Women Vs. Women?

Note: a woman in my writing group recently finished an excellent essay on male/female parity in literature, which I hope to see published soon. Reading her article brought to mind something I've been contemplating for a while: competition between women. Here are my thoughts.

An ongoing controversy in publishing tackles the disparity in representation of male and female authors. Women comprise a fraction of published, reviewed, and award-winning authors. Solid data support this, and it is outrageous that women are still fighting this battle to be recognized as literary equivalents of their male peers.

Ruth Franklin’s “Why the Literary Landscape Continues to Disadvantage Women” in The New Republic addresses this and links to similar essays by Meg Wolitzer and Francine Prose. These women have done a thorough job of dissecting the issue. They detail public spats between authors; they expose publishing, reviewing, and awards practices that favor men; and they assign blame.

This blame has been largely directed at men: male authors who consider women’s writing inferior and male literary critics who more frequently and favorably review male authors. Also in the crosshairs are literary figures, both male and female: editors who accept more submissions from men; prize committees who grant more awards to men; and readers who admit they prefer male authors.

Conspicuously missing from the blame game are agents, the gatekeepers of the literary kingdom. I presume this is because the current focus is on established authors. So the current outrage rings hollow, perhaps because the top literary players are battling over their share of a tiny pie while aspiring authors scramble for crumbs. Parity is an important issue at any level, but this fracas seems equivalent to comparing the number of male versus female CEOs at major corporations while ignoring the huge numbers of unemployed. 

Here, I’d like to steer the conversation away from the rarified world of successful authors toward another, underrepresented group: aspiring female authors.

In 1989 I expected to enter a workforce populated by women offering support, advice, even mentoring. It didn’t take long to realize how naïve I was. Most female interviewers, supervisors, and coworkers had little interest in helping anyone. Rather than a network of sisterhood, I found an atmosphere of competition and resentment.

Fresh out of college, I worked for a wine distributor. My supervisor was a man who saw my potential and became a mentor. He taught me about wine. He taught me to cook, enlisting me as his sous chef for dinner parties. He immersed me in the world of food and wine until I was comfortable at the finest restaurants, at ease organizing lavish wine tastings with suppliers flying from Italy and France.

The company’s president also encouraged me. He urged me to identify and streamline outdated administrative processes, which brought resistance from the mostly female staff. He defended me when one asked, “Why is this glorified secretary messing with how we’ve done things for years?” He praised me when I did something smart and told me when I messed up. I always knew where I stood with him.

This provided a stark contrast to the reception I got from many women with whom I worked. I was a hard worker, did my job well, and avoided office politics. Yet I never found a woman who showed any interest in guiding me through the first years of my working life. They were either disinterested or deliberately undermining.

I once temped at a huge ad agency. I was an overqualified administrative assistant, but I enjoyed the environment and made friends. One offered to arrange an “informational interview” with a female account supervisor. I didn’t expect to be hired, but I thought the interview would be good practice. I also thought it went well. The interviewer, however, surprised me with feedback that had less to do with my skills or experience than my personality. She said I seemed “aloof” and lacked the “excitement” necessary for advertising. She then reported the interview to my temp agency, which prohibited temps from seeking permanent employment with their temporary employers. I was fired.

Later, when I worked for a small ad agency, my female supervisor and several female coworkers respected me and my work, regardless of contentious moments in our professional lives. These women are still friends, people I count on for job references and freelance opportunities. But why are there so few?

Years later I began writing. Again, I assumed I would encounter authors willing to offer guidance and encouragement. Yet I found the only writers willing to help me were men.

When I finished my first project, a screenplay, I attended the screening of a film penned by a local screenwriter. In Hollywood fashion, I thought he would be a good person to know. I introduced myself, chatted about his previous films, and asked if he coached aspiring screenwriters. We met for lunch and I pitched my script. He liked the idea and offered to read it. When he called and said he loved it, I was ecstatic. It was enough for me, that validation. 

We met several times to discuss the script and consider ways to sell it. He sent it to a producer and I lined up a director. It was an exciting time, and although nothing came of it, I am still struck by the efforts he made to help me.

Several years later I finished a novel, and after endless rejections, I self-published. I was proud of my book, but wasn’t sure how much time, energy, and money I should spend promoting it. I was on Facebook, and many “friends” were writers. One woman was a local author whose books I loved. We struck up a virtual friendship, and I asked if she would read my novel and give me feedback. She agreed, and I mailed it to her. Weeks went by; I told myself she was busy. I sent a message to ensure she received it, and she apologized for taking so long. After a few more weeks I followed up, careful not to sound pushy. Again, she apologized. And then I never heard from her again.

Maybe she never got around to reading it. Maybe she hated it and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Maybe she thought I was trying to use her, although there was nothing she could do for my novel at that point; I simply wanted advice. What bothered me was the lack of a simple response, the passive-aggressive promise to read my work, followed by… nothing.

The women I know who are willing to help sister writers are close friends, or in my writing group. I’m sure there are successful female authors who happily forward friends’ manuscripts to their agents, who lead workshops or publish books on writing. But there is an important difference between helping a friend or teaching a class, and helping an acquaintance. The former is part of friendship or making money; the latter is an act of altruism. Is it inappropriate for a stranger to send a manuscript to an author, hoping for a shortcut to getting published? Yes, and it’s lazy. Most writers have worked hard to get published, and they are busy. Few published authors make a living writing. They teach, work nine-to-five jobs, or wait tables. 

Writing is a competitive business. But this competition seems counterproductive for female authors who want more women represented in literature. Extrapolate my experiences to the literary world in general, and it’s hardly surprising that female writers are underrepresented if they neglect to help bring fresh female voices into the fold.

Perhaps established female authors should question their roles in the male/female literary imbalance. Do they help aspiring authors? Could they do more? Do they want more women represented in publishing, or do they want more recognition for themselves? Would they be comfortable if new female authors appropriated more of the success now enjoyed by men? These are provocative questions; I don’t know the answers.

The issue is not just about numbers; it’s about female authors getting the respect they deserve. But we discuss parity in terms of numbers, numbers that show there aren’t as many women as men getting published. A good place to start might be reaching out to more aspiring female authors. Women shouldn’t condemn the system unless they are doing everything they can to change it. If we have the power and don’t use it, we will remain victims of our own inaction.

Are Wives Really Nagging Shrews Or Do Husbands Just Think They Are?

This post was inspired by Lisa Hickey's recent piece, "Are Husbands Really Assholes? Or Do Wives Just Think They Are?" on the website The Good Men Project. There has also been a great deal of chatter on the interwebs about gender stereotypes in romantic, hetero relationships, most of which would make me tear out my hair by the fistful if I didn't spend so much money making it pretty .

When I see articles about the dynamics of male/female relationships, I initially find them provocative and insightful. When I delve deeper, however, I sometimes cringe at generalizations presented by authors as facts, rather than what they really are: opinions based on limited anecdotal evidence. They may be informed opinions by smart professionals who do some research, but what I've seen recently reveals that many "sample groups" are too small to be taken seriously. Ultimately, I object to the black and white approach inevitably taken by many of these arguments.

I understand why stereotypes take root; historically, the behavior of some in a group (a particular race, gender, or sexual orientation) has been mistakenly accepted as representative of all members of that group. I believe this is a function of ignorance and/or fear, but whether or not we admit it, we all have biases. Perhaps we were raised in an environment of bigotry and, as much as we would like to believe otherwise, those hateful words and images linger in our subconscious minds. Maybe life experiences lead some to form their own brand spanking new prejudices, and they are fine with that. Those are two extremes on a continuum—a large gray area of bias that we aren't generally comfortable talking about.

So how do we discuss gender stereotypes in romantic relationships in a way that is honest and helpful? First, I think we need to admit they exist. No matter how emotionally evolved we are we perpetuate certain narratives that make navigating relationships less scary. If we depend too frequently on these emotional crutches, however, we end up stuck in a place that may feel safe but actually leads us to believe that yes, all husbands are assholes and all wives are nagging shrews. Does this seem like a good strategy for making a relationship work?

Let's hear from the experts. From Lisa Hickey's piece:

The refrain heard over and over is some variation of "I want to have a good marriage. I love my wife. But sometimes, all I feel is resentment—from my wife, toward my wife, toward the marriage. I believe my wife thinks I am an asshole, and she treats me as such."

In Ms. Hickey's defense, she does her best to give a balanced portrayal of both men's and women's thoughts on the subject, but she doesn't have enough to work with. The above quote refers to a conversation that took place—in person, by phone, and via email—between a handful of contributers to The Good Men Project. Later in the article, Ms. Hickey presents a list of comments described as "a quick, non-scientific survey of self-appointed experts in the perception of husbands as assholes".

Most of the article follows a similar "he said, she said" vein, with Ms. Hickey trying to make sense of it all by drawing a few tentative conclusions. But then there's this:

It still bothers me that there’s no real dialogue around this issue. Men feel resentment, women appear oblivious, and conversation around the topic seems nil.

This is exactly the kind of sweeping generalization that causes a stabbing pain behind my left eye. Women are oblivious? I take exception to this, mostly because it's bullshit, but also because it makes all women sound like witless dolts who don't care about their husbands' feelings. Furthermore, my opinion (based on my own limited anecdotal evidence) is that most couples have plenty of conversations around this topic. They probably don't do it out in the open for everyone to see (I hope), but anyone seriously interested in making a relationship succeed realizes they occasionally need to talk about the relationship. These little chats may not be fun and they may not always be as productive as we'd like, but they do happen.

My biggest problem with this piece is that while dissecting and debunking the "Husbands Are Assholes" myth, Ms. Hickey implicitly perpetuates another stereotype, and this one's a doozy: husbands are hen-pecked into a life of quiet desperation by their nagging, shrewish wives. This sort of thinking makes me want to pick up the nearest object and hurl it at the wall. I'm sure many marriages do fit into this hellish category, and I'm sorry for both the husbands and wives who choose to live this way. But it is a choice, and I sure as hell wouldn't choose to be in a relationship where I'm some doormat's ball and chain.

If all stereotypes are a result of ignorance and/or fear, as I opine above, those involving gender are no exception. Maybe a good place to start a real conversation would be to ask: of what are men and women ignorant concerning real intimacy? What do men and women fear in relationships?

NOTE: See Hugo Schwyzer's follow-up article, "Poor, Poor, Pitiful Men: The Martyr Complex of the American Husband" for a radically different perspective.

An excerpt:

The Guy Code teaches men how to pursue women, how to court, and how to charm; it teaches us nothing about how to be in an actual relationship with a woman once we’ve succeeded in catching her. (If you’re getting an image of a dog who looks bewildered and helpless when he’s finally managed to catch the cat he’s been chasing, you’re not far off the mark.)

There's that stabbing pain again, although I have to admit I enjoyed most of this piece. While Hugo is also prone to generalizations, he never claims his contributions to The Good Men Project are anything but his own informed opinions, and he has academic credentials to back them up. Still, maybe I'll tackle this another day...

Why Remarry?

I am divorced, and I live with my boyfriend, also divorced. I have quite a few divorced friends, women and men. Some are happily remarried; a couple are planning to wed new partners; several are looking for love and, I assume, another shot at marriage; at least one is recently divorced and probably not ready to even think about dating; a handful are ambivalent about remarrying; and some insist they will never again take the matrimonial plunge.

According to a study published in the American Law and Economics Review, women initiate more than two-thirds of divorces. There is variation among states, and the numbers have changed over time, with over 70% of filings by women in some states just after no-fault divorce was introduced. Also, a new report from the U.S. census bureau shows that, for those 25 and older, 52% of men and 44% of women were remarried. Statistics indicate that 50% of all first marriages fail; the divorce rates of second marriages are estimated to be over 70%.

These numbers are surprising considering the conventional wisdom that men are generally coerced into first marriages by women hell-bent on snagging a husband. Don't take my word for it; check out the number of books and websites devoted to coaching women on how to trick their man into committing. (I challenge you to find similar advice for men.) And much of the information out there is absurd. For example:

From Your Tango’s Top 10 Surprising Ways To Get A Guy To Commit: “2. Don't be exclusive until you're engaged. Once you've become exclusive and have your eye on marriage, a man can sense that you're thinking about the relationship, wondering where things are going, hoping he loves you as much as you love him—all of which are totally normal feelings, but they make men withdraw emotionally.”

Is this 1950? Keep that man on his toes until he puts a ring on your finger! And while you're at it, date a bunch of other guys who don't realize you "have your eye" on marrying someone else! Sorry, Your Tango, but engagement is not the carrot women should be chasing, and marriage is not a prize that guarantees commitment. Marriage is the result of commitment.

From Love is No Guarantee author Peter Hector: “It is men’s nature to delay anything that can cause drastic changes to their lives. And although men have always been aware of the changes that marriage brings, they accepted them as part of the territory; ‘when a man marries his troubles begin.’ But whether or not today’s men are aware of this old saying, one thing is certain. They are not ready to be plucked from their comfort zones and thrown into a life of responsibility, compromise and sacrifice. And by their own admissions this is the life they believe awaits them whenever they decide to take what they consider the final plunge.”

Barf. Thanks for this sweeping generalization that makes all men sound like pathetic assholes, Mr. Hector. I can't imagine who comprised your sample group, but perhaps you could publish a list of like-minded men so single women everywhere won't waste their time trying to pluck them from their comfort zones and plunge them into a lifetime of trouble.

I came across another revolting factoid around marital disharmony: rather than acknowledge they are unhappy and leave the marriage or, better yet, work on the underlying causes of their and/or their spouse’s unhappiness, many men cheat. (I believe this is referred to as Passive Aggressive Dick Behavior, or PADB.) So who knows if women are ending their marriages because they are unhappy or because hubby needed a little variety to make it through the “long haul” of married life?

My summary, based on the above: men resist marriage the first time around; women are more likely to leave their marriages; men are more likely to remarry (possibly their mistresses!); and second marriages are more likely to fail. In other words, divorced women, more often than men, get what they want and then decide they don’t want it anymore. Men, more often than women, get what they thought they didn’t want, lose it, then realize they want it again. And both men and women are unrealistically optimistic about the chances of a second—or third, or fourth—marriage lasting.

Statistics are numbers crunched to reflect trends. Just that—trends. While some people may have a genetic predisposition for violence, not all of them act on it. Similarly, not all single, married, divorced, or remarried men and women act in accordance with statistical probabilities. While I see some of these trends playing out in my friends’ relationships, the behavior of the majority of people I know does not fit so neatly into these molds. Good for them, I say, because these statistics are freakin’ depressing.

I believe marriages most often succeed or fail due to the reasons people decide to marry, and how committed they are to working their asses off for the rest of their lives to make the marriage work for both of them. So, I offer my unsolicited thoughts on good and bad reasons to remarry:

Top Five Reasons Not To Remarry:

1. It’s the logical next step. There are no logical next steps in any relationship.

2. Marriage will strengthen the relationship. I don’t think so. Being married makes it more logistically difficult to split up, but if your relationship is weak now, toughen it up before heading to the altar.

3. Marriage will decrease the chance of infidelity. Um, no. (See above.) If you and your partner are already committed, fidelity should not be an issue—yet. And if infidelity is a deal-breaker for you, make sure you address it before getting married, because there's a damn good chance you'll be addressing it later on.

4. My parents expect me to be married. Good for them. They probably also want you to give them grandkids (if you haven’t already), floss regularly, and take care of them in their old age. But you’re a grown up now, and it’s time to make major life decisions all on your own.

5. Marriage will provide financial stability. Hahahah! Remember that divorce? How stable were your finances, then? On the other hand, if you’ve made a conscious decision to marry for money rather than love, go get ‘em! But prepare for a life of insecurity once you sacrifice your independence.

Top Five Reasons To Remarry:

1. You and your partner are truly committed and equally enthusiastic about tying the knot. Enough said. Preface each reason below with this one.

2. You want to start a family (or add to the one you have). Fair enough. It’s fun to be married when you have kids. You get to argue over whose last name they’ll take.

3. Your religious beliefs encourage marriage over living in sin. While I obviously don’t subscribe to this, many people do. Go with God (or whoever).

4. You’ve recently come out of the closet, ended that icky hetero marriage, and now you’ve found someone special with whom you want to share your life. Congratulations! If you live in a state that recognizes same-sex marriage, hurry up and get hitched, because religious-fanatic-right-wingnut lunatics all over the country are fighting like rabid, feral cats to take away that hard-won right.

5. You simply can’t imagine growing old without your partner. Smart cookie, because when you're really, really old, you want her/him to have legal standing to make end-of-life medical decisions for you. Also, it just sounds so friggin’ sweet.

The other night, a friend remarked that she and her husband considered my boyfriend and me the "perfect couple". I burst out laughing, then explained I don't believe perfect couples exist. (She joked that they do on Facebook. True, that.) Every couple has their share of struggles, depending on their history, emotional maturity, and—most important—their commitment to each other. This left me wondering, however, what commitment really means. If two people claim to be committed to each other but their definitions of commitment differ significantly, does that commitment benefit the relationship? I don't have an answer, but I imagine that conversation would be an excellent place to start for any couple considering marriage.

What do you think?

Writing about writing.

Yesterday, while tinkering with Mommune, I came to the frightening realization that the "introduction" part of the story I've been motoring through to get to the real guts of the story will need to be about half the book. Since I'm delving into science fiction, which is new territory for me, I need to create a believable new "world" so the rest of the story will make sense. My writing group has gently pointed out that I must establish the setting with more than vague references from each new character I introduce. So I've gone back, several times, and made the references less vague. But that's lazy writing, and it's not working. I need to research, outline, and add several chapters to bring the reader into my world, a world that is clear in my head but has yet to make it onto the page.

That, for me, is the difficult part about writing. Once I have a story in my head, I often forget to write the words that will bring the entire story out of my head and make it accessible to readers. People who remark on Soft Landing almost always say the same thing: great characters, great story, fast pace — but they wanted more. I usually ask, "More what?" and they tell me: more description, more back story, more of a certain character. They don't necessarily want a longer story; they want a more fully-realized story.

Mommune is a much more ambitious project than Soft Landing was. I'm including a much larger cast of characters. The premise of the story draws on social, political, medical, economic and environmental issues. And I'm taking all of that and distilling it to a very personal level for the main characters. So... not only do I need to write a larger story, I need to write each aspect of the larger story more completely, from future world events down to the most personal level.

Unlike a lot of writers, I do not write for the sheer joy it brings, uncaring of whether or not I get published. While I love it, writing is hard work. Perhaps because I have a business degree rather than a graduate degree in creative writing, I tend to be goal-oriented. I savor the rare uninterrupted stretch of time — and by stretch I mean days, not a few hours — I can focus on writing, but I still want to finish the damn book. I claim to strive for a "spare" style in my novels, but that may be my excuse for rushing through a story without doing the hard work that makes so many authors much better writers.

For me, writing is a perfect metaphor for life. I need to summon the patience to do it as thoughtfully as possible. I should focus more on creating and less on finishing. I want to build a world that is as fully-realized as possible. And most important, although writing will always be hard work, I don't ever want to consider it a hardship. It's a privilege, not a chore.


Here's the working cover for Mommune. (Yes, I see the irony of designing the cover before finishing the book, but I needed it for my new author website, which is under construction.)

Oops! I forgot to blog for eight months.

Where to begin? Last we chatted, I was embracing the chaos of living in The Cave. I had resolved to get back to writing. I was experimenting with a "no expectations" relationship. That seems like ages ago, as almost everything in my life has changed. To whit: I failed, on all three fronts.

The live-in-the-moment relationship seemed like a good idea at the time, and it was fun while it lasted. Then the unthinkable happened: love. I won't say we "fell in love," because that makes it sound so easy, or even romantic. No, we fought it, fingers clawing as we were dragged into what we both claimed we didn't want — a serious relationship. It wasn't pretty and it sure as hell wasn't the stuff romantic comedies are made of. (Or was it?) But once we realized there was nothing to be done about it, there we were. I let him into Grace's world, finally, and they began to create their own relationship. Grace adored him immediately. And his patience, kindness, and willingness to work with us through what was a particularly challenging phase in Gigi's life sealed the deal.

My stint in The Cave came to an abrupt end when we experienced the fifth flood in less than a year. My resolve, and quite a few of my beloved books, were unsalvageable. The timing seemed right, so boyfriend and I found a lovely house together and took another giant, scary leap. We crammed all our stuff — belongings, humans, the dog, emotions, fears — into what has become not just a home, but a sanctuary. Grace loves living here with both of us, and is thriving under this new blanket of security and ordinary... family-ness. She can finally have friends over without feeling self-conscious about living in a basement. WE can have friends over and sit comfortably around the dining room table, or hang out in the huge kitchen. Oh — how can I forget this? — we have a dishwasher!

The third failure doesn't have a happy ending. I haven't made as much progress on my novel as I hoped. Despite the encouragement of my writing group, and the luxury of several writing retreats, I remain stuck somewhere between chapters six and seven. I expected to be finished with Mommune by the end of 2010, but I now realize I will be lucky to complete it by the end of this year. Happiness in life, love and family has brought a certain complacency which allows me to neglect what I always counted on to make me happy, regardless of what was going on around me: writing. Since boyfriend is also a writer, we both struggle with the self-discipline needed to get shit done. So we have made a pact: structure our days to accommodate three (maybe four?) hours dedicated to writing.

If that piece of the puzzle falls into place, I will have little left to complain about. Plenty of other things have happened during the last eight months, however. If I choose to continue blogging, what should I talk about? Suggestions welcome!

At the beach during our latest writing retreat.

Cozying up to Chaos.

I used to thrive under pressure. I worked a ten-hour day, ran errands on my lunch hour, picked up dinner before catching the bus home and did some freelance writing on the side. My house was clean and tidy, my pets were well taken care of and I threw dinner parties that involved recipes from Gourmet Magazine. When I left my job for a six-month sabbatical, three people took over my various responsibilities. Even when I started freelancing from home as a software developer, I became so engrossed in my projects that I would forget to eat or even get up to pee until I was in dire pain. And I was never more productive than when I was under a deadline, particularly if I'd put off something until the last minute. Case in point: I took on a fairly large programming job when I was seven months pregnant. It would have been impossible for me to finish it in two months, so I just figured I'd keep cranking it out after Grace was born. Hahahahahah!

I started working on Soft Landing (you know, my NOVEL?) before I had Grace, and tinkered around with it for years. Only when Grace was around two did I find the inspiration to quit messing around and get to work. (Until Grace was two, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Grace had a part-time nanny (hi, Sandi!), ostensibly because I was still finishing the aforementioned project, along with tweaking programs for some past clients. When Sandi was there, however, I usually napped or went grocery shopping.) So I was the mother of a toddler, still working, and I managed to write a book in my free time.

These days, it can take me a whole day (while Grace is at pre-school, mind you) to do the things I used to do on my lunch hour or after work. Even then, it's never done. Chaos reigns here in The Cave, and in my oddly dysfunctional brain, I can't convince myself to spend any significant time writing unless everything is in order. Which is absurd, because everything will never be in order. It's a problem. I know it's not a terribly original problem, that even writers who love to write will find countless reasons to not write. But I have a limited window to finish my current novel, and it's getting smaller and smaller.

We live in the midst of unpacked boxes, dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, toys strewn everywhere and tumbleweeds of dog hair floating about. My own personal nemeses are stacks of unopened mail and unpaid bills; missed appointments and unanswered emails; half-finished paperwork and neglected correspondence that taunt me every time I glance at my desk. I know women who manage to keep up with life's chores while working full-time and raising kids. I am no longer one of those women. I try to blame part of it on being a single mom, but that's just weak. I have plenty of time to take care of business; I simply choose to spend (waste?) my time on other things. I've become that flaky woman who always seems to be spinning her wheels, complaining about all there is to do.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with an old friend and he asked me what I do all day. I was completely stumped. I could have lied and said I write, but it's been so long since I've done any serious writing, I've lost track of the characters in my novel. This is not a good sign. I have days of spectacular productivity, days where I am so disgusted by the state of the apartment that I do everything at once: laundry, dishes, paperwork, grocery shopping, etc. I feel good about it afterwards, but then, rather than taking advantage of my freedom from household tedium to write, I reward myself by hanging out with friends, spending too much time online and, of course, blogging.

I'm realizing that waiting until my life is in order to get serious about writing doesn't encourage me to keep chaos at bay. Because I'm not one of those women anymore. I need to get comfortable with that fact, to learn that I can do what's necessary and let the rest wait. I need to make writing a bigger priority than worrying about unpacked boxes and unfolded laundry. In fact, writing should be at the top of the list, along with keeping Grace alive and nurturing relationships that nourish me and keep me sane. (Okay, almost sane.)

I've joined a writing group. We meet once a week to share our projects and provide/receive feedback. My objective was purely selfish: to light a fire under my ass that will help me finish my novel. But it turns out I've stumbled into a group of writers who are not only smart, fun and funny, they are also intimidatingly good at what they do. I've been inspired by what I've heard of their work, and I've received feedback on my novel that surprised me by its insight and, well, total awesomeness. I got lucky, and I'm going to take advantage of this chance, and challenge, to stay focused on writing and, I hope, make some great friends in the process.

The dishes are washed. The laundry is (mostly) done. Grace is happy and healthy and with her father for the next few days. I'm going to pretend to not notice the boxes stacked around the apartment, and the mess on my desk. (Except for Grace's kindergarten enrollment, which I need to complete and deliver to the school — which starts NEXT WEEK. Last-minute Laurel prevails!) Other than that, I'm going to plant my ass on the couch (which smells faintly of pee due to an ill-timed nap by Gigi), and get to know my characters again. I'm pretty excited about this.

My new mantra: I love to write. I love to write. I love to write.

Peace Out.

I know, she's a little blurry. Aren't we all?

Girlfriends!

Grace and I joined a few families last week at Kruger's Farm for their weekly concert. Once we pumped enough food (sugar) into the kids, they had a blast. (Until then, they clung to our legs and whined about everything, and nothing.) Most of this happiness occurred in the half hour before the concert ended. Thanks to Rebecca for the pictures.


Grace expounds on the economic crisis, while Ava and Annika wonder if she'll ever stop talking.


The pile up was great fun, and they took turns being on the bottom. They look like sisters, don't they?


Gigi pretending to be a sweet, innocent little angel.

Nightmare in The Cave

Grace was in a truly VILE mood at bedtime last night. When she gets this way, she doesn't whine, cry or even speak actual words. She growls. After I finally got her settled, I was a bit unsettled myself, and I went to bed in a similarly crappy place. Then I had a series of nightmares. The first one had something to do with me being held captive somewhere and trying to scream loud enough so that I would be rescued. Of course, in dreams like this, you can never really scream, right? I somehow managed to, and woke up in mid-shriek. Not fun. I got up, my little ticker racing, checked on Grace and thought about sleeping with her, but she would have done of that sharing her bed nonsense. So I went back to bed and immediately fell back into more nightmares, the really fun kind where I kept dreaming I was getting up and turning on the light, but the light wouldn't come on, then I'd realize I was still dreaming. So I'd try to get up and turn on the light again, to no avail, and on and on until I was so pissed in my dream that I threw the lamp and went for the wall switch. Still no light. Still dreaming.

When I finally managed to wake up, I realized I was in a house alone with Grace, and I, the responsible adult, was scared shitless. Even Brady, The Canine Security Detail, wasn't here. I got up and tried to stay awake as long as I could, but eventually gave up and laid in bed, wide awake. I can honestly say I can't remember a single time in my life when I felt so utterly alone.

I did get back to sleep, and wasn't bothered by any more nightmares. But I woke up this morning with that same feeling of being alone, and haven't been able to shake it all day. Why? Because the bottom line is that when Grace is here and I'm in charge of taking care of her and making sure she feels safe and loved, there's no one here to do the same for me. All of a sudden, that's kind of blowing my mind.

Communication? What?

I read my last post, and decided that if they exist, The New Rules of dating can bite me. Sure, there is that brief window of optimism when you meet someone new and really enjoy spending time with him. Due to my finely-tuned radar, however, I am now able to see red flags the minute they appear. No matter how charming Mr. Wonderful is on the first few dates, I pay attention to those red flags as they pile up. Because of that, I'm more likely to pull my head out of my ass and realize, "Huh. This guy's kind of a tool." This is a good thing; in the past, I've ignored all the signs pointing me in that direction until I was in way too deep, and one or both of us ended up getting hurt. Waste. Of. Time.

The words that really jumped out at me from that last post were, "I'm not up for a real relationship." What? Really? Yes, really, and not because of any wounds from past relationships. The time and emotional energy involved in maintaining a serious relationship are not luxuries I can afford right now. I've set up this sort of... unusual life that I'm leading so that I can focus on Grace and writing without constantly having to worry about money. These living arrangements are temporary. So why complicate things with a distraction I can deliberately choose to avoid? I didn't anticipate, however, that even casual dating would bring out the same jealousy, insecurity and uncertainty of a longer-term relationship, minus the shared history, friendship and real connection that almost make the unpleasantness worth it.

There seems to be a pervasive belief that, like a shark, if a relationship stops moving forward, it will die. I know I've fallen prey to this misconception in the past. As I said in a previous post, I believe more women than men focus on where a relationship is going, and maybe even tend to rush things. Most men seem to prefer not to think about it; maybe they want to simply enjoy what they have without worrying about the future, or maybe men believe that ALL CHANGE IS BAD. Could there be a middle ground?

My last relationship ended (prior to my foray into casual dating) because of what appeared to be a widening chasm in our expectations for The Future. He assumed I wanted a more serious relationship, whereas he did not. My knee-jerk reaction to this resistance was predictable: I felt rejected, hurt and a little (!) angry. We talked about it, but that's where the communication breakdown began. Neither one of us actually heard what the other was saying. BIG part of communication: listening. My weak protests of not wanting anything more may have seemed disingenuous, because I never thought about our future; it was too difficult to imagine incorporating him into my life, and Grace's. I hadn't yet decided what I wanted or didn't want.

Now I have. So, long story long, we're giving it another try, albeit in a very different way. We're enjoying the parts of our relationship that were fun (most of them), and not obsessing over where it's headed. I'll focus on my issues instead of worrying about him freaking out, and he won't assume I want more from him than I do. My issues have a lot to do with insecurity and jealousy, and I can't really work on those without first feeling them. I'd just as soon work on them with someone I know and trust. (What? Trust? Then why the insecurity and jealousy? I know, I know. I guess that's why they're called issues.) His issues are his problem. This is new territory. Far from choosing the path of least resistance, I've chosen to do something rather difficult: make my own feelings my first priority. I'd like to sit with those feelings of insecurity and jealousy and try to figure out where they come from.

So far, so good. We're having fun again, and there's no cloud hanging over us about what's going on in the other's head. No reading between the lines or making assumptions based on fear. I can appreciate the good between us, without expending so much emotional energy that my time and focus are taken away from Grace and writing.

What could possibly go wrong?

Dating, Part III: Rules?

WARNING: Skip this one, Mom and Dad. Really.

I've taken to blogging about dating faster than I expected. Part of it is out of sheer necessity, because after being with John for eighteen years, then experiencing two sort of doomed relationships, I'm dating again. Casually, because I'm not up for a real relationship; I'm still licking my wounds from the last one. But when opportunity knocks, who am I to say no? The problem is, I don't know the new dating rules. I'm lost in a sea of confusion over how to best navigate these murky waters. Full of questions, and short on answers. So, you singles out there, I ask you: what are The New Rules?

I've had a few good experiences, but admittedly, I'm interacting with the male of the species with my guard up. I'm wearing my wounded heart on my sleeve, whether I realize it or not. Maybe it's because I tend to put the whole divorced-and-recently-out-of-a-relationship bit out there so everyone knows what's what. Decent, perceptive men sense my skittishness surprisingly quickly, and don't seem too crazy about the odds. I can't force myself to be vulnerable again, though. Should I fake it?

Communicating with men these days is like trying to learn a foreign language on the fly. No one seems to use the phone anymore. Email is rife with the possibility of misunderstanding. And texting? Please. It can take me forever to send one simple sentence. And what is the etiquette surrounding texting? If I have not asked a direct question, should I expect a reply? (And vice versa.) Should we take turns? If I want to share a random thought, but have yet to hear back from him after my last couple of random thoughts, am I text-stalking?

Not to put too fine a point on it, but when do we have sex these days? I'm forty-three. My basic philosophy is that I can have sex whenever I feel ready, as long as I'm safe. But are we still playing the waiting game? Am I supposed to ignore my own instincts so he doesn't think I'm some sort of slut, even when he's giving me the full-court-press? (That ship has already sailed, to keep the water metaphor going, but I'm still curious.) I can't help but feel that old fear: once we've had sex, is he going to disappear? I'm not talking about casual sex, mind you; that's not how I roll (ha ha). But let's face it: even casual dating can lead pretty quickly to physical attraction if there's any sort of chemistry involved. And making out on the couch seems so... high school. What's a girl to do?

Finally — and you can file this under TMI if need be — what's the protocol around farting? One boyfriend handled this beautifully. We were hanging out not too long after we met, and he looked up and asked, "Are you ready for a real relationship?" Every muscle in my body clenched in fear as I stared at him. Then he just let one rip. It was hilarious, and perfect. But not too many men have that particular sense of humor, and I can't walk around with a stomach ache simply because I'm afraid to rock the boat (ha!) with a little wind. If there are going to be overnights, is farting allowed?

I have many more questions, of course. But some advice on these burning issues would help steer me in the right direction, for the time being.

Dating, Part II

My last post was a bit of a downer. I was in a mood. (No way. A mood?) In my haste to revile all things dating-related, I forgot to mention the fun parts, which is what keeps us all going back for more, right? I'm in a list-making kind of place at the moment, so I offer the following, in no particular order.

Cool things about dating:
- Talking on a first date (with no drinking involved) and feeling perfectly comfortable
- Getting to know someone you feel as if you already know (see also: connection)
- First physical contact? Holding hands.
- Having him say he'll call, then getting that call before you expect it
- "When can I see you again?"
- Anticipating the next date, and the next
- Realizing you have way more in common with him than you ever suspected
- That first kiss. Wait, let me repeat that: THAT FIRST KISS
- Being able to sit quietly together, without the need to fill dead air with mindless babbling
- Missing him when he's out of town
- New Guy Smell
- Not worrying about introducing him to Grace, because IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Unless it does.
- Being in a place in my life where I'm not overly concerned with what it all means and where it's going
- Feeling good about myself, not because of him, but for all the right reasons

That's it for now. Like I said, I'll never kiss and tell. Not the juicy details, anyway.

Dating, schmating.

A while back, an anonymous commenter on my blog asked why I don't write about dating. Apparently, the dating trials of a divorced mom are of some interest to those who love a train wreck—namely, my entire readership. I've always told myself that I don't blog about dating because I want to respect the privacy of certain people in my life. But since my divorce, none of my romantic partners have appreciated this courtesy. One wondered why I never blogged about him. Another (jokingly) suggested I write a blog post consisting entirely of his name, repeated over and over again. (I thought that was pretty funny, actually.)

My rationalization for omitting such a large part of my life turns out to be complete bullshit, fueled by fear. I confess: I don't blog about it because I find dating to be really, really difficult. It is rife with uncertainty, conflict, disappointment and, ultimately, failure. Failed relationships hurt. And in my little pea-sized brain, a failed relationship translates into a failure on my part. What was I thinking? What could I have done differently? And, worst of all, what's wrong with me?

I don't actually believe there's anything wrong with me. I haven't had any serious self-esteem issues for a while, at least where men are concerned. (Okay, maybe a little recently.) Were this not the case, I would be a whimpering, quivering, helpless puddle of despair at this point. But I'm not, because I know who I am, what I want and what I deserve. I lose track of that sometimes. I cling to relationships that have clearly played themselves out, because I have thrown my whole reckless, idiotic, hopelessly hopeful heart into them, and I am loathe to admit defeat. My heart doesn't always agree with my brain. My brain might see red flags all over the place, but my heart is color blind.

My other weakness is that I tend to focus on whether or not the object of my affection finds me worthy, rather than letting myself decide, over time, if he's really someone I want to be with. I think women do this more than men. I also suspect that most men spend a lot less time worrying about where a relationship is headed, unless it seems to be moving too fast. I actually envy this about men; it makes really good sense. Living in the moment and letting things unfold naturally is healthy, and doesn't involve keeping track of who called who last, or waiting to see if he'll call if you don't, or trying to read between the lines of completely innocuous remarks. All of that is exhausting, and fruitless. I'm not going to do it anymore. Really.

Then there's Grace. She seems to believe that a family must comprise at least three people. It's what she remembers up until February when we moved into The Cave, and she knows that most of her friends have a man and a woman in one house. So I wait until I'm overcome with optimism to introduce her to anyone I'm dating, and then it's on a very casual level. But it doesn't matter. She can meet someone once, someone I've told her is just a friend, yet she reads more into it than I ever imagine she will. Soon, she'll start peppering me with questions. "Is so-and-so coming over again?" I don't know, baby. "Will I ever see so-and-so again?" I'm sure you will, honey. It's heartbreaking, and I can't help but wonder if she asks her father the same thing, or if she senses in me some need to have a man in the house. I don't consciously feel that need, but she's an old soul, and often surprises, no shocks, me by talking about things she just shouldn't know about.

So a few new rules as I move forward: listen to my head at least as much as my heart; focus more on how I feel about someone and less on how they feel about me; don't worry so much about where a relationship is headed; and most important, NEVER INTRODUCE A MAN TO GRACE unless he and I are both goddamn sure we're in it for the long haul.

Oh, and I will never blog about the specifics of my dating life. I'll try to throw in vague generalities from time to time, but when it comes right down to it, it's my own privacy and sanity I'm trying to protect.

Good Drama vs. Bad Drama

Also file under "Surprises: Good and Bad."

Bad Drama:
- having a family member become seriously ill
- finding a lump
- meaningless sex, no matter how fantastic
- being a single mom and getting sick, with no backup
- legal disputes of any kind
- having someone you care about disappoint you
- writer's block when you least expect it
- watching your child struggle with choices you have made, or anything else, for that matter
- saying goodbye to someone you thought would always be there
- depression

Good Drama:
- girlfriends who will drop everything to listen to your troubles
- that special someone calling a week in advance to say, "Keep Friday night open. We're gonna have fun."
- reconnecting with old friends as if not a day has passed
- realizing that you've just made a really good, intuitive parenting move
- being able to offer help to a friend or family member who really needs it
- getting a dose of perspective when you really need it
- knowing your child will be okay, despite all the dumbass decisions you've made
- someone making a crazy promise, and following through with it
- following your heart and having it work out for a change
- facing your greatest fears and being a better person for it.

Off the top of my head, anyway.

Stressed? Who, me?

Note: I've incorporate posts from the original "Grace Under Pressure" blog into this one. I began mommy blogging so that I could post pictures of Grace for friends and family, but it morphed into a series of mostly cheerful, witty posts that were fun to write but not necessarily representative of my whole life. I started this blog when my husband and I split up, as a way to vent honestly about my struggles. Not surprisingly, it's been a bit of a downer. Perhaps the two will balance each other out. Regardless, Grace is the most important part of my life, which is not always upbeat and cheerful, and it seems silly to exclude her from the big picture.

So, stress. This is a week I haven't been looking forward to. Tomorrow morning, John and I will go through what I hope will be the last round of mediation before our divorce is finalized. BIG! FUN! Then Grace and I will tour the school where she will start kindergarten in the fall. I'm ambivalent about this and have put it off until the last possible day. Yes, it's an exciting milestone, but it's another transition for her, and I worry it will upset the equilibrium (or semblance thereof) we've worked so hard to achieve since moving.

Later this week, I will be visiting my parents in Sequim for the first time since my accident almost a year ago. This will be my longest road trip since then, and I will be driving the same stretch of road for the first time. This will be the first time I'll walk into that house without being greeted by Max, which I can't imagine. Most important, I haven't seen my father in almost a year, and this will be our first visit since his surgery. I can't wait, but I don't know what to expect.

I have been living very much in the present lately, with a vengeance. Grace continues to be the grounding force in my life—when she's here. Since John and I have switched to a more equal parenting schedule, however, I find myself with almost four days a week of freedom to not worry about anyone but me. This is new territory for me, and while being in the moment is supposed to be a good thing, I've managed to do so at the expense of taking care of business: paying bills, writing, unpacking the last few boxes, being thoughtful and deliberate, and deciding what I want my (and Grace's) future to look like. Future? Yes, I know that's a dirty word regarding living now, but a minimum of planning is required in every adult's life, particularly when you're a parent.

I like to think I've made some good moves, rekindling friendships I had neglected for too long, making new friends and generally trying to stay out of my own head when it starts to feel unhealthy. I'm also struggling to feel physically healthy again, but my little bout with food poisoning hasn't finished messing with me yet. I've been told that stress can cause this. Duh. (Apparently, stress can cause anything, most of it bad.)

I know the best way for me to deal with life's uncertainties is to focus on what needs to be done now. When I spin it that way, I can almost imagine a life where I can keep living in the moment, while striving to find that balance between too much freedom (indulgence) and too much worrying (overthinking).

I will wave my magic wand and make it so.

Forty-three? Really?

I had a friggin' awesome birthday. In case either of you were wondering.

Cave dweller.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that not too many people get what I'm doing right now. Most family and friends are, after all, under the impression that I had everything I wanted, and lost it all through a series of mishaps and bad decisions. I went through that self-pity party myself. I now, however, feel the need to clear up something important to me: I am doing exactly what I want. Yes, I live in a basement; no, I don't have a job; yes, it's a challenge being a divorced, downwardly mobile single mother. But I've arranged my life very deliberately so that I can focus on endeavors other than dinner parties and buying shit I don't need. I have created this window of time in my life where I can be a mom and a writer, in that order. I'm also a friend, a sister, a daughter, a lover and, most of the time, a card-carrying whack job.

I've spent too much of my life trying to fit in. To blend, to not draw attention to myself, to be appropriate. Problem with that is that I was so good at it, I ended up feeling invisible, and wondering why nobody really knew me. Growing up in rural Washington as an east coast transplant gave me a very tangible goal: DON'T BE WEIRD. Learn the country lingo, dress the part and don't let on that my family was at all different than everyone else's. (In that we hadn't lived there for generations, among other things.)

This was fantastic practice for when I went off to college in St. Louis, and found myself surrounded by kids from the east coast. Rather than feeling reunited with my people, I was so thoroughly countrified that, once again, I was a fish out of water. College, for me, was a giant game to which everyone else knew the rules. I was lost, and terrified of being considered weird. So I switched gears and did the best I could to emulate my peers, but I'm not sure I ever really fooled anyone. I certainly didn't enjoy those four years of putting up walls and then waiting for at least one person to tear them down. (One did make the effort; all I can say to him is, "I'm sorry.")

When I moved to Chicago, I felt at home. Something about the anonymity of a large city made it easier for me to move about undetected. Perfect. But then I made a bunch of friends, and had to go through the process of trying to be close without anyone figuring out how weird I really was. I got really good at this; some of my neuroses I was able to pass off as quirky, which provided a release valve. A few toxic friendships torpedoed my self esteem, though, and I still carry around parts of that scared, twenty-something girl who was never pretty enough, successful enough or cool enough. At least I was funny; funny was my thing. But the rest of it eluded me, until...

...I moved to Portland. Here, I finally got comfortable with myself. Not so comfortable that I didn't hate visits to Chicago, but I found my niche pursuing the American Dream with a vengeance. (This blog is about how that didn't work out so well for me, however, as both of my readers will attest.)

I'm more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. Getting in touch with my inner weirdo has proved much more enjoyable than I expected. Much the way I've always imagined a schizophrenic feels when they go off their meds and just listen to the voices in their heads for a change, it's a huge relief. For me, it's been a healthy relief. It's allowed me to write without worrying about what people/readers will think. (Let's face it, most writers are anything but normal.) It's brought friendships that are real and messy and intimate and all that other stuff I avoided for so long, because I've surrounded myself with people I find interesting, and who don't think I'm all that weird. I now find that for me, normal = B-O-R-I-N-G.

I live in a cave. I'm a little weird. And it's okay.

My little baby.

I haven't posted for a while, largely because the batteries in my camera have been dead and I'm too lazy to do anything about it. I consider this a place to post photos with witty commentary, so friends and family can see Grace as she grows. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but today words will have to suffice.

It's been over a week since I've seen Grace because of the speed bump I mentioned below. Today she came over for the afternoon, and HOLY CRAP. For one thing, she looked so lanky and grown up; that growth spurt I was predicting happened with a vengeance. At this rate, she will be taller than I am by the time she's flirting with tweendom (John's 6'2"). Also, she has a cold (natch), and her husky voice made her sound older. It was weird. Like, who's this strange kid in my house? weird.

By the time she left she no longer seemed like a stranger, fortunately. And while I used to believe Grace would drive me to therapy (if I weren't already there), I now realize she is the best therapy around. We crammed so much fun into a few hours, because that's who she is. If I was lost the last couple of weeks, color me found. (I know it's a lot to lay on a kid, keeping her mother grounded, but what harm can it do if she doesn't know?) I am someone's mother, as a few wise friends keep reminding me when they see me flailing. And I realized today that I love every wonderful, crazy, frustrating, hilarious, terrifying minute of it.

Speed bump.

Most of the time I am brutally honest when I blog, because I find such release in writing, regardless of who reads my thoughts, or doesn't read them. I can't do this now, however, because I have a certain sense of crossing a line when it comes to very personal experiences. So, the short version.

I was in the hospital for eight days. I was sick, and then they almost killed me by giving me a drug to which I had a severe allergic reaction. For days, they did not listen when I complained I felt worse. Fortunately, my admitting doctor went on vacation and the doctor covering for him did listen to me. She did some blood work and a couple minutes of research and figured out what the problem was. Once I felt better, I wanted nothing more than to go home, but this was not in the cards, since I needed to be monitored. I almost checked out AMA (against medical advice), but this meant my insurance wouldn't cover my stay, and that seemed like a very bad thing.

The worst part about being in the hospital, other than almost dying? No Diet Coke. The best part? Waking up every morning to the adorable, 22-year-old face of the med student who came to draw my blood. Thank you, Cute Blood Guy, for all the painless pricks and for taking the time to talk to me about books; you will be a fantastic doctor one day.

So that happened. On with life, such as it is.

Not my favorite virtue.

I'm not a particularly patient person. I believe I mentioned here, here, here and here how I feel about waiting. Let me summarize: waiting sucks. This deeply-held belief is what made it so frustrating to go through six years of infertility issues. It's why I had trouble with what seemed like an interminable recovery process after my car accident. It's why I wanted to scream at someone every day while the lawyers worked out our real estate debacle. And potty training Grace? Let's just say I did the best I could and leave it at that.

Grace. I realize the most important lesson I can learn from her, other than how to say, "I love you" with abandon to anyone and anything (including trees), is to be a more patient person. There is no rushing a four-year-old. When we walk to school in the morning, Grace really doesn't give a rip when we get there. Why should she? My impatience has everything to do with the fear that the teachers silently curse me for consistently being late and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Grace might miss a few minutes of circle time.

I'm actually fine with Grace when we have no destination or goal. If I'm with her at the park, or tagging along while she rides her tricycle, or hanging out at OMSI or just farting around (literally—she farts like an old man), I don't have the same awareness of time that I have when I'm getting her ready for bed or watching her eat (torture).

The trouble I see on the horizon, however, is that she may learn—or inherit—impatience from me. She hits the ground running every morning and doesn't stop until bedtime, and I've noticed lately that if I don't hear something the first time she says it, she is enormously burdened by the need to repeat herself. Maybe this is just typical four-year-old behavior; I hope so. But she also has little patience with herself (very familiar territory), which makes me wish she could enjoy a few more years of carefree experimentation before she starts worrying about doing everything perfectly the first time. But I'm afraid that ship sailed a while ago. Grace is one of those kids who started walking late, but nailed it in a day. Ditto with talking—there wasn't much trial and error with Grace; she just started speaking in complete sentences when she was ready.

I'm working on cultivating patience where I feel it will serve me well, mostly with family and friends and, to a certain extent, myself. But I will never feel comfortable engaging in idle chit chat or waiting to hear from someone I miss talking to. I'm much more into making things happen than waiting for things to happen to me. I know that this may come across as pushy or controlling to some people, or even a little crazy. I just don't really care.

This morning I ran into a man whose wife recently died unexpectedly, leaving him with two young daughters. Although I had coffee with her a couple of times, I'd never met him and had no idea what to say. So I said nothing, but cried all the way home, wondering how many experiences that family missed out on because they were waiting for the right time. I'm projecting like crazy here; for all I know, they lived every day as if it were their last. But I've been living my life in limbo for more than two years now, and I'm tired of wondering what will come next. Life is happening every second of every day, and waiting seems a waste of time. I get it: I made some tough decisions and big changes, and I need to wait for the dust to settle before I can feel settled. I've no one to blame but myself for my restlessness, so I'll try to be patient a while longer. Really, I will. But I don't have to like it.

Misc. drivel...

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Facebook funk.

I went to bed in a great mood and woke up at 5am. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I slumped in front of my computer and spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at the walls of Facebook friends. (If you're not familiar with Facebook, skip this post and never, ever join.) Over the course of the next hour or so, I managed to work myself into a really, really bad mood. I learned a few things about my "friends," which was nice, but I also began to feel like — dare I say it? — a loser. This is a trap into which I fall too easily and often, but I'm fairly certain that almost everyone leads a more interesting life than I do.

Facebook is fine, as long as it's taken at face value: a convenient way to keep in touch with many people at once, on a fairly superficial lever. Most people on Facebook, including me, try to be witty and clever and show how cool they are. Share photos, share news, share random thoughts, share political views — all free, with no risk attached. Then wait for validation that what you've shared, no matter how banal, was read and appreciated by a handful of "friends." It's good, clean fun.

But Facebook is a poor substitute for maintaining or creating real connections with friends, old or new. We present our best selves (most of the time), and it feels a bit like a high-school party. Will anyone "friend" me? If I "friend" someone, will they accept? Will I say something stupid and be met with silence and subsequently ignored by the cool crowd? Even worse, will someone UNFRIEND me? Do I look fat in these jeans?

Facebook, or any social networking site, gives the illusion of connection without having to look someone in the eye. Much like blogging, it's inherently narcissistic, shallow and — one hopes — no more than a fun hobby. When it becomes the primary means of reaching out to the world, however, it disappoints. I spend too much time on Facebook (clearly), and no matter how much I truly appreciate the friendships I've found there (I do!), it's not the same as real social interaction. Most of the friends I've met online are people I would love to meet and hang out with. But I don't. They live far away, they're busy with their families, their jobs are demanding — or I'm too lazy to take a shower and meet for coffee. I don't know why this is, but there you have it. I have yet to sit face-to-face with someone I've met online. They remain my "bonus" friends, somewhere to turn when I don't feel like making a phone call but need to vent a little or share a thought. It's just so easy, and keeps me from talking to myself.

I'm not finished retooling my life, but in the meantime, I am someone's mother, daughter, sister, friend. (And Food Lady to the dog — shit, I forgot to feed her.) All of that is very real, and it should be enough. But it's not. Not when I compare it to the picture perfect lives of friends more settled, successful, smart or happy than I am. Holding myself up for public scrutiny on Facebook doesn't phase me; it's the personal scrutiny that gets me into trouble. Stop doing that, Laurel.

Dishpan hands.

Back to the Year of Living with Less. You know what? I have very little to report. What we have given up: space, a dishwasher, a microwave, control of the thermostat, cable TV, a land line, a fenced yard and the ability to properly check the weather without walking up a flight of stairs. Boo hoo. It's simply not that dramatic. The two (three?) flooding incidents that first week were the worst of it so far. Knock on wood.

It's a pain to deal with the dog when Grace is here, but when Grace is at school, Brady gets long walks, rain or shine. We both needed that. It's become more difficult to have friends over, particularly Grace's friends, because there isn't much room to run around. But Grace has the biggest room in the place, and soon I will convince her that it's much more fun to play in her room with her toys than to pepper the adults with questions like, "What are you drinking? What's your favorite color? Do you toot a lot?"

More than anything else, I'm struggling with unpacking. There is space here for most of the belongings I chose to keep. (The thirteen boxes of books have me stymied, since in the past I've hung bookshelves, which I've decided not to do here because I'm tired of doing it over and over. There's no room for a massive bookcase, so for now they are in my closet, where my clothes should be.) My ambivalence has more to do with the notion of actually settling in here, and what it means in the grand scheme of my life. We've moved six times in the last five years; we will probably move again when this lease is up. I'm tired of packing and unpacking, and we seem to be getting along fine with the basics. Why bother finding a place for things we don't need? But that leaves me feeling unsettled, as if this is not a home as much as a pit stop on the way to my real life. That feeling is getting old, fast.

When I open a box full of vases, all I can think is, "Why the hell do I have so many vases?" It will be a long time before I buy another candle or a box of fancy soap. I have a ridiculous collection of kitchen utensils from my previous life of cooking (as a hobby!) and entertaining frequently. Since I've gotten into the habit of eating practically the same thing every day so that I don't have to put much thought into my meals (it's enough trying to get Grace to eat a healthy diet), I really don't need that giant roasting pan, or a kitchen scale, or separate little scrubby brushes for corn, potatoes and mushrooms. I have a huge box of barware that hasn't been opened since John and I moved out of our first house. Wine glasses, champagne flutes, pilsners, water goblets and who knows what else. I know I won't bother to unpack this. I just need to hide the box.

Today I'm going to take the plunge and haul everything out of the laundry room into the apartment and decide what to unpack; the rest I will probably get rid of. Just like a closet full of clothes that don't get worn, I have a surfeit of things that don't get used or appreciated. They are weighing me down, and I doubt they will be missed. Wish me luck.

(As far as dishpan hands are concerned, I'm lucky to be washing my dishes in a sink rather than in a filthy river in which someone upstream is peeing. And it's a little slice of me time that I'm beginning to enjoy.)

Lightening up.

Last week I spent a few days moving the rest of my stuff from the rental house where we lived for a year. I decided to finally get rid of things I don't need rather than continuing to move them from house to house. (Actually the decision was made for me by the fact that I don't have enough room.) The whole experience was a pain in the ass, physically and emotionally. It was a lot of work that symbolized another false start, failed.

I've been itching to purge, however, and I'm determined to keep weeding out what I don't need or love. Clutter drives me crazy; even confined to a basement or garage, I still know it's there. Now I'm trying to identify what I want to keep and what I've held onto out of habit.

I'm hoping this exercise will inspire me to make similar changes in another cluttered place: my brain. Just as I didn't have to think twice about keeping my favorite pieces of art — and I will never apologize for schlepping my books from place to place — my top priorities are clear: Grace, family, friends, writing and striving (fighting?) to be a better person before I die. For some reason, however, I'm easily distracted from these things. In fact, I seek out distractions. Maybe I'm afraid that my best efforts won't be good enough, but without focus, I'm completely rudderless and tend to spiral into my own little self-pity party. It's pathetic.

The other day, I told a friend that I like being alone, that it was something I needed. Then I read my last couple of posts (because, you know, what better reading is there, really?) and thought to myself, "Laurel, you are full of shit." Or am I? I suspect the word "alone" means something different to different people; I also believe the experience of being alone isn't always the same for one person. I can enjoy long stretches of solitude and never consider myself alone. I take off for the coast for three days of uninterrupted writing, barely talking to another soul, and couldn't be happier. On the other hand, if I have nothing to do on a Friday night, and I feel like doing something for a change, all I can think is, "Holy crap, I'm so alone!"

Why am I sometimes so afraid of being alone? I covered it pretty thoroughly in this post , but apparently I have trouble remembering my own little epiphanies. Today I realized it's even simpler than that. What I miss is having one person I know I can talk to every day (someone over four). There is a sense of continuity when you have that person, whether it's a best friend, a parent or a lover. I've had that for my entire life and now, suddenly, I don't.

It blows.

Shout out.

I always love comments on my blog — even the nasty ones! Yesterday's batch truly made my day, however, and I wanted to say a heartfelt thank you, to friends and strangers. At times I can't imagine my ruminations could be of interest to anyone but my parents (actually, I'm pretty sure they stopped reading this a long time ago because of all the swearing). So why blog? I blog out of a need to write; I blog because it brings some order to the chaos in my brain; and yes, I blog to promote my book. The unexpected side effect has been the connection I feel when someone gets what I'm saying. So again, thank you!