Ooof

A week since my last post? How'd that happen?

Oh, right. I know.

1. I spent several days obsessing over a work evaluation, convinced I was about to be booted from my job, only to get a really glowing initial report (more to come) and be forced to realize that I am STILL that girl in college who used to convince everyone around her that she had really failed the test this time, not like all those other times, here let me show you just how I know I failed...only to wind up with the highest grade in the class. It's OK to hate me for that. You'd think by now I'd know better.

2. I celebrated my 11th wedding anniversary by having a steak dinner at a local establishment where somehow Baroy and I decided we should discuss our pre-marriage sexual indiscretions in greater detail than we ever had in the past. It was only after we left, however, that I realized that the fact that I knew the general gist of the conversations at the three tables nearest us in the restaurant--and had realized I actually knew the occupants of one of those tables, based on what they were saying about mutual friends of ours--means that, um, yeah, maybe the topic of sexual indiscretions is one that I should have reserved for HOME?

3. The other half of said celebration involved us renting a movie at Blockbuster--a bad movie, disappointingly bad--and watching it on the couch at home, with a large black-brown Labrador shoved in between us, while we waited for our kids to return home from their trip to see Wicked at the Pantages Theater with Uncle Stevie. It still kills me that this was his "gift" to us--leaving us home while they went to see a hit show. (Even killinger--no, not a word, so sue me--is the fact that it actually did turn out to be a gift. We had a lovely time, inappropriate conversations and less-than-mediocre movies aside.)

4. We had a parent-teacher conference with N's new kindy teacher. This required much prep work on my end, as I worried (and worried and worried) about what she might say. What did she say? He's great. He's doing fine...right on grade level, even edging toward above grade level, in all subjects. She ADORES him. We still need to work on social skills--duh--but even those are getting better. Nothing to worry about, here. I left with my mouth hanging open.

5. Malaise has taken over my life. What is it with this fucking malaise? I simply, literally, CAN NOT SLEEP ENOUGH. Can not get out of bed in the mornings to take the kids to school. Can not stop myself from taking an afternoon nap, except by going out for long walks, during which I find myself really considering laying down on the sidewalk. I always assume these things are mental health related, but am considering this time the possibility of something a little more physical. Every time this has hit me in the past, however, I've had tests done, and no, my thyroid is fine, and no, I'm not anemic. So rather than go that route, I'm trying a few supplements, to see if they might give me the pick-me-up I need. We'll see. Meanwhile, if you're looking for me, I'm probably still asleep. Or napping. Or laying down with N or Em. Or going to bed early. You get the idea.

The heroism and narcissism of the male ego

When Baroy finally got home on Sunday, exhausted and dispirited, there was this sign on the window awaiting him, and two kids who were jumping up and down at the sight of his really cool medal, and a comment and a post from Rich that brought a smile to his face, and he got over the worst of the disappointment remarkably quickly.

Later, he was sitting with Em and me and said, "You know what really kept me going? It was the thought that I didn't want to have to tell my kids," [and here he looked at Em] "I didn't want you guys to ever say to someone, 'Yeah, my dad ran the LA Marathon, but he didn't finish it.'"

You can look at that two ways: You can think, "My husband got through the last 14 miles of a marathon because he wanted to teach his kids how not to be a quitter. How wonderful is that?" Or, you can think, "My husband got through the last 14 miles of a marathon based entirely on not wanting to take an ego hit. How ridiculous is that?"

I think both.

-------

My father's girlfriend called me today to talk about some semi-issues with my dad's health, as she does on occasion. At the end of the conversation, she shared with me this line, from the mouth of her 4-year-old grandson, who apparently experienced his first noticeable, um, erection this morning, and went running to his mom, yelling, "Mommy, Mommy! My penis grew bigger! Does that mean I told a lie?"

I guffawed. And I don't often guffaw. It's just not ladylike.

But that just begs for a punch line, doesn't it? Leave it in the comments, and whoever posts the best one will get...I dunno. Something. Kudos, probably. Or maybe cookies.

Looks like he'll make it

He called from near mile 23, sounding as miserable as he did at mile 12.

"My body just aches," he said.

"Well, so does mine, and I'm just lying in bed with the flu. I'm not running."

"Oh, honey. I'm not running either." He gave a weak laugh.

So he's thinking he'll make it to the finish line, jog-walking his way there. He won't hit is personal goal, with was to do it in 4:40 or less. But he'll make it.

And we'll treat him like a hero when he comes home. If I can manage to drag myself out of bed long enough to cheer for him, that is.

P.S. I let N go to the Purim carnival at temple with Em this morning because he spent all day yesterday fever-free. I didn't even bother to check first. But when he got home, he seemed off and felt warm, and has a temperature of over 102 again. I should be shot. And I probably will be, by the temple full of carnival-goers, several of whom offered to watch my kids for me so that I wouldn't spread my gooey goodness among the revelers, only to find out, belatedly, that I sent in a Trojan Horse-Boy.

Running

You know, sometimes I forget and think that the only people who can touch me in that unique way, the only people capable of breaking my heart are my kids.

Baroy just called from the marathon, and I could hear tears in his voice.

"I don't think I'm going to make it," he said, his voice breaking. "I've only gone 12 miles, and I don't think I''m going to make it."

I tried to tell him that it's OK. That it's hot out there for March (well into the 70s). That he's been trying to ignore the fact that he's got, at best, a cold, and at worst, the beginnings of the flu that the rest of us have been battling. That he's only doing this for himself. That I'm proud of him.

"I know, I know," he jsut kept saying, miserably. "Bye."

Heart. Breaking.

Fever

I've succumbed to whatever the kids had, and it's kicking my butt.

So, in lieu of a real post--one in which there are supposed to be complete sentences that lead one into the other and further a point or points--I'm going to give you some fevered ramblings. Actually, I'm going to ask you some fevered questions.

1. Is there an age at which a daughter should no longer sleep in bed with her father? A son with his mother? (We've been trying to segregate the sick and the non-sick here and it's made for some interesting bed arrangements.)

2. Is it being a helicopter parent when you call your daughter's teacher to get some clarity on an assignment sent home to your sick kid, even if said sick kid begs you not to? (Background: They were doing oral book reports. When Em's friend C brought over the last-minute instructions, she said that the teacher said if Em wasn't there the next day, then she wouldn't get a grade on the report at all. I KNEW that to be crap; C is a notorious drama queen. Em didn't want me to call because she thought it would sound like she didn't trust C. I insisted, saying it was because *I* don't trust C. The reality, when I talked to the teacher: They were taping the reports for back-to-school night, and the teacher said that if Em wasn't there, she wouldn't be on the video loop of the report. Still, I found that out against Em's protests. No matter what I said, she didn't want me intervening, but I went ahead and did it anyway. I think I just answered my question: I'm a chopper, all right.)

3. A rhetorical query: Baroy is running the LA Marathon tomorrow, despite the fact that he's got the cough that--in the rest of us--indicates a fever is coming. If he dies of a heart attack or dehydration during the marathon because he refuses to consider just not running it, would I be justified in killing him?

4. Damn, I feel like shit. No question about that.

He Says Potato, I Say What The Fuck Are You Talking About?

Baroy and I connect on some very fundamental things and on a very personal level. But sometimes, when I look around this house, I wonder how we ever found each other, much less came to live together.

We both have areas in our family room that are designated as our offices. The area he chose is in the darkest, windowless corner of the room. My desk is situated between a wall with two windows and another that has our double french doors (each with 15 small panes of glass), and has not only a light overhead, but a lamp behind me. And I still complain abour it being too dark.

We rarely watch television together any more, because he keeps the sound up at decibels levels that I consider assaultive, while I need it so low that the padding of the dog's paws as he walks across the floor can make it difficult to understand what is being said. My greeting to him almost every morning, as I come downstairs while he's listening to Air America, is "Could you turn that down, please?" If it were up to me, even dance music would be kept at a whisper. (And I wonder where N gets his "sensory defensiveness"--his tendency to put his hands over his ears whenever there's a lot of noise around him?)

Baroy opens the windows in the living room to let the cool air in no matter what the temperature is outside, and likes to run a fan in our bedroom even in the dead of winter (whatever that means in Los Angeles). I am a heat seeker, and will pump up the thermostat in the house and then STILL insist on putting a fire in the fireplace.

He dislikes coffee and beer, my two favorite beverages. I could live on pasta and cheese; two foods he absolutely despises. (Imagine trying to cook for a man who eats neither pasta nor cheese...nor cream sauces, nor avocado, nor yams, nor pretty much every other thing I love. It's hell, I tell you. Hell.) Our refrigerator might as well have lines of demarkation for 'his foods' versus 'my foods.'

He likes action-adventure movies; I like documentaries. He likes 60s doo-wop and show tunes (gayest stright man I've ever met!); I'm a child of 70s rock (Rush, anyone?), though I've mellowed in my old age a bit.

I know these are all superficial things, but sometimes--after I've walked through the house turning on lights, shutting windows, turning up the thermostat and muting radios and TV sets--I just have to shake my head.

It's a good thing I like him, that's all I can say. And I'm sure he'd say the same about me.

More Malaise, Emphasis on the Laise

I fell asleep at around 11, putting N to bed. Considering it couldn't have taken him more than 30 seconds to pass out, this means it took me no more than 31.

I woke up at 1:30 to stumble up to my bed, noticing that Baroy had done ALL the dishes, returned the kitchen table to the kitchen, swept everything, even cleaned the counters. I love that man.

I woke up at around 8, hearing the kids downstairs. Since nobody seemed to need me, I turned on my work laptop, which I've been keeping up in my room, and checked emails, etc. Baroy, coming up to get his shoes on to take Snug to the dog park, laughed and said he was pretty sure that this was what the Pilgrims did on the day after Thanksgiving...lazed in bed and surfed the Web. That man mankes me laugh.

While he was gone, the kids came upstairs and climbed into bed with me. They scratched my back and then laid on it (and is there anything more heavenly than a warm, heavy body stretched out on an aching back?), and cuddled with me until they got bored; after I responded to a request for homemade french toast with "I'm not cooking for a MONTH, thank you very much," they went downstairs and got themselves some cereal. I snuggled back under the covers, heard Baroy return home, and promptly fell back to sleep until 12:45. I love that man.

Now it's 6:45, and I'm fighting valiantly to stay awake. I took a walk in the brisk-for-Los-Angeles late afternoon air, but it's done me no good. I'm TIRED. I'm LAZY. I'm MALAISE-Y.

Damn that tryptophan is good. Sleep tight, everyone.

Another Reason to Regret My Attempt At Anonymity On This Blog

In short: The picture I took last night of Baroy, sprawled out across our Big Comfy Chair, "resting his eyes" while the kids watched Spy Kids 2 during Family Movie Night, with N's Spongebob Squarepants doll nestled in the crook of his arm.

Hilarious. And just the piece of ammunition I need for Thanksgiving dinner when he threatens, as he always does when there's a fresh audience, to trot out that old story about how I once unwittingly tried to kill my cat.

What? You mean to tell me that the stability of your marriage isn't based on a strategy of Mutually Assured Embarrassment? Well, where's the fun in that?

A Sense Of Ownership

I fell asleep on N's bed (again) last night. Before Baroy went to bed, he came and shook me awake. This is what we do. This is fine.

I stumbled out to our office/family room, remembering that I'd left my computer (an iBook) open on my desk, and wanting just to close the cover before I went to sleep. It was off. This is what Baroy does. This is NOT fine.

He and I have had this conversation about a million times before. It is my computer, I'll tell him. There are often reasons I don't want it shut down...programs that are open, documents I haven't saved. But that's not even the point. The point is that it is my computer. Mine.

There are so few things in this house that are mine. Baroy and I share a room, a bed. (Not that I'm complaining, mind you!) We share an office, which is also our family room. The food in our refrigerator is everyone's; if I buy myself a treat, it's just as likely to be gone when I go for it as it is to still be there for me. Em is already at the stage where she likes to borrow my clothes (they're still too big for her to go out in, but she often sleeps in my shirts) so I never know if something will be there when I want to wear it.

Of course, Baroy and I own this house together, but somehow, in one of those ways in which I've not quite fulfilled my earlier-life dreams of self-sufficiency, I do not feel like it's really mine. I don't know how to fix things, or even where everything is in the house and how they work. I've abdicated that responsibility to Baroy in certain areas, and I'm OK with that. Same with "my" car, which has both of our names on the registration, and which Baroy takes care of in terms of maintenance, etc. But it does make me feel like a fake in many ways. Not a real grownup. Real grownups have ownership. I'm being taken care of.

A lot of the 'big' things in our house are someone else's. Our big old plasma-screen TV was a present for Baroy's 50th birthday, and he treats it as his. (That's fine with me; I no longer watch regularly anyway. There isn't a single series on TV right now I'm interested in.) The TV in the family room is one we bought for the kids last year, so they would have something to watch when Baroy is settled in front of the plasma. I sometimes almost feel like I need to ask permission to sit down and watch a movie on a DVD player; it's a stupid feeling, but a feeling nonetheless.

There are a few things I feel ownership over, and I guard that jealously. There is my iPod. There is my Blackberry. And there is my computer.

I waited until this morning to say anthing to him.

"Baroy," I said, swallowing hard so it didn't come out sounding nasty, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Shoot."

"Please don't turn off my computer at night; there's usually a reason I still have it on."

"Oh," he said, looking genuinely surprised, genuinely confused. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

It's the same thing he says every time. But I just thanked him and went on my way, secure at least in my ownership of feeling like a big old baby.

Inner Beauty

WARNING: There's going to be a discussion of breasts, guys. And it's going to be decidedly UNsexy. About as unsexy as discussions come. Enter at your own risk.

In a recent entry, Jane was taking to task those of us women who wear less-than-flattering undergarments. Oh, why try to be demure about it...bras. She was unhappy with the bra choices made by many women. I believe the phrase Saggy Fitztitsalot was used. I believe I laughed a lot. But then I had to take exception.

My exception-taking went as follows:

I wear cheap, crappy bras...and only when I absolutely must. (At home, Iam all floppy the second I get in the house. But then again, my shoes also come off the minute I get inside, so you'd already be disgusted with me.) When I'm going out and I think I can get away with it (read: any event that won't earn me money), I go with a comfy old sports bra or somesuch. Because all those wires trying to haul my fatty boobs off my stomach HURT!

The thing is? Anyone who doesn't like the way my tits look in my clothes is free not to sleep with me. In all other cases, I just don't care. If the perkiness of my breasts makes a difference in my relationship with someone, then I'm probably better off without him/her.

Except for you, Jane. Of course, except for you. When we finally get to meet, I'll be sure to buy the best bra they sell at Nordstrom's. I promise.

When my sister and I were younger, we used to have a sort of perpetual argument over why we would dress the way we would dress. My assertion was that I dressed either to please the guy I was dating, or to attract a guy I wanted to date. She said the person you should have in mind when you get dressed is your best girlfriend, because they are the only ones who even bother to notice.

You can tell that neither of us were Teen Feminists, can't you?

Today, I dress for nobody--or, rather, I dress for myself. And myself doesn't care if my breasts are hanging down a little lower than yours (or your wife's or whoever's), so long as I'm comfy and cozy and not digging at myself, all cranky and uncomfortable. You know? And if Baroy doesn't like it, well...He knew what he was getting when he married me, and I'm pretty sure he's OK with the deal he made. It's not like I was ever an impeccably turned out fashion plate. Hell, it's not like I am usually even decently turned out...except for those times when my sister hands me down her more-fashionable-than-anything-else-I-own wardrobe. And even then, she often sighs deeply at me when she sees me and says, "TC, I cannot believe you're still wearing that shirt! I must have given it to you eight years ago!" (Of course, she only says that because I make sure she doesn't see me wearing the things she gave me 12 years ago.)

It's not that I don't care what I look like so much as...well, I guess I don't care what I look like. But it's not like I go out of my way to look like crap. What it is is that I simply won't go out of my way to look either good or bad. I won't do anything, style-wise, that requires either a significant effort. I have THINGS to do, you know? I wear makeup less than a half-dozen times a year and haven't done anything except airdry my hair in years, if not a decade. and I won't do anything, style-wise, that makes me uncomfortable. I hate having anything touch my throat, for instance, so turtle necks have and always will be out. And I hate having anything constricting my chest, and so...I do the best I can with my bras, but if they hurt, they're out. And if I can get away without one...

I've always wondered why it is that these sorts of things don't interest me or bother me or motivate me. I've always wondered why it is that I don't care about this sort of thing...and whether it would somehow have made my life better, or easier, or richer if I did. I wonder.

A Student Again

Baroy eyed me suspiciously as I sat curled up in my favorite chair, my legs pulled up underneath me, my book--what many people call The Book--open on my lap.

"You're not going to become one of those Bible-quoting zealots now, are you?" he said. "Because I don't think I could deal with that."

It was meant as a joke. Except I know, and he knows, it was also a serious statement. Maybe even a vague, unformed threat.

*******
Over the past year, I've found a community at our temple, which is sort of the quintessential Little Temple That Could--tiny in size, overshadowed by bigger, wealthier congregations on all sides, fighting for survival (and new members). My kids adore the place; N actually threw a fit a couple of weeks back when I decided I was too tired to take the 20 minute drive on a Friday night to attend a potluck/Shabbat service. Even Baroy has made friends--in particular, our rabbi, with whom he shares a rabid interest in all things leftly political. We all look forward to spending time there. It's hard to ask for more than that, isn't it?

But I want more. I want more than a sense of community--I want to actually belong. And to do that, I need to be able to do more than mouth the words without understanding what I'm saying, what I'm feeling, what I'm pledging. And so I took advantage of an offer the rabbi made to teach a class to those of us looking for 'more' out of our experience of our religion.

This class, called Reintroduction to Judaism, will be meeting every couple of weeks throughout the year. There were about a dozen of us at the first class; we'll see how many keep coming, how many join, how many drop out.

The first thing Rabbi told us when we sat down--before he went over the syllabus, the books we need to buy, the dates we'd be meeting--is that he believes that being a Jew means questioning. That the only way to have a relationship with God is to question.

I don't know what kind of relationship with God I want, if I want one, or whether I will ever have one. But I am finding the class fascinating, even just the introduction. I am reading a "study bible" for the first time--not just a biblical translation, but a detailed commentary on the meanings and questions about the text--when I'd never read any bible at all. I am reading a fascinating book called Jewish Literacy, by Joseph Telushkin. I am studying. I hadn't realized how much I've missed studying all these years. I hadn't realized how much I missed being a student. I hadn't realized how much I missed learning. I hadn't realized how much I missed questioning.

*******
So when Baroy challenged me, however lightly, I laughed, but refused to back down. "I make no promises," I said lightly, then sobered a bit. "I'm enjoying this right now. It's something I want to do. Please don't make it difficult for me."

He laughed it off, but I think there's more of this sort of discussion to come. And not just with him, with any number of people, depending on where I go with this, where I take it. I don't expect to become religious in the sense of seriously observent. Right now, this is more intellectual to me. But it also speaks to me on a deeper level, all of the ritual and the optimism and the positivity of blessings and prayers. So I don't know.

All I know is, I can't make any promises. Not even to Baroy.

And that, I think, scares both of us, if only a little.

Why Is He Hiding All the Knives?

I was flipping rhrough my news feed when I saw the headlines about Jane Wyatt's death at age 96.

Me: Wow. She can't really complain about that, can she?

Baroy: Yeah, really. I'd be OK with dying at age 96.

Me: Oh, no you don't. I've got plans for after you're gone.