The Real Housewives of Central Ohio

I have to confess right up front: I've never actually seen any of the Bravo network's Real Housewives shows. I'm aware of them - I don't live under a rock - but I've never been able to muster up enough interest to watch.

From what I gather, they chronicle the lives of rich, spoiled women with more money and time than brains. That may be inaccurate - as I said, I've never actually watched. Just one woman's uninformed but nonetheless confidently stated opinion.

But what of us? Those families and couples who manage to get by on one income - and choose to do so - but don't have a lot left over for indulgences. What of us? Surely there are more of us than there are of them. Surely there are people out there who want to know - our stories.

'Wait!' you might be saying at this point, 'isn't that what blogs are for?'

To which I reply, 'Simmer down, Captain Buzzkill. Let me enjoy my parody. Sheesh. I ask for so little.'

Today's episode opens with four women enjoying an al fresco lunch on a balcony in a popular suburban shopping destination. One of them - we'll call her me - is carrying a fabu new bag that she bought for herself as a consolation prize following an aborted shopping spree.

Me-she is the oldest member of the group which includes women in their 20's, 30's and 40's. This is not an unusual situation for me-her. This is partially due to the fact that I-she am-is so hip it hurts. Or not. Whatever.

Conversation revolves around the temporary part-time job that has brought these women together. They are divorcees, newlyweds and family women. Their backgrounds are diverse and similar. Together? They are everywoman.

They pantomime toking on joints when the conversation turns to their boss, a very mellow chick indeed. She is never seen, but sometimes her Hakuna Matada voice is heard on the other side of a phone conversation. She is a Zen Charlie to our Suburban Angels.

Conversation turns to our lives since we've last convened, prompting a series of flashbacks. One has gotten a full-time job and is moving into a new home. This is huge! Surely we could squeeze a couple episodes out of that!

One orders a third mojito while alluding to a family crisis. The camera zooms in on her empty glasses. Foreshadowing? Tune in next week. DUN Dun dun...

One regales us with stories of her latest travels. I'm sensing a great opportunity for a montage...

One can't wait to get home and sit on her porch swing with a book. She suggests wistfully that the next time we get together we should wear hats. The camera loves hats. Hats amp up the drama. Her suggestion is agreed upon. Hats it is.

We go our separate ways to engage in such exciting pursuits as mowing the lawn before the rain hits, meeting the school bus, and getting dinner on the table. It is riveting stuff, I tells ya. Riveting.

Hey Bravo - call me! I'm ready to talk.

You've Got Your Passion, You've Got Your Pride

After all of my job-related whining (not having a job, having a job but being overqualified for it, blah blah blah wah) a friend recommended the book How Starbucks Saved My Life: a Son of Privilege Learns to Live Like Everyone Else by Michael Gates Gil. It was far from the best book I've ever read, but it did carry exactly the message I needed to hear at this particular point in my life. That message, in the simplest terms, was: get over yourself. But that sounds so negative - and the tone of this book was actually very positive. I don't recommend it as a literary masterpiece, but it might be a nice read if you're a little down in the dumps about where life has plopped you.

And it gave me the strength I needed to make a confession: My name is Tammy, and I like my menial job.

I really do.

I like the people I work with - kids and adults alike. I like the way I am treated there. I like coming home from work and leaving the job behind. I like when a kid tells me a silly story and we laugh together. I play games - games! - on the clock.

It's fun.

But I felt obligated to be grumpy - even embarrassed - by it. Why? Aw, I don't think we need to scratch the surface too hard to figure that out. It's the education thing and the money thing. It's all external. It's not sexy or glamorous or high-falutin' or high paying. There is not a special skill set involved, so the qualifications are very minimal. I'm not saying ANYone could do it, but - oh, what the hell - yes I am. So it didn't make me feel special. Everyone wants to feel special. Even in the moments when I allowed it to make me feel happy, I still didn't allow it to make me feel good. How could one possibly feel good about oneself when one is performing a job that ANYone could do?

Y'know how?

Get over yourself.

Get over yourself, get over societal expectations, get over what you're supposed to do, get over money (ok, I'll admit, that one's proving a little harder to do) and - at the risk of being ridiculously cliche - follow your bliss.

I allowed that attitude to seep in a little yesterday - to wear it instead of just speaking it - and I had a really lovely day for it. I smiled all day long - and people smiled back.

Ah ha!

This morning I needed to run a quick errand. I needed to have something notarized. I did what anyone would do - I googled notary public along with my town. I was given three places - one of which was convenient to my errands. I first hit Kroger to use the Coinstar. (Hey - it's the day before payday - I told you money was an issue.) Next I headed to the place the internet had suggested - a FedEx/Kinko's. As I approached the information desk, the young lady greeted me with an open smile (I reflexively smiled back). I told her I needed to have something notarized and her smile faded fast as she told me they no longer offered that service. I told her their website still advertised it - being careful to do so in a manner that was informative rather than accusatory. She apologized and seemed genuinely sorry that she wouldn't be able to help me. Then she very helpfully suggested the check cashing place across the street.

Now, across the street in this instance didn't mean finding a crosswalk and waiting for the light. No, across the street meant getting in the car and a couple quick turns and through a parking lot and around a couple buildings. But still. It was across the street, not across town. I decided to follow her suggestion. Same thing happened at the check cashing place. I walked in and was greeted (from behind the bulletproof glass) with a welcoming smile. Her smile also faded as I made my request and she was unable to fulfill it. She, too, seemed genuinely sorry that she wouldn't be able to help me. She suggested I try the bank located inside - Kroger - the very spot from which I'd begun my journey.

They were able to do it for me.

My point?

These two young ladies did not have glamorous high profile jobs. I can't imagine that their jobs were very high paying. I'm pretty sure these jobs don't give them bragging rights in social situations. One of them did her job behind bulletproof glass. And yet they did them in a way that made me smile, even through my frustration. When they couldn't help, they made an attempt to help me locate someone who could. The Macy's Santa suggesting Gimbels...

Any job - ANY job - when done well - can bring happiness to others. It's almost impossible to bring happiness to others without becoming a little bit happy yourself. I'm going to try to be a little more conscious of ALL the people who - just by doing their job - make my life more convenient or just a little happier. And I'm going to celebrate them, even if it's just with a smile.

Try it with me! Let me know how it goes...

What a Difference a Day Makes

The sun comes out, and things change.

Yesterday, I decided, would be the first day I would read outside on the deck. I do this all through the Spring, Summer and early Fall, but the first day is always special. I wasn't sure it would be warm enough, but when I stretched out, tentatively at first, on my trusty lounge I found that it most assuredly was. The rays were strong and the breeze was light. Even when the sun hid behind clouds it was warm enough. And I was reading about, of all things, the study of happiness. Life, she was good. I finished a chapter and placed my bookmark, but wasn't ready to go inside. I laid back and assumed sun soaker position.

Just at the moment when I thought perhaps I'd had enough of a good thing, the phone rang, forcing my decision.

Who was so bold as to call me out of the sun, you might ask? Well, only my new employer, is all. It was a call asking if I'd still be interested in the position. She apologized for the length of time it had taken her to get back to me. I was so sure that time period spelled rejection. In the cold gray winter, it was easy to assure myself that it was rejection. But the sun came out, and it was acceptance. The sun came out and it was success. The sun came out and it was promise and hope and confirmation.

The sun came out, and everything changed.

Workin' for a Livin'

I've been thinking about work lately. I am doing a job for which I am ridiculously overqualified. Lest that sound like bragging, let me tell you that the educational requirement for my job is a high school diploma and I am almost (but not quite) an ABD. I am not unhappy in this job - not in the least. As a matter of fact, so far I rather like it. But I wonder about all that money and time that was put into an education that I am not utilizing at all. What did it give me, besides an inflated ego/sense of self importance? When I was applying for work, of the fifty or so places I contacted, only three called me for an interview. Two of those I thought I was infinitely - perhaps even uniquely - qualified for. The third was this one. While both of the others showed a strong interest, they ultimately found someone else who they felt was better suited for the position. I'm not all I crack myself up to be. I need to find a way to be comfortable in this new role, and I'm sure I will. It's just - humbling.

This afternoon Tom and I watched World's Greatest Dad. I literally cringed in the opening scenes where they showed the stack of Robin Williams' character's rejected manuscripts while he fantasized about "earning shitloads of money" for writing a book that mattered - that changed people's lives. Literally cringed. Doesn't everyone want to write The Great American Novel? Isn't that the universal dream?

I suppose it's the dream for those of us who write, or read, or have a love affair of one sort or another going on with the written word. For others perhaps the dream is to be a rockstar or a professional/Olympic level athlete or an actor or... few of us fantasize about waiting tables or washing dishes or parking cars or wiping the noses of other people's kids. Some people have cleaning ladies and nannies and drivers; some people are cleaning ladies and nannies and drivers.

I was at the ballet Friday night (yes, even working class schlubs who live in shitty neighborhoods and don't make enough money to keep gas in the car can go to the ballet if they play their cards right) and I was astounded, as I always am, by the sheer strength and power the dancers possess. I imagine as infants our bodies might have resembled each others, but through years of training they have morphed theirs into something quite different and spectacular. These are folks who are - and have been from a very young age - completely dedicated to their art. I wondered - to devote yourself to something so completely surely you must love it very much. But would that same love exist without the promise of the standing ovation at the end of the show?

We are a family devoted to music. I recalled a day several years ago when one of Tom's co-workers gave him tickets to a major soccer game. We took the kids, wanting to expose them to athletic events as well as musical and artistic events. It was a hot day. It was the sort of hot where you really want a cold beer, but the 100 yard walk to the concession stand is just too oppressive a proposition. So of course, Olivia, who was quite young at the time, decided it would be a good day to be bored and tired and need to lay on my lap. I was miserable, but if her whining was to be believed, she was a lot more miserable. At halftime, a band played (Bowling for Soup, if you must know. And yes, I AM still preoccupied with 19-19-1985). Miss Olivia sat up, paid attention and clapped enthusiastically after each song. When asked why she was suddenly no longer DYING from the heat, she responded, "They're working very hard to entertain us. We need to pay attention." When I told her that the soccer players were also working very hard to entertain us, her whole demeanor changed. She sat up, watched the rest of the game, and clapped when everyone else did, even though she didn't understand a daggone thing. She understood entertainment.

During the first half of the game she thought they were playing. During the second she understood that they were working.

Not an artistic person myself, I got to wondering - when exactly DOES it stop being play and start being work? Or is it always some combination of the two? If there were no money or fans, would they do it for love?

I don't know.

I write because I love to. I know, despite the ever so kind comments a few of you have made, that I am AT BEST quite mediocre. I know this. I understand this. I will never make a dime, much less a living doing this. Yet my body of work continues to grow. Or should I call it a body of play? Without recognition, is it even real?

I'm a glorified babysitter. I've waded out far too deep. Me and Edie Brickell. Time to head back to the shallow end - and we all know why it's warmer there.

My Hero

My sister doesn't read my blog. She just can't sit still long enough to bother. My parents don't read it either. They don't have a computer. Last year I wrote a lot of posts about traveling with my family and I compiled them into a self-published vanity book to give to my parents for Christmas. I gave my sister a copy, too. She can't bother to sit in front of the computer, but I figured it might be a good bathroom book. Everyone's got to sit sometimes.

My parents have shared that little volume with many of their friends. My sister liked it so much she read it 'in one sitting'. Interpret that as you like. Her major complaint, though, was that she wasn't featured enough, "There wasn't enough about ME!"

It's true, I don't write much about her. That has been a conscious decision. I felt that I was respecting her privacy. Turns out I was hurting her feelings. She mentioned last week, over a couple few beers, an incident that had occurred at the pizza shop where we both worked. She said, almost excitedly, "I bet you blogged about THAT!" I hadn't. Wanna hear it?

We had live music pretty regularly at the pizza shop. The owners were a husband/wife team and the husband took more interest in the music. He always let the performers eat and drink free. Most had a slice or two and a couple beers. One guy drank top shelf whiskey all night. It wasn't quite fair, but an equitable solution had yet to be worked out. On one particular evening, the husband wasn't there and the whiskey-drinking performer was. I poured him a drink and handed it to him, as I always did. "You didn't ring that up!" said my boss in her usual acerbic tone.

"It was for the performer."

"And?"

"And your husband always lets the performers drink..."

(In real life, of course, I referred to them by their names and not by their functions. But while my sister has cleared me to talk about her, these three folks have not done the same. It makes the conversation sound stilted, but it was easier for me to relate it this way than to make up names.)

"That's why we are always fucking struggling!" she screamed at me as the bar and restaurant filled up. She was super-classy like that. "Ring up his goddamn drinks! ALL of them!"

I am so non-confrontational. I did as I was told. It felt very wrong - especially since she hadn't informed him - but I did it.

At the end of the night I presented him with his tab. It was hefty. It was, actually, more than he earned for playing that night. He was a little taken aback. And more than a little drunk. He yelled at me. He accused me of padding his bill. He - and I'm really not proud of this part - made me cry.

As he went about tearing down the stage and I went about closing up the shop, my sister came in - more than a little drunk herself. "Why are you crying?" she asked. I braced myself for her to tease me. It would have been in character. But she didn't. As I told her what happened, I watched her morph from lovable happy drunk to volatile angry drunk in seconds flat. As she turned to confront him, I begged her not to. Two drunks fighting about me was not something I needed at that point at all. I just wanted to go home and put the night behind me. But there was no stopping her.

She stepped up onto the stage, poked him to get his attention, and pointed at me. "YOU made MY SISTER cry."

He shrugged and turned to avoid her. He was still stinging from the bill and he just wanted to get out of there fast. But like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, my sister would not be ignored. She cornered him and said, "Who are YOU to make MY SISTER cry?"

He tried again - unsuccessfully - to dodge her.

"My sister is SMART! She has more degrees than you can IMAGINE! She's FUNNY! She's way TOO NICE for her own good! She's TOO GOOD for this place! She was only doing what she was TOLD and you had NO RIGHT to make her cry!" Each of the capitalized words was punctuated by a finger poke to his chest. "That's who SHE is - who are YOU?" It was rhetorical. She didn't give him a chance to answer before the poke fest continued. "YOU? Are a BIG FAT PIECE of WIENER!"

Out of the mouths of drunks. When I relayed the story to her the next day, she said, "I called him a WHAT?"

"A big fat piece of wiener."

"What did I even mean by that?"

"You said it, not me..."

"And I got right in his face?"

"Poked his chest repeatedly."

"He's - like - really tall."

"Yeah - but he's totally old."

"Not to mention drunk."

"Not to mention a big fat piece of wiener."

Don't screw with me, people. My sister's got my back. And a black belt. And not even a tiny bit of fear or restraint. Plus, I don't even like to think about what she might call you if you hurt me.

Looking for The One

The phone rang, and I ran my fingers through my hair in an attempt to make myself presentable before I answered it. Never mind that the person on the other end of the line couldn't see me - if I was going to be talking to HIM (oh pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let it be him) I wanted to look my best.

It wasn't him.

I'm sure my mother - who it was - heard the disappointment in my voice.

I'd just met him, but I thought it had gone really well. I liked him and he seemed to like me. When he'd asked to see me again, I was elated. I tried on clothes for an hour before I was confident I'd come up with just the right look. Accessible, but not desperate. Grooming was kicked up a notch as I waxed, polished and buffed myself to a high glow. And it had gone well. "I'll call you", he'd said as we took our leave of each other.

But it wasn't him.

I talked - or rather, listened - to my mother as I retrieved the mail. And there it was. His return address. Oh, nothing about THIS could be good. I opened it before I was back in the house, my hands trembling as I unfolded his note.

blah blah blah - pleasure meeting you - blah blah blah - many qualified applicants - blah blah blah - cannot offer you a position at this time

"I gotta go, Mom."

I hung up the phone and reread his words, surprised that at my age they could still pack such a sting. I thought we liked each other. I thought it was going well. I thought we were such a good fit. We could've been beautiful together...

This of course lead to - of course he didn't want me - why would he want me? I'm too (negative adjective of your choice here) for anyone to want me. I am worthless.

When I felt up to speaking, I shared it with a couple girlfriends who were - to their credit - very sympathetic. "He's crazy!" "He doesn't know what he's missing!" "He doesn't deserve you!" "Plenty of fish in the sea!" That's what girlfriends say. It's their job. And it even sounded kind of believable while the margaritas were still flowing. "Bartender? Another round!" But the next day when I was home alone with nothing but a hangover to keep me company while everyone else was off having a job, well, that sting returned with a vengeance.

I was hurt, then I was angry, then I was despondent. The three stages of a premature break-up. I suppose there are more - revenge sex, acceptance, moving on - those don't all work as well with my analogy. Well, not revenge sex, anyway. Dammit, I can't even have good old fashioned revenge sex! That's the only good part of a break-up! What am I gonna do? Meet a bigger, stronger, better looking but not as smart company in a bar and interview with them right in front of him? Sheesh.

Soon, I know, I won't even remember his name.

But for now it hurts.

Once - when it really WAS a break-up scenario - I was lamenting my situation with my cousin. Her daughter, a toddler at the time who we thought was out of earshot, came over to us with a confused look on her face and asked, "Him not love Tam?"

"He doesn't love Tam." I answered trying to hide my tears from her.

"But", she said, scrunching her face further in her obvious confusion, "EVERYone's gotta love Tam!"

"Not everyone."

She shook her head and frowned, clearly unable to process this information.

But that was long ago and far away.

I'm happily married to a man I adore. I have a family. I have moooooooooved on. It seemed so important once and now it's just a little tagger on the end of a post.

That toddler is in her twenties and I've forgotten his name.


(his name was Scott)

Get a Job? What For? I'm Trying to Think.

I've been thinking about considering contemplating looking for a job. We would benefit from the extra money and I would benefit from doing something more productive with my days than being a formidable online presence. This appears to be the manifestation of my mid-life crisis. I don't know what I want to do with the second half. I mean - I REALLY don't know - I don't even have any ideas. I know I don't want to teach anymore. But beyond that? I don't know. Oh! And food service. I don't want to do anything that has anything to do with food service.

Of course that's where I started out. That's where most folks start out, no? When I was fifteen I started working at a sub shop. In retrospect, it wasn't such a bad gig. Sure, there was the time I had to work the afternoon of my junior prom and my relief didn't come on time and I only had half an hour to get ready and I couldn't get the smell of onions out of my hands for love or money. That day sucked. But overall, it was a pretty decent gig - especially considering how young I was.

Even when I taught, I had a part-time gig on the side more often than not. Teachers moonlight a lot. Go figure.

Once I had a part-time gig at a lingerie store. This was a hoot, and I could tell you stories for days based on that job alone. Stories like this one:

We catered to the lingerie needs of the general public, but we also did pretty regular business with the local strippers, both male and female. Most just came in, bought what they needed and left. We had the largest selection of tear-away underwear in the metropolitan area, so we were a pretty popular spot. This stuff was not built to last, so we had a lot of repeat customers. Novelty items like thongs resembling a tuxedo or Pinocchio were big sellers. It was a classy place.

One day when I was alone in the shop (it was a small shop, so this was almost always the case), a guy came in and spent a little while perusing our wide selection of stripper-wear for men. He picked up a few items and asked me if he could try them on. This was unusual, because male strippers tend to follow the same rule with their underpants as body builders do with their T-shirts: If it's too big they're flattered (and believe me - nothing we sold was too big...), and if it's too small they'll wear it anyway. But, ok, go ahead and try them on. But dude! (I reminded him) State law requires that you keep your underwear on while trying them on. He nodded to indicate that he'd heard me.

A few moments later, the door of the dressing room opened and he was standing there in a pair of burgundy briefs. You might have called it a banana sling, but that's just because you weren't regularly selling thongs that resembled actual bananas. With faces. Happy, happy faces. (I told you it was classy.) He said, "What do you think?"

"It's nice."

He turned around. I nodded. I see you.

He went into the dressing room again and emerged just moments later wearing a yellow - let's call it a bikini, shall we? Again, "What do you think?" He ran his hands over his stomach. It was like I was getting a little audition or something. Maybe he was a new stripper and he was practicing. I didn't know.

"Very nice." I said, barely looking up.

He turned around and gave his tush a little shake. I rolled my eyes.

He went back into the dressing room. He only had one more item to try on, and I somehow knew I was gonna get flashed this time. His little exhibitions had gone a little further each time and I just knew... I also knew that the only reason he would do that would be to shock me. To get a reaction. To see if a rise out of him would yield a rise out of me. I knew I couldn't give him that. I couldn't let him win.

Predictably, he emerged from the dressing room wearing a red tear-away thong. "What do you think of this one?" he asked, posing.

"It's good. Red is a good color for you."

"And what do you think of THIS?" he said, proudly pulling back the velcro and standing in the middle of my store in all his glory. (That pride, for inquiring minds who might want to know, was not entirely misplaced. But that's neither here nor there.)

"I THINK", I said, without missing a beat and without letting a single expression cross my face, "that you're going to have to buy those, because you have clearly tried them on without underwear underneath, which is a violation of state law. As is exposing yourself in a public place."

His face, among other things, fell, and he returned to the dressing room. This time he came out fully dressed. He put all three items on the counter and paid for them without another word.

Come to think of it, maybe I don't want a job after all. I'm too old to deal with that shit.

What's the wildest thing that ever happened to you at work?

Power Lunch

Tom plays in an orchestra through his workplace. They have 2 'seasons' - Spring and Winter. They play lunchtime concerts at various venues and I try to see them play at least once each season.

The bass section. That's Tom on the left.

Yesterday they were playing at his workplace and, as it was almost the last show of the season, I figured it was time for me to go!

The amount of times I have visited his workplace could probably be counted on one hand.

Each time I do, I am overwhelmed by the differences between the world in which he lives every day and the one in which I live.

The most prevalent indicator was in the way people were dressed. I wouldn't even know how to dress so beautifully every day. I felt a small twinge of insecurity. These are the women my hubs sees every day. These women in their smart outfits and their clicky heels and their shiny hair. These women who looked so comfortable in their multi-hundred dollar outfits. I sat there in my gauze skirt and T-shirt (I had broken out a ribbed Henley for the occassion - because even a SAHM needs a day to be fancy), trying to disappear. I felt pretty when I left the house. I was Kroger pretty, not workplace pretty. I became painfully aware of my hair in it's 'growing out' state. I took notice of my 'not so fresh' manicure. I became very self-conscious of everything about my appearance.

Everything about the working world looked so glamorous and polished - in direct opposition to my existence. It was almost like visiting a beautiful, exotic foreign land. I haven't entertained such a romanticized notion of the workplace since before I was old enough to work.

I watched these beautiful people - men as well as women - going about their lunch hour, stopping to listen to a song or two then moving on. I ruminated on their casual comaraderie and the fact that they had someone to share their lunch with every. single. day. I wasn't jealous as much as I was in awe.

Now I know they don't have a live orchestra in the lobby every day, but since they do every time I'm there, it's easy to pull up that visual when I'm sitting at home eating leftovers in cut off sweats and bare feet, huddled over my laptop.


The funny part is, I know there are probably many folks in the workforce who would just LOVE to be home in cut off sweat pants and bare feet. The grass in my yard is greener than the marble on the lobby floor.

I feel the need to cut short my 'everyone's life is more interesting than mine' rant, though, to tell you a little bit about the concert. It was really good. Not 'good for a volunteer orchestra' good, but really good. Tom had been very excited about their spring selections and I could see why. One piece was particularly exciting. The story went something like this (Tom, if I get it wrong, feel free to jump in on the comments and correct or amend):

Their orchestra leader was listening to classical music on satellite radio and heard this song he really dug. He jotted down the name and started seeking a score so that the orchestra could play it. The score was not to be found through any of his usual channels. Turns out that this particular tune has never before been performed live in the United States (it has been somewhat widely performed in Russia, if I understood the story correctly). He acquired the score, the orchestra played it, and it was magnificent. To listen to this little orchestra playing the American debut of a piece was quite exciting. The piece was called "The Assault on Beautiful Gorky", if inquiring minds want to know. It was quite lovely.

So maybe my life isn't so mundane after all. I might not have fit in there, but there I was. And it gave me a swell story to tell today, huddled over my laptop in my cut off sweats and my bare feet.

How Can You DO That?

Yesterday I posed the question, "What sort of person decides to do _______ for a living?" I was specific yesterday, but would like to be more open-ended today.

By the way, before I move on, let me just say that Tom's first thought, when asked who goes into that branch of nursing was: fetishist? I rejected that quickly, because I have several more appointments with these fine folks. I immediately thought: someone who, for whatever reason, couldn't find a job in their chosen field and had to take what they could get? I rejected that one quickly, too, because - well - same reason I rejected Tom's.

But then I recalled a conversation I'd had with my mother many years ago. I was doing Early Intervention - working with infants and toddlers with disabilities or at risk of developing disabilities - and she was an RN in a nursing home. She said, "I could never do your job. I don't know how you do it. I couldn't spend all day with those kids, my heart would break." I was too surprised to answer. I thought my job was awesome. I thought her job sucked and told her so.


"I couldn't do your job, either. People go there to die. I couldn't handle that. My heart would break."

She explained that that part was indeed sad, but that it gave her a real sense of purpose and satisfaction to know that she had helped them through the last part of life. I told her it was the same with my job, with the difference being that my little babies were just all full of boundless potential and I loved coaxing it out and helping their parents learn to coax it out. There was no hope in her job. She, as you've probably figured out by now, begged to differ.

We went around like this for a while - both having tremendous respect for what the other was doing but not being able to fully grok the motivation behind doing it.

It was an agree to disagree situation.

Tom is a computer programmer. He works in a small cubicle all day. He has very little human contact. He doesn't look particularly forward to what little he does have. I. Would. Die. I think I'd almost rather be a pee nurse. Almost. At least she gets to interact with people. Mortified, humiliated people who would rather be anywhere but there, sure, but people all the same.

My Uncle Bob used to always say, "There's another job I'm glad I don't have." when he saw people doing - well - dirty jobs type jobs. Yet people do them and I sure am happy about that!

I guess it all goes back to differences. We are all born with different interests and a different skill set. If we were all the same, not only would things be awfully dull, but there would be an awful lot of things that never got done!

So I'm interested - inquiring minds want to know - what kind of job do you think is ideal and why, and what kind of job would you not do for all the money in the world and why?

Full disclosure: I'm having a full-on midlife crisis and have no idea what I want to do with the next half of my life. I'm hoping someone will say SOMEthing that will force gently nudge me into some sort of decision, or at least into some valid direction. No pressure.

Edited to add - On a completely unrelated note, I put a "We Heart Art" post up on my craft blog, if anyone is interested.

We Want the Funk

Ok, I had a really swell post about my visit to the urologist all set to go today, but now you're just going to have to wait for that. Is the antici.....pation too much to bear? Sorry - I'll try to keep you entertained in the meantime.

I've mentioned before that my sister and I schlep pizzas at our friends' pizza shop. Well, yesterday there was a food service show sponsored by one of our vendors. The owners couldn't make it, as they had other family obligations, so they asked my sister and I to go in their stead. I had no idea what I was getting into, but am always anxious to do just about anything that takes me away from my regular routine.

We arrived at the show about half an hour before it wrapped up. Let me tell you why this is a really smart thing to do: No-one wants to pack their stuff up and they give EVERYTHING away! So we not only had a very delicious nosh as we worked our way through the samples at the vendors booths, but EVERYONE was giving us stuff. Not just a sample, but as much as we could carry. Serious SWAG, which Michael Scott so aptly defined as: Stuff We All Get.

Our bounty: T-shirts, bread, pasta, hot sauce, dressing, ketchup, canvas bags, stress pigs... the usual stuff.

Next we headed to a cookout and private concert. With Mr. Dr. Funkenstein himself, George Clinton and the P Funk All Stars. Did I mention that all of this included an open bar, too? 'Cause it did. There was a camera crew there all night - apparently they're working on a documentary - so if you come across a documentary about George Clinton in the future, give it a moment or two, cause you might just catch a glimpse of my sister and I. And wouldn't that just be a rare treat?

The P Funk All Stars took the stage a handful at a time, each costumed more elaborately and bizarrely than the last. My sister said at one point, "Looks like there's a Yankee Trader somewhere with a severely depleted inventory." Now I mentioned that this was in conjunction with a food show, right? So we have this stage full of serious funk - one may have even been tempted to not inaccurately refer to it as 'funkadelic' - and a mosh pit full of old white people dancing. It was so surreal. And awesome.

Let's see, we had a king and a clown and a pimp and a dude in a diaper and a dude dressed like a bride. There was a chickadee with angel wings and a top hat. How many free beers have I consumed at this point, you ask? No, I swear. All is true. My sister did not know what George looked like. They played 4 or 5 songs before he came out. My sister refused to believe it. "Diaper Dude is George, Tammy."

"Diaper Dude is not George. George is old."

"Diaper Dude is old."

"Diaper Dude is older than Pimp Dude, but he's younger than George."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes"

So she asked a stranger in the crowd and he confirmed that Diaper Dude was indeed not George and then she believed it. Do you see how my life is? Nobody listens to me. I can't fault her. It's been a lifelong model of behavior and she learned it from my parents.

Anyhoo.

Eventually George took the stage in all his multicolored cockatoo coiffed Santa Claus/Jerry Garcia glory. And there was a whole lotta rhythm going down.


And then there was that moment. Simultaneously my sister and I sniffed the air - eyes widened - is that? Sure was. That enchanting aroma of sweet mary jane wafting through the concert hall. We were a little taken aback, not because we find pot smoking so very shocking and scandalous, but more because Ohio has a statewide smoking ban and we've grown accustomed to not smelling ANY sort of smoke indoors, much less this pungent olfactory blast from the past. We started playing 'Spot the Pot'. We couldn't find the source. I gave up and went to the restroom. Apparently even when the beer is free, you still just rent it. When I came back, she said someone in the crowd had offered George a joint and he had toked it up right up there on the stage. I didn't believe her till I confirmed it with a stranger. Just kidding, I took her at her word. Because at that very moment I caught a glimpse of Angel Top Hat Chickadee enjoying a little bit of Mother Nature's herbal bounty, also on the stage.



"He's Probably as old as Dad."

"Yeah, but I bet Dad doesn't sing about his balls."

"Or toke doobs in public" (and to those of you who actually know my dad, I sincerely apologize for invoking that image)

So that was my completely unplanned and absolutely free excellent adventure. Man, I love it when a Tuesday night turns out like that.

Time to turn this mutha out.

Picture This

So my sister says to me (she says): "We've got to wear boob shirts."

We were getting ready to go to the holiday party hosted by the pizza shop where we regularly schlep the pizzas to earn the big bucks. Wendy had missed last years party and I told her it had been a boob-a-palooza - the battle of the boobs - I could go on... she knew exactly what I meant, but in case you don't, the young girls who work there, they like them some low cut clothes. They like those scary low cut clothes that put one in constant danger of slippage. They liked those for work - it was astounding what they liked for a party. She could imagine. And she thought we should get in on it.

So I put on a boob shirt. I was a little uncomfortable and was asking all of my family members - in a manner which was probably quite annoying - is this ok? Are you sure this is ok? This is too much, isn't it? I'm gonna change. No? I'm at least gonna put a camisole under it. No? Ya think? Really? Eventually I added a long thick lariat necklace and that made me feel a little less - vulnerable. (anyone who read that last phrase as Tim Curry's Frankfurter gets bonus points, because that is certainly the tone in which it was written) It's COLD outside so I added a long scarf/shawl to the ensemble and thank goodness I did! When I picked my sister up, she looked lovely. She did not, however, look boobalicious. She was the one who, hours earlier, had asked if my daughter had any body glitter... I felt betrayed. Now I was going to stand out, and not in a flattering way.

Lucky for me it was cold in the restaurant, so I kept the scarf/shawl on and managed a little coverage. Still one or two folks commented. "Whoa! You're showing boob!" I might have felt better if they'd said it with a tone that was more admiration than observation, but such was not the case.

All of this was really just a set-up, though, to talk about pictures. (I know - Wuh!?! Stick with me, all shall be revealed. Wait - following a story about boobage, perhaps that was misleading. Let's just say - read on, it will all hopefully come together...)

Although I felt vulnerable and a little out of my league, I also felt like the outfit was flattering. I walked out the door feeling like I looked good. Pictures were taken and, as is almost ALWAYS the case when I see myself in pictures, I was appalled. Surely I don't look like that! Who is that yooge old woman wearing my clothing? And why are her features so crooked? Surely that can't be what I look like... then someone will say: Wow! That's a great picture of you! And I want to weep. That? Right there? That is a GOOD depiction of my appearance? Really? Because that's not even close to what I see in the mirror and it's even farther from what I see with my minds eye. Hate the pictures. But I know between pictures, mirrors and minds eye, they are the least likely to lie.

So for a long time I stayed out of them. Avoided them at all costs. Developed a sixth sense which was keenly aware of any camera in my immediate vicinity and an uncanny ability to step out of its scope. If I didn't see it, I wouldn't know. And maybe if I didn't know, it wouldn't be true. Don't even bother trying to point out the inherent flaws in that argument. One doesn't have to be rational when arguing with oneself.

Tom hates being in pictures, too, but his reasoning is different. Tom is really not very photogenic. If you've ever seen the episode of 'Friends' where Monica and Chandler go to have their engagement portraits taken - that's Tom. He's a very handsome dude, but when the cameras come out his smile freezes in a way that is not his smile and his eyes do that deer-in-the-headlights thing. It gives me - hopefully gives both of us - comfort when he hates a picture of himself and I can say with honesty - that's not a good picture, you are way better looking than that.

So we've both sort of resolved to allow more pictures of ourselves to be taken. His motivation, I assume, is to become more comfortable with the camera so that he becomes less conscious of it and will eventually look more natural in photos. My motivation is to be able to view myself more honestly. That is painful right now. Hopefully it will get easier with time.

So for now - no pictures of the boob shirt. Delete, delete, delete. But in a couple months? If I do indeed succeed in recognizing and coming to terms with my new old self? Who knows.

Huh? Get a Job? What For? I'm Trying to Think.

Last night the e-mail I've been anticipating came. My immediate supervisor at the university wrote to ask if I'd be interested in teaching 2 courses in the fall. Tom and I talked about it a lot (months ago) and came to the conclusion that I would indeed not be interested. The adjunct gig just isn't worth it anymore. The gas alone, to get me to a school that's not right around the corner, should serve as enough of a deterrent. Add that to the fact that the moment they are able to hire someone for a full-time position, I'd be gone without a moment's thought (as they came very close to doing 2 years ago). And the fact that every year I find myself less and less tolerant of my students and their drama. And the fact that I've been away from the field long enough that my classes are more based in philosophy/history than they are in current real life experience. I could go on, but those are some of the key points.

So what now?

I am so very lucky because I don't need to jump into something - anything - just to get a paycheck. Things are very tight for us (as they are for so many right now), but we can get by on Tom's salary. We can get by in a very tight-budgeted, no frills way, but we can get by.

So I'm in the perhaps enviable position of wanting a job, but not needing one. That, for sure, is the good part. The bad part is, at the tender age of 45, I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I'm pretty sure I'm done teaching, but I don't think I'm ready to step away from education altogether. So I know that. Or think that, anyway. But what, exactly, to do? What to do?

I can't believe I walked away from a job without having anything waiting for me in the wings. That seems so irresponsible. But the adjunct job wasn't working out, for the reasons noted above, and it involves an 11 week obligation - so I would be rendering myself unavailable to start something new for basically 3 months. But what if nothing new turns up? It's so scary!

I want to work. I want to feel like I'm making a contribution - both through the work I do and through the money I bring home. I want to talk to people every day! I want a sense of purpose. I do not want to waste my time just doing something for the sake of doing it. Perhaps I'm being idealistic, but I really believe I'll find something that fits if I just keep looking.

Or not.