Desperately Seeking Sherri

One Little Word: 2011

2011-01-02T08:03:00.001-08:00

I was reading my sister A's blog last night and learned about OLW: One Little Word. One Little Word is a more appealing approach to the New Year for those of us immersed in the world of academia, where January feels more "knee-deep in the middle" than "new." It could also work for anyone who fights the urge to go all Sylvia Plath in the dark months of winter. Finally, the great thing is that one little word is just that: one word. It does not require a gym membership, book club, or iPad app.

So, without further adieu, my OLW for 2011 is "Strong." I know it sounds a little like go out and buy a yellow wristband, Lance Armstrong-y strong, but from the minute I read about this idea, the word "strong" stuck in my mind. So, here's what it means to me: Focusing on getting physically strong, finishing strong on the last lap of my PhD, and finding ways to make sure my friendships, marriage, and family relationships are strong.

STRONG. Stay tuned!

Miracles

2010-12-26T20:21:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month while lounging on the beach in Aruba (yes, I have waited my whole life to write that sentence!) I read this article. I read every article in this magazine, actually, because I paid $22 Florins (just over $10 US dollars) and was determined to leave no page unturned. Literally. I've always liked Lisa Kogan's writing in O Magazine, but I was struck when she wrote, "I need to resurrect the feeling of wonder that salvages us from cynicism. I'm looking for leaps of faith and the element of surprise, and a trace of something that defies logic." What followed was a list of instances that fit her definition throughout the year.

I keep thinking about that article, and the miracles that this year has brought to me. There were some biggies this year for sure: Celebrating my daughter's first birthday, finishing coursework in what caps off more than a dozen years of higher education (insert Tommy Boy line here) and commencing work on my dissertation to name a few. But, what really strikes me about 2010 is that it reminded me, once again, about the power of love and faith a' la my family.

To mention a few:

June 4th: Leap of faith is the only way I can describe what my older sister M. took when she put her daughter on a plane to land in Iowa, having confidence that I would take care of her J. The obvious miracle is that J. faced her addiction, wins with each day that passes and is already over six months clean and sober. As for me? I swirled around for months in a mixture of frustration, fear, and self-righteous anger. I've recently come up for air, however, and realize the miracle in it: From one mother to another, sister to sister, M. trusted me.

October 12th: Granted, this is one of those no-brainer miracles by most definitions, so I have to mention the day that 33 Chilean miners were rescued from a mine after spending more than two months underground. But, stay with me here, this miracle made me think of my sisters. I can recall a time in my early-20s when my three sisters and I could not spend more than two hours trapped inside my parents' house without causing serious emotional injury and one of us running for the front door, gasping for air. I'm not suggesting that our next reunion be in the mountains of San Jose, but now that we are over 1,000 miles apart, I long for the raucous, t0o-close-for-comfort-but-just-how-we-like-it sleep overs in the living room. It's no secret that my sisters and I are vastly different on many accounts, but we have a to-the-core understanding of one another to bind us. And it surely defies logic in today's world to have two parents anchoring us with their love and support. No matter what.

December 10th: For the first time in our four-year relationship, K and I took a vacation. A real vacation. The pack your flip-flops and go tropical getaway that I always dreamed of but never thought I'd have. See, I'm not really from resort-y lineage. Where I'm from, vacation was a 20-hour road trip from Oregon to Arizona in July (because it's so temperate in the VALLEY OF THE SUN that time of year?) to visit family, with a pit-stop at Temple Square. But this was a blissful week at a destination resort. Every morning we slept until 8 (gasp!), opened the door to our villa, walked 100 feet or so to the ocean, and set up camp for another glorious day of doing nothing together. We loved our 24/7 togetherness, sans baby, work, dissertating, and life in general. We reaffirmed what we've long suspected: That we not only love another, but--bonus!--we like each other. It was more dream-come-true than miracle, but I'll take it.

December 26th: I'm playing blocks with A. She is going to be fierce, I can tell already. Head-strong, loud, and bumbling through the house. Except when she's building with blocks. She has the ability, this one, to build a tower of single blocks that defies logic for one with such little fingers. She is slow and steady when she builds, cocking her head to the side as she approaches the growing tower and places the next block gingerly but confidently. And with each block successfully landed on the last, she steps back, smiles and looks to me as she claps and exclaims, "Yeah!" On the outside I'm all, "Yeah!" back, but I can't help but get anxious. And then the dreaded inner mom-ologue begins, where I think to myself: "Oh no, Aissa, you have to be so careful! You're working so hard and it might fall anyway! Crap, don't knock it over! If you do, it's ok, but you might be disappointed, sad even! WATCH OUT LITTLE ONE!" And then, inevitably, it does tumble. But get this: A just squeals with delight and begins clearing space for a new tower, bigger than the last. I know, in this moment, that I will learn a lot from this little miracle.

____________________________

Now, take some time to think of your moments. I'll bet you can name a few...

No, That Really is Just How I Roll...

2010-10-27T14:43:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I was telling a girlfriend how relieved I was to have a free weekend coming up. I closed my eyes and sported a Zen smile as I reported, "Yep, all we have to do is visit my brother in law in the hospital because he had his right leg amputated after complications with diabetes." All we had to do? Seriously. My friend gave me one of those compassionate/pitiful smiles in response, her expression telling me how not relaxing it would be to visit a family member in a long-term rehab unit after losing a limb. Apparently, she forgot that's how I roll.

Over the past year while I should have been blogging, I was dealing with some pretty messed up stuff. Why the sophomoric lingo, you ask? Well, that could be my new-found dialect from spending 5 months with my 17-year-old goddaughter J. I thought it would be cool to have her visit the midwest for the summer, giving her a change of scenery from the small-town drug scene I thought she'd only dabbled in before her senior year. When I greeted her tweaked-out self at the airport, however, I quickly determined that the change of scenery would not involve sweet corn and summer matinees, but rather an in-patient drug and alcohol rehabilitation center about 3o miles from my house. She was less than thrilled at my idea of summer camp, as you can imagine. But, as she quickly learned, that's how I roll.

And, while frantically arranging drug assessments, in-patient care, insurance verification, faxing stuff back and forth with my sister in Oregon to let the healing begin, I failed to return a call from my primary care doctor who wanted to discuss test results from an exam I had in May. The doctor's office called repeatedly, leaving messages, to which I thought, "Um, it's a Pap Smear, not liver failure; I'll call you back after I take care of aforementioned addict godchild in crisis." But, this particular doctor was like a dog with bone, that one. She called my emergency contact/neighbor to have her find me on a Friday afternoon to summon me to her office that day. Seriously? I called and told her politely that I would contact her office on Monday, after finishing my homework, painting another coat of stain on my deck, throwing my husband's 40th Birthday party and dropping off my niece at rehab at 1:30. My doctor replied that no, I would come in that day, in one hour, and she would wait for me. Cause that's how she rolls.

Apparently cervical cancer is just as critical as 40th Birthday parties, a well-protected deck, and confronting adolescent drug addiction. Suddenly, I was playing out a scene I'd seen on television and in movies--the one where the doctor comes over and sits beside you, looking with compassion as the C-word sinks in. It was also a bit like an AT&T phone call--the words cutting in and out, hearing bits and pieces: "Carcinoma...Stage 1...surgical...consultation on Thursday...do you have children?...hysterectomy" That last bit came in loud and clear as my brain finally walked bravely up to C-word, stuck out its hand and said, "Hey There!"

I drove home and said the word out loud to my husband, whom I'd not bothered to call until I was at the doctor's office in a last-ditch effort at denial. We stood in the kitchen, slices of late afternoon sun coming through the window as we stared at each other simultaneously thinking, "Are you kidding me?" as little A tugged at our legs and sweet J looked on from the couch. I took a few deep breaths and shifted gears as quickly as possible. That 40th party wasn't going to throw itself!

Fast-forward a month of so: J. had a month of rehab under her belt and I finished my summer dissertation-writing course. K and I were coming to terms with the possibility that little A might be our one and only. I had a procedure done the next month, called a "cold knife scrape"--clearly named by a man, who'd never had a knife all up in 'em, much less a "cold" one. Fortunately, my surgeon, Dr. M., was a kick-ass pregnant woman approaching her third trimester as she scrubbed in and held my hand when the tears came, just before the anesthesiologist put me to sleep.

As summer came to an end, we learned the good news that there was no new cancer and we could consider having another little one if doctors kept tabs on my cervix. We were settled into a visitation routine with J, who earned overnight visits to our house on the weekends. She and K played a fun game called, "You're not the boss of me" and I spent Saturday nights parked outside her AA meetings. We were finding our way into a new kind of normal but K was dealing with the fallout of a cancer scare with a loved one by experiencing anxiety and sleepless nights while I dealt with it in classic, stoic, Edvalson fashion: repress and move forward.

Now, a few months later, with J graduated from rehab and back at home in Oregon, I spend my weekends working on the dissertation while K chases Baby A (who, as it turns out, is not such a baby anymore). We ponder big questions like Baby #2 (or not), spend a few hours a month in therapy to process all the crap, and know that whatever happens we have each other's back. Cause, yeah, you guessed it, that's how we roll.

Memories of Holiday (Follies) Past

2009-12-24T07:57:00.000-08:00

As I sit in my cozy house in Iowa on Christmas Eve, thousands of miles away from my childhood home, I am awash with nostalgia of Christmases past. Counting the presents under the tree in a neurotic quest to make sure that all four siblings got an equal distribution of Christmas cheer, the picture of humility and gratitude. Tromping through the snow-covered parking lot to the annual school Christmas program where the reward for not falling off the shaky particle board choir bleachers was a paper bag full of creme-filled chocolates, nuts and oranges from Santa himself.

And then there was Christmas Eve and the annual Waffle Feed at my Aunt Eileen's house. Yes, we await the birth of our savior Mormon family-style, complete with buttermilk waffles, eggs, sausage, and a full complement of syrups, whipped cream and berries. And when I say feed, I mean my Aunt would open her doors and feed. At least fifty extended family members, along with neighbors, friends, and people with no other place to get a hot meal on a holiday's eve. They even arranged for a Jolly Ole St. Nick look-alike to appear each year, handing out candy canes and holiday greetings to the wide-eyed children, faces aglow with syrup and Christmas wonder. Later in the evening, the cousins would have a gift exchange and a talent show. And then, just before 9:00, we would head home so my Catholic sisters and mom and I could head to Midnight Mass while my Mormon dad chilled in his Laz-y Boy, visions of waffles dancing in his head (and a chance to watch whatever he wanted on television for one blessed hour of estrogen-free living).

Those are the sweetest memories. And then there are the stories of Christmas injuries past. And those are perhaps the most poignant of all. Tromping again through a snow-covered parking lot, this time to attend the annual Church Bazaar and raffle, complete with pinata and games. On one particularly magic Christmas, my nine-year old self could hardly stand the anticipation of possibly winning the beautiful doll with extra hand-made outfits and baby high chair in the annual raffle. The pinata looked fun too, but my over-protective father would have none of that. He tolerated the Catholic church bazaar long enough to score a piece of pie. But he would not stand by while his daughters stood in close range of the broom handle that the teenage boys decided would make a good pinata bat. So, while all the other kids and their thrill-seeking parents gathered around the swinging, candy-filled donkey, I stood in the opposite corner of the gym.

What happened next was what I would look back fondly upon as my first exposure to irony, as one of the Riley brothers decided to take a swing and the broom handle broke off, ricocheted across the gym and whacked me in the eye. It happened so fast, the broom handle hitting me in the face, my hand flying up to catch the blood pouring out of my nose, and my father lunging across the room Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon style to rescue me. "Did she lose her eye?" "Is she ok?" mingled with the sounds of crazed kids rushing the now broken pinata, not knowing that they had nearly lost one of their own to friendly fire. I was able to open one swollen eye long enough to take one last look at the doll that, despite the best-ever sympathy vote, would not go home with me. went home with a black eye and my friend Jenny won the doll.

This, however, was not the closest one of us girls came to death by church contraption. No, that honor is reserved for my youngest sister M. On this particular Christmas pageant, little M. was dressed in a cloak and donned a wooden cane to make her shepherd look complete. My dad accompanied his little Catholic cherubs to this service to see his youngest daughter's performance. The little Mary, Joseph and assorted shepherds and wise men joined the priest in the opening procession and took their places on the altar, giving life to the wooden nativity during the gospel with minimal shuffling and distraction. My sister, whose childhood nickname was "the silent one" because she was so quiet (masking a wicked instigator-tactic that she would use to wield power over her siblings), was well-behaved on the altar, but grew tired as the sermon wore on. We're not exactly sure how long she suffered in silence, but all at once her blue eyes grew wider and wider as a murmur started throughout the congregation, sounding something like, "the cane..." "she's got the cane in her mouth..." "stuck in her mouth." And once again, my dad's wild cat-like reflexes kicked in and within seconds he was on the altar, prying the curved end of the cane out of my sister's mouth. Hark! The herald angels' voices were drowned out by the sound of the young shepherd gagging.

I suffered another head injury at church a few years later when high winds blew the side door open to the chapel and, just as I was leaving, the metal door jamb fell on my head and my dad took me home, on concussion-watch, while my mom and sisters ate at the annual Christmas dinner. He's too nice, and respects my mom too much to say it out loud, but I wouldn't be surprised if my dad adds all of these on-location Catholic holiday follies up in his head as further proof of the errors of the Catholic faith.

My in-laws invited me to attend Christmas Eve services at the local Lutheran Church. I am respectfully declining, choosing instead to stay inside, out of harm's holiday way. So, from snowy Iowa, I wish all of my family and friends the merriest of Christmases. And I say, in the spirit of the season, WATCH YOUR STEP!

He's Making a List...

2009-12-01T06:59:00.000-08:00

As I watch television and read trashy magazines this holiday season (because who better to get you in the Christmas spirit than John and Kate?), I can't help but think about Jolly Old Saint Nick making his list. Mr. Claus, if you're reading this, here are my suggestions for the naughty list:

1. Tareq and Michaele Salahi. There isn't a pretty dress, blonde dye-job, or fancy name that can explain this one. You are so naughty. And busted.

2. Rep. Joe Wilson. It's naughty to interrupt, Joe. Especially when your boss is speaking. And doubly so when your boss is the President of the United States.

3. Kanye West. Again with the interrupting (Santa senses a theme among the naughty boys on his North American route this year).

4. Wall Street. All of Wall Street gets coal for being greedy. You already got a present from the President and it wasn't enough? Tsk. Tsk.

5. Jon Gosselin. Seriously dude, you're a father of eight. It's naughty to think you can chain smoke and chase the ladies.

6. Balloon Boy's parents. I don't even know where to start.

7. Levi Johnston. Giving a tell-all interview in Vanity Fair about your baby mama's mama is just rude. I'm no Sarah Palin fan, but who seriously believes that she would call her baby a "retard"? Santa wants to remind you that Sarah Palin is your son's grandma. Naughty!

8. Tiger Woods. You should know that the media is much like this little stuffed elf that my mom had perched on our clock in the living room of my childhood home, always watching, all-knowing.

9. Notre Dame Athletics and Alumni, for spending $18 million to get rid of Head Football Coach Charlie Weiss, money that could go for, oh, I don't know, scholarships for deserving students? Santa wants to remind you that you aren't even in a conference. Get over yourselves.

10. Dick Cheney. I'm sure you've done something to annoy the big guy this year. Even out of office.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T13:24:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Dinner is over, dishes washed, pies eaten, and the Cowboys are playing on television. Seems a good time to give thanks!

I'm thankful for food on the table--for the Reynold's Cooking Bag, for holidays that warrant eating two kinds of potatoes at the same meal, and for family-recipe pies and hot rolls that make my new house smell like my childhood home

I'm thankful for Baby A--beautiful, healthy, and so worth waiting for.

I'm thankful for Big K (not the store)--my husband, my best friend, the love of my life.

I'm thankful for my family--across all time zones. It's not a cliche--you are the best family anyone could ask for. I love you all and wish you were here.

I'm thankful for my girlfriends, old and new. I wish we were all at the table giving thanks together today--complete with wine and laughing!

I just realized that all of the "things" I'm thankful for are people (except for the food on the table, which is just a reason to bring people together) and I think that's just the way it should be.

Desperately Seeking Sherri: A Semi-Year in Review

2009-10-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

So. Sometimes a couple of months go by and I'm nowhere to be found. Such is the story of my life. The difference (for those of you out there who have known me for a long time), is that nowadays, when I drop from the blogosphere, you don't need to call mom and dad to stage an intervention because I may be lying in a pile of my own slobber whilst my unopened mail piles up around me. Now when I have a lapse in the blogosphere, it's because I'm out and about. I come and go, all the while carrying tons of blog-fodder in my head. But for the past six months, I've actually had some momentous stuff happen in my life and I didn't even stop for one minute to blog it down.

But I miss you, dear blog, so here's a short list of what I will call "Desperately Seeking Sherri: A Semi-Year in Review."

May 2009:

Finished spring semester. It wasn't pretty, but I did it with little sleep, a lot of coffee and a stellar support team with husband K. as captain. K's big moment as team captain came at the end of the semester when I got my grades and burst into tears because I got a B+ in one of my classes. I also got three A's, but, as per my usual "let's be really, really hard on myself for not being perfect even though I missed two classes because I gave birth," I honed in on the B+. At first, K looked at me like I had grown two heads when I told him what I was crying about. "I know, I know," I cried, "tons of starving kids in India would be happy to eat my B+, but I still didn't want it." But he knows me, so he just stroked my hair and told me to get a grip and be happy. Crisis averted.

July 2009:

Baby A's first airplane ride when I flew with her to Oregon to meet all the cousins. Words cannot adequately describe the blog-fodder contained in those ten days. Suffice it to say that any conflict that occurred (think kitchen stand-off between me and the family matriarch) paled when compared to the pure joy of seeing all the cousins running around in the yard where we used to play, having a slumber party with my sisters, eating the best hamburgers, fries, and soft-serve cones at the Cove Drive-In, staying in the kitchy-paradise of the Historic Union Hotel, and being with my mom and dad in my childhood home. It was My Big Fat Happy Reunion.

August 2009:

Moved to a new house just around the corner from our townhouse. K and I decided to sell our townhouse and take the no-shared-walls plunge into a single family home with our own yard and all. We also decided to open our walk-out basement to K's parents. They are in their late-70s and were living in a condo in town after selling their home a few years after retiring. Your first reaction to this is, "What? living with the in-laws?" I know, crazy. But I tell you, they are wonderful. Won.Der.Ful. Maybe it's the fact that they are older, or the fact that they are just as down to earth as my parents--which I didn't think was possible to find. But it works.

They do their own thing, and when they're not doing their own thing, they're cleaning my bathroom, showing us how to save 30% of our laundry soap by reducing the amount measured per load, or keeping a weekly log of the electric meter reading out back to make sure that the newfangled digital meter reading system is accurate. You can't make this stuff up. It's straight from The Great Depression, which happens to be when they were raised. And most of all, they are taking care of baby A while K and I work and go to school. You cannot imagine what it feels like to take A down the stairs in the morning before I go to school, knowing that she is loved, safe, and cared for while I'm away. I also, much to Grandma J's dismay, hired a college student who comes over twice a week to babysit. We did not want the grandparents to watch her full- time. Baby A is a lot of work and recently became mobile, which makes for exhausting days. They of course see this as an "unnecessary expense" (see above Great Depression reference), but it makes me feel better.

September 2009:

I took my comprehensive exams, which is the culmination of three years of Ph.D. coursework and serves as the "bridge" between doctoral student and doctoral candidate. Kind of like going from Brownie to Girl Scout, but without the cool candle ceremony and s'mores. Studying for and taking comprehensive exams was quite possibly the most mentally-exhausting thing I've ever done. Including going through labor and having a baby. Plus, there's no epidural. But, having "passed" all of the written questions and my oral exam coming up on November 4th, it's nearly over. For all you moms out there, the oral exam is like the pushing is over, the baby is born, and now it's just that nasty placenta. Oh, and here's another way that it's worse than labor: I didn't look back at the piles of paper when it was over and think, "oh, honey, let's do it again..."

Which brings me to October, where I sit at my computer with the crisp fall breeze coming in my new home-office window and a steaming cup of coffee nearby. I can hear the sounds of baby A's lullabies through the wall as she takes her morning nap, and the clamor of Grandpa and Grandma downstairs. I'm still desperately seeking Sherri, but I think she's close-by.

Luck Be My Mother Tonight

2009-03-19T09:04:00.001-07:00

My mom and dad are two of the most wholesome, decent, and down-to-earth people I know. It is these qualities that make their visits such a pleasure. They just left after a two-week visit where they met Baby A and doted on her and gave K and I some much-needed relief and support. My parents are also very "low-maintenance" guests--it really doesn't take much to entertain them. Cook a great meal, take a drive to the local DQ and spend the other 22 hours a day holding their new granddaughter and they are set. Well, at least that was the case for my dad. My mom, however, yearned for something more.

I live 20 minutes away from a casino, and my mom could smell it the moment she got off the plane. This facet of my mom's character comes as a bit of a surprise. You wouldn't expect my mom jean wearin' mom to have a lust for luck. This is, after all, a 63 year-old woman who just bought her first pair of black underwear six months ago on a "crazy" shopping impulse with her daughters. She showed me said underwear as she unpacked her suitcase, noting that she didn't wear them on the plane. God forbid something would happen and the emergency room staff would wonder what kind of whore-granny wears black underwear? This is also the same woman who had to be medicated to relax enough to drink out of the same glass as her kids because you never know what kind of infections her dirty little spawns carry around in their mouths. This is not a woman who leaves things to chance. And yet, she loves to play the slots. The penny slots, mind you, but a gambler all the same.

We were not 2 miles from the airport before my mom caught my eye in the rearview mirror and mouthed the words, "Are we going to the casino?" with a huge grin on her face. She had to mouth it because she knew she was taking a bigger risk than "put it all on black" by mentioning this pernicious activity in my dad's presence when they were supposed to be here to see their grandchild. My mom's love of gambling is a source of tension in their marriage. Not because she has ever bet the farm (she literally plays the penny slots), but because they have morally disparate views on games of chance. My dad's faith frowns on playing any games of chance--cards, gambling, the lottery--because of his church's doctrine on the value of work and the idea that you should not speculate on getting something for nothing. But, in the game of love that landed him married to a casino-loving Catholic, "Love thy wife" trumps their disagreement over gambling. So, on any trip where they are within an hour's drive of a casino, my dad follows my mom around the non-smoking slot machine area, standing just behind her like a Mafia heavy, counting the minutes until he can lure her to the buffet.

We made her wait a whole week before our first trip so she practically ran across the parking lot when we finally pulled up to the gaming resort. My dad rolled his eyes and settled in beside her for an afternoon of stoic loyalty. She took her $30 plus another $20 that she swindled from Dad and set to work milking the machines for all the pennies they were worth. Three hours later, she was up $40 after paying her bookie-husband back the $20 loan and had her fix for the moment. The next week was spent helping me spring clean, organize my kitchen cabinets washing baby clothes, and spending time with the baby. To the outside world she looked like an industrious grandma, puttering around and doing all the little things that would make life easier for her grad-student daughter. But I could sense her inner struggle. All the busy work was just like a smoker wearing the patch--it was helping her cope with her casino craving until the next trip.

It was mid-week before she began asking if it would be possible to go again, and I really wanted to make time to take her again because she had done an awful lot and really doesn't ask for much. As I looked at my calendar, however, it was hard to see where I would have time. She peered over my shoulder as I scanned my planner, thinking outloud,

"Let's see...I have class all morning Thursday, an all-day commitment Saturday....hmm...maybe Friday afternoon?"
(she was literally holding her breath at this point)
"No, darn it, Baby A's vaccinations are scheduled for that day."

And then it happened. I turned around and looked my mother in the eye. I knew what she was thinking. Her eyes were begging me to do what her mouth could not utter. I said, "Mom, you want me to reschedule my daughter's vaccinations from potentially life-threatining viruses so you can go to a casino?" She emphatically said, "No! No!" and then paused while we locked eyes for another second and I said, "I'll see what I can do but you know I already told Dad about the doctor's appointment." Fear registered in her eyes as she calculated the odds of looking like a bad granny. Calling upon my years of codependent behavior, I told her I would take care of it. I made a call and rescheduled the vaccination appointment for the following week, arranged a babysitter, and then casually mentioned to dad that I had rescheduled Baby A's shots for after they were gone so they wouldn't have to spend their last days with her being fussy and possibly sick.

That Friday, my mom and I hopped in the car, just the two of us, while K was at work and my dad stayed behind to do his laundry and begin packing for their departure two days later. I dropped her off at the slot machines and then settled in at the snack bar with my own addiction--a vente latte--to wait until she had another fix.

Ready or Not

2009-02-25T08:55:00.000-08:00

I should have known the difference between wetting my bed and my water breaking, but I'm a first time mom, so bear with me on this one...

So, here I was, in the eighth month of my pregnancy, when I awoke with a start, feeling a gush of something hit the sheets. My first thought was, "Oh, great, now not only do I wet myself when I laugh or sneeze, but I am going to start wetting my bed?" Indeed, this little one inside of me had put such pressure on my bladder that I found myself answering with emphatic "YES" responses to the Flomax commercial on television just two days earlier:
"Do you urinate often?" Yes.
"Do you find yourself stopping and starting?" Yes.
"Does your need to urinate wake you up at night?" Yes!
I got excited, thinking that the pharmaceutical companies had finally come up with a magical cure for prenatal bladder pressure, when the voice over said, "...then you may be suffering from an enlarged prostate." Oh. So, back to my story...

I got up and made it to the toilet with what I thought was urine running down my leg. And then it hit me. This could be something else. I turned on the bathroom light, which woke up my husband and started the chain of events that would culminate in the birth of our daughter. But I was still in denial as K. said, "Are you ok?" Um...I think I wet the bed? K sat up in bed, asking frantically, "You wet the bed?" "Well, um...I'm not really sure..." to which he replied, "Oh, here we go..." I came back to bed, still wetting myself, when Kyle suggested that we call the hospital to find out what to do about this overactive bladder. I decided to go back to the bathroom while he scrambled for the phone number. The nurse listened to my story as I explained that I was 36 weeks pregnant and suffering from adult onset bed-wetting. She explained that this sounded like my water breaking and that I should come in. I scrambled to take a shower, wash my hair and shave my legs while K. packed a bag since we had not bothered to do that yet. He gathered a hodge-podge of mis-matched shirts and sweats, underwear, toothbrushes and the digital camera while I blow-styled my hair because you just never know who you might run into.

On the 15-minute drive to the hospital, K and I decided that we would take this "false alarm" to heart and really get serious about having a baby when we returned home. We would take stock of the nursery after my shower on the 1st and buy any remaining items we would need. We would pack our bag for real, with a focal point object, chap stick, soothing music...all the items the baby books suggested. And then, the doctor checked me and confirmed that this was not adult-onset bed wetting, but rather my water had broken and I needed to settle in. I responded the way any mother would when told that she was having a baby after just two hours of sleep and having eaten nothing more than popcorn for dinner the night before: I burst into tears.

Fortunately, I would have the next 25 hours to wrap my brain around the idea of motherhood and K. would embrace impending fatherhood by standing watch over his family with ice chips, popsicles, and juice, offering back rubs and encouragement in between catching a few moments of sleep. He was a trooper, only complaining once of his "aching back," from attempting to sleep on the hard sofa bed before I stopped him, pointing out that if you have a penis in a labor and delivery ward, you don't get to complain of an aching back.

As I mentioned before, we forgot to pack a focal point object, but it turned out that I obsessed over Kyle's mismatched outfit instead. Why was he wearing a powder blue tee shirt with paint stains and black sweatpants? Couldn't he call his mother to bring him a clean shirt? How about a white tee shirt? Why don't you go change your shirt before it's time to push? Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a matching shirt? And it worked! Nagging my husband about his shirt served to distract me for a good six hours before giving in and asking for an epidural.

Finally, as the clock struck midnight, the doctor informed me that it was finally time to push. A team of nurses, OB/GYNs, and pediatricians assembled to welcome little A into the world. The nurse asked me if I wanted a mirror to see the action but I politely declined, explaining how I fainted at the vet's office when my dog had to have his blood drawn, so I was not at all keen on seeing what I overheard a resident calling, "trauma to my bottom." And so I pushed blindly, holding K's hand and working harder than I ever thought possible to see that little face. And my Mormon-Catholic hybrid child-bearing roots did not fail me; it wasn't long before I pushed one last time, heard a shrill cry, and met my little girl. This was followed by a wave of nausea as I lost all those popsicles and jello at once.

K stayed with little A while the doctors worked on repairing the aforementioned trauma to my bottom. Seeing my daughter's face for the first time was beautiful, surreal, and exciting all at once. I will never forget the moment I added "mother" to my identity. Stay tuned for what it all means!

Jimmy Choo Never Had Edema

2009-01-02T22:05:00.000-08:00

Current members of the "mom club" warned me these days--the third trimester--were coming, but I was in denial. For the first few months of my pregnancy, 24-hour nausea and a chronic case of narcolepsy reminded me that little A was swimming around in my womb. Then, the blissful second trimester honeymoon began. My nausea was replaced with a penchant for iceberg lettuce and fettucini, a bigger cup size, and a respectable little baby bump to justify my first maternity jeans--cute, boot-cut denim with an elastic band below my belly. At my 25 week check-up, I had gained just 16 pounds. Perfect. And then it happened: I entered the third trimester. Or, what I like to call the official kick-off of Mommy Martyrdom. Those cute under-the-belly elastic jeans fell down halfway to the bus stop as they no longer had anything resembling a hip to grab, and I began to walk like an old sway-back mare. And then came the ankles. Or, more accurate: There went my ankles.

Mid-Blog Disclaimer: I know this is a silly thing in the grand scheme of things, and that I have been incredibly blessed in the fertility and pregnancy department, but shoes are important. They say something about a woman. Regularly polished and scuff-free,a pair of quality loafers or heels says, "I have my shit together." And, no matter what size we are, we can buy a new pair of heels and feel fabulous, put together, and just generally on it.

New Year's Eve, I got dressed up in my most festive maternity digs, blow-styled my hair, lined my lips, and accessorized before putting on my shoes and heading out for our last New Year's Eve celebration sans children. As I stood at my closet, I felt like Coleridge's ancient sailor in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," a sea of shiny leather boots, peep-toe pumps, kitten heels, and sequined slides surrounded me. I couldn't bend over to reach my black leather Franco Sarto ankle boots, much less fit them over my foot. But I wanted to try, so I called for reinforcements, aka my husband, who had just slipped into his cool Steve Maddens.

He walked in, took one look at me and then my closet floor and knew that he had encountered what he likes to call a "blue wire/red wire" scenario. There would be no right answer to my question, "Honey, can you help me with my shoes?" So, he did what any good partner does for a third-trimester woman. He reached down and picked up the boots while I laid on the bed with my swollen ankles in the air. "Well, let's give it a try," he said, just before he placed the boot on my big toe. That's as far as it went. My big toe. He looked at me pleadingly as I began to cry and recited in a barely audible whisper, "Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink..." He slowly removed the hip pre-baby boot from my toe, reached for my clunky slip-on clogs, and said, "Tomorrow we'll go buy you new shoes to get you through and before you know it you'll be back in boots and heels." He also threw in some compliments about my sparkly maternity wear and said I smelled fabulous. Crisis averted.

We had a great time on New Year's Eve, stayed up until 1:00 celebrating with friends and then came home and kicked off our shoes. And, true to his word, K took me shoe shopping the next day, detouring me from the bright and shiny, pointy heel shoe displays and saying all the right things, like, "those aren't so bad" as he laced up my new, size 9, fashion-athletic sneakers. I realized just how cramped my poor edema-ridden ankles had been in my vain attempt to keep wearing size 7. I felt like I could walk a mile! Or, at least to the parking lot.

Shopping List

2008-12-22T10:20:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago I casually mentioned to K. that I was going to run to the grocery store to pick up a few essentials. Winter had arrived with a vengeance in Iowa City, with sub-zero wind chill, ice and snow. K. immediately objected to me going out in the snow and ice, fearing for the ever-growing cargo I am packing around in my 7-month womb. His offer was kind, even chivalrous, but sending K. to the grocery store unattended is like opening a box of chocolates a'la Forrest Gump--you never know what you're going to get.
I gave him my four-item list, stressing that this was just what we needed for the morning:
1 gal. milk
Orange juice
Fiber One Cereal
blueberries if less than $3; otherwise, a bunch of bananas

40 minutes and three-phone calls from the cereal aisle later, he arrived home with a face as proud as a cat who has just left a dead mouse on the doorstep. Look what I did! I shopped! The contents of the bag included:
1 gal. milk
1 pt. chocolate milk
Orange juice
Fiber One cereal
1 doz. Rhodes frozen orange cream cinnamon rolls
1 bag Totino's Pizza Rolls
Generic Fruit Loops

and...1 dozen roses. Needless to say, the pizza rolls were instantly forgiven.

On the spot

2008-12-15T21:53:00.000-08:00

Now that I am in my third trimester, I have become the subject of public curiosity. Random people make comments about my new stature, mere acquaintances have opinions on how much is too much coffee for my unborn child to withstand, and sometimes, a particularly annoying person will say something at just the wrong time. This happened today, as I was waiting to use the bathroom at Starbucks (where I was consuming my 1 serving of doctor-approved caffeine for the day):

Random person with no social boundaries (referring to my mid-section): "Wow, looks like you've been busy!"
Me (pointing to my mid-section): "This? Oh, it took like ten minutes."

Inner monologue: "Sorry dude, this isn't an iVillage moment; it's finals week, I need coffee, and I have to pee."

Big Girls, Little Girls

2008-12-12T15:39:00.000-08:00

Heather from Dooce, one of my favorite bloggers, wrote this to her daughter about their upcoming addition to the family and it made me think of my sisters. She writes,

"Mostly, I am excited that this baby will have you as an older sister...I can only hope that you will have with this one what I have with my own, a bond so strong that it doesn't even matter that we have nothing but our parents in common. They are lifelines, people who were there, who were witnesses to everything that made me who I am, and I am the same for them in return. Is the relationship perfect? No, but we all know that we would sacrifice anything for each other, and one of the many reasons we decided to have another child was to give you the possibility of that friendship."

I immediately thought of my three sisters. The four of us are dubbed "The Big Girls" and "The Little Girls" because of our range in age. We are all so different, yet I cannot imagine any other combination. Next week they will all be together in Oregon for Christmas. They will gather in the house where we grew up, where it will be loud and comfortable, with little cousins spilling over the arms of my dad's Lazy Boy recliner. I will be here in Iowa, nesting and setting up the nursery for Baby A. Even though I know I'll have my hands full with one baby, moments like this make me hope she gets to be a sister someday.

Poultry Porn

2008-11-26T07:16:00.000-08:00

Last night, as my husband browsed the Internet for turkey preparation techniques, he came across this video on Epicurious (our favorite cooking website). So there we were, just your average couple watching an online cooking demonstration, when the woman began to slather soft butter along the inside thigh of a turkey. Now, call us sophomoric, but pay close attention when you get about 34 seconds in and tell me you don't feel just a little bit naughty and giggly. We looked at each other, and then looked behind us to make sure the shades were pulled, lest some unsuspecting neighbor peek in and see our poultry pornography.

Needless to say, we've replayed it about 57 times, and dissolve into fits of tenth grade laughter every time as she caresses the inner drumstick. Gobble Gobble!

Clever Lawyer

2008-11-21T08:12:00.000-08:00

If you haven't picked up on this little fact about my personality, I have the tendency to pull what I like to call the "Clever Lawyer" tactic when faced with difficult emotional situations. Dr. R was the first to officially diagnose this condition when I was seeing him in the midst of a very difficult time in my life. He noticed that he had a hard time focusing and being serious because I was so adept at distracting him with my witty banter and humor. I also pride myself on the fact that I am not a sappy, sentimental person. I don't collect knick-knacks or stuffed animals. I don't save cards and love letters. I laugh at The Notebook while the other 99% of the population (my husband included) weeps. I choose to save my tears for the really big stuff, like statistics exams and missing the bus. I am a compassionate and loving person, don't get me wrong. But, when it comes to my own stuff, I am a human Tootsie Pop, with my hard candy shell and soft, chewy middle. It is a brilliant defense mechanism, but one that I have had to learn to check when it's time to get down and psychoanalysis-dirty.

Now, as I'm faced with a huge life change a' la Baby A., I find it necessary to get in touch with my soft, chewy middle, and not just because it's so big that I can no longer see my toes. It's a completely new feeling to just give in to the unexpected, the unpredictable, and the wholly unplanned. I have never been on the verge of having all I've ever wanted, all at once. I have my health, my family, my friends, my husband, a home to call my own, a puppy, a Phd that's relatively around the corner, and now a baby. And I'm getting really excited, gushy, and sappy inside. This little girl that I have never met is going to be the most important person in my life.

And, as my advisor told me this week, I will figure out that I can have more than one important thing, but for a while, I can give in and let her be it. All the way to the soft, chewy middle.

Procrastination Progress....Sort of.

2008-11-18T17:29:00.000-08:00

I couldn't very well write a blog yesterday about how I'm working on my procrastination tendencies and then put off writing about it. That's right, folks, just when I think I've hit the end of the psychiatric road, Dr. U has presented me with a new challenge. Being an emotionally intense, driven, and did I mention emotionally intense, person has its drawbacks when that same person is preparing for another human being to enter her life and throw a wrench into everyday tasks. Because I am working on "role transitions" in my latest round of therapy, I have to examine my everyday routines and reflect on how they will change when Baby A arrives in February. My homework for last week was to keep a journal of my stress and emotions and reflect on possible triggers. So, twenty minutes before my appointment last Friday, I bought a composition book from the drug store, ran over it with my car to make it look worn and used, and wrote some quick vignettes with different colored pens so I would have something to show Dr. U. This exercise in itself caused considerable stress, which I reflected on in the waiting room with five minutes to spare.

Over the course of our hour-long appointment, I walked Dr. U through the previous week and noted those times that I felt particularly stressed. The highlight of my stress came last Wednesday night when I got home from school, sat down to load new Office Word software onto my computer, only to find that it had some technical malfunction. Now, rather than just sit down and write my 5-page paper that was due the next morning at 11:00 on the current version of Word that was successfully loaded on my machine, I had to fix this problem immediately. I got on the phone to the Geek Squad and they couldn't send anyone out, but I could bring the computer to the store and they would give it a look. Again, rather than just wait until the weekend when my husband had offered to either a. take a look at the problem and see if he could figure it out or b. take the computer to the store to get it fixed, I had to solve the problem. Now. So, I hefted the 20" monitor/computer into a laundry basket because I was too impatient to figure out how to put the machine back into its box, drove the 8 miles to the computer store, and hefted the computer into the store.

Now, with two hours to kill while they fixed the problem and loaded my software, I figured I may as well get the grocery shopping done. Again, I could have gone home and worked on my paper, but it seemed wholly inefficient to drive all the way home and back. I left my computer and drove to the grocery store, then to Target (may as well stock up on toilet paper and read the latest magazines while I wait), and finally, at 9:00 at night, back to the computer store to pick up my machine. At this point, Dr. U stops me and says, "What about your paper? I'm nervous for you just thinking about this paper that needs to be written!" I tell her that I am not paying her to project her "stuff" onto me, and could she please let me finish?

By the time I get home, it's 9:30. My five-page paper is due in 14 hours and I still have to unload my computer, haul it upstairs and hook it back up to the printer and keyboard, bring in and put away six bags of groceries, eat dinner, and put my feet up before my ankles disappear. Being a pregnant procrastinator is all the more exhausting! By the time I sit down to eat, I decide that I cannot possibly write a good paper when I'm tired, so I turn in for the night. My alarm sounds at 6:00 the next morning and I mentally count back the time from 10:55 when my class begins, with the soundtrack to Mission: Impossible playing in my head. Here's the part where you would think I'd be a nervous wreck. But I'm not. I'm ready to go. I eat breakfast, watch last night's episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta, which is cut from 60 to 43 minutes thanks to DVR. At 8:00, I pour a cup of coffee and head upstairs to write. Two hours later, I have a five-page paper on "The Conceptual Place of Communicative Theory" with citations and a snappy metaphor in the introduction. And, I tell Dr. U with a proud smile on my face, with time to shower and get to class on time!

Dr. U says she guesses that this method has worked for me, that I get a rush from working under the gun and manage to produce good work. Yes! But here's the thing: While I have learned to truly immerse myself in my doctoral study and actually enjoy spending hours readings, writing, theorizing, planning and producing the best work I can for my courses and working on projects for my assistantship, these smaller assignments just seem like a game to me. A five page paper? Are you kidding me? I could find a five-page paper along with some loose change and lint under my couch cushions! A one-page case summary for Law class is like a "detour" in The Amazing Race. In order to deal with what I deem the mundane tasks of academic life, I make my own reality show: Survivor PhD.

(Dr. U is still distraught over the fact that I put off the paper, so I spend a few billable moments reminding her that it is a good thing that she is freaked out by this. I would be worried if she agreed with me and admitted that she, too, blew off prepping for her brain surgery clinical until the morning she was going to practice her technique. Unlike her "homework," no one dies if I chose the wrong dialogic theory for my paper.)

And then we get to the dilemma this presents with my transition to student/mother: What if, Dr. U says, I wake up that morning and Baby A has an ear infection, or is just crying and needs to be held all morning long? Right. That. Suddenly my tightly-woven Mission: Impossible scenario has turned upside down. We spend the next part of the session brainstorming ways that I can retrain my brain to break things into smaller tasks, leaving room for error, or life, or a crying baby. I guess I have to find a new theme song for my daily assignments as I have practiced all week planning at least one day ahead of time for the small stuff. And it's felt pretty good.

p.s. Because I just have to show her what I'm up against in changing my mindset, I will also bring my graded 5-page paper that I got back from my professor today. I got an "A," with comments like, "nice metaphor" and "fine articulation of your theoretical position" in the margin. What a rush!

Inside My Head: The Final Frontier

2008-11-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

I have been going to therapy for my entire adult life. Beginning with my anxiety attacks in high school, moving through the exhilarating train wreck of marriage, divorce, and pseudo-dating I call my twenties, and finally to the self-actualizing 30s, I have heard and said it all. Reclaiming my inner child? Sure. Dealing with perfectionism and stress? You bet. Depression? Yes! Love addiction? Sign me up! Psychopharmacological therapy for intensely emotional and intelligent syndrome? Why not! The great part about moving to self-actualization is that I can speak openly about these issues. Not in an inappropriate catch-you-in-the-bathroom-while-you're-washing-your-hands-and-mention-that-your-sweater-reminds-me-of-the-color-of-the-room-where-I-was-inappropriately-touched-by-Pastor-John kind of way. But, in the "Hey, now that you mention it, I've been through some stuff." The only problem with having this many therapy notches on my belt is when I meet a new therapist who is not prepared for the new and improved, evolved Sherri. Case in point: My recent session with Dr. U.

Because I am taking a drug for one of the aforementioned issues (I'll keep you guessing on that one. Is there really a pill for love addiction, you're wondering?), my OB/GYN and I thought it prudent to see a psychiatrist during my pregnancy. You know, to work through "role transitions," and so as to have a relationship established with someone should I run into any post-partum mental health issues. My body once grew a tumor with extra teeth, for Christ's sake; the odds are great that a few extra hormones could mess with my system. So, I made an appointment with Dr. U, Chief Resident of Psychiatry at the hospital. I sat down for my "intake" appointment and proceeded to answer her question: Family medical history? Yes. Personal mental health history? Yes. Relationship history? Yes, yes, and yes. Current medications? Just a little something to take the edge off.

As she asked more detailed questions about life events, I began to tick off each of the key events or relationships that precipitated visits to therapy throughout the last twenty years. I was careful to show just enough emotion so as not to prompt her to order a battery of Rorschach ink blot tests to see if I was psychotic/anti-social, but not so much that I would end up in a fetal position on her office floor and miss my 3:00 class. Her eyes got wider and her pen flew across her notebook as I answered her questions.

Dr. U: Tell me about your relationships, Sherri
Me: Oh, I'm married to a wonderful guy who loves me and supports me and is just great. Phew, what a change from the alcoholic boyfriend in high school, and the anti-social abuser in my thirties, with a few meatheads, cowboys, and one really lovely soul that I married and divorced in my twenties.
Dr. U: Um, how about your family?
Me: Oh, you know, the usual June and Ward Cleaver upbringing, except my mom had undiagnosed OCD until a few years ago, and my grandmother was bi-polar and then there was that one time when I was five, and that incident in the dorms freshman year...
Dr. U: And have you undergone therapy in the past for any of these issues?
Me: Um, let's see...off and on I've seen two individual therapists, a marriage and family counselor, and two psychiatrists, one of whom was named, appropriately, "Joy." And now you.
Dr. U: Yes, right, and then, um...you were diagnosed with depression in 2006?
Me: Yep.
Dr. U: And, how are you doing with that now?
Me: Oh, great. I mean, diagnosed depression sure beats living in the deep, dark place where you don't open your mail for a month, forget to eat, and wonder why you don't feel worthy when you are obviously a great person.

At this point, Dr. U tells me she is going to step out, consult with the attending psychiatrist, as is common practice with residents, and then return with the attending to review my case. Ten minutes later Dr. U returns, armed with Dr. C and they are happy to recommend Dr. U work with me on a series of interpersonal therapy sessions to work on role transitions and my general mental health management. And she was happy to refill my prescriptions as needed.

Our weekly conversations consist of talking through how to manage my stress, communicate more effectively with my partner, and setting realistic expectations for myself, among other things. Looking back, I am pretty proud of the progress I've made in the mental health department. I know I will always have to fight being a little nutty and emotionally intense, but that's all part of what makes me me, after all.

This week's topic is my propensity to procrastinate, which may present the greatest psychological challenge of all. Stay tuned!

Seven Random Things

2008-10-22T18:20:00.001-07:00

It's been exactly one month since my last post and hopefully next week people will look at my blog and think, "Palin who?" So, at the risk of being "so last election" here I go with something new.

My sister Sara tagged me to write a "Seven Random Things About Me" meme.

1. I do not like cold pizza, cold leftovers, cold Chinese, or cold deli sandwiches (except for a brief, morning-sickness-induced craving for deli turkey hoagies). When I see someone on television or in a movie, reaching into the fridge for a Chinese take-out container or tearing into a cold pizza crust, I think BLECK! Go ahead and take that extra five minutes to warm it up and enjoy the intended flavor. Cold to me equals dry and tasteless, not to mention the fact that if something is cold, it may as well be ice cream or lemonade.

2. One of my first lessons in humility was when I was voted Captain of my high school cheerleading squad. Almost. The votes were tallied in a secret ballot and then my cheer advisor, Suzy, called me to stay after practice. She explained to me that I was voted captain, but that she was going to give it to my friend Jennifer because she thought that she "needed it" more than I did. I remember being, at once, confused and understanding exactly what she meant. Jennifer was named Captain and I never said a word. Until now. On the world-wide-web. But I'm over it, really.

3. Once a self-proclaimed extrovert, I find myself becoming more and more introverted as I get older. I used to be terrified at the thought of spending a quiet Friday night alone, but now it's the thing I look forward to all week! My husband works until 9:00, so from late afternoon until just before bedtime, I have the whole house to myself. I come home from school and catch up on DVR'd talk shows while reading my email. Then, it's off to Thornberry Dog Park with Cooper where he runs and pees and sniffs and I walk on the trail before coming home to make dinner for one. The night is capped off by watching my best present ever: The Sex and the City box set and then greeting Mr. E. when he gets home before tucking me into bed. Ahhhhh....TGIF for grown-ups!*

4. I love, love, love shoes. Shopping for shoes, trying on shoes, wearing high heels that may hurt my feet but it doesn't matter because they are so so pretty. The random part of this item is that I've also had two girlfriends with whom I shared a love of shoes. The same shoes. My friend Lynn and I had five pairs of matching shoes. We'd scout out the best shoes and the best deals and then alert the other when we found the perfect pair. That Girl and I also shared a weakness for shoes and ended up with several matching pairs bought on "business" shopping trips together. The sincerest form of flattery! Alas, the start of graduate school and the end of discretionary spending meant less shoe shopping, not to mention occasion to wear them. I cannot wait to buy new shoes when I get my first post-doctoral job!

5. I had a revelation recently that I am living all of my dreams at once. Well, maybe not all--I still haven't traveled or ran a marathon, but mostly. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to earn a PhD. I also always envisioned myself as a mother. Now, I am working on both, all at once. I vacillate between being terrified and beaming with happiness and excitement.

6. I miss my mom and dad. I miss Oregon and the Blue Mountains. I miss my sisters and girlfriends, now that we are literally spread across the country (Washington to Virginia, New York to Massachusetts and back to Oregon!). I love Iowa and the choice I made to move here, but there is nothing like that sense of place I feel when I think of Oregon and the Pacific Northwest.

7. I am a grand procrastinator. I will do most anything to not write a paper, start a lit. review, write a case study, study for an exam, write a proposal, or put away the laundry that I've washed and folded. I eventually prevail over my innate tendency to put things off, and even thrive in the rush of meeting a deadline, but waiting too long often puts me in a state of stress that makes me not fun to be around. I'm slowly learning how to get things done in a more systematic way, but will probably always find a floor that needs vacuumed when it's time to sit down and write.

*I just re-read #3 and realized, "Holy crap! That will NOT be my Friday night routine for long! I'm going to have a baby! Crap! Crap! Crap!"

So That's Her Secret!

2008-10-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else wonder what on earth Governor Palin was staring at on her podium last night? The bar for her performance was set lower than a limbo stick at a sweet sixteen party, but, to borrow her beloved phrase, "gosh darn it" I wanted substance! Alas, since I did not get substance, I will resort to the following catty judgments:*

1. If you are going to say Ahmadinejad's name six times in the interview to show us you are hooked on global phonics, please, please pronounce his country correctly. Here's a guide from Websters: It's "ɪˈræn" or "ɪˈrɑn", not "eye-ran." "Eye-ran" is what the women of this country will tell their grandchildren they did if you become our Vice President.

2. The glamorous bridesmaid up-do. I don't even know what to say.

3. Make up your mind: Alasks is either the country's only Arctic state or it is in the heartland. You can't have both.

4. Pat, I'd like to buy Governor Palin a "G." As in, if you are speaking to the American people, go ahead and articulate fully every single word. Even those that end in "g."

5. Don't blast CEO Tillerson of Exxon and "bless his heart" at the same time. It's confusing.

6. Don't tell me you are going to show those Eyeranians American values like "respect for women's rights" until you respect a woman's right to choose.

7. Clarifying her stance on marriage as a union between one man and one woman: "But I also want to clarify, if there's any kind of suggestion at all from my answer that I would be anything but tolerant of adults in America choosing their partners, choosing relationships that they deem best for themselves, you know, I am tolerant and I have a very diverse family and group of friends..." Stop right there! When you have to say "I'm tolerant" or "I have a diverse group of friends," I am sneakingly suspicious that you are in fact intolerant and surrounded by people who think just like you.

8. My good friend on www.thatgirl.blogspot.com said this one best: "I do not want to have a VP who punctuates every other sentence with 'gosh darn it.'" Right on, That Girl!

Now, I could go on and round out my list to ten items, but I won't. That would be unpatriotic.

*Disclaimer: I was born in a small town, too. A town roughly one-fifth the size of Wasilla and closer geographically to the actual heartland than Alaska, so I am uniquely qualified to post these catty remarks.

Who's Fault is This?

2008-09-29T19:38:00.000-07:00

Chalk it up to my new-found maternal instinct, but I have resisted the urge to unleash my witty banter at Sarah Palin's expense, mostly because it's just too easy. This morning, however, I watched her interview with Katie Couric on CBS and was outraged. Not just because she referred to Congress as "those guys in Washington," but because of her utter lack of preparation, savvy, and general political acumen. She has no business being on the presidential ticket and the ridicule she is being subjected to is John McCain's fault.

Surely he could have predicted the elitist scrutiny she would fall under when it was discovered that she (gasp!) transferred to three different colleges before earning her bachelor's degree, or that her passport is just one year old. Surely he has a staff, at least one of whom should have taken her aside and rehearsed a few foreign policy talking points besides, "I can see Russia from my back yard." Who in their right mind would ask a person with no concept of national, world, and global affairs beyond her limited scope of experience to potentially lead our country? And worse, who would ask someone who so obviously is out of her league and then essentially throw her under the media bus?

This situation reminds me of a conversation I had with a good friend and mentor a few years ago. I was immersed in the last pages of my Master's thesis and due to turn it in to the graduate committee for final review in a week. I was terrified that they would read one paragraph and start laughing and rolling their eyes. "Who is this girl?" "Who does she think she is, trying to get a Master's degree?" My friend, in her unfailing wisdom, reminded me that I had an awesome faculty advisor who had reviewed each draft, provided honest feedback and guidance, and ultimately his blessing that it was ready to submit to the committee. She said, "Sherri, your advisor will not set you up for failure. He has a reputation to uphold and if he approved a thesis that was less than ready, it would reflect poorly on him and the work we do. He knows what a Master's thesis is supposed to look like and if he says you are ready, you are ready. So get it done!"

Mr. McCain, this is not what a Vice Presidential Candidate is supposed to look like!

Hey Baby

2008-09-25T13:28:00.000-07:00

The other day, I felt it. Not the fluttering, "quickening" or kicking of my baby moving, but a feeling all the same. For weeks, the only indication I had that I was pregnant was the all-day sickness, frequent trips to the bathroom, and an appetite for nothing more than baked potatoes and my mom's pancake recipe. When I finally felt better, it was time to host family and friends, get married, and begin my third year of school. Thoughts of this elusive baby were centered on finding daycare, shopping for a crib, stockpiling diapers, squishing my expanding waistline into my jeans, and generally worrying about how I would juggle being a mother, student, and research assistant in a few months.

On this day, however, I was sitting on the couch after class, hand on my belly. I had read that I might be able to feel the first flutters any week now so I was concentrating on any kind of feeling. And then it happened. Not a kick, but a realization. I understood for the first time that I had a baby. My baby. I could picture her, just big enough to fit in my hand. And I fell in a kind of love that I'd never felt before. A protective, I will do anything, anytime, anywhere for you because you're my baby, kind of love.

I immediately emailed my mom and tried to put the feeling into words, but I didn't have to try very hard because she understood. I finally had a tiny glimmer of how much she must love me. I cannot imagine how I will feel when I finally meet this little one.

Iowa City 52245

2008-09-02T15:42:00.000-07:00

I am going to begin by explaining myself to anyone who has grown impatient with my absence in the blog-o-sphere. Here's the thing: I've had news, excitement, goings-on in my life that I have been bursting to report. But, being the humble woman that I am, I recognize when I need to step aside and let others have the spotlight. I thought it was only fair to let Brenda Walsh and the rest of the 90210-Redoux have their little premiere before turning the attention back to me. I even waited a respectful 48 hours, giving viewers a chance to watch the encore presentation tonight. So, there you have it.

Now, back to me. Step aside, Beverly Hills, because Iowa City 52245 has been busy getting pregnant. And married. In that order. I am not going to say that I got pregnant by accident. I KNOW how accidents happen, and for the past 16 years of my sexual life--mom, stop trying to do the math, you're embarrassing me--I have not had an accident. I also came of age in the ABC After School Special Era. The poignant story of Rob Lowe becoming Dana Plato's baby daddy after "just one time" at summer camp in School Boy Father was embedded so deeply in my 10-year-old brain that I never once sneaked out of the house in high school (that, and Dad's custom-fitted wooden security dowels on all of the windows pretty much guaranteed abstinence for my sisters and I).

There must have been some small part of me that wanted to get knocked up on that fateful afternoon in June. I am, according to the medical community, of "advanced maternal age." Basically that means that I have like a dozen viable eggs, and most of those have had knee replacements or moved to time shares in Florida. My beloved is 38 and, according to the medical community, he is rockin' the same fast-moving, voluminous goods that he had at 17 because that's just the deal with being a guy. At any rate, we are not young and had decided that we would start "trying" to get pregnant next year, after at least six months of honeymoon bliss. I had honestly begun to worry that maybe I would have a difficult time getting pregnant, so I figured that, at the very soonest, I would have a baby after my coursework was completed, after sitting for my comprehensive exams, and after successfully defending a dissertation proposal. Not once did it enter my brain on that June afternoon, sunlight pouring into the bedroom, that not one, not two, but all three of my sisters had gotten pregnant easily.

16 weeks later, we have fully embraced the excitement that comes with being expectant parents. We've stopped circling the Clear Blue Easy test stick with steely eyes and shaking our fingers at one another, cursing, "One time!" We've given up on shaking our heads over the timing and the implications. Instead, we realize the full import of the "miracle of conception" cliche. I had no idea it was just the right day and just the right moment, but one of my eggs got off her ass and hobbled over to greet her 10,000,000 suitors and hooked up with what I hope was the smartest, fastest swimmer in the bunch.

The New Classics

2008-08-01T17:03:00.000-07:00

Sara H.P., one of my all-time favorite bloggers, invited me to participate in a reading challenge based on Entertainment Weekly's 100 "New Classic" books, part of their June 2008 special issue on the 1000 best books, movies, innovations, style moments, and more of the past 25 years.

Of the 100 books on the list, I have read the following:

3. Beloved, Toni Morrison (1987)
5. American Pastoral, Philip Roth (1997)
8. Selected Stories, Alice Munro (1996)
15. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers (2000)
16. The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood (1986)
20. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding (1998)
28. Naked, David Sedaris (1997)
31. The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien (1990)
34. The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold (2002)
36. Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt (1996)
38. Birds of America, Lorrie Moore (1998)
41. The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros (1984)
48. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver (1998)
53. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon (2000)
59. Krik? Krak! Edwidge Danticat (1995)
60. Nickel & Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich (2001)
67. The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini (2003)
69. Secret History, Donna Tartt (1992)
72. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon (2003)
74. Friday Night Lights, H.G. Bissinger (1990)
81. Backlash, Susan Faludi (1991)
83. The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields (1994)
88. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby (1995)
94. Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser (2001)
96. The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown (2003)*

That leaves 75 books deemed important, provocative, and classic by EW. Of those 75, I have started, lost interest, and put down another 10, and read the back covers of at least another 20 still. That left me with at least 40 books to consider reading. The challenge is to pick six books to read between now and January. Here are my picks:

18. Rabbit at Rest, John Updike (1990)
65. The Giver, Lois Lowry (1993)
17. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez (1988)
27. Possession, A.S. Byatt (1990)
30. Case Histories, Kate Atkinson (2004)
24. Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry (1985)

Some of my picks made the list because they are a genre I have never read (#24), a recommendation from a friend that has been filed away in my mental to-read list (#27), because I love mysteries (#30), or because he's Gabrial Garcia Friggin Marquez, for Dios' sake! I'm going to start with Lonesome Dove because summer seems like the perfect time to read a Western classic.

*Technically, I did not read this one. I listened to it in the car on a road trip with an ex-boyfriend. Said boyfriend's mysterious behaviors made Robert Langdon's journey seem like a walk in the park, so I'm keeping it on the list. I earned that classic.

Actually, Denise, It's Not That Complicated

2008-05-27T15:57:00.000-07:00

In my never-ending quest to relate my life to reality-television stars who, like me, are just trying to make their way in this world, I watched the premiere of Denise Richards' new show last night. Her show's title, Denise Richards: It's Complicated seemed appropriate. Anyone who reads tabloids could argue that Denise Richards: It's Simple would not accurately depict this former-model-turned-bad-actress-turned-Sheen Dynasty-gold-digger-turned-Heather Locklear's-home-wrecker's life. I also thought (mostly to rationalize to my fiance and half-owner of the DVR why I needed to record this show instead of his favorite Discovery Channel show) that since Denise and I are both 30-something women, I could relate. Granted, it would mostly be a "cautionary tale" kind of relate, but still. I think I read once where the the Dalai Lama says we can learn from everyone who comes across our TV Guide.

Ten minutes into It's Complicated, I was suspect. We meet Denise as she is headed to the DMV to change her name from Sheen back to Richards. When her number is called, however, the clerk informs her that her official document does not have a required signature to complete the change. I felt for her because we've all had the unpleasant experience of waiting in the DMV only to be turned away for one bureaucratic reason or another. But, as frustrated as I've been at the DMV at one time or another, I have never said, 'this is F-ing ridiculous!' She asked to see the manager, and then the manager's manager, all of whom told her the same thing. Her final response was that this whole thing was making her 'hot and itchy' and, again, that it was 'f-ing ridiculous.' Seriously, Denise, it's not complicated to understand that if Jesus Christ himself walked into the DMV with insufficient documents he would be turned away. It's also not complicated to show a little decency to others, especially those who are doing their job. Hey Denise, no one cares that you were a Bond Girl!

Throughout the show, she is a complete B-word; an F-ing baby who bleep, bleep, bleepety bleeps her narrative to the camera crew. Sure, we've all had hard days, having to book last minute spray tans for blind dates, finding a boar to impregnate our pet pig, and standing in line at the DMV, but most of us find a way to do it without getting 'hot and itchy.' Good thing she talks about her late mother, because from the way she talks you would think she was raised by wolves. The most complicated part of this show, it seems, is the job the sound editors will have bleeping out all of her expletives. Too bad her little girls have to hear the un-cut version of her narrative. Denise, on behalf of women everywhere, I say to you: "Have some f-ing class, it's really not that complicated."

Woman Without a Cause

2008-05-20T14:45:00.000-07:00

About six weeks ago I ordered a "Hillary for President" bumper sticker. On Monday, it finally arrived in my mailbox. I think it is about six weeks too late, as even staunch supporters like myself are beginning the painful process of accepting that her bid is over. I love Hillary, and it's no secret that I also love Bill. So the thought of Hillary and Bill in the White House again? Well, that was just too good! And, no matter who you stand by politically, there is no doubt that at least some portion of this campaign has been about gender. She is an aggressive, powerful woman and that just doesn't sit well with those who don't like to see that in a lady. And I'm not afraid to say that I would have supported pretty much any woman for President besides of course Ann Coulter. Alas, we've waited nearly 220 years for a female President and now it looks like we'll wait at least another four years.

As I sat and stared at my shiny bumper sticker, it seemed as though I was going to be a without a cause, left without a woman behind whom I can rally, support, and place my hope for the future. And then I turned on my television and remembered there were still two women on the national scene that had victory within their reach: DeAnna Papas and Kristi Yamaguchi. For those of you who do not watch reality television, first of all, I'm sorry. You miss so much. But, if you remember, DeAnna was the woman left at the pre-altar-altar on last season's The Bachelor. America (and the producers at ABC), felt sorry for DeAnna, the Greek goddess with a winning smile, and were furious with Brad for leaving her standing there without a rose. Now, she has her chance as the star of The Bachelorette. This time, 25 eligible bachelors will vie for her attention and ultimately her love. During the first rose ceremony, she chose to keep both a snowboarding "dude" who wore a jacket that would make even Joan Cusack in Working Girl cringe and a self-proclaimed 26 year old virgin. These poor choices only make it more interesting to watch, if only for the huge amounts of fodder that judgmental women like me will have for the next eight weeks. And, unlike The Bachelor, we get to see hopeful men drop like flies as DeAnna slowly weeds them out of the running. No super-delegates or popular vote to keep her up at night. She is in control.

ABC also gave women everywhere hope as we watched Kristi Yamaguchi compete in the final episode of Dancing with the Stars. Last night she beat a football player and a soap opera star to win the gold mirror ball trophy. Again, for those of you who don't watch reality television, this was a really big deal because she was the first female champion in five seasons.

Why am I sharing all of this with you? Because sisters need a cause and if we can't get it from the national political scene, I feel it my patriotic duty to remind you that the national television networks have not forgotten us.

Cleaning with the Enemy

2008-05-18T07:05:00.000-07:00

I grew up with a father who labeled his dresser drawers with an automatic label-maker, as a "guide" for my mom to put away his clothes in the proper place. My mother ran surveillance on the clutter in our bedroom like a Patriot Act agent, scooping up any idle toys and selling them in the next yard sale. Yes, she sold our idle things. Hmmm....I wonder why I have such a hard time relaxing? Needless to say, I grew up in a clean house. Now, I am an adult who abhors clutter. I don't buy knick knacks because I still feel slightly guilty when I lay on the couch at 4:00 watching Oprah; I certainly don't need some bisque figurine staring at me from the bookshelf, judging me with frozen eyes.

Turns out, I don't need a judgmental tchotchke to make me feel like my bathroom will never be clean enough. I have a fiance for that. I really thought (and my sisters would agree) that my dad was the most meticulous person I'd ever met. And then I met Kyle. I remember going to his apartment for the first time when we started dating. I was impressed with how clean and put-together it was for a bachelor's house. He had art on the walls, hand soap in the bathrooms, and matching towels hanging in the guest bath. And, just as with every other encounter in my life, I failed to see the red flag in all of this. The alarms didn't sound because I was so wrapped up in the "nice, clean guy" idea. If I had only looked closer I might have noticed that the toilet paper rolls were always hung the same way. Or, that the matching towels were never used. Because, as he explained, they are the "pretty towels." Again, not noticing that my new love interest was freakishly clean and ignoring the fact that a 6'4" man used the term 'pretty towels' to describe his bathroom decor, I looked up at him and said, "Wanna play house together?"

I soon learned that my sweet Rain Man craves routine and order. He arranges his toiletries in order of use, from top to bottom, in his shower caddy to "save time." The logic behind the aforementioned toilet paper placement is because "that's how they do it in the hotels and it just looks nicer." He cleans both ears at the same time, a Q-tip in each hand, because it's "more efficient." And the pretty towels, well, let's just say that they are never, under no circumstances, to be used to wipe Great Lash off of one's eyes. Not even in a pinch. That was a long night. Mostly these little quirks and preferences are endearing. Who doesn't want to just pinch the cheeks of a guy that sits frozen on a toilet, unable to wipe his bum, if the toilet paper is upside down? But sometimes, as is the case with housecleaning, it is just plain annoying.

According to Kyle, my version of cleaning is "putting crap away." Kyle approaches cleaning with the ferocity of a meth-addict with a toothbrush. Surface cleaning is for amateurs. We also have very different understandings of what "let's clean the house" means. Just last week we were "cleaning" and I went upstairs to run the vacuum, dust, strip the bed sheets, and turn my nose up at the bathrooms. I came downstairs and found Kyle with his head up the gas fireplace insert in our living room in some sort of weird Sylvia Plath interpretation. I watched as he stood up, replaced the faux wood and screen, turned to me and said, "There! Much better!" Uh...much better than mopping the floor? Apparently, whomever installed the fireplace had placed the faux wood incorrectly and the vents were in sore need of cleaning. Being the ever-encouraging fiance that I am, I said, "wow, what a difference that makes!" He sat on the couch opposite the fireplace, turned the switch and beamed as he saw the gas flames flickering in perfect symmetry, unobstructed by a crooked log. Talk about an inability to relax! I was more than a little concerned.

I left him to warm his neurosis by the fire and started sweeping the floor. He watched me and my half-baked attempt to corral our scum for a few moments before he just couldn't stand it anymore and said, "you're doing it wrong." Uh, what? Last time I checked sweeping consisted of pushing a stick around a room. My first instinct was to unleash a diatribe about what an obsessive-compulsive, chauvinistic jerk he was But in a moment of genius, I looked up at him with a furrowed brow and said, "I know, I just can't do it the way you do," and handed over the broom. I felt like Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy, when she outwits her psychotic husband by jumping off the boat when she supposedly "didn't know how" to swim. I escaped upstairs, reading magazines, until I heard, "Honey, come look at my shiny clean floor!"

From Here to Eternity

2008-05-16T08:48:00.000-07:00

Four hours ago marked the end of my second year in the PhD program. I am officially a 3rd Year. To all of you people out there who were smart enough to stay gainfully employed, that means I'm halfway to becoming Dr. E. But right now, I am just plain tired. I feel like I've been playing Survivor: Iowa City for the past 16 weeks. I've slogged through piles of dense management studies for a minor that I'm pretty sure I don't want anymore, suffered certain frostbite at the bus stop through the longest Iowa Winter in recent history, raced against the clock to write coherent papers, and fielded phone calls from my mother-in-law to be who wants to know if I prefer gold or silver writing on my thank-you cards. Oh, and that's to say nothing about the endless "reflections" you have to write in a PhD program. Or, at least a PhD program focused on warm and fuzzy stuff like helping people. I can't imagine the PhD kids across the river in Microbiology do a lot of "reflecting on my assumptions about E-coli..." Where I come from, reflecting is just a fancy way of "worrying" and is best left repressed. But I digress.

And the worst part is that I understand that these are not legitimate gripes in the grand scheme of things. Complaining about "having to" be a full time, fully-funded doctoral student, or "woe is me I'm getting married this summer" is the scholarly equivalent of that jackass NBA star Latrell Sprewell who turned down a $21 million dollar contract because, "I can't live on that; I have a family to feed." Guess who never set foot on a basketball court again?

That's the thing about being "half-way"--it puts you in the precarious position of not knowing if the glass is half-full or half-empty; it depends on the day. To wit: When I am too tired or incapable of focus, I often turn to my friend Nordstrom on-line. I go right to the shoe section. Glass-half-full Sherri clicks on "see the latest styles!" and puts the new Franco Sarto wedge heels in my "shopping cart," knowing full well that I will not buy them, but can at least dream about the day when I have the occasion and money to wear them. Glass-half-empty Sherri furrows my brow narrows my search by clicking on the "Sort by: Price: Low to High" and scrolls down rows of Easy Spirits for $35.00 before slamming my laptop shut and stomping to my room.

Today, however, is a glass-half-full day. I woke up with that delicious realization that I didn't have to trudge downstairs and cozy up to a theory-based read, but could instead pour a strong cup of coffee and watch last night's Gray's Anatomy. My kitchen floor is so dirty I can't walk on it without gathering at least an entire slice of bread's worth of crumbs, but no matter! I'll get to it! For now I am going to relish in my half-way glory. And, one of my best friends in the whole world is graduating with her PhD tomorrow morning. Her glass is spilling out all over and that gives every half-way girl a healthy shot of hope.

Book Meme

2008-05-14T05:13:00.000-07:00

Book Meme

My sister and friend introduced me to the "Book Meme." My sister, in her usual truth-telling manner, asserted that I would not post just because I haven't updated my blog in, oh, two months or so. Therefore, in my never-ending quest to surprise her by following through, here is my selection. Here's how it works: Pick a favorite book with at least 123 pages. Turn to page 123, find the fifth sentence and then write down the next three.

Many of my most treasured books are packed in boxes in my parents' garage, so I chose a recent favorite instead. Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life is a book mostly about the writing process, but also about learning patience and the sometimes exhausting task of practicing discipline on whatever your craft happens to be. The title of the book comes from a conversation her dad had with her brother one night. Her brother was writing a report on birds that he'd had three months to complete but had waited until the day before. He was sitting at the kitchen table, paralyzed by the huge task at hand. Her father sat down by him and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird." Being a self-proclaimed procrastinator who, after nearly 10 years of higher education, still sits at my desk paralyzed by huge papers and the fear of failure, this book speaks to me. This particluar passage is about the jealousy that she felt when her writer friends were enjoying success while she struggled:

"You are going to feel awful beyond words. You are going to have a number of days in a row where you hate everyone and don't believe in anything. If you do know the author whose turn it is, he or she will inevitably say that it will be your turn next, which is what the bride always says to you at each successive wedding, while you grow older and more decayed."

And that pretty much sums up what I feel for days on end working through this PhD thing. Mostly I'm plodding along, my piles of books like the young boy's binders full of bird descriptions. But some days I ask myself, "What if there are just too many birds?" And then I look out my window and hear the actual young birds that have built a nest under the eaves of our garage. And I realize that, if they don't chew through our DirectTV cable and ruin my tv life, they are a constant reminder that spring is here and school is out for the summer in just two days.

"

Waiting

2008-03-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

My sister wrote about our parents in her latest blog post. She commented on how fortunate we are to have a mom and dad who care about and love us unconditionally. They have always, unfailingly, been there for us, putting our well-being above themselves. We grew up thinking this was the norm, but each of us have discovered in our adult lives that this is actually an exceptional experience. This past Saturday I was reminded of this fact. One of the freshman girls that I work with in the college readiness program lives with her aunt and her boyfriend as a result of being removed from her home. Each month I meet her and five other kids at the pick-up spot where we wait for the bus together, and then I wait until the parents or relatives pick them up. Every week all the parents except this girls' are there. This aunt is always late or forgets to pick her up altogether.

I remember getting off the bus after a track meet and calling my dad from the gas station to come pick me up. And they always did. One time I called and the phone was busy (what did we do before call waiting?) so I called the operator, faked an urgent voice, and requested an emergency break-through to get my mom off the phone. Needless to say, I was an especially impatient and indignant teenager. I had no idea that not all parents are dependable.

We'd had a great day on the college visit and this girl was laughing and talking to her friends all the way home. As soon as we got off the bus and she looked around for her aunt's minivan, however, her expression changed. "Where the h** is she?" she said, and then turned to me and said, "sorry, but she forgets every time!" I suggested she call her but the phone just rang and rang. She called her grandparents, but they weren't home. We waited 15 more minutes before I suggested giving her a ride home rather than waiting outside in the 20-degree weather any longer. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone forgets. But being forgotten and constantly waiting chips away at a kid's already crumbled self-esteem.

The point is, being safe and being cared for are two different things. I assume her aunt's house is a better environment compared to living with her mom, but the little things, like remembering to pick your kid up when she gets off the bus, are important. I hope I'm as dependable as my parents were and still are. Some things are worth waiting for, but knowing you are important enough to not be forgotten is not.

When is Coffee Not Coffee?

2008-02-27T07:01:00.000-08:00

A couple days ago, I walked a mile in the snow and ice (yes, part of it was actually uphill, in the wind) to meet a few other students across campus for a group project. Now, everyone who has ever gone to college bristles when they hear the words "group project." Yeah! Let's synchronize our wildly different schedules and work outside of class together! In an effort to make the experience less painful, I suggested we have our first meeting over coffee. Starbucks and homework in one shot, pardon the pun. My plan fell apart, however, when one of my partners invited us to her office across campus. She said, "I'll make coffee or tea." Uh, do you have a personal barista?

So there I was, trudging across a bridge to the other side of campus, freezing cold, just betting that her idea of coffee would be very different from my own. I know this because I have seen her drinking tea on several occasions. I have always viewed "tea drinkers" as suspect, and those that drink tea, yet offer to make coffee for others, even more so. How can you understand robust, earthy, and strong coffee if you spend your life drinking flaccid hot water with sugar? Sure enough, when I arrived, she took my coat and led me to the table where packets of non-dairy creamer and sugar substitute awaited. Red flag! Even though I am one of the most critical people I know, I also understand how to grin and bear it, or, in this case, gulp and bear it. So, I took a deep breath and poured a full cup of Folgers. She warned me that it was "really strong," but I took a sip and said, "oh, it's just right." For the first time, I actually craved a cup of Constant Comment.

Some may say, "coffee is coffee" but I vehemently disagree. Coffee is not coffee when you can 1. see the bottom of the cup; 2. say the word "bleck!" when you taste it; or 3. close your eyes and visualize you are in a truck stop when you smell it. At least the grinning and bearing it tactic allowed me to breathe through my mouth and avoid the offending smell.

Cuba vs. Couture

2008-02-25T06:28:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm one of those people: I love pop culture and following celebrities along with my friends on E! News and OK! magazine. I especially love that my favorites use an exclamation point in their titles, aptly describing the fervor with which we follow their subjects. OK! would not be the same without the exclamation point. It would be, "she looked 'ok' in the Ballenciaga," rather than "OK! let's see who's fabulous, scandalized, or rehabilitated this week!" But I digress...

I found out just how attached I was to pop culture when I received an invitation for a dinner hosted by the graduate student association. It was scheduled for 5:30 on Sunday, February 24th. My first response was, "Who the hell schedules an event on Oscar night?" Now, I am as commited to my program as the next person and I understand the importance of bonding with my cohort, not to mention having the decency to show up when my faculty advisor hosts a party. But not at 5:30 on the 24th of February! On this night, I am transfixed on my couch, holding my breath until George Clooney arrives in a perfect-fitting tuxedo.

Alas, I had to go. I reviewed my Operation Oscar exit strategy with my partner before we walked up the driveway: Greet, eat, and then a gracious "oh, wow, time to get back to the books" exit. Unfortunately, I missed all the glamour and arrived just in time to see Daniel Day Lewis wearing brown suede Hush Puppies with his tuxedo. Fortunately for him, the best actor votes were already tallied. The next morning, I woke up like a little girl on Christmas morning, excited to creep down the stairs and turn on my DVR to see what E! News Red Carpet coverage had brought me. And then, a dilemma: My alarm clock is set to the NPR station. When it sounded, the news was all about Raul Castro and a new leadership for Cuba. Damn. Now what was I supposed to do? Cuba's future, or red carpet recap? Quick! Rationalize! I laid in bed for approximately 45 seconds before I made my decision. No political pundit or E! News correspondent knew the designer Jennifer Garner would choose. But Raul is, after all, Fidel's brother and Fidel remains the leader of the Communist party. Not exactly another revolution, right?

Now THAT'S Self Worth!

2008-02-20T06:21:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my mom recounted a conversation she had with my nine year-old niece. This little girl is our family's resident "kick-ass kid." Forthright, stubborn, and very smart, she never lets you off the hook when she asks for what she wants or deserves. This past weekend, she and her sister babysat Aunt M.'s two kids. My mom assumed $5 and a trip to the movies was a good payment. She didn't agree:

Granny: Here is your $5.
B.: Granny, I did all the work so I deserve more money.
Granny: How much were you thinking?
B.: $10 from you and $10 from Aunt M. But, I will count your $10 as the movie cost and treats.
Granny: How about $5 for M's share?
B.: No, $10 is my final offer.
Granny: Ok, I have $5 now and can give you the other $5 when I have some change.
B.: You don't have to go to the ATM today; next week is fine.

Once again, I was struck by the difference that good parenting (and grandparenting!) can make in a child's behavior and outlook. My older sister is pretty "kick ass" herself and her kids benefit from her allowing them to grow into self-sufficient, confident individuals. I hope she understands what a great job she has done. And we're all confident that Miss B. will never lose her sense of self-worth!

Self-Worth in Sheep's Clothing

2008-02-18T20:11:00.000-08:00

I have enjoyed what you might call a banner year in the self-esteem category. I love my program at Iowa, am connected to my dearest girlfriends and family, and looking forward to my wedding this summer. Who knew, then, that the biggest challenge to my esteem would come in the form of a 36-pound boy and his ten-year-old sister?

But challenge they did! For five weeks, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to take care of two children who were accustomed to having every detail of their lives attended to; every whim fulfilled. I mentioned in my earlier posts some of their antics, but I did it in my usual funny narrative. Truth be told, it was awful. I have extensive experience with children of all ages and temperaments, but nothing had prepared me for their behavior. The screaming tantrums, constant demands ("soup OR sandwich, not BOTH!") and chipping away at my self-esteem. Not in the global, I-am-questioning-my-very-identity sort of way, but chipping nonetheless. Imagine waking up every morning and hearing, "You're chubby!" "I hate you" "Get out of my house!" "I don't like you!" "You're skin is like rubber because that's what fat people's skin is made of!" "You're stupid!" And those were the things the boy would say when he finally came up for air after screaming for 30 minutes straight that he was "TOO TIRED!" to get up. His sister would spend her mornings firing put-downs at her brother, throwing things at him, throwing things at me (scrambled eggs, anyone?), screaming when she realized she forgot to do her homework, and examining her packed lunch to be sure I included everything she wanted and nothing she didn't.

How could two children be so awful? The one-word answer? Parents. Not having kids of my own, I know I can't understand actual parenting, but I do know there are basic things that children need: consistency, boundaries, and positive attention to name a few. These children had none of the above. Their parents were both surgeons, and accustomed to holding their hand out and someone handing them a scalpel to do their job, and nannies to do their parenting. They programmed their children like a universal remote, sending them to Hebrew School, Chinese lessons, ballet, tap, and jazz dance, basketball, and ice-skating. I can only hope they did a better job of closing incisions than they did raising their children.

It didn't take long before I woke up each morning dreading my job. It took longer, however, to realize that I had a choice in the matter. I asked the parents twice to schedule a meeting to talk about the kids, but they never had time. Once again, it was my friend A to the rescue. She listened to my stories and offered advice for weeks before giving me the best advice of all: Quit. This happens to be my four-letter word. I'm no quitter! I finish what I start! I am loyal to the bitter end! What does she know! After I calmed down, I realized that this sort of misguided loyalty had gotten me in trouble in the past. Remember that man whose name we do not mention? He did so much chipping he needed an ice pick, yet I stayed for two years. And now, here he was again, 150 lbs. lighter.

For the first time, I realized that while I had learned to respect myself in the man department, having self-worth means requiring respect in all areas of my life. Bosses, friends, co-workers. Everyone. It is not my responsibility to make the best of a bad situation when it is clear it will never change. I can say, "wow, those people don't respect me, I think I'll quit." And quit I did. It was scary, I agonized over what they'd think of me, I fought the urge to call myself a quitter, and then I wrote a succinct resignation letter and hit "send." And, just like the man whose name we do not mention, the mother tried to get me back. She emailed, called, and had her children send hand-written apology letters and Valentines. When I refused to compromise, she got nasty and called me "incapable." This time, instead of begging her to take me back, I didn't respond, stayed firm, and left Ms. Bad Mommy to throw herself on the floor in a tantrum.

Bragging Rights

2008-01-20T12:26:00.000-08:00

I spent yesterday with a group of high school freshmen and sophomores as part of a College Readiness program I am involved with. I serve as a mentor to low-income, first generation and minority students, helping them learn the skills they will need to get into and succeed in college. This is a passion of mine, and spending one Saturday a month with them reminds me of why I am in higher education and helps me stay in touch with "today's student."

This month's topic was career exploration. We took them to a local radio station for a tour and conversation with a couple DJ's. They shared their college experiences and talked about turning college experiences, interests, and majors into fun jobs. After that, I led an activity called "Dependable Strengths." This involved writing down ten things that you are good at and enjoy. Examples could include sports, volunteering, taking care of family, learning to ride a bike, or drawing. Next, they prioritized the top five and wrote down what strengths were included in each of the experiences. Being a team captain demonstrates leadership, for example. After the activity we talked about the process and I asked them how it went. Right away, hands went up and one student said, "It was hard!" When I asked him why, he said, "Remembering mistakes and bad stuff is easier than the good stuff."

This 14-year-old boy voiced what we have all experienced at one point or another in our lives. Our mistakes, missed opportunities, and failures can loom larger than our successes, talents, and bold moves we make in our lives. As I helped them identify their strengths for this exercise, it reminded me that we could all benefit from an inventory of the good stuff in our lives. This is especially important if you are lucky enough to have an influence on others, whether it be your kids, friends, or people in the community. Seeing confidence inspires confidence. So go ahead, make a list of your accomplishments big and small, remember the things you most enjoy, and make room for the "good stuff!"

Null and Void?

2008-01-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

These past few weeks I've wrestled with the problem of having to "shop" for a church in which to get marriedfor our wedding. I was raised Catholic, and he grew up in the Lutheran faith, but neither of us practice anymore. Kyle wasn't crazy about having to go through the Catholic hoops and I just couldn't get excited about a Lutheran ceremony. We were a mini-reformation in the making. I have to say that I was leaning toward going through the Catholic hoops for the sake of tradition when I realized that the Saturday evening mass would conflict with my vision of an evening wedding. Having the wedding at a secular site was the best solution.

All was well and good until I called my maid of honor to tell her we had the wedding site settled. We chose to have our wedding and reception at the same place. I explained that it was just easier and we loved the space. Besides, I told her, I couldn't have a Catholic wedding because...and she interrupted and said, "because you'd have to get an annulment." An annulment! I completely forgot! Here I thought the biggest conflict was the Saturday worship schedule. We had a good laugh, but later I thought more about this concept. If you are divorced, and you wish to get remarried in the Catholic faith, you must petition for an annulment and a tribunal decides whether or not the previous marriage was deemed valid or if it can be nullified. The Bible says that if a man marries a divorced woman, he is commiting adultery because, once married, always married. So, no annulment, no Catholic marriage.

I'm not writing to rant against the church. I'm no expert on the subject and I have far too many other wedding details to consider without crafting an argument against this archaic and patriarchal practice. It's just that the whole thing prompts me to reflect on what it has meant to be a divorcee. As much as I would like to "nullify" certain events from my past, my marriage is certainly not one of them. Yes, it was not the right decision after all, but my ex-husband was a good and kind person with whom I shared nearly ten years. To erase this relationship would be to forget days spent on the ski slopes or cross-country skiing around a silent, snow-covered lake, countless road trips, camping, and going to concerts in the height of the grunge era. I would have to forget winter nights pouring over seed catalogs together and drawing our summer garden plans, and then summer months of picking basil and turning it into pungent pesto and sharing late dinners on the porch with friends. And most important, I would have to forget the moment when I stood at my kitchen sink and realized I had to leave him in order to be the woman I wanted to be. My marriage did not work for many personal reasons, but throughout the separation and divorce, I learned much about myself, my values, and what I wanted my life to be. Deciding to divorce him was, at once, the most painful and brave thing I've ever done. Now, ten years later, I appreciate these lessons even more. So I say, thanks but no thanks Father, I'll keep my past intact.

Nanny 911

2008-01-12T07:40:00.000-08:00

After my fourth day on the nanny job, I was doing fairly well getting the kids off to school and was learning the routine, but discipline....ah discipline. It's hard! It's hard under the best circumstances, but being a nanny for children that have never had discipline is much more difficult than I imagined. By day four, I was at a loss, so I made an emergency call to my friend A. A is a seasoned mother of two with a master's in elementary education to complement her natural parenting and people skills. She is one of those kick-ass women who approaches every life situation with a can-do attitude and practical solutions. I explained my situation and she immediately knew what to say. I had to establish myself as the alpha dog, the pack leader, a'la Cesar Milan. If they complain about their breakfast, simply say, "That's your breakfast. Eat it or not; I don't care." End of story. If they call me stupid, call each other stupid, call one another's stuffed animals stupid, throw their breakfast across the table, or fail to follow directions, I must have consequences in mind and mete out consistent punishment. She said that I need to be respected, not liked, and that kids crave structure and consistency. She was my Nanny 911! What would we do without our girlfriends?

Sherri Poppins

2008-01-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

For the better part of a year now, I've been preoccupied with finding a fun part-time job. I know, I know, I'm "working" on getting a PhD, but the gratification is so nebulous, the reward so far away. I want something startlingly different from scholarly work, something with a clear objective: demonstrate a skill, punch out, go home. Oh, and the extra money for my wedding fund would be nice. The tough thing is that part-time student jobs always seem to include unpredictable schedules and working weekends and nights, two things I'm not willing to give up As much as I'd love to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a Starbucks barista, free coffee and $4.00/hour after taxes is not worth working the 5:00 a.m. shift on Saturday.

With these restrictions in mind, I discovered the perfect job: babysitting! Before I was a doctoral student, before I was a professional, even before I was a cook/busgirl/grocery store clerk, I was a babysitter. So, I found a job listing for a part-time nanny for two children. Now, nearly 25 years later, I'm a babysitter again. I'm happy to report that the pay has increased from the $2/hour I earned in 1984. This job fits my schedule (6:30--8:30 a.m. M-F) and includes helping two kids, aged 10 and 6, get up and off to school. I pack lunches, make breakfast to order, organize backpacks, oversee teeth brushing and weather-appropriate dress, and walk them safely to school before the 8:20 bell.

The family moved to town a year ago and as a result the kids have had to adjust to new schools, friends, and nannies. According to their parents, the previous nanny doted on them, providing a lot of love, but no discipline. As a result, one of the tasks for myself and the afternoon nanny is to help them become more mature, respectful, self-sufficient young people. This is a daunting task for 6:30 a.m.! I discovered on the first day that I was "stupid" for waking the six year old up at 7:20 instead of 7:30 and he "hated" me for making his bacon on the stovetop rather than in the microwave. The ten year old girl was happy to inform me at the breakfast table that the little boy still wore diapers to bed and that his stuffed dog was mentally retarded. What? Public shaming over bagels? Fortunately for the children, I had already consumed two cups of coffee and could respond in my zen-caffeinated state. As we walked up the stairs to finish getting ready, the boy commented that I had a "big fat butt" to which I responded, "That's not an appropriate comment." I wanted to say, "You are far too young and it is far too early to objectify women based on your preconceived notion of butt size. Now run along and brush your teeth!" This job may not be so "part-time" after all!

The Dress

2007-12-30T17:00:00.000-08:00

“Custom has decided, from the earliest ages, that white is the most fitting hue, whatever may be the material. It is an emblem of the purity and innocence of girlhood, and the unsullied heart she now yields to the chosen one." --Godey's Lady's Book, 1849

I started my wedding planning with the most logical step: trying on pretty dresses. It's no secret that I'm a 36 year old woman planning my second wedding. Both of these things made my perspective different than the 20-somethings with whom I shared dressing rooms last Friday. Because I live 2,000 miles from my sisters and mom, I asked my mother-in-law to-be to accompany me to the dress shop and offer second opinions. We were greeted by three saleswomen as soon as we walked in the door. They immediately asked to see my ring and the gushing began. As I perused racks and racks of gowns, I got caught up in the excitement of it all. I'm going to be a bride! I'm getting married! Every kind of wedding dress, from less formal destination gowns to real-life princess dresses with poofy skirts and cathedral trains, hung in waiting! Thankfully, the 30-something in me remained in tact and I narrowed my search within minutes, ruling out anything with big skirts or big price tags.

There were two other brides in the dressing area and both appeared to be early-20s. I wanted to say what my biology professor said on the first day of freshman lecture to drive home the idea that it was a hard class designed to weed out the not so smart kids: "Look to your left, now look to your right. Only one of you will be here next semester." With only a fifty-percent marriage success rate, this dressing room was like a freshman lecture hall--one of these dresses would no doubt end up on e-bay within two years. I returned to my own fitting and ran interference on the over-zealous clerk who tried to bring a $1,700 dress into the room. I told her I didn't want to try on anything over $500 because I would end up liking the most expensive one. "Maybe just to see the style?" she replied. I smiled and channeled Emily Post, saying, "I have a specific price point in my budget that I'd like to stick with."

I tried on five dresses that afternoon and discovered that I liked sleeveless bodices with ruching on the waistline, a-line skirts, and just a sweep of a train. The wily saleswoman slipped in a $700 dress that indeed turned out to be my favorite. It was a good start!

The Arrival

2007-12-26T17:26:00.000-08:00

I've told everyone but the AP wire service by now that I am engaged to be married. I'm stil in that giddy, starry-eyed phase before the real planning begins; the perfect time to pause and appreciate the moment. Sometime last year--it's hard to pinpoint exactly when it happened--I crossed the threshold into a balanced and happy, quasi-normal life. The better part of my 35 years has been spent pursuing perfection and feeling like a failure. No matter how hard I worked, or how much success I had, I felt like a fraud waiting to be discovered. I drove myself, and at times all those around me, crazy. Finally, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, combined with some really great therapy and a change of scenery, I truly believe what my parents told me: that just being me is enough.

A dear friend once told me that I needed to view myself as a woman who stands at the doorway of a beautiful home that I call my own. And when a man wants to meet me, they have to walk up the driveway and knock on my door. Sitting by the window, and then rushing down to meet the first person that pauses at my mailbox will never work. This was the best advice. It was only when I felt at home with myself that I could invite someone over. My fiance is just that person. He is good and kind and warms my heart and hearth with love and laughter. I feel as comfortable with him as I do with my friends and familiy. In short, I finally feel at home.

My Political Crush

2007-12-11T19:12:00.000-08:00

I am in love with a complicated, charismatic man with a very high profile career. As such, I have to share him with audiences around the world, his constituents both local and across the globe, and wait hours on end just to have a little, as they call it in the business, "face time." So, when President Clinton made a stop in Iowa City to campaign for Hillary, I was beside myself. He was coming. To my city. No admission fee. I started planning my wardrobe immediately. I wanted to look classy but liberal; feminist chic. My boyfriend is a fervent democrat as well, and, though he'd never admit it, has a secret crush on Clinton as well. He got the night off so we could go see Bill together. I felt like a girl with two prom dates; one would pick me up and I'd meet the other at the dance.

After we parked the car, got frisked by security, and found a spot among the standing room only crowd in a ballroom adorned with "Hawkeyes for Hillary" banners, we joined the liberal buzz and waited for Mr. Clinton to arrive. He was 45 minutes late due to an early midwestern snow storm, but we didn't care. When he finally arrived, the crowd went wild. He was a rock star back in the days of MTV campaign appearances, and he was a rock star now, albeit a grayer, more work-worn version. I craned my neck and stood on tippie toes to see the podium while my 6'4" boyfriend snapped photos above the crowd.

For the next 50 minutes, we were taken back to the days of his State of the Union speeches. He spoke without notes, crafting an articulate argument for electing Hillary and demanding change for our country. In classic political style, he also led us down democratic memory lane, recapping some of his achievements in office. It was a brilliant combination of humility--"I'm just here to tell you what I know about Hillary" to the cocky, "Everyone knows I'm better than you, George Bush."

Because it was his last stop of the night, he promised to stay and shake hands. As the crush of democrat groupies made their way to the stage, my aforementioned 6'4" boyfriend cleared the way for me. I brought my copy of Giving, his latest book, and waved it in the air hoping to make eye contact. And we did! He raised his head (in recognition?) and beckoned me to the front with his large powerful hands. Oh my God, he is beckoning me to the front. People looked back to see who the President had selected from the crowd. I was Courtney Cox in the Bruce Springsteen video! My mind was racing, searching for just the right thing to say to my political crush. What could I say? "I really appreciate what you did for the Kosovars" or the standard Emily Post, "It's an honor to meet you Mr.President." I was almost within reach, flashing an expectant and giddy smile and passing my book to him, when a secret service agent stepped in front of me, grabbed my book, and said, "I need to take that please." But wait! I wanted a personal autograph! I wanted us to have our moment where I say my line and then he asks me my name. I wanted him to reach into his suit coat for a pen and inscribe my book with a personal message while I stood in deference. But Secret Service man left me flustered, so much so that when President Clinton reached out his hand, I pointed to the agent behind him and said, "He took my book!"

He took my book? That's what I had to say to the former most powerful man in the world? Not missing a beat, Bill shook my hand, smiled, and thanked me for supporting Hillary before moving on. I was frozen. I wanted it to be special, memorable. I moved away from the crowd, stood on a chair and searched for my boyfriend. I found him standing at the other end of the line, waiting for his turn with Bill.

Alone, together

2007-12-04T06:20:00.000-08:00

Even though I live with my boyfriend, one of my favorite times of day is 6:00 a.m., when my alarm goes off and I have the house to myself before my partner wakes up. I know, I know--I spent years living alone and am so happy to share my life, home and time with someone else. But I still need my time alone. Just as he needs to wind down at night after I go to bed by killing Germans in an X-box simulation of WWII (News Flash: We won the war), I like to wind up by taking the dog for a walk around the neighborhood, pouring my first cup of coffee, watching the previous night's re-run of Sex and the City, writing emails, doing homework, and whatever my solitary self desires. I have never expressly told my partner that I have a morning "routine" that does not involve him; it's just what happens. He sleeps in, exhausted from the battle theater, and I wake up, ready to live a faux single life.

You can imagine my surprise when, a few days agoe, I returned from walking the dog to hear someone whistling in my kitchen. I peered around the corner and it was him. In the kitchen. At 6:30 a.m. He smiled and said, "Good morning, honey, I made your coffee!" I pasted on a smile and said, in a thin voice, "Oh, that's sweet. Aren't you tired?" Read: "What are you doing in my house?" He thought it would be nice to spend some time together before we started our day since we'd had an especially busy week. There was no way to counter that with, "I really prefer to be alone with my thoughts until I've had two cups of coffee" without sounding like an asshole. So, we made breakfast together, I took a deep breath and pulled two coffee cups from the cupboard, and spent the next few hours waking up with my loved one.

And this is the best and worst part about growing older. I spent my entire 20s doing anything to not be alone and grabbed onto anyone who would fill the space. And then, just when I have this whole "being true to myself" and being comfortable in my own skin thing down, I meet another evolved 30-something that I really dig. Ultimately, I feel that I have the best of both worlds. I have a partner with whom I am comfortable spending time together, doing things together, or sometimes just sharing a space. And I have to admit: Even when I am downstairs living my faux single life, it's nice to know there is a real partner upstairs.

Wish Lists

2007-11-28T07:11:00.000-08:00

Last night my sister MaryAnne shared her kids' (ages 8, 9 1/2,and 14) Christmas wish lists. These lists say so much about each of their personalities. Brody, the 9 year old, is an outdoor enthusiast, Bridget, the 8 year old is the sassiest girl you'll ever meet and fully expects to get whatever she asks for, in life and under the tree! And Jessie, the teenager's list is just what you'd expect from any girl that age--No toys, just skinny jeans and Hollister tees.

They reminded me of my own childhood, writing letters to Santa and then putting them in the woodstove where they would float up the chimney, out into the night sky and blow to the North Pole where Santa would magically piece it back together to fill my wishes. Or so my mother told me.

If you're thinking of making a wish, follow these kids' advice and include whatever your heart desires. Santa just might take note:

A 9 1/2 year-old wish list:
1. Webkins Bear or Lion
2. Red Dirt Bike chest Pads
3. Red Dirt Bike Boots
4. Gold Kit (panning)
5. Animal Skinning Kit
6. Books
7. Wii
8. Knifes
9. Pup tent or a big tent
10. clothes
11. bow
12. Drum Set

8 year-old Wish List:

1.Christmas Brat doll Cloe
2.laptop
3.razer cell phone/camera phone
4.Wii for me
5.TV
6.Cothes/cute/pretty/boyesh
7.New Shoes
8.alarm clock
9.cds
10.new Bed Spered/plow+sheet+skirt
11. real make up not lil girl kind
12.hair iteams
13.art items
14.don't give me so much candy
15. I know you are my Parents

14-year old list:

1. Clothes

Damn!

2007-11-25T13:40:00.000-08:00

This afternoon as I headed to campus to study for my statistics class and officially say goodbye to Thanksgiving break, I got pulled over. As soon as I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, I knew I had been speeding. I also happened to be talking on the phone, which probably didn't help my case. In my defense, I was talking to the director of the Iowa College Foundation where I volunteer my time as a College Coach to high school students. Yes, that last sentence is a shameless plug to prove that I am a good person in many ways, if not a prudent driver.

At any rate, I pulled over and reached into my glove box for my registration and into my backpack for my license. The funny thing is that, unlike the other few times I have been pulled over in my life (for speeding as well), my heart would race, I would get teary and begin pleading as soon as the officer walked toward my car. This time, however, I was calm. When asked if I knew why I had been pulled over (why do they say that? Are they baiting us? Hoping we'll say, "Ummm....because I haven't paid taxes in ten years? Have a warrant for my arrest in another state? Going 27 in a school zone?) I said, "Because I was speeding and talking on my cell phone while doing so?" Yes, exactly. I handed over my registration and he said that he was giving me a ticket because I passed two signs telling me the correct speed. I said, "Fair enough" and waited for him to write the citation.

In years past, I would have tried a combination of ignorant victim and used my feminine wiles to try to get a warning instead. But what's the point in that? I'm not a victim and I certainly don't want to be a cliche woman in distress. I was driving a Chevy Pickup for God's sake; I'm hardly a weakling. The only thing that makes me nervous is the thought of going home and telling my boyfriend, who works in the auto insurance industry, that our fabulous insurance rate is going to increase. I may need those feminine wiles after all...

Home for the Homicides

2007-11-24T09:16:00.000-08:00

In the criminal justice system, sexually-based offenses are considered especially heinous, and therefore a television series highlighting such crimes should be aired over the Thanksgiving holidays. Wednesday night, as I sliced apples and spiced pumpkin for pies, TNT announced a Law and Order SVU marathon to air all day Thursday. Homicide for the Holidays? I am a huge Law and Order fan, and was excited at the prospect of 24 hours of Benson and Stabler apprehending sexual predators with the help of Ice-T. But as I watched the first episode (Benson goes undercover to catch a recently paroled rapist) it didn't feel quite like the holidays I remember from childhood, sitting at the table watching my mom make pies and homemade hot rolls. Ok, that part isn't true--we weren't allowed in the kitchen when my mom was cooking lest we screw up her perfectly-timed cooking schedule. She had not discovered the joys of Zoloft yet, so we didn't enter that room unless we were packing heat like Detective Benson. Aside from that, the holidays were lovely.

This Thanksgiving was the first in my new house with my new boyfriend and his family. I was up early, prepping the turkey while watching another episode of SVU. It seemed appropriate to watch crime on television as I proceeded with the blood-letting of a giant bird. As the relatives arrived and I pulled my first turkey out of the oven (it was perfect thanks to mom and MaryAnne's expert advice), however, I changed the channel to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. There may be heinous acts on this show as well--think High School Musical in Santa hats--but it's tradition. And I'm thankful for that.

About that Chicken

2007-11-20T15:17:00.000-08:00

As usual, I somehow managed to turn a simple roast chicken into a near mental breakdown. All was well on Saturday afternoon, watching football with my beau and his parents while preparing a lovely fall dinner of roast chicken, roasted brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes with pumpkin ice cream from our local ice cream shop for dessert. I trussed and salted the chicken and set the timer for an hour. One hour later my world caved in around me. I asked my beau's dad if he would carve the chicken and, in the process, he remarked that "this one must be a stewing hen!" followed by, "My dear, the blood has settled in the thigh and she's not done yet." What the hell does that mean? Stewing hen? Settling blood?

Immediately, I started spiraling in a self-loathing tornado. Tears pooled in my eyes much like the blood in the chicken's thighs. I swear if that chicken's head were still attached, she would have looked over at me and mouthed the words, "Yes, you fool, the sky is falling."I pulled my beau aside and whispered, "I have made this twice before and this never happened and now it's ruined when your parents are here!" to which he replied in his logical tone,"Honey, it's fine. We'll fix it," to which I replied, "It's not fine; it's ruined and now what are we going to eat?" Just then, his dad turned to me with his hands full of chicken entrails and said, "Well, here's part of your problem: You forgot to clean out the cavity and she's a big one!" His mom commenced with the chicken triage, saying, "I do this all the time" while she heated the undercooked parts.

I'm still standing in the middle of the kitchen fighting back tears while Kyle looks at me. I know what he is thinking but afraid to ask, so I answer his silent question, "Yes, I took my medication today. The pre-medication Sherri would have thrown the chicken in the garbage, run upstairs and flogged myself Medieval-monk-style." He smiled at me and at that moment, I managed to dosomething that I have just recently learned to do in the face of failures large and small: I stopped spinning, wiped my tears and shrugged it off, realizing that a four-pound undercooked chicken with bloody thighs is not the stuff that failures are made of.

Dinner turned out fine and I was reminded that while I may never shed all of my hard-wired, uptight, emotionally intense personality, I have learned to put things in perspective with a little pharmaceutical help and a partner to laugh with me.

Simplicity

2007-11-17T10:02:00.000-08:00

This is the first day of a ten-day Thanksgiving break. A break from class, teaching, statistics, research, and catching the bus. This semester has flown by and while I still have to do homework over the break, I am giving myself the weekend to relax and enjoy some simple pleasures. Watching E! News Weekend while drinking a pot of coffee (I didn't say I was taking a break from my caffeine addiction!), playing with my puppy, and, my favorite, pouring over my cookbooks for new winter recipes. Most of my girlfriends are fellow foodies, and I call on them when I have questions or need ideas. When I need a fabulous veggie idea, I call Sharri, Tenley is my go-to for simple dinners and fun appetizers, and Christian is my gourmet guru. Earlier this fall when a fresh chicken stared me down in the freezer, I called Christian for a recipe. Appropriately titled "My favorite simple roast chicken," this recipe reminds me that the most delicious things are often the most simple to prepare.

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/231348

And it was! I was skeptical at first, thinking surely it needed garlic, onions, some other spice. But Christian, knowing my obsessive tendencies, admonished me to just follow the recipe and not mess with it! So I did. And it was perfect. Now, it's part of my repertoire and one of my boyfriend's favorites, which also says a lot since he is from the Midwest and considers chicken "vegetarian."

So, I'm off to pat and truss my chicken!

Puppy Parenting

2007-11-14T13:28:00.000-08:00

Last spring, after years of dog allergies, I found the perfect, hypoallergenic puppy and immediately took him home. Before I became a dog owner, I was annoyed by people who would refer to themselves as "mommy" or "daddy" when referring to their relationship to a canine. A dog is a dog, not a human, and should be treated as such. But from the moment I took little Cooper out of his cage at Petland, he was mine. Perhaps it was the fact that he was half-price, or that he licked my face (another thing I swore I would never let happen!), but I loved him instantly.

Cooper and I take regular trips to Thornberry Dog Park, where he runs with other dogs under 18" tall. I let him off his leash and sit with the other "mommies" on a doggie play date. And, like moms whose children have opposable thumbs, the conversation centered on toy safety and potty training tips.

Last night, as he chased and sniffed and performed other dog rituals, I found myself watching and worrying. Do the other dogs like him? Why isn't Cosmo the Cockapoo playing chase with him? Why is he running along the fence all alone? Is he happy? I realized that I wanted him to be a cool kid on the playground, and to be cool involves being in the thick of the pack. For the next 45 minutes, I obsessesed over Coopers socialization. Surely dogs need validation from the pack to feel accepted and valued, right? Or, should I be proud that he is confident enough to run on his own, discovering all kinds of leftover scents along the perimeter?

Thankfully, before I obsessed any further, I looked up to see him engaged in a full-blown game of "Who's the Dominant Doggie?" I sat down and watched him play until he ran up to me, signaling that he was ready to go home. Good boy!

Facing my Failure Demons

2007-11-13T16:00:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night. Millions of bloggers sat at their computers, fingers flying in stream of consciousness writing. They paid no attention to the raging wind outside because they had stories to tell, observations to share, rants to rant, and yes, posting photos of little Jimmy wearing his first real lace-up shoes for relatives far and wide to see. On this same night, I was also at my computer, but instead of writing, my fingers were frozen with fear. Were there ghosts on the keyboard? A trip wire in the motherboard? I ran from my computer and looked in all my closets, turned on all the lights, checked for burglars in the basement. Alas, the house was safe. I returned to my blank laptop screen and the chill returned. The demon wasn't in the house, it was in my head. And it was that old familiar ghoul: A big, hairy, googly-eyed monster that lurked in the back of my mind, whose only words were "You're a failure! MOOOUUUHHHAAAHAAAAA!"

What is so scary about writing a blog entry, you ask? Good question. A year ago, I started a blog as a way to process my emotional journey preceding the move to Iowa. I'd been through a psychological and emotional ordeal and needed to use my old stand-by humor as a way to make sense of it and move on. I enjoyed writing and shared it with my family and friends. And then, that pesky homework got in the way and I was immersed in school. I didn't have time to write and revise regular vignettes of my dating past and evolving present. So I stopped. Wrote nothing. Because if I couldn't do something perfect, I wasn't going to do it at all, right? And, what's more, I had determined that my blog was going to be a certain way and, again (notice the pattern, Dr. Rice?), once I start something, I can't change it. The same thinking that had threatened to destroy me a few years ago was rearing its ugly head in even the most mundane tasks. My sisters and friends kept encouraging me to "just write something," but what if it turned out like my childhood journals that I destroyed ten years later when I read them and thought I was stupid? What if, horror of horrors, it wasn't good enough? The other part of this frightening mindset is that I couldn't tell anyone my fear that my blog was a failure. I was lurking in the shadows of my own self-defeating attitude. And that, my friends, is the scariest part of all.

Last week I had the good fortune to see a dear friend and confidant and she asked about my blog. She is one of those friends with whom I've shared absolutely everything. I finally admitted that I was afraid to be a blog-failure. Once I said it out loud, I realized how silly it seemed. Who was I going to disappoint? A blog is basically a diary. I don't have a national circulation; there are maybe five people who read it besides me, and half of those are relatives. So, here goes: I'm saying BOO! to my inner self-doubt and will use this blog as I'd orginally intended--to chronicle my journey toward getting my PhD, living with the love of my life, and housebreaking a puppy. And that's not scary at all.

Nailing My Self-Esteem

2007-08-16T20:32:00.001-07:00

The moment had come. After years of poor decisions and disappointing romance, I had a real date on a Friday night. A nice, attractive, funny, intelligent, gainfully employed man my age was taking me to dinner. I had not been on a real date in four years. After I hung up the phone, I commenced the preparations. In just one week I would have my coming out as a 30-something who dates. A dating debutante, if you will. Where to begin? Even in my darkest hour, I always managed to maintain my roots and get a healthy cut every 6-8 weeks. I had "these make my butt look good" jeans, strappy sandals, and fun dangly earrings. And then I looked down at my hands. After digging my way out of a dark and muddy depression, I looked down at my cuticles and found that all this clawing had made them ragged. What better way to usher in a new chapter of self-love than a manicure?

Feeling hard-as-nails a' la Sally Hanson, I decided to forgo the usual filing and polish and get a whole new set of nails. You know the kind: those clean, french manicures with perfectly straight tips and a tough acrylic finish. I called around for an appointment and found that the best salons were booked through the end of the month. At this point, I reverted back to the old Sherri. If the best required a wait, I would work my way down the list until I found someone who could give me what I wanted right away. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that my old "walk-in self-esteem" was driving my decisions until I found myself flipping through back issues of Hairstyle magazine at La'James School of Cosmetology. Suddenly, I felt as thought I was lying in sheets smelling of stale cigarettes when I'd booked a non-smoking room. I was not where I wanted to be.

My nail technician greeted me in the waiting room. "Come on back and let Tavita take care of you!" TaVita was a 45 year old divorcee with four children who specialized in airbrush nail art. Her own nails reached nearly 1/2 inch ("business length") and were adorned with delicate butterflies and a tiny spider on her pinky nail, complete with a web. Because it was my first visit, she offered to paint my own eight-legged friend on the nail of my choice, complimentary. My new, enlightened and self-loving brain wanted to say "No, thank you, I don't care for nail art," but I chickened out and told her I suffered from arachnophobia.

For the next hour, I listened to her life story, which included heart failure at 35 ("I died on the table three times, thank you Jesus, he brought me back!"), her boyfriend who didn't like her going out with her friends ("Man's 45 years old and act like he can't open a can of beans without me"), and her frustration that she has to get a license to practice what she's been doing for years ("Been doin' my cousins' nails since I was 16). Instead of sitting back and being pampered, I found myself counseling her, agreeing that it must be frustrating to have to pay for a license to practice what she already knew, but now she could be official, open her own business, and have an excuse to get out of the house (wink, wink). We also talked about her penchant for Burger King and I suggested that even "flame broiled" may not prevent heart disease.

As she painted French tips on my new acrylic nails with what I can only guess was a bottle of white-out left over from her days at Trend Business College, I realized that I was doing it again: Building a relationship with someone I barely knew, who had not asked me anything about myself, and hoping I could change her. I looked around the room at the other beauty students realizing their foil-wrapped and highlighted dreams, and knew I had settled once again. No one in that room knew who I really was! Tavita might have experienced near death by Whopper, but I was a survivor too! This morning in the salon was supposed to mark my debut as a new, long-wearing woman!

Tavita snapped me out of my reverie when she took my hand and said, "Come on, you sure you don't want a teeny little spider on your pinky?" I stood up and said, "No, Tavita, I don't want a spider on my pinky. It's just not my style." After fishing out enough bills to pay because my nails were too long to pull my credit card out of my wallet, I walked out the door, got in my car, fanned my hands out in front of me and burst into tears. Was I just destined to settle? Was my low self-esteem as stuck in my psyche as this acrylic was to my nail beds? And then, I did something I'd never done before when I was in the throes of despair: I called someone for help.

My sister Sara answered on the second ring. For those of you who don't know Sara, suffice it to say that she always knows what to do and has enough self-confidence and take no prisoners attitude for the both of us. If I wore those goofy rubber bracelets, mine would say "WWSD" What Would Sara Do? I explained my situation and, after she finished her raucous bout of laughter, she said, "Ok, here's what you do. You hang up the phone, dial 411 and ask the operator for the nearest nail salon, and then call me back when you get there." Ok, ok. This was a plan. I stood in front of "Modern Nails" and rang Sara. "Modern Nails? Are there Asian nail technicians? If there is someone whose name is Nguyen or Tran, go in." Anh Dung, the Vietnamese nail technician (whose name, incidentally, means "heroic"), greeted me with, "You need nails?" I sat down at his station and held my nails out for his inspection. I was ready to launch into a long explanation when he interrupted me, looked me in the eye, and said, "Where you get this?" I told him in a barely audible whisper, "La'James Beauty School" and he clicked his tongue and said, "Criminals." For the next 30 minutes, I was treated to an expert manicure with perfect acrylic french tips. I paid my $26.50 and called Sara to tell her it was a success, to which she replied, "Of course it was, dumb ass. Now don't ever settle for beauty school again."

At 7:30 on the dot, Mr. Real Date walked into the restaraunt. I reached out to shake his hand, praying he would notice my shiny new nails and good butt jeans. And then he did something that hadn't happened in a very long time. He looked me in the eye and said, "You look beautiful." Finally, I nailed it.