Juggling Life

In Which I Fail to Fulfill Expectations

Today was going to be the first day of my renewed devotion to “Thoughtful Thursdays”—politics and opinions and punditry! Oh my! Instead I am bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed at 6:30 p.m. Wednesday night and the only thing keeping me from keeling over is typing this post.

Tuesday night, moments after I had drifted off to sleep (at an hour that causes my entire family to mock me), I was awakened by a good, old-fashioned California earthquake. We were rockin’ and rollin’ for long enough for me to leap out of bed and run downstairs—but not long enough to make it out of doors. Then, of course, I had to wait until the internets could provide me with the answers to the questions all of us California girls ask at times like this—magnitude? epicenter? Turns out it was a 5.7 centered in Ocotillo (about 70 miles away). It was an aftershock to the Mexicali Easter quake.

Even a seasoned earthquake veteran such as myself (Sylmar ‘71) gets a little adrenaline going during a quake, so Tuesday night’s sleep was considerably shortened from my normal (as in I’m a zealot about getting it) eight hours.

Then last night our security system had a little problem. The little problem was that it went off three separate times in the middle of the night—about every 2 hours--and nobody was trying to break in. (Though they would have found it easy—the kids didn’t lock the front door before they went to bed). This afternoon Bob, a very helpful and patient Indian man who works for ADT, helped me diagnose a low battery in a motion sensor. Of course this didn’t happen until I’d tried to fix the problem myself by unscrewing the transformer from the outlet behind the water heater (contortionist who?). I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to cut the power to a security alarm—next time I’ll call Bob first.

We did discover, during the course of the conversation, that neither I or Mr. Fix-it remember the master code. Grownup Girl is the mathematician in the family and is working out all permutations from the possibilities given the couplet of numbers assigned to the buttons on the outside panel (the inside panel has separate numbers for each button). When we get that figured out I’m calling Bob back.

At one point during my conversation with Bob I was on another phone asking Mr. Fix-it if he remembered the code (he’s in Salt Lake City). He did not and wouldn’t have been able to tell me anyway because his bluetooth was knocked from his ear when he was rear-ended, pushed into the intersection and then clipped by someone jumping the green light. Thank goodness he was in a big ol’ work truck.

He should have been a Twitterer—I got minute-by-minute play-by-play complete with photos and commentary via iPhone. I particularly liked the one titled “Guilty-Looking.”

All of which is to say that I’m going to save my deep thoughts on the BP oil spill and its highlighting the need for all of us regular American citizens to reexamine our general gluttony when it comes to oil and gas usage (myself included) for next week.

See you tomorrow for Full Confessional Friday!

The View from the Passenger’s Seat

About a week ago I took Social Butterfly on the freeway for the first time. (She’s had her learner’s permit for about 5 weeks). When we got home I threw Mr. Fix-it the car keys and told him, “I did the first lesson—you get the next five.”

Rising to the occasion, he took her out for a couple of hours on Saturday and then again on Sunday. The 15 to the 163 to the 52 to the 5 to the 78 to the 15 again. Carbon footprint be damned—the girl got practice.

Which means that any time we get in the car to go anywhere, she’s the driver. This was the drive back from the pool—the drive there was made during rush hour. San Diego freeways are pretty chill compared to the Bay area and Los Angeles, but they’re still California freeways. Which means just a little white knuckling the whole time (control freak not in control who?).

Did I mention this is the last time I have to do this? Four down and none to go. Yippee!

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu

I’m saying what I have to say today at The Women’s Colony.

Contentment—Mid-Life Style

Every once in a while—like today, a lazy Sunday at home—I think back about what used to make me happy when I was younger. Oddly enough, some of those very things would make me want to shoot myself in the head today.

Number one on that list is clubbing. For a few short years in my wild and misspent youth, clubbing was what I really enjoyed. Getting dressed up—complete with sky-high heels and short-short skirts, mimicking Donna Mills’ makeup (it seemed like a good idea at the time), heading out to a club for a night of loud music (Go-Go’s anyone?), dancing until the sweat dripped off my face (necessitating a trip to the ladies room to re-spackle) and staying up until the wee, wee hours of the night.

My friends and I enjoyed clubbing so much that, sometimes, after the bars in San Diego closed at 2 a.m. we drove to Tijuana to continue partying until 6 a.m. This being a blog my kids sometimes read  I’m not going to comment on whether or not illicit drugs had any part in fueling the fun.

I will tell you I weighed 105 lbs. and 5 lbs. of that was eye shadow.

Today my idea of a decently good time consists of sitting next to my 15-year old daughter while she does homework and I write this post. When I get up to change the laundry I’ll exchange some pleasantries with my husband who is puttering in the garage.  Later my youngest son will return home from a water polo tournament and we’ll grill some burgers. I’ll probably Facebook chat with my older son tonight—his last internet contact before he spends a month in the mountains of Colorado.

And when my oldest daughter heads out to meet a bunch of friends at a club for a night of dancing I’ll tell her to have a good time—and be grateful that it’s her not me!

Juggling True Life

MTV has this series called “True Life.” Some of the titles have been “True Life: I Have OCD,'' “True Life: I’m Looking for my Sibling,” “True Life: I’m Homeless,” and “True Life": I’m a Gambler.”

Sometimes it’s riveting; sometimes it’s trashy.

Social Butterfly was watching an episode, but she left the room. The TV was still on, but nobody was really following it.

Grownup Girl: What’s this show about?

MVP (who has been on the computer, not even watching the show): It’s “True Life: I Need to Wash my Hair.”

It was actually “True Life: I Have Broke Parents,” but they really did need to was their hair.

Also, if you’re a 17-year old guy and your mom is broke you might want to take out the lip and nose piercings, wipe off the thick black eyeliner and look for a job yourself. Just a thought.

Community

Lindsay Ferrier, at Suburban Turmoil, has blogged her way through her experiences with the Nashville flood and reading her posts has brought back so many memories. My experience in the Cedar Fire was a lot like what Lindsay went through—almost losing our home, but getting lucky; seeing many friends and neighbors lose everything.

I realized I’ve never told the story on this blog—beyond this snippet—and I’ll have to do it someday. It’s quite a story.

The tale I’m going to tell today involves trying to find some way—be it ever so small—to help those whose homes did not escape the firestorm.

We were out of our house for a couple of days (except for my husband—he never left) and when we got back we stumbled around in a daze, shocked at the devastation wrought on our close-knit suburb. We couldn’t stop staring at the Dali-esque sculpture that the fire had forged of our backyard pitch back.

While the south side of our enclave experienced the most houses lost there was a street a few blocks from us on the north side that lost many houses too.

In our quest to do something right then my friend and I loaded the back of the van up with coolers of snacks and drinks and drove up and down that street handing them out to the stunned homeowners sifting through the ashes of their former homes.

At one house when we offered up cold drinks a woman said, “I’d love a Diet Coke.” Unfortunately, we were stocking only Pepsi products (they’d been on sale). She politely declined.

When we finished our rounds that day I drove to the local mini-mart and got an ice-cold bottle of Diet Coke then went back to the house. I stood in the front yard, “yoo-hooing” through a blown out window into a house that was only half there until I got the woman’s attention.

“Did somebody here need a Diet Coke?” I asked as picked her way through the rubble of her former life to follow my voice.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

“It was no problem. I’m a Diet Coke gal myself. They’re not the same thing at all.”

She took the Diet Coke, cracked it open, took a long, refreshing swig and leaned on shoulder and cried and cried. I’m assuming she was crying for her loss and for the kindness of strangers.

Bitter and sweet. It’s life. “It’s the real thing.”*

 

 

* Coke slogan from 1969

Words Matter

The school where I teach is 52% Hispanic, 5% Black and 43% White. The school also has a significant population of special education students. The dynamics are very interesting.

Almost every single person is very inclusive and there is a real camaraderie among the regular-ed and special-ed populations. There is very little teasing—when something does happen there is truly zero tolerance. It’s a wonderful atmosphere.

That said, there’s a significant tension between Mexican and White students. It doesn’t involve all students, but of the ones it does, this is my interpretation of the attitudes.

Many of the White students have parents that went to this same school and they lament the fact that it is no longer the place it was when Cameron Crowe used it as a model for “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” They’re not overly happy about being the minority population.

Many of the Mexican students feel like they are looked down upon because they’re Mexican (and sometimes it’s true). They routinely say things like, “You’re picking on me because I’m Mexican.” They know full well that’s not true, but it’s sort of a defense mechanism. I’ll make fun of me being a Mexican before you can. There’s also a significant “Chicano Pride” thing going on—which I don’t have a problem with at all, until it verges into being discriminatory towards others.

The result is that a lot of racial epithets are used. White kids call themselves “crackers” and “rednecks.” Mexican kids call themselves “beaners” and Black kids call themselves “nigger.” Kids of all ethnicities use the term, “nigga.”

I’m having a huge problem with this. None of those are words I would ever use. Well, maybe “cracker” if I preceded it with “Ritz.” I really can’t stand to hear all these demeaning terms tossed about in an offhand fashion.

The kids tell me that’s all a big, light-hearted joke because they’re not as hung up on race as my generation was. Maybe. But what about the day when one of those words is used not in a mutually joking manner, but as an insult? Or maybe you are saying it as a joke and the other person doesn’t share your interpretation? It just doesn’t seem like a good idea to me.

So though I don’t believe in censorship, I’m censoring. The banned words in my classroom started out as “gay” and “retard” and have grown to include the aforementioned terms. I think they all need to start thinking of ways to describe themselves and others that doesn’t use a negative descriptor of their ethnicity.

Fun in the Memorial Day Sun

                              Oh, to be young again!

Woman Food and Happiness Part II

So, I’m continuing to slog through Women Food and God as I posted about last week. All of your comments on that post were very interesting and thought-provoking—as always.

I don’t think I’m going to go into therapy as Suzy suggested. Not that I’m saying I don’t need it (who among us has no issues?), but when would I find the time? I’m thinking that for the same amount of time  investment (though more money) the master’s degree  program I’m thinking of starting will make me happier in the long run. Maybe some day though.

The book—and your dialogue—have had me engaged in a lot of introspection.

Kcinnova had this comment:

Having just started reading the book, I haven't yet formed an opinion of it. However, I am intrigued... can I get back to the the moment before I began filling that hole, or was I always like this?
I've done enough self-work to know my most common (and probably first ever) trigger food. But what about before that?

Posted by: kcinnova | June 01, 2010 at 07:02 AM

I realized that I have been overeating my entire life; I just wasn’t overweight until I had kids. In fact, I was a very skinny child and I got lots of praise for really being able to pack in the food. The family jokes were about “my hollow leg” and my nickname was “the human garbage disposal.”

I remember my mom and I sharing a large Pizza Hut pizza—just the two of us—when I was six. My mom only ate at night (she subsisted on cigarettes and coffee the rest of the day and then ate a huge dinner—and she was quite thin until she hit menopause), so we had big dinners every night. My enormous appetite—and non-picky palate—were always celebrated.

So . . . hole or habit? It’s hard to say.

I’m going to post more about this later—I don’t want this to end up too long and wordy--but there’s definitely more that I have to say about this subject.

Walking on Eggshells and Holding my Breath

My parenting has been very conscious and deliberate. Having been raised in a family of dysfunction (though haven’t we all to some degree?) I felt like I needed outside guidance and did not want to rely on what I knew from personal experience—except perhaps, in some ways, as a guide as to what not to do.

I would venture to say that I have read more parenting books than anyone you’ve ever met—more articles, more interviews, more everything. I combined all this knowledge with my own instincts and I’m pretty happy with how things have worked so far.

I knew for sure that my upbringing did not show me a healthy relationship with food. I knew for sure I did not want to replicate that relationship with my children. There was never a call for a clean plate at my table—I wanted my kids to listen to their bodies’ signals regarding hunger in a way I still haven’t figured out how to do (though I’m working on it).

Though I have both lost and gained weight through the years I have always kept the focus on health. My children watched the horror that was my sister’s experience with gastric bypass surgery, so they realize there are more important things in life than being thin.

I have always marveled at and appreciated my youngest daughter’s equanimity in her relationship to food. She eats what she wants when she wants it. Her natural tastes mean that she eats a lot of fruit and isn’t big on carbs. She loves chocolate, but can buy a bar, eat two squares and stick the rest in the freezer for two months from now. Her natural instincts are so good I just keep my mouth shut and make sure we have the food she likes in the house.

In 15 and 1/2 years I don’t think I’ve ever heard her mention a desire to lose weight. She’s always been an athlete and she’s always been thin so that may be why—she certainly hasn’t ever needed to. Today she is 5’9 and weighs 140 lbs.; she is muscular and lovely. When we recently went clothes shopping her jeans size went from a size 1 to a size 5—the function of the recent addition of having hips. It seemed to be no big deal to her.

Recently she’s been going to the gym with some friends—swim season is over so she’s not swimming two hours a day and she wants to keep the daily workout habit. They do the elliptical and take an occasional yoga class.

All of which is great and healthy except one of the girls has recently lost 15 lbs. and this is the topic of much discussion and admiration. Now this particular girl is probably well-served by this weight loss—if it stops here and she continues with healthy eating and reasonable exercise.

It is the note of admiration in my girl’s voice that worries me though—and the knowledge that weight loss can be a competition with one’s self. That even if you don’t need to lose weight the thrill of weight loss can still be appealing. Combined with the fact that her current extremely healthy weight is not waifish in any way I have a niggling little worry.

My only comment thus far has been the casual observation that everyone I know that has ever dieted is heavier than when they first started trying to lose weight (I could be the poster child for that argument).

For now I’m watching and listening and taking a deep breath. And hoping my daughter makes it through the minefield of being an American teenager and young adult without having her natural instincts and healthy outlook corrupted by the very American rite of passage of screwing up our relationship with food and exercise in the pursuit of a media-influenced ideal that has no basis in reality.