Juggling Life

Becoming a Statistic

It occurred to me the other day that our family has become the oft-cited stereotype of this recession: My close-to-50 husband has lost his well-paid management job and his former very-part-time-job wife is working full-time (well, except for the benefits part; I am getting 5 days of sub work a week).

What this reinforces is that behind every stereotype is a very individual story; something we know, but we often forget.

I have to give my husband props for how upbeat he’s been and also for the fact that he knows I’m used to picking up a lot (constantly) when I’m home and that a clean house is important to me. I wouldn’t say he’s been keeping it exactly as I would, but I also realize I’m a bit of a clutter nazi and I could stand to chill a little. He does a really great job. He’s sure not a beer-drinking, belly-scratching sloth wasting his day in front of Jerry Springer!

I must say that if you find yourself thrust into full-time work you could do worse than subbing. Other than the occasional day from hell, spending the day with students leaves me pretty energized and I actually work the mythical 7+1/2 hour day people erroneously think teachers work (I’ve not ever met a decent teacher who can actually plan and grade during those hours). That leaves me plenty of time in the afternoon for a long walk with friends or a bike ride with my husband—and if I felt like cooking dinner I would totally have time to do it.

The part that is off-kilter though is the timing—all the signs in the economy have been so much better that I think most people who were just recently laid off (and we’ve talked to a few) naively thought they’d dodged the bullet.

I suppose there might be a lesson in there (don’t ever feel safe? it can happen to you?), but sometimes you’re just too busy trying to figure out your next move to take the time to figure it out.

Hitting the (Kitchen) Wall

One reason I didn’t have any more kids was because I didn’t want to be one of those tired, burnt-out parents that let the youngest child(ren) run wild or not participate in activities because the parents are just. too. tired.

I have become one of those parents. Though to my credit, and in my defense, it is just in one category.

Dinner.

I cannot face dinner preparation any longer. For 25 years I put a tasty, well-balanced meal on the table all or most nights of the week. Okay, sometimes I put a hastily-prepared, semi-well-balanced meal on the table, but there was dinner.

I have hit a wall.

I am unwilling to cook anything that involves more than three ingredients more that twice a week. I am unwilling (and frankly unable) to conceive of my own dinner ideas (a problem since I am, apparently, the only one with any food preferences in my household). I am. Burnt-out. Big time.

Social Butterfly has said (said, whined, same dif) to me. “It’s not fair, you used to cook dinner every night.” She’s right, it’s not fair.

A few years ago my dental hygienist commented to me that her favorite thing about having an empty nest was that she and her husband just had scrambled eggs, grilled cheese or something equally simple for dinners. I thought that was odd at the time, but I totally get it now. That’s all I want to eat and that’s all I want to cook.

I can muster enthusiasm for cooking for a houseful of people—and for some reason I’ve been making Sunday brunch. But dinner on the table every night? It’s not happening.

By the way, I took a break from writing this to put potatoes in the microwave. I used to scorn microwaved potatoes as inferior to the authentic baked variety. Now? Thinking about dinner an hour in advance of eating it just seems like too much.

I feel guilty about this, but just not guilty enough to cook dinner!

Snapshots From Just Another Day in Paradise

San Diego has had grey, drizzly skies for a week. It’s hard to believe that the weather was that different just 80 miles north, but it was.

The dog is Leslee’s and she’s quite the well-behaved little thing.

You have probably noticed that you really don’t ever see bad pictures of me on this blog (or Facebook). I feely admit to liberal use of the delete button—but I’m going to say that Leslee is even pickier than I am. It totally cracked me up when she checked one photo on her iPhone, deleted it and said, “That’s too bad—it was a great picture of you. But, no.” Then she had our pressed-into-service photographer take another one.

There’s a story behind this photo . . .

Leslee and I were best friends in the 6th grade in Santa Monica—I had remembered it as longer, but no, it was only one year. I moved away at the end of 6th grade (1976) and we visited each other in the summer for the next two years. Then life intervened; as it turned out both of our moms and stepdads divorced around 1980.

Our friendship was very intense—I was very much a one-friend person friend when I was a kid and I think both of us bonded over the dysfunction in our families (though I don’t think we knew it at the time).

Memories are very strange things and I’m shocked at some of the things I don’t remember—like the fact she had a slightly older sister, and the things I do remember— that her mom was a Tab addict.

Bizarrely, we both remember much more about each other’s stepdads than we do about each other’s mothers. Not sure what that is about.

Other memorial snippets of our friendship include: our Benny Hill addiction, staying up late for Saturday Night Live (we watched from the premier episode), sneaking down to the Santa Monica pier (and getting caught sneaking down to the Santa Monica pier) and our friendship with her very Mormon neighbors and their babies.

Our reunion was wonderful. She bought me an authentic Laguna Beach lunch of a grilled Gruyere on Sourdough and we spent hours at the beach talking. I can’t wait to get together again; the connection that made us friends 30 plus years ago is still there.

Now about that picture . . .

Some of you may remember that frosting didn’t always come in a can. Canned frosting first came to Santa Monica in 1976. Leslee and I were so excited to try it that we rode our bikes to the store, bought a can and sat on the grass eating it by the spoonful. I think we made it all the way through the can before we got (no surprise here) extremely sick to our stomachs.

Today, as we sipped Starbucks under a gorgeous blue sky, sitting not on, but in front of, the green grass, Leslee pulled out a can of chocolate frosting with a candle in it and sang Happy Birthday to me. Yep, it was damn cool.

And later?

Warm chips, spicy salsa and a rocks Margarita with Mr. Fix-it, Danger Boy, Social Butterfly and Peanut.

A happy birthday indeed.

             SB’s homemade birthday cards are so special to me.

Thanks to all my blog friends for the warm birthday wishes—they helped make my day, too!

What Lady Gaga and I Have in Common . . .

It turns out Lady Gaga was also born on March 28. I think that about covers our similarities; but then again, I’m against bullying and so is she—maybe we have more in common than I realize. Though don’t expect me to wear a meat dress anytime soon.

If Lady Gaga tweets on Monday about meeting up with her best friend from 6th grade that she recently reunited with on Facebook things will start entering Twilight Zone territory!

My big birthday plan is that I’m driving to Laguna Beach to have lunch and walk around the beach and galleries with my childhood friend, Leslee. We’ve talked on the phone a couple of times and we play Words with Friends continuously, but this will be our first face-to-face since we were 14. I’m very excited!

I swiped this photo off a tourist site, but it really is that gorgeous—I always wondered how the kids on Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County could be so pouty surrounded by so much beauty. I promise I will not be pouty at all.

Back tomorrow with photos and a recap!

Today, just a minor rant . . .

After the horror show early in the week, I’ve had some really fun days meeting some terrific high school kids. Today I was in a history class, showing Saving Private Ryan. The teacher left some questions to keep them paying attention and taking notes. One class, though, had more than its fair share of those students who are just biding their time until their parents give up and quit making them go to school. They’re counting on that day coming real soon, so they do nothing. Oh wait, they do something. They disrupt other students.

Before the movie I gave a little spiel about how though this was a dramatic rendering the movie had a lot of true-to-life elements and I wanted to be sure that when they watched those bloody bodies washing up on Omaha beach they realized that they represented real boys, not much older than them, that gave their lives for the freedoms that we enjoy today, including the freedom to sit in a U.S. History class and behave like an idiot.

They looked at me like I was from Mars and then a few boys said they’d already seen the movie. “That’s fine, but some people haven’t. Is there anyone in here who cares to learn about this?” One brave girl raised her hand.

I threw my arms wide, then raised one clenched fist in the air and proclaimed passionately, “As long as there is one student in this room who desires an education, I will fight to the death for her right to get one!”

Yes, they laughed. So did I. But you know what? I really didn’t have a lot of chit-chat and giggling.

A Horror Story Come To Life

In a year of substitute teaching I have not really had the problems I hear many subs complain about. I almost always enjoy myself—that’s true whether it’s fourth grade, middle school or high school. Even in kindergarten—which is so not a grade I would want to teach full-time I got a kick out of the kids.

I had a day a couple of weeks ago that was not pleasant. There were a lot of students I knew from other classes—they’re the kinds of kids that you don’t forget—and normally there are no more than three of a certain type in a given period. These classes had eight or so of “those kids” in one period. I have my theories on why this is, but I’ll keep them to myself.

It wasn’t great, but I would go back if the teacher asked me. Forewarned is forearmed!

This week I had a day that left me flat-out miserable. I was so drained that my husband had to try to revive me with an ooey-gooey grilled cheese on sourdough with tomatoes and basil while I curled in a fetal position on the couch sucking my thumb. Later on there were four chocolate chip cookies and a 7:30 bedtime.

I will not be going back there. Ever. Unless they want to pay me a million dollars a day.

The students in all five periods were the most disrespectful, ill-behaved and generally rude people I have ever encountered in my life. And no, this was not the hood. Kids in the hood would have been embarrassed to behave so rudely.

After the first period, as I tried to recover, in 5 minutes, from the previous hour, I perused the section of the substitute notebook entitled “Discipline Guidelines for Substitutes.” Hmmm. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen this in a sub manual—so now I’m assuming I’m not the first person to find these students to be an issue. Then I read the first the “tip”: “Do not confront students about discipline issues directly, but redirect their behavior. You do not know what stressors students may be experiencing in their personal lives—at home or socially.”

I went momentarily blind and was dumbstruck.

I recovered my equilibrium in time for this exchange:

A 13- year old boy stood in the doorway goofing around after the bell rang. I approached the door to close it and said to him, “Alright now, the bell rang, it’s time to take your seat.”

His response?

“Damnnn, Woman! Chill!”

My response?

“If you were talking to me the next words out of your mouth had better be ‘I’m sorry’ or I will write you a referral right now.”

He apologized, although he was still pretty much a jerk; I gathered that was his normal behavior.

The things is, that I think you do kids a great disservice by allowing the “stressors” in their life to constitute a blank check for bad behavior. Not that I’m not sympathetic or empathetic—I am. But in the real world your boss, the cop that pulls you over and the people in line with you at the grocery store do not care one whit about your stressors. They expect you to be able to speak respectfully to other human beings.

If those kids at that school are any indication of what a culture of no accountability for your actions (and that’s what it is—I had some enlightening conversations with the handful of great kids I met) yields, I’m going to keep doing it my way.

Little Girls Becoming Big Girls (Or Even (Gulp) Young Ladies)

           Peanut and Social Butterfly 3/2011

I love finding a photo of these two on my computer or FB—it happens a lot because they are definitely of the “document everything” generation—and because they are always together.

It’s wonderful to see a friendship that dates back to second grade still going strong in eleventh grade.

This photo both tickles me and makes me realize how independent they are—they went shopping on their own for the dresses to wear to this party, paid for them with babysitting money and used gift cards they got for managing water polo to pay for the manicures. I wish I had taken of picture of them both curled up on the couch napping the afternoon away the day after the party!

Mom’s Night Out: Toddlers vs. Teens

Toddlers: Plan weeks or months in advance to make sure you have a sitter or Dad is home to watch the kids. Hold on a weekend night because you are too exhausted after a day of caring for toddlers to go out on a weeknight. Be so thrilled to be out with your friends that you vow to do it again soon—which ends up being in six months.

Teens: Someone throws a Facebook Event post up on Sunday night to meet at Happy Hour on Monday night. Immediately RSVP “Hell to the yeah”! Show up and have a blast with six friends you don’t see often enough. Vow to meet the first Monday of every month. Do it!

I’ve blogged before about what a special group of parents I’ve bonded with through Danger Boy’s water polo team. I’m so thrilled that even as DB’s playing days are winding down we are staying in touch. A lot of that is due to the effort of one woman who really knows how to throw a Mom’s Night Out—she’s always got a game or other activity that can easily be played in a restaurant or bar. Tonight it was a quiz designed to see how well we knew all the boys on the team. It was so much fun and not just because I won. Keeping my mouth closed and my ears open on all those drives to away games paid off!

She also brought these fun Girls’ Night Out Table Conversation Starters which were a blast—why did I never think to ask anyone who their very first crush was or what the most romantic gesture anyone ever made toward them was?

In which I run like . . . a very light breeze

Friday evening my regularly-scheduled bike ride with a friend fell through; I fought the impulse to throw in the metaphorical towel and keep my hiney planted on the couch and went out for a walk instead.

I’ve been toting up the miles in my head and I’ve been averaging about 16 miles of biking, 9 miles of walking and a kayak outing weekly, so I’m in fairly decent shape. My walking route encompasses some fairly steep hills, so that helps the workout.

I left my house Friday night and a thought occurred to me: “I could probably run some of this.” Now normally I would never have a thought like this because I’m a terrible runner—ungainly and slow. But my blog friend, Jen on the Edge, has a similar history with running; she blogs about how she has turned into a runner despite this. I was inspired.

So I ran.

Not all the way—maybe a total of a mile, one minute at a time. And it wasn’t horrible. I’m not signing up for any marathons yet, but I think I might try it again this week.

Danger Boy drove past me as I was huffing uphill and gave me a honk and a thumbs up. I told Mr. Fix-it about when I got home and his first reaction was, “You ran?!” His second reaction was to invite me to run with him (he runs several miles a few times a week). My reaction to that? “Hell, no!” Then we took a little jog down memory lane—remembering when I would run around the field in high school, building endurance for field hockey. He would keep me company by running along with me—backwards.

What about you? Yea or nay on running? Backwards in high heels or only with a mugger on your tail?