Lest I depict Himself to be nothing but a lazy slob (okay, I haven't done that yet, but god knows I've been tempted), let me just add that there is a deep and insidious flaw in my own character, as well...
I love Indiana.
I dream about it. I fantasize about it. I wax sentimental about it. I have been known to spend at least 10 valuable vacation days there every year. But most dreadfully of all, I don't shut up about it. As Himself so eloquently phrased it to his friend Brian, "With Melissa, someone forgot to install the 'off' button when it came to Indiana."
It's awful, it really is, how much I natter on about that place, how much I can't shut up about it, about Indy, about Booth Tarkington, about Ernie Pyle and Michael Jackson and Larry Bird and whoever else (who is famous) had the wonderful fortune to be born in that state, about IU, about my halcyon days of grad school. I know my colleagues and supervisors roll their eyes whenever I start spewing out that nonsense. But them? They can just fire me. With Himself, he has to endure the reminiscing, the vacation days, the hints about how I would love to retire there, the comparisons, the whining about how much I would love seasons and weather and clouds and the color green, and worst of all, my constant reminders of the many ways of how California consistently falls short--he's stuck with it. For better and for worse, and all that crap. I know I'm a right pain in the arse when it comes to this, and I said as much to Himself last night.
But as Himself pointed out, it's better than the alternative. The alternative is what happens when I have an extra strong gin gimlet, or I start listening to songs from that period of my life, or start looking at pictures from my IU years, or else my vacations back: it gets worse, and I start to get quiet. Then I get little stabs of pain in my heart (I'd like to think that it's not the cholesterol) and I get melancholy and I wonder how the hell I got from the solid, quiet, sensible Midwest to this nonsensical Wonderland known as the West Coast.
On nights like these, I know I am exiled--banished far from my Indiana, most likely never to return to live, and certainly never to go back to those long ago, problematic days. On nights like these, when I am somber (but not sober) and blogging, Himself looks over at me and worries. But that is what our vows are for.
And that's why it's "for better or for worse." Himself loves me despite my love for Indiana, and I love Himself despite his aversion to Indiana. But on nights like these, I mourn. But...as Alice Hoffman points out, "on nights like these, it's better not to think about the past, and all that's been won and lost. On nights like these, just slipping into bed, between the cool white sheets, is a relief."
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
What Am I Doing Wrong?
I made dinner tonight.
This is a momentous--huge--occasion in our household, as I am kitchen-handicapped. But for any number of reasons, I feel compelled to at least get a grip on some rudimentary culinary skills. I made a really simple dish--brown rice, steamed asparagus, and herb-roasted chicken cutlets. Someday, some other post, when I am feeling less dispirited and disgusted with the lot of women, I'll post the results. Also, when I find my camera cable.
But for now...
...WTF?
How do women do it? How do they have careers, marriages, and children, to say nothing of alone-time and social time? Something's gonna get shorted, and ten bucks says it ain't the job, the husband, or the kids cryin' the blues. (Except when they feel neglected because Mom went off and did something for herself).
I get off work at 6:15. It takes 15 minutes to get to the store, another 15 minutes to run through the store and pick up items for dinner, and all in all I'm home by 7 PM. After five or ten minutes of prep-work (hand washing, digging out ingredients and utensils), I start prepping the food and cooking. Dinner is prepared by 7:50, and I'm lucky (lucky! Can you believe it! Lucky!) to have a few minutes while the meal is cooking to clean up a little in the kitchen, start a load of laundry, scoop the litterbox), and I am done eating by 8:15. And there's still more kitchen clean-up to do.
It's now 8:45 PM. and ideally I should be in bed by 11. Forget hopping on the exercise bike, forget scrubbing out the bathtub. Forget all sorts of things I had on the to-do list. I'll be lucky if I sort through some of the mail and get some writing done. This is insane. How do women who are wives and mothers as well as workers manage to do all of this and run their lives?
Or am I doing something wrong?
This is a momentous--huge--occasion in our household, as I am kitchen-handicapped. But for any number of reasons, I feel compelled to at least get a grip on some rudimentary culinary skills. I made a really simple dish--brown rice, steamed asparagus, and herb-roasted chicken cutlets. Someday, some other post, when I am feeling less dispirited and disgusted with the lot of women, I'll post the results. Also, when I find my camera cable.
But for now...
...WTF?
How do women do it? How do they have careers, marriages, and children, to say nothing of alone-time and social time? Something's gonna get shorted, and ten bucks says it ain't the job, the husband, or the kids cryin' the blues. (Except when they feel neglected because Mom went off and did something for herself).
I get off work at 6:15. It takes 15 minutes to get to the store, another 15 minutes to run through the store and pick up items for dinner, and all in all I'm home by 7 PM. After five or ten minutes of prep-work (hand washing, digging out ingredients and utensils), I start prepping the food and cooking. Dinner is prepared by 7:50, and I'm lucky (lucky! Can you believe it! Lucky!) to have a few minutes while the meal is cooking to clean up a little in the kitchen, start a load of laundry, scoop the litterbox), and I am done eating by 8:15. And there's still more kitchen clean-up to do.
It's now 8:45 PM. and ideally I should be in bed by 11. Forget hopping on the exercise bike, forget scrubbing out the bathtub. Forget all sorts of things I had on the to-do list. I'll be lucky if I sort through some of the mail and get some writing done. This is insane. How do women who are wives and mothers as well as workers manage to do all of this and run their lives?
Or am I doing something wrong?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Meaning of Wife: An Interview
Last night we had a couple of our friends over...Ken and Gail, two of the smartest and funniest people I've met since moving to California. They're like Himself and I...fairly liberal, lovers of cats, eschewers of child-bearing...and they make really good dinner party companions. Of course, that might just be because they appeared to enjoy the gin gimlets which I promptly foisted upon them. (One of the reasons I love Ken and Gail was because when I offered to make them a gin gimlet, Ken's response was, "Who drinks gimlets? Are you channeling Julie Powell?")
Anyway, I was quite eager to grill them on their views of "the meaning of wife" and the burning question of, "Can one be both a career woman and a housewife?"
Gail's decided response was "No." With the addition of "Not as I view the term 'housewife'."
We talked about that for a few moments, and then debated the definition of the term "housewife." (Now I'm wishing I had not had that second gimlet, otherwise perhaps I could remember more of the exchange). And then, like the good liberals we are, we conceded that we guessed "it depends on how one defines the term "housewife".
Ken's response was a little more ambiguous, and provoked even more liberal ponderings on social views and expectations and their evolutions. The end result of this impromptu and decidedly un-scholarly study was...well...darn those gimlets, anyway.
One thing, however, does stand out in my mind. We decided that, if one were to be both of those things, they would have to be neither a high-powered career chick (and let's face it, as an L-I with approximately several gabillion bosses--three at the library, one or ten or so above them, to say nothing of the taxpayers of Sunnydale II-- there is no way in Zeus's holy scrotum I could possibly be described as "high-powered") nor a particularly competent housewife. Which is comforting on many, many levels.
So, maybe I'm no closer to establishing the answer to this burning question...or maybe I am on the way to defining the meaning of wife for me.
Anyway, I was quite eager to grill them on their views of "the meaning of wife" and the burning question of, "Can one be both a career woman and a housewife?"
Gail's decided response was "No." With the addition of "Not as I view the term 'housewife'."
We talked about that for a few moments, and then debated the definition of the term "housewife." (Now I'm wishing I had not had that second gimlet, otherwise perhaps I could remember more of the exchange). And then, like the good liberals we are, we conceded that we guessed "it depends on how one defines the term "housewife".
Ken's response was a little more ambiguous, and provoked even more liberal ponderings on social views and expectations and their evolutions. The end result of this impromptu and decidedly un-scholarly study was...well...darn those gimlets, anyway.
One thing, however, does stand out in my mind. We decided that, if one were to be both of those things, they would have to be neither a high-powered career chick (and let's face it, as an L-I with approximately several gabillion bosses--three at the library, one or ten or so above them, to say nothing of the taxpayers of Sunnydale II-- there is no way in Zeus's holy scrotum I could possibly be described as "high-powered") nor a particularly competent housewife. Which is comforting on many, many levels.
So, maybe I'm no closer to establishing the answer to this burning question...or maybe I am on the way to defining the meaning of wife for me.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Coping Mechanisms (Otherwise Known as Misdirection)
If Himself is the cook, perhaps I should be the bartender in the family.
So. Ever since watching and reading Julie and Julia (which, I might add, was what prompted this nonsensical bit of meaning-of-wife identity crisis), I have been rather obsessed with Julie Powell's lifestyle, prior to "hitting it big". (And yes, I am TOTALLY aware that her life was sucky before she became fab and famous. But hey, at least she could cook. It's more than I can say.) Anyway...rather than being psycho (AKA Gemini about it) I decided that, rather than fixating upon this poor wench and stalking her (although I admit to reading her blog--avidly), I'd simply try to follow her example.
Namely, through gimlets.
Gin gimlets, to be exact. None of this vodka nonsense--I am a gin girl, through and through. (Must be the anglophile in me). If I can't cook a decent meal, well, at least I can mix a mean drink, right?
So, last night, Himself and I found ourselves with an unexpected night in--no errands, no programs to work, no friends to entertain. After taking a constitutional (okay, there's no way to say, blog, or write that without sounding like a pretentious, wanna-be poofster) in the evening, in which the desert winds picked up and rustled through the palm beards, we came back home and plunked ourselves down and proceeded to debate what we would do with the evening.
The verdict? Pizza, from the Valley's only (any desert readers here? speak up if you beg to differ) New York pizza place, and...gimlets. And I have to say, I did a damned good job with them. And with Himself passed out on the bed...well, the proof is in the pudding. Or at the bottom of the martini glass, as the case may be.
So. Ever since watching and reading Julie and Julia (which, I might add, was what prompted this nonsensical bit of meaning-of-wife identity crisis), I have been rather obsessed with Julie Powell's lifestyle, prior to "hitting it big". (And yes, I am TOTALLY aware that her life was sucky before she became fab and famous. But hey, at least she could cook. It's more than I can say.) Anyway...rather than being psycho (AKA Gemini about it) I decided that, rather than fixating upon this poor wench and stalking her (although I admit to reading her blog--avidly), I'd simply try to follow her example.
Namely, through gimlets.
Gin gimlets, to be exact. None of this vodka nonsense--I am a gin girl, through and through. (Must be the anglophile in me). If I can't cook a decent meal, well, at least I can mix a mean drink, right?
So, last night, Himself and I found ourselves with an unexpected night in--no errands, no programs to work, no friends to entertain. After taking a constitutional (okay, there's no way to say, blog, or write that without sounding like a pretentious, wanna-be poofster) in the evening, in which the desert winds picked up and rustled through the palm beards, we came back home and plunked ourselves down and proceeded to debate what we would do with the evening.
The verdict? Pizza, from the Valley's only (any desert readers here? speak up if you beg to differ) New York pizza place, and...gimlets. And I have to say, I did a damned good job with them. And with Himself passed out on the bed...well, the proof is in the pudding. Or at the bottom of the martini glass, as the case may be.
Gin Gimlet Recipe
2 oz. Gin
1/2 oz. Lime Juice
Combine in a shaker with ice.
Shake like mad and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
Serve with a lime squeeze.
The drink was a success! Actually perfect--except for the fact that, to me, it doesn't yield quite enough for one drink. I could be doing something wrong, of course. I'll have to experiment with a couple of other recipes, perhaps. I also didn't use a lime squeeze--an omission I intend to remedy tonight! Before I even served the first round, I had wised up and put a couple of martini glasses in the freezer for the second round. They taste MUCH better with chilled glasses.
The drink was, in fact, so good that Himself actually flopped down on the living room floor with me and watched a goodly chunk of the new BBC production of Sense and Sensibility. He was pretending to read his Kindle, but WE know the truth.
So...at least if I suck as a housewife, I have at least one drink in my arsenal to employ the solution to this: Get Himself so drunk he doesn't care!
The drink was, in fact, so good that Himself actually flopped down on the living room floor with me and watched a goodly chunk of the new BBC production of Sense and Sensibility. He was pretending to read his Kindle, but WE know the truth.
So...at least if I suck as a housewife, I have at least one drink in my arsenal to employ the solution to this: Get Himself so drunk he doesn't care!
Saturday, March 20, 2010
TGIF
Today--hell, this whole week--has not been a time when I have felt comfortable in my own skin. In fact, I've felt completely alien, at sea...not very good. At all.
Jason says he does not want me to change. He doesn't want to marry one person down in Mexico, only to come home and learn he has married someone else. But what if I don't like who I am?
In completely unrelated observations...
Sign of Adulthood #109: Replacing the empty roll of toilet paper`
Jason says he does not want me to change. He doesn't want to marry one person down in Mexico, only to come home and learn he has married someone else. But what if I don't like who I am?
In completely unrelated observations...
Sign of Adulthood #109: Replacing the empty roll of toilet paper`
Saturday, March 13, 2010
American Wife
Today I had my first dress fitting.
This whole wedding thing is not unexpected--I've been engaged for five months now, and that's plenty of time to adapt to the whole concept of "til death do you part." I'm fine with that part--commitment to a person has never been a difficult thing to achieve. So the concept of marriage is nothing intimidating. And yet...
Holy shit, Batman, I'm supposed to be a wife?
It's just that I always associated wifedom with grown-up things, like responsibility and paying medical bills on time and cooking and, I don't know, things that I generally suck at. I'm not even particularly adept at making my own bed in the morning, and the whole corner-tucking thing? Not a hope in hell. Forget being a competent wife, most days I'm not even sure I'm a particularly competent human.
And after all, what is the meaning of "wife"? (There's a book by that title that I keep meaning to read). I associate things like cooking, and mending, and making sure the toilet paper is stocked, and silly things like that with wifedom. And yes, I am fully aware that said concept is subscribing to traditional gender roles. So, in theory, once we throw all of those roles out the window, what is the new "meaning of wife"? What are the duties of the modern wife? What are reasonable expectations? Sex every night? A minimum of nagging? Lots of laughter? What do I do to make an adequate, equal, modern helpmeet? Particularly when there are no children in the picture (other than delinquent and mainly absent stepchildren) and indeed, no plans, desires, hopes, or thoughts to having them?
And why the hell aren't the men trying to figure out what the meaning of husband is?
These were the random thoughts going through my head today as I moved about the department store, looking for the necessary knickers to wear underneath my wedding gown. As I debated the merits of thong vs. full coverage underwear, a phrase kept floating around in the back of my head: "A year in the life of an American wife." From time to time, I would substitute "American" with "clueless" or "incompetent." But mainly I began to think that maybe this here blog's a good place to follow my first year of marriage, my ups and downs and what I figure out and how our partnership (and hopefully my domestic talents) flourish.
Perhaps fittingly, perhaps forebodingly, I nearly passed out at David's Bridal during the dress fitting. Apparently standing very still while dressed in a gown with four layers of cloth and a built-in corset can really be a brutal experience. Yes, an incompetent wife, indeed.
This whole wedding thing is not unexpected--I've been engaged for five months now, and that's plenty of time to adapt to the whole concept of "til death do you part." I'm fine with that part--commitment to a person has never been a difficult thing to achieve. So the concept of marriage is nothing intimidating. And yet...
Holy shit, Batman, I'm supposed to be a wife?
It's just that I always associated wifedom with grown-up things, like responsibility and paying medical bills on time and cooking and, I don't know, things that I generally suck at. I'm not even particularly adept at making my own bed in the morning, and the whole corner-tucking thing? Not a hope in hell. Forget being a competent wife, most days I'm not even sure I'm a particularly competent human.
And after all, what is the meaning of "wife"? (There's a book by that title that I keep meaning to read). I associate things like cooking, and mending, and making sure the toilet paper is stocked, and silly things like that with wifedom. And yes, I am fully aware that said concept is subscribing to traditional gender roles. So, in theory, once we throw all of those roles out the window, what is the new "meaning of wife"? What are the duties of the modern wife? What are reasonable expectations? Sex every night? A minimum of nagging? Lots of laughter? What do I do to make an adequate, equal, modern helpmeet? Particularly when there are no children in the picture (other than delinquent and mainly absent stepchildren) and indeed, no plans, desires, hopes, or thoughts to having them?
And why the hell aren't the men trying to figure out what the meaning of husband is?
These were the random thoughts going through my head today as I moved about the department store, looking for the necessary knickers to wear underneath my wedding gown. As I debated the merits of thong vs. full coverage underwear, a phrase kept floating around in the back of my head: "A year in the life of an American wife." From time to time, I would substitute "American" with "clueless" or "incompetent." But mainly I began to think that maybe this here blog's a good place to follow my first year of marriage, my ups and downs and what I figure out and how our partnership (and hopefully my domestic talents) flourish.
Perhaps fittingly, perhaps forebodingly, I nearly passed out at David's Bridal during the dress fitting. Apparently standing very still while dressed in a gown with four layers of cloth and a built-in corset can really be a brutal experience. Yes, an incompetent wife, indeed.
Friday, March 12, 2010
It's the end of the world as we know it
Southern California, much like Manhattan, is known for its high cost of living. I know people who pay close to $1000 a month for a room--a single, undersized room, I say--in Los Angeles. It's hardcore down here, let me tell you. All these people falling all over themselves to pay out the nose for the privilege (hurumph) of living in California...it boggles my mind.
Fortunately, I am not one of those poor fools.
We live in a debatably cool city--Palm Springs, home of the 117-degree summer days, haven for the gays and grays. While it's no San Diego or Rancho Santa Margarita (I'd live there for the sake of its name alone), it sure as shit beats Beaumont, or Fontana, or San Bernardino, or Hemet. And not only do we live in a cool area, we rent a pretty damned nice place for a (relatively) cheap rent. Two lovely patios, three bedrooms (one of them, admittedly, small enough to house my bookcases, the litterbox, and not much else), a fireplace, a big kitchen, all for a price that still allows me to waste a sinfully large amount of money on dining out and lipsticks I promptly lose.
The only drawback to our happy little home is that it's right by a service road which leads to one of the local ritzy hotels frequented by the film crowds. All hours of the day and night (why a tree-mincing truck feels the need to lumber past at two in the morning, I've not figured out, especially since we live in THE DESERT and there's not too many trees to mince), delivery trucks and landscaping trucks and, possibly, elephants and blue whales rumble past, and their engines are powerful enough to make the bed tremble and the windows rattle.
And we live in Southern California. Have I mentioned that?
On the San Andreas fault.
Which is dangerously overdue for the next Big One.
And when that bigmother hits, we're going to be so royally fucked, because if it happens while we're at home, we'll be buried under the rubble of 1000 books and two tons of cat fur because we just made the merrily misguided assumption that the Parker Hotel was due for its next big delivery of posh-people food and booze.
I never should have watched 2012 last weekend. Nuts.
Fortunately, I am not one of those poor fools.
We live in a debatably cool city--Palm Springs, home of the 117-degree summer days, haven for the gays and grays. While it's no San Diego or Rancho Santa Margarita (I'd live there for the sake of its name alone), it sure as shit beats Beaumont, or Fontana, or San Bernardino, or Hemet. And not only do we live in a cool area, we rent a pretty damned nice place for a (relatively) cheap rent. Two lovely patios, three bedrooms (one of them, admittedly, small enough to house my bookcases, the litterbox, and not much else), a fireplace, a big kitchen, all for a price that still allows me to waste a sinfully large amount of money on dining out and lipsticks I promptly lose.
The only drawback to our happy little home is that it's right by a service road which leads to one of the local ritzy hotels frequented by the film crowds. All hours of the day and night (why a tree-mincing truck feels the need to lumber past at two in the morning, I've not figured out, especially since we live in THE DESERT and there's not too many trees to mince), delivery trucks and landscaping trucks and, possibly, elephants and blue whales rumble past, and their engines are powerful enough to make the bed tremble and the windows rattle.
And we live in Southern California. Have I mentioned that?
On the San Andreas fault.
Which is dangerously overdue for the next Big One.
And when that big
I never should have watched 2012 last weekend. Nuts.
Back on the air...again.
After close to a month of doing reading for work (bah!) I'm now able to spend my off hours reading for myself again--which means lots of self-absorbed chick-lit or anachronistic historical fiction about people who rubbed shoulders with randy kings.
I think it might be time to branch out a little.
Recently I watched the movie Julie and Julia. I have a very low threshold for what makes a movie something I will enjoy (does shit get blown up? do people fall in love? are there sumptuous costumes? is Christian Bale donning a batsuit?) and so, unsurprisingly, I enjoyed J&J very much. So much so that I went to work the next day and placed myself on hold for the book. And it came in, and now I'm almost at the end of the book, and I've come to a few rather interesting realizations:
1. Talented blog writers can take their most mundane, quotidian lives and make them into something that I WANT to read.
2. If I had a nickel's worth of sense (which I don't, as all my nickels are being squirreled away to finance my increasingly expensive honeymoon) I'd actually try to knuckle down and try to update my damned blog on a daily basis and maybe, just maybe my life will seem a little more fabulous.
3. What the hell should I blog about? Librarianship, with a little bit of my personal life tinging in? My impending marriage? Seems like the best blogs all have some sort of theme.
3. I have a tendency to adapt my inner voice to kind of echo those who I am most recently reading (Julie Powell's sarcasm, Crazy Aunt Purl's self-deprecation, my sister's whimsical artsiness). My writing style (I feel like a poseur even trying to imply that I have one) is, as of yet, extremely undefined.
4. Fucking wah.
5. I really dig the whole "blog to books" genre. I think it might be time to pull a Gemini and obsessively study it and then promptly forget all about it.
Over and out.
I think it might be time to branch out a little.
Recently I watched the movie Julie and Julia. I have a very low threshold for what makes a movie something I will enjoy (does shit get blown up? do people fall in love? are there sumptuous costumes? is Christian Bale donning a batsuit?) and so, unsurprisingly, I enjoyed J&J very much. So much so that I went to work the next day and placed myself on hold for the book. And it came in, and now I'm almost at the end of the book, and I've come to a few rather interesting realizations:
1. Talented blog writers can take their most mundane, quotidian lives and make them into something that I WANT to read.
2. If I had a nickel's worth of sense (which I don't, as all my nickels are being squirreled away to finance my increasingly expensive honeymoon) I'd actually try to knuckle down and try to update my damned blog on a daily basis and maybe, just maybe my life will seem a little more fabulous.
3. What the hell should I blog about? Librarianship, with a little bit of my personal life tinging in? My impending marriage? Seems like the best blogs all have some sort of theme.
3. I have a tendency to adapt my inner voice to kind of echo those who I am most recently reading (Julie Powell's sarcasm, Crazy Aunt Purl's self-deprecation, my sister's whimsical artsiness). My writing style (I feel like a poseur even trying to imply that I have one) is, as of yet, extremely undefined.
4. Fucking wah.
5. I really dig the whole "blog to books" genre. I think it might be time to pull a Gemini and obsessively study it and then promptly forget all about it.
Over and out.
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