Crazy isn't Sexy.

My goodness, time passes quickly. A few crises come down the pikes and all of a sudden, almost a month is gone. The pros? We're less than a month out from the weddingmoon...the cons? Uh. OMG HOLY COW WE ARE LESS THAN A MONTH OUT FROM THE WEDDINGMOON!!!

Other than that, what's doing? Too much. The weekend lurking just ahead promises not one, but two bridal showers. One's work related with some of my desert library family; the other is a little more wild, with dirty mad libs, Twister (the game, not the movie), and copious amounts of alcohol. I have developed an alarming and wallet-depleting addiction to scrapbooking (TOTALLY did not see that one coming), and I get to see Peter Gabriel in concert next week at the Hollywood Bowl. Fun abounds.

This last weekend, however, was not so much with the fun. Last Saturday was rather sluggish, and I spent most of the day laying about on the couch, not cleaning or doing laundry or anything productive, simply filled with a dissatisfied sense of ennui. Himself came home from work and my mood didn't improve. After a couple of hours of wheedling and nagging, he pretty much just hauled my ass out, put me in the car, and started driving to a quaint little restaurant deeper down in the desert. As soon we began to drive, I stuck my head out the window, took in the early evening air, and felt better. My mood only improved after we got to the restaurant and found ourselves seated in a lovely courtyard with twinkly fairy lights and a nice, strong gin gimlet. As is usually the case, I began to reflect.

It occurred to me that I tend to wait for my life to be perfect--my laundry to be folded, my kitchen sink to be scrubbed, my errands to be run--before I allow myself to live my life, enjoy simple pleasures, try to be present in the moment. But that evening, amidst the gently happy crowds, the evening darkness closing in, Jason's bighearted smile, and the feeling of utter relaxation, it occurred to me--this time, this particular moment, this was life. Nothing else. And it was perfection.

There's this chick that I know back in Indiana. She's...how do I say...a little bit not all there. Actually mentally ill. Functional, more or less, but mentally ill. And to add insult to injury, she's not at all intelligent, and also dishonest and manipulative (added to her general lack of functioning brain power, this generally means she gets caught in her copious lies on a fairly regular basis). All around, not a particularly pleasant person to know unless you get off on that kind of manipulation and melodramatic nonsense. But I'll say this: the chick knows how to live in the moment.

(Of course, that might be because she's genetically incapable of thinking beyond the next three minutes, so the present moment always looks pretty good). But I'm trying to be magnanimous here.

So anyway, back to the pleasant Saturday evening...for some reason, Crazypants and her ability to embrace the moment popped into my head at that time, and the best thing that I realized that evening in my gin-induced reflections: Even the crazies have something to teach us.

I just hope I don't have to become crazy to learn! Ultimate moral of the day: crazy isn't sexy.

But then again, neither is falling-over drunk.

Erring on the Side of Hope

California is...an interesting place. To most, it's a glorious place, with the promise of sunny, temperate days, glitzy glamorous nights, and plenty of potential success and dreams to lure many an unsuspecting soul here. But there's so many invisible (and sometimes visible) hazards. There are so many faultlines, ready to rupture and break us all apart.

So it is with Himself and me. There's always a faultline, in each relationship, even the most happy and blessed. In our case, the faultline is Himself's son (we'll call him Himself Jr), my soon-to-be stepson. All is not sunshine and harmony in our life right now, and much of it has to do with Himself Jr.

He's a mere fifteen years old...probably the same age as my mother was when she first started to hit the skids. I haven't seen Himself Jr. since before his dad and I got engaged last October; even before then, Jr. had been painting the town a little too red, experimenting with some too-dangerous drugs, getting into too much trouble with the law. We thought he was going to be going to a drug rehab/bootcamp center for a year, and just a day or two ago he was moved to one. Himself and I have had too much experience with addiction and criminal behavior in our families to do or think anything other than "One day at a time," but we still breathed a cautious sigh of relief.

Too soon, it seems. We got the call that Himself Jr. took off from the rehab place (apparently, in California, they can't force minors to stay. Bunch of damned liberal nonsense claptrap, if you ask me) and now no one knows where he is. I have to believe that Himself Jr. is as scrappy and resourceful as ever, and will show up sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, and almost certainly worse for wear.

But I mourn for Himself. I see the worry that is beginning to carve lines of disappointment in Himself's face. I mourn for his happy-go-lucky streak, his sense of self-worth, his optimism, each of which takes a hit each time Himself Jr. raises hell. I have never reared a child, most likely never will, but I have enough empathy and imagination to conjure the emotions that plague Himself now. And all I can do is just hug him, listen, refrain from making any conclusions or judgments.

The damned pickle of it is that I like this kid. The few times that we've seen each other, we've gotten along. Even laughed a couple of times. He's smart, he's honest (even with everything else, he's honest), and he's absolutely determined not to give a damn that he is wrecking his body, his mind, his life.

As I've said, both Himself and I have seen what addiction can do to a family. And so I worry for us, for our fledgling marriage, for its tender fragile state. I worry about what could happen if Himself Jr. continues down this path. But then, if the worst can happen, and our partnership suffers as a result, I suppose it is just as possible that the other extreme could also happen...

Out here in the desert, the San Andreas Fault runs right through, a volatile flaw in our otherwise stable earth, just ready to open its yaw someday and unleash untold destruction upon us, 2012-style. But here's the cool thing about the Fault--you can see where it is, because there's a band of green foliage growing on it. Green, in the desert. Even in the summer time. Because of the Fault. Water percolates up from the Fault, you see, so even this potentially frightening thing brings some good to us, some life to our region. And of course, it's just as likely as not that the Fault won't get faulty in our lifetime, thereby reducing all of my anxieties to naught.

I'd like to make it so that this faultline in our relationship can be like the San Andreas--despite what happens, or perhaps even because of what happens with Himself Jr., I'd like to see that something else, not awful at all, can come out of it...I'd like for Himself and I make it so that, like the greenery on the San Andreas Fault, something good comes from the faultline which runs through this...I'd like for us to make this a relationship strengthened, a love enhanced through even the most dangerous flaws that lurk at the heart of a home.

That's Great it Starts with an Earthquake

It was not how I had intended to spend my Easter (AKA Zombie Jesus Day). I had not particularly desired or planned to spend it on the couch, wheezing hacking gagging snotting my life away and reading the Buffy Season 8 graphic novel series. I didn't intend to be left behind as Himself went roving through the wilds of the high desert. And I sure as heck didn't intend to be preparing myself to kiss my ass goodbye and readying myself to potentially depart this plane of existence.

Okay, yes, in hindsight, that statement is a tad melodramatic. I tell you what, my people, it wasn't so over-the-top of a statement yesterday when I found myself realizing, "Hey, that's NOT a delivery truck..." It was, in fact, an earthquake. A big one. The Big One? I didn't know. All I knew was that, each time in the past, these little rumblers have been over within seconds, before I had time to react. And I had grown complacent as a result. And yesterday, when the floor started bouncing and the walls and ceiling began to shift, I thought "Earthquake! Don't move, it'll be over soon...now...now...now?" And it kept not being over. The shaking kept on, and the shaking got worse, the rumbling grew louder, and may I re-iterate that the floor was bouncing. Things that are unmovable shouldn't...well...move. I finally felt my limbs begin to unfreeze, and I got off the couch and went to an inner doorway like they always say (I'm pretty sure "they" were never in an earthquake) you're supposed to do, and that's when the shaking got to be the worst. The beautiful old antique grandfather clock that Himself has had for many years, and has not worked of its own accord in the same time, was swaying back and forth so violently that it was gonging as though it were high noon.

And then it ended.

I was choking on my own fear (as opposed to the nasty phlegm which has taken up residence in my body since I got sick), breathing in short, tense gasps. I didn't know where it was, or how big it was, but my instincts told me that it was BIG. (The longer the earthquake goes on for, the bigger it is, usually). I called Big Sissy in New Jersey to let her know I was 0kay. And then I bought two one-way, non-refundable plane tickets to the Midwest.

Okay, not really, not that last bit. In fact, being on the phone with Big Sissy helped calm me down. And we didn't lose power, and nothing broke, and frankly, we got off very very lucky. But still? I'd rather have ham and chocolate easter bunnies than this s*^t.

Balls McCarthy, though, I'd take a tornado any day!

Wives in Books: Julia and Julia; Cleaving

March--otherwise known as the Month of the Thousand Library Programs--has passed, thank god. I survived, more or less, but it appears that I did so only on the strength of an unholy pact between me and my body--a pact that was made without my conscious knowledge. My body agreed to get me through March, only on the condition that it would be allowed to collapse come April 1.

And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.

Life is hard.
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So. Book review time.

Two books, one author: Julie Powell, known in some uncharitable circles as "a soiled and narcissistic whore." I'll refrain from such judgments, mainly because A.) Hey, we've all been there, and B.) It just takes way too much energy at present. And plus, there's an absolutely adorable egg whisk on the cover--which I actually registered for! Heh.

Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.

Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.

Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."

That is, until I read Cleaving.

Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.

You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.

Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.

And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.

For better for worse (but which is Indiana?)

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."

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?

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.