Moving On Up- Day 20 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

Feeling settled is something that we all want. Right? I’m only assuming everyone wants to be settled because I’m always so desperate for it. In the last two years, I have lived in four different homes. One of the reasons my family moved back to Texas was to help us “settle”. I always say move back, even though I’m the only one in my little family that has ever lived in Texas. My husband, Scott, was raised in Phoenix and my daughter was born in Chicago.

What does it take to be settled? Scott says he considers home to be wherever we are. Meaning Sadie, me, and our dog Nash. Does being at home automatically mean you’re settled? Not necessarily. We buy furniture, storage pieces to hold all the stuff we don’t know where to put but must keep anyway, hang photos, cook for the first time in a new kitchen. All of these things we do in order to break in a space, figure out the kinks, adapt.

When we moved into our first apartment in New York, I had only seen the apartment for maybe two minutes while lugging a ten month old around in eight degree weather. We hadn’t yet moved and had about four days to find a place to live before moving to the city the following month. This place had two bedrooms and a sufficient amount of closets so I said we’d take it. Scott had never laid eyes on the place, nor had he ever stepped foot in the Upper West Side. After we got back to Chicago, I started to recall certain details. Particularly that the stove in the kitchen was electric, not gas. I really hate cooking on an electric stove top. Especially a a three-quarter sized one wedged between between a wall and the sink.

The first week we were in the apartment, to prove that kitchen couldn’t own me, I cooked Bolognese and Coq au Vin from scratch. Both were delicious. I patted myself on the back for “settling in”. Plus, I told myself, being in a kitchen the size of a wine bottle forced you to stay on top of the dishes. And voila! The kitchen was pristine before I’d even plated our dinner.

All the kitchen triumphs aside, I never actually did get too settled in that place because they raised the rent by $500 when it was time to renew and we were already apartment poor. So we moved into a one bedroom across town and I got my gas stove. Unfortunately it was at the expense of my bedroom. I was idealistic, as I tend to be. I’ll get up early, I said, I’ll write or go to yoga. Nope. I laid in bed, stewing that I couldn’t sleep because it was too bright in the living room where our bed was or because my head was three feet from the common hallway.

I convinced my husband to move to Texas. I needed gas and a bedroom that was further than two feet from the living room TV. He obliged. We sold all of our belongings, save for any heirlooms or stuff destined for a soon-to-be purchased storage item. I loaded up a rented Chevy Tahoe and then my uncle and I drove my crap and my dog over ten states. We arrived and moved into my parent’s home temporarily, while we attempted to find a place to live and “settle in”.

After a rigorous search, we found a home to rent. We only got to check it out for about two minutes, because we were running late for a family get together. But after seeing three bedrooms, a bonus room, and a detached casita that Scott could use as a home office we said we’d take it. We were thrilled. It was a good deal, a ton of space, and in addition to everyone getting their own room, Scott and I got a master bathroom.

After we got back to my parents, I started to recall a certain detail. I pulled up the craigslist ad to look at the photos. Sure enough, in our parking lot sized kitchen sat a full size, brand new electric stove.

So much for settling in.

Ups and Downs- Day 18 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

My mother has dieted for as long as I can remember. And for as long as I can remember, she has only been pleased with her weight once. It was strange. She never indicated that anything significant depended on her being thin or losing weight, but she never stopped talking about it. Ever. 

Once, in the third grade. I opened the refrigerator in search of something to eat. My parents had meetings most nights, leaving my sisters and me to fend for ourselves for dinner. That night an orange tupperware, a large one, sat on the shelf. This struck me as odd because my parents never cooked food or had enough forethought to prepare meals for us ahead of time.  Not in negligence, but because they were far too busy to make food during the week. Excitement took over. Finally! A night without a turkey sandwich. 

My cooking skills at eight didn’t reach beyond putting pre-sliced meat between two mayonnaise slathered pieces of wheat bread. The mayonnaise we bought had a hint of lemon, it was incredible, as far as mayonnaise goes. I opened the orange tupperware and instead of delicious spaghetti and meatballs, even spaghetti without meatballs would have been fine, I saw the most foul looking and smelling liquid compost. It can only be described as such. I think it goes without saying that I did not eat the contents of the tupperware, out of fear for my life. I thought I should throw it out to spare everyone, but my parents were really into composting so I decided to trust their judgement and made a sandwich.

 I learned the next day that the conglomeration in the refrigerator was cabbage soup and it was part of some diet where you eat cabbage soup for every meal for two weeks. I should I have known.

While I never developed an eating disorder due to my parents’ constant fad dieting—South Beach, Atkins, Protein Power, Sugar Busters, binging— I did have serious food issues. Weird texture, smell, or even appearance kept me from eating things like mashed potatoes with the peels in it, peppers of any kind, eggs, feta cheese, and steak. My mother claims that this is untrue. That in fact, when I was young I would only eat steak. She says she’s certain because it was super annoying and expensive. I don’t trust her. It sounds like retroactive guilt to me.

In high school I mostly ate PBJ, instant Mac n’ Cheese, Doritos, pizza dipped in ranch and Mexican food. I had a great metabolism so I was able to maintain a weight of 114 pounds. So lucky I was.

A mere year after a I graduated high school reality set in and I was no longer able to eat whatever I wanted and stay looking like a lolly pop. I gained a harsh fifty pounds. I didn’t recognize myself. I was a size I never thought I’d be, my face had lost its sharp square lines, and I was no longer able to wear those convenient tank tops with the little bras built in. I had to wear ACTUAL bras.

I licked my wounds and raided my parents’ diet book stash. I settled on South Beach because it would allow me to eat meat and cheese, the latter being something I could never give up. In the first two weeks I lost 15 pounds.

A few months later I moved to Chicago. I started to eat actual food and doing actual exercise. It helped that in Chicago you have to walk, like, everywhere. On top of finding yoga and walking everywhere I lost another ten pounds.

I’ll never be as thin as I was in high school, that’s probably OK. I don’t know if I’ll even ever be as thin as I was before I had my daughter. That’s less OK, because that is an actually attainable weight. If you’re willing to to stop eating chocolate, drink less, and exercise more. Though I have time and time again proven that while I can do one, maybe even two of those, never all three at the same time.

Is it a woman thing? Being obsessed with dieting and weight? I don’t think how much the scale reads has any real bearing on the quality of my life. In fact, the lower the number could directly correlate to the amount of caloric fun I’m having. As a woman in my thirties I am now able to appreciate more the struggle I witnessed with my mother growing up. I’d like to say my daughter won’t have the same experience, but I can’t be certain about that.

POST SCRIPT:

My mother is a minister and due to her too often mentioning us in sermons without prior knowledge, we have all now agreed to consult the victim before writing, posting, or speaking about each other. After reading this post for approval, she wanted me to remember that she cooked a lot. Mostly grilled cheese. But still.

And she’s right. She makes a mean grilled cheese.

Life in the City- Day 17 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

One day I when I was still living in New York, I went out for an afternoon of being alone. Of course, you’re never alone in New York City. You can’t even be alone in a mediocre faux French bakery. Though for being in Midtown, it was pretty dead.

While I was out, I bared witness to a couple of incredible displays of humanity.

The first was in said bakery that carried doughy baguette and microwaved croissant which presumably made it an authentic French Bakery. A woman walked by me carrying a tray with a single bottle of water on it, no number indicating she was expecting more food. She set down her tray of bottled water. She sat down and swung her legs over the edge of the bench into the path separating her table from the one across. The woman proceeded to unscrew the lid of the sole item purchased and pour it over her hands to cleanse them, dumping roughly a third of the water bottle on to the floor. She then recapped her bottle and, without drying her hands, started reading a book. She stayed as long as it took her to finish her water and then left. The puddle of water remained.

A shell-shocked employee went over with a mop to clean it up. Yes. An mop was necessary to clean up this woman’s mess. You may be wondering if this one was one of those places that didn’t have a public restroom. Great question! It did. And, as I mentioned, it was relatively empty there wasn’t no one in the restroom. This woman could have easily gone in and used soap and water. Presumably, a much more effective way of washing your hands. I really can’t imagine a scenario where I would feel compelled to a) waste purchased water to wash my hands when a perfectly good restroom is no more than seven feet away or b) have so little regard for people in general. The people who may slip and fall on the water, the person who has to clean it up, and the woman sitting behind you who is so revulsed by your behavior she can still remember what you look like nearly one year later.

The second experience was not as brazen, but as defining of the two women nonetheless. This was at a Belgian restaurant that carried all-you-can-eat mussels and doughy waffles which presumably made it authentically Belgian. I was reading book and waiting for my food. After my meal arrived, it became clear that I wasn’t going to be able to read and eat my sandwich and sip my Rosé at the same time without creating a huge mess. I put down my book and decided to people watch. I was outside in Midtown so this proved to be the right choice. The women seated directly in front of me were enjoying lunch as well. Though a more boring one, since they were drinking iced tea and eating salad. Their tea didn’t even have lemon or lime in it. Yawn. Their conversation veered toward their preferred TV entertainment. My ears perked up. I love TV. Granted, I was probably 15-20 years their junior and, I’m just being honest here, I had a feeling our ideas of entertaining television would not be aligned. I was not disappointed.

“You know,” said the one with her back to me. “The only shows worth watching these days are Two and a Half Men and the Big Bang Theory. They just make me laugh!”

Both women erupt into a fit of twangy laughter.

“I love those shows, too! That Sheldon.”

More laughter.

“Oh! I also really like that Shark Tank show and the one that’s on right after. It has Tim Allen?”

“Right! Yes, that’s so good. What’s the name of that show?”

Neither woman know the name of the show. After agreeing that they were privy to the true gems of television in an age of sex and violence they changed topics. A less interesting one so I stopped listening.

I sat back and took a gulp of my pink wine. A smug smile played at my lips. Those women had no idea what good TV was. I could rest well knowing that I enjoyed such high brown shows like The Wire, Mad Men, Sherlock, and House Hunters.

Yes, this was humanity at its finest.

A Dog’s Life- Day 16 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

Our dog Nash loves to torment the three geriatric Dachshunds that live next door. He stands there, peering through the chain metal fence while they rabidly bark and growl. I mean it. They’re ferocious. And there’s three of them which is way more than my one dog. However, he is a full grown Boxer. I’m guessing their combined weight would still be much less than his 70 pounds. He eats grass and steals glances our of the corner of his eye. Silently munching away like a cow, while these three elderly Weiner dogs snarl at his aloofness.

My husband and I got our him when we were living in Chicago. We got him from a breeder when he was ten weeks old. I know breeder dogs are a no-no, but look at his picture, you’ll understand. They say you can’t, well shouldn’t buy looks but that’s just not true. Because we did. Nash didn’t know how to run for the first few weeks of his life. His attempts at speed looked like a bucking donkey moving sideways. Once he did learn, it was hard to stop him. We lived in an apartment in Chicago so he could only run when we took him outside. Which, if you any of you have ever had a puppy, you know that going outside happens once every couple of hours. It’s like feeding a newborn. Yay.

We were strategic in our timing. As mentioned, we lived in Chicago and didn’t want to be going outdoors at all hours of the night in sub-zero temperatures. We bought our puppy mill dog in April and got our first tans of the year spending innumerable hours outdoors trying to get Nash to pee outside instead of in.

When it worked out that we could let him off leash, he would run giant leaps around the park. Round and round and round he would go. No longer the sideways donkey, his gait now resembled a speedy bunny cow type thing. It’s hard to explain. When being off-leash wasn’t an option, we took him to the tennis courts behind our building and he ran there. One time he ran in the tennis courts so aggressively, he rubbed his poor little puppy feet raw.

When we moved to New York, Nash was three years old. Hardly a old man in dog years. We didn’t have a park in our back yard anymore, but luckily Riverside Park was a short, ten-minute walk and they had a well-kept dog park. Nash knew when we were headed there instead of the dreaded single round of the block. He would pull at his leash and pee on everything to mark his route. It was adorable. When we got to the park, after we unhooked his leash, off he went. Galloping in his circles, round and round, while little Boston Terriers and Pugs chased after him, desperate to do unseemly and disturbing things to my young dog son. I won’t tell you what they were. You really don’t want to know.

Nash loved running. The wind would blow through his floppy, lopsided ears. His jowls bounced and foamed with saliva. He was truly a sight to behold.

Fast forward to last fall when we were dawning on the big move to Texas. Imagine Nash, we’d say, when he see’s a whole back yard just for him. Imagine the laps he’ll run. We’ll have to fight him to come inside. We pulled up three days and three seedy hotels later into my parents’ driveway. They live on a corner lot. Their backyard is huge. A perfect entry way for our running happy dog. We shoved him into the backyard and glued ourselves to the window, eagerly waiting for him to break into a marathon, to feel the cool Texas breeze on his face.

Instead, he hunched over and cowered. He trembled, looking desperately around for the human that should be accompanying him on each trip outside. We obliged him. Go on buddy, we cried. You’re free! Run!

He sat. We deflated.

We moved to Texas for a better life. To have more space for our daughter and our dog. The kid couldn’t be happier. The dog, well, he has to be taken on two walks per day and begrudgingly goes outside first and last thing.

He’s free.

White Rabbits- Day 15 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

Can you feel the impact your body is making on the ground beneath you? A teacher said this in class the other day. OK, I’ll be honest. It was like a month ago because I have no time to go to yoga. But that’s because of my priorities, rather than actual time constraints. I stay at home with my kid and so if I wanted to practice it would have to be at night or on the weekend. Nights, I’m tired. And there’s all that…great TV I need to watch. Also wine.

When she first uttered those deep words, I wondered could I feel my impact? If my FitBit is any indication, the answer to her question would be an unassailable NO. I barely touch the ground. And what would I want that to mean anyway? 

Right now I divide my teaching time between two yoga studios. One that could be considered more secular. Meaning, there isn’t a ton of dharma, philosophy or Ashram-y vibes. The other has Kundalini teachers and students clad in all white milling around, bowing their bearded heads and uttering Sat Nam. At least, I think that’s what they are saying. Mostly just the men have beards. 

I don’t know how well I fit in at either. 

When I owned my studio in Chicago, it leaned more toward the come as you are. This was in part due to our neighborhood which was populated by hippies, yuppies, free-loaders, retirees, academics, and my husband and me. My point is, for what purports to be all inclusive, yoga for every[body] (I have no idea if I used those brackets correctly, sorry), it can be difficult to fit in. Not that I need to fit in. But maybe I do. I don’t know.

Every other studio I’ve been to, either in teacher or student form, I’ve seen people create relationships. And because of Facebook, I know that five years later those relationships are going strong. This is going down a self-pity rabbit hole and that’s not what I intended.

I’d wanted this post to be more of a story. I can generally come up with a minimum of 500 word piece filled with internal ramblings, observations, musings. What I really struggle with is starting a narrative at A and ending at B. Linking together sentences that form a substantive piece is not the same as structuring a beginning, middle, and end. Neither, for that matter, is talking about doing it.

So here is my attempt to use my last 70 words or so to tell a story. 

This morning I woke to the sound of my daughter crying. Rightly, I assumed she was crying over something egregious my husband had done like sit in a chair or close the refrigerator without first asking permission. I snuck out of the room after I was sure they’d left to take the dog for a walk and laid down on the couch. It’s so rare that I get to be alone in my house and given the opportunity, I would rather be awake for it than asleep. To enjoy it. When they returned home from their walk I was still on the couch and my husband asked how I was feeling. Not well, I replied. With a list in hand he asked, then, if he shouldn’t get me a fresh croissant from Central Market. Aghast, I sat up and with mock consternation berated him for such foolishness. Always, I said, always get me a croissant. And he did.

Thoughts on Life- Day 14 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

Sometimes I wish I could reinvent the way the world works. I’d like to say that wish stems from an altruistic place. That I want to eliminate poverty, disease, sex trafficking. Increase world access to clean drinking water. I do want those things. But mostly I want to make it possible to earn a respectable income by being a mother and writing these posts. I would even accept a nominal salary. That’s how serious I am.

I’ve essentially been unemployed for three years. Five if you count the years I ran my own yoga studio because I certainly wasn’t making any money. Yet, I’ve been working extremely hard and tirelessly (wait, maybe it should be tiredly) with not a single dollar to show for it. In fact, I have significantly less money now than before I got this “job”. Certainly in traditional industries and job markets, were employees required to pay to keep their job for years and years and years, at some point they would harbor some resentment. Maybe even anger. Maybe, just maybe even not do it anymore. Quit. That’s not an option for me, nor is it something I want to do.

I never thought I would be a stay-at-home mom. At one point, I wondered if I’d ever be a parent. Whenever I have to fill out paperwork that asks for my employment status I always mark Self Employed. Technically I am since I teach yoga. But it feels somewhat dismissive of what I do everyday to check the unemployed or, worse, homemaker box.

I love being a mother. I love almost everything about it. But I’d still like to be paid for it. Wouldn’t be interesting if you kept a time sheet and when your kids got their first job, you handed them an invoice for all of your backpay? Thankfully that doesn’t happen. Plus you never stop parenting. That’s probably why Mother’s and Father’s day were invented. Reparations.

So how would I reinvent the world? I don’t know. That’s why I haven’t done it yet. I’m sure I’m not the only primary caregiver who wonders if they could get away with claiming nonprofit status. But that sounds like a lot of work and I’m very busy.

Saying I’m busy is something I really hate to do. It sends me down the rabbit hole of mother guilt. As soon as I say I’m busy, I start to think of all the minutes in the day where I’m not busy or I’m dicking around on the Internet, not cleaning, or cooking or anything those “good mommies” do. See? This wasn’t even supposed to be about guilt! It was supposed to be about assigning value to how I spend my time with my daughter and instead I’m giving myself a hard time for not doing better. This isn’t the reason why primary caregivers aren’t paid. Who would pay them? We pay nannies, babysitters, and daycare centers. But no one pays us. Food for thought.

Sometimes I try to imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t had a child. Would I be living in Paris? Would I have liked living in Manhattan? What kind of job would I have?

That’s a dangerous road because a) I did have a kid so what’s the point of wondering? b) it can bring up regret and I have enough of that already and c) while corny, it’s impossible to imagine my life without the girl who says to me “I think I would feel a little better if I watch a little TV.”

Sometimes you have to punt- Day 13 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

Oh, today is so hard. Not the actual day, the day has been fine. But thinking of something clever or even half clever has been near debilitating. Sometimes I ask my sister or husband for suggestions and I wait for something they say to hit a nerve. I’ll go with that and usually it’s no problem. But today my brain seems to be idling. Going nowhere fast. Maybe it’s the chocolate milkshake I had. Or the single cup of coffee. Or maybe it’s because today is day 13! Superstitious, ominous 13! Though I don’t believe in that stuff so probably it’s just that I’m running out of interesting things to say. The truth hurts.

Every Wednesday I have therapy. So earlier today I thought, maybe I could write about what I’m going to talk with my therapist. Then I thought, no it would way more interesting to write about it after the fact. Then I realized, it won’t be interesting to anyone either way because who really wants to hear about what goes on in a therapy session? I read the other day, perhaps from another project participant, that people who are in therapy obviously love to talk about themselves. I do not agree with that. I hate talking about myself, which is one of the reasons I’m in therapy. I’ve seen upwards of 15 different therapists, three in New York alone and only lived there for two years! I finally found one that is able to ask the questions that can get me talking. Even then, she has to poke and prod and pull to get me to give her something to work with. However, each of these 13 pieces have been about me and me alone. Food for thought.

Since I still don’t have any actual content I will leave you with a prayer from my daughter. But I feel like I need to explain. My husband and I aren’t religious but I grew up with three Methodist ministers as parents. Because, you know, divorce. Also, she goes to pre-school at a church. So there is a lot of God talk in her life. Most of it comes from external sources. However, every night and every nap we tuck her into bed with the Lord’s prayer and the chant for peace, sung in Sanskrit. This stems from wanting to give her a routine to ease her into the sleep transition we are oh-so-hopeful will soon come. Plus, she likes it.

So anyway, today we were playing outside (she was playing, I was reading and being attacked by mosquitoes) when she abrubtly sat down and started praying. At first I was alarmed I admit, but when I heard what she was saying I was very proud. And entertained.

You know, sometimes we just have to have fun

Sometimes we, uh, do that

Please lay down

Please go to sleep

Please don’t die (This surprised me. We haven’t had the occasion to talk about death. Though I agree with the sentiment.)

Sleep well!

Please be help/healthful (I couldn’t tell which, but both are good rules of thumb to live by)

It’s good to wear your dresses all day at your house and all that

Would you please just do what I say?

You can play with your water table

And my cousins Jim and Hank and baby Luke can come

We can all go to Amy’s Ice Cream and play on the playground

And then have your dinner and that would be fun!

Uhh, uhhh, uhhh AMEN!

In Public- Day 12 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

Today I took my daughter to the children’s “museum”. I use quotes because it isn’t a traditional museum in that there isn’t technically anything on display. It’s completely interactive. Which is great for a three year old because I don’t really see her pausing over art, sculptures or installations. When she was 18 months, our family went to DC. I was attending an advocate training and lobbying on Capitol Hill, which is ironic.  My husband and I took our daughter to the Holocaust Museum. She didn’t ask to go, obviously. She was a baby. But my husband and I wanted to visit it and since, as I said she’s a baby, she attended as a passive observer. I love taking her to the “museum” here because she has so much fun and I mainly just have to monitor her behavior. We arrived right when it opened and it was pretty empty. I was proud of myself that we’d gotten out the door in time to enjoy at least a little bit of respite.

Soon, though, scores of people started arriving at the “museum”. My daughter isn’t particularly bothered by crowds, which is good. It would be bad if we both started freaking out at the children with snot running down their faces and gumming the communal, pretend food in the faux-mer’s market where my daughter is playing. Or the kid with blood gushing out of some other kid’s foot and on to the floor where my child is playing. Or the alarming number of babies placed in the little pool with no diapers on because diapers aren’t allowed because they might ruin the plumbing thing where my daughter is playing. And finally, the older children who are dragged there because of younger siblings and have no awareness that most of the kids are half their size and age so they plow through gaggles of toddlers so they can wrestle and punch, and then cry about said wrestling and punching.

I wouldn’t say I have a fear of the public, but a lot of weird and gross stuff happens when you get more than, say, ten people in the same place. Ten is even a little liberal, let’s go with five. You run the risk of disease, having to talk to strangers, used feminine hygiene products obstructing the ONLY open toilet in a Brooklyn Ikea, or hipster dudes in Jettas cutting you off and taking your parking space. In the rain. When you have a sick kid. Going into public hardly ever ends well.

It’s odd. People here in Texas are really nice. They strike up conversations, ask you earnest questions, want to reminisce about the way things were. In truth, part of the reason we left New York was because I felt so isolated and alone. Now, people start talking to me and showing my pictures of their grandkids on their phone and all I want to do is go home. I suppose in large cities like Manhattan, you’re one of so many that you can blend in and largely go unnoticed because their is just so much constant commotion that how could anyone notice you? I hadn’t ever thought that to be a good thing. But maybe it does have merit.

So you see my problem. I have to reconcile my panic and anxiety with my daughter not giving a shit and just wanting to have fun. My compromise of getting her outdoor water toys was successful. Except that means I have to sit outside in summer in Texas, with hordes of mosquitoes instead of hordes of people.

We made it home though and we both appear to be unharmed. For now.

A Good Mother is Hard to Find- Day 11 #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

I admit, sometimes my focus isn’t 100% on my child. There are times when I want/have to pay attention to other things. Sometimes to get the writer ball rolling I read or troll the internet and wait for inspiration to strike. This can and often does lead down the rabbit hole of Facebook and other “worthwhile” endeavors. It’s easy for me become absorbed in whatever I’m doing. Sitting, reading, laying down, reading another review of the Mad Men series finale.

Today, I was immersed in the world of composting. We recently got a bin from the city of Austin that we fill, well like 1/4 of the way full at least, with our kitchen scraps. We cook almost every meal at home so this can lead to a lot of egg shells, avocado shells, carrot tops, lettuce that has turned, brownies I failed to eat, etc. You get the idea. When I went to dump our small receptacle we keep in the kitchen in to the enormous green city bin, it was overrun with maggots. It was disgusting. I think I even touched a few accidentally. We’re talking the stuff nightmares are made of. I’ve never seen anything like it. I really haven’t. If you’ve never seen one, you’re lucky. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget. I screamed. I actually, screamed and jumped back. Our little bin still had to be emptied. I groaned and fought back the bile rising in my throat as I slammed Little Bin into Big Bin. I didn’t empty it completely, but I was too traumatized to be any more thorough.

I ran back in the kitchen and scrubbed my hands raw. My daughter looked at me and asked if I was going to throw up. I still feel creepy crawly. I, of course, immediately set out to research ways to expel what I had seen from our composting bin. I won’t repeat the M word, because I’m sure you like me are disturbed and the rest of your day is probably ruined. I needed to know that composting could be not scary and gross. That I could continue to pat myself on the back for contributing to the environment. That’s really how I think of it. I don’t know much about composting except that it helps. Helps what? I’m not completely sure.

Anyhow, I turned on the TV for my kid and found myself on a gardening forum (I am a glutton for forums. They demonstrate both the best and the worst of modern society) where avid gardeners were hotly debating the very issue I had come in contact with. There is no end to this story except that if we want to continue to compost, those who must not be named will most likely be a part of it. Sick. The point of this is to say I was so enmeshed with my composting buddies I failed to notice what my daughter was doing.

She had taken her water bottle and was taking large sips then spitting water into her play tea cups. I found this  irritating and a tad unsanitary. I clucked my disapproval and stood to remove all of the items she was using to “play her favorite game.” When I got closer I saw that she had not only filled her tiny tea cups, but had covered the coffee table, my back issues of Vanity Fair, and even created a small puddle in her toy baby cradle that had once been mine as a child. That hurt.

I sent her to time out and looked at the clock. It had barely been 15 minutes! How had she so quickly moved from TV viewer to human faucet? I felt terrible that I had so easily lost track of her and descended into the underground world of gardening pests and what to do about them.

She sat in her bed crying. When I went to ask her what on Earth she had to cry about, she responded by telling me that she was sad because she had just wanted to put water in her tea cups. Understanding the whims of children is difficult. I can’t picture any scenario where I would think it fun to take a mouthful of water and deposit it into different containers. Right? That doesn’t sound fun…Right?

Lists Part Deux- Day Ten #500wordsaday

I’m taking part in a 30-day writing challenge. See Kale & Cigarettes for details and check out the Facebook Group.

After I wrote the list of all the asinine things that comprise me, well part of me as I’m still trying to figure out the whole picture, I decided to think about some of the more substantial parts of myself. This is fun because it means I get to ponder my own worth and journal about what I do and think about all the time. Fun is how it starts at least, then I start to worry I’m not as interesting as I hope to be. Though I have purported as recently as yesterday that I am boring and average, in secret what I really hope is that I am so interesting it will make people weep.

I forgot to journal yesterday so I only have this morning’s rumination to go on. Hopefully they’ll suffice.

1. I really like reading. I’ve taken to provide the future people who read my journals with mini book reports. Right now I’m reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Re Jane. Both are set in New York, though one hundred years apart. A quick note on each. ATGIB is…good. I like it, though I think it could have been helped with a modern editor. There are POV jumps in a single paragraph. I don’t care for that. RJ is new. I like it. I’m not completely sucked in but I’m only about 30 pages in. I’ve only met a smattering of families from Carroll Gardens/Park Slope but surely the way the parents in this book are portrayed is a parody. Surely.

2. I love the ocean. Any ocean will do. Salty, sea air is one of the most satisfying and calming things on the planet. I prefer the Pacific, but even the Gulf of Mexico will suffice in a pinch. I’ve yet to see the Mediterranean in person, but I have a feeling it’s nice.

3. I have three different kinds of sparkling water in my refrigerator right now. I actually have four if you count the flavor my husband likes, which I don’t. The brand is La Croix, the packaging is super dated but I love. It. So. Much.

4. If I could only go to three stores for the rest of my life I would be sad, but I think they would be narrowed down to the following: The Container Store, Target, and Whole Foods. Every possible thing I could ever need is carried in those stores. Except tequila. Crap.

5. I grew up in a church which has given me and my sisters an uncanny knack for small talk. Especially old people. Oh, and to be clear, I didn’t literally grow up in a church. But three out of four of my parents—divorce—are Methodist ministers. So…yeah. Also, I’ve never read the Bible all the way through. I would be bad at Bible trivia.

6. I don’t like skiing. I find it terrifying. I tried once. It was a bunny slope in Durango, CO. It took me almost three hours to get down the bunny slope. Want to do something that completely strips you of all of your dignity? Sit on your ass in the snow, on a mountain, and have children glide over to you on the skis or snowboards and ask if you need help.

7. While I love the ocean, I’m also a little terrified of it, too. I got stung by a jellyfish in the fourth grade. It wrapped one of its tentacles around my leg and waste. I had huge welts that made me looked like I had been tied up. You’d think that I would have stopped wearing two piece bathing suits after that, but I have a long torso and one pieces really don’t work on me. Also, when I was really young. I got too close to the water while wearing my favorite pair of Jellies (irony!) and a wave swallowed one of them away. I was too shocked to call for my dad who was literally, like, right there to go and get it. I loved those shoes.

8. Today my daughter called her swim suit her water blouse. Which isn’t about me, but by proxy I think it makes me more interesting.

9. I have original art hanging in my home that depicts Jerry Orbach and Sam Waterston sitting at a campfire, while Jerry serenades Sam with a guitar and his silky voice. In case you are like, who the fuck are these people. Go find any channel on television and turn it on. It’s probably Law & Order and you’ll figure out who I’m talking about.

10. I’m going to end the list here.