Verdancy and Verve

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"

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

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

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

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"

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

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.