Fat (Again)

Yup.

Want to know a deep, dark secret that’s not really a secret at all, because everyone who looks at me knows it? I have gained 15 pounds since August—AFTER I decided to rededicate myself to losing weight. It was a small goal that I made about halfway through the summer: Lose 10 pounds by September by making small changes to my everyday eating—no butter, no cheese, no alcohol, no second helpings, only 1% milk, no dessert, except on weekends. I did make those changes, and I made it a point to walk at least five times a week, even if I didn’t make it out the door until 9 p.m. or even if it was raining.

By September I had lost 7 pounds. Not 10, but whatever—I was happy.

But then (there’s always a BUT, isn’t there? Or should I say, BUTT?)

In October I started my job with the Daily Scoop, and began sitting in front of a computer for at least six hours a day. Not a big deal, right? I sat in front of a computer for eight hours a day, sometimes ten hours a day, at my old job. Except maybe I was still able to stay svelte(ish—BIG ish) then because I was in my early 30s as opposed to—well, how old I am now. Older, OK? Just—OLDER.

It was harder to walk every day. The weather changed. I wasn’t motivated after sitting for so long in front of a screen, although you’d think I would be. Really, after putting the Scoop to bed, I just wanted to blorp out on the couch for a while.

Then—and you’d think this was a good thing—we started making a bit more money. Duh! I have a job! But (SO MANY BUTS!) something that happens after you make more money is you consume more because you can afford more. Or at least you imbibe more. Drinkie-poos during the week became a financial possibility, and drinkie-poos on the weekend (starting Friday night, of course) became de rigeur. And sometimes the weekend turned into Friday day, or maybe Thursday night. Or Thursday midafternoon. Whatever. Maybe Wednesday. OK, fine, early Monday morning.

So now I sit at the computer and I’m distressed by this squishiness around my middle. I’m really, really trying, but there’s a wide, black chasm between trying and doing, and I’m somewhere down at the bottom of that chasm. I sort of try, but then I think about the pink champagne in the fridge right now, or the mocha yogurt from Trader Joe’s, or how maybe I’ll just have this piece of toast with jam, or a couple crackers, or finish off Isabella’s cereal that she left in her bowl this morning, or snack on her Nutella-and-banana sandwich left over from lunch. I’m not eating fast food or candy or soda or chips—do organic barbecue chips from Whole Foods count?—I’m just eating a lot of regular stuff and not moving around enough to use the calories.

And the whole thing just seems like such a LAME THING TO WHINGE ON ABOUT, when the truth is, I’m entirely in control of what passes my lips. If I don’t like being squidgy, I DON’T HAVE TO BE. So I’m not sure why I keep choosing to be this way over and over again, every time I eat those few bites too many. And that’s the thing that is really biting my butt. Why am I so wrong-headed that I am apparently reluctant to change this thing that’s bad for my health and bad for my marriage? Not because Sebastian has any complaints, or that my extra roundedness has altered, uh, THINGS IN THE BONKY DEPARTMENT, but because I feel differently about how I think Sebastian perceives me. I feel less attractive and less confident, and therefore I’m probably slightly less bonkable, because really, 90 percent of bonkability is attitude. The other 10 percent is breasts.

I just have to remember how good it feels to be a reasonable weight. That it actually feels better to eat less than too much. That it’s nice to end a meal feeling a little bit hungry than overstuffed, or even just plain full. That I’d rather be hungry than feel this miserable. Oh, what have I sacrificed for the tiny little thrill of things that taste good!? Deliciousness is such a comfort, a teensy-weensy burst of joy to get you through everyday tasks, little crests of pleasure during the mundane ups and downs of a regular life. It’s hard to give that up and figure out what else to replace it with, because you’ve got to replace it with something—but what else is as instantly gratifying, or as necessary?

I know! Maybe I’ll take up smoking.

Things I Feel Guilty About

yummy warm delicious buttery salty popcorn

1. Not blogging. But don’t get all excited just because I’m writing this post; I’m really just avoiding housework.

2. This buttered popcorn I’m eating.

3. The cookie I ate earlier today.

4. Whatever else I’m going to eat today.

5. Not immediately thanking my mother-in-law for absolutely stunning gifts she’s sent from overseas.

6. Letting Isabella watch a movie while I blog. Although I did insist that she do her homework first.

7. Letting Isabella have a cookie.

8. Carrying on e-mail correspondence with my friend Shandy while I write this blog.

9. Not taking the holiday decorations of the front porch. Although it’s not a big deal – just pine boughs. I guess it can stay. OK, never mind. I don’t really feel guilty about that. But I do feel guilty about the frozen/wilted geraniums flanking the front door. NOT attractive.

10. My big fat white butt.

11. The squishy bit of my tummy that pooches over my jeans when I sit down.

12. Not showering more often.

13. Letting my gray roots show.

14. Not vacuuming.

15. Making cookies for our neighbor as a way to thank her for the lovely Christmas present she gave Isabella, but then eating them all ourselves.

16. Running up the heating bill by burning the gas fire all the time, just for atmosphere.

17. Spending too much money at Camas Antiques.

18. The laundry I haven’t folded.

19. Not brushing the cats more often, although they don’t really shed that much, so whatev.

20. Not trimming the cats’ claws more often, which has resulted in holes in two of my favorite blankets.

21. Spending too much money on candles. Like, generally, over my whole lifetime.

22. Letting my grandmother’s beautiful vintage cream-colored glove fall out of my pocket on a walk where it got chewed up by some wild animals or something and I found it later with the thumb missing. What should I do with the gloves now? Cut all the fingers off both gloves, to make it even?

23. Not being able to get through a day without putting butter on something. I have found that I can live without cheese, but I cannot live without butter. I mean, I could. I just really really really don’t want to.

24. Missing the last couple of chemotherapy sessions with my mom.

25. Not e-mailing my writer friend Derek back right away when he sent a message wishing me happy Thanksgiving (and then, later, merry Christmas).

26. Sending that video about cockroaches to my esteemed friend Aurora.

Requiem for a Blender

O Blender of my Youth!

My heart is cut in a thousand places

At the thought of losing thee!

Thou hast blended many things

Over the past thirty-odd years,

And none will ever blend as thou dost—

As loudly, or as electrically.

Thou hast blended the diet concoctions of my tender years,

When I was but a lass of ten

And very pudgy indeed.

Thou madest me slender with thy protein shakes.

Thou hast blended ice for the mixéd drinks of my twenties,

And fruits of the tree and vine

For smoothies that wert both delicious and nutritious,

To aid me in consuming my Five a Day

In my spreading middle age.

But alas, thou hast become weary in thy advancing years,

And can no longer purée the pumpkin.

Thy innards smoke and groan,

And from thy depths, thou emittest a foul odor.

I shall lay thee gently to rest

In the soft bosom of our roomiest garbage receptacle.

Soon, thou wilt be whisked away

To the land where blenders ne’er die

And blades tarnish not

Or e’er grow dull.

Thou shall be replaced

With a younger, sleeker, cheaper model,

Which will probably break in a couple years—

But do not take it personally,

Because thou wert, and art, and shall remain,

The blender of my sweetest, frothiest,

And most thoroughly frappéed dreams.

What My House Smells Like Right Now

Mmmmm . . . pumpkin pie.

1. Oregano, which I have been drying in the oven on a low-heat setting this morning.

2. Sage, which I dried in the oven yesterday.

3. Pumpkin pie, which I baked recently.

4. A LOT of cooked and puréed pumpkin, from the three pumpkins I just carved.

5. Roasting pumpkin seeds.

6. Pumpkin spice and vanilla candles.

7. Warm sugar cookies.

8. Freshly ground and brewed coffee.

9. Kitty litter.

10. Dirty laundry.

11. Unidentified things being ground into our unvacuumed carpets.

Winsome, Lose Some

Autumn is an especially busy time around the Higginbotham household:  There are pumpkin festivals to attend, hay rides to go on, pies to bake, lights to string up, turning leaves to appreciate, seasonal crafts to make, cider to drink, and, if your name is Isabella, costume contests to lose.

Isabella doesn’t particularly like to lose, but, on the other hand, does anybody? I guess it’s just that since I’ve lived longer, I’ve gotten REALLY USED to losing, and it doesn’t bother me as much, probably because I have the option of drinking a pint of hard cider to console myself, whereas Isabella must be content with the non-fermented kind.

But losing bothers Isabella. Take last night: We attended a family harvest festival at local middle school. It was all good fun—games, crafts, hot dogs and popcorn, and about three million little children in costume. Sebastian and I were DONE. ALL DONE. after about half an hour, but Isabella desperately wanted to stay for the costume contest. She was dressed most fetchingly as a black cat, with ears and a tail and the sweetest kitty-face ever with white cheeks and black stripes and tiny little whiskers and a darling pink nose (thanks to Mom’s clever ways with white face paint, eye shadow, eye liner and lipstick). We eventually relented because:  A) We’re weak, spineless amoeba parents; B) The inherent cuteness of a kids’ costume contest; and C) Mommy secretly thought that maybe maybe maybe she just might win third place or something, and wouldn’t that be AWESOME? I mean, for ME, of course.

So the judges—local Parks & Rec employees and what looked like high school volunteers—lined up the kids on the bleachers and the judging began. Isabella assumed a pert, cat-like pose, sitting sideways with her tail curled around her and her paws tucked in front of her. Whenever a judge walked by, she looked up with the most adorable, pleading face, and meowed mournfully to get attention.

None of those damn judges even gave her a second glance. Instead, the winners were two kids who came as Calvin & Hobbes (all right, I’ll admit they were pretty good), a sort of creepy Halloween bride dressed all in black with gray-ringed death eyes (NOT CUTE, JUDGES! NOT CUTE!), and a hideous jack-in-the-box clown (complete with box) in a red clown outfit with a red curly wig and the most disgusting decomposing skeleton-head mask I’ve ever seen. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!

The worst part was that Hideous Jack-in-the-Box Clown had somehow been following us around the whole evening. No matter where we went—to the craft table, to get popcorn, to stand in line for a game—there he was, mocking us with his evil rotting skeleton eyes. Sebastian and I looked at each other, and exchanged THAT’S-JUST-NOT-COOL glances. What mother would allow her child to attire himself thus? But there she was, standing next to him, beaming proudly at her vile offspring. Her other child, a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven, was dressed as some character from a video game, with combat boots and a band of ammo slung over her shoulder.

Sebastian and I nearly spontaneously combusted with the WRONGNESS of it all. We may have our faults, but at least we know how to dress our kid appropriately. Even if it means she won’t win a costume contest.

After the prizes were awarded and the children dispersed, we walked back to the car. Isabella seemed serenely unruffled, and even declared that she thought the Black Death Bride looked pretty awesome. I pshawed and told her that if I were the judge, she TOTALLY would have won. Nevertheless, I admired her equanimity and basked in my Apparently Good Parenting, since I’d clearly taught her such good sportsmanship.

But OH NO I HADN’T.

By the time we got home, she was demanding that we hold another costume contest, just the three of us, and that we give her a prize for the best costume. In fact, I ought to take her to the toy store tomorrow and get her something. Or she should at least get a piece of candy. Or a note. Just something, ANYTHING to show her that she was a winner.

AND THEN she said that it was actually MY fault she lost the contest, because I hadn’t worked hard enough on her costume.

WHOA, NELLY.

And so I launched into the whole “How You Lose Is Just As Important As How You Win (If Not More Important)” lecture.

“Losing is NOT important!” she yelled. I informed her that yes, indeedy, it IS, because In Life (I actually used that dreaded phrase, the same one my mom used on me, ad nauseum) she will probably lose more than she wins, because that’s how it is for everyone, and dealing with disappointment is just Part of Life (argh, there it is again) and actually, how she deals with losing shows more about her Character (Jeez Louise, I used the word “Character,” which means I have now officially Become My Mother) than how she deals with winning, ‘cuz any old chump can win gracefully, but it takes Real Wisdom to lose gracefully (yup, I said “wisdom.” At least I didn’t say “class”).

“OK,” she said, “but can you still get me a present, just because you love me?”

*sigh*

Lovelorn

Well, folks, it’s that time:  Isabella’s first crush. She outlasted me by a couple years—my first crush was in first grade, when I became enamored of a curly-haired boy named BJ, who pretty much ignored me, or perhaps even actively disliked me, thereby setting the precedent for my entire romantic experience from then until Sebastian somehow fell in love with me. But that’s another story. I’m sure it will not be the same for Isabella, although right about now I’m wishing that I could somehow make her shorter and fatter and more mousy-haired and more precociously obnoxious, like I was, which would offer her plenty of protection against Boy Trouble in the coming years. But alas, I’m afraid that’s not to be.

So anyhow, Isabella comes home from school a couple weeks ago all giggly, and runs over to her drawing board as soon as we get in the door. I’m not paying too much attention because I’m doing whatever it is that I do when she gets home: putting away coats, going through her lunchbox to see what she has or hasn’t consumed, checking her backpack for things I need to sign or overdue library books. So I didn’t immediately notice that whenever I walked by her desk she’d glance suspiciously over her shoulder and kind of hunch herself over the drawing board to keep me from seeing what she was working on. Once I DID notice, however, I decided to ignore it and let her have her bit of fun. Whatever it was about, I figured I’d find out soon enough because she can’t keep from telling me anything (so far—but check back with me when she’s 13).

I sat down at the computer to check my e-mail and sure enough, she comes bustling over and slaps a crumpled piece of notebook paper face-down on my desk, then runs upstairs: giggle giggle stomp stomp stomp giggle giggle stomp. I turn the paper over and smooth it out, and here is what I see:

Cute, right? Well, I thought it was cute, in an OK I’M GOING TO STOP BREATHING NOW sort of way. But I did not panic. I knew it was a normal third grade sort of thing, and I didn’t expect that it was anything that would involve long tortured phone calls or crying jags or meeting the parents. (I’m talking about me, here, not Isabella.) Most of all, I was flattered that Isabella felt she could trust me with this sort of sensitive, private information, and that she chose to tell me in such an artistic way.

So I went upstairs to her room, half-smiling and with only one or two butterflies—very, very small ones, more like moths, really—fluttering in my ribcage. I found Isabella hunched over beside her bed, on the far side of the room, hidden from the door. Her shoulders were shaking, and I couldn’t tell whether she was still giggle or crying, but when she looked up, I saw a shy grin and a twinkle in her eye (no, not THAT kind of a twinkle. SHUT UP!) and I knew then that it was my job to Talk About It. I think I said something neutral, like “Tell me about the drawing,” or some similar Skilled Parent-speak phrase.

She said that she was in love with a boy named Aiden, and my first questions was, “Well, does he know how you feel?” and she said, “No, I don’t think so,” and my next question—just to make absolutely sure—was “Has he told you that he loves you?” and she said “No, but sometimes he gets real close and waggles his eyebrows at me,” and I said, “OK, well, how do you know it’s love?” and she explained that she had a dream about Aiden the night before in which they “snuggled a lot.” I was relieved to find that it was only dream-snuggling that I was dealing with here. I asked Isabella if she had done anything to show that she liked Aiden, and she said that she sat by him whenever she got the chance. She went on to say that some boys at school would run up to girls they liked and kiss them on the cheek and then run away again, but, in Isabella’s opinion, “that’s just creepy.” AND DON’T YOU FORGET IT!

I then went on to do the dutiful parental thing and explain that she’d probably like lots of boys in school and that’s fine and normal and I was happy for her to be friends with Aiden but that love, romantic love, is a very different thing you feel for someone when you’re much older and you know someone really really well and then friendship turns into something more. (I left out the desperate-longing-for-sex part. Maybe I’ll cover that next week.) I also said that when she likes a boy or a boy likes her, it’s fine to spend extra time together and maybe get to be better friends but that kissing on the cheek or holding hands OR BASICALLY ANY KIND OF TOUCHING OR EVEN SERIOUS NEARNESS IS BLOODY WELL OFF LIMITS OR I WILL HUNT THOSE BOYS DOWN LIKE AN ANGRY SHE-WOLF AND MAKE THEM WET THEIR PANTS IN FEAR.

I think we reached an amicable understanding on this point.

Yesterday, Isabella said that she thought maybe Aiden now liked her friend Bella, because he kept looking at Bella and waggling his eyebrows. I said, “Oh, well, these things happen,” and she said, “Yup. He kind of has ugly eyebrows, anyway.”

Damn straight.

TV or not TV

I'm pretty sure this is the exact same TV we had when I was a kid.

I spent yesterday with my mom—we did girly stuff (shopping for towels—or rather, my mom shopped for towels and took FOR. EVER. to make up her mind—this brown or that brown? This rug or that rug?—while I wandered forlornly around the fathest reaches of Bed Bath & Beyond waiting for her to reach some kind of conclusion and was reminded of many extremely tedious childhood grocery shopping trips during which my brain melted with boredom while my mom spent approximately three days debating the merits of crunchy vs. creamy. I had to sleep on a cot next to the frozen peas.

But after we bought the towels, we went for a lovely lunch at a new Mexican restaurant in town (which I was hesitant to try because, quite frankly, Mexican in Washington is NOT the same as Mexican in California. Oh, handmade tamales and tortillas, wherefore art thou?). The food was eh but the sangria ROCKED and Mom and I had a far-ranging conversation in which, thanks to the sangria, I was finally able to work up the courage to ask her a question that’s bothered me for years and years.

When I was growing up, the defining feature of our home life was the television. It was turned on first thing on the morning, and turned off last thing at night. It was always, always, always, always on—except for Friday sunset to Saturday sunset, which, according to the custom of our church, was Holy Time. But then, sometimes Holy Time also meant Saturday morning cartoons. (Fine with kid-me.)

So Mom watched a lot of television. We all watched a lot of television. Not an unusual American childhood, I know—and it was offset by an immense amount of reading. Mom went to the library every two weeks, and brought home a stack of 12 or 15 massive novels, usually historical romances or mysteries. She was somehow able to read AND watch television, although I still can’t understand how she got much out of either activity. And of course I was reading, too. I can’t remember ever being without a book. And Dad—well, Dad was working in his garage/studio/office, because that’s what you do when you own your own business. You work and work and work and work and come out only for meals. He’d watch TV, too, but he’d do it with a light board on his lap, drawing in pen-and-ink over a pencilled sketch, or carefully cutting through red or yellow cellophane with a sharp X-acto knife because that’s how you did color separation in the days before desktop publishing.

So we rarely went anywhere or did anything, other than going to church or occasionally out to eat, or very occasionally to a movie, because Dad needed to work and Mom needed to…stay home and watch television. There was a whole, wide world out there that we effectively ignored. Sometimes Dad would urge Mom to go for a hike or go for a drive or get out and do SOMETHING. Sometimes, if Dad pestered her for long enough, she’d agree, but she’d be angry the whole time, or else she’d bring a book and read and not talk to us. Sometimes in the evenings Dad would try to talk to her about something interesting he’d learned, or something that was on his mind, and she would get upset and turn up the television to drown him out. I’m not sure which astonished me more: Mom’s rudeness or Dad’s attempts at conversation in the face of such utter futility.

I knew enough not to even try to talk to her. There wasn’t really anything I wanted to say to her, anyway. She wasn’t interested in art or music or science or philosophy or the natural world or any of the same things I was interested in, and I didn’t dare reveal anything to her about my inner life for fear of the judgment and criticism which I knew would follow. I knew that she was unhappy, though, and I often wanted to ask her why. I think I did ask, a couple times, but she either said that she was fine (which I knew was a lie) or that I wouldn’t understand (which I found both condescending and belittling).

In high school, I tried for a while to get Mom and Dad away from the television, at least during dinnertime, which we traditionally had on TV trays in the living room, all facing the television and silently chewing. I’d set places on our beautiful cherrywood dining table, used only for special occasions, and Dad and I would sit down and have an actual conversation while eating. Mom refused to come to the table and turned up the TV to blot out the sound of our voices.

But later, when the dishes were done and I was holed up in my room doing homework or just generally trying to focus on my angst-y teenage thoughts without being distracted by reruns, Mom would ring a bell (I am not making this up) to summon me back into the living room. She’d  mute the TV—not turn it off, not ever—and command me to tell her what was happening in my life. These attempts at forced intimacy exasperated and saddened me. Mom would say, “You talk to your friends. Why won’t you talk to me?” How could I explain something that seemed so self-evident? I never revealed anything to her of my inner self, even though I felt guilty about it. Where would I even start, after sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years? It was too much and, I believed, to risky.

Sometimes she wouldn’t try to make me talk to her. Sometimes she’d just say, “At least come out and spend a little time with me,” and I hated this most of all, because what she meant was, “Sit here on the couch and watch TV with me.” It’s not that I hated TV. I hated the fact that Mom thought watching TV together constituted “spending time.”

And so yesterday I finally asked her, in the gentlest possible way: Why the TV, always the TV? I said I just needed to understand, from her point of view, why TV was so important to her. She didn’t become defensive at all, as I had half-expected, but answered very simply that TV and reading were escapes from thinking about all the things she didn’t want to think about, such as her father’s death when she was 13 and her troubled relationship with her own mother and the extreme financial difficulty our family was in and her love for her husband who was in many ways her diametric opposite and her staunchly adversarial relationship with her mother-in-law and her migraines and why her relationship with her only child was so fraught and complex and mostly agonizing.

And she said she was sorry. She wished she’d gotten to know me better when she’d had the chance, when we were living in the same house, but she didn’t know how and she didn’t even really know that it was possible for parents and children to be so close, although clearly her attempts at communication in high school were an acknowledgment that she hoped for something more with me than she’d had with her own mother.

I said she didn’t need to apologize, because she really didn’t. I turned out OK. I’m happy and loved, and I think, in spite of the cancer, that Mom finally feels those things, too. The thing that matters is that we can sit across from each other now and look each other in the eye and not have to look away, not need to escape what’s right in front of us.

Except I really don’t want to go towel shopping with her again.

I Ate a Bee. It Was Crunchy.

Crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside.

Look at me, look at me, look at me now! It is fun to have fun, but you have to know how!

I am having fun right now. Fortunately, you don’t have to look at me. Although for once I’m actually dressed while blogging. (As opposed to being…naked? No, it’s too cold for that.) I’m off work today, a sort of favor from the departing editor and publisher before I have my official OFFICIAL start tomorrow (even though I’ve already been working for the last couple of weeks). And so I am being GOOD today. I’m not avoiding blogging or laundry or vacuuming or cleaning my closet today. I’m NOT going to spend the whole day reading. Mainly because I finished my book and I haven’t found another one yet.

But anyway, what I have to realize—or rather, re-realize—is that it’s FUN to blog. And, in a way, it’s fun to vacuum and do laundry and clean closets, because of the satisfaction I get afterward. OK, it’s not as much fun as reading. But seriously, I have to get off my bum and do something SOMEDAY, don’t I? So after I dropped Isabella off at school this morning, I just sat down right here at the computer, and now I’m going to write about

EATING A BEE.

Here’s what I can say, definitively, about the experience:

1. It was not on purpose.

2. Fortunately, it was not alive at the time I accidentally got it in my mouth.

3. It was crunchy. At first I thought I was eating cellophane, like the ruffly stuff on a cocktail toothpick.

4. I did not get stung.

5. I did mush its guts out, though, ‘cuz that’s what happens when you chew something.

6. I cannot describe the taste. It wasn’t entirely terrible, but it wasn’t pleasant, either. Not bitter, not sweet…just bee-y.

7. After I spit it out and discovered that it wasn’t cellophane but a crunched-up bee, I wasn’t nearly as horrified as I thought I’d be about eating an insect. I was just mostly glad I didn’t get stung on the tongue.

But HOW did I come to eat a bee, you ask? It was in Isabella’s free cup of hot cocoa, which we got with the price of admission to a local pumpkin festival. She’d handed me the cup to hold while she was busy climbing to the top of a giant hay-bale pyramid. Naturally, I took a sip. There was kind of a brownish-red glob in the cocoa, but I thought it was just a blob of undissolved cocoa mix. It wasn’t. It was a bee. And here is motherhood in a nutshell:  I was HAPPY that I’d drunk the bee instead of Isabella, because I know that if she’d drunk it, she would have been hysterical for the rest of the day, and we would have had a really crappy time at the pumpkin festival.

Instead, I spat out the bee, and we went and got lost in a two-acre corn maze. And then Isabella rode a pony. And then we petted a donkey and a cow and fed goats and sheep and I scratched a fat, lazy black hog on its belly and it rolled over and closed its eyes and grunted with pleasure and I’m pretty sure he smiled, revealing large yellow tusks which made me glad he was a happy hog. And then we shot pumpkins out of a giant slingshot. And then we took a hayride and picked three of the most massive pumpkins we’d ever seen and we put them in a wheelbarrow and instead of standing in the impossibly long line to catch the haywagon back to the entrance, we walked back, with Sebastian pushing the wheelbarrow over muddy ruts in the road and Isabella and I trailing along behind, picking late-season beans and peas and munching on them as we walked.

Now I’m going to make A LOT of pumpkin pie.

Without bees.

Ever Ready

Books! They're better than food! Almost.

Wait—no, don’t go away! I’m still here! I still have things to say! I just need to figure out a good time to say them…I have two posts in the works, but I keep procrastinating about publishing them. They’re good posts. One is about a massive meltdown that Isabella had at the school’s book fair, and the other is about Isabella’s first bona-fide crush on another boy (Oh! The cuteness! Also combined with a little bit of HOLY FREAKIN’ CRAP THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING SO SOON!). Like I said, good stuff, huh? SO WHY HAVEN’T I WRITTEN ABOUT IT?

Well, it’s because after I finish editing The Daily Scoop, usually around noon to one-ish, a sudden wave of inertia sweeps over me and my bottom becomes melded with the soft cushions of the couch and my hands become melded with a book and a third hand comes out of somewhere and becomes melded to a cup of tea and it’s nice and cozy and quiet and I can hear the rain falling softly (or loudly) outside and the cats are snoozing in front of the fireplace and staying exactly where I am suddenly seems a lot more pleasant than spending another hour in front of the computer. I used to read furtively, guiltily, in between bouts of housework—and don’t get me wrong; I got a helluvalotta reading done that way—but now I don’t have to feel guilty about reading any more because it seems a just reward for a morning’s hard labor over a hot keyboard. And since I’m justified, I just keep reading. And reading. And reading. I don’t do laundry. I don’t do dishes. I don’t shower. I just read until Isabella comes home from school. BECAUSE I DESERVE IT, DAMN IT.

I need to find a new routine. I need to find a way to circumvent my natural desire to not do anything I’m supposed to do. The crazy thing is, I feel good after doing the laundry and the dishes. I feel good (and I certainly smell better) after I shower. I feel GREAT when I propel myself out the front door and go for a walk, even if it’s in the rain. And I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment every time I publish a blog post. So why am I finding it so hard to do all that stuff?

I don’t know. But until I figure it out, I think I’m just going to make myself a cup of tea and sit down here and read for a while.

Working: It Ain’t So Bad

When a problem comes along, you must whip it.

As you know, last Friday was my first official day of work. I was DREADING it: the loss of freedom, the loss of time, the beginning of responsibility and stress and DOOM.

But you know what? It ain’t so bad.

By Friday afternoon, I was prancing around the house like a reindeer in heat (WHAT THE HECK?!) singing “I have a JOB! I have a JOB! I have a JOB!” Sebastian just smiled. Isabella got downright annoyed: “Stop SAYING that, Mommy!” she commanded.

And my days aren’t destroyed. After I’m done with The Daily Scoop, I still have plenty of time to do housework and blog and think about what to have for dinner and do a little shopping and generally avoid exercising so that I have to take my daily walk after dark, like at about 8:30, when it’s very cold and usually raining (WHAT THE HECK?!).

Also, the commute ROCKS (crawl out of bed and walk downstairs) and I can work in my pajamas with floppy boobies. (Actually, sometimes I don’t bother to take my bra off at night, so I don’t always have floppy boobies.) I will have time to volunteer in Isabella’s classroom, or clean out my closet before a new life form develops deep in its recesses, or even rearrange my knick-knacks.

I am, however, starting to have migraines again, because I’m spending a lot of time hunched over a computer in a cute but decidedly anti-ergonomic blue antique chair, and the daily deadline is pretty stressful. I work for a couple hours in the evening after Isabella is in bed to get a jump-start on the next day’s labors, but then I really don’t relax until about 10 p.m., which isn’t exactly optimum for the stress reduction suggested by my doctor in order to manage migraines.

But oh well. BECAUSE I’M FREAKIN’ GETTING PAID, PEOPLE! WITH REAL MONEY! And that is soooooooooooooooooooooooo worth it—the stability, the beautiful stability, of regular, reliable income. It’s delicious, even if it is a modest amount. (At least that’s how I feel about the stress vs. money question after only one week on the job.)

And I’m remembering a few things about how I used to feel when I worked full time: Proud. Worthy. Smart. Capable. Connected. Productive. Talented. In-the-Know.

I know, I know—I was all those things BEFORE I was working! You don’t have to have a job to be those things, or to feel those things. And I find myself wondering why I haven’t felt MORE of those things during my four years as a stay-at-home mom. I’m the same person. It’s just that now somebody pays me to write and edit and punctuate stuff. Why should that make such a difference?

I don’t know.

But it does.

Because now I can afford the Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks.

Next post: Why having a job makes it harder to lose weight.