Decision Making

I have set myself a deadline.

I don’t usually do self-imposed deadlines, because I am really good at talking myself into thinking they are not important, so it’s no big disappointment when I fail to meet them….and I never end up meeting them. So I just do without.

But this is different. The George Bennett Fellowship at Phillips Exeter Academy has a submission deadline of December first every year. It is nine months of living at Exeter and writing–no teaching, no staff/faculty duties, just being at the academy and writing. Ideally with the intent of finished a first novel for publication. This is something I want desperately.

I will not have anything finished for submission by December first this year, but I have decided that I will do for next December. So, for December 1, 2010, I will have the beginning of a manuscript polished and sent in the hopes of spending a year writing and knitting like mad.

Keep me accountable.

Coffee Anxiety

Yes, it has been two months. I might have been kidnapped and held hostage by wild dogs or something, and you never would have known. Unless I escaped and wrote about it all here, for you to find out. Except I wasn’t, and i didn’t. Would have made a damn good post though…

The truth is, I have been working six days a week and going to school and trying to raise my kid and learning to knit. Yes, knitting, expect to see pictures as soon as I can get my hands on a camera. You have been warned.

I have been meaning to update for the past four weeks or so, with posts ranging in topic from my strongly felt but tightly guarded vanity, my insane work schedule, how there is this lady who regularly buys her four year-old lattes, and the mandatory divorce update. And yet, it has taken me this long to just make it to the update page at wordpress.com. (This is my third attempt of the day, if you are keeping track.)

Also, November is coming up (in like, half an hour). This means that I will be attempting Nanowrimo for the second time. I have been developing a brand new story, and I think it might actually be something. We’ll see when November comes.

Though, as always, when I am profusely writing my fiction, I tend to be more productive in other areas of my life as well. So long as work doesn’t kill me first, I should be making more regular updates.

The Waiting Room

I bought a car and sold my scooter. I am torn between wanting to be a responsible mother and being an environmentally conscious motorist. Obviously, making sure the kiddo doesn’t freeze during the winter wins, hands down, but damn I miss that scooter.

–

My son broke his finger a week ago. Well, his dad broke it when he shut it in the hinge-side of the wooden back door. Broken finger, four stitches. My son is fine, and I am trying not to be angry that this is the third time he has been injured (2nd emergancy room visit) on his dad’s watch, without me there, and I still somehow end up making sure he is tended to properly and the bills all get paid.

–

I overheard something at work this morning that I have been contemplating. Join me, will you?

Two men were talking about brining their dogs to the vet for serious health problems, both asserted this is done because dogs are part of the family. Then, one said something about how he spent over $1500 on his dog’s treatment and he did live a couple more years, but was sick the whole time. Then said, “But what do you do when you have three women crying in the waiting room?”

I find it interesting that men say things like this to one another. On the one hand, he is acknowledging and acting on the interests of the women. On the other, he is not only using them as a way to keep from admitting his own emotional involvement, he is trivializing the womens’ feeling on the matter (not to mention the life of a dog, which was just called “a member of the family”).

I understand the social aspects of why this sentence is generally added to a conversation,but that does not mean I am any less intrigued. Are men (masculine-acting family men, in this case) so insecure in their own roles that they must ascribe their tender feelings toward a companion, whether animal or not, to their women counterparts (wives, daughters, etc.)? Or, is it not a symptom of masculine insecurity, but a sort of code for acknowledging their own weakness in regards to aforementioned women and/or pets?

–

I finished my rough draft of my Twilight essay this morning. I like it, it’s too long, but my tone is strong, and my argument fluid. It gives me confidence that I can sit down and finish something unassigned, without a deadline–even in the midst of all this real life upheaval.

Also, check out The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. It’s the best novel I have read this year. A magnificent meeting of European and Japanese aesthetics.

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Girl’s Shoes Update: My son is now wearing the blue/green flip-flops again, proudly declaring that he want to wears his “girl’s shoes” right now. He still, however, want to wear his “boy’s shoes” every now and then as well.

Girl’s Shoes

When I picked my son up yesterday, he complained to me that one of the older girls (7ish) at his day care told him his blue/green flip-flops were girls shoes. Being me, I told him his flip-flops were just flip-flops, and that he could wear them whenever he wanted, no matter who said anything. I am not sure how much of this sunk in, seeing as he was three and I was driving at the time. He just kept saying that they were girls shoes, and he seemed fairly upset by it. He picked out those flip-flops himself while at the store with his dad. And even though I usually encourage his little velcro sandals over the flip-flops because he can run in his sandals, and he likes to run, I was really upset that my three year-old son was already being made to feel insecure about his masculinity–like that is something he needs to worry about yet.

I try to encourage him to try new things, to play, to not be violent, to pick out the things he likes no matter what gender they were manufactured for. His father and I more or less agree on this. So, since my son was spending the night with his dad, I updated him on what happened, and the conversation the two of us had already had about it. I left with the impression that my son would not want to wear his flip-flops for awhile and we would be using his sandals mostly, and that he might need some extra encouragement over the next few days.

When I picked him up this morning, he was wearing red and black plastic flip-flops with the WWE logo all over them and the picture of some shirtless, hairless, awkward looking wrestler on the heal. (At least his foot covers that part up). Apparently, his paternal grandmother had heard the story and combed the city for the most obnoxious pair of male-gendered flip-flops she could find. And boy did he wear them proudly. . .

I came in and he stuck his foot out to show me his boy shoes! I have been trying to not fume about it all day today. I talked to the babysitter about what was said, and while it bothers me, I understand kids like to think they are important, and they say stupid things all the time. I can deal with that–it’s the complete undermining of everything I think is important that bothers. She went out and bought a pair of shoes that very few little girls would deign to touch, brought them home, and said, you are a boy, this is what you wear.

I am very angry about this, but I know, if I bring it up to her, I will sound like a bitch, because she was just trying to make him feel better. I understand that, but it didn’t seem like he was that upset about. (More confused because to him, yesterday, before he was macholy shod, he was neither boy nor girl, simply Athrun. Today, after the shoes, he is boy Athrun.)

If he had picked them out on his own, fine. But he is only three. He can wear the turquoise flip-flops, and use a pink pacifier, and wear training pants with frog princesses on them if he wants. If he chooses it. He didn’t choose these. And I feel as if the gift was inappropriate as well, because he has two other pairs of shoes, and I don’t agree with giving kids gifts to make up for emotional problems.

All I can see this doing is making him more insecure, and I hate it. He is everything to me.

However, I have decided this is a small transgression in the grand scheme of things. I spoke with the babysitter. We discussed it at length. I feel I did the right thing there. But I will not be bringing it up with my ex’s family. It will only be taken the wrong way, and everybody (including myself) will bring emotions that have nothing to do with this situation into the discussion. And I am tired of walking around on egg shells.

Am I being too sensitive? Am I being too timid by deciding not to have a conversation with his grandmother about it? (Remember, this is my ex-mother-in-law.) I just worry so much about the pressures boys go through in school to be un-girl, and how unhealthy it gets to be trying to please other people all the time, instead of just being yourself. I worry, I am mom, and I make mistakes, have made mistakes, will make mistakes.

–

I saw Laura Moriarty speak at the library last night. Her new book just came out on Tuesday. Excellent and devastating. Check it out.

I Really Hated Twilight

I have been writing most of the afternoon. This is something I have not done for almost a year and a half (when writing was not connected with school). I am currently writing an essay about Twilight–and while it would be devilishly easy to write about it as an anti-feminist piece, I feel like this would not only be negating the premise of the story, but also alienating any actual fans too much for them to read the essay. Of course, it is not like I am going to be any less harsh through my critiquing method of choice. It will be a literary critique, because that is when I do my best non-fiction writing: writing about books. But it will be a critique of the quality of the writing/publishing/techniqe, etc. I am going to argue that the Twilight Saga as it stands now is a fancy first draft with underdeveloped characters with crude stereotypes substituted for real emotional connection. It is an unsuccessful attempt at creating literature. You could call it pulp, but I would argue that it is not even pulp, because at least pulp is entertaining. Twilight, all four books, made me feel like blowing my brains out. It was monotonous, unimaginative, and I really do think it reinforces unhealthy ideas about growing up and falling in obsession love.

It was satisfying to rant/write, to write without editing myself or inserting citation, to write in long hand in a yellow notepad, and to write in all of my opinion in first person. It will be edited extensively and a style will be applied along with a healthy dose of professionalism, but I can honestly say I think it will be good. It will be a fresh perspective on the whole subject, and maybe even spark some discussion. Now, if I can only get it finishedpublished, I will be good to go.

This Week In Coffee

I have a confession to make.

Sometimes, when I feel like sleeping in, I slip on over to a coffee shop where I am not employed, and which I do not like, simply because it is close. Pretty much the only thing this shop has going for it is its proximity to my apartment. The coffee is mediocre at best, the lattes are too hot with watery shots, it is never as clean as it could be, and its main costumer base are the conservative Christians that populate this dear little city of mine. For about six weeks, I have been sneaking off to this little shop a couple mornings a week to grab a cup of weak coffee and check the internets (or other mindless tasks), so I am not zombie mom for the rest of the morning. I will be doing this no longer. In fact, I plan to never step foot in this place again.

Why? Because as much as I am up for supporting local businesses, I no longer feel like I can support a place that only survives because people I disagree with on many fundamental levels continue to meet there, mostly because they are all Christians. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with Christians. I do have very deeply rooted conflicts with conservative Christian politics for many reasons, which I feel may be fairly self-evident from my posts so far. If not, stay tuned.

I was sitting on this great leather sofa, catching up on Sarah Haskins videos when something not out of the usual occurs: I overhear the two men at the table behind me talking. Whatever two men are back there (there are always at least two men back there, never seen a woman, or a man on his own) always speak too loudly because they are separated from the rest of the shop by a decorative room divider–and apparently cannot remember they are not in a real conference room with walls and stuff. Yesterday, the two men happened to be a younger man seeking advice from a slightly older man about marketing his book/website about being a good father. The tag-line from his promotional video, was “Anyone can be a father, it takes hard work to be a man.” And while I suspect that the dude who came up with this little zinger thought he was one clever mother, someone needs to tell him that playing on men’s already latent insecurities to sell something is called exploitation. Not only that, this short video was filled with a lot of guilt-inducing catch-phrases like “dead-beat dad” and “absent fathers”. The whole thing inferred that men who do not stay married to their children’s mothers and do not live with their children are not truly men . . . as if that were the heart of the issue.

And, if that is not bad enough. Said younger man who made the video proudly begins describing his wife’s ministry: a Christian blog for women. You can tell he is really excited about his wife’s project, like she is really doing something good, and for a minute, I think he is going to gush about how brilliant she is. Then, said slightly older man clearly pull a disgusted grimace because the younger one suddenly lost any hint of pride in his voice and immediately started stuttering about it as if it were silly. “It’s called, you know, shave my legs, and it’s for women, you know, because women, um, you know, women need, uh, en-en-encouragment sometimes while they have to shave their legs. . .*nervous laughter*”. (I have not yet been able to find this blog…but I really wish I could. If you do, please, please, please post a link.) And then the older one suggested putting his video on his wife’s quaint little blog (which is how it was talked about the rest of this conversation which I did not want to hear in the first place), and then they talked about how to go viral.

Really?

Viral. With a conservative Christian, you aren’t a good dad/men/christian campaign? Great.

This scene is in no way atypical of the things I overhear at this coffee shop. It was the frequency, along with playing on regressive ideas about masculinity and belittling women, and glorifying terrifying advertising trends, that was the last straw. I just cannot listen to it anymore. I might explode.

Even worse, when I had just decided to leave and never come back, I met a couple that regularly frequents my coffee shop on their way in the door. I explained that it was close to my apartment, and they said they had never been before, but were glad to see me there: they knew it would be good if I was there.

Lovely, best thing I heard all day.

There, I Have Had My Piece

As limited as my world is, I try to pay attention to what is happening in the world outside my coffee shop, and give different points of view their due respect. I can respect that some folks drink the abomination called the snickers latte (or any latte with Hazelnut in it for that matter). I can respect someone’s decision to wear those nearly see through white pants that makes it perfectly clear there is no underwear there, if that is what makes said someone happy. I can respect a couple’s reason wanting to get married, or not. I can respect someone’s reason for wanting to have a baby or not–and on the flip side, wanting to have an abortion, or not. And while I attempt to have respect for the anti-choice portion of the American population, I struggle with it because I find the position usually (though not always) comes from a place of privilege, in which other people’s life circumstances are very rarely considered. (Not saying this is always the case, just saying, this is the one with which I am most often confronted.)

Having said all this, I simply loose patience when religious conservatives publish something obviously half-baked with no more intention than to be inflammatory and to start/promote prejudices. Take this article from American Papist, a conservative catholic blog. It calls Justice Ginsberg “despicable” for expressing fear that once upon a time, some groups might have liked to use Roe as an excuse for population control. Despite the fact that if you read the whole interview with Justice Ginsberg, it seems fairly clear that she is no Eugenicist. The American Papist article reads like nothing more to me than some conservatives continuing condemnation of anything and everything that might actually give someone other than themselves (privileged, classed, and white) power.

And while I know this is optimistic, as I am baby blogger with but pitiful daily readership, what do you, my readers in the computer, think?

The Tally

What an awesome mom I was today:

1. Hour long walk with the kiddo +3
2. Temp raises from 75 to 86 while we are out, so my son actually asks me for water -1
3. Pit stop at the local co-op for Kombucha, apples, freshly-ground peanut butter, and Blue Sky ginseng ginger ale +4
4. Kombucha is so “naturally effervescent” that is explodes all over my kitchen, my son, and I when I open it, leaving roughly 7 oz. out of the origianl 16 -3
5. Apples are all old and brown and taste like feet. -2
6. Fall asleep on sofa during Word World, allowing the television to babysit my son -3
7. Divorce papers 75% complete +7
8. Super-mondo, ass-kicking headache due to falling awkwardly asleep on the sofa -3
9. My bright and cheery attitude while working, regardless of the pain +1
10. Great big hug and I love you after I threw out a pair of his soiled training pants with minimal reprimand +3

Total cool mom points for the day: 6
Hmm, average. Maybe I will shine tomorrow

Starting Over, Again

This month has been busy. I am working a lot. My computer cords died a couple weeks ago, so I have had very limited computer time. I have not written nor edited any writing since at least June 14th. (The week during which I was unexpectedly visited by the last person I ever want to see again, and was insulted loudly by my son’s father outside the house where the whole neighborhood could hear.)

As this is the first thing I have written in three weeks, it is a sad excuse, but a resolve to start over. I feel as though I am constantly beginning again. Resolving again and again to rebuild my the confidence that was so shaken last spring. The guilt I feel for shaking things up so tremendously is difficult to overcome even on the most mundane of days. But then again, I am proud that I finally had to courage to make the move to be honest. Then I struggle everyday to remind myself that I am still striving to be honest, and yet keep the peace. And I still shoulder the blame if someone is unhappy for any reason. I have trouble maintaining the pride that allowed me to leave in dealing with my son’s father, and his family. Asserting myself has never been one of my strong suits (how I ended up in this mess to begin with), but I am working on it.

The good news is, it is birthday weekend. On top of the fourth, two of my siblings have a birthday today, and my sons birthday is tomorrow. Of course, I am also working all weekend. Like I said, I have been busy.

I am really excited for the birthday. I love my kid.
Even if he is the most serious three year-old ever.

This Week at the Java Bar

Monday:
My only day off this week, I rode the scooter out south first thing because D. (whom I adore) was working, and I needed a jolt before I picked Booger up from his dad’s. She couldn’t unlock the chain that bound the patio furniture. In my attempt to show her how I always used the ring as leverage on the tricky bastard, I broke the key off in the lock. Sorry smokers, no chairs and gigantic Boar’s Head umbrella for you today. Also, at least seven people mistook D. for me from a recent magazine article on some of the baristas in town. (Not linking to it, partially because I am still under the illusion that this highly personal blog still merits me some form of prviacy, and partially because I look like I did when I was eight months pregnant in the picture. And for all my feminist posturing, I can admit, be it hypocritical or not, I am that vain.)

Tuesday:
It rained all day so I caught a ride to work with Edward (formerly referred to as New Boy) and started in on The Purity Myth by Jessica Valenti at work. Outrage and intrigue all at once. Having grown up as part of a strongly pro-life family, having a friend who now works for Kansans For Life, most of the virginity movements’ propaganda is not new to me. Having it analyzed to show how it does nothing but aim to reduce women to their sexuality like raunch culture was thought provoking and confirms some of the same outrages I have felt for both. Purity Balls still freak me out just as much as QuiverFull, but I will go on and on about that some other time, in some other post that does not include how I read nearly half a book in one six-hour shift. Great example there, manager!

The jeans I bought three weeks before split at the spot on my leg where my thighs rub together. Renew plan to loose weight, not because I think I am ugly at my current weight, but because my budget can’t handle the strain on my wardrobe.

Wednesday:
My son has a mysterious skin rash that does not itch, and does not seem to phase him. Stresses me out so much that by the end of my shift I have a MONSTER MIGRAINE. My boss prescribes me codeine and whiskey. D. brings me a two ounce bottle of bourbon from the liquor store next door (also owned by my boss), but no Tylenol 3 was forthcoming. Drove home, into the sun, thinking I was going to die. Luckily, Hot Shower + Heating pad + Edward’s deft fingers + 1000mg of Ibuprofen = Relief. Left work thinking it was awesome my boss regularly lets us drink on the job. (Last Saturday, we sampled lime sangria that his wife made in the shop, and she poured me a really big glass. Helluva way to increase productivity when you have been there since 5:20am and had next to nothing to eat, let me tell ya.)

Thursday:
Ladies Bible study. First, they sit down right in front of the bar, so I can hear virtually every word they say while I clean up and restock and finish The Purity Myth. I attempt to ignore it, because my heathen brain has trouble not thinking that all these prayer requests are just some elevated form of gossip. SNIPPET: “. . . I got there and she had MTV on . . .” (collective gasp from the group). As they are finally packing up, of course Dr. Tiller comes up. I know it has been in the news everywhere over the past few days, but since it happened so close, and affects Kansas women so desperately, it really has been quite the buzz around the java bar. They talk about how terrible it is that the media is treating him like a saint and how lamentable it is, this liberal bent of the news networks these days, how they can’t even watch ABC anymore. I bite my lip to keep from screaming, and to keep arguing that a lot people consider him a martyr. But any argument I made would fall on deaf ears, and I would have a bunch of people praying for me, like it is a service instead of an insult.

Of course, as this conversation is going on, none other than good old Lee Hartman walks in to deliver the latest issue of The Metro Voice News, our local conservative Christian rag. I shoot daggers out of my eyes at him as he comes in, searches for a place to set his stack of righteous condemnation, and quickly leaves again. I have no qualms about pointing him out as a general hate monger since his editorial from April 2008, blaming feminism any and all troubles in America. The June edition is not posted on their website yet, but his editorial on Tiller is a doozey. Last I checked, Jesus ate dinner with those largely considered sinners, but Hartman condemns Tiller’s church for accepting his membership. Yes, not judgmental at all. He beat a hasty retreat. If he ever sticks around long enough for me to get a word in, I will probably loose my temper with him. But I doubt it will be taken seriously, I am only a woman after all.

My son’s rash is worse in the morning, so I schedule a doctor’s appointment. The earliest they can see him is about the time I have to leave for work. His dad takes him, and at work I learn it is hives after all, but we have no idea what the cause is. As it is clearing up by the time the doctor gets a look, she says to keep an eye out and avoid bathing him with adult bathing solutions (thank you fraternal grandmother).

The girl who opened the shop tells me to order more chocolate sauce next week instead of suggesting I check our supply of chocolate, because it might be running low. Now, I am all for everyone pitching in to help keep our small establishment running at its best, but I do not like being told how to do my job by a girl who has no idea what the store actually uses in volume of chocolate sauce (or anything else for that matter). I told her, rather casually, that the coffee order was coming the next day with more syrup, so I wasn’t worried. Upon double checking, I find we have enough chocolate to last us at least five days. This made me rather grumpy for the next few hours, especially since I did a lot of auxiliary cleaning as well.

A GIANT wolf spider interrupts my shower. I flush him down the drain along with my karma reserves.

I start reading Twilight because I have read too much about it to not read it. I plan to profit by adding to the pile of articles that proves it is bad for women and sell it to some feminist publication just in time for the theatrical release of New Moon.

Friday:
Nice smooth day. Not many breaks, but why would I complain about a busy day when it ensures I will have a job for the foreseeable future. The only thing I didn’t like was coming in late, but my son’s babysitter takes them swimming on Friday’s, and even though the hives are virtually gone, we decide it is best to not irritate his skin any further with chlorine, so I do not leave for work until his dad gets off.

D. (a former bartender) suggests we go drinking sometime soon because we haven’t for awhile. We get free drinks for many reasons: she knows everyone in the biz; we are both not bad looking, and are often mistaken for sisters; I gave birth, with no drugs, to a 10 lb. baby. Any or all of that often earns a free shot or two.

I was sweeping the floor after the customers died down a bit. It was a really busy day for us and the floor was a mess. The only real customer in shop at the time got a look at my gigantic dirt/splenda pile; he said, “Amazing just what human beings can leave in their wake, huh?” I made some smart comment about how long it had been left there, but I was really thinking about Gundam where people have to move to outer space because earth is so polluted. (My son is named for a recent Gundam Pilot, ten points to anyone who can guess it.) Yes, I was twenty-one and bored when he was born, and yes, he will suffer the rest of his life. What can I say? I am cruel.