Married Life

For those of you still playing along at home: this pretty much sums it up. Let's just say when I put in the quarter, it wasn't anything I didn't already know about. On the other hand, I didn't expect to find actually being married to exceed my expectations this much.

Technology Schmechnology

Today's post is brought to you by the word VPN. Yes, I know that's not a word. No, I have no idea what it stands for. All I know is that when I called my tech support guy at Corporate Behemoth, he told me the intermittent tech issues would affect my VPN. And that, in return, affects my bottom line.

See, I need this VPN-thingy in order to log into Corporate Behemoth's proprietary stuff--you know, like my e-mail, SharePoint, the things around which my work life revolves. And as I'm a contractor and get paid hourly, these tech issues mean I can't work, and therefore get no moola.

I am fortunate in that I do have another source of income (summer school), and that there are countless things to do around the house: fold the clothes that have taken over the guest bedroom, run (aka wogging) for 50 minutes on the treadmill, and chase dustbunnies around the house. However, what I want to do right now is make money to pay for our honeymoon. Cause you know, that gas we'll be needing to drive all over California/Oregon? Well, it's expensive.

And so far, blogging isn't making me money. Not that I'm complaining, because I don't do it enough to make money doing it. But, you know, any workweek hour that I'm not actively making money seems a waste to me. I've already done all the grading I can stand for one day (two papers), so I'm looking to use that other part of my brain (the one that enjoys technology and taxes).

In the meantime, I'll add some more laundry to the pile, consider downloading more music to my MP3 to making running more feasible, and slay some dustbunnies with the Swiffer.

Of Rocks and Rings

So I haven't managed to post any pictures of Florida yet because I don't have any. The ones I took on my phone look ridiculous, and I haven't figured out whether they're photoshopable. I will say though that a fun time was had by all. I look tan for me, but I don't have a tan. The weird burn lines have faded, even though I was still peeling (3 weeks later) last week.

More recently, a few good things are going on around here. My pal R. and I have been running every Saturday since I returned from Florida. I'm slow as hell and have a tendency to turn bright red and make horrible gasping noises, but at least I'm feeling the wind in my hair and the fat on my rear jiggle. She thinks we can run a half marathon, and I'm inclined to fall over laughing about that one, but I'll make an attempt at bumping up the mileage in the name of physical fitness (and swimsuit season). The downside is that the trail we run on has tiny pebbles that always seem to find their way into my shoes. Waah! Ok, not really a crisis, but I'm kind of a princess.

In other news, Mortgage Partner and I have decided to get hitched, and we're slowly spilling the beans around here to friends and family. We are getting married at home and hope to contain the festivities to the smallest possible number. The best part is we're leaving on our honeymoon the next day. Details to follow, because really, we're going to have a kickass honeymoon. We're staying in a treehouse one night! Seriously, that is so awesome. Especially since the treehouse has a toilet.

More Than a Feelin'

Not so long ago, I found myself driving in the middle of Iowa. Ok, middle of Iowa isn't really accurate; it was more like the northwest corner of Iowa. In any case, there's nothing but Iowa all around. Doomed to either listening to gospel radio or static, I hunted around my car for a CD and came across the Indigo Girls.

Now for those of you who had your major emo moments in the late 80s and 90s, you should really know every Indigo Girl song by heart. I don't know too many girls my age who didn't hunker down with the song "Ghost" after a particularly bad breakup. As I drove, I sang along with Amy and Emily, singing with particular gusto on "Closer to Fine." Despite the fact that I made it most of the way through the CD, I realized something about myself. I'm no longer that girl. You know the one who found "solace in a bottle or possibly a friend." I spent my late teens and early twenties being that girl, hanging on every word Sarah McLachlan wrote and shaking my fist in agreement with Ani DiFranco. Every poem I wrote in college emulated these singer/songwriter types. Every relationship I had fit into the cupped hand of this uber-emo superwoman.

All of a sudden I felt old. I realized that if I had to pick a musician or band to match my mood, I would rather be Boston. WTF? Am I an aging GenXer guy trapped in a 30-something woman's body?

While I know my latest devotion to Boston might have something to do with the general need to "rock out" every once in a while, I think this says something about how I've changed. This understanding of myself was underscored last night as I talked on the phone to a former student of mine, a precocious 18-year-old in the med school here. I didn't quite feel like her mother, but I definitely felt like her much older, much wiser big sister. She doesn't especially exude angst, but I couldn't help but be grateful I'm not 18 again. Oh sure, it's fun to experience the silliness, the first loves, the anticipation of a whole lifetime of opportunity. But I realized I'd much rather be at home, MY home, with Mortgage Partner, the animals, and a dining room table covered in school papers.

I don't even know that girl I used to be. I'm pretty sure I couldn't be friends with her right now, although there are a lot of things I wouldn't mind telling her, especially with regard to boys, her body image, and career choices.

I guess what this overly emotive post is telling me (as I'm telling you blogworld) is that I'm ok with who I've become. Finally.

Helluva(n) Ikea

I know, I know. I've been quiet lately. No good reason, really. Sick of myself? Sick of school? Needing of an extreme soul makeover? Ok, I'm not really full of existential angst; I just come across that way sometimes.

I spent some quality time shopping on the IKEA web site this morning. Why oh why don't we have one here?! I spent about $400 in my head, and my house looks better already. Just wait, you big blue and yellow box, my oversized piece of heaven, purveyor of lingonberries and all things Swedish. I am coming for you.

Ok, so I know too much retail therapy will land me on Oprah and/or Dr. Phil, but it just feels so good. If only I could give myself this kind of makeover: blow a few hundred bucks, go eat some meatballs in the cafeteria, overload the car, spend several hours cursing and sweating as I put some furniture together, and presto/chango new self!

Now I know this seems like I'm crying for a spiritual awakening. Perhaps I should go read that Eckhart Tolle book that Costco has in boxloads. Except that I've never been one for New Age self-improvement. No, in my case I decided to change my blog colors, a la HGTV, to make myself feel better. A little interior decorating if you will. Maybe I'll actually rearrange the furniture one of these days and pick a new format. If Blogger HAD a template that looked like an IKEA store I'd pick it. In the meantime, I'll keep churning these muddled thoughts around in my head and try to be more diligent about sharing them.

When You're So Tired of Yourself, the Only Thing Left to do Is Blog

I'm in a February funk.

I freaking HATE this time of the year. It's cold. It's dark. And there is not enough good TV or food in the fridge to satisfy my needs. All I want to do is watch Oprah and eat cheesy poofs.

I know, I know. That's not a very healthy attitude. Not to mention SO not figure flattering.

I actually got my sad, tired, ever-expanding ass on the treadmill today and wogged (that's right, only wogging accurately describes the pace at which I move) a little over 3 miles. It should have felt good. When I was finished, all I wanted to do was eat all the carbs in the house and take a nap. Bleh.

I'll pretty much snap out of it when it's finally March (thank gawd), but in the meantime I'm trying to avoid the self-loathing that seems to consume me and cause me to watch daytime television. I tried to watch Dr. Phil save a really, really sick girl with the worst eating disorder I've ever seen. Usually that sort of stuff makes me hate myself a little less, but it didn't work today.

Now that is one bad funk.

I like to think exercise will knock some sense into me, but as I'm really too lazy to do it as often as I should (more than 2-3 times a week), the results are negligible. I'm chasing the elusive runner's high, but I'm pretty sure it's a myth. Runner's delirium? Sure, I get that all the time. You know, like when your legs are so wobbly you fall off the treadmill instead of stepping off?

It may have to do.

Red Hot Love

In case you haven't noticed, it's Valentine's Day. I haven't been able to traipse through Target without running into heart-shaped love since the Christmas decorations went on sale. Suddenly everything seems to be red or pink, and you can buy Hershey's Kisses, Sweethearts, and High School Musical valentines in bulk. Ok, maybe I made that last one up because I haven't actually seen these, but I suspect they exist. If they make High School Musical panties, they make valentines.

Sweethearts are made for the text message generation. While my friends and I thought it was quaint to read "fax me" on a candy heart, I can only imagine how the youngsters are gaga over "UR Gr8", "I <3 U", "143" or "459" (That's I love you in text message shorthand.) And if you're not sure how you feel, my personal favorite "BTWITIAILW/U" (by the way I think I'm in love with you). Um, yeah.

In the olden days (aka the 80s and 90s), we passed notes: "Check yes or no if you think I'm cute." There was always the nagging fear that you might get caught in study hall, but it made clandestine love all the sweeter. And you really knew who your BFF was, cause she never hesitated to ask the guy you liked if he liked you back or even like-liked you back.

Mortgage Partner and I make lots of V-Day jokes using our 9th grade humor, and yesterday I helped sell raspberry mocha vaginas on sticks at the university. But truth be known, I think Valentine's Day is pretty sweet--even if it involves manufactured love in a box. At least people are taking the time to share their love. I might be a bit of a cynic, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy pink and red, heart-shaped love once a year.

Happy Valentine's Week...Brought to You by the Pharmaceutical Industry

Recently I read an article where someone reminisced about the Valentine's Days of her childhood--complete with decorated shoeboxes for the valentines. I remember these days. Now I find it kind of humorous that we dutifully trotted around the classroom dropping our Bugs Bunny or Strawberry Shortcake valentines into people's construction-paper-covered Stride Rite boxes. I'm not sure what these rituals were made for other than an excuse to eat Smarties and chocolate cupcakes covered in pink goo.

As an adult, it seems Valentine's Day choices are less heartfelt. Ha.

I can get Mortgage Partner a card that plays an REO Speedwagon song, and perhaps I should tape a Cialis in it. You know, the pill they're talking about while the couple playfully wrestles the squirting kitchen hose?

Now while I joke all the time that MP is old, he's not that old. Not old enough to need a Cialis (although the couple in the commercial looks about 35).

He might be old enough for REO Speedwagon, but I won't rat him out.

I would like to know where my generation fits into this Valentine's Day commercial package.

Where is my card that plays Pearl Jam? What is our pharmaceutical of choice? When you're too young for Restasis, where do you turn?

My Big Fat Super Tuesday

In case you haven't heard, you need to get out and vote today. And then you can put your party beads on and do all those bad things you're going to swear off for Lent 'cause it's Mardi Gras.

Here in middle America, the excitement of Super Tuesday is being dampened by our crappy weather. We're supposed to get rain, freezing rain, sleet (not to be confused by freezing rain), wintry mix, and snow. Our polling location is up the street at the neighborhood Catholic church, so I'm not overly concerned about getting out the vote. I could actually walk if I were so inclined, but I probably won't because I'm lazy.

Last night MP and I were discussing whether old people or youngsters would likely be more hindered by bad weather. I say the kids (I know them so well) because the old people like to get up early and do these things, thus they'll miss the worst of it. Since MO is a bellwether state for the Dems in this election, that could be a determining factor how this election will go. I'm not actually sure if I believe that, but I like the word bellwether.

And because it's not enough for the universe to have Super Tuesday and Fat Tuesday on the same day, it's also my friend Dorothy's 34th birthday. She's a little anxious, although I think her birthday has little to do with it. The big green tax machine for which we both work is laying people off today. I've told Dorothy many times that she's responsible for me having real, grown-up jobs in the years since grad school, so I hope her goodness covers both our asses in this situation.

In the meantime, we'll see how the roll of the dice works in this election season.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Boo frickin' hoo!

Well, thanks to the overwhelming response regarding my new blog persona...ok, not really. Seriously, despite the fact that I know I'm writing for myself, I'd like to think there's someone out there who'd be willing to help me out with my name (besides CM who I know will always persist in suggesting cunninglinguist--I did like Lingenie, but I'm still thinking about it).

Whatever. I'm not here to grouse (ok, who are we kidding?), mainly I'm here to pose the following question:

What do we do when we need to parent our parents?

My sister and I have been going through a ridiculous amount of stress and drama with our parents (mainly our mother) in the last year--longer really, but we're ok with letting some of those things be bygones. I'm heading up to the homestead this weekend to help my sister deal with our mother's crap. I know I've written about this before, but it pretty much consumes my thoughts (that is when I'm not thinking about school, work, how much work it is to keep my own house clean, and the fact that I'm able to gain weight just thinking about food).

My mom buys things/collects things/refuses to donate or throw away things because things make her feel better. Granted, I sort of get this. I like going to Target because it makes me feel happy to buy new pillows or even air fresheners. But I don't do this on a regular basis, and I don't buy so much stuff that it swallows up my whole house. Yesterday, my sister came across a pile of clothes in our mom's secret lair (they covered an entire sofa) that for the most part had never been worn--the tags were still on them. Now, I try not to air my family's dirty laundry too much, but my mom is constantly complaining how she has no money, no one ever helps her, and she shouldn't be forced to live the way she does.

We know she has problems--I've seen these people on TV before on Oprah or Dr. Phil. But how do you even begin to do an intervention on someone like this? I think this goes beyond Suze Orman territory; she needs a psychiatric evaluation because this is getting into what resembles manic.

The thing that just kills us though is how she complains to us, to anyone who will listen, that we're such ungrateful wretches to let her life get this way. Are we? From her point of view, she thinks we should be regularly toting that barge and lifting that bale over at Momtown. I''m not so sure that she didn't have kids just to put them to work. From our point of view, we worry that maybe we're enabling her when we do bail her out (which seems to happen on a very regular basis).

Where do you find the happy medium? I know this woman needs some serious tough love, but we're not sure how to start. It's easier when you're the parents because you do have authority over your children. But when you're the kids...well, the channels are a lot more obscure.

One thing I've noticed as an adult is that I tend to surround myself with friends who are stable. I don't have time for drama (although in the past I have often stepped in to be the voice of reason in many situations--I'm seriously old beyond my years). Additionally, my stable posse seems to have pretty freakin' stable parents themselves. Indeed, many of my friends have parents I covet. You know, happily married, frugal, healthy, and sane enough to travel and spend time doing fun things with their adult children. I have no idea what this might be like, but it always looks pretty awesome to me. Perhaps this is just another case of the grass being greener--this case in someone else's family tree (weird, weird mixed metaphor there).

You can't pick your families, it's true (although God knows I'd pick my sister if I had a choice because she rocks). But how do you deal with the fact that you can't exactly write them off either?

A Little Piece of Om

Over the weekend my sister and I engaged in a bit of housecleaning. Well, actually it was cleaning our mother's garage. There was a lot of crap in there. But amongst the crap, I found things that I treasure too, like my baby book. Damn, I was cute. Mortgage Partner commented that I looked like a fat Asian baby. Now, for those of you who know me, I'm as Anglo as they come, so this is pretty funny.

My favorite aspect of my baby book is the signed letter from George McGovern congratulating my parents on my birth. Yay for me! My mom's best guess is that it was a political connection of my father's (and not that South Dakota had so few kids born that year he sent letters to us all).

I like to think that I was a positive addition to 1976. Maybe there was a whole bicentennial baby campaign I'm not aware of, but maybe ol' George was just being optimistic about the future.

Finding this tidbit has gotten me thinking about the things we save and the things we pitch. I'm somewhat of a packrat, but dealing with my mom's stuff has definitely made me think about the stuff I'm willing to hold on to (or not). I'm astounded that I have everything I need (and more) already. I mean, seriously. I am a mere 31 (heh heh), and there really isn't a damn thing I need anymore. Forever. It has all become about things I/we want. We could live in this house for the rest of our lives, and other than taking care of our little piece of history (e.g. replacing old tile, refinishing the floors, winterizing the basement), we don't really NEED to do anything or buy anything. It's all about taking care of what you have and hoping that it will last awhile.

I see this in the ancient furniture that we have--Grandma's buffet, the 19th century dining room table, my mother's boudoir chair circa 1950, great-Grandma's iron bedframe...don't get me wrong, we are not posh people, but we have nice stuff. And we're lucky that it's been passed down to us. But there's stuff we don't need, either. You know, like old magazines and lotion circa 1998.

Being a saver, one has to think about these things. New is not necessarily better (Mortgage Partner's La-Z-Boy in teal is a testament to this--future generations will NOT be begging for this to be left to them). These things tend to fall to pieces, as Dorothy has noted. The bookcase you buy at Wal-Mart will have to be re-bought in a few years. And so it goes.

So I'm evaluating the things we have with a new eye. What stuff will my kids (or chimps, as MP wishes) want to have from me? What does all my stuff add up to, anyway?

Mouse on a Wheel

So, I seem to have an obsession about mice. Sorry, but this metaphor occurred to me as I was deliberating about what's interesting enough in my life to blog about. Nottalotta, but I did buy a treadmill this weekend. I'm not super thrilled about running in my basement since it's dark, dank, dingy, and depressing. I'll even take a cue from my friend, Dorothy, here and say it's a little like Silence of the Lambs--you know, the scene where Clarice goes into the basement and it's all dark and scary and the killer guy is wearing nightvision goggles? Dorothy used to say her basement at This Old House was the Silence of the Lambs basement. Now that they don't live there anymore, I feel the torch has passed so to speak, and now we have the basement with the crumbly walls and musty horribleness.

But, if running on a treadmill will help me be buff and ubersexy, then so be it. I might lie and say it's because it's good for my health to get some aerobic exercise, but the truth is I've always wanted to be a hot, athletic-looking person. So I'll run a little to make the insides of my thighs hurt, and I'll do the laundry while I'm down there. Double the pleasure.

Back to the mouse metaphor, the whole thought of running in place is, of course, much like a mouse on a wheel. I used to have pet mice when I was in junior high, and they would run for what seemed like hours on end. And the wheel would screech. And they'd jump off and chug some water from their water bottle. And they'd get back on and run and run and run. Sometimes they'd wear out a little and stop, but the wheel would keep going, and the mouse would be clinging to the wheel as it finished a revolution or two. And sometimes another mouse would be on the outside of the wheel while one was running, and it would inevitably roll to the bottom and then climb back up on top for one more round. My cat, Jetta, who is now a very elderly 19-year-old, could watch the mice for hours. And she'd sit there and hit at their cage, trying to figure out a way in. She never did, but it was highly entertaining to watch her.

Ever since I started running on treadmills a few years ago, I've worried that I would fall down and the treadmill would keep going. It's not a pretty mental image, but I'm a huge klutz, so anything is possible. Since we have basement windows, it's not impossible to think that the neighbors might watch me on the treadmill. I hope to God they don't tap on them while I'm running, because that would scare the shit out of me.

Itchiness

The end of summer makes me itch. I often wake myself in the night because it feels as though tiny bugs are crawling all over my stomach and back. Lest you think that I have bedbugs (although I've read they're making a comeback), it's just my seasonal allergies acting up. Just writing this post makes me itch in fact.

And I think the itch is coursing through our household. The dog seems to be plagued with it as well. She's licked her abdomen raw and seems to be in perpetual agony as long as she's awake.

I know this rawness that she feels. In addition to suffering from ragweed, I'm overcome every August by this, well, ennui. Yes, the end of the summer brings me to the beginning of the school year, and God knows I love school. A new school year is a new beginning. New teachers (if you're a student). New students (if you're a teacher). All this newness is great; however, that also reinforces the sense that I'm somehow flailing along in life. You know, it's the whole "why am I here?" thing. As a girl in my 30s (gasp!) there are a few things that come to mind: career, marriage, kids. Probably in that order.

I guess I sort of have the career in control. I have a job I love (when I don't hate it), and I have the lifestyle I've always wanted. I get to be home quite a bit rather than stuck in a cubicle all day, which I hate and always knew I hated despite the 5 years I spent off and on in cubicleland trying to convince myself that I could potentially like it.

And of course, I do have dear mortgage partner. We've been together nearly 7 years now and have owned our lovely house in the hood for 2. Our relationship is great: he's my best friend, my biggest champion, and my own personal source of entertainment. I do, however, go these phases where I think about being more "normal." Like maybe we should get married. Maybe we should want to have kids. And then I get withdrawn and/or angry, and we have "that" conversation.

We haven't had "that" conversation yet, but once he reads this post we probably will. A big part of me doesn't want to want the conventional, but another tiny, and potentially growing, part does. And all I can do is itch it when it wants to wake me in the night.

Leos of the World Unite!

Today is my birthday, and I'm gonna blog about it. See, that's what we attention-seeking, life-in-the-limelight, royal divas do. (I don't know the masculine version of diva, sorry. I know you're something equally sparkly and fantastic.)

I know no less than 6 other people with this birthday. I also know at least 5 more with birthdays within a week of today. What gives? I personally think it has to do with cold-weather lovin', but I also think the universe has a funny way of putting us Leos together. My stepdad, a Russian teacher, two high school friends, one college boyfriend, and another person I just met have this birthday.

So while my post of yesterday was the introspective Leo, today I'm giving a shout-out to Leos around the world. I guess that makes me sound like more of a Gemini, but whatever.

Happy Chompo Bar to Me!

Becoming

I like this word. It means turning into something or attractive (related, I imagine, to comely).

Tomorrow, I am becoming more of a 30-something. What this means is that I have to own my 30s--the first dreaded decade for women everywhere.

My sister said turning 30 was a relief. She said that she felt even better about herself upon turning 40. My sister is a freak of nature. She has 5 children, runs marathons, is an EMT (essentially for fun), and bakes like friggin' Martha Stewart. I'm not sure we're related.

I have assumed the outer appearance of someone who is plenty fine with being 30 (tomorrow 31). I know I don't "look my age"--whatever that means. The reality is I'm becoming concerned about my reality. What if I can't lose the last 10 pounds? What if I never finish my dissertation? (I guess I'd have to start it first.) What if I end up just another crazy cat lady whose house smells like tuna?

What I'm becoming is someone who can't use my 20s as an excuse for not eating right, not having a career, and not being married with children. Now that I'm 30--in my 30s--the excuses seem just that, excuses.

Normal people make resolutions on New Years' Day. As it's been previously ascertained, I'm not normal. My birthday has often been the day of reckoning, the day to evaluate or reevalute who I am and what I'm about. This year I've been thinking about what I'm becoming. I'm doing what I love (educating the future of America) and working on my PhD. I own a house with DMP (dear mortgage partner or damned mortgage partner--depends on the day). I have family, friends, and pets that love and nurture me. But sometimes I don't feel any stronger or smarter than the naive 21-year-old who moved here 9 years ago. So where does this leave me?

I'd like to think that we never stop becoming something. So for this year, I'll strive to keep on becoming whatever it is I'm meant to be. And I'll try to be ok with not knowing what that means exactly.