Blythe Spirit

Lessons

-It is difficult to maintain a blog when one’s computer has finally succumbed to death throes.
-Computer shopping sounds like fun but it feels like throwing a lot of money at something I don’t know enough about. A little like buying a car.
-When I don’t feel confident about a purchase, I tend to come up with creative work-arounds for having to buy a new one.
-My creativity only goes so far.
-Posting to my blog via my phone is, apparently, the last straw.
-Macs sound really great but I’m not convinced they are worth the money.
-I’ll believe the above statement until I actually get one, and then I’ll go around evangelizing about them like I do my iPhone.
-If you’re going to make your child a pawn in your quest for fame, don’t let him talk directly to the media.

Coughing it up

Our little family of three does just fine with my new working mom gig as long as nothing disrupts the precarious timing balance we’ve so carefully constructed. As long as Jeff doesn’t have an early meeting, as long as Theo doesn’t wake up too early and disrupt my shower, as long as I don’t have to stay late at the office. But then I went on a business trip last week.

I got home late Sunday evening after starting my trip with a canceled flight (and an exchange with an airline employee that was really just unrivaled in its rudenes. And the rudness was not mine, for once). But I was happy to have made it home and fell into bed, got up and went to work, and just about collapsed in a heap at 10am when I realized it was only MONDAY and OMG THERE ARE FOUR MORE DAYS OF THIS.

When I’m in my little routine, I spend Sunday evenings getting my clothes ready (I almost typed “ironing my clothes” but who am I fooling), figuring out lunches and dinners for the week, and going over the day care pick-up and drop-off schedule with Jeff. So without that structural safety net I found myself eating BBQ potato chips and Twizzlers I found in my desk drawer at lunchtime while sweating through an inappropriately-wintry turtleneck. But the turtleneck was clean at least, because I chose clean over seasonal.

All three of us have some version of a cough/runny nose/day care pestilence, so I’ve also been contending with fearful looks from bystanders as I hack up a lung. I feel like I should hand out anti-bacterial wipes everywhere I go. I’ll admit, sometimes I cough right into my hand instead of into my elbow, and sometimes I don’t wash my hands immediately after wiping my nose. It’s hard when you’re sitting in the middle seat on an airplane. But I am sick and tired of and, well, getting downright pissed off about, people’s reactions to my condition. Let’s be clear here: I do not have a fever. I do not have chills. I am not oinking. I just have a cold and a cough and when I get a cough it tends to last for a long time. And I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to do about that besides politely stuff my face into my elbow when I feel a cough coming on. Stay in my house for the six weeks it takes for me to stop coughing? Wear a surgical mask?

I am too lazy to expand this little rant into a well-constructed argument about the media and “news” and how the public has been not-subtly convinced to fear illness over the years and now we’re all judging one another for our germs. But you get my drift. On the other hand, I am sympathetic to health concerns, I have a freaking toddler for goodness’ sake. I have allergy-induced asthma. I know we have to take a health threat like H1N1 seriously.

But let’s just all calm down, please. Please. Deep breath.

I feel much better now.

And as long as I’m going on and on about whatever is on the top of my head, let me send you to a couple of things I’ve been enjoying lately:

Penelope Trunk is always interesting and I’m finding her latest series on Asperger’s Syndrome in the workplace really fascinating. She also just angered a whole lot of people, using 140 characters or less, and in a way that is sparking all kinds of conversations. Check her out.

Have you read The Unlikely Disciple? Speaking of controversy, it’s a book about religion and sex and Jerry Falwell and college. I’m only about 1/3 through and I can’t put it down.

Was I right?

So, was I right?

Yes and No.

The Good:
Mya and Donny both did well. And Mark was all right. If he can get over the Kung Fu poses he’ll do well.

The Bad:
Chuck Liddell was not good, but he has that sincerity of purpose that it’s hard not to love. I practically had to turn off the TV when Tom DeLay came on, if only due to his practice wardrobe. And what can you say about Macy Gray? It almost feels mean to criticize her – she seems like she’s living in some far-off wonderland.

The Surprising:
Kelly Osbourne was very good! And she’ll get even better with practice. I guess Louis really is a genius teacher. She’s also got the personality lacking in everyone else but the snowboarder hobbit. He’s charming but I’m not sure he has anything in his bag of tricks besides those backflips.

Aaron Carter was even more annoying than I thought he’d be. Ick. I also had hope for Ashley Hamilton and there’s no denying he’s attractive but man, he hasn’t an ounce of rhythm.

Joanna Krupa could be the next Brooke Burke. Unfortunately that means we’ll also being seeing Derek again, week after week.

Who knew Kathy Ireland was so tall? And poor Tony, he really deserves to win, but this is not going to be his season.

I felt an overall lack of pizzazz. Even in the glare of the sequins. It’s why Kelly Osbourne stood out so clearly and why Donny did well. Where is the sex appeal? Where is the passion? WHERE IS GILLES? (Excuse me, I’ve started channeling Bruno.)

Working for the Weekend

I’d forgotten about the weekends.

For a long time, I’ve taken care of my to-do list on the weekdays. I grocery shopped, I made dentist appointments, I called the insurance company. I found a baby shower gift. I searched online for a recipe for that applesauce cake I was going to try to make. When weekends came, they were devoted to sleeping and eating waffles and having fun.

I anticipated the exhaustion I’d feel on weekday evenings after I started working, and it arrived right on schedule. By Thursday night last week my eyes were droopy at 6:30pm and Theo was singing his “Wake up, Mama!” song and reminding me that the sun wasn’t down yet. But I remembered that feeling, and I kind of sunk right back into it, my throat scratchy from talking all day and my feet hurting from wearing stiff shoes. For me, it’s a little of what accomplishment feels like. I like it.

But I’d forgotten about cramming the rest of my life into the weekends. Now we’re trying to do the fun stuff on Saturdays and Sundays – seeing friends and playing with cousins and going to the library and eating out – and then doing laundry and buying diapers and packing lunches after the kid goes to bed. No more lazy weekends for us.

I’m tempted to become a weekend hermit, holing up with my little guy and my big guy and eating Cheerios and watching America’s Funniest Home Videos for two days straight. In fact, I’m sure there will be weekends when that happens. However we’ll run out of cereal eventually so there will be a trip to the store on the agenda at some point.

Party on.

Good Advice:
Eek! A FB Friend Request from an Ex

A thirty-something woman lounges on the couch with her laptop. She sips a diet Coke as she cruises through Zappos and checks her e-mail. Partner/live-in boyfriend sits further down the couch with either his laptop or a remote control in hand.

From her ex-boyfriend. Her first love. Who broke her heart and to whom she hasn’t spoken in fifteen years. She glances furtively over her computer at the guy on the couch, her mouse hovering between “accept” and “ignore.”

END SCENE

I fully expect to see this on my television soon, either as an intro to a Dr. Phil segment or an ad for anti-anxiety meds. Because the drama du jour, besides who’s really writing celebrity Twitter updates, is What To Do With The Ex on Facebook. Do we ignore and wonder and worry that the ex will think he’s won? Do we accept and keep it a secret from our current flames? Do we accept for politeness’s sake then de-friend when no one is looking? Do we accept, write “CHEATING ASSHOLE” on his wall, and then de-friend? Do we accept with the knowledge that there’s still a little bit of feeling there, and what happens then?

What we do right now, if the people I know are any indication, is let it sit in the in-box and then dish with our girlfriends about it. We talk way too much about what “friend” really means, and motives, and what would I do if I knew my husband were Facebook friends with that hussy he dumped when he met me, ad nauseum. And then we go off and stew a little more.

A few weeks ago, a very wise friend of mine got just such a request. He was a significant person in her life for several years in her early twenties, but it ended in a difficult way. She had always wondered about him and where he’d ended up, but she moved on. She now has a happy family and a successful career and hadn’t really thought about him in a while. But still, when she got the friend request, on her wedding anniversary no less, she sent an email to us, her faithful girlfriend sounding board, with Subject: OMG OMG OMG. As one does.

We, her bumbling band of advisors, hemmed and hawed and said wow, that’s crazy timing, I wonder what he’s doing now, that’s so wild! And gave her no useful advice at all. So she took matters into her own hands. And she put on her grown-up shoes (mine are red patent peep-toe heels) and wrote this reply to her ex:

Hey there! I hope you and your family are doing well. Thank you for the
friend request. Unfortunately, I will have to decline. My husband and I
have a deal, no exes. Especially significant ones. I really hope you are
doing well and wish you all the best. Today is my 10yr wedding anniversary
and we have a beautiful 3yo daughter and 17mo old son. I would love a quick
note hearing about how you are doing. And I hope you understand and respect
the decision about the request.

And then, of course, she practically lost her mind as she wondered what he would write back.

Later in the day, she got a reply. It was extremely kind. It included the kind of apology that every person wants from an ex who has broken her heart. It gave her a nutshell description of his life since they were together. And it ended with sincere respect for her choice to honor a promise to her husband.

I’m not sure why I was so surprised at the happy ending here. My friend just did the responsible thing, the thing that most people would do outside Facebook. But for better or worse (better being the fact that I can officially count myself as a fan of Bacon and put up an avatar of Molly Ringwald in memoriam to John Hughes, worse being the “friend-ing” and “de-friending” drama), Facebook pulls some of us into junior high school mentality even though we all swore we would NEVER go back to junior high, given the choice.

So although I can’t promise that you’ll get as gracious a response as she did, my friend and I both give you permission to cut and paste her message into your Facebook reply box when the ex-boyfriend from 1998 who moved out of your apartment in the middle of the night and who you later saw sucking face with the receptionist from his office tries to friend you.

You’re welcome for that memory.

Not Yet

Theo is just starting to grasp the ideas of time and place. He understands Now and Later and When and Where. This means he comes up with questions like, “Where I going, Mama?” just before we walk out the door, and replying “Not yet. I playing,” when I ask him if he’s ready for lunch. Every night before he goes to bed he asks, “Tomorrow a play day?” meaning he’s wondering if he’ll get to sleep in (a “play day”) or if I’ll rouse him out of bed to take him to day care. His attention span is expanding and he has been known to settle in with some cars or a book for twenty minutes at a time. Last night he grabbed my hand and led me into his room, asking me to “Play a game with me, Mama.” He also gets excited about taking his vitamins, and his latest favorite book is Olivia (“Read Livia to me, Daddy!”). I can’t wait to see what goofy new thing he does to make me laugh as I lift him out of bed after his nap – lately when I stick out my hand, he says, “I’m DeeDee,” to which I’m supposed to respond, “Nice to meet you, I’m DahDah.” Don’t ask me how that is supposed to make sense.

Every stage in his life is interesting to me, but now that the physical growth has slowed down a bit and his intellectual progress is faster, I am more fascinated by him than ever. He’s started making jokes, and remembering directions (“We going left?”), and trying to figure out what day it is (“Today Tuesday?”). Of course he’s also bossier than I ever imagined he could be, and he has a real problem remembering that everyone deserves a turn on the slide and that blocking it with his body and just hanging out at the top really isn’t acceptable playground behavior.

So isn’t it just my luck that, just when he’s at his most charming, I’ve up and got myself a full-time job? It’s true. I start next week. I’m excited about it. I’ve really missed the intellectual stimulation of working. I always liked my work and now that I’ve had a four year break, I know for sure that it really was the right field for me. So I’m going back.

Before I had a child I suspected I was not stay-at-home-mom material, and although I am beyond grateful that I could hang out with Theo for as long as I have, I still believe I’m happier when I’m working. I do not do well with unstructured days and hours alone with my toddler. I do not enjoy housework, and I just feel guilty that it’s not getting done while I’m trying to re-assemble a broken dump truck. I am terrible at arts and crafts. My patience for whining is severely limited.

Of course this new plan is kind of breaking my heart too. I am savoring our sleepy mornings this week, eating breakfast in our PJs and wandering over to the library and the park. I don’t like thinking about the post-nap cuddles I will miss, or the quiet weekday visits to the zoo.

But it still feels like the right thing. I’m happy with our child care situation. Jeff and I are both looking forward to caring for Theo in a more balanced partnership. And it’s a financially responsible decision for all of us.

But I’m not looking forward to giving up our play days either.

Dreaming with the Stars

I hate to follow up a post about a dance-themed reality TV show with another post about a dance-themed reality tv show, but…I don’t really hate to do it. I love it.

Did you see the new cast of Dancing with the Stars has been announced? And, according to the headlines, its most exciting member is Tom DeLay. Wha? I can’t wait to see what John Stewart has to say about this development (don’t tell me, we don’t get to watch him until a day later).

My predictions:
-Final three = Mya, Marc Dacascos, Donny Osmond.
Mya and Donny both have dance/performance backgrounds. She was in the move musical Chicago, he was in Joseph & The Amazingly White Teeth (or something). Somehow it doesn’t seem fair to pit a professional dancer against, say a snowboarder or a rodeo cowboy but then again, Lil Kim didn’t get voted off because she was a bad dancer. I’m most excited about Marc Dacascos who plays the Chairman on Iron Chef America. He is a martial artist and I really hope they pair him with someone besides Karina because she scares me.

-Possible spoiler = Aaron Carter
Also has a performance background. But, based on his bizarre family reality TV show, might be kind of a jerk. Which could hurt him. He’s no Cody Linley in the wide-eyed ingenue department, is all I’m saying.

-First to go = Macy Gray or Chuck Liddell
Have you seen Macy Gray move? Yikes. And I just don’t have much hope for the Ultimate Fighting Champion. I’d say DeLay might get kicked off early but the Republicans are fired up and like to get out the vote.

-Other possible nightmares: Joanna Krupa and Kathy Ireland
Models seem to have a hard time with rhythm and movement on this show. Except for Brooke Burke, of course. Because she was BORN TO BE A DANCER!!! according to the judges.

Now I’m on pins and needles, wondering which professional dancers will be cast with the celebs. Any predictions? Hopes? Dreams?

So You Think You Can Come Up With A Better Name For This Show

I try not to be embarrassed about the number of hours I spend watching reality television, but sometimes it’s hard. I have sworn that I will not get caught up in The Biggest Loser this fall, not because it’s emotionally manipulative (even though it is) but because it consumes four full hours per week of my precious post-bedtime evenings. I’m just not that committed to America’s weight loss trials and triumphs. I’d all but sworn off American Idol until Paula Abdul went down in a blaze of glory and now, well, I might have to watch. But NOT during the audition rounds. At least not all of them. I wish I could quit Dancing with the Stars but I’m not sure I can resist. I’m not proud of my weakness for the Paso Doble.

I am proud, however, to announce that I am a huge fan of So You Think You Can Dance. When I saw it for the first time I couldn’t quite believe that real dance – not fake ballroom, not Michael Jackson video ripoffs, not the Nutcracker on PBS – was on network prime time. I loved it but I was sure it wouldn’t last. Was the country that made The Swan a hit really going to support choreography starring electronica and a crash test dummy narrative? Would anyone tune in to a show with such a cumbersome title? Would we get it?

But, apparently, we do. The gorgeous host, Cat Deeley, manages to seem geniunely sweet and goofy and like the anti-Seacrest. The judges are nerdy and over-Botoxed but do seem to know what they’re talking about and generally don’t sound like they are on drugs. Well, except Lil C. The contestants are jaw-droppingly talented, and instead of being sold mainly on their back stories (The Widowed Church Guy! The Country Girl Whose Daddy Is In Prison!), they are featured for their talent. The prize, though nothing to sneeze at, matters less than the performances and the exposure the dancers receive. And, most thrillingly to me, the choreography is sometimes strange and inaccessible but always interesting.

Don’t tell anyone, but I think we, as a television-viewing public, are appreciating Art. And it’s on Fox. Please make every effort to keep this development from Rupert Murdoch, because this is a slippery slope. What’s next? Opera?

P.S.
I wanted Janette to win. I think Kayla was thwarted by her own weak choreography in her solos, but she absolutely rocked the stage whenever someone else gave her something to do. I believe it’s unfair that they split the competition along gender lines until the end, because at least three of the women should have made it to the final four. I loved the Butt Dance. Mia Michaels needs a new makeup artist. I’ve downloaded half the music from this season. I can’t wait until the new season starts.

Tonight’s Gonna Be A Good Night

I went to the dentist last week and smugly came home and announced that the hygienist told me I had pretty teeth, therefore validating my devoted flossing. And then I mentioned that I had to go back again to have a cavity filled and it didn’t even occur to me that the whole thing sounded sort of stupid. I mean, a tooth with a big ugly hole in it isn’t very pretty, is it? Especially to a dental hygienist. I think she was just trying to make conversation.

So today I had my cavity filled and the dentist had to dose me three times with the anesthesia and by the third try I just stopped reacting when the drill hit a nerve (sorry!) and dug my fingernails into my palms a bit further. Obviously I must have been somewhat medicated or I would have involuntarily shrieked at high volume but still. You’re not supposed to feel the drill, are you?

Anyway, the medication kicked in about an hour later and suddenly my whole head felt numb and everything on my right side, including my eyebrow, was rendered immobile. So my plan to go to the mall and hit up the MAC counter for some new blush was foiled and I just went home instead and tried to eat ramen. You can imagine how that went, with my droopy lip and half-numb tongue. I’m going to have to do extra laundry tomorrow. And then I baked my favorite chocolate chip cookies. Mainly to celebrate the temperature finally remaining below ninety degrees after a ten-day heatwave. But not inside my house because when you turn the oven on, it heats up the house.

Not my best day. But hey! I have a new bionic tooth and chocolate chip cookies and this week is the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance and after six hours or so I can finally feel my face again. Life is good.

The Twenty

Though I sometimes like to pretend high school was miserable for me, it wasn’t. It was, in almost every area, a good time. I had close friends. I liked my teachers and they liked me. I went to a small school where I was involved in everything from drill team to drama to student government. I got good grades. I went to a nice college. I had a date for the prom. But high school memories live in the portion of my brain that still is in high school. It’s the portion that can recite all the lyrics to “Right Here Waiting for You” by Richard Marx, and that is embarrassed that my best friends were always the ones with the boyfriends and I was always sitting in the back seat by myself on the way to the dance, and that flips the personality switch into Tracy Flick mode when I’m not looking. It’s the part that spent too much time feeling awkward and a little ugly even when I probably wasn’t.

So I can understand why people balk at attending their high school class reunions. When the invitation came for mine, I had a second of doubt. Did I really want to see people on whom the last impression I made was a yawn-inducing graduation speech about Following Your Own Personal Star? Or, worse yet, they might remember me as the girl who didn’t even know where the senior kegger was held, probably because there was a suspicion that she might call the cops. It’s hard not to focus on regretful behavior, but someone wise reminded me that it’s a very self-centered thing to do; most of my classmates probably don’t remember the idiotic things I did, or if they do, they’ve got their own litany of idiocy to worry about.

I didn’t let my thoughts linger for too long at the failed pep rally in my head, although it wasn’t because I made a difficult personal decision to overcome my fears and grow stronger in this difficult time. No, mostly I went to 20-year class reunion because I wanted to know the rest of the story. I wanted to see where people were living and how many kids they had and if they had become even more handsome than they were in the eighties (odds were good, considering the perms and Cosby Show sweaters everyone was sporting in our graduation photos). And maybe I wanted the opportunity to shock them all by drinking a beer in public.

Damn, I’m glad I went.

I saw my child racing gleefully through a sprinkler with the kids of one of my dearest friends. She and I were just a year or two older than they are now when we met. It made me a little tearful, until Theo threw a matchbox car at her son’s head.

I hung out with the wives of my junior high school crushes and it reminded me that small town boys have good taste (and so did I).

I heard a story about wrestling a mountain lion, masterfully told by a guy I could never persuade to be the prince in my four-year-old princess pretend games.

I recognized people by their voices and their walks which hadn’t changed in two decades, and I could tell whose kids belonged to whom because they looked exactly like their parents at age ten.

I was reminded once again that I married well as I watched my normally shy husband spend day after day conversing with strangers and politely laughing at reminiscences that made no sense to him.

I saw a lot less bad hair than when we were in high school, but that might just be because there was less hair in general.

I heard stories about children and partners and how great it was to be back in Montana, if only for just a little while. I heard no bragging about jobs or houses or status symbols.

I ate too many cheeseburgers. I drank a beer in public, but no one seemed too shocked.

If you have a reunion coming up, you should go. Ignore the part of your brain that’s embarrassed because you made out with that guy who never talked to you again, or worse because you dated that guy for ages and he might actually be there. Ignore the reminder that you never made varsity. Forget the suspicion that everyone might be skinnier/taller/richer than you. Instead, remember laughing together at your ridiculous World History teacher. Think about the time your car ran out of gas and the intriguing girl you’d never even talked to from homeroom offered you a ride. Expect to hear about the good stuff, the families and friends, because those are the stories that will get told. Don’t skip it because you “don’t want to re-live high school.” There’s no way it’s going to be the same as high school because twenty years have passed and everyone likes a happy ending.

Just go.

Full set of photos here.