7 lbs, 3 oz of Envy

Ok, that's it. I can't take it anymore. I cannot take the baby pictures on facebook. I know that sounds really mean and insensitive and all that and maybe I am. A friend I used to work with a few years back just gave birth to her first and pics from her hospital bed were uploaded before the umbilical cord was cut. And I really like my friend, I truly do, so I'm not trying to be bitchy or judgmental. I'm happy as hell for her. She's supercool and totally deserves. The problem is me: I am a ravenous jealous, premenopausal 41 year old with eggs that at this point are probably more scambled than poached. The nanosecond I lay my eyes on those pics, I'm in a heinously shit mood, I hate my life AND my boyfriend and just want to say fuck it and move to Paris, start a brothel and get really skinny smoking cigarettes, drinking sherry and eating ham. Those pics represent such hope and newness and light. The powerful, yet fragile presence of the newborn and the soft gaze of the mother ... now and forever intertwined for this lifetime. I feel so small as I stare. So weak compared to her strength ... and lacking of a significant responsibility to have, to serve, to live for. I mean, I fucking went skiing today. The woman GAVE BIRTH for God's sakes. Even celebrities, who have reached the pinnacle of their art form ... Oscar winners and platinum album superstars will swear up and down that the truth behind their success, the reason why they get up in the morning ... is for their children. All the money, fame, attention, power ... still cannot come close to the sense of wholeness they feel as parents. I can't imagine anything more powerful. And although I don't really give a shit what Reese Witherspoon says, it's quite a statement when someone who has everything we all want ... is happiest with the one thing we can all have. Well, that's if you have a boyfriend who's willing to procreate with you, or you have enough money for either top-notch sperm, or to adopt a cute little LingLing or Oksana ... all of which, of course, does not describe my current situation. To my friend, I say a huge congratulations. I'm envious as hell, you look gorgeous, he's adorable and all that. Fortunately, she'll be way too busy for the next couple of years to read this blog, which is cool ... sometimes I wish I didn't have time to write it.

Job Fairs Suck

I kept an open mind, put on a nice outfit, actually wore underwear ... and gee, wouldn't you know it: the job fair at the Grand Sierra was a total and utter WASTE OF TIME. I'm a self-proclaimed expert at job hunting. I've had 16 jobs in 10 years. True story. So, I would normally never subject myself to a job fair at a casino in the state with the highest unemployment rate ... I know better. But, annoying people in my life (love ya!) kept telling me about this one because the goddamn news channels kept doing stories on it. The story went something like this: One-thousand jobs will be "up for grabs" at the Silver--Stud-Whatever Ballroom at the Grand Sierra today from 11am until 3pm. The event was put on by a credit union (?) that specializes in banking for gaming employees. I still can't figure that one out. But the news anchors would blab on about how 20 (OMG!) employers would be waiting for us with baited breath and I-9s to fill out. And who were the exclusive employers we lowly, desperate job seekers would have the pleasure of interviewing with? Get this: The fucking Army, and Navy, every crap-can employment/temp agency in the area (Apple One, Hire Dynamics, and Kelly Services) ... oh, and ... casinos!!!!!!!!!!!! Who, just tell you to go on their website and apply online anyway. But my favorite employer of all was the State of Nevada ... whose website states the following: The State has instituted a freeze on hiring along with an approval process to allow for filling positions that have been identified as critical for maintaining State of Nevada government operations. Therefore, only recruitments for positions that have passed the approval process will be posted on this site. I love you, Reno, but you're killing me! And I don't feel sorry for me. I feel for the hundreds of locals who busted their asses to get resumes typed up and printed on a computer at the unemployment office, borrowed a friend's tie or spanx, got someone to watch their kids, rode two busses, and wasted perfectly good Dollar Tree lip gloss on a bunch of bullshit! But who cares if our time is wasted ... we're unemployed. And at this stage in my life, I have more on the job experience than the ass-clown HR clerks sitting behind the bright blue polyester table cloths in their Burlington Coat Factory business casual. I am so bitterella I can't stand it. They're just JOBS. Everyone hates theirs, no one wants to be there, no one is appreciated and we're all underpaid. It's a joke. I interviewed once for a minimum wage, seasonal cashier position a few years ago and the douche Manager actually asked me where I saw myself in 5 years. "Sir," I thought, "the question isn't where do I see myself in 5 years, it's where did I see myself 5 years AGO? And trust me, it wasn't ringing up chap stick ... for you!"

Off Sides

If I really stop and think about how much my life has changed over the past year, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I usually end up doing both. My boyfriend has two boys, 12 and 15, and one of my new past times is going to various sporting events. His boys are quite active. Snow skiing and basketball in the winter, soccer in the summer. My boyfriend kills himself to make every game, so I do, too. I don't know why. I mean, I want to be supportive, of course, but I sometimes wonder if anyone knows I'm even there. Basketball season ended tonight ... and that game I can deal with. Short quarters, you're home in about an hour ... that's my kind of committment. Soccer, on the other had, kind of sucks. The season is long ... and they don't call call them soccer moms for nothing. Last summer I had my first girlfriend-of-the-dad-with-two-boys at the soccer games experience. The games were suprisingly brutal. And I'm not talking about the action on the field. I was overwhelmed with feelings that were seriously embarrassing. I felt left out ... the childless hanger-on ... the single observer who chimed in pathetic "woo hoos". The parents of the players don't mess around. They bring lawn chairs, snacks, coolers, beach umbrellas ... and their other offspring. As a woman whose biological alarm clock is blaring like a tidal wave warning, these seemingly innocent games became incredibly trying. Thank God for sunglasses ... except when the tears fog them up. I was surrounded by families and couples intensely watching their kids with obvious stakes. Commenting on how much better, stronger, and faster their spawn had become ... inbetween tending to the player's younger sibling ... snacking on Sun Chips and Capri Suns. I tried to feel involved. I really did. I tried to understand the concept of off-sides, carried the folding chairs, and even considered giving the Ref a flying elbow on a bad call. But the undeniable truth that cannot be faked, is they are not my children. I'm kind of dreading soccer season. I'm thinking about not making as many games. Maybe it would be okay to take care of myself and not put myself through the emotion of it all. I mean, it's just soccer, right?

Ode to our 16 year old selves

I just lost myself on youtube. Lost my 16 year old self. My favorite band in 1986 was Lone Justice ... and not many kids in Marin County, where I grew up, had ever heard from them. Now that I think about it, I have no idea how I first heard them, but I do remember a time when I was in the juniors department of Macy's at our mall and they had just installed TV monitors playing music videos. I remember one video of a band with a lead singer with a strong, earnest and pretty face ... she had pale skin and curly hair like me ... wore matte ruby lips and attacked the microphone like James Brown. She was aggressive and competent and scarily free and I was mesmerized. Maybe that was the first time I saw Maria McKee. I bought their first album, and they had this really weird, alt (before there was an "alt") country, cowpunk sound that my step-brother used to make fun of me for. And truly, I can't blame him. At that exact time, most kids were listening to Def Leppard and Van Halen and the most alternative it got, was The Alarm ("68 guns will never die ... 68 guns,the battle cry ...")

Maria sang about redemption, sad eyes, springs in the mattress and Bourbon. She was from Los Angeles ... and yet, salvation, cold dinners sitting on the stove and tv's with antennae were woven into her lyrics. She glorified a yellow mobile home life with beauty, lipstick and ... dare I say ... class? I remember when I saw that Macy's video, I thought she was so passionate, she must be on drugs. She scared me, so I could definingly compartmentalize her into a young, So-Cal girl in a man's world, who spouted and thrashed at the mic.

Lone Justice broke up after just 2 albums. I played the song "Shelter" for my 70-something year old English grandmother when I was 16. Although she was impressed by the sophisticated melody for an American teen, she found the chorus to be quite repetitive. When I was 19, Maria released her first solo album. I had rented a room in a Victorian in Noe Valley in San Francisco and would listen to it sitting on the hardwood floor of my room ... crying in tune to her lyrics.

Maria has been my newspaper ... the proverbial soundtrack to my life. I understand that now, she's married, in her 40's and never had children. She still tours ... mostly in Ireland, where she is profoundly popular .... but showings near the west coast are incredibly rare. To this day, her voice warms me from the inside out, throws me into my dreamland, and gives me goosebumps. I am the 9 year old singing into my hand ... her lips are my lips and somehow she is my sister.

Chicken Fried Steak Post Script

Exactly one hour after the lunch described above, my boyfriend was lying on the floor enjoying his current book, when suddenly, with a moan and a dash ... the poor dear spent the rest of the night in the bathroom. I think he got maybe one or two pages read in between trips, which was nice, but you could have set a train schedule to his "moments". I mean, what's the point of a two-for-one coupon if you end up spending $5.99 on Pepto Bismol and $2.50 on diet 7-Up? My fried egg sandwich only cost $6.99. He even watched me eat ice cream topped with Magic Shell ... and didn't partake. That's one sick puppy. I try to give restaurants the benefit of the doubt. I've been in the biz and read Anthony Bordain's "Kitchen Confidential", ... and truly believe that immune systems are made for eating out. But, dude ... at least in LA, they make restaurants post the grade the food inspector gives them. Restaurants are graded from A to F. If you're a restaurant worth a shit, you're an A. Some are B's ... and you only eat there cuz you're drunk and really need a burrito. Anything below that was just out of the question. It would be like eating sushi in Mazatlan and washing it down with a glass of ice cold water. I used to only eat at A's ... obviously ... until unbeknownst to me, one Christmas, when my Jewish (now ex) husband grabbed some Chinese take-out ("A Christmas Story" was accurate) after seeing a movie ... from a C! I already hate Chinese food, so a C rated Chinese restaurant was clearly reason enough for divorce. But here, in Sparks, Nevada, no postings are required. Although the soaking, see-through dishwasher shirt in the dining room should have been my first clue. Poor bf. He did recover, of course ... thinking it was maybe a little stomach flu ... "No sweetie ..." I told him, "Coupons kill ... let this be a lesson to you."

Over Easy

My boyfriend and his parents and I had lunch at a diner today ... one of those semi-crappy diners that serves deep-fried cheesecake. They were closing in an hour, or so, and it was well past the lunch rush, so the servers were starting to close up shop while taking the last of their orders. I had major flashbacks to when I've worked the breakfast/lunch shift and you hit that hour of the afternoon where your dogs are barking, your makeup is shiny, your apron is caked with fried egg and syrup and you stink like the dishwasher. God, I felt for them. One woman was refilling the sugars on the tables, another starting to re-stock the croutons and half and half. Their ponytails had expired, along with their shirts ... few of them even bothered to tuck them in at this stage of the day. Then, the dishwasher came out with a 3-tiered cart of bus tubs ... rumbling down the aisle of the dining room collecting dirty dishes. I almost puked. Then I saw right through his white, wet button down shirt to his overhanging gut ... soaked and stained to the bone. I held my breath as he walked by. The smell of restaurant dish washing areas has always made me gag. There's a very distinct stench that rises up out of the sinks and washers and corners where these poor souls have to work. It's not right ... but I admire them for being able to tolerate it. My feet hurt just looking at the workers. Being on the breakfast/lunch shift SUCKS! It's the most work for the least pay. And breakfast people are PICKY motherfuckers. You have to get their eggs just right, bacon has to be "extra cripsy", choices of toast, jam, jelly, butter, ketchup, Tobasco (red and green), honey, warmed syrup ... and don't even get me started on the tea people. By the time you're done serving a table of 4 breakfast, there are literally 30 items to be picked up off the table. And since you're only one person and can only bring so many items to the table at one time, you can count on about a dozen round trips to the table. Then there's the coffee. The tiny, worthless mugs that maybe hold 2 ounces force servers to make coffee runs the equivalent of a half-marathon. And all for about $3 ... if you're lucky.
If I ever have to wait tables again, and believe me, I could be getting close, Mama only works the dinner shift. I look at it this way: I can bring you a plate of food that will cost you $7 or $32 ... it's all the same to my feet ... but you have to tip a percentage of your bill. And when you add cocktails, appetizers, a bottle of wine and dessert ... I'm walking away with a pretty good tip on a fat bill. Of course, you need to act the part ... you have to know what broccoli rabe and quinoa are, what wine will go well with your Chilean sea bass, and memorize detailed specials, but I personally think it's worth it.
So, here's to all you hard, hard working breakfast/lunch shifters: the servers, bussers, cooks, and dishwashers ... getting off at 3pm with $35 in your pocket, an apron that's stuck together, dried syrup under your fingernails, and the wherewithal to do it all over again tomorrow.

What a Lunk!

In a moment of desperation (and the balance in my checking account), I sent a resume to a posting on craigslist of a new gym opening up close to my house in need of front desk help. With my open mind, I pictured bike riding to work this summer wearing comfy yoga pants and tennis shoes, checking members in with some kind of electronic scanner thingy, ringing up $4 Muscle Milks and scoring a free gym membership. I got a call the same day for an interview. Just about the entire population of Reno is unemployed, so I thought I'd stumbled on to a decent opportunity. I showed up for my interview with "Gym Man" ... whom I was trying soooooo hard not to pre-judge. Black slacks, black polo with company emblem tucked into pants, bulging biceps and gelled short military hair. As we entered the interview room, he told me to, "take a seat in the yellow hand on the right". At the end of a long runway-like rug, there were, TWO plastic neon yellow hand chairs. You know the ones that might have been cool and moderne for like ... a second ... in a loft in SoHo? As I sat down on the hand, waiting for him to accompany me on the other side of the table, he said, "So, why don't you tell me about yourself while I unpack these boxes." He didn't sit down and didn't even LOOK at me. I couldn't believe it! The unemployment rate in this state has given employers such an advantage, they don't even owe you eye contact! So there I was trying to sell myself to a fucking wall while Sgt. Gel Head moved boxes.
When he finally sat down, he went over the membership pricing and the strict guidelines for answering the phone. After every sentence, he asked, "Any questions on that?" As in: "Right now, we're offering a $1 introductory sign-up fee. Any questions on that?" Or: "And your monthly membership rate is $10 per month. Any questions on that?" Jesus. I have questions about black holes, how the Mormon religion ever caught on, and why pubic hair has gone out of style, but I think I'm clear on the pricing ... thanks, Bud. He then told me to memorize the information and come back the next day for a SECOND INTERVIEW. Oh no! An employee for a minimum wage, part-time job that involves wiping down chrome with disinfectant cannot be chosen in one day, people!
The morning before my second interview, I did a little more research on the company. One of the gadgets this gym uses to entice membership is their "Judgment Free Zone" ... which I figured was a tactic to get the occasional, possibly overweight exerciser to join. It turns out, there's much more to that seemingly innocent marketing ploy. Controversy has been surrounding this east coast based chain since the beginning and I found several articles and news segments depicting the issue. The gym prohibits members from "grunting" while working out. Grunting? What qualifies as grunting? I mean, are we talking Serena Williams at Wimbledon grunting? A slight vocalized exhale when anyone over forty has to pick something up off the ground? Well this one poor weight lifting New Yorker found out. The manager of the gym actually kicked the guy out and called the cops because he "grunted" while bench pressing 300 pounds. And it gets worse. Another feature to the gym is what they call the "Lunk Alarm". The World War Two siren alarm and accompanying flashing light will go off when anyone "grunts, drops a weight, or JUDGES". And guess who's responsible for setting off the alarm? So, what started out as a simple front desk job turned into taking on the role of some twisted moral cop kicking out dudes whose vocal cords come too close together when they exhale. Can you say discrimination? Sexism? Flat out hipocricy? Let's see, we don't want you to judge, but we're going to judge you and then penalize you for it. I don't see how this chain is in business, but I know I won't be working there. I called up Bicep Boy and told him thanks, but no thanks.

Livin' and Lovin' the Dream

Since I have the joy of being unemployed again, I decided to express a moment of optimism and log on to a national job board website to take a peek. A friend of mine claims she actually had some luck on one of them. After narrowing it down to Reno, the site said it had 436 job listings for the area ... which is depressing enough ... but you can also post your resume on the site. And there were a whopping 86,000 local resumes posted!! I suck at math, but I think the ratio of 436 jobs to 86,000 job seekers comes out to be fucked %. Plus, I used to work for a temp agency, and the recruiters are told to post fake job ads on a weekly basis, just to get people calling into the agency to sign up. Posts like, "Warehouse Position, Full-Time, $12/hr" ... with a really general job description are probably not real jobs. If there's no company name, no specific email address or phone number to contact, and it refers you to an employment agency, don't get excited.
Oh, and for all of you who think unemployment checks just come "forever" and you can suck the government's tit while you chill ... I'm here to tell you that's not true. For example, in 2 weeks, my unemployment runs out. I was let go from my job as a News Producer 10 months ago. Since then, I worked a seasonal job for 4 1/2 months ... and my unemployment was only good for 19 weeks. So, now I have to apply for an extension, which can't be done online, so I have to do it by phone initially (the wait can be up to 6 hours) ... and then if I qualify, claims are done through the mail. Every week, I have to fill out an application listing all the jobs and companies I have applied to and send it off through snail mail. And even if I qualify for an extension, it is only good for 20 weeks. So, I have 5 more months before I am completely screwed. I keep hearing people say that some lazy asses have been on unemployment for 2 years, but I just don't see how that works. If I'm lucky, I will get a total of 10 months of unemployment benefits from the state of Nevada ... where I have worked for 5 years. In the meantime, the only jobs I've even seen posted are for forklift operators and casino cocktail waitresses. Honestly, I'd rather lift palettes than wear nude pantyhose and ingest cigarette smoke at 10 in the morning. At this rate, my annual income continues to be less than my student loan balance.

3/10/11

I've been in an emotional coma for a few days ... haven't been able to blog on schedule, but somehow, I was able to document the issue ... problem ... catastrophe:
3/10/11
Can something die without ever living? A dream, perhaps? How am I still breathing? Why are my lungs moving the heavy breath in and out? How does the pain not kill? I feel like a piece of me is dying every day. A month ago, it was another lost job, yesterday, a rejection letter from a graduate program, and today, the deepest cut of all, the love of my life finally killed my dream of us having a baby. Laid down a defiant refusal to try to conceive a child with me after over one year of swaying, considering, and teasing. He said No. Another No. No, you can’t, no you’re not the one, no, we didn’t pick you …No!
The baby, my baby that I will never know. Owning this female body for all these years … cleaning up the messes of menstruation and emotion … all the while knowing it will pay off: with a final scream and push, the noise will siphon down to the one ripe cry of a newborn, wrapped in white, it will be placed onto my chest and my love and I will sob tears of awe and never before realized happiness when we stare into the face of our new life.
No first night, smile, word, step. I will never hear, “Hi Mom” or comb sweet smelling fine hair. I’ll never have my patience, morality, and judgment tested to the utmost of my ability. Know humility, sleeplessness, and sacrifice the way only a parent knows. Or come face to face with the gripping fear and visceral uncertainty of handing a life over to this world.
I’m stunned and frozen by the depth of the pain I feel over this loss. I can’t help but think my love knew how he felt all along, but didn’t want to, “hurt my feelings”. Words and phrases like, “maybe” … “we’ll see” and, “you never know” haunted me with enough promise. Once our love is solidified, I thought, then he will certainly be overwhelmed by the possibility and succumb to the beauty of the ultimate symbolism of our love. We have a healthy relationship; we’re both incredibly active and vibrant people. But most importantly, we love each other passionately and dearly and have waited a long time to find each other. He is my treasure; a once in a lifetime love. The kind of love that won battles and sunk ships. He is my hero. He’s all I see and the only man I want; and despite the excruciating death of a dream, I cannot live without this man.
So I sit and lay and somehow keep breathing.

Scary

This week has been just an exhausting emotional roller coaster. The good news is the closure of the School of Social Work was rescinded and the program is safe. The bad news is, I just received my rejection letter from the Graduate program. Guess there were just too many qualified applicants ... but I already knew that. When I produced the news, we would do stories on how college students are staying in school longer because there are no jobs ... especially in Nevada. So, tons of kids with BAs are just staying in, going for post-grad work. I kind of figured I was a long shot, but I really felt positive about it. It felt right and I thought my grad application essay would just "wow" them. And, I thought it would be great timing to maybe try to get pregnant while I was in school. Then, just as the little one was ready for day care, I'd be off and running with my fabulous new career. Saving the oppressed and raising a compassionate little being at the same time! That was the dream.
So, what to do when dreams keep dying?
My boyfriend and I had to talk about the pink elephant in the living room (me wanting a baby) last night. I think it was starting to pee on the carpet, so we sucked it up and tip-toed toward the topic. His stance remains the same: he has no desire to have another kid. He's done. I guess he just cannot envision a life with a baby with me and have it bring a single ounce of pleasure to his mind. He sees sleepless nights and drained bank accounts and dirty diapers and trunks full of crap required for a single family outing. He sees all of the bad and none of the good. I guess I was hoping that "love" would wash over his brain and change his mind ... that loving someone "enough" could conquer all. Isn't that what we were taught?
There was a third bomb that detonated in my body when he said he doesn't even ever think about marriage ... that he doesn't "see the point" and is (again) "in no rush". I just turned 41. I've been divorced for 8 years and my dog and my clothes and I just moved in with him 2 months ago. I am MORE than ready for the next phase in my life ... and beyond even that: I'm ready for some good news.
Suffice it to say I have a cried-too-hard last night headache and can barely think for myself today. My energy is low and appetite non-existent. How did I get here? How do I get out?

What Now?

Wow! The hits keep coming! Even my Plan C for has fallen through! After getting let go from yet another tv production job last summer, I decided to go back to school to get a Masters in Psychology. However, unfortunately, the University of Nevada, Reno doesn't offer an MA in Psych, so I was encouraged by the head of the department to look into the Social Work program. It sounded great! In 2 years, I could be licensed and salaries, I was told, can start around 50k a year. So, for the past 2 semesters, I've been grad specialing masters classes and applied to the program this past January. I was supposed to find out whether or not I got accepted this month; but now, it doesn't matter. The university just announced that due to budget cuts, they are closing the School of Social Work and all related degrees. Nice. Stressing over the application essays, studying for the GRE, not to mention the time and effort my mentors and bosses put into my letters of recommendations ... all for not. I'm pretty shocked, to say the least.
This avenue was going to carry me into retirement. I figured I'll hunker down for 2 years, graduate when at 43 and have a whole new career. Social work isn't glamorous or cut throat ... just a nice, stable, honest job that would provide a living wage and fulfill my need to help people.
So, now what? I don't have a Plan D. I'd joke to my boyfriend that if I didn't get accepted into grad school, I was hopping on the first flight to India to fight human trafficking ... but I didn't really mean it. I just moved in with him, things are going great and he's totally supportive of me, so I can't just up and leave. Truth is, I want to be a mom ... and do all the non-feminist cooking and cleaning. I want to dote on my boyfriend ... make his life easier with his two boys. I want to volunteer and study Buddhism. I want to write and make soup. But I have a car payment, haven't had my cervix scraped in 3 years and am already a year overdue to get my boobs smashed for the first time. But before I start stressing out about all that ... I can't help but wonder why this happened ... because I have to accept it. I could stomp my feet and sob and cry, "why is nothing in my life working"?! But I won't this time. I'm choosing not to. It seems to me, like the perfect time to practice all of the Buddhist teachings I've been studying. So, I'm accepting the situation, doing my best to keep my mind free of anger and frustration and ... the hardest of all: fear. I have to assume that things are unfolding as they should and another option will soon reveal itself to me. I am going to trust the universe, or God, or whatever ... for the first time in my life. Wish me luck!

There for the Grace of God...you know the rest

I'm no saint. I rarely think of anything or anyone other than myself. Blame it on being an only child, or spending the better part of the past 41 years single and childless. So, during this latest phase of unemployment, I decided I needed not only a place to be a few days a week, but shot of humility so I won't feel sorry for myself all day ... everyday. I started volunteering at a food pantry today. Two days a week, I'll greet people, check IDs, and pack boxes with things like canned sliced peaches, dried plums, spaghetti sauce and apple juice. If you meet the income requirement and have a current photo ID, you qualify for a food box once a month and a daily snack ... and this economy isn't discriminating. Coming through the door were single mothers working just to pay the rent, the homeless guy reeking of pee and booze, young dudes all tatted up, Hispanic families, a cute, goateed, married father of 3 who just got laid off, and a Vet in a wheelchair. They were everybody. They were me. If it weren't for my family and friends, I've been a paycheck away from homeless since I graduated college. And as of right now, I more than qualify for a box of food.
I just completed four months at a seasonal job working a customer service for a company that sells overpriced outdoor clothing. I spent 8 hours a day on the phone listening to the elite complain about how their $500 ski jacket didn't keep them warm enough on the slopes in Aspen, or take 10 minutes to decide between the lavender $100 bunting or the pink $100 bunting for their Baby Jesus. I loathed just about every moment of that job ... dealing with customers and their rudeness, entitlement, and complete lack of perspective. I felt as if I was somehow validating their self-righteous and indignant behavior ... merely by working there. With each swipe of my time card, I was bowing to the alter of consumer capitalism right along with them.
But today was different. Today, I smiled ... a real smile, my smile ... not my fake, retail minimum wage smile. I called people Sir and Ma'am ... not because they were paying with an American Express card, but because I bet they never hear it. Some folks smiled back, some hung their heads in embarrassment or shame, some barely spoke English and some had stories to share ... but everyone left with enough food to make it through at least one more day.

Perfect

I had a nice birthday. Lunch with my Mom, a pizza party my boyfriend and his kids planned, and homemade cupcakes from a friend. It was nice. It's funny: it seems like the older you get, the less birthdays mean; when in fact, it should be the opposite. I mean, who cares if you make it to 23? Good for you! But 41?! And you're still here? If not by luck, then by choice, no less? Now, that's cause for celebration! You've crossed the threshold into, "scary milestones" land: mammograms and work-related-ageism, grocery baggers calling you "Ma'am" and a potential pregnancy considered "high risk". Pre-40 something milestones were fun! Getting a driver's license, voting, drinking in bars ... even renting a car! Now it's all about probing orifices and night sweats!
But my "birthday weekend", as my boyfriend calls it, concluded today with the most kind of celebrations. We attended a very special yoga class at the Dharma center I frequent. The yoga was referred to as "resting yoga" and included lying down on the floor for about 50 minutes. The instructor led us through moments of awareness to our bodies and parts of our bodies ... always insisting, "there is no goal, there is nowhere to be right now, there is no right or wrong". And in a radical statement, I learned today that it's not only okay, but encouraged in meditation to say to myself, "I am Perfect." The class posed the question, "What if?" What if I was perfect just the way I am? What if? Who would I be? What would I do? How would that feel? I've always been afraid to find out, but today, out loud, I made a promise to myself: I am not going to spend the next 4o years of my life judging and rejecting myself the way I did for the first 40. Because I am Perfect.

The New Suburbia

The neighbor across the street had his garage door open last night and I couldn't help stopping for a moment to take it in. It struck me- the sheer amount of items stacked, hanging and stuffed into that space; and the fact that very few garages are even used to house vehicles anymore. I couldn't even make out what half of the items were, but it made me turn around and peer into the garage of the house I'm living in now, which is my boyfriend's.
The abundance was astounding. The gear and tools and boxes; shelves holding paint and gasoline, 5 sets of Rollerblades for 3 people, skis, snowboards, bikes, dirt bikes, golf bags, shovels and brooms, ropes and boxes marked "Xmas Decorations". Randoms like a plastic pumpkin, a Halloween rasta wig, and a box of my shoes that won't fit in the closet.
I wondered what that garage would look like to any of the billions of people living on this planet who cannot comprehend the accumulative life we Westerners live. To have a car alone, would be astounding. Add to it, a box in which to park it. But we can't FIT our cars in our garages because we own too much SHIT. So now, our suburban streets have become parking lots. Forget fitting cars (read: huge gas guzzling SUVs and trucks) into garages, my neighbors can't even fit all of their vehicles onto their driveways! And I'm not excluding my boyfriend and myself. His truck fits into his garage, but he also owns a tent trailer, which sits on the driveway in front of the side of the garage that he doesn't pull into; so, I park on the street, so he can pull in and out of the garage. Yes, we are guilty, too.
Most of the people in the world are lucky to have a fucking bicycle! And in a sick sense, I'm kind of jealous. Jealous of simplicity, jealous of the "knowing" that things don't make you happy. We are still chasing that dragon. I'm suffering from the withdrawals of 40 years of a steady IV drip of consumer capitalism, and it's not all that easy to kick. Just when I think I've slayed the dragon, I see a ridiculous pair of platforms, or a shiny lip gloss, or a black 2011 5-speed Subaru Outback Sport with a roof rack and think, "THEN ... and only THEN, I will be the person I want to be." It's sick; a disease and although I cognitively know it's not true, my brain will still go there. To fight it is to be a rebel. The battle is against years of training, behavioral therapy, and my society and culture at large. But I'm taking it on. Sometimes I relapse and let my mind wander, but I'm mindful of it. And sometimes that's the best I can do.
I think of a boy, maybe 9 or 10, from the poorest part of India. I picture him looking at our garage wide-eyed. I don't know if he would be astounded, excited, or confused; but I know, I would be ashamed.

Don't Leave the Room

I went to my first bikram yoga class today. I know behind the curve on this one, but the idea of holding already seemingly impossible poses in a room that is heated up to the temperature of India in August with a dew point of 95, just never sounded good to me. I like yoga; gentle, meditative, candlelight yoga with Bollywood ballads playing in the background. But bikram, I knew, would be a challenge for me and my kind. See, I'm a redheaded, fair-skinned lass whose ancestors hail from Scotland. Lifting a Scotch to our lips while belting out soccer anthems safely tucked into a pub booth waiting for the rain to stop- that's what my people do for exercise.
As a brand new student to bikram, the instructor had to meet with me before the class. He gave me an overview, then told me it would take about 3 to 5 classes to even start to get used to the heat and humidity. He told me I might feel dizzy, lightheaded and nauseous, and feeling that way was fine, but however I might feel, just don't leave the room. Oh, God! Really? I mean, what if I puke or think I'm gonna pass out or have a panic attack because it's 100 degrees and I can't breathe because the air is thicker than commute hour in Delhi?
I took my mat and towel to the last slot in the back and sank into a 90-minute session. Yes, an hour and a half. I couldn't even think about it. The instructor paces and talks the whole time into a wireless mic, so I had to use my fellow students as my examples. Most of the poses themselves weren't particularly difficult (although I haven't been able to touch my toes since I was in vitro), but it was the heat that added a whole new dimension to my shaking shell. The poses are a form of cardio, and I could literally feel every single artery pumping as I inhaled with heavy, thick breaths. Halfway through the standing poses, the advanced students so limber, they might as well have been licking their tailbones, I saw stars...black splotches... and my towel started spinning. I came out of my pose to calm myself, but was scolded by the instructor for breaking my pose before the rest of the class. Apparently we start and end each pose together. I guess impending loss of consciousness isn't really a concern. I recovered and made it to the floor portion of the class. At this point, the sweat is literally gushing out of my body. I honestly didn't know a human could sweat this much. My high-performance wicking (ha!) t-shirt was completely soaked through, my shins resembled waterfalls and my pony tail was so wet it was literally starting to weigh me down. My face was as red as a campfire and my eyes stung from brow sweat (so that's what eyebrows are for! Damn Drew Barrymore and her thin '90's brows ... I knew I over-plucked!) After a few more poses that included cirque de soleil back bends and a, "now lift everything off the floor except your vagina" pose, we ... were ... done.
Now the questions are: was the pleasure worth pain? And, am I going back for more?
Answers: I'll let you know tomorrow ... and ... I have to, I bought a membership!

3 Days Left

Today is March 1st. My birthday is March 4th. I'll be turning 41. For most of us, it was the Big 4-0 that knocked us flat ... left us wondering what, when and where? But for me, it's 41. See, two, count them, TWO psychics, on separate occasions to two different people predicted emphatically that I would have a baby when I was 40 years old. At the time of the readings, I was 35 and single and still having fun and the idea of becoming a first-time Mom at 40 sounded great! I still had time to kiss a few more frogs, meet the man of my dreams, get committed and get knocked up. The first psychic was an impromptu sit-down at a party. She didn't know my age, and I didn't ask her if or when I would have a child. She firmly stated that I would not have a baby until I was 40. Several months later, my mother actually paid to see a psychic. She asked her if she would ever be a Grandmother and the woman said, "Your daughter will have a child at 40". We were astounded and figured such a coincidence would have to be true! So, I continued on, looking forward to my forties with a sense of optimism and hope; counting months backwards, wondering if I'd get pregnant when I was 39 and then give birth when I was 40, or if the entire event would happen in my fortieth year.
On March 4th of last year, I turned 40, and was dating a man who already had two children from a previous marriage. Although most of his comments about babies fell into the "I don't want to have anymore children" bucket, he never gave me a straight answer ... a definitive "no". So, I continued to count. "Okay, it's March, if I only have 12 months left, that means I have to get pregnant by ... May ... or is it June? May. Okay, so I have 2 months to get pregnant! And a boyfriend who is in 'no hurry' to make any kind of commitment". So, then the wheels started turning again ... justifying...rationalizing what 2 women who didn't even know me said 5 years ago. Since I was falling hard for my boyfriend and things were going so well, I had to improvise. I wondered, "did they mean have a baby at 4o or become pregnant at 40? Did they mean become a mother at 40, like, maybe psychics believe that being pregnant is already mothering?" I would go around and around in my head, in the ridiculous circle that this twenty-dollar prophecy would come true.
But here I am, 3 days away from 41 and I think it's safe to say I've run out of time. No more counting backwards, and no closer to the hope of becoming a mother. I remember where I was driving the moment my mom told me on my cell phone that her psychic told her the same thing. I remember smiling with such a sigh of relief and calm. Maybe God had a plan for me and I didn't need to do anything for once. Maybe I could believe in cheap mysticism, or buy into the paranormal. It was the first time in my life I thought, "Why not believe"? Of course, it was something I wanted to hear, so I decided to secretly buy it. I should have known better. Maybe, that's what 41 will be for.