous White Swan, her director (Vincent Cassell) doubts that she can pull off the other half of the role, the seductive Black Swan. Nina begins to feel threatened by Lily (Mila Kunis), a less talented but more alluring dancer who embodies Black Swan qualities. Further stymied by her controlling mother, Erica (Barbara Hershey), Nina feverishly taps into her dark side and begins losing her mind in the process.

When we were kids, my sister K identified certain elements that guarantee a super creepy story. This included evil twins who pretend to be nice, dead evil twins who come back to life, and mirror images that smirk or otherwise behave differently than the person looking in the mirror. All of these pertain to doubles and good/evil dualities. And it's true that no matter how often I encounter such devices, I always get freaked out in the best possible way. "Black Swan" works so well because it's packed with this kind of basic, no-fail horror. Plus, it takes place in the already weird world of ballet.

Bitchfest conflicts are essentially evil twin stories - a good girl and a bad girl, bonded by a common goal (if not an identical physical appearance), are thrust into battle. As I explained in my initial post, the righteous Bitchfest heroine sometimes adopts the antagonist's negative traits in order to defeat her. The process by which the Nina tries to mimic Lily's carefree sexuality is the film's central focus. Going into it, I had misgivings about the marketing label "psychosexual thriller," as if open and unapologetic female sexuality is somehow inherently sinister. Fortunately, that isn't the point at all. The real issue is, what does sex mean to a twenty-something woman who still sleeps in a bed festooned with stuffed animals? The good girl in this scenario is a timebomb of smothered sensuality. She can't even masturbate without worrying that her mother might barge through her lock-less bedroom door. Regardless of how you or I or Lily feel, sex is a murky, uncharted realm for Nina. You quickly realize that this twin conflict is at least as much internal as external, and that the protagonist's unrealized urges are defining the battlefield.

Director Darren Aronofsky expertly yanks the audience into Nina's eerie, insular world and makes you ride sidecar along her troubled journey. The camera is always in her face or behind her head, stalking her down a shadowy hall, spinning as she pirouettes. You really begin to feel that you're inside her mind, though Portman deserves at least as much credit for conveying Nina's point of view. I will consider her all-but-assured Best Actress Oscar well earned, and not just because she became a ballet dancer for the sake of this role. She actually made me forget that she's Movie Star Natalie Portman, whom I generally find annoying. Not to say that Nina isn't annoying - she really is, with her perpetually frightened little girl voice - but feeling your way through her sheltered life is a truly terrifying experience and you can't help longing for her release.

Kunis's Lily is an interesting subversion of the Bitchfest bad girl archetype. It's possible to read the story in such a way that she isn't really a culpable, manipulative Black Swan type, but rather a genuinely concerned friend. Then again, she may be intentionally messing with our heroine, or at least taking advantage of her instability. In any case, Kunis does an excellent job of anchoring the audience to everydayness - if only temporarily - by interjecting some easygoing humor into this unnervingly taut story. Whether or not Lily is actively trying to push her rival over the edge, she generally appears to be the least fucked-up person in Nina's tiny, asphyxiating world.

Erica is just as much of a debilitating force, a stifling superego to Lily's pleasure-seeking id. Her relationship with Nina reminded me of "Carrie". On the surface, Erica is nowhere near as psychotic as Piper Laurie's Margaret White, but the air of sexual repression in her dimly lit home is just as palpable. Instead of screaming about "dirty pillows", Erica submerges her child in a little girl world of music boxes and pink-frosted cake (which she passive-aggressively forces a sickly Nina to eat in celebration of winning the lead role; I found this scene more disturbing than the plentiful gore that occurs throughout the film). MINOR SPOILER ALERT - you learn that Nina's conception marked the abrupt end of her own ballet career. Erica isn't just a stage mom. She is actively holding her daughter in a state of arrested development and kinda trying to sabotage her at the same time.

Even among positive reviews for "Black Swan", the pejorative term I've encountered most frequently is "trashy". I guess that's fair, considering all the ballet-society stereotypes (from Cassel's cruel and lecherous director to Winona Ryder's aging, raging diva, Beth) and especially Portman and Kunis's straight-up soft porn sex scene. But honestly, I love "Black Swan" because it was exactly as trashy as I wanted it to be. While I appreciate the more highbrow elements - Matthew LiBatique's haunting, exquisite cinematography, the excellent use of sound (just the thought of a certain toenail-clipping noise makes me a bit nauseous), and of course the dancing - it's the pairing of Bitchfest story structure with those classic evil twin gimmicks (the above photo is a fine example) that lured me to the theater and kept my eyes glued to the screen. It isn't a unique combo, I know, but I can't think of another film that does it better.

Tune in for the final installment, 1950's "All About Eve"

Bitchfest Movie Marathon! - "Chicago"

2011-01-31T09:08:00.009-05:00

Bitchfest movies are all about women being awful to one another. I've chosen five films that I consider to be the best of the genre. Following last week's second installment (2004's "Mean Girls"), I now present ~

Chicago 2002 / Dir: Rob Marshall

SYNOPSIS: Based on the 1975 Broadway musical, "Chicago" is the story of two prohibition-era murderesses - Velma (Catherine Zeta-Jones), a showgirl who killed her cheating husband and sister, and Roxie (Renee Zellweger), an aspiring entertainer who killed her boyfriend because he lied about getting her a gig. Fearing that they will be hanged for their crimes, the two ladies vie for the attention of Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), a slick and hitherto undefeated defense lawyer who specializes in distressed damsels.

Of all my favorite Bitchfest films, I am most embarrassed about "Chicago". Perhaps it's because it stars people like Zellweger* and Gere, but more so, I think it's because the movie isn't nearly as good on the "small" screen. I believe I watched that hotly anticipated DVD once before I sold it. I caught it on TV another time and flipped back and forth between it and another show. Based on those weak responses, I'd assume that my initial reaction to the film had been tainted by an unusually good mood, but I actually saw it four times in the theater.

When I went to my first viewing, we had to wait in line outside the theater door while the previous screening finished. As the audience members emerged, I noticed a particularly jubilant middle aged man and his wife. Both were beaming, but he had tears rolling down his face. He turned to me and said, "You're gonna love it!" He was not only correct, his physical reaction predicted my own. Aside from "Singin' in the Rain" and "Hedwig and the Angry Inch", I don't think I've ever been more entertained while sitting inside a movie theater. Guess I have a thing for musicals...

And as musicals go, this one has the perfect balance of story, humor and catchy, addictive songs. Immersing oneself in it - which really does require a theater - is an exhilarating experience. And it turns out that a good musical doesn't require complex character development. As Bitchfest stories go, this one is awfully shallow. Every lady is a "bad girl" which implies that "good girls" simply can't make it in show business. What's interesting about this tale from an audience member's point of view is that even though Velma and Roxie aren't particularly likable, you're nevertheless glad to see them win in the end. Part of the reason is that, although they suck as people, the men that they offed were actually worse. This simple ploy to keep you rooting for the heroines is fleshed out in the "Cell Block Tango" number, during which several other murderesses (all clad in black lingerie; it makes sense but I can't explain why) recount how and why they wound up killing their no-good lovers. As the song reaches its inevitable crescendo and key change, the ladies harmonize with the words "The dirty bum, bum, bum!" These irresistible, old-timey touches make you cheer for these vixens just as you'd cheer for a Cagney villain.

It's difficult to choose sides in the Roxie vs. Velma rivalry, but ultimately it doesn't matter as they are equally ruthless and thus equally successful in the end. Surprisingly, Gere's Mr. Flynn might be the most likable character. I don't know why I have such a bad feeling about Gere (I blame "Pretty Woman" more than the gerbil legend), but he redeemed himself with this role. I'm a sucker for the slippery, silver-tongued Irishman stereotype and he hits the mark. He effortlessly bounces between boyish grins and withering glances (the former for the press and the jury, the latter for his dim clients). He plays a classic Bitchfest male role, the manipulator who can't be baited, and he even gets his own number - the all-lies "All I Care About is Love". Dressed in shirtsleeves, suspenders and a newsboy cap, Gere croons with a hint of a brogue, "I don't care about expensive things/ Cashmere coats, or diamond rings / Don't mean a thing / All I care about is love" as the camera cuts to shots of Billy dressed in his usual finery, scoffing at Roxie as she attempts to seduce him in lieu of paying him. His portrayal is reminiscent of Cary Grant's Walter Burns; a callous jerk, yes, but he's no sap.

Other highlights include: John C. Reilly as Roxie's hapless, cuckolded husband and his rendition of "Mr. Cellophane"; Queen Latifah as scheming prison "mom" Matron Morton and her rendition of "When You're Good to Mama"; and most of all, Ms. Zeta-Jones's pace-setting performance of the opening number, "All That Jazz", which has to be one of the five all-time best show tunes. When she belts the penultimate line, "No, I'm no one's wife / But, oh, I love my life!" she not only earned her Oscar but also prompted a male friend of mine to say, "She's hot. I'm gay and I would do her."

Some of my other musical theater friends hated the movie, claiming that its best aspects were mere shadows of much better Broadway productions. I guess that "Chicago" just happens to be based on an already excellent musical with a fun, mean-spirited storyline and cool period costumes. I have no doubt that there have been and will be superior staged versions, but I've never had the cash or means to attend one of those. I will someday. In the meantime, I would gladly pay standard movie theater admission price if I ever got a chance to see this on a big screen again. I know it would be money well spent.

Tune in for the next installment, 2010's "Black Swan"

*Okay, I admit that I kinda love Renee Zellweger, if only for her perfect performance in "Bridget Jones's Diary". She did, however, aid and abet the crime that was "Jerry McGuire"; that "You complete me" garbage was an unforgivable disservice to all non-sociopaths everywhere.

Bitchfest Movie Marathon! - "Mean Girls"

2011-01-27T09:00:00.002-05:00

Bitchfest movies are all about women being awful to one another. I've chosen five films that I consider to be the best of the genre. Following last week's first installment (1939's "The Women"), I now present ~

Mean Girls 2004 / Dir: Mark Waters

SYNOPSIS: Having just relocated from rural Africa to the midwestern 'burbs, formerly home-schooled teenager Cady (Lindsay Lohan) begins attending a public high school. As she navigates this unfamiliar social territory, she quickly befriends a pair of outcasts - goth Janis (Lizzy Caplan) and "too gay to function" Damian (Daniel Franzese) - while simultaneously gaining the attention of The Plastics, a crew of snooty popular girls. Janis and Damian encourage Cady to infiltrate the Plastics and get some dirt on vicious ringleader Regina (Rachel McAdams). Cady initially takes the Plastics' offer of friendship at face value, so she's devastated when Regina moves in on her dreamy crush, Aaron (Jonathan Bennett). Cady decides to take revenge on her rival while pretending to be her best friend. In doing so, she transforms into the same sort of mean girl that she's trying to defeat.

One of my favorite pseudo-intellectual activities is helping my exhausted grad student instructor friends pick film clips to screen during their Friday classes. This was how I was able to convince my husband to show a scene from "Mean Girls" to his sociology students (it is now regularly featured in his Intro to Soc course). The film offers excellent examples of group assimilation in the context of a very clever and entertaining story.

I would expect nothing less from screenwriter Tina Fey, whose piercing, often hilarious social observations help make "30 Rock" the funniest sitcom in the history of television. Her screenplay is based on Rosalind Wiseman's nonfiction bestseller Queen Bees and Wannabes: Helping Your Daughter Survive Cliques, Gossip, Boyfriends and the New Realities of Girl World. Fey uses Cady's fish-out-of-water perspective to render a darkly humorous examination of girl world politics, from duplicitous three-way phone calls to unspoken rules about sex and dating. But what makes "Mean Girls" most interesting is that it transcends the typical Bitchfest good-girl-wins/bad-girl-loses scenario by demonstrating that all of us have the potential to be both types at the same time.

Lohan's gradual transition from subtly attractive math nerd to vapid hottie is both believable and sympathetic, particularly when she observes that, "it was better being in the Plastics, hating life, than to not be in at all. Because being with the Plastics was like being famous." Though Cady makes several bad decisions along her girl world journey, it's hard to imagine oneself behaving differently, especially when handicapped with her inexperience.* McAdams's Regina is refreshingly complex as a villain who is more angry than evil; you spend most of the film longing for her comeuppance, and when it's finally delivered (in the style of a too-bad-to-be-true violent fantasy), you realize that it's disproportionate to her sins. Amy Poehler's appearance as Regina's embarrassing, youth-obsessed, "cool" mom (the kind who is quick to offer alcohol to teens because, "if you're going to drink I'd rather you do it in the house") provides some of the film's biggest laughs, as well as some insight into the origin of her daughter's bitterness.

In one of the best scenes, math teacher Ms. Norbury (played by Fey) hosts an emergency all-girl assembly after the school wide distribution of the Plastics' slam book incites a riot. Ms. Norbury forces her young charges to calmly confront each other about what's really bothering them. The scene is brilliant, not only because it contains the film's best line - "Somebody wrote in that book that I'm lying about being a virgin because I use super-jumbo tampons. But I can't help it if I've got a heavy flow and a wide-set vagina!" - but also because it makes two key points; 1) that cattiness isn't a victimless crime and 2) that nearly all victims are also perpetrators, and vice versa.

Tune in for the next installment, 2002's "Chicago"

*Which reminds me, Lohan's critics (many of whom seem to think that she owes them a personal apology) might benefit from a second viewing of this film. She's a good actress who got very famous at a young age while being saddled with horrible parents. Could you do any better in her place?

Bitchfest Movie Marathon!

2011-01-20T14:13:00.006-05:00

H. L. Mencken once said that a misogynist is "a man who hates women as much as they hate one another." Terrible, isn't it? Yet I admit that's one of my favorite quotes. After all, we ladies do have a nasty reputation for picking on each other. It's the one pissing contest in which we've always been eligible to compete. While I personally abhor girl-on-girl cattiness and try to exclude it (and its enthusiasts) from my social interactions as much as possible, I'd be lying if I were to claim that I've never engaged in it. I suspect this is a common struggle amongst us self-proclaimed feminists. After so many generations of women abusing women, I sometimes wonder if this spitefulness we've inherited is something we all just need to get out of our systems.

I may have stumbled upon an outlet. In lieu of attacking other ladies, I seek a healthy dose of bitchiness in my entertainment.* My favorite unsung film genre is something that I like to call "The Bitchfest". These are the stories about women being awful to each other. The plot usually involves a "good" girl and a "bad" girl fighting over a guy (though it may be a job or a thing). Oftentimes the good girl adopts bad girl tendencies to win her man/thing. Sometimes this method succeeds, sometimes it is the heroine's undoing. This hackneyed scenario remains surprisingly entertaining despite its shallowness, which is why I've watched movies like "The Devil Wears Prada" when I probably had something better to do.

So in the spirit of wintry, pent-up aggression, I present this selection of much better films, along with an explanation of what makes each one so great. I consider these five movies to be the Best of the Best of the Bitchfest.

NOTE: I originally intended to include all five films in one post, but it was getting crazy long, even for me. Instead, I will publish several installments over the coming days. Beginning in reverse alphabetical order (which just happens to lead to the gem of the genre) ~

The Women 1939 / Dir: George Cukor

SYNOPSIS: Sickeningly contented society matron Mary (Norma Shearer) has no idea that her beloved spouse Stephen has been stepping out with scheming shop girl Crystal (Joan Crawford), until her obnoxious friends set her up to be informed by a gossipy manicurist. Clinging to her waning sense of dignity, Mary rejects her repentant husband and heads to Reno for a "quickie" divorce. She encounters several other wannabe divorcees on the westbound train, including her two-faced pal Sylvia (Rosalind Russell), who is all too eager to see Mary's marriage crumble. Seeing these various women enter and exit marriages that are based on money and status, Mary realizes that she may have made a mistake in leaving a man that she actually loved.

There's a gimmick behind this story, which is based on the play by Clare Boothe Luce - no men appear at any point during the film. So even though the characterizations, the storyline, and especially the resolution can be disheartening (I don't much care for the way that Mary "wins" in the end), this angle allows plenty of room for wonderful acting by women.

Shearer brings both glamor and a true intelligence to her very privileged heroine, which makes her more likable than you'd initially expect. She gets off to a rough start in some early "calm before the storm" scenes with her annoying daughter, Little Mary (portrayed by cringe-worthy child actor Virginia Weidler, who is fortunately absent from the bulk of the film). The two are so blissfully self-satisfied that you may want to vomit. But once the cracks in Mary's seemingly perfect marriage are revealed, Shearer plays her various stages of grief with convincing grace. She really is the sort of mature, upright, self-respecting friend that you would identify as an especially good person.

Crawford's Crystal is exactly what you'd expect - a cunning and icy vamp. Her character bears the fewest dimensions, but she plays that bad-girl-you-love-to-hate brilliantly. She absolutely nails lines like, "There is a name for you, ladies, but it isn't used in high society... outside of a kennel." Now that Crawford is doomed to be forever associated with wire hangers, it's difficult for a modern viewer to imagine an actress who would have been better suited for the role.

The various supporting characters - especially Paulette Goddard's charming homewrecker Miriam and Mary Boland's flighty and much-married Countess De Lave - help round out the drama with plenty of sparkling humor, but Russell is flat out the funniest. Her Sylvia is the perfect cat, toying with the other ladies for nothing more than her own amusement. Consistently crass and occasionally histrionic, Russell makes a very amusing ass of herself; her unflattering antics were truly remarkable for the era.** In one of her best scenes, she bares her teeth in the mirror, just to be sure there's nothing stuck up in there. It's only a moment, but the film is replete with these little impressions of how women behave when men aren't around. That's something that we rarely see in any movies ever, which is why this 72 year old film remains refreshing today.

Tune in for the next installment, 2004's "Mean Girls"

*Of course, if lady-on-lady meanness ceased to be a recognizable thing, this sort of entertainment wouldn't exist. Luckily, I'm not really here to solve social problems, thank goodness!

**Russell's comedic performance attracted future husband Frederick Brisson, who became obsessed with her when he saw repeat screenings of "The Women" as he was sailing to the US. He convinced his friend Cary Grant to introduce him to her during the filming of "His Girl Friday" and the two married shortly after that.

The "F" Word

2011-01-13T13:18:00.007-05:00

I'm not sure exactly when the enjoyment of food became a competitive sport, but I'm way past wanting to be a contender. Working at Foodie Deluxe in Ann Arbor was oddly reminiscent of my 1998 trip to Ireland - just as that humbling experience taught me that I'm not really Irish (I'm American), this more recent experience taught me that I cannot call myself a "foodie" (I'm just a person who likes eating - there are literally billions of us). Of course, I also refrain from describing myself with the "f" word because it's terrible and I don't like the flavor of my own vomit. But even if I were to choose a slightly less obnoxious word like "connoisseur", I would still feel like a fraud because I know too many people who have far more sophisticated knowledge, taste and skill when it comes to making and eating food.

Nevertheless, I do love cooking and feasting. When I left my job in Ann Arbor and moved to Chattanooga, I was looking forward to embracing my new kitchen (with its restaurant-style stainless steel counters) in a more modest and less food-obsessed town. I've been having fun, especially now that I have some cool new toys, like my crock pot and immersion blender. But I didn't anticipate that my relationship with food would be so different from what it was when I lived and worked in Michigan.

The biggest food-related change came with my new fitness regimen. Now that I workout more than I ever have in my life (I actually run miles!.. without stopping!.. of my own volition!), I worry less about restricting this or that type of food. The only dietary advice that my trainer T gave me was this - get three servings of fruit and three servings of vegetables every day. This albeit simple rule is actually the goddamned revolution. For one thing, it's brilliant to give food advice in the form of a "do" instead of a "don't" - "don't" just isn't that motivating in the long term. I follow this "do" slavishly and I inevitably eat more healthfully. The only way I can make the 3/3 diet work is by snacking on bananas and raw carrots, which means I'm not often snacking on potato chips and cheesy things. I definitely have more energy, I'm less reliant on caffeine and I don't crave greasy food as much.

That being said, I have learned that my addiction to dairy fat cannot be denied. If I go a couple days without cheese or sour cream or half and half in my coffee, I get really crabby and start wondering why this miserable world has to be populated with so many IDIOTIC JERKS. I'm not my best self without lactose.

This new food routine is fine, but figuring out how to get three fruits, three vegetables and a little dairy fat in my body every day takes a lot of concentration. That means I have less energy for planning elaborate entrees or trying new recipes, which brings me to the second biggest change in my relationship with food. I'm no longer as interested in cooking. This is why I love my crock pot. With minimal prep, I make a big ass heap of food that I can turn into several meals. Overnight grits become breakfast, then grits casserole, then grits muffins, etc. It isn't a very sexy approach to culinary arts, but it is efficient.

I think the other major difference in the way I approach food concerns my favorite pastime, going out to eat. Chattanooga is not prime for this activity, though not for lack of fancy restaurants. This town has plenty of places where you can buy an expensive steak, but there isn't much variety when you examine the spectrum of choices. I couldn't have anticipated how much I would miss metro Detroit's sundry culinary options (a reflection of its mixed population), including Mexican, Middle Eastern, Greek, Indian, Polish, Chinese, Thai; I'm confident that you can find excellent versions of each one of these cuisines in the D. Chattanooga, unsurprisingly, is more culturally homogeneous. I thought this town would boast some great barbecue, but I've had trouble finding places that really smoke the hell out of some meat. I haven't yet found that "native" cuisine that's special to this place, and I'm beginning to wonder if it exists. I keep going to the same few dependable restaurants but longing for more adventure.

Yet, within footsteps of my home, I can purchase fresh-roasted coffee, handmade sausage and artisan bread. This winter, Dan and I purchased an 18-week lettuce CSA and now we get to eat fresh greens every day. These small local farms and businesses are where you find the best flavors in Chattanooga. I'm glad that so many of these vendors are represented in our city's restaurants, but for the sake of thrift and control, I prefer to eliminate the middle man and just deal with these businesses directly. Living here, I just don't have as much motivation to go out to eat.

Despite my waning interest in living a food-focused life, it turns out that I'm really good at selling the stuff. My only goal at work is to get people to put whatever item I'm pushing in their basket and I'm a little shocked at how often they do. We aim for a 400% increase in sales of that item. Two weeks ago, I was demoing an obscure salami that I was sure no one would buy; we saw a 1500% lift in its sales. I'd call it a fluke, but my coworkers are always shocked when I run out of whatever I'm sampling. I must admit that I find this success very satisfying. I'm excited about this new facet in my ever-changing relationship with food. Food and I may not be best friends anymore, but we make great business partners.

It Is What It Isn't

2011-01-04T14:08:00.006-05:00

I'm not so sure about this new job. I feel like it should have bored me to death by now. Two or three days a week, I "demo" a featured product at a health food store. I have some experience sampling specialty food items from my days at Foodie Deluxe (not its real name, which - if you know me - you probably know anyway), and I guess I'm pretty good at the 30-second-to-one-minute sales pitch. Anyway, we keep selling out of the stuff that I'm pushing which seems to indicate that I'm doing my job well. But eight hours is a long time to stand in one place doing this one thing and I wonder how long I can dig this gig.

It helps that I do this only part-time, and that I receive a kick-ass 20% discount in addition to my reasonable hourly wage. It also helps that this store happens to be a surprisingly pleasant public gathering space. There's a slew of individuals who pop in almost every day, wandering the aisles, chilling in the cafe, enjoying the cheese and fruit samples. I generally dislike shopping but I've always liked shopping there. Pretty much every employee I've met has been friendly and helpful. I can envision a scenario in which I pursue other opportunities at this place because so far, I really like the company.

Yet, I am surprisingly pleased to be doing what I do now. Why is that? How can I be content with the repetition and constantly hearing myself say things like, "Isn't it great how the spice in the chutney complements that cheese?" as if I were saying it for the first time? How can I so willingly wait through those quiet half hour blocks, when I see nearly no customers and all I can do is think about stuff and anagram words on signs*? Is it the rewards and the environment that keep me interested? Or rather, is it all the things this job isn't? The latter is worth some consideration.

Number 1 - This job isn't critical to the overall operation. I've been the boss, the only other waitress, the necessary extra set of hands to get the job done. Being valued is nice, but being critical is overrated. I love that the store will run just fine whether or not I'm dishing crab dip samples. That doesn't mean that I'm going to slack off or show up late. But, there is some comfort in knowing that taking a sick day isn't going to make another person's day miserable.

Number 2 - This job doesn't require that I work closely with anyone else. This is a biggie. I work best in situations where I can get away from other people, because my feelings are much like Calvin Tran's ~

Even though his words make no sense, I know exactly what he means.

Really, I've got no problem with team work. I can work well with a group because I'm generally nice and helpful and can crack wise in an entertaining fashion. That's the fun part of working with others. Too bad I absolutely loathe the downside of group dynamics - drama, bitching, passive aggressive behavior, mean-spirited gossip, etc. My MO in most jobs is to keep conversation light and avoid talking about others behind their backs. Okay, incompetent bigwigs and annoying people from other departments are fair game, but I'm very seriously opposed to trashing the people you work with every day. Even when complaints are warranted, I find that such two-faced behavior only makes a bad situation worse. When backbiting becomes common, I know it's the beginning of the end for me and that job.

At the same time, I don't like having to be friendly or pleasant to a person who drives me batshit crazy. Professionalism is one thing, but I can hold in a lot of emotion when I'm dealing with someone I don't like. That isn't good for me. I need to be in a situation where I can get away from annoying people.

The position I'm in now is pretty extreme. I'm physically isolated from most other employees. In fact, I stand in one place all day and hope that others will come by and visit for a bit. Again, I doubt that I could be happy doing this for years, but coming off my last long-term job (working in a tiny office with anywhere from three to seven other people at a time), I think this distance from others will be nice for a while.

Number 3 - This isn't the only job available. My recent trip to Michigan, though delightful in many regards, was a bummer trip in just as many ways. The air of recession depression is practically overwhelming. It isn't just the unemployed who are struggling. The semi-employed and those who are working jobs they hate (but are too scared to leave) are suffering, too. I've been in all three of those situations and know that each one sucks. I would have a very different perspective on this gig if I lived in Michigan because I would feel more desperate about keeping it. This is already my second job in Chattanooga and I feel pretty confident that I could find more work elsewhere if this place doesn't suit me, which takes the pressure off this being the One Big Opportunity.

I read a David Sedaris piece in which he mentions this idea that our lives are like a four burner stove, with each burner representing family, health, work/career and friends. Successful people usually have just three burners turned on, and super successful people use just two. Of course, this begs the question, how do you order your burners? Family and health would be my current top two. I suppose that being new to this town would allow work to tie with friends, only because I haven't made that many yet. In any case, work just isn't a big priority for me right now. I like making money and having a commitment to something outside of myself. I like the forced social interaction, even when it's as superficial as, "You've gotta try this artisinal salami!" I like that what I'm doing now is so different from what I had been doing for the last several years. Still, I have to admit, I'm surprised that this is enough for me right now.

*That's a boredom-fighting tip my mom taught me; my recent discovery is "spices" and "Pisces".

Being Back in Michigan

2010-12-23T14:54:00.004-05:00

This nomad's life is weird. I don't feel like I belong in Chattanooga, but I don't feel like I belong here, either. That's actually a good thing, because I was worried that seeing the friends and family I miss so much would set me up for a big post-vacation bummer. I'm not so concerned about that now. Hanging with so many loved ones has been a blast, but now that I'm finally up here, I'm almost overwhelmed by the sense that I shouldn't be here instead of Tennessee.

Let's just get it over with and talk about the weather. Surprise! It isn't the worst thing about being here. The cold honestly hasn't bothered me, mostly because it hasn't been that bad since arrived last Friday (and it was about this cold in Chatt the week before we left). Even the greyness hasn't been getting me down because there's a certain beauty in the vast, quilted sky that I don't get to enjoy in sunny, mountainous, southern Tennessee. I love the way barren, ebony branches and tree trunks look against that backdrop, especially when placed behind an uninterrupted field of white snow (which is far prettier than brown grass).

There is much loveliness to enjoy in a Michigan winter but I had forgotten about the seasonal dirtiness - the dry, stuffy indoors, the perpetual snot and chapped lips. The roads are the worst part. I saw a woman sitting on a bus bench by the side of Washtenaw Avenue in Ann Arbor. She sat just inches from the slush spray that emanated from the 40mph traffic, her legs ankle-deep in the black-streaked drift. That image broke my heart, though (or because?) I had been in her place so many times. And I had forgotten how cars turn into hideous, hulking sludge monsters. We haven't been able to see clearly through our windshield since Cincinnati. As soon as you wipe it down, it films over with that special blend of dirt and precipitation. Driving feels like walking around with filthy eyeglasses.

Culturally speaking, I think that southeastern Michigan has Chattanooga beat, hands down. The metro-Detroit/Ann Arbor food and beer scene is way more tasty, diverse and affordable, probably because there is a much larger and more diverse population in this region. Also, I've been able to do things here that I could never do in Chattanooga, like go to an art house theater (in a once-abandoned elementary school, no less) or hang out in bars where white people and black people and even people of other races mingle. I've longed for these things. It's also really exciting to be around a large population of Jewish people again.

I do find myself missing the friendlier, more upbeat attitude you find in Chattanooga. Yes, people seem nicer there. I like to say that in my experience so far, southerners tend to be more polite about everything except their racism and religion. My Louisiana-bred Michigan friend W got a big "Told you so!" kick out of that. There have been occasions when some pleasant bit of chitchat in the Chatt took an abrupt and nasty turn (in which I found myself responding, "Actually, I don't have a church," or "Actually, it's not cool to say that you 'Got jewed'.") Allowing for a reasonable level of self-expression, I'd rather that believers keep their views to themselves, but when it comes to racism, I just don't know. Is it better for people to be mask their bigotry in polite terms? I had a very typical SE Michigan conversation the other day, during which a woman told me how she had to move her family out of an inner ring suburb because "the neighborhood had changed". She didn't explicitly say that black people had scared her away, but that's exactly what she meant. I got that familiar "Oh, boy. Here we go," feeling and made my social escape as quickly as possible.

Of course, one's feelings about polite racism have everything to do with one's race, so I'm not going to suggest that impolite racism is the same or better. I will say that from my point of view, racist people everywhere make assumptions about my beliefs and it's annoying. Blunt southern racism is shocking, but the sentiment is nothing new to me.

When people ask me if I'm enjoying Chattanooga, my usual response is something like, "Sure." I guess it rates about a 7. I love the mountains and vistas the most. I miss being close to a big city. In some ways, this new-town experience reminds me of being in my twenties. The overarching theme of that decade seemed to be, "I don't always know what I want, but I'm figuring out what I don't want." I guess that sounds a bit bleak but I don't see it that way. When we first moved to Chattanooga, I was desperate for it to be our Forever Place because I couldn't stand the thought of packing another truck. Fortunately, the memory of the move is fading and I know I can do it again and even again, if necessary. Being a nomad feels weird but it isn't necessarily bad, especially if it makes me hungry for more world. In the meantime, there is more Scenic City exploring to be done.

Conscientious Consumption: The Year in Review

2010-12-08T09:29:00.005-05:00

Three months of wrangling later, I have finally received my union-made-in-America, bright green sweatpants. The original pair arrived in October with a two inch slit in the inseam. After much back-and-forth communication between me, the internet store and the manufacturer, I now own a pristine pair of pants, just in time for holiday festivity. Seriously, these sweats are really green.

The long awaited arrival also timed well with my decreasing patience. Most people would have demanded a refund weeks ago, but my special balance of understanding and laziness made me wait. I didn’t need the thirty bucks as much as I needed a pair of sweatpants, but I could have spent less on instant gratification if I had just sucked up my resolve and bought a pair that was made in a sweatshop. I had to ask myself why I was making this purchase so difficult for myself because I have bought other sweatshop-made goods this year (recent purchases include a stopwatch and an off-brand X-acto knife). This got me thinking about my 2010 resolution to buy my clothing second-hand or sweatshop-free. Why clothing? Why not all things? Does this decision make any difference? Why bother at all?

I’ll start by backtracking to the resolution itself. It all began when I read a Harper’s article entitled "Shopping for Sweat: The Human Price of a $2 T-shirt". I won’t get into that too much, as I already blogged about it in this post. In short, I was struck by two fairly apparent ideas that I had managed to ignore for many years: 1) Sweatshops are unjust and unsustainable workplaces (meaning that no person with any means will put up with those conditions forever) and 2) People in this country used to make the things that we now get from sweatshops, and it sucks that those jobs are disappearing. The second point is just as important as the first. I feel yucky buying sweatshop clothing because of the conditions in which those items were made, but I also feel yucky knowing that I could have supported our dwindling manufacturing industry.

So, I’ve made a conscious effort to buy all things sweatshop-free. I sometimes pay a bit more for my purchases. Mostly, I spend more time shopping because I’m checking all the labels. But I’ve been surprised to discover how many things are made in the USA. I’ve been able to find notebooks, pet toys, a cooler. It seems that usually there are three Made in China options for every one Made in the USA, but that just makes choosing easier (and when it comes to the dreaded shopping task, I’m all about “easier”). As mentioned above, I have failed from time to time. The knife is a good example – it was the only choice available at the Target where I was shopping. I needed it right away. I didn’t want to invest hours researching other options online, so I bought it. That’s the essence of the exception – if I need it soon and there’s no other choice, I may buy the sweatshop–made product.

I’m less likely to make exceptions for apparel, for a few reasons. First, I rarely find myself in a situation where I need an item of clothing right quick (except with weddings – the last one I attended led to the indiscretions described in this post). I can take the time to find alternatives. Second, I tend to buy most of my clothing second-hand, and while many of those items were undoubtedly produced in sweatshops, I also appreciate the value of reusing. But I think the biggest reason that I avoid purchasing new sweatshop-made apparel is that it is so pervasive. That seems backwards, I know. It’s the toughest goal to meet because almost all clothing is made in third world sweatshops, not to mention that clothing is a basic human need. I guess that the preponderance of sweatshop-made apparel bugs me because it represents a common, shoulder-shrugging acceptance of everyday injustice, and that just makes me mad. So, I’ve sought alternatives. I know that not everyone has the time, money or other resources to pursue those alternatives, but some of you do. Please consider this when shopping.

I guess that all thoughtful people have their pet causes. An elderly friend of mine thinks that anyone who isn’t primarily concerned about nuclear disarmament is an idiot, and I certainly see his point. I’ve also been told that my particular way of approaching the problem of sweatshops is ineffective, which may be true. The few dollars I spend or don’t spend won’t make any more difference than a blog post that will be read by (maybe) ten people. My resolve doesn’t rest upon my ability to change other people. I’m just trying to do the right thing. And barring any exciting news or developments related to this topic, I think that is all I have to say about it.

Abdominal Muscle Building and Other Lessons in Humility

2010-12-03T11:59:00.005-05:00

When it comes to physical fitness, I guess I'm sort of like a baby - a rusty, aged baby. I've never been "good" at fitness, but I've also been lucky to avoid any serious, long-term-impact maladies. My personal trainer, a young man named T, seemed surprised that I signed up for his services without some dire impetus, like an injury or an illness. "No allergies, never broke any bones, nothing I need to know about?" he asked.

"Nope."

"So you're perfect?"

Ha! Sure, except for the fact that I have no aptitude for these workouts. I never played sports as a child (this culture of music lessons and team sports and other after-school activities just wasn't a thing when I was a kid; most of the children I knew just watched TV and played with toys). I went through the minimal motions in gym class and my harried teachers did their best to encourage a greater effort in me, but I was stubborn. I was sure that if I couldn't get a certain exercise right the first time that I would never succeed, so I never tried. The academic part of school was so easy for me, I didn't understand that trying is an essential part of learning.

As a thirty three year old woman struggling to get through basic activities like balancing on one leg while side-stretching the other, I've gained a new perspective on those old school days. Now I see that I viewed school more as an arena for recognition than an institute for learning. I just wanted other people to think I was smart and to reward me for it. That attitude carried me through high school (though my know-it-all indifference earned me some pretty awful grades during the last two years) and community college, until I hit a humbling wall called The University of Michigan. All "hail to the victors" obnoxiousness aside, few can succeed at UM without concentrated effort.

I don't regret dropping out of UM, but I do regret the attitude that set me up to fail. Fortunately, I'm not big on regrets. All I can do now is be a better person, and try. It isn't easy on my ego. I mostly enjoy my sessions with T, but this past Monday nearly took me to my limit. I know I looked like a complete ass, trying to do this exercise with my sweaty t-shirt riding up my back while my flabby belly dangled over my pants -

The worst was trying to do stomach crunches on a weight lifting bench. I couldn't even master the at-rest form, much less the crunch itself. I'm always a little embarrassed when T counts my sad and mangled attempts as legitimate reps, but what else can we do? Only through much diligent "wrong" will I ever get these things right.

I find some satisfaction in the torn-muscle pain that I feel later. I must be doing something useful for my body if my belly hurts when I cough. Sometimes it's just so hard to imagine that I will ever be able to do a proper crunch or push-up, but I know that I can and eventually will. Honestly, I've never worked so hard to be good at something for which I have no talent... yet. I must remember to always give myself the benefit of a "yet".

A Non-Prescriptive Kitchen Philosophy

2010-11-23T11:00:00.010-05:00

I enjoy being thrifty almost as much as I love eating*, so I spend a great deal of time planning and cooking meals at home. I know my lifestyle wouldn't work for everyone - it's a big time investment - but it's how I like to roll. I figure most people are sick of hearing how they could eat better; I certainly don't wish to contribute to that noise. But in honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I would document a bit of my ongoing internal dialog regarding food, for whatever it's worth to you. It's a fun exercise, and I'm curious to hear some of your ideas, too.

The following are a list of rules to myself regarding kitchen and diet management ~

Don't throw away any edible food Plan to use all the food you buy. If something is about to expire, eat it. Freeze leftovers that you are sick of eating (especially soup). Freeze vegetable scraps and use for stock. Save bacon fat and use for fun.

Eating more is no cure for eating poorly Following half a pizza with a salad does not make you healthier.

Never buy prepackaged spices Go to the hippie grocery store and buy it bulk. You don't need to be spending four bucks on a glass jar.

Seek creative uses for canned tuna Two servings of lean meat for under $1.50 is an unbeatable deal. Take advantage of it.

Cook large quantities of stock and bean regularly Canned stock and beans are cheap, but home-cooked stock and beans are even cheaper and usually taste better. Make a bunch at once, portion into small containers and freeze. Do it on a day when you're sticking around the house anyway. The entire project may take several hours, but not that much attention.

Save all disposable plastic containers This includes baggies, old sour cream tubs, and any Ziploc containers that your friends happen to leave at your house. Horde that shit. You can never have enough and you shouldn't have to pay extra for it.

Don't assume that leafy vegetable greens are garbage This recipe for radish greens soup, for example, is fantastic.

Experiment with producing homemade versions of foods that you usually buy processed This includes items like crackers, refried beans, mayonnaise, vinaigrette and ginger ale. Making it yourself may not always be your first choice, but it's enormously satisfying (especially if you make it taste better than the processed version).

Find recipes that fit your pantry (not the other way around) If a recipe requires more than two ingredients that you rarely use, then simplify, substitute or move on. Don't make special trips to the grocery store. Good flavor needn't require obscure ingredients.

Eating out is the funnest use of disposable income, but you will be disappointed if you could have made a better tasting version of that dish at home And that's why you quit The Fleetwood Diner long before you quit Ann Arbor.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!

* In fact, pretty much all of these ideas come from Mark Bittman's "How to Cook Everything" and Amy Dacyczyn's "Tightwad Gazette".

Cheese, a Good Pain, and the Horizon

2010-11-12T11:31:00.004-05:00

Saturday was a dark day. After spending too many hours on Facebook, I saw that my friend M had linked to this New York Times article entitled "While Warning About Fat, U.S. Pushes Cheese Sales". I don't know why I clicked it, as I suspected it would say terrible things about my good friend cheese; maybe it was because I had already sucked that day's entertainment value out of Facebook (which, more and more, felt like a substitute for the friends I haven't made in Chattanooga).

Anyway, I found the first several paragraphs quite alarming ~

Domino’s Pizza was hurting early last year. Domestic sales had fallen, and a survey of big pizza chain customers left the company tied for the worst tasting pies.

Then help arrived from an organization called Dairy Management. It teamed up with Domino’s to develop a new line of pizzas with 40 percent more cheese, and proceeded to devise and pay for a $12 million marketing campaign.

Consumers devoured the cheesier pizza, and sales soared by double digits... But as healthy as this pizza has been for Domino’s, one slice contains as much as two-thirds of a day’s maximum recommended amount of saturated fat, which has been linked to heart disease and is high in calories.

And Dairy Management, which has made cheese its cause, is not a private business consultant. It is a marketing creation of the United States Department of Agriculture — the same agency at the center of a federal anti-obesity drive that discourages over-consumption of some of the very foods Dairy Management is vigorously promoting.

Urged on by government warnings about saturated fat, Americans have been moving toward low-fat milk for decades, leaving a surplus of whole milk and milk fat. Yet the government, through Dairy Management, is engaged in an effort to find ways to get dairy back into Americans’ diets, primarily through cheese.

Americans now eat an average of 33 pounds of cheese a year, nearly triple the 1970 rate.

No one likes to think that they're a dupe for "the man" but I clearly am. I considered the last four cheese-laden meals I'd consumed, and why ~

Cheese pizza with crumbled sausage - Duh, it's pizza. I'm not eating pizza without cheese

Bagel with cream cheese and lox - Okay, maybe I would eat a buttered bagel, but there was lox. I'm not eating a bagel and lox without cream cheese

Turkey meatloaf with cheddar cheese, with a cheddar corn muffin on the side - I guess corn muffins and meat loaf don't have to have cheese, but cheese makes it so much better!

Welsh rarebit - It's cold outside

It happens that lately I've been extra concerned about my gut, especially when I catch the least flattering view of it in the mirror. I don't feel unattractive but my current shape isn't my ideal. I could blame it on so many things - my love of nearly all food (excluding only hot dogs and sugary junk foods in the style of Hostess or Little Debbie), a general decrease in physical activity since moving to Chattanooga, beer. I certainly knew that cheese accounted for some of my girth, but might my favorite of all foods make up the bulk of it?

I sighed at the thought of a new food rule. I'm not opposed to lifestyle changes. In the spring and early summer I worked out four hours a week and ate way less fried food, red meat and pork. The frustrating thing is that it doesn't make much difference in terms of my weight. Sure, I felt better when I lived that way, but I wasn't any smaller. The rewards just didn't match the work and sacrifice that went into that lifestyle, which makes laziness and indulgence more attractive options. Would I really subject myself to new cheese parameters? Could I really make it last beyond Thanksgiving?

In considering ways to limit my cheese consumption, I became dejected. At least I could be grateful that last Friday, I accidentally answered my phone and spoke to a trainer from my gym. Her name was C and she was calling about my freebie training session that I had yet to redeem. We decided to meet on Tuesday morning. The anticipation of this workout made me feel a little better on Monday afternoon, when my friend S and I ordered a bowl of cheese dip at the pub down the road.

When I got to the gym on Tuesday, I found C to be a very serious and very fit young woman with smart eyes and a razor sharp glance. She had me complete a form that asked questions about my weight, my desired weight, the parts of my body I wanted to work on, etc. Then she handed me a small electronic device that looked like something a Star Trek doctor would use.

"This is to check your body fat percentage. Have you used one of these before?"

"Um, not since elementary school and it was one of those creepy scissor-like thingies."

"Oh, with the pinchers?" She smiled, which seemed out of the ordinary, which made me proud. "Yeah, those were weird." She demonstrated how to use the device and handed it to me. "The bottom number is your BMI, but I'm not paying attention to that. We're just going to look at the top number. That's your body fat percentage."

It wasn't pretty. Turns out, I am over 1/3 fat.

We sat down and she looked at my form. She wrote down the percentage next to the columns where I had listed my current and desired weights, which she covered with her hand. "We're not going to look at those numbers. We're only going to look at this percentage. You really need to be here," she said as she scrawled "21% - 23%". I appreciated her discretion, but not as much as her honesty.

We talked a bit about the kind of workout I've been doing, which is almost all cardio. "That's the problem," she said as she drew a triangle. "Building muscle tissue has to be the foundation." She wrote that at the bottom of the triangle. "On top of that you have cardio activity. At the top of the pyramid, you have food and diet. But I'm not going to tell you how to eat."

"Yeeeeeesssss!" I said with a gleeful arm pump. Hello, cheese!

She smiled as if she really wanted to roll her eyes. "You know how you should be eating." Then she launched into the most articulate, informative explanation about why it's important to build muscle tissue and approach weight training holistically (as opposed to focusing on one region of the body), and how this can be done effectively. I'm not going to repeat everything she said, because I would probably say it all wrong, but let's just say that for the first time I got it. Sure, I've heard that it's important to build muscle if you're trying to lose weight, but I always found the message vague, and it got lost in the midst of those thousand-and-one other vague messages we hear every day about fitness and health. Most importantly, C focused on the lifelong benefits of muscular fitness (so you don't wear out your joints, so you can lift things when you're old, so you can increase your metabolism), which really got to the heart of my belly fears. As she said herself, it isn't about getting skinny - after all, muscle weighs more than fat. It's about health.

Then she had me work out. I began with five minutes of cardio - easy enough. Then came the regimen that has left me sore in places I've never felt before. It hurts to sneeze, and I know that comes from all that core-building stuff she had me do with a strange object that looks like this

I was honestly stunned by my capabilities. I didn't know I could use my gut, forearms and tippy toes to support the length of my body. I pushed myself in a way that I never have before and I didn't even care if I looked weird while I was doing it (even when I rolled over on my side doing that forearm thing). The sometimes painful exertion felt good.

She had me work out for a half hour. Then came the hard sell. "Have you ever considered a personal training program?"

In my winded state, I couldn't help being honest. "No."

A bitter smile. "And why not?"

Because that's something movie stars do was what I was thinking, but I said, "I guess I just never thought I could afford it."

She offered the customary sales pitch, broken down into my various options - I spend a little less per session if I sign up for more sessions per month, and I'll get a great deal if I sign up immediately. If I could afford it, I would have signed up for weekly sessions right then, but I knew I needed to think about it and look at my budget.

Perhaps misinterpreting my hesitation for a lack of interest, C said something that I would have chalked up to a down and dirty sales tactic if it weren't so obviously true. "You can't do this alone."

Doing it alone is always my first inclination, but then I remembered those weak solo attempts to improve my mental health before I got into therapy. Just as deep breathing is no replacement for a shrink, I doubt that even the most extensive internet research is a replacement for an educated physical trainer.

So, I'm gonna do it. Two sessions a month. I'm geeked. This seems like the perfect next step after many years of therapy (from which I finally "graduated" in July - hooray!!). I'm ready to make some dietary changes too but this decision feels like the revolution. I also find it exciting, because even though it really sucked to learn that I'm over 1/3 fat, I finally feel thrust into this new life in Chatttanooga. Something about the fall weather and the mild loneliness has made me incredibly nostalgic and I find myself too often on Facebook, or daydreaming about my December trip to Michigan. Now, me and my belly have a new thing, and it's focused on progress.

My Little Bit to Restore Sanity

2010-11-01T10:58:00.004-04:00

My main motivations for attending The Rally to Restore Sanity were these ~

1) To visit Washington D.C. and particularly the National Gallery of Art, which is my favorite museum.

2) To see our friend J, who had already booked a hotel room in Dupont Circle

3) I like Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert

Nevertheless, I had misgivings. My impression was that it was being marketed as an event for politically moderate people, which I am not. And for that matter, I don't think Jon Stewart is, either. So I found that angle disingenuous.

Actually, it turned out that this rally and especially Stewart's keynote speech got to the heart of some ideas that have been on my mind since the 2008 election. But before I get into that, let me take a minute to talk about why I have a lot of respect for Jon Stewart.

I almost never watch The Daily Show. I used to watch it every night (especially in 2004, 'cause that was one hell of an election year), but I haven't had cable much in the last six years. Still, I think Stewart has more journalistic integrity than anyone associated with cable news. He is obviously liberal, but he isn't a pundit. In his entertaining fashion, he encourages viewers to analyze politics and the news media that inform them. This is an anti-pundit approach. Pundits, conservative and liberal, make their fortune and their celebrity from preaching opinions to the choir about things that generally don't matter. I'm sick of all of them, even the "good" ones like Bill Maher who happen to be on my end of the spectrum. I don't care that ten years ago Christine O'Donnell talked about experimenting with watered down Wicca in high school, but now that matters. I appreciate Jon Stewart because instead of advocating for sides, he advocates for reason. He transcends the fights that don't matter and reminds us that we should do the same.

I don't know why I should be so surprised that this philosophy shaped the rally, but I was. I guess that's because no one knew exactly what to expect. I went to an anti-war rally at the Mall in January of 2007, but I don't recall any of the speakers or events. It was more like a powwow of like-minded individuals. From the moment we arrived at the Mall around 9am on Saturday morning, the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear (renamed after Stewart and faux pundit Stephen Colbert joined their two events) felt more like a music festival. Three hours before showtime, the throngs were moving toward the main stage, staking out their seats. Dan, J and I got a bite to eat at one of the museums and then J went with his brother to grab a seat near the second set of big screen monitors. Meanwhile, Dan and I made a quick visit to the National Gallery. When we emerged 30 minutes later, the crowd in the mall had doubled in size. We squeezed our way into a spot near our friends' general location, and that's where we stood for the next four hours.

Within thirty minutes, the crowd around us was so thick that I couldn't see an empty space anywhere. Luckily it was a gorgeous, sunny autumn day, just chilly enough so that the warmth of all those tens of thousands of bodies wasn't stifling. Another thirty minutes later, The Roots took the stage and kicked off a set with John Legend. Then the Mythbuster dudes came out to do some symphonic experiments with the audience (this was mostly lame, but I will say that when 150,000 or so people make a thumb-popping-cheek sound at the same time, it's pretty cool). At 1pm, Stewart and Colbert took the stage and commenced a truly entertaining series of events. For me, the highlights were:

1) When Stewart brought out Yusuf (the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens) to sing "Peace Train", which Colbert countered by bringing out Ozzy to sing "Crazy Train". After a lot of theatrical bickering between the two hosts, Yusuf and Ozzy bolted. Then the O'Jays came out and sang "Love Train".

2) The awards portion - Stewart gave awards to public figures who have demonstrated calm and reason while Colbert awarded public figures who promote fear. Stewart first honored Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga, who didn't freak out and throw a justifiable tantrum after umpire Jim Joyce made a bad call that ruined his perfect game. I admit, when they showed Galarraga's videotaped acceptance speech, I was verklempt.

3) Random celebrity appearances, such as Sam Waterston's reading of Colbert's fear poem. Kareem Abdul Jabbar appeared onstage at one point to remind Colbert that he is, in fact, a Muslim.

It wasn't a thoroughly excellent show. When Kid Rock came on stage, Dan said, "Okay, let's go." I think he would have insisted if it wasn't so incredibly difficult to move through the crowd. So we suffered through it, which was ultimately a good thing because Stewart's keynote speech toward the end of the rally was well worth the wait.

The gist of the speech was that, despite our differences, and the divisive practices of our leaders and our news media, it is possible for Americans to work together to fix our problems. I think Stewart's most persuasive argument was when he used an aerial video image of gridlock traffic merging on a freeway. He pointed to each car and made up some demographic information about each driver - gay investment banker, mother of two small children, white baptist plumber, etc. He noted how almost every car moved in an orderly fashion to make it work - "You go, then I go. You go, then I go." It's a good, everyday example of random, disparate people making sacrifices to improve a difficult situation. But my favorite statement, the words that have been ringing through my head since Saturday, was when Stewart said (as best as I can remember), "And occasionally there's a person who drives along the shoulder and cuts in front of everyone else, but that person is rare, and they are scorned and they aren't hired as an analyst."

That inspired me. Not only does it validate my frustration with punditry, it also lines up with my feelings about politeness and civility. For all of my leftist political values, in my day to day life I just want everyone to get along. And I don't mean that in a super deep, Rodney King kind of way (but please know I'm not making fun of him; he, too should be awarded for profound calm and reason in response to a terrible situation). I don't like dramatic family situations, workplaces, or encounters with strangers. I prefer calm and not worrying about the little stuff, which is more apt to happen when social groups are focused on getting along. That takes a lot of thoughtful consideration and sacrifice, but sometimes it really can work.

It worked when we were leaving the rally. We spent over an hour just getting out of the Mall. The human gridlock was almost overwhelming at some points, when no one was moving and my body was sore from lack of food and standing still for four hours. I'm sure everyone was exhausted, but of the hundreds of people I personally encountered, not a single one freaked out or acted like a jerk in any way.

We left town shortly after returning to the hotel room. I heard a bit about the rally on the radio as we were heading down I-395 (mostly about how the city had not properly prepared for the crowds), but we were on the road and with family most of the time until today. I made a point of not reading anything about the rally before I wrote this, because I didn't want this to be a reaction to anything other than what I experienced. I don't know how to sum it up better than this: for a brief moment, a Frank Capra vision of the world became real and I hope I never forget that feeling.

A Kind of Racism I'm Not Used To

2010-10-29T07:48:00.004-04:00

It was such an auspicious start to an ultimately unpleasant experience. Right after we moved here, Dan spotted the pet store in that sleepy little business district about a mile east of downtown Chattanooga. We finally made time on a beautiful autumn Saturday to drop by and perhaps get a couple toys for our dog and cat. Pulling up to the storefront, we realized that we couldn't park on the road, so Dan turned down the next side street, hoping to find a lot in the back. As he made the turn, I noticed a consignment shop on the corner.

"Consignment shop - sweet! Can we stop by there for a minute, after the pet store?"

"Oh, sure," Dan said as he pulled into parking lot. "Wow, look at how cute this is."

It was cute. Beyond the back end of the consignment shop, a half flight of stairs led down to a narrow, brick-paved dugout behind the neighboring row of brightly painted storefronts. We got out of the car and headed for the pet store entrance. Immediately outside the door, at the end of the dugout, we saw a couple dudes lounging at a wrought iron table. A small, hyperactive black dog greeted us.

I laughed as the dog tried to tackle my leg. "What kind of dog is he?"

One of the dudes stood up and said, "Miniature schnauzer. He's just nine months old."

We cooed over the puppy for a bit. Dan reached for the door handle. "Okay if he gets inside?"

"Sure, he owns the place."

We laughed as we stepped through the door. The store, like it's canine owner, was absolutely adorable. It felt like an old timey general store, but with a pet focus. A long aisle leading to the streetside entrance was flanked with racks of colorful dog and cat toys, sundry pet motif toys for humans (I think that was the stuff the owner called "boutique items"), in addition to a few practical things, like food and beds.

The owner brought our attention to a sealed, white paper bag on the counter. "You get a complimentary bag of biscuits on your first visit. We bake all of the biscuits here." That was when I noticed a small kitchen behind the counter. It was very homey, adorned with dog themed hand towels and other bric-a-brac.

We thanked the owner and then set about spending some money at his lovely establishment. Dan had his eye on a new bed for Dulce, but I convinced him to wait until after payday. He assented, but added, "We should definitely get her new bed here. I really like this place."

We settled on our purchases, which included several pet toys and a pair of "I Love Dogs" socks that Dan selected for me. As the owner rang up the order, I noticed a sign on the counter that said, "Is your dog afraid of thunderstorms? Ask us for free advice." Could this place get any cuter?

Our purchases in hand, I thought of the consignment shop and recalled that, unlike the other businesses on the block, it didn't appear to have a rear entrance. I turned to Dan and said, "I think we should go out the front."

Dan turned to the owner. "Is that front door open?" The man looked confused. "Can we go out that way?"

I added, "We want to go to the consignment shop, but they don't have a door in the back, do they?"

The owner walked around the counter. "I'll let you out front. I keep that door locked. But let me tell you something." Looking me straight in the eye, he said to me, in all seriousness, "That store is owned by black people. They're into the crushed velvet and sequins. You're just going to walk out empty-handed."

Boing! I sort of laughed and gasped simultaneously. Dan looked at me, and then the owner, and smiled as he said, "Maybe she likes crushed velvet and sequins."

I added, "Yeah, I just want to check it out."

He persisted. "You're really not going to find anything there, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. You should go to the consignment shop on the north side of town." Chattanooga's north side is notoriously yuppie/liberal; the locals often tell us that we belong there, for one reason or another. "They have a much bigger and better selection. You'll just be wasting your time at this place."

I guess he sensed that we were going to ignore his advice, so he eventually let us out the front door. Dan and I had a very spirited fifteen second discussion on the way to the consignment shop, which by the way, happened to be lovely. It isn't the kind of place where you find splashy, loud, vintage-y stuff (as a matter of fact, I visited one of those places on Friday; I most definitely walked out of there empty-handed, though with many fond recollections of an era when I could dress like Marcia Brady and actually look cool). Rather, this shop was the kind of place where money-minded, middle aged women sell their old Ann Taylor goods to money-minded women in their 30s (like me) who want quality, solid-colored, mostly natural fiber apparel. It was clean, the clothes were organized by size, and they had fitting rooms. They did not, however, appear to have any items made of either crushed velvet or sequins, which was kind of a letdown.

Nevertheless, I walked out with a navy blue shirt and a red sweater, for a total price of $10.93. Let's just say that I know which store I'll be visiting again. And with my combined purchases, I can now rock this ensemble:

Take that, weird dude. Thanks for creeping up my day. See you never.

Metroplex Reflections

2010-10-24T13:37:00.000-04:00

* Whenever I leave Texas, I can't help feeling like I should actually be staying. It's a dreamy place, dotted with polite men who open doors with a flourish and a smile, and white-on-black night speed signs.

* Of course, I can only speak of the minuscule portion I've seen, which includes Houston, Austin and the Dallas/Arlington/Fort Worth Metroplex. Even if I had explored these cities thoroughly (which, of course, I haven't), that would constitute just 3.6% of Texas's 268,601 square miles.

* Last weekend saw my first visit to Dallas. So far, it is my favorite sprawled-out city where I don't want to live, easily beating Los Angeles and Atlanta. We had to drive at least forty five minutes to each destination, but traffic was never that bad. It appears that the sprawl is by choice rather than by necessity. Exit ramps stretch far from the ample freeways, like tentacles trying to grasp the insurmountable prairie. Ranch style buildings rest a long distance from the road. It seems that if there is one aesthetic rule that guides Dallas's inefficient urban plan, it is "don't distract from the sky". I have to admit, I find the vastness soothing.

* We visited the site of the Kennedy assassination, which appears to be the number one tourist attraction in Dallas proper. I find this morbid and strange. We stood across from the "grassy knoll" and watched as tourists snapped pictures at the X-marked spot in the middle of the road where the first shot hit JFK. They would take turns, pointing and shooting their cameras toward the infamous sixth floor window. That X is like a freakin' magnet. People just can't resist it. We saw a guy lazily wave away an oncoming pick-up truck as if he were shooing a pestering toddler. I have to wonder if any unmindful tourists have been killed by motorists in that very spot.

* As tourist attractions go, I personally prefer the Fort Worth Stockyards, a preserved "Old West" style neighborhood where they parade longhorns twice daily to maintain a sense of authenticity. We missed the cattle drive, but still had fun ogling cows and horses, wandering amongst the kitschy shops, and (my favorite) following the Texas Trail of Fame, which is just like the Hollywood Walk of Fame but refined to "honor those who have made a significant contribution to our Western way of life". Interestingly, one does not need to be a native Texan to be honored, as evidenced by this tribute to my favorite historic lady of the Midwest

The TToF has yet to recognize James Stewart, which I consider an enormous oversight. There is an open nomination process, which involves including "a description as to why the individual should be included along with a brief biography, references, family contact information and photographs." Yikes! This Trail of Fame is no joke.

* Being in the Metroplex (isn't that word stressful?) reminds me how much I miss being near a big city. Granted, Detroit's population has plummeted over the decades, but the metropolitan area is still home to four plus million sundry people. That means many restaurants and different styles of food. Statistically speaking, there are bound to be hundreds of quality eateries within a forty five minute drive of the city. Now, consider the fact that the Metroplex is home to about six and a half million people.

In short, we ate well. At length, this included Tex Mex, Chinese, Thai, Italian (prepared quite masterfully by an Armenian family), lots of little deep fried things, and prodigious amounts of beef, all of which were excellent. I simply cannot get this in my new home without driving at least two hours.

* On the way to meeting my father-in-law for happy hour on Monday, my mother-in-law pulled over by the ranch where the television show "Dallas" was filmed.

I said, "I went to a K through eight school and when I was a little kid, I remember the junior high marching band playing the 'Dallas' theme song."

She laughed, "Really? That's strange."

I started cracking up just thinking about it. Dan asked, "Wait, how does it go?" I hummed the first few bars and then he and his mother finished the tune in unison. It is an exceptionally good theme song. It more or less represents my complete image of the city, along with Larry Hagman in a cowboy hat.

The gates were closed, so we just gazed from the car windows. Dan joked, "Do you wanna get here early tomorrow for the tour before we hit the road?" Truly, I have no recollection of the TV show beyond the song, Larry Hagman and the certain feeling that Patrick Duffy was the morally and physically superior son. But it felt good to be there anyway. Staring across the expansive lawn, I noticed a slight incline along the side of the property, where the lush horizon blocked the sight of the adjacent road. All I could see beyond the grass and a couple trees was the broad, blue sky. It felt like looking at forever.

In Search of a Pregnancy Primer

2010-10-12T17:25:00.003-04:00

There are many womanly things I'm no good at, including the application of makeup, the doing of hair, and the knowledge of obscure terminal illnesses. That smart alecky statement might give the impression that I actually think I'm cool for being no good at these things, but that's just a cover-up. I know I'm a freak and I'm not particularly proud of it. I'm not particularly ashamed either, but I'm not proud.

Mostly, I just accept myself for who I am, but there is one lady category in which I am so ignorant that I think I may need a crash course: pregnancy. I'm thirty three years old. I've never had a kid. I want to make a baby soon. I think I'm almost mature enough to be a mom. My plan is to get my party on until the end of 2010 and then revisit my three year old new year's tradition of not drinking. But instead of abstaining until Valentine's Day, I will abstain until I have birthed a child. Oh, and I'll quit my BC pills (obviously). And I will give up coffee, because that's what I'm supposed to do... uh, right?

Okay, okay. I should give myself more credit. I know that I'm not supposed to drink coffee while I'm pregnant. But I think I'm supposed to give it up beforehand, too. Or at least I know someone who did that, but I'm not totally sure why and I didn't know her well enough to ask. This is my very problem. Most wannabe moms I know (especially those in the thirty or older crowd) are quite knowledgeable and purposeful in their pregnancy quests, and I still don't know anything about this stuff. I don't even know how I'm supposed to find out about it. I think that there are some books that I should be reading, but I don't know which ones.

To get myself started, I'm hoping I can track down R, a woman I've met only twice. R's husband K is the grandson of Dan's grandma's best friend. I first met this young couple two summers ago and though they cannot know it, they had a profound impact upon me at the time (you can read all about it in this ancient myspace blog post, in which I renamed them Frank and Karen). R and K are eight or nine years younger than me, but in some ways, far more mature. Both of them are very sensible and hardworking, strong of will and body. I was initially struck by their down-to-earth money management skills, so much that they inspired me to take a personal finance class that completely changed my life. If I had never seen them again I doubt I could forget the impression they made upon me. But when we were reunited a year later (they hosted us for a couple days after Dan presented at a conference in San Francisco), I was even further moved by the way they handled themselves as the parents of a baby boy. To this day I am especially in awe of mother R.

R is a pediatric nurse who has long wanted to become a midwife (at the time she had decided to put that goal on hold, as nursing and child-rearing were more than enough). She chose to have her son at a birth center under the care of a midwife, a decision that most of her colleagues considered completely nuts. Without getting into a lot of personal details, I will say that R made several decisions about her pregnancy and her child-rearing methods that are contrary to conventional medical wisdom, of which I know almost nothing. I did not know, for instance, that doctors warn mothers against sleeping next to their babies, because they may roll over and suffocate their kid. But R pointed out that on the rare occasions that happens, the mother is usually drunk or drugged. So, you know, use your common sense and don't sleep next to the baby if you're wasted. Or don't be a drunk mom.

R's general take on conventional prenatal and postnatal care is that it's so focused on prevention/caution/avoiding medical malpractice suits that it essentially encourages women to be freaked out and worried all the time. That can create other problems for new mothers and their children. Being a healthy, young and educated woman, she chose instead to live by this mantra - "It's going to be fine." She said that statement to me several times during our visit and she truly was the picture of serenity. And her baby? He was a dynamo! Hearty and strong, just like his parents, he was turning himself over at just four months. He smiled lots, too.

So, yeah, I admit it - I want to be a mom exactly like R, though I know that isn't physically possible. In lieu of that, I'm going to enlist my grandmother-in-law's help in tracking her down. I'm hoping that a quick email and a request for sources will get me off to a good start. I just have a feeling that R has some good ideas for an older lady like me, who feels pretty sure that despite her lack of knowledge, this baby-making endeavor is going to be fine.

Cry-miny

2010-09-29T15:19:00.006-04:00

My new gym is small and the machines are shabby, but they have this wonderful, tiny, low-lit room with two bikes, two ellipticals, a stair stepper, a muted flatscreen TV and a DVD player. Initially I was drawn to this room because the darkness and the unspoken agreement to remain silent combined to make it a perfectly antisocial workout space (also, I could avoid listening to terrible dance music while watching closed captioned Fox News in the larger workout room). At first I didn’t bother bringing headphones because I didn’t care what video was playing as it was usually a dumb action movie with a barely memorable title like "The Sum of All Fears". But then one day I noticed that some generous person left “Glee” Season 1 for all to enjoy. Now I’m totally addicted to it.

But that isn’t the point of this post. That’s just a lead in to the strange but increasingly typical experience I had two weeks ago. I was at the gym by myself. I had forgotten my headphones, but decided to watch closed captioned “Glee” anyway (shows you how great their writing is – I got hooked just reading the captions, which often made me laugh out loud). It was the episode when diva Rachel quits the glee club because she doesn’t get the solo she wants and Mr. Schuester replaces her with his former classmate, who is an older, alcoholic, high school drop-out played by Kristin Chenoweth. The story is about the drunk lady redeeming herself after years of screwing up and she hits her peak when she performs a kick-ass number in front of the whole school. But Mr. Schuester cans her immediately because she's still drunk and she’s been a bad influence on the kids (but she knows she should go, too, so there’s no hard feelings, in case you’re concerned). And just as Mr. Schuester is about to tell the audience that the glee club will not be able to perform their second number, a humbled Rachel asks if she can be let back into the club and offers to sing lead on their second song (which, of course, she already knows by heart, though we the audience don’t know what song it is). At first, the other kids are reluctant to let her back in because she’s been such an egotistical jerk but then Finn says they should because everyone deserves a second chance and that is, after all, the theme of the episode. So with the help of Rachel, the glee club takes the stage and belts out – oh, what could it be?!? – “Somebody to Love” by Queen. And I cried. I cried on the goddamn elliptical machine to an episode of “Glee” that I could not even hear.

This non-sad crying has happened often in the past several weeks. It's as if my emotions are amplified. Admittedly, my eyes have been historically prone to teary-ness, especially when I witness something beautiful, like the view from a nearby mountaintop, or triumphant, like when Dan's dissertation committee first referred to him as "Doctor". But actual, tears-running-down-my-face crying is something I used to control better.

I guess that now I'm in a new place, I don't feel the need to control it. A few weeks ago at work, an elderly woman and her middle aged daughter returned to the bakery after lunch because the mom had lost her amethyst ring. I brought it to her from the lost-and-found pile, and she just sighed and began sobbing. Then she told me that her late husband had given it to her on their first anniversary. Then I started crying and it was a glasses day, so I had to shove a napkin under my spectacles to wipe away my tears. She kept offering to reward me and I kept saying, "No, no. I'm just glad you came back for it." And she kept crying and I kept crying. Then I helped the next guy in line who said some dopey, sexist thing like, "It must be a chick thing," because apparently we were making him uncomfortable. But I really didn't care. I just went about my work and a few minutes later my face was dry again.

Perhaps now that I am almost completely surrounded by strangers, I feel free to be as gushy as I please. Okay, when "Glee" makes me cry at the gym (yeah, it's happened more than once, but only one time when I couldn't hear it), I get a little embarrassed, but at least there I can pretend it's sweat. I have sad-cried a couple times since we moved here, out of loneliness, or because I dreaded going to work (more about that some other time). But generally I either feel excited about the future or a present sense of exhilaration. So I've decided that I'm not going to worry about my amplified emotions. I'm going to go with the flow of my eye brine.

In closing, I would like to share an artistic masterpiece that always makes me cry. It is Otis Redding performing "Try a Little Tenderness" the night before his tragic passing. I still can't get over the fact that he was only twenty six years old. He seems like the kind of guy who lived as if each day might be his last.

Conscientious Consumption: Shifting the Focus

2010-09-22T14:40:00.004-04:00

I'm over nine months into my new year's vow to not purchase sweatshop-made apparel and I guess I'm doing a pretty good job. Other than a couple of regrettable Target trips in the spring, I've stuck to my goal. I attribute my success to minimal consumption and maintaining an old and increasingly threadbare wardrobe. Honestly, this doesn't represent much of a change from last year, but it feels different because I'm being cheap and lazy for a cause.

However, a recent bump in our household income, coupled with Dan's bulky once-a-month paychecks, has led me to another solution - online shopping!! I used to think, "Oh, I don't want to buy clothes online. I would hate to have it sent here just to discover that it doesn't fit. I would much rather try on clothes at a store." But it turns out that's just nonsense. I was so poor until a couple months ago that I never seemed to have enough money at one time to make online shopping doable (American-made clothing is more expensive - that's part of the challenge). Now that I'm not poor and I have access to lots of cash at the beginning of the month, I find I'm an enormous fan of e-commerce . As for that "I must try it on" business, I actually hate the physical act of shopping. I would rather wait an extra two weeks for a pair of pants that actually fit than spend two hours trying on pants at the mall.

But my favorite thing about online shopping is that I can find sweatshop-free, even union-made apparel, which I can never find at the mall. Recent purchases include a sports bra, a regular bra, a tank top, a black dress and a pair of sweatpants. I haven't received the sweats yet, but I've found my other purchases to be sturdy and attractive (well, the sports bra is probably more functionally than aesthetically pleasing, but I like it). All of this cost me about $150. I don't know how that sounds to you, but that's an astronomical amount of money for me to spend on clothing.

But then I consider the amount of money I spend on food - not just my fancy, yuppie groceries but also going out to eat. Without getting into the nitty gritty of my personal finances, let's just say that I can blow through $150 worth of food-related purchases pretty swiftly, not even including Dan's half. And once I buy that food, I consume it much faster than I wear out my clothing. In light of that, $150 for items that will last me months if not years... it really isn't so extravagant. So why does that dollar amount seem like such a big deal?

This notion has been on my mind for months, but I've been thinking about it more since I read this excellent blog post by a University of Michigan graduate student. In it, she talks about the supposed "virtues" of foodie fetishism, the sense of moral superiority that comes from buying local, organic and natural foods. She suggests that

eating “better” isn’t driven by evidence-based beliefs about what’s really healthier, more sustainable, more humane, or even better-tasting—which are often conflicting ideals anyhow. The main appeal of natural, organic, local, yadda yadda food is a deep, often inchoate, feeling that it’s superior, which precedes and trumps reason or any objective weighing of the evidence. I think what reinforces that feeling of superiority most is the experience of sacrifice, which channels good old-fashioned Protestant Work Ethic values like the satisfactions of hard work and delaying immediate gratification.

I have to admit that this describes me pretty well. I take some pride in the sacrifices I've made to eat "better" (spending more on locally grown and organic foods, cooking for myself instead of using processed foods, practically eliminating high fructose corn syrup from my diet, etc.), yet I don't know enough about agriculture or industrial processes to say for certain that my food choices are actually more sustainable or healthful. I've taken for granted that my thoroughly considered and pricey purchases are not only "better" but also "important" for me, for my community, for the rest of the world. Given that, I found this part of her essay truly dispiriting -

I first started thinking about this at a roundtable on “Food Politics, Sustainability and Citizenship” at the 2008 Annual Meeting of the American Studies Association. The panelists acknowledged that local, organic, and/or “natural” foods were not always objectively superior in the ways people want to think they are—they often require more energy to produce and transport even if they have a much shorter distance to travel, there’s no consensus on whether or not they’re healthier than the conventional, processed alternatives, and they are often labor-intensive and rely on child labor, unpaid interns, and the willingness of farmers to self-exploit. In short, they admitted that “bad” industrial food is often more sustainable, just as healthy, and possibly sometimes more ethical. But they all insisted that regardless of its real impact, what was more important was that consumers of local and organic foods were “trying.”

I admit to being completely naive of such arguments, a testament to how well I've been brainwashed. Thinking about this in the context of my new year's resolution reminds me of my favorite Gloria Steinham quote - "The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off." The notion that I may have been wasting too much time making conscientious decisions about food consumption isn't what's pissing me off. What really pisses me off is that I've spent so much time making decisions about one form of conscientious consumption at the expense of other obvious concerns, which leads me to this question: how can so many of my acquaintance care so deeply about where and how their food is grown yet have little or no concern regarding where and how their clothes or their cell phones or their kids' toys were made?

I know countless individuals who wouldn't be caught dead with a can of Spaghetti-o's in their hand, yet who are totally happy to boil their organic, gluten-free pasta in a pot that says "Made in China" on the bottom. I know because I've been one of those people for years. What are we thinking? How can we be so preoccupied with our culinary carbon footprint without considering the fact that most of our non-edible material goods are being shipped from the other side of the world. Michael Pollan and his ilk say that the cost of food has cheapened with the quality, that we should pay more to eat better because, after all, we used to pay more when dear old grandma was cooking dinner. But isn't the same thing true of all stuff? Why should this only matter when it comes to food?

I have a theory. I think that part of the appeal of the Food Revolution is the lure of "returning" to an agricultural utopia. I guess the idea of verdant trees and bountiful crops is a lot sexier than factories and industrial labor. I get that. But factories are what built my hometown, and I don't think urban farming is going to bring that town back to what it used to be.

I'm not trying to pit one cause against another. Nor am I ready to abandon certain food snob standards, like avoiding processed foods and h.f. corn syrup. I just think that those of us who care about sustainability regarding the things we put inside our bodies should also consider the ethics related to what we drape upon our bodies. Really, this rule should apply to everything, from notebooks to dog toys to ice cube bins (this is not a completely random sample - I have found "Made in the USA" versions of all these items). I know it isn't reasonable to expect everyone to buy everything sweatshop-free, but I'm pretty sure that a widespread effort at "trying" could lead to some positive changes both here in the US and abroad.

Losing My (Mind Over) Religion

2010-09-13T17:24:00.006-04:00

This morning, out of nowhere, my coworker asked me, "You're not, like, super religious, are you?"

I answered as any good, ex-Catholic atheist would. "Oh, god no!"

She exhaled deeply, as though relieved. "I didn't think so. Gabe thinks you are."

All day, I've been wondering why my 21 year old boss would make such an assumption. The best reasons I can muster are these: that he finds me "oddly" nice for a Yankee (he told me so), and that I don't wear makeup. There was a time and a place when such qualities made people think I was a "hippie" and I thought that was the most offensive assumption anyone could make about me.

Since moving to the south, I've had religion on the brain almost all the time. Certainly, part of it comes from arriving at the bible belt. Here, the question isn't "Are you Christian?" The question is "How Christian are you?" (I think the local "most Christian" award goes to the dude who keeps dropping bibles and religious tracts in Dan's public school lounge.) Also, our southward move coincides with the recent rise of anti-Muslim sentiment around the globe, though it seems especially concentrated here in the US. I haven't much to say on that subject that hasn't been stated more eloquently, but I'm going to offer my few cents anyway.

Again, I am an atheist. I think most religions are pretty bizarre to the same degree, though I admit to finding Mormonism especially weird (because I used to believe in god, and I figure that 2,000 years of groupthink can be pretty convincing; 150 years, are you kidding me?). Nevertheless, I respect the fact that others - including many of my favorite people - believe in god. I don't agree with them, but I don't think they're dumb for having their faith (and I know atheists who do). Mostly, I just try to mind my own business. I believe that this life is probably all I have. I'm not going to waste it with a lot of arguing and hurt feelings about the unknown.

Again, I don't think Islam is better or worse than any other religion - like I said, they're all pretty weird to me - but this spate of anti-Muslim rage and the accompanying indifference from the "Oh well, everyone's a victim, sometimes" crowd is making me really, really angry. That's because I have Muslim friends. More than that, I've known dozens of perfectly okay Muslims. Just about anyone from Dearborn can say that. It's really just that simple. If you have a friend who is Muslim, chances are that you are more likely to support the opening of an Islamic center two blocks from the site of the World Trade Center (according to this New York Times article, that's certainly true among New Yorkers, who are arguably most affected by this controversy).

My point is, I think it's a really good idea to live and work with people who don't share your same class, race, religious or sexual profile. One of the reasons I started to question Catholicism as a youngster was that I didn't think it was fair that my sister's gay friend should burn in hell, because he was always really kind to me. I'm not saying that exposure to people different from you has to be that much of a dealbreaker, but I think perspective is healthy for all. It may help you from misunderstanding an unusually polite northerner who simply chooses to not wear makeup.

Transition to the Tennessee Valley: A List of Pros and Cons, in No Particular Order

2010-09-06T12:14:00.010-04:00

Pro: Mountains
Every day, when I walk or drive around the corner to Main Street, the first thing I see is Raccoon Mountain on the horizon. If I cross Main and continue down one of the side streets, I see Lookout Mountain. I've never had this experience in my everyday life before. The mountains around here are so cute and funny, too, popping up from the relatively flat land surrounding them, like the way little kids draw hills.

Con: August Weather
Apparently, we moved here at the worst possible time. It was about 100 degrees outside every day for two weeks straight. I guess it was worse than usual, but "usual" is still around 90 degrees, and I hate that, too.

Pro: Living in a Place Where People Look Forward to Fall and Winter
People around here talk about fall the way Michigan people talk about spring, as in, "I can't wait 'til fall comes and I can start biking to work, again." I'm hardwired to associate fall with school, increasing darkness and inevitable winter. All of these things still happen here in Chattanooga, except it doesn't get quite as dark and winter doesn't mean staying indoors 90% of the time. Also, I don't care what anyone says, I would much rather deal with extreme heat than extreme cold. Layering is so cumbersome and I really like seeing my bare feet outside of the shower without risking pneumonia.

Con: Everyone Assumes You're Christian
This is not new to me, but I can totally feel my Jewish friend J's* frustration when she said, "Maybe I don't want to have a 'blessed' day." That happened to me all the time when I was living in Detroit, so as culture shock goes, it doesn't register quite as high as other Chattanoogan idiosyncrasies. Plus, being (very) white makes it easy for this atheist to pass. I'm sure it sucks a lot harder if you wear a hijab or a turban, but of course I don't see that so much around here.

Pro: Butterflies
And lots of 'em! Not just Monarchs! Will work on getting photos.

Con: Almost Everyone is a Republican
Obviously, moving from Ann Arbor/Washtenaw County to a place where the primary election seals the Republican winners is a drastic change. But here's the thing - as much as I got used to living in a so-called bastion of liberalism, Michigan is a swing state and even Ann Arbor isn't as thoroughly liberal as this region is conservative. Ann Arbor is a very wealthy town, which means it has its share of Republicans, including gubernatorial candidate, Rick Snyder. And for those Ann Arborites who are aware of the rest of Michigan (granted, not many), they know that you cannot assume a person's political persuasion, which may change from election to election. Not so in these parts. I don't know what I'm going to do this election day. I mean, I know my vote will be nothing more than a symbolic gesture, but I would still feel really yucky bestowing it upon this guy.

Pro: A Tight Network of Local Businesses
I thought that the "buy local" movement wouldn't be as big here as it is in Michigan, if only because the economic situation in Chattanooga isn't as desperate ("If I can just get this upstart tea cozy business moving then maybe I won't lose my home! Oh, and I have such a passion for knitting tea cozies.") Most of the Chatt businesses I've shopped have been restaurants, but I've noticed that just about all of them use products from local vendors, including breads and buns from the bakery where I work, pork products from the sausage-maker next door, and greens from the guy who sold me a $2 bag of spring mix at the farmer's market. In fact, just about every vendor I've encountered at the market does some wholesale business within this region. And it's nice for a change to hear these vendors complain about overwork and exhaustion instead of lost revenue and foreclosure.

Con: New York Prices for Food Snobs
Dan put it well, "Being poor is cheap here but being middle class is really expensive." The most common grocery stores in Chattanooga are Bi-Lo (the name really says it all) and Food Lion, which some clever online person referred to as "The Shitty Kitty".
These stores are sucky and gross, but cheap. Then there are a couple Publix, which is touted as some great option, but it's really just a Kroger with a superiority complex. Their meat is conventionally weird and questionable, but also expensive. Organic options are few and very pricey. They don't offer many local options, either. And then, there's Greenlife. Greenlife is the place where you can buy anything organic and some (but not many) things local... if you're okay with never owning property or having children. In all of Ann Arbor, there is no grocery store as expensive as Greenlife. And get this - Whole Foods recently purchased Greenlife, which means that some of their prices will actually be lowered. Excuse me?! This is insanity. When we were nearly charged $14 for five heirloom tomatoes, Dan and I made a pact that we will never shop for produce at Greenlife again. Fortunately, there are some great farmer's markets and a pretty good Mexican grocery store nearby. I'm trying to narrow our grocery shopping to two or three locations but it's going to take a lot of strategy and research to make it work year round.

Pro: Simple Social Skills Abound
When you make eye contact with a passing driver, they wave. If you see someone walking toward you on the sidewalk, they smile and maybe say, "Hello". People start conversations with, "How are you, today?" and end with, "Have a nice day." I like these little niceties. It helps a shy person like me get acclimated to a strange new place. The thing I miss most about Michigan is talking with my friends. Granted, most of these everyday interactions I've had in Chattanooga pass without any real discussion, but it's still nice to have those social moments. They're sort of likes conversational appetizers, and sometimes those lead to a main course.

*Yes, we made friends! We're very excited.

Work Sweet Work

2010-08-30T14:29:00.007-04:00

I had an encouraging experience on Friday afternoon. I was walking down Main Street and heard someone shout, "Hey, Tara!" That hadn't happened to me yet in my new town.

It was my twenty one year old supervisor, who I'll call Gabe. Gabe was standing on the deck of the taco shop, a cold beer in hand.

"Hey, beer - nice!" I said. It was around 2pm.

"Yeah, I need it. This morning sucked. Phil didn't show up."

"Who's Phil?"

"He's the new kitchen guy. Now I have to cover for him tonight, and I had plans, too."

"Aw, that sucks."

"Yeah, but it's just part of the new job." Gabe became a manager last week. "At least I have this beer to calm my nerves."

"That's good. Enjoy it! I'll see you tomorrow."

Ah, to be twenty one and the boss. I remember those days. At that time, I probably wouldn't have guessed that I would be doing that same kind of work at age thirty three and if I had, I might have found that very depressing. But I'm not depressed now. For several reasons, this new job has brought me great relief.

For one thing, it gives me something to do with my day. I've suffered bouts of unemployment before (I think the maximum length was just shy of three months) and while I won't pretend I didn't enjoy the ample free time, I missed the structured days and, of course, the money. I used to think that I would be happy to be unemployed if money were no concern. Well, now that Dan has a full-time teaching gig, I'm as close to that reality as I've ever been but still I felt the need to get a job asap. The brutal southern heat combined with my natural shyness made it too easy for me to stay indoors all day and just wait for Dan to come home. I was getting bored and weekends just weren't feeling like weekends.

So, I got myself a job. This is as good a time as any to note that I barely ever blog about work, for a few reasons: 1) it isn't that interesting (and if it is, that's usually a good sign that I should be looking for a job elsewhere); 2) it clashes with my sense of professionalism - I rarely gossip at work because it usually leads to trouble, and that's the same reason I don't do work gossip on my blog; 3) the obvious one - I don't know who reads this. But, for the sake of sharing my new life with whatever readers I have, I'm going to disguise and describe my new workplace, which requires that I tell you a bit about my old one.

I used to work in the catering department of a nationally renowned deli that I'll call Foodie Deluxe. FD is famous for its towering sandwiches made with tasty breads from its sister company, Foodie Deluxe Bakehouse. Before I left Michigan, I did my research and learned that an FDB alum had started his own bakery in Chattanooga. That bakery happens to sit around the corner from my apartment and after we moved in, I started heading over there every day for a cup of coffee and free wifi. When I noticed that they had a retail sales position open, I made sure to put "Foodie Deluxe" in big print on the application.

It worked. I interviewed with the owner right after he returned from vacation. By the first day of my third week in town, I was selling bread and slinging coffee. I quickly learned that I shouldn't mention my FD background to my new coworkers, because I got this reaction - "Oh, you worked at Foodie Deluxe." Eye roll. "Well, the owner must loooove you." After hearing that a couple times, my story was simply that I had worked for a catering company in Michigan.

Really, other than the fact that I'm working with artisan breads, this job has almost nothing in common with the last one. I'm on my feet all day instead of sitting at a desk, which I definitely prefer (though I am starting to feel my age). The hourly pay is lower (boo) but I make cash tips (yay!). The two biggest differences are the level of organization and the customer service dynamics. Foodie Deluxe was big on customer service, which I loved. They claim (and I actually think it's true), that providing great service is as important as serving great food and making money. Too often, service workers are made to feel that their work isn't "real" work and I liked having a job that dignified customer service. Plus, the company did a good job of making it easy to provide great service by being highly systematized and allowing their employees to do whatever it takes to make the customer happy. I didn't have to ask my manager if I could give the customer a refund, I could just use my own judgment.

In my current job, I feel like I can make similar judgment calls and it's such a small business that it's easy for me to find a manager or supervisor who can deal with an unhappy customer. At the same time, because it is a small, up-and-coming business, I don't feel quite as comfortable giving refunds and band-aid cookies because cash is tighter.

In addition to that, there are almost no documented systems for anything, whether it's "how to give a refund" or instructions on cleaning the espresso machine. Fortunately, I've had enough restaurant/barista/food service jobs that I know the right questions to ask. But I have to admit that it was a little freaky for me at first. My northern sense of efficiency makes me nervous and leads me to frequently wonder if I'm doing my job right, or in the smartest possible way. In my experience, efficacy is as important as accuracy. I'm from the birthplace of the assembly line. I had a boss in Detroit who would berate me if I didn't pour coffee, bus tables and wipe counters in as few steps as possible. I keep expecting a customer to yell at me because they had to wait ten minutes for their sandwich when there were only a few other people in the dining room.

But, guess what? That doesn't happen! In the three weeks I've been working at the bakery, I have not seen a single customer yell at anyone. One man calmly asked for a refund after he waited half and hour for his sandwich and was told that we had run out of that type of bread. He simply said, "This is not right," and my supervisor said, "I'm sorry," and that was that. Yes, southerners are much nicer than people up north. When I was trying to figure out the credit card machine on my first day, I explained to the customer that I was a newbie and she said, "Oh, I thought you'd been here a week, at least!" before sticking a buck in the tip jar. Another woman cheered for me when I bused her table. I've never had a new job where the customers were so encouraging of my development! Honestly (and I've never felt this before) interacting with customers is one of my favorite things about this job.

But my coworkers are cool, too. Everyone I've worked with so far has been pretty friendly and helpful. I don't know if I'll make pals at this place, but I find even work-related social interactions uplifting. Starting over in a new town is exciting but lonely. Sometimes it just feels really good to here someone call your name as you're walking down the street.

A Place that W Could Call Home

2010-08-16T18:59:00.005-04:00

On our sixth day in Chattanooga, Dan called me from work to see if I would join him for lunch at Porkers, a restaurant about a mile from our house. Dan had noted three key details about Porkers during his solo visit to Chatt in mid-July, but only one stuck in my mind – exceptionally yummy barbecue. Therefore, I was game. I remembered the other, less flattering details after I got to the restaurant – a creepy, racist caricature of a black child eating watermelon and the fact that George W Bush had visited Porker’s while he was in office. The racist painting was it’s own reminder but it was the snapshots of GWB behind the cashier stand that refreshed that detail for me.

Those photos blew my mind. I actually thought the owners had hired a very convincing Bush impersonator to pose with staff members because those candid shots portrayed a man who looked relaxed and happy. The George W Bush I remembered looked more like this –

This photo depicts the occasion when President Bush awarded the National Medal of Arts to the late Louis Auchincloss, who happens to be one of my favorite writers. Note the awkward stance and the apish, dangling arms on our former leader. Remember when Bush bragged about not reading newspapers? I wonder how he felt about books. I also wonder if he had any idea who Auchincloss was. To be fair, most Americans don’t, but Bush might. Louis Auchincloss was both a chronicler and member of that privileged echelon of wealthy east coasters who rule the world, just like those Bushes. He went to prep school and then Yale, just like those Bushes. He also referred to them in a Financial Times interview as, "a big family of shits," so perhaps they weren't close. Nevertheless, there was a familiarity between the Auchinclosses and the Bushes. On some level, they were each others "people," but you would never know it from this photo.

But if I could just show you those Porker’s photos, you would know see that everyday Chattanoogans are Bush’s real people. And that's just one of the many reasons that being here feels so strange, but that isn't my point. The point is that I have never seen an image of GWB looking so thoroughly peaceful and content. This was the best one I could find online. You can see that he’s having a good time –

- It’s from the White House website, so of course it is quite becoming. It isn’t that the ones on the wall at Porker’s are unbecoming, but they’re way more goofy and fun-filled – Bush posing with a couple of waitresses, his arms chummily hanging over their shoulders, a giant grin on his face; a wide-eyed Bush gawking at a pile of ribs; Bush crouching behind a pair of confused-looking old people. These are the equivalent of your Facebook photos, frozen moments when you were at your best and having a funky good time. But, they’re not the kind of pictures you would post on your professional website or, if you’re a former U.S. President, include in your memoirs. So, sadly you’ll probably never see these pictures online or in a book. You’ll just have to come to Chattanooga to see what Bush looked like when he was happy.

It makes me wonder what other presidents look like when they are in their happiest, most fitting element. I imagine Obama talking sports with another brainy intellectual type and Bill Clinton lounging at a bordello crossed with a McDonald’s, if such a thing exists. All W needs is some sweet tea, a pulled pork platter and some friendly southerners who don’t make him feel like a dummy.

Feelings About My New Home

2010-08-03T11:16:00.005-04:00

It’s so hot here. All I can do is accept that the extreme heat is going to turn my accustomed lifestyle upside down. I mean, it’s REALLY hot, even for this region. The average high temperature this time of year is 90 but we’re closer to the 100 degree mark and the humidity makes it feel way hotter. Stepping outside just long enough to get to the car and cool off its insides absolutely knocks me out. If I do that a few times in the middle of the day, I need an hour nap to regain my energy. I don’t have a job yet, so I’m free to follow that schedule but it’s a strange thing. Mandatory naps have never been a part of my adult habit.

Yet this seems fitting for my current phase of existence. In the spirit of a chosen new life, I’m trying to do everything a little differently. This change in attitude began with the move itself. Having once possessed very little (including a sense of patience with myself) I used to approach moves in a very hurried and disorganized fashion. But since Dan and I together have accumulated about 10 times more possessions than I ever owned by myself, and seeing as I had no other occupation, I decided that for this move I would indulge my obsessively organized inner librarian. I packed dishes, CDs, LPs and books in the precise order in which I wanted to unload them. I designated boxes we never need to open (you know, the sentimental stuff you can’t bear to throw away but hardly ever view). My last unpacking task will be creating a screened hiding spot in the corner of our loft-like space where all those boxes can live as long as we are living here.

This organized planning has made the unpacking process actually enjoyable. I can spend more time thinking how I will fit this stuff into our unusual living space. Our apartment is half of a refurbished auto shop. The front wall is a 12 paneled glass and steel garage door. The outside walls are painted cinder blocks. The space is divided into two giant rooms. The front room features an industrial kitchen – it’s my new favorite toy, with its ample counter space and enormous sink (cooking soup stock will no longer be a logistical nightmare!) I also love the poured concrete floors throughout. It doesn’t matter if you splash outside of the shower or spill a cup of water, it all just soaks into the floor. This apartment is a funky space, but it’s also well built, surprisingly practical and (thankfully!) centrally cooled. It’s a pretty fun place to while away a long, sultry afternoon.

It’s a good thing that I like home so much because the midday heat and a sense of social awkwardness keep me there often. I know that I must fight the urge to remain a hermit, but again I am trying to be patient with myself and take on this new life at a comfortable pace. The thing is, I really do stick out in Chattanooga. It isn’t just my accent or my untanned northern white flesh. Cotton clad, short-haired women who don’t wear makeup are pretty uncommon in these parts. I don’t feel compelled to transform myself, but not since high school have I felt so different from everyone around me. And for someone like me, who is apt to gladly melt into social invisibility, this sense of difference is a little startling. My goal is to have fun with it. My social experiences so far have shown me that most people here are outwardly friendly and polite, which makes it easier, though I have caught a couple people staring at me. I just smile back at them.

Nevertheless, I do admit that I love having so much alone time at the house because I get to enjoy the vast media library that I so dutifully packed, hauled and unpacked. We own six milk crates of vinyl that we neglected when we had cable TV in the spring and early summer. Since we have no need for cable now (our digital antenna gets excellent reception) and we won’t get internet hooked up for almost three weeks, I have a new interest in our fantastic album collection. We have a vintage record store display rack that we use to hold our current favorites, and in the spirit of a new life, I have made myself refile the old favorites and bring out some new ones. It’s been fun. I’ve been listening to a lot of 80s British stuff like Aztec Camera and Style Council, as well as singer-songwriter-y fare from the mid 70s, like Paul Simon and Todd Rundgren. Now that I think of it, it’s the stuff that Dan probably doesn’t want to hear. Yeah, being alone in our new home is not yet boring.

Oh, and that digital antenna has reintroduced me to the wonder of RTV, the Retro Television Network. Before we got cable, I found many hours of solace on a harsh winter’s night watching reruns of “Simon and Simon” and (cringe) “Matlock” on channel 007-02. I know that RTV is included with some cable packages, but we didn’t get it with AT&T U-verse and somehow it seems way more appropriate as an antenna-only network. The RTV lineup includes shows I totally forgot – like “Simon and Simon”, “I Spy” and “Kate and Allie” – along with some genuinely good shows – like “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” – and adds to it a lot of weird ass shit that I never knew – like the short-lived 1960s comic western “Laredo”, which I LOVE. Interestingly, RTV is based in Chattanooga and of course I have fantasies about being their chief programmer (first order of business – acquire Martin Mull’s 1970’s mock talk show “Fernwood 2Night”), but in the meantime, I’m having fun enjoying their bizarre lineup. Again, it’s something different.

This introduction to my new home is not what I imagined. I thought of myself wandering the neighborhood, checking out the local businesses, but that’s tricky in this dangerous heat. At least I can take advantage of the short distance between our place and Niedlov’s bakery, with it’s speedy wireless internet. Perhaps today I will wander a bit further down the road to Market Street and look at some of the boutiques. It may be worth an afternoon nap to see what else my new town has to offer, and today I am in the mood to do something (there's that word again) different.

At the Start of My Last Week in Michigan

2010-07-21T08:30:00.002-04:00

We were supposed to leave on Tuesday the 27th, but it looks like it will be Wednesday instead. So now begins my last week in Michigan. Usually at these turning points - leaving a job, saying goodbye to friends, moving - I get caught up in a lot of sentimental reflection, like one of those corny flashback montages at the end of a TV series. But this change is so BIG, encompassing all three of those aforementioned shifts (and so many more), that I don't have time for my usual sap. That's probably a good thing. But I do have a couple of quiet minutes at the top of the day, so I thought I would jot down a few observations about getting ready for the grand exodus.

Nothing has ever made me so popular as moving. Getting married came close. I remember that warm feeling at my wedding, when I got to see some of my closest friends and family meet each other and celebrate on my behalf... that was pretty fantastic. Amazingly, I've been feeling that same warmth almost every day for the last month. Particularly since the start of July, my free time has consisted of a nearly non-stop parade of friend visits and a series of fun local adventures. By the time we leave town, I think I will be able to say that I saw every person I needed to see. But more than that, I've had the pleasure of spending more time with those whose company I probably should have enjoyed more often - really cool coworkers and friends that I took for granted because they live nearby. Of course, this can lead to a sense of regret, which will probably hit me after I've been in Chattanooga a couple weeks. But really, I'm not big on regrets. I knew that I had a limited window to hang out with all of these wonderful people and I made the most of it. I'm even a little proud of myself.

I've been having good luck with timely reunions. In the past two weeks, I've been able to hang with my two oldest friends (meaning those I've known the longest - M and S, you know who you are), as well as their lovely spouses and Dan's best friend from high school, J. In a weird way, I feel like old friends are inherited through marriage, so if you add it all up I got to hang with five buddies from way back, none of whom live in Michigan. In addition to that, my mom is hosting a family reunion this weekend during which I will be able to see five of my six siblings. That's one of the many reasons I'm feeling lucky.

Packing is way better when you don't have anything else to do. My last day of work was on Friday, so my only job right now is to visit with friends and pack. What luxury! The last time I moved when I wasn't working was when I left home at age 20, and back then I had barely enough stuff to fill half a bedroom (also I was moving from Dearborn to Ann Arbor, a distance only 1/15 of my upcoming journey). I don't have that combined sense of panic, frustration and exhaustion. Not yet, anyway. I'm able to approach packing in an organized fashion, which appeals to the obsessive librarian in me. I hesitate to say... it's kind of fun. I'm excited for this morning's project - watching DVD reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation while I clean out the closet!

I'm guessing the next time we move will be in Chattanooga, from our new apartment to a house, but who can say what the future holds? I can't imagine moving to the west coast - I would just want to throw everything away and start over, rather than pack and haul it all. As it is, I can't believe all the shit we've accumulated in this one bedroom apartment. I used to take pride in the art of the three carload move (I used to not need more than that) and look at me now! I'm starting to worry about fitting all this into a ten foot truck. I don't know how people do this with kids, but they do and we will, too, if need be. I guess the point I'm getting at is that I suspect I'm enjoying certain luxuries that won't be available next time around. And I can definitely say that I won't be sharing that last week with the same set of fascinating people. That's why I'm trying to enjoy it while it lasts. There's simply no time for the montage.

Gym Songs, Karaoke Songs

2010-07-13T19:54:00.014-04:00

If not for Planet Fitness and karaoke at Powell's Pub, I would not know these songs. Sometimes that's a good thing and sometimes I regret that my healthy and happy habits have made me cross paths with these moments in popular music.

"Picture" by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow

I've averaged at least one night of karaoke a week over this past year and this is, without a doubt, the song I've heard most often (yup, even more than "Don't Stop Believing"). It offers a couple of advantages. One, it isn't difficult to sing. Two, redneck girls can actually convince their drunk boyfriends to get up and sing this one, because what local redneck guy doesn't want to be just like Kid Rock? It isn't a terrible song, but it's long and sort of boring and the chorus sounds just like a snail pace version of "We're an American Band". I can't help groaning every time I see the title pop up on the monitor. Still, the results are usually less painful than "Don't Stop Believing".

I wonder if this song isn't quite as popular in places that don't call Kid Rock their homeboy, yes?... Please?

"Our Song" by Taylor Swift

Of all the songs I've discovered by way of Planet Fitness, this is one of the most "not bad". It has definitely improved my opinion of Ms. Swift. I was aware of who she was before I heard any of her songs, because of that humiliating Kanye West incident at the VMAs, as well as some other award show appearances. Every single time I saw her, the first words out of her mouth were "I'm a country musician," usually followed by something along the lines of, "You like me. You really like me!"

"I'm a country musician."

"I'm a country musician."

"I'm a country musician."

Clearly some A&R dude convinced her that this talking point would give her a devoted country audience despite the fact that songs like this are just overproduced pop. I think that scheme has worked. Several months ago, I met a newly engaged woman who described to me her fiancee's proposal. "He skated me to the middle of the rink and popped the question in the middle of my favorite Taylor Swift song! Have you heard of her? She's a country musician." Oh, boy.

Anyway, I like this song. I wish it were more stripped down, with more banjo, more actual country sound. But the lyrics are sweet and I admit, it gives me a little boost on the elliptical. Also, I appreciate that she wrote it, when she was very young, no less. I was disappointed by this oh-so-precious video. I like the one in my head better. It looks like the low-budget videos they used to show on The Nashville Network, with cornfields and cut-off shorts and the like.

"Who Knew" by Pink

Yeah, this is my JAM! For the record, I do realize that this song (and all the other ones, for that matter) is years old. I've been out of touch with new music for most of the last 10 years. I never listen to Top 40 radio stations so I don't know anything until it becomes Planet Fitness or Powell's-worthy, which seems to take 3-4 years. Oh, well.

Anyway, I think this song rocks. It's catchy throughout with a great chorus and it's fun to sing. I rather like this video, too. It's pleasantly simple and forgettable, which is great if you just want to get into the song. Plus, her hair looks cool and all that carousel madness at the end reminds me of the awesome, violent finale from "Strangers on a Train". Aces, Pink! I am always happy to hear this while I'm working out, or see the title appear on the old karaoke monitor.

"The Sweet Escape" by Gwen Stefani

I HATE this song. I actually heard it quite a bit when it came out. The line "I know I've been a real bad girl," was enough to seal my sense of loathing, but hearing it almost every time I go to Planet Fitness makes me angry to the point of wanting to bludgeon Gwen Stefani with her hair. You know, I might not hate it at all if it were just 2 1/2 minutes long, but it's 4. I've timed it on the gym machines. I suppose I can credit it for some pretty hardcore workouts - "If I pedal faster will this song be over sooner?"

Fortunately, no one sings this at karaoke, which is curious because chicks with good voices love Gwen Stefani. "Don't Speak" is a show-off jam, and "I'm Just a Girl" and "Hollaback Girl" are also popular standards (though I like a good "Spiderwebs" best - the idea of "screening phone calls" is now so quaint!). But no one seems to want anything to do with this song. I'd like to believe this is a rare example of common good taste, like when they banned that OJ book a few years back.

"Fancy" by Reba McEntire

Though it's really old, I first heard this song when my friend L - a high falutin' academic super nerd - sang it at Powell's about a year ago. She's from Missouri. Thank Jeebus for Powell's and my pals who grew up with country music, or I would be completely unprepared for my imminent move to Tennessee. And what a video! Those sunglasses, that acting, and how about that twist ending! It's so effin' sad and I love it. I think I've actually heard this at the gym because I remember Dan and I getting really excited about it. I like it more each time I hear it and I notice that women who sing it tend to do it really well. It's almost sacred. No one has the nerve to fuck up "Fancy".

------

I used to rip on Planet Fitness's music selection but I'll be sad if our Chattanooga gym doesn't play music. I don't like wearing headphones while I'm sweating and beside that, it's my one chance to be forced into a meeting with pop music. I have so many opportunities to choose the songs I hear. I like surrendering control sometimes, as long as I don't have to listen to any commercials.

As for karaoke in Chattanooga, I just hope to avoid this auto tune business. It just isn't karaoke if everyone sounds good. How can we distinguish the rare triumphs from the more common mediocrity? If everyone can sing really well, will anyone bother with "Picture" or will they all turn to Journey? I fear for the lack of variety...

D'Light: "This is why people like us don't get valet"

2010-07-07T02:04:00.003-04:00

A mob scene greeted us as we exited the front doors of the theater. In any other circumstance we would have quickly mapped and traveled the most efficient path away from the crowd, but the sad truth is that Dan and I belonged with them. We were all waiting for our valet parked cars.

A couple weeks ago, Dan and I scored free tickets to Enana, a Middle Eastern dance show at the Max M. Fisher Music Center. Our friend M, who is the community manager for Yelp (a website where Dan and I write snide, know-it-all reviews for local businesses) was the source of said tickets, and she suggested we meet at Atlas Global Bistro for a pre-theater drink. As we were finishing our wine and overpriced appetizers, M reached into an envelope and said, "I've got fancy tickets for you guys. Do you want valet, too?"

Dan and I looked at each other. We were parked across the street, just a four block walk from the Max, but how could we turn down this deluxe freebie? It would be like abstaining from an open bar at a rich person's wedding. "Uh... yeah, sure!". We happily snatched the voucher and made our way to the theater.

But as we stood in that increasingly testy crowd outside the Max, the idea of being able to walk to the car and leave at our leisure seemed way more appealing. In the midst of the throng, an irate customer whined at the others, "There's a line. There's a line. There's a line." There was no line. There wasn't even room for a line. It looked as if half the crowd (about 500 people, I would estimate) had opted for valet, and everyone was set on being first served. This was reminding me way too much of air travel. Fortunately, Dan and I had the same instincts. We made our way to the nearest bench and silently agreed to patiently wait out the mob.

We considered walking two blocks north to Union Street to get a drink, but that seemed silly. It wouldn't take that long, right? But even after ten minutes, the situation didn't appear to be getting better. It was all so absurd. The scariest thing about walking around midtown Detroit after dark is that there just aren't that many people around. If half of the valeted car owners had just parked in the hundreds of open spaces surrounding the theater, the departing crowds would have created the sort of "safety in numbers" critical mass needed to overcome the collective fear of walking at night in Detroit. Instead, there was this swarm of frustrated rich people standing still on one block of Woodward Avenue.

Eventually, we gave up and headed to Union Street where the service was typically poky but cordial. As we waited (comfortably) for our drinks, I glanced at the large-for-a-Tuesday crowd in the dining room. I like Union Street, because it isn't all white people or black people or young people. It was a diverse group, including families and older people and some very well-dressed Arab ladies who had probably just attended Enana, as well. But then some pleasant odors distracted me from my people-watching and I found myself fixating on the large oval trays of food floating past our table.

"Why does the food smell especially good tonight?" I wondered.

"It's probably the smoking ban. You can actually smell it now."

I pored over the giant menu and so did Dan, but then I hesitated. "We shouldn't order food. We need to get back to the theater soon."

"Whatever. It's going to take forever to get the car. We should just order what we want and take our time."

This is a perfect example of a situation where Dan and I don't see eye to eye. I get very nervous and worrisome about logistics and timing. He does not. Sometimes this leads to bickering, but I wasn't in the mood for that. At the same time, I was definitely in the mood for a snack. I very consciously chose to set aside my usual concerns ("What if we make the valet guys mad?") and just go with the flow. I even suggested that Dan pick the entree we would split.

I wasn't disappointed - a buffalo burger with a side of potato salad. Our total bill was a third of what we spent at Atlas and the portions were way bigger. Tasted just as good, too.

After we paid our bill and left a good tip for our not so great (but nice) waitress, we wandered out to Woodward in a happy daze. I was telling Dan something about work when he interrupted me. "Shit!"

My first instinct was to be annoyed because he wasn't listening. My second was to move into comfort mode, because I realized that he was actually upset about something. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine." Sometimes I say "Don't worry. It's going to be fine," before I fully assess the situation, which is not always wise.

"How can you say it's fine? They're gone." That's when I finally realized that the crowd and the valet guys had disappeared. Shit.

I was nevertheless cool. I didn't know how I'd come by this bout of mellowness, but I was determined to ride the wave. "It'll be fine, Dan. They probably gave your keys to the house manager. I'm sure there's still someone at the theater." When we tried each of the front doors and found every one locked, I could tell that I wasn't winning this one. I could feel Dan panicking.

We had no other choice but to begin searching for the car. We turned around and started heading back up Woodward when a young man in a silver car stopped in the middle of the road and yelled out his open window, "Hey, you looking for your car?" I could guess from his white uniform shirt that he was one of the valet guys.

Dan shouted, "Yes!"

"Go to the back and ask for BJ. He's got your keys." We thanked him before he drove away and I remember thinking how nice he was considering that he must have thought we were complete idiots. I had realized by this point it was about 11:45 and the dance show had ended over two hours ago.

We rounded the corner toward the small parking lot behind the building and delighted to see our little Sunfire parked in the corner. We turned down the alley toward the rear entrance and saw a stocky man walking away from us.

Dan called to him, "BJ! Hey, BJ!" The man glanced over his shoulder and quickened his pace. Not BJ, apparently. By this point I had instinctively reached into my purse and grabbed my keys. Even if BJ was gone, we could still get out of there.

Fortunately, the back entrance was open and there were two security guards sitting at the front desk. For lack of better descriptors, one dude was black and the other one was white.

The white guy had a dour expression. Dan said to him, "Are you BJ?"

"No. Are you the guy with the Pontiac Sunfire?" Dan nodded and the black guy started cracking up. The white guy was not amused. "Where were you?" Oh boy, this was turning into the exact type of situation I try to avoid by way of worry and logistics. There's nothing I hate more than someone thinking I'm stupid, especially when they have a good reason.

"It was taking so long, so we went to get a drink," Dan began. "I'm looking for BJ, the valet guy."

The white guy was even more pissy. "BJ is not the valet guy, but he does have your keys. We'll call him." The black guy laughed some more as he punched numbers into a phone. I was feeling like the white guy was about to lecture us, so I decided to make my escape.

"I'm gonna wait outside." Dan nodded and I pushed my way out the glass doors as quickly as I could. I took a deep breath of the warm, late evening air and felt relieved - for the sight of our little white car, and for BJ having Dan's keys, and for being away from the irritated white guy. And then it occurred to me that this well-lit alley (my haven of relief) would seem to be a very scary place for anyone who fears Detroit thoroughly. Granted, I fear Detroit, too, but I also have the sense to recognize degrees of danger. I wouldn't head out to Woodward and just start walking on my own (but if I had to, I would feel better being on that street than one of the side roads). I remember trying to explain this to my Swedish ex-boyfriend's parents. They were floored when I said, "There are some places in Detroit where I would walk around by myself in the day but never at night." They thought that was the most screwed up description of a city they had ever heard and they felt sorry for Americans because we are forced to analyze our dangerous cities this way. Oh, well. I'd rather have the analytical skills than never hang out in cities.

A moment later, Dan joined me, the coveted keys jingling in his hand. Once we were settled in the car, we cracked up.

"Dan, can you imagine what that guy was thinking when you were chasing him down the alley, yelling, 'Hey, BJ!'"

He laughed even harder. "Wow, that would have really sucked if we had lost our car. I seriously thought they would still be out there by the time we got back."

"Yeah. I don't know how this shit works. What a ridiculous situation. This is why people like us don't get valet."

We motored up Woodward to Ferndale and spent the next couple hours singing karaoke in a bar with four other people. It was a pretty great night.

Five Months Into Facebook

2010-06-29T23:12:00.002-04:00

It's been just over five months since I re-entered the Facebook universe. My main reason for doing so was that I wanted to track the progress of my then-expectant friends, who are now the proud mama and papa of 12-week-old twins. And because I have a Facebook account, I get to see pictures like this -

Seriously, I've probably accumulated an hour's worth of moments just staring at this photo, grinning. When people at work get stressed out, I say, "Hey, check out these babies," and they generally disintegrate into goopy puddles of awe and affection. This photo is, officially, the cutest shit I have ever seen.

Therefore, I am comfortable saying that this Facebook journey is a definite success and I have no regrets about getting back into this potentially dangerous time-sucker. There are other good aspects and not-so-good aspects, which I will list in my own peculiar order (beginning with an obvious "good" one) -

You get to see how long-lost people are doing My favorite example is J, whom I babysat from the time he was about 8-10 years old. He was a great kid. He and his single mom had this very cool, mutually respectful relationship. They worked out problems together. Watching him was a cinch because he was such a nice, mature youngster. I even got him to clean his room a couple times. I didn't remember this until recently, but sometimes he would spaz out and run around the apartment with a toy saxophone, shouting, "I'm gonna be a jazz man when I grow up!" The reason I remember that now is that I found him on Facebook and he's a jazz saxophonist, living in Austin, doing really cool artistic projects in one of my favorite cities. Of course, his being an adult totally messes with my mind and reminds me that I'm much older than I want to feel, but I'm thrilled to see that he has turned out so well.

Having said that Facebook society and real world society have little overlap That's true for me, anyway. And it isn't a totally bad thing. I have many FB friends that I want to see only online. And then there are the faraway friends that I would rather see in person, though I will gladly take this social format as an alternative. I guess I'm disappointed because I naively thought that "friending" cool people on Facebook would lead to me seeing them more often in real life, but that hasn't happened much. I've made so many vague plans to "get together sometime" but the truth is that it takes coordination and effort for two people to meet and hang out, with or without Facebook. The medium doesn't do much to facilitate real-life reunions. Also, I've noticed that when I'm on Facebook I don't tend to interact much with the people I see frequently in real life. But when I do banter with those commonly seen peeps on FB, we don't talk about those interactions in face-to-face reality. Isn't that weird? It's like we're all keeping the same dirty secret. But it isn't dirty, so why is it secret? I have a theory...

Most of the things we discuss are inane I notice this when I try to tell Dan about something that "happened" on Facebook. Dan continues to resist FB, but sometimes he'll get curious when he hears me guffawing as I stare at the navy blue bannered screen. And before I know it, I can hear myself trying to explain why so-and-so's comment about my comment about the link to that one Youtube video is HILARIOUS, but I'm cringing at the sound of my own voice, for the joke is no longer hilarious when I say it out loud. Those funny FB moments always seem to fall into the "you had to be there" category, except there is no there there (literally). How can one have a spoken conversation about this stuff? You can't. And that's fine. I can only hope that my everyday conversations will continue to sound nothing at all like a Facebook thread. Smiley face.

However, I do enjoy that The medium makes it really easy to offer kind words I think I have a knack for writing thoughtful and encouraging messages to other people and I'm grateful that Facebook offers a forum for that warm, fuzzy stuff. At least once a day, I find myself wishing someone a happy birthday, or telling them how cute their kid is, or congratulating them for a work or school-related feat. I strive to choose my words creatively, but mostly I try to be honest about anything extraordinarily positive that runs through my mind because that's the stuff that's worth saying, in person or on Facebook. I know how good it feels, like last week, when my godparents' daughter (whom I haven't seen since 1983) randomly told me that she loves my profile photo of my wedding. That made me feel great.

Though sometimes, I admit I crave the attention too much This is the stickiest aspect of Facebooking and the one I am most wary of tackling. I feel weird revealing this part of myself, but I do it on the blog because I suspect that others feel the same. I don't think I'm the only one that gets that little rush of excitement when the globe icon to the left of the search field is lit up in red. Are people talking about the thing that I said or shared? HOORAY!! Or are they talking about that random thing that I "liked"? BO-RING. When's it going to be about me again? Or worse yet, why isn't the globe lit up in red? Doesn't anyone care about my link to that HILARIOUS Youtube video? (Though I did not produce that video, my taste in "linking" says so much about me.) Sad, but true, Facebooking has made me more narcissistic, and I don't want to foster that part of myself. So I'm engaging in a very stern internal dialog. I'm lately doing a better job of remembering that this medium is fine for trying to spread some good will (by way of kind words), but that I shouldn't expect much in return. That isn't to say that I don't receive kind words from others - I do, frequently - but the very expectation of it sets me up for disappointment. Because it never really is enough, is it? All this digital attention is like drugs. The more you consume, the more you want it.

Having said that I'm grateful to Facebook for bringing me more blog readers I started blogging on Myspace about four years ago. One of the things I didn't "get" about Facebook was that it wasn't set up for blogging. I held onto the Myspace blog until early last year when it became apparent that no one was there. So I moved to Blogger, gave the site a tad more focus and began writing to an audience of Dan and a few random friends. I didn't realize that I could link to my blog when I set up the FB account in January and had no intention of doing so even after I figured out how this stuff works. Thanks to my best friend S (father of the twins pictured above), who politely asked if he could share one of my posts, I got over my shyness and started actively promoting this on Facebook. I've received so much thoughtful and encouraging feedback as a result. That's some digital attention that really means something to me. Obviously, I put a great deal more thought into these posts than in a 1-3 sentence news feed bit, so the comments on this blog (as well as the ones on Facebook - admittedly, it's more user-friendly than this googly mess) mean so much to me. Thank you to everyone who has left me a comment, even the person who claimed that I was "dressing up" Michael Jackson's pedophilia. The enormous satisfaction I get from just writing this stuff is truly amplified by your feedback.

Oh, and thanks to anyone who says something - in person, to my face - about this blog. Or about my cute pets, or about my wedding photos. I salute you, Talkers of Kind Words. Someday, I want to be like you.