Outdated

I just had a birthday recently, and while I'm not going to start lying about my age anytime soon, I have to admit to feeling a little over the hill. I know, silly thirty-three-year-old whining. I'm the latest birthday among my closest friends, I've no grey hair to speak of, and all my faculties are intact. Maybe just a tiny amount of complaining?

The two main things that made me start feeling outdated were my daughter starting kindergarten and my attending classes at the junior college. On the one hand, I'm of the average age for parents of Small Person's classmates. On the other, I'm a generation older than my classmates, most of whom graduated high school recently. I feel somewhat out of place in both environments. Walking through campus to attend my own class, however, I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. I'm so obviously (to my mind) older, uncool, unaware of the social conventions. The texting, the clothing, music, slang, is all unfamiliar. I'm old.

To be fair, I felt very similarly when I actually was in high school. I didn't really fit in, and always felt some level of anxiety about that. I guess I had a coinciding level of impatience with those who did fit in, also. Maybe I was just old before my time. The phrase "those dang kids" already leaping to my lips a good forty years before it was necessary. Whatever. That doesn't mean I'm going to stop giving those kids dirty looks when their phones ring mid-class.

As for the kindergarten... That's just another arena for my social dysmorphia. What can I say, I'm a mess of issues. This one reads like this: I'm old enough to be more successful, better dressed, more organized, etc. than I currently am. Why am I not? These other people seem so much more together than I am. Except when they don't, and then I hope I look better in comparison. Lame.

The moral of this post? I apparently worry too much about what other people think of me. Quit it.

And, I should get some eye cream.

Daddy types

I want to be a man – but not any man, a stay-at-home dad.

You see them now and again in my liberal neighborhood, and they’re always so relaxed, rolling with their kids in the dirt at the playground; calmly reading a newspaper at the coffeehouse while the kid drives a hotwheel along the bench; looking relaxed and unfussed and handsome in their hipster trilbies or blue Oaklandish tees with an adorable toddler on their shoulders.

They seem so calm – maybe they didn’t remember extra clothes, a water bottle, the favorite stuffed bunny, but they don’t seem to care. They’re just taking the world as it goes.

It’s just that man thing, isn’t it? Less stuff to worry about so less worry. The optimism of the young, white, well-off bay area guy is justified, because things are pretty great for him. I just want to relax sometimes, not worry about all that household executive crap and just have some of the confidence of these men.

And then I pass a guy struggling to put his screaming baby in a backpack, looking harried and close to panic, obviously wishing with all his might that the mother would come and work that magic…

Then I pity them.

(T-shirt)

Face Off

I have a job which requires me to put in nine hours of face time every day. One of those hours is a lunch hour, which I am careful to take. I also have an hour commute each way, so my time spent at home during the week is limited. I am comfortable with spending nine hours at the office (I consider it to be part of the unspoken expectations for a job at my responsibility level and frankly I’m pleased they don’t ask more of me) but my husband objects to me falling in line with the nine hour requirement – he thinks I should work a strict nine to five day, and that no employer or job deserves more than that if you aren’t getting paid overtime. He sort of has a point.

There is history here, too – I once work a job which paid badly and demanded incessant fifty to 60 hour weeks, which I put in. That plus the commute to that job took a toll on my health and on our relationship, so I can see that my husband doesn’t want that to happen again. His fears are understandable, but from my perspective it’s a little frustrating – can’t he see that I learned my lesson from that other job?

From a practical point of view, there’s not a lot of benefit in it for me to insist with my employer on an eight hour work day. At work I have interesting, rewarding things to do that I get paid well for doing. Coming home earlier would just mean I had more time to do the housework. Sure, theoretically I could use extra time to get more writing done, but in practice my husband and I are both such neat freaks that I’d feel too guilty to be able to sit down and write while the house was a mess, so the housework would come first, and housework is such a time suck – there’s always more to be done – that I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to carve out any more writing time than I’ve currently got.

But, you say, this is a dire viewpoint. Maybe my husband just wants to spend more time with his wife. To which I reply, that may well be true – and I’d definitely like to spend more time with him – but my husband, in addition to working full time, is in school half time and plays in a band. Of the two of us, I spend a lot more time at home than he does. And if I can deal with not seeing him as much as I’d like because of his obligations, why won’t he cut me some slack for my work obligations? It’s my career, I’m passionate about my field, I enjoy it, I’m ambitious. And as long as I’m able to maintain a good life-work balance, I think it’s okay to choose to spend 45 hours a week in the office instead of putting up a fight for 40.

So far, though, I’ve been unable to convince my husband of this, which makes me wonder if I am just completely off base. I also don’t know anyone else with this problem, so that’s hard too – I have no model to follow. I guess I’ll just continue to muddle through as best I can – which is what we all spend life doing, so I’m in good company there.

The Second Shift Begins

I'm just sitting down to write this at 10:30. Today I worked from 9 am - 7 pm (my husband had class this evening - after a full day at work - which meant I had the rare luxury of working late, since there would be no one at home tapping their feet and looking at their watch impatiently.)

I got home at 8 and started the second shift. (I don't have a bad commute, mostly sitting and reading on the subway and then a 15 minute walk at the end, but it does take an hour.) Once home, I changed out of and hung up my office clothes and made the bed (which I hadn't gotten around to in the morning) and fed and watered the cats. Then I made dinner (homemade mac & cheese with a bunch of leftover veggies thrown into the veloute and topped with crumbs from the end of a loaf of bread I made this weekend.) I did the dishes as I went along so the end mess wouldn't be too huge. My husband got home from school around then and we sat down for dinner, which was nice. After dinner he finished the dishes while I scooped the catboxes and folded a load of laundry. All of that brought me to 10:30, which is when I finally sat down and started writing this.

I don't really have a larger point to make here, except that jeez, being a grownup is tiring sometime. No wonder I don't have any dang kids; even if I could afford them, I'm tapped out just taking care of the cats and myself and my husband.

School work

Things are getting busy around here. There is always something happening around Small Person's school now; keeping track of the paperwork is a quite a job by itself. Today we got up early, put our work clothes on and headed to school for the annual clean up day. We could have slept in longer, but I'd rather get my chores done early to leave enough room for later fun. We rolled into the parking lot on time to find one other car parked there. One. It belonged to the parents facilitating the event.

I know the basic definition implies that a "Volunteer Work Day" is not mandatory. I know people like to sleep in, or attend services, or want their day off to be just that. I also know that the schools need all the help they can get. I am not excusing our state legislature (or our national educational priorities, for that matter) for its part in this situation, but, c'mon people. One hour? Is that too much to ask?

I don't really have extra funds to contribute to the umpteen raffles, sales, and incentive programs that the local parents' group coordinates. What I do have is some extra time, so that is the currency I spend. I also sincerely believe that my child will learn by my example and today that example showed her how much her parents care about her school. No matter that she tired of picking up garbage after fifteen minutes and headed to the playground. She's five, I give her a pass. I also thoroughly appreciate those that do contribute cash or are running the other fundraising events. I'm generous, I'll give them a pass, too. But, based on my glance at the list of expected volunteers, that must be the remaining 99% of parents whose children attend this small school and decided they didn't need to help out today.

Yeah, let's go with that explanation, it's the one most likely to cheer me up.

My old ponies

Butterscotch and Blossom sit on the windowsill in my daughter’s play area. They were born in 1982, so they’re getting on in age – Blossom’s got missing hair, artfully replaced by a bunch of lilac and yellow ribbons – but their expressions are still patient and placid, friendly and calm.

They’re My Little Ponies -- the Barbies of the animal kingdom, with their girlish prancing forms and large, coy eyes. And they are my My Little Ponies, accumulated during the years when pre-teen horse craziness and an affinity for bright colors intersected.

I had many, and last time we were at my mother’s house we dug them out of the closet for my daughter.

But I feel weird about them, the way they are anthropomorphized – in a way that suggests, if not overtly, sexiness and all the “girl” qualities of flirtatiousness and shiny, shiny hair.

Blossom and Butterscotch are from the first run of ponies, before they got quite so bad, but I have some from later years, too, and they only get more ridiculous.

I’m not sure if I want my daughter to subtly absorb all this weird stuff -- I mean, these ponies come with everything from sparkly combs to wedding dresses, disco gear and roller skates (all of which I own). I try to gracefully accept the fact that I should relax and let her organize them by size, which is what she does with them, and stop worrying. (Of course I could always sell them…)

But they do sort of bug me out. I don't approve and at the same time I cherish them in the way one cherishes a loved toy from a happy childhood.

Especially old Blossom.

Totally normal

Yesterday was my first day of volunteer time in Small Person's classroom. Oddly, the most reassuring thing about it was the evidence that my kid is excessively normal. Goofy, smart, distractible, entertaining, cute; but not any more or less than the rest of the class. I know the law of averages theoretically proves that most of us do not fall greatly out of the norm under any circumstances, and nowhere better to observe that than in kindergarten. 

The class is more noticeably full of individuals, and less raging herd than I expected. I managed to remember a few names, and I could definitely see the range in skills of varying types. I would like to say that Small Person was the most smart, the best in class, but I would be wrong. We like to believe that our children are the most unique, the most special, the cream of the crop, and although it is the exception that proves the rule, for the most part, they are not. It doesn't stop us trying to prove it though. All those high-priced preschools with infinite waiting lists, the private/prep schools with their innumerable extracurriculars, and the skyrocketing numbers of applications to well-regarded universities are better examples of tense parents than special kids, in my opinion. Believe me, I'm not excluding myself from this high-strung group, but I am trying to manage it.

How does a parent walk that line between interference and involvement? We're told over and over that we need to pay attention, help with homework, play sports, join healthy social group activities, all for the benefit of our kids' successful lives. It's another push-me-pull-you dilemma that is written about a lot, but rarely with any concrete, useful answers. Sure, kids need attention, but how does that translate to filling their lives with so much activity that they do not have time for the business of being kids? I do want my child to grow up to be a successful adult, but maybe my definition of success is different from yours. I'm delighted that she is having so much fun with school, in large part because I really didn't. I always felt awkward and left out, and would have given anything to feel normal and usual.

Normalcy is underrated. Who knows what angst we have yet to face, but I can take my shoulders down a notch about this one.

9 to 5

So recently I interviewed for a position a headhunter threw my way, and I decided going in that I wanted a certain level of compensation for the job, because it was a lot more responsibility and would also possibly be a lot more work (i.e., more than 40 hours) than my current job.

Fine, right? But here's the female angle: not only do girls have to be sneaky when they negotiate for more money, but I am also the executive in the family - meaning I make most of the decisions and deal with the outside world - everything from insurance to cat vaccinations to wedding registry stuff. That's fine for now, but here's my conundrum: a better-paying, more prestigious, higher salary job would be good in that it had more salary, but would be hard to balance with my role in this marriage. And I don't think a man would get stuck in this position - he'd have to decide to work harder or not when thinking about the job but he wouldn't be averaging 28 hours a week on housework* in addition to increased job responsibilities.

Meanwhile, my husband is clueless that I'm doing so much more than him - he thinks we have split the work equally. And it's hard to argue that point with him without resorting to charts and actual data or a hidden camera, or something. He tries to keep his end up, but he works full time, goes to nursing school half time and plays in a band. It's not as if he's sitting on the couch watching football and lifting up his feet so I can vacuum under them (my first husband actually did this), it's more that he's simply not physically present to help out and, since he's not present, he also doesn't see the work that I am putting in. Dealing with the litterboxes and taking the garbage out are only noticeable if they don't get done, because then the house smells like a garbage barge infested with a herd of feral cats.

It's a hard problem, and one I haven't really figured out yet. I'm sure something will come. In the meantime, I did take the higher-responsibility job, and we will probably use some of the money to have a cleaner come in once a week, to make my life a little easier. I really want Alice, the Bradys' housekeeper. That would be sweet. Unfortunately I don't think I could afford her.




* I am defining housework here as all the non-enjoyable stuff you have to do to keep the house going - cleaning, sure, but also cooking when you don't feel like it or folding laundry or medicating the cats or whatever.

Say "yes" to the natural high

Ah, good – “scientific proof” for my post on post-baby hormone highs.

From the BBC comes this snippet.

Brain scans on 12 new mothers soon after birth found more activity in areas linked to motivation and emotions in those who had a vaginal delivery.

The Yale University team says differences in the hormones generated by birth could be the key.

The women in this study were those who elected to have a Caesarean.

The contractions which are an essential part of a natural birth trigger the release of the hormone oxytocin, which is thought to play a key role in shaping maternal behaviour.

Not that you can’t get Blissed out on oxytocin after having a Caesarean – I know a couple mothers who had C-sections and were floating afterwards. But both of them breastfed and spent long hours nuzzled up against their babies, which also stimulates the wonder drug.

But all this is why I have to feel a little sorry for the men. It’s pretty damn hard being the parent of a small baby, and to do it without the extra brain help? Even harder. Not that the fathers I know don’t love their little ones – but their relationships develop later, and in other less druggie ways.

Hello, I'm cute

Now that we all have online profiles, whether it’s something vaguely professional liked LinkedIn or it’s Facebook or just your profile at some Ning site, I’m seeing a lot of photos. Photos of people. Photos of women, ordinary women, confronted with the sudden need to look sexy.

I’m not talking about bikini shots on your CV website or anything ridiculous like that. I’m talking about the pressure to at least look “cute” online.
Because we all know snapshots are so cruel in their variability – you get one where you look great and one where you were having a great time but you look sweaty and tired and horribly old.

Think of the hundreds of work minutes wasted by a million women trawling through photos to find the right one to post!

And as a vain person, believe me I am not immune.

(There’s always the “photo of your kitten” route, but then people like me who forget names get confused. Like there’s a guy on Facebook who friended me with a picture of a – I guess *his* -- dog, and I have no clue who he is. I’m sure I do know him, I could just click “accept” but it bothers me.)

Speaking of parenting...

My Small Person is having so much fun in kindergarten. Every day is an adventure for her; new friends, activities, tasks, experiences. Unlike Mom, she relishes the new, the unexpected, exciting novelty of different people and places. I try not to telegraph my uneasiness too obviously to her. It's her life, she deserves the respect of making her own choices, decisions, and mistakes. Can she climb that tree? Run x distance away from me at the park? Pour her own juice? I don't know, and neither does she, but we will never find out if I always tell her no, or impose restrictive limits that equal "no" just the same.

Obviously, every circumstance has different variables to take into account. And, maybe not obviously if you don't know me, I would never jeopardize my child's safety. I'm observant, I pay attention, I do freak-out when she gets too close to the street and hover like the best helicopter parent around the pool. The point is, to rein her in too much is to do a disservice to her development as a person.

For example (and what precipitated this topic), there is a fun task each child in her class gets to do, turn by turn. They get to bring home the class plushie animal, with journal, to enjoy cosily, privately. The journal is to record whatever the family would like about the day's activities with the rabbit. We were all introduced to rabbit and journal during orientation, when the teacher explained that the kids could draw a picture, or write something, or, perhaps, have a parent write for them. I know, it's kindergarten, not a lot of writing happening yet, although most kids in the class can write their own names. Today was Small Person's turn! Hooray! But, I was a little surprised when I opened the journal to find tidy, detailed, essays in grown-up handwriting, with nary a drawing or childish scrawl in sight. Why? Too messy? Too childish? I felt confused, and, I admit, judgmental. Why wouldn't these parents "let" their kids draw in the book? Are these folks going to be typing their term papers later? 

Yes, I'm paranoid. And reactionary. And, what else? A crazy hippie permissive attachment parent? Yep, that too. The point is, which is more important; neatness, or creativity? Her ability to follow directions, or her ability to think for herself? Self-esteem, or self-abasement? Okay, maybe that last one was a little harsh. It's late, I have issues of my own. I'll reserve further judgment until Back-to-School Night on Thursday. I'll keep you posted.

I don't like the way you parent

The other day I saw some bad parenting. Nothing horrible – no slap or vicious words. It’s just I was talking to this woman and every word that came out of her mouth was the antithesis of the kind of parenting I value.

This is America – so it’s none of my business what you do and how you live your life, unless you back your car into my house or something. Right?

Only when it’s about babies, it’s hard for me not to – at least – trash talk her in my mind. Some kin of maternal protectiveness, I suppose, makes it difficult not to hate someone that is damaging a child in some way, whether it’s their health or creative development or mental stability or whatever.

And I think that the fact I don’t engage people like that mother (constructively) probably means I don’t have the guts.

Happy Labor Day

It’s Labor Day, and what better time to wish a successful labor to all those mamas out there waiting to give birth.

In politics, absurdity is not a handicap*

So I am a teensy bit conflicted about Sarah Palin as the choice for the republican VP. On the one hand, her stances on global warming (doesn't believe in it), evolution (is a creationist), and abortion (anti-choice) make her an automatic no for my liberal self.

On the other hand, it's pretty cool that there will either be a woman as VP or a black man as president come January. And then my mind blew a little further when it was announced that Palin's 17 year old daughter is pregnant and keeping the baby and getting married. The announcement emphasized how it was the daughter's choice to keep the baby. (I guess, in that family, her other option was adoption?)

And really, that choice is fine - I am actually not being judgey about Palin's daughter's right to keep the baby and get married. But ... what if you aren't the insulated by the economic and social privileges conferred by being the daughter of the governor of Alaska, and your choice is much starker, economically and socially?

So I was talking about the Palin choice with my parents retired, who moved out West and bought a handgun. So they are a good example of independent swing voters who could be induced to vote for John McCain. And Mom and Dad are both leery of talking politics with me; I don't know why, since I am pretty calm about it. I think they just know that we are on opposite sides of the fence and don't want a debate to get heated. Ever. We are WASPs, after all.

Case in point: when I told Dad about Sarah Palin's stance on global warming - I didn't tell him that her office had sued the Bush administration for putting polar bears on the endangered list, I just told him that she didn't believe that climate change was caused by humans - he agreed and said that he thought the earth has been through many changes before and it is probably going through another one and that reducing carbon emissions is, in all likelihood, going to just reduce carbon emissions and not change the path of the planet's climate. I didn't get into the science - lord knows I am not a scientist - I just said that it was okay with me to try to reduce carbon emissions just in case.

And that kind of defines my political stance on everything. I want abortion to be available for everyone, just in case they need it. I want carbon emissions to be reduced, just in case it does help. I believe in evolution (well, I am also an atheist, so that's kind of a no brainer.) I want to improve everyone's social welfare and future, not just my own. I'm not really under any illusions about living in a meritocracy - my nice life is the product of a massive amount of privilege, probably often at the expense of others, and what I want to do with my privilege is share it.

And I think that's a belief system, actually, which is why my parents and I are on the opposite sides of the fence. I believe that I got lucky, and that I have a responsibility to share that luck, no matter how unlikely it is that I will, myself, ever need an abortion and be unable to afford one, or how unlikely it is that serious climate change will disrupt the course of my life (probably won't).

My parents believe in a meritocracy. And that's why they are comfortable voting for someone who wants to take away rights** they don't really see themselves as needing any more (access to abortion) and who likes policies that could wreak havoc on generations to come (drilling for oil in Alaska.) Because they believe that hard work is rewarded, that terrible things are unlikely to come to pass and I ... just don't. Despite my own nice life and how hard I know I have worked to achieve it. I think it's pretty much like belief in god: you have faith, or you don't.



*Napolean Bonaparte

** mind you, I have no idea if my parents agree on this matter or if they are completely comfortable making these votes or if they will even vote for McCain. I sort of set up StrawParents for this post. I'm sure my real parents and not the StrawParents are weighing the options and see the possible loss of abortion rights as less crucial to the well-being of the country than, I don't know, tax cuts or whatever is appealing about John McCain.

Bliss: or Why Men Don't Like Babies

I’m a junkie. What I’m on is legal, free and involves no needles, but at this point it definitely controls my life.

I’m talking about oxytocin. That’s a hormone released during labor and breast-feeding, and also apparently during canoodling. Men can make it, too, but they – obviously – don’t do it as much. According to Wikipedia, the effects of oxytocin gushing around your brain include making virgin sheep like lambs and making me forget things, and also it’s just like taking ecstasy.

What it feels like is Bliss.

When my daughter was born, I entered a world of oxytocin highs that can only be described as Bliss. For the first few weeks I was on Bliss all the time – all I needed to do was touch her, look at her, smell her, and I was off on another high.

Three years later, it’s not as intense, but it’s still going on (cuddling up to a sleeping toddler gives me quite a shot of Bliss).

A crack addict once told me that he was always looking for a repeat of the first high. You smoke again and again, and it is never the way it was, but you can never stop trying.

That’s the way I am with Bliss. Hand me a squishy little baby and something in my brain starts whispering relentlessly: have another one. More Bliss!

So I’m just a slave to my hormones.

This freaks out my husband, K. Where once there was a fairly rational and intelligent person, now there’s this raving Bliss addict who doesn’t care about any of the rational reasons, pro or con, to have another child (his are mostly con: the money we don’t have, the time we don’t have, the one bedroom apartment we live it, etc.). All the Bliss-out addict wants is babies. More, more, more.

I know some women don’t get this high when their babies are born. I’m sure it’s just a brain chemistry thing, but I feel sorry for them like a proselytizer feels sorry for someone who hasn’t been saved.

It may be a drug, but if I’d never done it, I’d never have known Bliss.

Sweaty palms

So, I had a job interview today. No matter how many times I do it, I have to surreptitiously wipe my hand on my skirt before the obligatory handshake, and hope I don't sweat through my extra-strength deodorant plus dusting powder before we wrap it up. The fact that it was the hottest day of the year in these parts did nothing to help and everything to hinder the situation. I despair of ever becoming confident meeting and talking with new people. Especially people in (perceived) authority. This is me outgrowing the crippling shyness of my childhood.

Despite my jitters, I do give good interview and may, indeed, have caught this job. Another retail position for another "green" company that wants to prove itself in the eco market. At least it is a local shop with some pleasant-seeming people and lots of covetable products. (Would I get a discount? Whee! more stuff!) But... but, essentially another boring retail job. Don't get me wrong, it's been almost a year since I've had a job and I am broke beyond belief; I will jump to it if they want to hire me. My options are slim, and have been for awhile. If it hadn't been for my family and boyfriend this past year, this little mommy-and-daughter boat would have sunk.

It's not that I don't want to work, though I will freely admit to a lazy approach to career planning, which has not served me well. My bad; my fault. I'm (still) working on it. What I do want, however, is a job that is interesting, stimulating, pays a reasonable wage, and acknowledges that it is never going to be the primary priority of my life while my child is. Oh yeah, part-time. Is this a fantasy? Throw in a desire for a little healthcare benefit and it really is beyond reality.

So what are my options? Well, the sitting on my ass for a year experiment is officially a failure. All I did was exacerbate my worst habits and outgrow my clothes. Next plan: back to school. Since my girl is finally enrolled in our increasingly dodgy public school system and I do not have to pay for daycare, a part-time school/work/mom schedule is feasible. I am taking a writing class that is very occupation-focused, a change from the theoretical, liberal-arts-based education I know and love. It is another step in my ongoing search for a vocation I can love and live without sacrificing too much of the rest of me.

In the meantime, back to retail.

Alpha (Fe)Male

So I'm getting a dog soon. Well, Andy (my boyfriend) and I are, anyway. We're adopting a former racing greyhound, four years old. He's about 60 lbs., has a brown/gray/black brindle coat, and is generally very reserved and sweet. I've also noticed, in the past few weeks, his distinct preference for Andy.

He's currently staying with a foster parent until the adoption process is finished (outlining the greyhound approval process is a whole other lengthy blog post), and we'll have him in about a week. In the interim, we've been stopping by to take him for walks. On these walks, he's Andy's shadow. He trots up if Andy gets a few steps ahead, looks up at him for approval, and follows all his commands. I think he likes me just fine, but there's no doubt who he considers the alpha male.

Case in point: On our most recent walk, he decided to stop, apparently having had enough for the day. I was holding the leash, and gave a tug. No dice. I used my most authoritative "Okay. Come on," command. He looked at me with a "Lady, you're crazy!" expression.

Andy took the leash. "Come on, Bud." He said, and tugged. The dog acquiesed.

I'll have plenty of time to practice my own alpha male skills over the coming weeks, I'm sure. But in the interim, I'm left wondering: Is it my petite build? My voice, that's a higher register than Andy's? Was my tug just weaker, and not convincing enough? I'm sure the dog was around mostly men at the track, and thus Andy represents something familiar, authoritative, and reassuring.

Maybe that's the issue--an alpha male doesn't wonder, he just does what he's going to do. Maybe the dog felt that wondering in my tug, heard a flicker of doubt in my tone of voice when I said the command.

But dammit--I want instant authority, too! Sadly, in the animal kingdom (or with this dog, at least), I'm going to have to earn it.

Buggy

The seats on the 89 bus are electric-blue plastic, with rows of two gracing the right, and single-file flanking the left. I've been lucky enough to snag one of the singles this afternoon, although, on second glance, the normally packed bus isn't too crowded today. My eye wanders past the weekly banner ads announcing the latest summer-school programs, medical research study requests, and soft drink pitches, resting instead on the elderly woman who has settled in the seat in front of me.

Her clothes are modest, but clean--a straw-colored coat, only slightly frayed at its hem; sensible nurses' shoes catching a rippling pool of loose stocking fabric at each ankle. Her red-mesh tote bag, teeming with vegetables in vibrant greens and yellows, would normally hold my attention, but instead I cannot stop staring at her hair.

Less than a foot away from me, nestled in the crown of her sprayed-and-rolled strands, is a bug. A dead bug--long dead, from the looks of it. It appears fossilized, petrified--a plank of perfectly preserved amber bordered by mere wisps of legs, each a thread-like offshoot. The insect must be at least an inch long, maybe two, and rests, cradled, in the folds of her hair, just where the silver roots peek out, as if it were placed in such an ideal setting for viewing by a curator, scientist, or photographer.

I reach to the tap the woman on the shoulder, then hesitate. I've had my share of awkward moments approaching strangers in the past. I strive to emulate my friend Kathleen, she with her Kansas-friendly smile and twangy accent to match, who approaches bewildered tourists in our guidebook-popular neighborhood with a disarming, "Where ya trying to get?" When I once tried to do the same thing (without the colloquialism, of course), with a clearly lost family of five, I got a host of quizzical looks and an earful of German. I haven't attempted to converse with a stranger since.

The bug's spindly legs, splayed akimbo, seem anchored in place. I look up at the closest advertisement, a poster shouting in bright yellow letters that I could learn Swahili, in addition to more than 50 other tongues, at a local language center. Wryly, I note German among them.

The woman shifts in her seat, clears her throat. The bug doesn't budge from his delicate nest.

I reach out my hand to tap her shoulder. I hesitate. I envision a tussle to wrench the bug free from this silver-blond crown, a mixture of Germanic languages from the old country and new as we attempt to sort out the details, a cascade of peppers and zucchini rolling across the filthy bus floor. In the confusion, I picture the bug disintegrating, like pieces of ash, scattered among each strand of hair. I put my hand back in my lap.

The bus lurches down Broadway. I reach my hand to tap her shoulder again. I'll tell her, I think.

One more stop. Okay, I'm going to tell her.

She shifts in her seat. Now, tell her. From that angle, the bug isn't even visible.

Now.

She rings the bell, stands to get up. I'm frozen. I watch her descend the stairs, take a few steps onto the sidewalk.

I remain on the bus, fraught with propriety and shyness. I didn't tell her.

Hairless

So I shave. Not everything (!) but my legs and armpits. I lived for many years in a European country where, contrary to American assumptions, shaving was mandatory. That is, almost everybody did it, and if you didn’t, you were gross. I didn’t want to be gross, so I shaved.

Before that, I went to college in a pretty hippyfied town where it was cool grunge nature girl not to shave – a trend I also slavishly followed, in my purple plaid, flannel men’s shirt and too big green corduroys.

But now I’m back in America, and I still shave…but sometimes I wonder why.

Well, honestly, I still do it to conform. The only problem is, what am I conforming with? I mean, why are women supposed to be hairless? Because it references youth –- and as the parent of an actual naturally hairless pre-pre-prepubescent girl, I am kind of disturbed by my own behavior.

But not enough to stop shaving.

A Cara by any other name would still smell as sweet, right?

“don't give me your name please.”





This was the entirety of an email sent to me by my new (as of May) husband Dave. It was the end of a string of emails between my and my mom (Dad and Dave were cc’d on all the back and forth) about the weather up in Maine where we are going to visit my parent this weekend.

I was completely confused by his email (maybe more discerning readers aren’t) and called him. Turns out that somewhere in the email string he saw “Cara and Dave deBeer” and thought that I’d changed the name field to “Cara and Dave deBeer” to show as sender on my own emails. deBeer is my last name, not his (I did not take his name when we got married) and Dave was, understandably, objecting to his wife inflicting her last name on him when he was quite happy with his own – particularly when said wife had not changed her name on marriage. In fact, I hadn’t actually made any changes to my name on email and the misunderstanding was quickly cleared up – in her Blackberry contacts lists, my mom has an entry for “Cara and Dave deBeer” (her little joke) which apparently has my personal email listed as the primary email for that entry.

So no problems, right? Right, but I thought it was interesting enough to write about since he’s also mentioned that he’s a little weirded out when he gets called “Mr. deBeer” at the vet. (All four cats have my last name, since I’m generally the one who does the cat/vet wrangling – a division of labor topic all on its own, but not in this post.) And then I thought how interesting it is that his reaction is so different to my own – I’m pretty sure this year that we’ll get Christmas cards addressed to Mr and Mrs Dave’sLastName, and probably my letters from older relatives (not that I have many left) will be sent to Mrs. Cara Dave’sLastName, even though I’m still Ms. Cara deBeer – and all of that stuff is so not worth getting worked up over, even though it blithely ignores my own conscious choices and reasons not to take my husband’s name. They’re letters and Christmas cards – it’s really okay with me here to accept these well wishes in the loving spirit they are written. In different circumstances, yeah, I’d be pissed, but social niceties like this are not worth losing sleep over.

Anyway, so Dave finds the experience of being associated with his spouse’s name disconcerting because he’s so unprepared for it, while as a girl, I’ve been prepared for it all my life by a million cultural inculcations, and my job is to pick my battles. Being addressed as “HisLastName” on letters? Not worth it. Defending my decision to a (male) friend not to take his name: worth it. “But my wife changed her name!” he said, when I awkwardly explained what a pain in the ass it is to change one’s name across credit cards and bank accounts and email accounts and insurance policies and and and … and I don’t want to, basically. Valid reasons aside, I didn’t want to change my name. My friend’s attitude was pretty much like, “If my wife did it, you can do it!” Which misses the point: I didn’t change my name to Dave’s last name because I didn’t want to.

I like deBeer. It has been my name all my life. I am attached to it, quirky capitalizations and questions about association with certain famous diamond purveyors* aside. And Dave feels the same about his last name, which is why it’s strange for him at the vet and coming across it unexpectedly in someone’s contact list – those are instances where his choice not to take my name is ignored, for one reason or another. (I should specify: I’m writing about this because it occupies a lot of my headspace, but I don’t think it’s more than a mosquito on the windshield for Dave; he’ll probably have forgotten about the whole thing or wonder why I’m making such a big deal out of it by the time he gets around to reading this.)

And here’s the kicker: this is really about choice, and respect. I have another friend who has changed her email name display so it now reads “Mrs. HerFirstName HisLastName”, which is cool, although I personally think including Mrs. is an unnecessarily formal display on an email. But she wants to emphasize her own choice, which is, again, cool. Lots of my friends have gotten married and are now Mrs. HisLastName. Others are still Ms. HerLastName. Some men are now Mr. HerLastName. And as long as everyone understands and respects the choices of others, I have no problem with any of it.

Writing all this has made me think that A) this really written from, and about, hetero marriages, which is my perspective, but B) I wish I knew how gay people dealt with this and C) I really wish gay marriage was legal in more states than MA and CA, so I’d have a bit more information and a valuable perspective outside of the whole patriarchal name-goes-down-the-male-line stuff that heteros get shunted into when they marry.

Update: when I re-read that last sentence, I realized that it read as if I was lamenting the availability of gay marriage for my own sake. I think gay marriage should be legal all over because that's what's fair. And as a nice side bonus, it would provide me with more models of marriage to look at and learn from than just the standard hetero one.

* no relation. It's a coincidence I and that company both have Dutch roots from a century ago. And yes, I disapprove of that company's despicable human rights practices and price fixing and attempts to gain a monopoly on the gem market as much as you do.

Finally, a hilarious board game just for women, exclamation mark

I was walking through Borders today (on my way to all the fun Paperchase stuff – but that’s for a different blog) when I literally stopped in my tracks.

I had caught sight of this.




Even without a closer look at the box, my heart sank. Please don’t let this be a board game only for women.

• Requires female intuition and humor (not included).
• A Dame hilarious game for women of all ages (17+). 2-8 players.

The whole thing just pisses me off. First of all, dame. Dame? Who is marketing this? What’s the demographic – I am guessing the Sex and the City one judging from the photo on their website, but seriously, when’s the last time you heard someone calling themselves a dame. If they weren’t in a revival of Guys and Dolls.

First of all, a game just for women is already weird. I mean, yeah, sometimes it’s fun to hang out only with girlfriends, but what the hell is wrong with Trivial Pursuit?

Secondly, this thing is so condescending it makes me what to hurl the box to the floor and step on it.

Here’s a sample “dame dilemma” that you have to solve in some “hilarious dame” type of way.

• “I just got the worst haircut of my life, what’s a DAME to do?!”

[Notice the question mark followed by a bang. Because girls! are so excited! all the time!!!!”

The options – on cards -- are:

• Remember there are no accidents
• Get out the scissors.
• Think, this too shall pass.
• Put on a push up bra. [As they say on the internet, wtf?]
• Have a good cry.
• Declare cocktail hour! [There comes the bang again.]

I have no clue how this game is scored, nor do I care. I think it's about guessing your friend's reactions -- and I think you all can guess mine.

Spanx for the memories

Oh my god, I come up with the most wretched post titles, someone really ought to stop me.

What I am actually planning on writing about is another wardrobe problem. I have to go shopping soon for clothing for a specific event. I don't hate clothes shopping but right now it's pretty far down on my list as far as leisure activities. It's expensive, for one thing, and it takes time, for another. Also right now I am about five pounds heavier than normal. This is due to my yearly summertime bloat. (I tried on some dressy clothes - the kind not made of forgiving stretchy denim or cotton - and they still fit, but I'm right at the outer edge where I can wear them.) And that means that anything that I buy right now which fits will be too big when I go back to my more usual weight. And we don't have enough closet space to hang onto two complete wardrobes in two sizes, though I think every woman probably has some size range in her closet. More to the point, I don't want to buy an awesome outfit I love but won't be able to wear most of the time.

But then I thought: I can wear tights when I'm shopping! Spanx, specifically. And that'll suck me in enough that when my weight goes down in winter, the new clothes will still fit perfectly.

So is this like a moral or feminist victory of some kind about women and weight? I doubt it, but it's an elegant practical solution to my problem. Which I'll settle for, right now.

Carla Bruni and women being men

There was an article in Vanity Fair about Carla Bruni.

I admit to not having ever heard of her before she ended up with Sarkozy, so I was curious.

Now, it’s a fairly flattering profile, and superficial, I know…but I was interested in my own reactions to it.

My first was the typical tear-down a woman does when confronted with another woman who is (a) beautiful at forty, (b) rich, (c) successful in modeling! and music!, and (d) now a major VIP.

“Oh, well, she’s not that gorgeous. And it's airbrushed. And she’s an heiress, so it’s all given to her on a platter. She’s a rock star groupie, and please, breathy folky music with soul-searching lyrics? Give me a break…"

But the more I read, the more I started to admire her.

She’s described in masculine terms – as an “alpha female” or as a hunter of men.

To me what that says about her is that she feels entitled, something women have a problem with. I’m not talking about our modern American environment-wrecking entitlement, but rather the ability to demand rather than to apologize, ask, then apologize for asking.

It reminded me of something I heard on NPR – an interview with Norah Vincent, a woman who went undercover as a man. (She’s not transgender, this was just to find out how the other half lives.) She said one of the lessons she would take back to her woman life from her stint as man was that men are much more comfortable demanding things, or rather asking for things without apology, without flirting, without looking like we just don’t want to bother anybody but would you mind just a little bit…

So maybe Carla Bruni is a homewrecker, if she feels like making music rather than being a muse, so much the better. I don’t even care if it’s good.

Demographic targeting and implicit messages

So, Facebook's display ads use demographic targeting based on all the information you give them - age, gender, marital status, etc. That's totally fine, and when my status was "engaged" I got a bunch of wedding-planning ads - unsurprising. My husband Dave said he saw the same thing.

Now that my status has changed to "married", though, I'm being targeted with ads for pampers and custom bracelets with your kids' names on them. Ew! I'm guessing that my age (30), marital status and gender are what's triggering these types of ads. Funnily enough, Dave's Facebook profile isn't showing him the same sorts of ads at all - he's seeing ads for clothing. And then you wonder why equal parenting - splitting the childcare responsibility evenly between parents - isn't as simple as it sounds ... you've got this whole shitty cultural system telling you in a bunch of different ways that women = responsible for kids = supposed to want kids. Also, of course, that marriage = children. No wonder women and men absorb these messages - advertising is just an obvious manifestation of the phenomenon.

This has another dimension for me personally, which is that I write and run some ads which could potentially appear on Facebook. Not the ads I've been talking about - I'm not currently handling any display advertising or working with demographically targeted ads, but I do advertise with MSN, and MSN has a deal with Facebook for advertising. So here I am, ranting from inside the belly of the beast. Ah, sweet ironies of life.

Work clothes, part three

Back at Cara’s response to my wardrobe – I solve my conundrum at H&M.

I’ve probably shopped at that store in at least half a dozen countries. They didn’t have one when I lived in Budapest, although they do now, and I was there last time I visited, in January.

There are a bunch in the Bay Area now – two in downtown SF, one of which is huge.

Their work clothes are interesting enough that I can still feel a little, um, fashionist going there. I have an H&M suit that I wear very infrequently, so it doesn’t matter that the seams are weak. And most of it seems to be made in Romania and Bulgaria, so I feel almost at home.

It does, though, pander to my materialism. It’s so cheap that I can afford to buy and buy, which isn’t really a good thing. I’m sure I have a pretty big carbon footprint just because of cheap funky tops.

Work clothes, part two

I can relate to Maya's wardrobe conundrum - how do you dress business-casual (that's what it sounds like she needs) and not just look like everyone else, wearing some kind of wide-legged pants and this season's style in floaty tops? When I was in a client-facing role I usually wore a lot of black, nicely fitted, and if I didn't look original at least I didn't hate myself. The dry-cleaning bill sucked, though.

But these days I have sort of an opposite problem. Although I work in an office (a real live cube farm!), it's pretty casual - jeans every day is not a problem, and most of the developers wear a jeans-and-t-shirt sort of uniform. In my company clothing divides along male/female and career lines - men are more casual than women and sales and marketing tends to be more dressed up than dev. Managers are usually more dressed up than us regular folks, and female managers dress up more than male managers. There are individual exceptions to all these rules - I am one of them, totally letting the marketing side down with my slobbiness - but in the main they hold true, and I've seen these roles play out in more than one company.

I love the casual and take as much advantage of it as possible, but it allows me to be lazy - I end up rotating the same three pairs of jeans and my favorite sweaters until it's all way past its sell-by date. And while there's something to be said, I guess, for thriftily wearing your clothes until they've got holes in them, usually the clothes start to look pretty bedraggled long before the holes appear.

It's not really that I can't afford new clothes (although that was the issue for a while), and it's not that I hate shopping (I don't; stuff off the rack usually looks pretty good). It's that I'm lazy and time-impaired. Too time-impaired to consider shopping as a leisure activity (when I could be reading or cooking or blogging or going for a walk or playing with the cats or learning how to knit or sew or whatever; my list of leisure activities is long and ambitious) and I'm too lazy to put together interesting outfits based on what lives in my closet.

Occasionally, if Dave has a show or something, I'll pull an outfit together. But the rest of the time it's jeans and a sweater and no makeup, and yeah my clothes fit and yeah I have a good haircut and yeah my glasses are kind of cute, but as a whole it lacks pizazz. I don't feel cute unless I've at least got a little makeup on and have a somewhat pulled-together outfit. But since I don't have (or don't make) the time for this in the morning (usually too busy medicating cats and blogging), frumpy is my default go-to. Which I'm not totally thrilled about, honestly, but I lack the discipline to dress for success just because I ought to. Even though I bet my dressing badly is actually a factor, conscious or not, in management decisions not to promote me or whatever. So - if I want a promotion, which would be nice at some point, I definitely should start dressing better. This will require me to spend more time on myself (good), focus more on my appearance (maybe good, maybe not) and will require some discipline (ugh).

I will let you know how it turns out, if a promotion shows up despite my t-shirts and jeans. I sort of hate having to think about this at all, because in my head, how I look isn't related to the quality of the work I produce, but in the real world (outside my head), how I look matters a whole big bunch.

Work clothes

A friend of mine started a very good media internship at the beginning of summer. She’s a mother and a grad student and hip, always looks great. But she was carping about needing new clothes to look “proper” for her job.

This is something that I think about a lot. I have to go out and talk to people for my work and the vibe needs to be such that what I’m wearing, how I look, doesn’t get in the way of our communication. I need to be neutral, almost not even there. I want my sources to talk to me as they would talk to themselves in the shower (…wait, most people talk in the shower, don’t they?...) without trying to frame their message to the person opposite them with a notebook and pen.

That’s a complicated way of saying that I don’t want a retiring businesswoman that I’m profiling to look at me and go, ‘Oh, a Temescal hipster, she won’t understand.’

At the same time, I need to feel comfortable in my own professional role, which means not wearing clothes I can’t stand. I want to walk into any interview situation with confidence and grace – and feeling like ‘me.’ Too drab and I feel old (a whole other problem).

So it’s all about the clothes. On one hand, I want to look tidy and respectable, on the other hand I want to look hip and interesting to give my own confidence a boost.

This means, the bigger the interview the more time I spend choosing what to wear, yet I always end up wearing the same things.
Should I be free of props and baggage? Maybe so.

All those pajama blogger types out there have moved past this, of course. They are post-wardrobe.

Weighty topic of weight

So a strange thing happens to me every summer: I gain about ten pounds between June and October. This has been going on for about 4 years now, and it wasn't until last summer that I realized there was a pattern and it wasn't just the start of my slide into obesity.

But - and this is where you're going to roll your eyes - I'm not actually positive that I gain the weight. It could be an illusion caused by the summer's increased humidity and water retention plus being more self-conscious because of wearing skimpier summer clothing. The only time I ever get on the scale is at the doctor's office*.

Generally I judge my weight by how well my clothes fit, and since I wear non-elastic jeans about 3 times a week, it's pretty easy to tell if there's an increase in the amount of muffin top spillover at the waist or if, looking down at my thighs, they look like plump sausages in a denim casing, decorated with cat's whiskers at the crotch. And because it's summer, a thin t-shirt doesn't do much to hide the ooze over the top of the waistband of my jeans - you can see a fabric-covered bulge clearly outlined in a way that my winter wardrobe of seventeen layers doesn't show.

Okay, so it's seasonal, and it sort of doesn't matter if it's in my head or real, since it'll go away. But it means I spend nearly half the year feeling fat and uncomfortable in my own skin, and getting into bathing suits takes more courage than it does for a holiday in the Caribbean in February.

I'm writing about this now because the summer downward spiral has started and I'm feeling blobby and gross - it's like having PMS bloat for five months. (During, of all cruelties of fate, bathing suit season, goddamit!) I don't really know the answer - if I should just buy a scale and clear it up for once and for all, if I should have a larger summer wardrobe (my clothes still fit ... I just don't perceive that they fit me as well or as flatteringly), if I should talk about it with my shrink and work on body acceptance no matter what season it is - obviously I've got some a few issues still around my weight. Maybe there is no easy answer to this one.




* Unsurprisingly, if I owned a scale I would use it to torment myself. So scales are Not Allowed in the house, apart from cooking scales. And - according to the doctor's office - my weight has been stable for about 5 years now. But I'm not usually at the doctor's in summer either; plus you can be five pounds heavier or lighter on any given day just because of water retention ... You see now why I don't have a scale?

Short vs. long

Okay, so I mentioned my haircut, right? It’s totally neat and chic and arty and fun and – short.

See, I used to have long hair, for ages. Short hair looks better on me though, and it’s hella (as they say ‘round here) easy to make look good (thank you, Aveda).

But.

Guys don’t flirt with me *nearly* as much. And this bothers me.
I can’t help it. Its true that I’m not looking for a date, I’ve got a steady, but I’m not living in a cave, free from all societal pressures, and so yes, I value males telling me I’m cute.

And I’m not *less* cute than when I had long hair, there’s just something guy-pulling about long hair.

It seems sort of hypocritical of me to both value the flirt attention but be mad that guys like some stereotypical maidenly image. But, you know, I am.

I am still thinking about this. Sometimes I decide that I’ll go back to long hair, even though I know I looked much less put together, more frumpy, and also I had to constantly wash it. Then I want to smack myself and say, ‘Hello, you look good, shut up already.’

Girl to woman

Why Weekday Girl and not Weekday Woman? (Or Weekend Woman, even?) I mean, I’m over thirty, and a mom – I’m a woman, whether I like it or not. Why trivialize womanhood, turn myself into a “chick” instead of an empowered adult?

My only answer is that every woman still has her girl inside – that hopeful, ambitious seven-year-old who dreamed of time travel or ponies or the White House. I’m pretty in touch with that inner kid, and she’s the part of me that is willing to take on the world.

So I know it’s a controversial title, but all the same, Hail to the Girls!
(And the Weekday part is because the things we’re talking about are part of our everyday lives – my haircut, your boss, the governor’s health care policy…these things are definitely around every day.)

Revving up

Hello, and welcome – gulp -- to the inaugural post of Weekday Girl. (It’s scary going first!)

This blog is about girl things, women things, everyday good and bad things. It’s anything about being a girl – that means we will write about anything from the fact that we like clothes (natch) to the fact that some of us can’t get proper jobs because our country doesn’t integrate mothers back into the workforce.

So let us know what you have to say -- because there are a lot of us girls out there and we need to listen to each other.