Dear Diary - Living Pain Free

I've become one of those crazy middle aged people who wants to urge twenty year olds to live their life to the full.

"I was a virgin till I was 22," I whispered at my 18 year old second cousin a few weeks ago, accosting her with information that, not only had she not asked for, but had absolutely nothing to do with the general conversation in progress.  "I'd lose it much younger if I had my turn again!" I hissed, as she backed away.

Why this desire to shove copies of Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May into the hands of every young adult I see?

Because I'm dealing with aging for the first time.  And it hurts.

I put make up on the other day - a thick line of liquid eye liner, carefully applied.  A few moments later I turned back to the mirror to see a big fat smudge.  What had gone wrong?  I'd been so careful.

Then I saw it.

My upper lid has a little fold which is now drooping onto my lower eyelid.  It had touched the eye liner and messed it up.

So now there's no point to wearing eye makeup.  I'm not embedding powder into creases, thank you very much.  Fuck that.

Thank God I have full lips.  I'm rocking that shit.

Still, aging is here.  Drooping has begun and, as much as I resolved to age with dignity when I was younger, I am railing against it.

And so I look at younger people and, if I am not utterly convinced that they are making the most of every second, I want to tell them how precious their time is, and that it isn't going to last.

Of course that's a total waste of time.  I didn't get it at that age, and neither will they.  You just have to hope they're having fun and racking up some damn good memories.  

I bought my second cousin a dress.  A stunning, backless number that those of us over forty with under armpit droopage just can't wear.  She looked amazing.  I wanted to take her all over the store and buy her mini skirts and thigh high socks and boob toob tops.

I wanted to pile make up into her lap - neon yello eye shadow, blue eye liner, pink lipstick.

I wanted to sit her down in the coffee shop and explain to her that she should drink and laugh and have sex and look after her body because the more she could delay it's droopy betrayal, the better.

And I wanted to explain to her the beauty, the heaven, the precious gift she had of living pain free.

Yes, you heard me. 

Living pain free.

The TV ads make it sound like it's a revolutionary concept and, I suppose for people who have arthritis or back injuries or some other condition that causes them chronic pain, it is.  But that's not the pain free I'm talking about.

When you're young, you have no emotional scars.  Well, most young people don't.  I wouldn't tell Sandusky's victims this.

But, seriously, most young people haven't had anyone close to them die yet.  They haven't broken up with someone and always wondered if they did the right thing and should have been with that person the rest of their life.  They haven't got to a place in their career where they're wondering if their education provided them the right starting line in the rat race.  

When they watch movies with death scenes, the experience of grief doesn't sneak out of the shadowy recesses of their memories to poke and prod at their hearts again.

When their partner irritates them for the fifth time in one day, they don't wonder about that other guy from 1991.

When annual review time rolls around at the office, they don't stare at the document where they are supposed to "give feedback" on their own performance, wondering if they should have been a lawyer after all.

They live pain free.

And they should know - shouldn't they? - that it's bliss.

Somebody should tell them.

To read more in this series, click here.

You might like:

• Me, the Savior

Dear Diary - I want my father back

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why am I awake at 5am, sneakily searching every drawer in the house till I find that one lonely Nicorette gum that's been lying there for over 6 months since I quit?

 

Stress, that's why.

 

 

(For those of you who are ex-smokers who are yelling "NOOOOOOO!" right now, let me reassure you that the Nicorette has already made me feel ill and I am SO not back on the wagon.)

  

 

What's this got to do with wanting my father back?

 

Well, that took me about three months to figure out, and I'm still not sure I've got it sorted.

 

"I want my father back.  I want my father back."

 

It kept coming to me, rising up from my subconscious, so bad that sometimes I'll mumble it out loud.  This has been going on for a while, now.

 

Ah, therapy!  Thank God for therapy - muse to my self-knowledge.

 

"It's incredible," I said to She's So Lovely, my therapist, yesterday.  "When I come in here and talk to you about what's going on with me, a massive light bulb always comes on --"  I looked up to the right and then shielded my eyes -- "and it blinds me and I want to ignore it.  Aaargh!"

 

We spend the rest of the hour - which flew by - figuring this stuff out.  So let me break it down for you, Dear Diary.

 

I was stressed out becuase I'd had a bad day at work and I'd had been too passionate in a meeting, going up against a person who is considerably higher up the totem pole than  I am and - worst of all - that I like and respect.  

 

Her team is under a lot of pressure and people are complaining about them.  I feel like we're back in high school and she's the scapegoat that all the kids are talking about behind her back because, you know kids, once it starts, it escalates, and they all turn on one person in the pack, even if only through releif that they aren't the one under attack. 

  

I have tried, repeatedly, to defend her and her team, and to get her to engage with my team and others to talk through the changes she is making, the reasoning behind them and how we will work together in future.  But she's busy as hell and kept putting off engaging with us.  Finally, she came to our meeting 20 minutes late yesterday and she just wasn't getting that we need to talk this stuff through.  So I hit out a bit.  

  

I called her to apologize later, and explained to her my high school analogy and left a rambling, insane voicemail.  I can feel you cringing as you read this.

  

Not my finest hour.  

 

So I know you're still asking, what does my stupidity have to do with wanting my father back?  And where did he go, anyway?

 

Well, he's dead, for a start, so he's not coming back.  

 

And it's not about him, really, anyway.

 

That's what I couldn't figure out till yesterday.  My father and I did not have the best relationship.  He was very controlling (hence my issues with authority - don't get me near any sexist military men unless you want to see fur fly), and I guess he did his best, but he wasn't the most approachable man.

  

So why were the words "I want my father back" ringing through my head all the time?

 

Well, because of various things, I am having to step up these days.  I am the primary bread winner, I have a job where I stand alone, a team of one, achieving goals only through influence and having to prove the concept of a role that was created as a new function, a role created especially for me.  I interface with very senior people, I have to stay positive in the face of a culture of complaint, and everything seems to take five times as long as it should to get done.  I don't have my family to fall back - they live a million miles away - we don't have the money for a vacation or major enteratainment or a spa day and retail therapy is out of the question.  

 

And so it's up to me, and there's no respite.

 

I don't have my father - symbol of strength, provider, safety net - anymore.  I can't climb up on his lap and be embraced, held and just  know that he'll take care of everything.  He isn't here to fight for me, advise me, protect me.

 

And I'm tired.  

 

And I'm scared.

 

And I'm fucking up now and then.

 

And I want my father back.

 

 

 

To read more in this navel-gazing series, click here.

 

You might like:

• Mansick (Fluffy Bear gets a life threatening cold)
• Death Stalking (I see a man have a heart attack)

   

 

Dear Diary - I'm vicious in a dream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

I just had the strangest dream.

 

Perhaps a feminist dream.  Perhaps an animal activist dream.

 

For some unknown reason, I was part of, or close to (I don't know) an episode of Top Gear.  (Warning: There's a short advertisement at the start of this Youtube video.)

 

If you don't know what Top Gear is, it's a show where three men review new cars.  Unfortunately, over the last few years, it has morphed into them only reviewing aspirational cars, like the Bugatti Veyron.  They also go on challenges all the time, like to buy a car for $400 and compete to drive from New Orleans to Dallas.  They drive and defend their car choice to each other, experience their cars breaking down, etc.  It is, I have to admit it is often funny, but the underlying (perhaps subconscious?) sexism drives (no pun intended) me insane.

  

As an uncessary sideline, there has recently been an attempt to create the same show in the US.  We watched a few episodes and, I am sorry to say, it's totally shit. 

  

Anyway, back to the dream.

 

Jeremy Clarkson (key sexist prick of the three presenters), was test driving some sort of sportscar.  It looked like the Ferrari which Magnum used to drive, but it was red, and they were reviewing it because it was new i.e. not the model Magum drove 20 years ago.

 

We were somewhere in a place that looked like the French countryside, with farms and houses dotting the surrounding hills.  There were winding roads, which is why this place were chosen to test the car and showcase it's stuff.

 

Jeremy Clarkson was describing the car to the cameras, explaining that is was a true sportscar with no frills, not even a radio or CD player.

 

Then he went off on his test drive, careeing through the countryside.  For some illogical reason, I was able to see him, although I don't remember being with the camera crew.  In fact, I don't even remember the camera crew following him.  

 

Then he stopped at a farm fence.  On the other side of it stood a beautiful jet black horse.  Jeremy drew out a gun and shot it.  I was utterly horrified.  And then the black horse was lying over the left side of the car hood, with Jeremy explaining that the weight of the horse was going to help demonstrate the car's handling.  And off he went again, at high speed.

 

Then I was back at the starting point of the whole thing.  Jeremy pulled the car in, and they rolled the horse off the car.  It stumbled, but it was awake again.  That's when I first realized it had been a traquilizer gun.  But, still, I was utterly furious.  

 

Jeremy was making his wrap up statements to the camera, expressing how much he loved the car.

 

Next to me, I saw a metal rod, about the length of the floor to my hips.  It had a twisted design on it, as if two pieces of metal had been wound together to create the rod.

 

And that's when I had a plan.

 

I jumped into the car and took off.  I had decided I would get my revenge on the pompous arse and the camera crew and producers who had allowed the horse to be used in that terrible way.  My plan was to drive to some high point, use the rod to wedge down the accelerator, jump out of the car, and get it to go over a cliff, to be crushed as it landed.  

 

I knew that the manufacturers of the cars reviewed on Top Gear loaned them to the show, and that those producers would be in a world of hurt after I destroyed something really expensive which they did not own.

 

But, as I drove through the countryside, I could see that the surrounding hills of the valley weren't that high, and I was concered that there wouldn't be a cliff high up enough to allow the car to be damaged beyond all recognition.

 

I was looking around frantically, trying to find a high enough hill.

 

I drove up the steepest road and, close to the top, found a farm.  Maybe, maybe it was high enough from the valley floor below.  I drove into the driveway and parked.  Getting out of the car to check out the land.

  

No dice.  It didn't have what I needed.

  

I got back in the car and drove further up the road.  These were all dirt roads, by the way.  

 

A driveway to the left, but closed by a gate.

 

I got to another flat place where I could stop, and parked the car.  I started to climb up to a higher part of the road (I have no idea why I didn't drive up there).

 

A cliff!  I flat place large enough to back up the car, start it heading directly towards the cliff and enough space to dive out of it in time!

 

I headed back down to where I'd parked. 

 

The car was gone.

 

Shit!  Buggery buggery fuck arse wanker bollocks!

 

I was really mad at myself for not driving up to the higher flat point.  Why had I walked up?

 

Perhaps I just couldn't remember where I parked the car.  I ran down to the first house where I'd parked.  

 

The car wasn't there.

 

How had they found it?

 

Fuck!.  It must have some kind of GPS Theft Recovery System.

 

For some reason I kept believing I just couldn't remember where I'd parked, and kept walking around, trying to find the car.

 

And that's when I woke up.

 

Why do all my dreams end with me frantically trying to solve some kind of problem?

 

I have no idea.

 

Maybe I need a shrink.

 

 

 

 

 

To read more in the Dear Diary series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

 

You might like:

• Dear Diary - Death Stalking
• Dear Diary - My First Seder

  

 

 

Dear Diary - Mansick

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Fluffy Bear is mansick.  Yes, that's what I said... mansick.  

 

Not sick.  

 

Mansick.

 

See, it's different for men. 

 

OK, maybe that's too much of a generalization.  It's different for MY man.

 

I may have a fever, I may feel nauseous, I may have to plug wads of toilet paper up my nose to stem the flow of mucus and I may be coughing up globules worthy of horror movie special effects BUT... I am not, and will never be, as sick as he is.

 

Because, you see, Dear Diary, unlike me, he has Death at his side.  His time has come.

Yep, Death.  Black robe, skeleton face, shiny silver scythe.  

 

That Death.

 

And Death - being the mean, horrible and nasty being that he is - is toying with the idea of taking Fluffy Bear -- taking him any second now.  

 

Isn't that SCARY?

 

I can't see Death, because he's not here for me.  But Fluffy Bear can.  What else would explain the haunted facial expression, the soft moans of despair and the occasional writhing of the body?

 

As Fluffy Bear lies on the couch, in snuggly PJs, covered in a warm comforter, a hot pack nestling around his neck, all I can see (if I look really, really carefully) is the hairs on the top of his head moving just a little, as if they are being kissed by a light breeze.  

 

But it's cold outside, so all the windows are closed and the chimney flue is too.  So why, why would the hairs on the head of a poor, sick man move?

 

There can only be one explanation.

 

Death.

 

Death - laughing an evil, soul-wrenching laugh - is swinging his scythe back and forth, millimeters above Fluffy Bear's head.  

 

Why?  Because he can.  He's DEATH.

 

He's deciding, Death is.  

 

Now? [Swish!]

 

Or later? [Swish!]

 

Now? [Swish!]

 

Or later? [Swish!]

 

Poor, poor Fluffy Bear.  

 

But, wait!  It doesn't end there.

 

Sitting on the back of the sofa, leaning nonchalantly against the living room wall, sits, Azrael, the Archangel of Death.  A beautiful, beautiful man - stunningly awesome in that impossible way that only an angel can be.  It's almost painful, I imagine, to look at his shiny hair, his glowing skin, his square shoulders, his rock hard six pack, his petrifyingly huge... wings.

 

Even if Fluffy Bear tries to talk to Azrael, to ask him "Why?", to ask him "Why now?", he gets no reply.

 

Azrael sits, with a golden emery board, softly filing his perfectly manicured nails.

 

Occasionally, the slightest hint of annoyance flits across his face. If you weren't watching carefully, you'd miss it completely.  But the choir doesn't.

 

What choir, you ask, dear Diary?

 

The choir.  The Chorus of Angels!

 

No, no, this has nothing to do with Azrael.  These guys are in a totally different Heaven department.  They have a different manager, different Annual Performance Reviews and a different mission statement.  

 

They are far, far lower on the heavenly corporate ladder than Azrael is.  That's why, if they break into a requiem he doesn't happen to like, they switch to another one right quick.

 

And they're a shitload of the white robed, haloed buggers.  How they fit in our living room I'll never know.  Well, I guess that's the magic of heavenly creatures.  

 

They must sound (I can't hear them) really amazing.  Like those little boys, perhaps, with disturbingly high voices who sing at St Paul's cathedral whenever a member of the Royal Family gets hitched.  Or maybe they're more like one of those gospel choirs, big boned (I'm phrasing that kindly), covered in large, purple robes, with their hands raised high in the air.  Or maybe it's a more formal affair.  Thirty to sixty-something white folks, the kinds you'd find in German cathedral, hymn books in hand, serious faces, with one guy at the back with a voice like a bassoon.

 

With all of this, can you imagine how awful poor Fluffy Bear feels?

 

Poor, poor Fluffy Bear.

 

Poor, poor, poor Fluffy Bear.

 

He can barely see or hear the TV to figure out why Danno ought to book the perp in Hawaii Five-O. 

 

And so, naturally, it's up to me to comfort him.  I must stroke his head, and squeeze his hand, and pour his apple juice and get ice and fast forward the DVR through the ads and make a little dry toast and heat up the hotpack in the microwave and keep the dogs from licking his face and get some Immodium and put the fan on in the bathroom and spray the air freshener and warm the hot pack again and get fresh ice.

 

Because it's the least I can do.... right?

 

 

 

To read more of the Dear Diary series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

   

   

Dear Diary - From a dizzy, dizzy height

 

Dear Diary

Fuck the calorie counter, and fuck propriety.  I am drinking a very large glass of white wine and eating peanuts.  Yes, I need a savory snack with my whine.

Yes, whine.

That is not a spelling mistake.  

Watch out!  Here it comes...

Today was my day to be shat on.  From a dizzy, dizzy height.

Three.

Fucking.

Times!

The first was from a colleague.  

She was shitting on me because I had sent her an introduction to a ex-colleague of mine from a previous job.  My ex-colleague wants to network with people who do a role similar to hers, because she has worked for the same company for a very long time and she is interested in how the job is done in other companies.

I made a mistake, I admit it.  

I should have talked to my current colleague first, and asked her if I could send an email introduction.  I screwed up.  I know I screwed up.  When she first contacted me, I immediately knew it.  I went away and thought about it and I figured out HOW I screwed up.  I tried to mitigate the screw up.  I tried to learn from the screw up.

When we met, I apologized immediately.  I explained what I had done to reset my ex-colleague's expectations, so that my current colleague does not have to follow up if she didn't want to.

But, here's the thing.  When someone wants to shit on you, it's unpleasant for them.  So they seem to want to spend ages justifying to you WHY they are shitting on you.  

So I had to sit for twenty minutes to hear, again and again, the same reasons why what I had done was not the best way to go about things. 

If I had $5 for every time I had to nod, agree, or say "I understand" I'd be able to buy that pair of boots I've had my eye on, which would have been a much more enjoyable and far better use of my time than wiping poop out of my eyes and spitting it out of my mouth as it rained down on me.

Shitfest No. 2 occurred in what I thought was an information gathering meeting with one of the stakeholder groups for my project.  

Why is it that the sword of Damocles drops on the back of your neck at the END of a meeting?  If people come with an agenda, why aren't they just up front about it?

Why can't they sit down at the start of the meeting and say: "Look, we need to address the elephant in the room here..." and just lay it out for us to solve together?

Instead, 5 minutes from the end of the hour, I'm sideswiped with the fact that my project which, until today, I thought was an internal thing, for my team primarily, with a few secondary stakeholders, seems to be, according to this team, THEIR project.  It exists, they think to satisfy THEIR business goals.

So, apparently, I need to get their boss to "have a conversation" with my boss so we can sort this out.

I took this job with the understanding that I had to implement an internal project.  Now it turns out someone thinks they are my "business user" with requirements?

ARE.

YOU. 

FUCKING.

KIDDING ME?

This is a political shit storm.  It wasn't raining shit.  It was snowing the damn stuff, and it was building up in poop snowdrifts all around me.  

I managed to get out of the room, explaining that I had to go to the dentist.  

I was ready for that.  It was my annual teeth cleaning and I knew I was going to get flak about not flossing.  Happens every year... grin and bear it.

But, nooooooo.

Seems I have a small cavity, which sparked a detailed analysis, by the dental hygienist, of my current diet and it's sugar content.

Do I drink sugary drinks?  No.

Do I have sugar in my tea or coffee?  No.

Do I eat candy?  No.

Do I chew sugary gum?  No.

And on and on and on.

And all of this while a small metal pick is scraping away at my teeth, poking my gums and making me bleed.  

Then it hits me:  Christmas!

"Werw, okorz, ova Kizmiz ah ade a lodda stuv..." I said, trying not to get my tongue under the metal instrument of torture.

So that's it.  One week a year I let go and indulge in cookies, Christmas pudding, mince pies, chocolate truffles and cake and what do I get for Christmas?

A FUCKING CAVITY!

So the "You Gotta Floss" shit machine, strengthened by the "You Sugar Eating Loser" ammunition, rained down on me much harder than ever before.  I would go so far as to say they were hailstones of poop.  

And so, the wine, and the peanuts, and the strong likelihood that, seeing as Fluffy Bear is away at a conference, this is all I am going to have for dinner.  Apart from a complete bar of chocolate, of course.

Fuck you, shit storm.

For more in the Dear Diary series, click the Tag below or the category link on the left

Dear Diary - GOOD RIDDANCE!

 

Dear Diary,

No, I don't mean good riddance to YOU!  Don't be silly!  What would I do without you?

What I mean is: Good riddance to the bad rubbish of 2010!

Good riddance to:

1. Being the fat girl
2. Back pain
3. Ineffectual anti-depressants
4. Not knowing how to play politics at work
5. "Friends" who drain me
6. Debt
7. Having to cut back, cut down, cut out because we have no money
8. Unnecessary drama
9. Bad hair
10. Lack of motivation to exercise
11. Seeing the glass as half empty
12. Speaking before thinking
13. Not being paid what I'm worth
14. Letting other people take credit (and win awards) for my work
15. Playing Office Agony Aunt
16. Hayfever
17. Asthma
18. Feeling disconnected from far away family
19. Dressing like a slob
20. Comfort eating.

Like the New Yorkers and their Good Riddance Day, I am going to print this list and SHRED IT.

GOOD RIDDANCE TO BAD RUBBISH!

OUT WITH THE OLD AND IN WITH THE NEW!

Woooooooooooooooo hooooooooooooo!

Dear Diary - WHEN SNACKS ATTACK!

 

 Dear Diary,

 A chip attacked me yesterday.

Yes, a potato chip.

Yes, yes, I'll explain.  Just let me start at the beginning.

I have a new job.  Same company, same department, different team.  Same salary, same title, a LOT more to learn.  

I have a project to run.  That's nothing new to me, but delivering a physical IT project in this company is not something I have done there before, and it's a big deal to them.  "You don't get it till you've done it" is a mantra here, so I have to do it, and I have to do it well.

I have a new boss to impress.  Well, not impress, as such.  I've done that already, or he wouldn't have hired me.  What I have to do is earn credibility with him and the team.  And this team makes you earn it.  Holy shit, I can't stress that enough.  I get no quarter with these people.

So I'm holding a meeting.  

A meeting for my project, with about half of my team, and a vendor who has flown up from California to see us.  Lunch is arranged and it's one of those make-your-own-sandwich deals.  I'm nervous so I slip into my old psychological trap: eat.  

I make a big sandwich and I take chips.  They are those horrible kettle chip things. They are oily and not salty enough and have no flavor and yet I take about twenty of them.  

My little voice says "Don't have the chips!"  It says it loud and clear, just like Magnum's little voice.  But I tell myself it's close to Christmas and I would like something crunchy with my sandwich and who cares about the calories and everyone else took chips and...

Because I went to the bathroom and talked to a colleague, by the time I get back into the meeting, my colleagues have mostly finished their sandwiches and are talking business with the vendors again.  I am sitting right next to my boss and he's asking the vendor questions and I am trying to chew these nasty, noisy chips.

So I am chewing slowly, and I am not chewing enough.

About two bites before the end of my sandwich, I feel that I have food stuck in my throat, on the right side under my ear.  But it's one of those sensations where you aren't choking, it's just that something hasn't moved quite right and the natural slime in your system is going to get it back on track in a minute, and so you just keep chewing.  

But it doesn't move.

And then it starts to hurt.

And I have to leave very quickly and head for the bathroom.

My eyes and nose are streaming.  My body is trying to clear the obstruction from my throat with mucus.  But it's not in my throat.

I start heaving.  My body is trying to clear the obstruction from my esophagus.  But it's not in my esophagus.

So I am heaving and gargling and blowing my nose and wiping my eyes and drinking water from the bathroom taps and trying my best to move whatever the fuck this thing is.  

And I'm spitting up blood.

Eventually a projectile clump of food hits the bathroom basin, but it feels like I have half the obstruction still in there.  

And it fucking hurts.  The pain is directly below my right ear, on the right side of my throat.  

I call Fluffy Bear and ask him to see if we can get an appointment with the doctor later that afternoon.  I tell him what is going on and he says we have to go to ER.  Surely, I think to myself, it isn't bad enough for THAT.  And ER is vile and they make you wait and then they charge you a frickin' fortune and we can't afford that.

It hurts, but it's tolerable.

I can breathe.

It's my meeting.

I tell Fluffy Bear I'm OK and I head back into the conference room.

I grab the water jug and try to look inconspicuous as I drink three glasses of water in a row.  I try to concentrate on what people are saying.

Then I have a question and I hear my own voice.  I sounds like George Burns with laryngitis, gargling with salt water, asking for a cigar.

OK, time to go to ER.

I explain what's going on, gather up my stuff, and start to leave.  I exit a room where 8 people are staring at me with stricken looks.  

I try a joke about emulating George Bush.  

Nobody laughs.

Bizarrely, we got seen at the hospital right away.  I was still signing the we-can-bankrupt-you-for-the-bill form when the nurse ushered me into the pre-screen area.  

A disgusting Maalox-Lidocaine cocktail and an X-ray later, the conclusion was that I have scratched the area behind the tonsil cavity, that injuries in that area feel very acute, but that they heal quickly on their own.  

The doctor took my question about alcohol without even blinking and, presumably thinking I could do with a stiff drink, reassured me that I can imbibe both painkillers and a cocktail.  

Drama over.

And now we wait for the bill, watch Fluffy Bear enjoy the fact that I can't speak, and look forward to my team taking the living piss out of me when I get to the office on Monday.

Dear Diary - Me, the Savior

Dear Diary

I think there may be something a bit wrong with me.

I keep fantasizing about saving people, about being the hero.

In real life I'm walking between buildings to a meeting but, in my head...

I'm at a company presentation, I'm in the third row and only I, insightful empath that I am, can see that the CEO is struggling, that he's mispronounced three words now, and that he's starting to sweat.

So I stand up and hurry to the podium, as if I have an urgent message for him. I pass him a note that reads "Pretend there is a crisis and you have to leave with me, right NOW!"

He nods, turns and mumbles an apology to the audience, hands over to the CIO and follows me off the stage.

As we're walking up the side aisle I shoot a meaningful glare at a colleague who I know has first aid training, and he scampers after us.

Once we get to the auditorium door, out of sight, I give the CEO my arm and he leans heavily on it. We go to a conference room and close the door and I step back, allowing my colleague to take over as I discreetly call an ambulance.

Now where the hell does this kind of fantasy come from?

Is it schadenfreude?

Do I subconsciously think people will like me if I save them?

Why don't I dream of being on holiday on a tropical island, sipping a cocktail from a hollowed out pineapple?  Or about driving a red vintage Mercedes convertible on those winding roads above Monaco, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, cornering perfectly? Or even Taylor Kitsch, a hot tub, an empty bottle of champagne and a delicious lapse in our mutual sense of propriety?

Hey!  How about a dream about winning the lottery and hitting Nordstrom so hard the window displays fall victim to spontaneous combustion?

No.  

I have a savior complex.

You see. dear Diary?

This is why I stay in therapy.

To see more in the Dear Diary series, click here.

Dear Diary - Vent time

 

Dear Diary

The last 9 hours of my life have pretty much sucked.

The day started with me arriving at the hotel where my team was hosting a training course.  We didn't book the venue - the training company did.  But we're hosting the training and it reflects on us.  

This place was half a step above being a highway side motel.  As one attendee said "I thought I was going to pass a crack deal on my way up to the conference room."  

I did, in fact, pass a kid with no front teeth when I left the hotel to get coffee, but I guess he was a bit too young for it to be from crystal meth.

Then... the trainer.

Oh, the trainer.

I will sum him up with a visual.

He is one of those trainers, dear Diary, who takes a chair, pulls it out in front of the presentation screen, puts his back leg up on it and effectively displays his penis to the audience.  No, I don't mean literally!  But that is basically what he is doing.

He stands like that and talks about his accomplishments, the books he's written, the consulting engagements where he helped a team of 3000 IT engineers, the fact that he disagrees with Deming's summation of what Lean actually is.  He spends the first half hour talking about his background - starting with the first program he wrote in college in 1972 - progressing to all the other courses he teaches, just in case we feel like paying him more money to display his family jewels at us.

I have come across more than one of these kinds of trainers.  They are older men who have seen it all, done it all, and now they want to tell you how to do it.  That's not to say they don't have something to share, I just don't want them to be a Big Swinging Dick about it.

It takes us to lunch to get through the introductory section of the course.  We haven't even got to a definition of what it is that we are here to study. 

Again, dear Diary, this course is being hosted by my team.  This guy's performance reflects on me.  And there are some very senior people in the room.

Finally, lunch comes.  I heave a sigh of relief.  A break, and maybe he'll get on track afterwards.

Like the venue, his company had arranged the lunch.

Oh.  My.  God.

Oily, bony bits of chicken with herbs on the skin, mashed potatoes, sloppy roasted vegetables and a salad. 

We told them that there were vegetarians on the course.  As per usual, they are a catering afterthought.  

Lunch completely reinforced the hotel's tacky factor.

Then I get a call from my husband to say that our cleaner is sick.  I forgot to tell you that my in-laws were, as this was happening, on a plane winging their way towards us.  I don't want to be mean to my cleaner.  She's lovely and she works miracles.  She had a migraine - that can't be helped.  But... today?  Really?

So now I have to try to scrounge a ride home from someone because Fluffy Bear has the car at the airport and I was going to just take the bus but now I have to get home as soon as possible to get the house cleaned of all the dog-hair-tumbleweeds.

I get a ride with a lovely colleague and I rush back to the house.  

First, I burn myself.  Yes, dear Diary, burn myself.  

Our tumble dryer is depressed.  Well, if you were that old and stuck in a basement and the that seventies mustard color, you would be too.  It intermittently has suicide attempts.  It overheats the clothes and tries to set itself on fire.

So, when I pulled the comforter out of it, I burnt my right hand.

I grabbed the underwear and socks that were in there too and, having a total IQ lapse, stuck my hand in to move press one of the metal bits to get the drum to turn so I could get to any socks stuck on the side.  

And burnt my left hand.

Some colorful language and stomping upstairs later, I had the guest room bed made up.

Then I went to put the underwear away.  We have those little wire three tier drawer units in our closets. You know the ones.  They are made out of wire mesh with holes big enough to catch your finger and crush your fingernail.  I chose today to prove that last point.

I don't tend to pray, dear Diary, but at that moment I felt the need to reconnect with God and tell him exactly what I thought of him.

Next, I went to find out why Puppy Girl has been standing in the dining room crying for the last ten minutes.  I asked her what was wrong, she looked out the window.  I asked again, she looked out the window.  I leant out of the open window and there was her special green chewy ball down in the yard below.  And she started crying again.

So I went out the front door, round the house, slipped on the grass on the bank and kissed the dirt.  

Yes, seriously.  I'm not even vaguely kidding.

I stood up, dusted myself off, retrieved the ball and threw it back in the dining room window - possibly with more force that was necessary - and limped back into the house.

Back inside, I was straightening out the kitchen when Puppy Girl came trotting in and tossed the ball towards me.  She does that when she wants you to throw the ball for her to retrieve it.  Unfortunately her aim was a bit off.  The ball sailed past me and slapped into the dogs' water ball, splooshing water all over the kitchen floor.

By this stage I was beyond being angry.  I just sighed and moved on.  I wiped the floor, changed my jeans and plonked down on the couch.

Fluffy Bear arrived with his sister and her husband and they walked in - thank God! - champagne in hand.

After the greeting hugs, they asked if we should open it right away.

They may have been a little shocked at the vehemence of my reply, in the affirmative, and expressed at deafening volume.

For more Dear Diary, click here. 

Dear Diary - Flash Mob

 

Dear Diary

Today I was part of a Flash Mob that danced in front of 70,000 people at an American Football game.

This is one of those situations where only an American phrase can capture the moment:

IT WAS AWESOME!

It was kinda like my wedding day.  There's a lot of preparation, rehearsal, coordination and then you finally get there and you wait and wait for it to begin and then it's all over in -- well, a flash.

There were over a thousand of us who danced a six minute routine to 10 songs.

Flash Mobs are a strange phenomenon.  

Basically, someone chooses to coordinate them and you find out by word of mouth or by signing up to a Facebook group or by keeping an eye on the right website.  Normal, average people turn up and rehearse, getting to know each other along the way.

We had two 8 year olds, a bunch of teenagers and I saw at least 5 people who were in their 60s or 70s.

Many kids were dancing with one or both of their parents. 

I met teachers, engineers, data warehouse managers, professional dancers.

I go because it's fun, and I essentially get free dance classes.

I didn't make all the rehearsals, but I spent at least 10 hours practicing.  

And then I got to dance in front of a stadium full of people.

I spent most of the dance thinking about the steps and frantically watching whoever was in front of me so I could copy them, but I did have a few moments where I was confident about the moves and was able to look at up at the crowds, smile at the little dots that were the people up in the nosebleed seats and just be in the moment, be dancing, be joyful, be revelling in it.

As adults, we get so few opportunities to really have fun, dear Diary.

When I find them, I grab them with both hands, and jump in with both feet.  

AWESOME!

For more Dear Diary, click here. 

Dear Diary - Wonderfully Wistful Walk

 

Dear Diary

I had a lovely walk home from work last night.

For some strange unknown reason, I got a 2nd wind at around 4:30pm - after feeling tired and drained all day - and ended up working till almost 7pm.

Now that I no longer work in the Hellhole, leaving the office that late is a rare thing.  But it's summer in the Northern latitudes, and that means a light sky and a balmy breeze at 7pm.

iPhone streaming the Beatles Pandora station in my ears, I headed across the bridge to start my journey.

I try to enjoy my walk.

There are a myriad of routes I can take home, and I try to turn a different way each time.  I slowly wend my way through semi-suburban blocks and parks, heading in a vaguely diagonal direction.

I stop to gently sniff roses hanging over people's fences, and try to pay attention to the rainbow of flowers along the way.

 

I look up to see the pattern of the day painted by the clouds.

There are many grasses and hedges that people use to border their properties, and I let my hand stretch out to feel their spiky stickiness, or soft woolly touch.

Sometimes life surprises me and I get to see a hummingbird, or a butterfly.

And, of course, I smile widely at everyone's dog.  

Sometimes I forget that there is an owner attached... one notable moment being me saying "Hello Handsome!" quite loudly (remember I'm plugged into Pandora) to a Golden Retriever attached to a man who was somewhat taken aback by my greeting - until he saw I wasn't looking at him.

Walking home is the perfect way to unwind from a day at the office.  Annoying meetings, empire building colleagues and the ever growing task list melt away when I pass two women in downward dog on a grassy hill, or smile at a little boy with a flaming shock of red hair waving shyly back at me when I flap my right hand at him like a crazy lady.

Sometimes, life is good.

Dear Diary - Death Stalking

 

Today was a horrible day.  

Well, not the whole day.  There was work, just like any other week day.  There was fun with friends, just like any evening that involves a social event.

But the day was defined by fear.

I was out at lunch, walking back to my office, and a man a few steps away from me had a heart attack.

Now it seems narcissistic for me to be talking about my reaction to this event.  But I only experienced from my point of view.  I feel for the man, and I feel for his wife, but what I am going to tell you about is what I experienced today.  That's all I can do.

I heard a half-yell, half-scream.  I don't know if it was the man or his wife that it came from.

I wasn't sure if someone was messing around, like school kids or something.  It was a little unsettling, but I went about my business.

But then I heard her.  

The wife.

She was wailing, but I distinguished these important words!

"CPR!  SOMEBODY!"

In one of those brain flashes that lasts a millisecond, I evaluated how I could best help. 

• Do the CPR?  
  • I did a course on first aid decades ago.  No, I'd probably fuck that up.
• Run over and get involved, taking up space and adding to the panic by getting in the way? 
  • HELL NO.  I am one of those people who utterly refuses to slow down and gawk at road accidents.  If you can't help, get the fuck outta the way, as far as I'm concerned.
• Call 911?  
  • YES!

So I hit the phone.

Thank God, they answered right away.  That hasn't always happened when I've had to call 911.

"911.  What is your emergency?" she said.

"Heart attack."

"Putting you through."

"Fire Department and EMT. Where are you?"

"Corner of B----- and P-----."

"Outside the Starbucks?"

"No, other side of the street.  To the West."

"I've dispatched them.  But I need to ask you some questions.  Is the person male or female?"

"Male."

"Is he conscious?"

"I don't know."

I turned to a concerned bystander and asked him to go and check if the man was conscious or not.

"I'm checking," I said into the phone.

"OK.  They're on their way.  If he isn't conscious, you need to call me back, because we need to send a different kind of truck, OK?"

"Yes."

Click.

The rest of it was about trying to comfort the wife, encourage people who weren't helping to bugger off and mind their own business and make sure there was a clear path for the ambulance.

It was interesting to observe who did something useful and who stood by, watching and asking whether the man was OK or not.

It took all my control not to lash out at the bystanders.

Fuckwits.

I didn't go close to the man and the group around him.  There were people there who knew what they were doing.  I didn't go near the EMTs when they arrived.  I didn't ask questions.  

I made sure that I turned away when the stretcher went by me and walked away.  Men are taught from birth to be brave, to be strong, to be the providers, to rise to the top of the herd.  The last thing a sick man needs to see is faces peering at him in a time of vulnerability, weakness and - although they shouldn't feel this, they do - humiliation.

In these moments we are reminded sexism is suffered by men too.

After I had done what I could, I tuned into how freaked out I was.  Fear was sitting at the top of my chest, like a weight, like a vibration, like a hole hidden by the fact that I was wearing a shirt over it. 

I know that the fight or flight reflex pumps adrenaline into the muscles to enhance physical performance and, unless you actually DO something physical, it just sits inside you like a poison.

What I could have done was walk fast for half an hour before going back to the office, or just jogged for ten minutes.  

But I didn't.

I know from when I was grieving for my mother that I should let myself cry when I need to.  When a child falls down or gets a fright, they cry, then it's over.

What I could have done was go into the bathroom in my building, let myself feel what I felt, and sobbed for three minutes.

But I didn't.

What I did do was try to talk it through with people.  People who didn't want to listen.  And, even if they did, they were more interested in hearing what happened to the poor man rather than me blathering on on about my feelings.  

Then I tried to eat.  This is a classic reaction for me to stress and suppressing feelings.  First I tried a latte with 2 pumps of chocolate.  Then I tried raiding the snack basket on our floor.  M&Ms.  Almond Joy. 

After work, I tried alcohol and distraction at Happy Hour with friends.  

None of it worked.  

Even while listening to entertaining stories over a Margarita, I felt a soft, strange sense of doom.

I kept thinking about my husband, about how we're trying to get fit, but we're not quite there yet.  About how he was away from me on a business trip.  About what it would be like for me to get a call that he was sick.

If felt like Death was stalking me and, although he wasn't here to swing the skythe yet, he was toying with me, reaching into my chest and squeezing my heart, purely for his own amusement.

When I finally got home I put a tacky reality show on TV.  It's called the OCD Project and it follows a group of OCD sufferers as they go through a program to get control of their disorder.  A young woman who is obsessed with staying clean, who washed her hands repeatedly, was going through exposure therapy.  The other people in the group, including the doctor, were taking turns to touch her face.

Her terror and distress was palpable.  She was sobbing her little heart out, clearly completely petrified at the simple touch of fingers on her cheek.

And then I found myself sobbing with her.  

The lid came off the volcano and all my anxiety came pouring out.  

What if it was my husband?  What would I do?  What if it happened when he was far away from me?  What if it happened when he was right next to me and there was no-one to help and I didn't know what to do?

It was about feeling my fear.

As I allowed myself to feel, my chest slowly opened up.  My breathing slowed eventually and I was able to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.  It wasn't a pretty moment.  

Then the second eruption.  It was my grief... for my mother, for my father, for my childhood friend, all of whose deaths were sad and final events in my life.  

No mommy to rub hot camphor oil on my feet when I have a cold.  No daddy to explain finance to me.  No Ellen to share childhood memories with, reminiscing about how we used to play princesses in her swimming pool.

It was about feeling my loss.

After ten minutes, I was able to come back into the here and now, to feel relief.

Then I was brought back down to earth by Puppy Girl licking my ear and dumping half a ball - a triumph of her chewing prowess - in my lap, with a little squeal that is her way of asking me to throw it across the room so she could chase it.

In that little chocolate lab kiss, that little whimper, a reminder that I have love and fun in my life.

And so I threw the ball.

 To read more in the Dear Diary series, click here.

Dear Diary - Last night I had the strangest dream

 

Dear Diary

I had a very vivid dream this morning.

I was at the house of a former lover. 

I have never been to this man’s house in real life, and the relationship with him was over a very, very, very long time ago.  So, although I thought, at first, that the dream was about me and him, it wasn’t. 

All you misguided romantics out there who think that there is some kind of love that should be rekindled… chill.  That's not what's going on here.

Anyway.

Let’s call him Bob.

Bob’s wife was there.

She knew about us and she was furious that I was in their home.  I totally got where she was coming from.  In her shoes, I wouldn’t have liked it much, either.

A young, single mistress is not what you need in your face at dinner time.

What the wife represented was a sense of threat. 

I kept waiting for her to explode, to attack me.  At one point, she was holding a dominatrix whip, which I thought was simultaneously scary and amusing, because of what it said about their sex life.

Their children were also in the house. 

I remember a little girl looking at us, trying to understand.  I felt sorry for her, but she wasn’t really my concern and, if the wife would just let me talk to Bob for five minutes like I wanted to, I’d leave and it would all be over and the kid wouldn’t have to see any of it.  The very fact that the wife was MAKING a scene had involved the child, which irritated me.

There were three African American boys in the house.  Stoic and quiet, they were foster children and they just sat at the dining room table, ignoring the fracas, eating their dinner.  I felt sorry for them too.  They seemed to be grateful to have a nice home to live in, and would put up with anything, holding their tongues, not causing any trouble.

Meanwhile I was trying to talk to Bob, to say goodbye.

This was the end of our relationship and I was never going to see him again.  I just want to talk to him for five minutes alone to end it, once and for all.

The wife kept asking me to leave, so I walked out of the house without being able to talk to Bob.

As I left, I looked back, and he was wearing a soccer shirt.  Soccer is something we used to share and, by doing this, he was telling me that there was hope that our relationship will continue.

So I walked away, with closure unresolved.  

It didn't feel good.  I wanted it to end... or did I?

What does this all mean?

Well, I thought about it on my journey to work today and, sadly, it’s not a romantic thing.  It’s not even a personal drama thing.

It’s a work thing.

This is about getting a promotion. 

The young daughter, trying to understand what is going on, represents my colleagues.  My boss solicited their opinions on my potential promotion without asking or telling me, and so brought them into the drama in a way that was, I feel, in appropriate.

My boss is the wife, yelling at me. 

She told me that I can throw my hat into the ring for the promotion, but there are no guarantees.  In fact, she has expressed some doubts about me.  Mostly she talked about the way I express myself… that I’m too direct and use phrases that aren’t PC enough. 

Unfortunately, looking and sounding like a WASP doesn’t help me in America.  People forget that I am foreign, and they don’t make allowances.  Where I come from, the way I speak is the way everybody speaks.  I lived there for the first 28 years of my life.  I try to moderate my expressions, adapt my style, but it’s hard.  I’m still working on it.

Also, my directness, openness and sense of humor are a big part of who I am.  By asking me to moderate my self-expression, there is a part of me that fears that my personality will be stifled completely.  THAT is what Bob represents.

He represents a time in my life when I was young, way down the corporate totem pole, footloose and fancy-free, crazy without consequences, embracing emotion with abandon. 

And I have to say goodbye to Bob.

I have to stop making jokes, asking questions in a challenging way, expressing my opinion strongly.

The foster children are what I am afraid of becoming.  Sitting quietly while everything goes on around them, not saying a word, just grateful to be safe, to have a home.  Part of me wonders if I should capitulate.  Be grateful to have a job.

But then there’s Bob, wearing the soccer shirt, standing in the window.

Because I can’t say goodbye to who I am.

I am funny.  I am sarcastic.  I am witty. 

I am warm.  I am open.  I care about people I work with, in a personal way.

I am intelligent and brave.  If something isn't right, and it's affecting our business in a negative way, I not only see it, I ask questions about it... I expose it.

So how do I walk away from Bob – this presence in my life that is inappropriate, that is causing trouble for me, that has the woman of the house (my boss) yelling at me and is part of creating a whole situation scaring the children (my colleagues)?

I don’t know.

To read more in the Dear Diary series, click here.  

Dear Diary - Mean Girl

 

Dear Diary

I am a mean person.  

It's my sense of humor.  

Direct, outrageous, provocative.

Basically, if I say something utterly ridiculous, you ought to know I'm kidding.

Little by little, over the years, Fluffy Bear has got used to my wacky ways.  But, now and again, I can still get him.

A year or so ago, I put a very sad, concerned face on and sat down next to my husband on the couch.

 "I really didn't know how to tell you what I have to say," I said softly, "so I bought you this."

Quietly, I handed him a greeting card.

He took it out of the envelope, and turned it face up.

"I'm pregnant" it read.

He didn't say anything.  

He didn't look at me.

He slowly opened the card.

"Just kidding!" it said on the inside.

He didn't move.

At that moment, I was gripped by fear.  

Maybe, for once, I'd gone too far.  

What if he jumped up and hugged me, bursting into tears of happiness?  I mean, holy shit, I didn't want kids!  He didn't want kids!  Did he?

He let out a half-yell, half-guffaw, and whacked me on the arm with the card.

I breathed a sigh of relief, starting to laugh too.

I'd got away with it!  But, maybe, a little less nutty next time.

Then again, whoever designed that card is also clearly a bit of a nutjob, so I'm not alone...

Dear Diary - Bun in the oven

 

Dear Diary

Two people close to me are very, very pregnant.  Well, I say close to me.  One is physically close - I see her every day.  And the other is close to my heart, but oceans separate us.  And so I use Mrs WorkMom as my fix for my BFFMom, so that, in some way, I can feel I am sharing in my her pregnancy.

I think WorkMom's baby and I are going to get on very well after he's born.  He's my kinda guy.  He's causing trouble already.  Never mind the false labor and the tossing and turning... every time a monitoring strap or ultrasound is put on her stomach, the baby kicks the shit out of it.

My attitude to my colleague has been confusing for some of my team at work.  On the one hand, I make it clear that I don't like or want (human) kids but, on the other hand, I get her to IM me when he's kicking so I can run over to her cube and feel it.  I've never felt a kid kick in the womb before.  It's weird.

This morning, I started to think about my love-hate relationship with children.

I say I "hate kids" because it's simple short-hand that everyone can understand and the vehemence of my tone leaves no doubt in their minds that they should never - never - show me their ultrasound or camping trip photos or annoy me with those revolting Girl Scout Cookies.  It gets me out of a lot of tedious conversations and saves me the energy expended by pretending I care.  Oscar winning actresses get paid to do that shit.  If I have to slap on a smile and say "Aw!" ten times in a row, all I get is drained.

Show me pictures of your dog... then see me melt.

Hating kids is not really the issue though.  I mean, they're cute (in small doses) and, with extensive aunty and babysitting experience, I know how to handle them.  Toddlers are fascinating to observe, from a psychological/sociological point of view:  watching how they learn, how they perceive the world, how they move within it.  Even revolting teenagers can be like watching a nature documentary.  I mean - hell! - the little shits aren't mine, so I can just watch and be entertained, like a live VH1 reality show.

So why my antipathy?

If I break it down, there are 3 key reasons:

1) My mother

My mother was a product of her time.  Having children meant staying at home, being financially dependent on my father, not having the chance to get out into the world, to spread her wings, to fly.  

And then, when her third child was a teenager and she could see the light at the end of the tunnel, beckoning her to an empty nest, charity work, time alone... I came along.  She never said it to me - she probably never said it to anyone - but I could feel that I messed up her life.  She was almost 40 when she had me (common now, not so much back then), and I took the shackles of suburban motherhood, which had rusted and were going to fall off, polished and oiled them and snapped them shut, even tighter than before, around her ankles.

Don't get me wrong - my mother loved me.  Very much.  So much so, in fact, that she didn't show resentment.  Instead, she wanted a better life for me.

We lived in South Africa of the 1980's.  Best known for Apartheid but also, in other ways, very conservative.  My mother wanted to make sure I didn't end up not realizing my potential like she did, and she encouraged me to study, to travel, to question - never to marry, and never to have kids.  I don't fault her for this in any way.  Perhaps we both knew human procreation wasn't for me.

2) What I saw

Recently, more women have been honest about fallacies like the one of golden "bonding" moment when the baby is first placed at the mother's breast.  Brooke Shields was vilified by some for writing about her postpartum depression, which included thoughts of suicide and imagining her baby smashing into a wall.  It's not like they show it in the baby product ads on TV.

I knew all this a long time ago.

I have seen motherhood up close - my sister crying with fatigue while my nephew was wide awake playing at 3am, my brother dealing with his son's tantrums, my friend (who I lived with for 3 months) taking three times as long as normal to get a cake baked or a dress made.  

My sister had four kids in four years and I was 11 when the first one came.  We lived close by and I was the aunt who played with the kids, ran the birthday parties - hell! - even changed a few nappies.  It was fun, but it was also exhausting.  I would spend 3 to 4 hours with my nephews and nieces and be wiped out.  How my sister did it all day long was a mystery to me.  And, to her credit, she has brought up four of the most amazing kids in the world.  Now adults, they are strong, intelligent, loving and able to face the challenges in life as well as embrace sports and activities which bring fun into the day to day.

But I saw the work that went into that.  And it was too much for me, thank you very much.

3) It wasn't meant to be

Physically, the signs have always been there that I "didn't have the hips for bearing children," as they used to say.  My menstruation was always minimal, and three years ago a grapefruit sized growth had to be cut out of me.  My womb was never baby-ready.  

Sometimes I wondered whether, if I couldn't have kids, I wasn't supposed to.  

Now, that's completely unfair to those women who have suffered through IVF, and also to all those children out there looking for adoptive parents.  Of course you should try to have kids if you want to, in spite of biology.

Adoption has taken place in my family, and it was one of the most joyous and precious things that happened to us - to all of us, not just the adoptive parents.  I told the child in my family a few years ago what a gift he had been, how the moment he was brought to my parent's house was just joyous, and I'm not sure he really got what I was saying.  He seemed confused, even perhaps skeptical.  But I was telling the God's honest truth.  There was a glow around my family that day.  I'll never forget it.

But, for me, I personally feel that my womb was simply backing up what my heart told me.  It's not for me.  No thanks.  No way.

So I'm that bitch at the girl's night who, once we've been watching new baby videos for ten minutes, turns to the new mother and says:

"OK, your baby's adorable, but I'm done.  It's time for dessert."

In spite of all of this, I can understand the wonder and strangeness that is childbirth.  I mean, imagine a separate individual growing inside of you.  Imagine some minuscule thing in your bollocks starting the process that creates a whole new being!  How utterly bizarre.  How completely amazing.

And so I connect with the experience BFFMom is going through - something she has been wanting for so, so long, and something that has made her happier than I have seen in our 22 years of close bond - through WorkMom's huge belly, her slow, swaying progress to meetings, and even her ultrasounds.

I ask questions, and I contribute to gifts, and I regularly check in on how she's doing.

And most of all, for both of them, I wish and hope and pray for easy births, and healthy children.

Dear Diary - My First Seder

 

Dear Diary,

I went to my first Seder last night - the feast that marks the start of the Passover holiday.

My friend had invited about 20 people - quite a feat considering she moved into her new house recently and we had been round to help her smash walls and tear down ceilings.  The progress they have made with doing it up was staggering.

The Seder retells the story of the Hebrews' exodus from Egypt, where they were enslaved.  When the Pharoah would not let the people go, God visited ten plagues upon Egypt.

By going through the Haggadah - which contains the narrative of the exodus - I was reminded of the wonderful Old Testament story of the ten plagues.  

As Catholics, we learn the Old Testament stories - as good as compendium of Hans Christian Andersen stories - as children in Catechism classes.  But, as you get older, the focus seems to be more and more on the Jesus stuff, and the wonderful stories of the Old Testament - like Abraham, Job, Cain and Abel, Noah's Ark - are largely forgotten.

It was great to be reminded of the plagues: 

• Dam (blood)—All the water was changed to blood
• Tzefardeyah (frogs)—An infestation of frogs sprang up in Egypt
• Kinim (lice)—The Egyptians were afflicted by lice
• Arov (wild animals)—An infestation of wild animals (some say flies) sprang up in Egypt
• Dever (pestilence)—A plague killed off the Egyptian livestock
• Sh'chin (boils)—An epidemic of boils afflicted the Egyptians
• Barad (hail)—Hail rained from the sky
• Arbeh (locusts)—Locusts swarmed over Egypt
• Choshech (darkness)—Egypt was covered in darkness
• Makkat Bechorot (killing of the first-born)—All the first-born sons of the Egyptians were slain by God

At the last, the Hebrews were instructed to mark the doorposts of their homes with the blood of a spring lamb and, upon seeing this, the spirit of the Lord passed over these homes, leaving the first born unscathed, hence the term "passover."

I have a great respect for the Jewish faith... I always have. 

Growing up as a Catholic, it was clear to me that the Jewish and Catholic faiths have a lot in common.  Strong family values, strong faith and the imperative to help others.

Of course, there is one major difference between Judaism and Catholicism.  In the Jewish tradition, one is taught to question.  Not only is the Torah to be discussed, but the writings and interpretations of major scholars are open for debate too.  I greatly envy this fact.  At church I simply had to listen to the priest's endless, droning interpretation of the readings in the homily (the priest's lecture during the Mass).

I mentioned this to one of the other guests at the party (we were the token Goyim) and she said she knew someone who'd converted because of this very fact - he wanted to be able to question, think through and form his own opinion in his faith.

Frankly, the lack of questioning and feeling free to debate issues of faith - or any issue at all - is a great loss in our modern society.  The book we all worked from during the Seder made it clear that this was a dinner party where story telling and political debate is encouraged.  Fluffy Bear and I were ecstatic.  

I can't remember how many times we have tried to start a political discussion with friends or acquaintances or colleagues in the US and had them smile sweetly at us, take a long pause, and then change the subject.  It's tedious and boring and cowardly.  Not only is it OK for us to share, it's also OK for us to disagree, and to talk about it - even loudly.  

People not questioning can have disastrous consequences - like a nation believing that Saddam Hussein should be punished for 9/11.  Something our poor soldiers are still paying for.

And so Shulchan Orech - where the prayers and readings stop while the main meal is eaten and the wine can be poured in large quantities rather than in the small Kiddush cups - Fluffy Bear launched forth.  Healthcare, education, politics... we left no PC stone unturned.  It was great fun.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The ritual and prayers leading up to the main meal were fascinating, and I was struck by how inclusive it was.  Different people contributed readings and questions were encouraged.  When the origin of a specific element was debated, various people contributed their explanations which were then debated again.

The hostess - thank God! - kept corralling us all to keep the pace going.

Fluffy Bear and I tried our best to sing the prayers - we must've sounded pretty funny, because we didn't know the tunes!

I love matzot, so I couldn't stop eating it, in spite of warnings of how much food was to follow.  I had my very first bowl of matzah ball soup - which was yummy - and, in spite of my allergies, I let myself have one, delicious, soft, chewy deviled egg.

I had an emotional moment when dessert was served.  My friend had made flan.  

"Flahn."  

Such a horrible sounding name for such a wonderful dessert.  My mother used to make Creme Renversee or Creme Caramel.  The flan was almost - almost - as good as my mother's signature dessert.  I had to stop myself from crying.

It felt like a family evening - which is precious to an ex-pat whose family lives far away.  There was a lot of food, alcohol, lively conversation...

What a wonderful evening!

Dear Diary - Happy St Patrick's Day!

  

Dear Diary,

Happy St Patrick's Day!

I heard the BEST St Patrick's Day story today.

I know that some people out there may know about this, but it's the first time I've ever heard of it!

Fluffy Bear, having an Irish father and having actually BEEN to Ireland, scoffed at the Colonial interpretation and embellishment of the day dedicated to Ireland's Patron Saint, but I thought it was adorable.

A friend told me about what her daughter does with her kids on St Patrick's Day.

She tells them that you have to try and catch a Leprechaun.  If you succeed, he'll tell you where his pot of gold is!

To do this, you have to first turn a cardboard box upside-down and - of course! - prop it up with a stick to make a trap.

Second, you have to tempt the Leprechaun - wily lil' fella that he is - into the trap with food and drink.  And it has to be appropriately presented.  So the kids took a plate and cup from their tea set and set out - what else? - some mashed potato and a little beer.

Third, you have to make sure the Leprechaun finds the trap in the first place, so little clovers are strewn in the house, leading to the trap.

Last, you have to protect your school shoes, because Leprechauns were once cobblers, and they like to take a shoe and hide it.

Once the kids are asleep, the food is disposed of, one of each of their shoes is hidden (get ready to be late for school in the morning!), chocolate gold coins are put under the box, the traps are put down and green glitter boot prints are put down where the Leprechaun ran away.  Under one corner of trap, a little hat is placed because the Leprechaun got away, but we managed to get his hat!

I couldn't help but imagine the kids rushing to check the trap in the morning, rejoicing at the gold coin candy and then frantically searching the house for their missing shoes!

GENIUS!

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig!

For more Dear Diary, click here.

Dear Diary - My Slobby Valentine

  

Dear Diary,

Fluffy Bear is off at his yearly conference again, and I get to indulge in my Slobby Valentine.

Yes, dear Diary, it's pretty bad.

I have cute pajama pants on - red and white pattern with a little bow at the waist - bought about two years ago.

But the shirt that went with them stretched in the wash and frayed and was basically a reminder not to buy cheap sweat shop shit.

So I'm wearing some freebie T-shirt Fluffy Bear got from a local brewery with it.  It's too big and too baggy and it has a picture of a fat guy drinking beer on it.

It also has a nice orange stain on the chest area, from some curry some evening where I decided to share dinner with my clothes.

My dressing gown (robe) has seen better days.  Even hot washes don't get it to look white anymore.  It's a slight grey/pinky color from dirt and an unfortunate wash with something red.

The belt thing has a big hole on one side due to a misunderstanding with Puppy Girl.  I was walking along, robe open, with the belt hanging down, flapping at my side, and she mistook that for an invitation to play tug.  The puppy piranha teeth did the rest.

Last but not least, the hair.

Styled by 8 hours of turning this way and that on the pillow, it defies gravity in ways mohawked punks would envy.  If I could bottle whatever it is that makes my hair go all Medusa, I could put all hair gel manufacturers out of business.

Never one to not complete a look, it's acessorized with hairy armpits, hairy legs and toenails that haven't seen a pedicure in over a month.

How can I stand it?  

It's simple... As long as I avoid the bathroom mirror, I can't see myself.  Ten minutes after brushing my teeth, if I'm alone and I don't have to get ready to go out, I forget what I look like.

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this, dear Diary.  You didn't ask to know, you don't need to know and you probably really, really, really don't want to know.

Well, I had to.

It's all about setting the scene.

The background.

The context.

The milieu, if you will.

For what?

For the look of pure, unadulterated horror on the face of the Chugger (charity mugger) who came to the front door.  It was probably the worst spiel he's ever given.

But, on the plus side, I didn't have to do much explaining about why I can't afford to contribute right now...

To read more Dear Diary posts, click here. 

Dear Diary - Body Betrayal

Dear Diary

 

Sometimes I feel like my body is betraying me.

 

I went to a networking thingy tonight.  

 

It was interesting to be one of the few people there with a full time job, but that's a different story.

 

What happened is this...

 

We took a break after dinner and before the speech, and I headed off to the restroom.  A very interesting woman I have met before walked with me, and we were yacking, as you tend to do at these things.

 

She seemed to be one of those people who is happy to continue a conversation between restroom stalls, so we kept talking as we both put buttcheeks to porcelain.

 

And then my body decides it's time to take a massive, smelly dump.

 

So there I am, trying to sound cheerful and chatting away, trying to cover the whole bowl of the toilet with my ample bum and thighs so no smell gets out, and trying desperately to finish pooping quickly so that I can bound out of the stall as if I've only had a nice little pee like everyone else.

It didn't work.

She was out of the stall, hands washed and out of the bathroom before I even got to the last wipe.

  

And she knew.

 

She knew.

 

Because at some point she just stopped talking and left the restroom, without saying anything that would close the conversation like "see you back in there" or "I'm heading back now."

 

Why, Body, why?

 

Why then?

 

You had various opportunities during the day, in total privacy, to drop a bomb on Dresden.

 

Sigh.

 

You Judas!

 

Dear Diary - New Year's Resolutions

 

Dear Diary,

I am making two types of New Year's Resolutions this year. 

I read a post the other day about changing one's thinking on resolutions.  It was all about giving oneself gifts rather than rules.

And so, for 2010, I am going to give myself the following gifts:

• The gift of exercise, to help me manage stress, increase my energy and improve my health
• The gift of clear lungs, through keeping up the Nicorette gum.  I am also not going to pressure myself on this point, so that I can keep chewing as long as I need to
• The gift of relaxation - time to read, long hot baths, switching off the laptop, fun with my furkids, dates with my husband
• The gift of experiencing and seeing new things, taking walks and trips with my Fluffy Bear and the furkids
• The gift of friendship, making time to spend with my wonderful friends (my surrogate family) 
• The gift of family, making time to talk to my relatives overseas through Skype, email and IM
• The gift of success, by making an effort to do my work to the best of my ability
• The gift of extending my networking, through meeting colleagues and making the time to attend events held by the organizations I am a member of
• The gift of learning, through training courses, reading and job shadowing
• The gift of treats - chocolate, massages, dinners out
• The gift of fun - Flash Mobs, singing in public and other silly things
• The gift of self-expression through dance and, of course, writing this blog!

The second type are actual resolutions, but ones I know I have a 100% chance of being able to keep:

• I will shout "Batter up!" every time I burp out loud

Happy New Year!