September, ur doin it wrong.

Yeah right. Being "present in your present" is all well and good when there's crisp, dry air, and sunshine warm enough to comfort but not so hot you're sweating before you burn your first calorie of the day. Not so easy from beneath a damp sticky air mass that hangs like a mouldering blanket over everything for days on end. Late September, and I am running air conditioners just to prevent me from pulling my remaining hair out. Who wants to buy pumpkins in this weather? I ask you.

Actually, it's getting better. I should quit my whining and focus on the fact that in a mere few months, a run of days like this will be an impossible dream. All too soon, there will be cold and damp to complain about.

So, remember Mr. Sandyshoes and I got to spend a few days in Maine at the beginning of the summer? And remember I'd said I was going to plug our hotel, etc.? Of course you don't. But we did that, and I said that. Accordingly:

We stayed at the lovely Blue Nose Inn, a pleasant stroll from central Bar Harbor, with great views of Frenchman Bay. The hotel is attractive and comfortable. There's a hot tub, steam room, and pool, which we used, and exercise equipment, which we didn't. There's a bar and a pianist playing nightly in the "Great Room," which made for an enjoyable nightcap (and when did I become someone who enjoys a "nightcap"? Is this not something one's parents used to do? Sigh.) One evening there was a wine-and-cheese reception hosted by the manager. It was interesting talking with him about the similarities and differences between the tourist-dependent, seasonal economies of Bar Harbor and Cape Cod. Don't ask me why it was interesting, because I can't remember a thing we said; I was on vacation. But I know I enjoyed the conversation, which I could not have had it been dull.

What else? We loved dinner at Cafe This Way. It's a cool setting... tables set up in a converted-garage (though it isn't, I asked) feeling space, full of books and original artwork. Hard to describe. Check their website for pictures (caution:  the font is damn near unreadable. Why do people do that?). The food was so good that we went back the next morning for an equally terrific breakfast, and will make a point to revisit it if we're ever in Bar Harbor again.  

The day before, we'd had an (eventually) delightful breakfast on the porch at the Two Cats Cafe, though it took a while to get seated, and after that a bizarrely long while before anyone took our order. We waited and waited. I was this close to leaving, but it turned out fine. I guess they were having a tough morning. A lady at the table next to us sent back her coffee because it was too hot, and her pancakes because she thought they were mushy (maybe they were, who knows. Ours were fine). Sent back coffee because it was too hot, though! Can you imagine? Steven Wright had a joke: "This pizza's too hot. I think we should send it back." Restaurant people must just shake their heads sometimes.

Something that amused us in Acadia National Park: We were parked at one of its famous natural features... Thunder Hole, I think, though the tide wasn't right for making the thundering sound it's named for... and, after climbing around on the rocks a bit, came back to the car, ready to move on.  A small group of people were gathered behind the car next to ours, pointing at something, and saying things like "ooh! Look! Right in the parking lot!" and we looked in the direction they were pointing, and there was nothing there. Unless... wait, they couldn't mean... that seagull? Ayuh, they did. A whole family of tourists was beside themselves at this incredible wildlife sighting. They all looked sane, but what the? I took a peek at their license plate: Indiana. So I assume this was the morning of the very first day of their very first Maine vacation, and that they'd arrived in darkness the night before... and that they don't have landfills where they come from.

Naturally we had way too much fun pointing out those wily, elusive seagulls to one another on the rest of the trip.  I'm told we have them here at home, too. If it's not too humid tomorrow I might try to find one.

in which I revisit my brief academic career

Mr. Sandyshoes, in temporary residence at the excellent Oceanography department here at MWCU, gets seminar announcements from the Geology Department as well. He forwarded one to me today. The advertised lecture was about marine sedimentation, and I thought, what the hell. That's a language I used to speak. I should go.

However, I felt as though I had a neon "IMPOSTER" sign on my forehead. It has been almost twenty years since I was in grad school for geology. From time to time I take out my degree just to remind myself, yep, it happened, and this is a real and true thing that came out of it. Then I shake my head in bafflement, put the official paper back in its official file, and get on with the laundry.

Today, though, I dashed off a flip facebook status about planning to sit in the back row with a pillowcase over my head, checked the online campus map, put on my shades, and headed out.

It's nice to live such a short walk from the university. Sure I was lost within ten minutes, but I was lost inside the right building. I walked the hallways a bit, unconcerned about being a couple minutes late, as arriving after the lights went down would lessen the likelihood of anyone jumping up to point at me and shout "HEY! You don't belong here! You should be at the grocery store!"

I passed classrooms and labs, displays and bulletin boards -- the usual Science Building stuff. One small office I walked by was shared by six grad students, each bent over their desks. The stress was palpable even from the hallway. In that brief moment, I had two strong and conflicting impulses: to shudder -- God, I remember how much that sucks -- and to do this. I'm not proud of that one, but there you go. Schadenfreude. It can be funny. At least I'm pretty sure that twenty years ago, my stressed-out officemates and I would've thought it was funny.

Thus cheered, I entered the seminar room, sidled over to an out-of-the-way seat, and settled in to see if any of it would make sense.  Happily, much of it did.

One of the things I've always loved about geology is the vocabulary.  So many delicious words!  Bioturbation, box cores, piston cores, isotopic dating, concretions.  Turbidite.  Paleointensity.  Worm tube.  (Heh heh.  I said "worm tube.")

Audience manners, I noted, have not improved over the years. You're going to tuck into a big crunchy apple during a professor's presentation? Seriously? Unless it's a "brown bag" seminar (implying bring your lunch), that seems kind of rude, no?

Something else that hasn't changed:  the mid-talk sleepiness.  I have never fought so hard to stay awake as during department seminars in grad school.  You try everything.  Coffee, of course.  Also rapid breathing, rapid note taking, blinking, not blinking, pinching yourself.  I used to fantasize that if I were made of money, I'd donate a lecture hall to a science department, and include a private room for myself behind it, where I'd put a really comfortable recliner from which I'd watch and listen to talks with complete freedom to close my heavy eyelids any time.  The talk could be fascinating, but the dark room, the white noise from the slide projector fan... what?  It was the 1990s.  They used slide projectors then.

Quit looking at me like that.  You have your fantasies, I'll have mine. 

Anyway.  I understood enough of the talk to be emboldened to attend another one.  Maybe I won't even be stealthy about it.  But I promise not to bring an apple.

in which I am 40-something-else

Concluding Birthday Season I in our family, I am now Even Older.  (Doesn't that get on your nerves, when people who aren't remotely elderly talk about how oooollld they are?  Mine too.  Get off my lawn. Oh wait. OK, I'll get off my own lawn.  But I'll be back on it before long, as it's about to need mowing.)

I had a lovely birthday, which started when my lovely husband made sure I was exempted from getting our lovely daughters ready for school.  I was supposed to sleep in, but was wide awake at the usual time.  Grrrr.  He also made me a beautiful chocolate cake, and I can now say definitively that the chocolate frosting recipe on the back of the unsweetened cocoa label is much superior to the one I'd been using for years.  Riveting news, I know.  But chocolate frosting improvements are always cause for good cheer.

I got a fishing pole and a Nancy Drew book and a Black Eyed Peas CD (the one with the boom-boom-pow song that I can't stop singing. "Them chickens jackin' my style," and stuff!) and Season 3 of The Muppet Show.  The Muppet Show makes me very happy.  Also a new novel, socks with flamingos on them, and a Life Is Good t-shirt.  And it is, folks, it is.

In other news you will be delighted to know that I finally finished the biography of George Washington that I've been reading on and off for FIVE YEARS now.  Of which more later.  My cat-herding exemption was for one morning only, so I'd better hit the hay.

OMG I never finished that paper! Oh wait, yes I did. 20 YEARS AGO.

So I dreamed, once again, that I had failed to write my thesis/complete an assignment/pass a class in graduate school, and never finished my degree.  And once again, finding consciousness through the thick fog of that tiresome anxiety, I had to remind myself that the degree has been mine almost two decades now, and at this point, nobody's going to call to rescind it, and even so, who the fuck cares?  I have children of my own sleeping down the hall. I have years of professional experience behind me.  I'm a home-owning, tax-paying, advice-giving, issue-voting, blog-writing, major appliance-buying, opinion-spouting, child-rearing grownup for heaven's sake, and not intimidated by much anymore, at that.  Except, evidently, in my sleep.

So I'm wondering:  How old do I have to be not to have these stupid school-related anxiety dreams?  Is there some internal switch I can flip that'll turn them off - or will I wake occasionally as a little old grandmother, momentarily convinced that I still have to turn in some wretched paper or exam?  Because if I can just convince my subconscious that, yo, I am too dang old to still be pulling this crap on myself, then that would be one aspect of the tedious midlife crisis I could happily embrace.

yawn

I feel like I didn't sleep at all last night, but went to bed and watched movies till dawn.  I had very bizarre dreams that I can't repeat, fraught with disturbing imagery and emotion.  Suffice to say that Dr. Freud would nod knowingly, and the sooner I forget them altogether, the better.

There were some less unsettling dreams as well, one of which co-starred George Clooney, but, sadly, is rated G.  In it, we were riding in the back of a limousine together.  I was the writer/creator of a high profile dramatic television series, and he was, well, George Clooney.  We weren't working together, just sharing a ride to the same work-related destination.  The limo was cruising alongside either the Cape Cod Canal, or the Connecticut River; there's a riverside stretch of country road in Hadley, Massachusetts that turns up in my dreams a lot, it might've been there.  Our conversation was easy and pleasant, as between friends who've worked in the same business for many years.  We got where we were going and said seeya.  I proceeded to go see a tedious children's play in which none of the actors spoke in a voice over a whisper, and I thought, "oh God, not another one of these."

And... that was it.  George Clooney appears in my dreams, and that was it.   Just another mommy dream, with its wistfulness for paths not taken.  If you're going to have a George Clooney dream, folks, make it more interesting than that one, mkay?

What a difference a few years makes.

The other day, Mr. Sandyshoes and I stood together at the kitchen counter, opening our mail. His contained a decent check, which was payment for a consulting job he'd recently wrapped up. As I opened mine, out dropped a lone dollar bill and two coupons for goat cheese. Yes. That was to thank me for my time completing a survey about said goat cheese.

Now I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I have no regrets whatsoever about ditching my mediocre career to be with my babies as they've grown into girls. But I miss paychecks with my name on them. I really do.

I have realized during this hiatus from paid work (goat cheese surveys notwithstanding) that I truly don't want to go back into hazardous waste site cleanup (shocking, I know). However, I have no clue what's next for me professionally, and no idea how to figure it out. I have a Master's degree in Geology, but these days I can't remember a damn thing I learned in school. So what's going for me? Well, I'm reasonably intelligent. I can write clearly. I like to learn things and go places. I'm a good planner. I have common sense. I'm great at reading out loud. I'm an excellent driver. I can very quickly find a grammatical or spelling error in damn near any written work. I make really delicious banana bread.

Sigh.

Yeah, I'd better sign off. I've been invited to complete a survey on salad dressing.

One kind of liberation.

The other night I had dinner out with two friends -- like me, mothers of young children, though we knew each other Before All That -- who live a couple of towns away. Family schedules can make it tough to find an evening we're all available, but we make it happen every couple of months. This time we met at Bopha's Stir Crazy, a Cambodian restaurant which, Cape Cod/southeastern Massachusetts readers, you should absolutely visit if you haven't. (Note to self: remember this place when next lamenting the relative lack of really good, fairly casual, not-American-pub-food restaurants on the Cape, as compared to the Pioneer Valley from whence I moved, which has a giddy and delicious abundance thereof and which I sometimes heartily miss.) (Another note to self: who the hell uses "from whence" and "thereof" in casual writing?)

Ahem.

Anyway one of my friends arrived a few minutes late. Sitting down, she said she'd just come from the garden center, where she'd had to exchange one kind of hose for another, and that it had taken much longer than she'd thought it would because the cashier didn't know how to conduct the transaction, got the register all muddled up, had to call a manager over, etc., etc. Evidently the cashier behaved very rudely, as well. My mild-mannered, good-natured friend eventually said to her, "hey, there's no need to be that way with me. I didn't mess up the register," and that the cashier, while still gritting her teeth, at least knocked off the overt snippiness.

We all agreed that ten years ago -- even five -- none of us would've likely said anything, however justified. There's something about... what, turning 40? being somebody's mother? ... that has kicked in, and we just don't put up with stuff like that any more.

Looking at the menu, we thought about getting three different entrees to share. "Actually, I'd like to have that to myself," my friend said. Fair enough. If a mommy gets a night out with her friends, the last thing she should have is someone taking unwelcome bites of her dinner. Another thing we're not going to feel sheepish about. There are lots of things like this. I won't share popcorn at the movies. I never liked to, but I won't fake it any more. I want it all myself, and I want to eat it with my tongue, like a frog, if frogs ate popcorn. It's a small thing, but it makes me happy.

So we're feeling changes in our sense of self as we move into middle adulthood. But it's not just about rude strangers and popcorn. Although I still worry about it sometimes, if I'm perfectly honest I have to say I care less and less about whether people in general like me or not. I've realized that the things people might not like about me are really unlikely to change, at this stage of the game. I am who I am. There are six billion people on the planet to choose your friends from... don't choose me, if you don't want to. It's okay. We're both better off. Peace.

(My inner puppy would like to interject at this point that none of this means I'm not a likeable person or a good friend, and that you'd probably like me if we met. OK, puppy. Back in your crate now.)

However, I must not be all grown up yet because I'm still taking crap from people in doctors' offices. For example, take my recent annual ob-gyn appointments. The medical assistant who does the initial stuff -- weight, blood pressure, asking if anything's changed since last time, saying "you can get undressed, the doctor will be with you shortly" -- has become pointedly unfriendly to me. She didn't smile, didn't respond when spoken to, didn't look at me or call me by name. It is weird and unpleasant, and I was really taken aback by it. I have been a patient of this practice (is that the dumbest home page ever? No links!) for ten years now, through two pregnancies and various other bumps in the road that I won't bore you with (you're welcome). That assistant has been there for many of those years, herself, and she hasn't always been such a sourpuss. Something has distinctly changed. I have to wonder, and I'm tempted to ask her, "did I do something to piss you off? or is there just something uncomfortable up your ass?" -- because I don't deserve that.

But I haven't, and I probably won't, because 1) I would probably word it just like that, and become Part of the Problem; and 2) it's very hard to find a new doctor, and I'd hate to burn that bridge. There are only a few places to storm out of in high dudgeon (!) before I'd be out of local options altogether. Doctors around here have really got patients over a barrel. Still, basic civility doesn't seem like it should be too much to ask.

At any rate, this knowing who you are, and not feeling apologetic about it must be what people mean, in part, when they talk about how aging is "liberating." I suppose there's a fine line between "What you think won't hurt me because I'm OK with who I am" and "I don't care what you think because I'm kind of an asshole that way." Here's to achieving the former without coming off as the latter.

More than the sum of the parts

This has been a tough month for bad news. There's all the economy stuff, yes. But beyond that, I've had too much news of long ago friends and acquaintances having died recently.

I'm not old enough yet to be scanning the daily obituaries for familiar names. These are people in their 40s and 50s I'm hearing about. Lives cut short by alcoholism; cancer; sudden, inexplicable heart failure; accidents.

On one hand, they are people I'd lost touch with, or didn't spend time with independently of other, closer friends, or barely knew at all except to say hey-how-ya-doin' in passing. Still, each one feels like a loss, and given the close timing of their unrelated deaths, it's been a strange and unsettling month.

I feel disoriented and inarticulate and sad.

The latest news came in today's paper: a friend of my former husband just died in a chain saw accident in a town I once lived in and loved. My ex, my former brother-in-law, and several other friends were (are) loggers as well. The possibility of that kind of accident was a constant background anxiety in my life for a long time. It was a tough headline to see. The microseconds before I got to the phrase "...and father of five" -- ruling out my former spouse -- were tense.

I am thinking of those guys now; of how, when I knew them, they'd gather in one or the other's driveway after the day's work, sometimes just to touch base, sometimes for hours-long storytelling sessions. How they'd known each other since they were boys, and had years and years of stories on hand. How you wouldn't go two continuous minutes on the road without seeing one of their trucks, and each man had his own style of offhand wave as you passed. How news of any one of them spread to the others through the package store where they all got their Budweiser. Cases, upon cases, upon cases of Bud. How there would be pissing contests -- figurative and literal. (One of the guys could pee over a Suburban, the long way. It was legendary.) How working partnerships sometimes formed between them, but always dissolved eventually. It seems that men drawn to tree work are often those who work most happily alone.

I am picturing them gathering now, and I imagine the Bud is flowing as it did in younger days.

RIP, Marc.

How Dangerous a Driver Are You?

I guess the premise is that you can't be a totally safe driver, but you can be less dangerous than everyone else.

Created by The Car Connection

I think I scored "above average" instead of "excellent" because I answered honestly the "have you ever driven under the influence" question. Not in the last 20 years or so, but....ever? I'd have to guess, if I'm perfectly honest, that there was one time in my very early 20s when I maybe shouldn't have driven home.

As to speeding... not so much anymore. Before marriage and kids and the overall transformation to Boring Middle-aged Person, I did like to drive pretty fast. Even then, though, I didn't tailgate or weave in and out of lanes or pass people on the right without giving them ample opportunity to move over first. Tailgaters all suck, and the tailgaters who come up close behind you and flash their lights when it's perfectly clear to anyone paying attention that there is absolutely no opportunity to move out of their way -- they suck most of all.

Alphabet Meme: I

I is for instruments played:

None, lately. I can still play the recorder of the type we all got in elementary school before we reached Decision Time: band or chorus, and if band, what instrument. I chose band, and the clarinet, for reasons I don't remember. I do remember going into my parents' room to ask them to buy me a used one, and they asked if I'd be serious about it, and I said yes I would. I stuck with it happily for a couple of years, then stopped liking it. Our band director, Mr. Schneider, was an asshole, and the other clarinetists pointedly ignored me. Practice was stomach-churning. To this day, hearing the Chicago song "25 or 6 to 4" on the radio delivers a now-amusing microdose of middle school angst. I can still pick out the second clarinet part in our tortured arrangement, and picture my place on stage at the obligatory concert.

I remember looking longingly over at the drum section during practice sessions. I hope things have changed in 30 years, and that girls now play the drums too. I would've rocked the drums. In retrospect, it probably wouldn't have made me more of an oddball than I already was, either.

Eventually, between limited ability and limited desire, I decided that other musical endeavors would be less uncomfortable. I think it was about that time I joined the church youth choir, though it wasn't cause-and-effect. Anyway, my mother wrote to Mr. Schneider telling him I was not going to take band any more. I have no idea how she worded it, but he took me aside and said, "I didn't like your mother's note. It was too... smooth." I'm glad he did that; in proving his meanness, he erased any guilt or second thoughts I might've had about quitting.

Years later, without regret, I gave the clarinet to a boyfriend, a man with a deep and true gift for music, who should have as many instruments as his home can hold.

Lately -- probably part of the tedious midlife crisis -- I am thinking I'd like to learn to play the piano. I wonder if that's even possible?

Alphabet Meme: A

This is a good time for the Alphabet Meme, which I have honorably pinched from the lovely Maria at Just Eat Your Cupcake.

It might take me 26 days to get through it!

A is for your age: 41.

This 40-ish zone appears to be a time for exciting medical firsts. First mammogram behind me. First colonoscopy coming up. First anxiety attack. First cysts of various types. First time "throwing my back out," a phrase I never understood until it happened to me, and good God, I hope it never does again.

Also, my blood pressure now has me on the frequent flier program at my doctor's office. We are tweaking my prescriptions till some combination of things appears to work consistently. I am tired of the copayments and scheduling hassles, but very glad that I have health insurance, my doctor is a terrific person, and my husband can work from home on appointment days.

Then there was the first time I was mistaken for my child's grandmother. That felt good, I can tell ya. The memory now shares mental filespace under "Humiliations, Appearance-Related" with the first time someone suggested I "need Botox for those wrinkles." Yes.

On the other hand, at 4o-something, I'm feeling other insecurities fall away. As much as I might wonder sometimes about paths not taken, I now have enough experience behind me to trust that whatever's ahead is going to be all right. Would I repeat my 20s, if I could have a do-over? I don't know. If it were the only way to end up in the life I have now, probably not.

I am starting to learn not to dwell on my every past mistake. Considering how many there are, that is going to save me a ton of emotional time. And who doesn't love a time-saver?

Who are all the old ladies in the red hats?

The Bean got a last-minute call to play at a friend's house this morning before school, so Peanut and I were out and about earlier than usual. We decided to check out a new cafe that's opened in town. It used to be a bagel shop, which was cool, except that Mr. S. kept getting rocks or something on sesame bagels from there. After more than one time crunching down on something much too hard to be a sesame seed, he decided he couldn't trust bagels from there any more, so I stopped going. I figure it's like the occasional pebble in a bag of beans or lentils, and he just had rotten luck. But it doesn't seem to happen with bagels from BJs, so we get them there now.

ANYhoo, the bagel shop closed, and a chicken restaurant opened in that location. We were underwhelmed, and didn't go. Evidently we weren't the only ones, because eventually it closed too. Driving by today, I saw a sign for the new cafe there, and we gave it a try.

I'm happy enough; we could use a new breakfast place, the menu and prices were fine and the people seem nice. Peanut was bummed that they didn't have crayons. She has a point, as it's easy enough to keep plastic cups of crayons to keep kids busy drawing on their paper place mats before their meals come. Maybe they'll come around to that. Then again, maybe other kids draw on the tables instead, which might discourage me from giving them crayons, if I were in the restaurant business. Anyway, I usually have crayons in the car for this kind of thing, so now we know this is one place to bring them in. In the meantime Peanut carefully constructed and dismantled a tower of coffee creamers, then sorted all the rectangles of jelly into piles according to color and restacked them in their little caddy. Then, from our window booth overlooking the lovely parking lot, we counted cars of different colors.

We became very interested in the diners across the room: a dozen or so old ladies, all in kooky red hats. The hats were everything from patent leather baseball caps to giant felt affairs with satin ribbon and purple feathers. The ladies seemed to be enjoying themselves very much. When some of them stopped near our table to put on their coats and gloves on their way out, I sort of asked them what's the deal. "We are very curious about your beautiful red hats!" I said. Turns out, they are a chapter of the Red Hat Society -- haven't I heard of it? They're older ladies who put on crazy red hats and get together doing whatever any of them wants to do. "See what you have to look forward to!" they told me ("...as soon as you can ditch junior" they left unspoken).

My favorite bit from their website:

"The spirit of the Red Hat Society forbids rules, per se. There are, however, some common-sense guidelines that we must insist upon:

• You must be a woman of 50 or over (or you may be a Pink Hatter under 50), and you must attend functions in full regalia, (red hat, purple outfit for women 50 and over, or pink hat and lavender outfit for women under 50)."

Well yes. Common-sense guidelines. Of course.

I'll be eligible in less than 10 years, folks. Given how hard it is to find a hat that both fits and flatters, I don't think it's too soon to start shopping for a red one.
.

More things that make me feel old.

My annual ob-gyn checkup now includes a... (fearing tmi? you can quit now)



...rectal exam and a mammogram.

Also, calcium supplements* were recommended.

Yet I still have all the hassle and, let's face it, considerable monthly pain, of being probably fertile. I asked if the words "elective hysterectomy" ever come into play in her office, and she just said, um, no.

OK then. Contraception and calcium.

She's saving the incontinence talk for next year I guess.


*take calcium supplements with Vitamin D for better absorption. And, as with many things, brand name supplements are a waste of money. Generics are the same product, just as effective. Unless you dig those Citracal radio ads, in which case, go ahead and pay for them.

Filed under "Things That Make Me Feel Old"

The artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince -- he of Delirious, and Little Red Corvette, and dozens of very sexy songs on the mix tapes (remember?) of my misspent youth -- needs a hip replacement.

No, you don't have to be cool, to rule my world. Shit, before long you won't even have to walk.

The Obligatory Resolution Post

In years when I've belonged to a gym, January was the worst time EVER to be there. Like clockwork, all the New Year's Resolution crowd joins up in the first week, and proceeds to hog all the treadmills and elliptical trainers and stare vacantly at the Nautilus equipment. Gym etiquette, that useful code of conduct that makes sharing workout space less odious, is not for them. They'll leave a towel and water bottle on a machine to claim it, then stroll away in search of reading material, which will stay unread as they end up shouting into their phone instead. They'll take up entire locker room benches rather than stow their bag beneath. They won't put the weights back when they're done. They'll take long showers, and chew gum in the sauna. They'll jam hallways, especially those who've joined in pairs and can't be silent, let alone apart, for a single minute. All this for their pathetic -- what, three weeks? -- of effort to become less gross. By mid-February, things are usually back to normal.

I learned to thoroughly disdain the selfish, silly, rude, chit-chatting, new outfit-sporting, you-go-girl New Year's Resolution exercise crowd. So you can imagine the self-loathing with which I announce that in 2008, I plan to:

1. Move more.
2. Eat less.

Obviously that's just the "lose weight" resolution broken down to its necessary components (and there are no other necessary components. Put down the stupid magazines already, and go for a walk). I have no idea if I'm going to lose weight. But I do need to move more and eat less.

It will be very easy to keep those two resolutions; ease which speaks not of my strength of will or character, oh no! -- but of how little I am moving, and how much I am eating, lately. Simply put, I disgust me. I resolve to disgust me less.

You will be pleased to know that my other resolutions are relatively vitriol-free. For example, I hope to:

3. Get more sleep. It is just stupid, this business of staying up late when I don't really have to and then feeling like crap in the morning. I won't resolve to get eight hours every single night, just as I won't resolve to grow wings and fly to the moon. But I do plan to get more rest.

I will also:

4. Floss. I do this already. It's a bonus resolution I throw in so that I can say I'm keeping one, instead of despairing entirely of my worth as a human by early February.

Also, I should:

5. Wear more makeup, more often. I'm lucky to have a pleasant enough face (those who know me IRL, please indulge this harmless delusion) and good enough skin so that I haven't felt the need to use a lot of makeup for most of my adult life. I had a good run, but let's (har!) face it, it's time to call in reinforcements. I don't look like Jodie Foster anymore; I look like a train wreck. Or maybe like Jodie Foster's pudgy, long-forgotten, can't-afford-highlights cousin after a train wreck. In any case, my Clarice Starling days (that first scene, where she's jogging on the FBI training course? looks just like I once did) are done. Sniffle.

I'll never be one who won't be seen by anybody until she's "put on her face" -- that's just silly, not to mention it's a bad example for my daughters. But still, a tad more effort than none is warranted. 'Nuff said.

So here's to the New Year.

You go, girl.

Of movies and memes.

Over Christmas we watched the third movies in two trios.

The Bourne Ultimatum is fun -- all those Bourne movies are great suspense/action films and we need (read: I want) more great suspense/action films. There is so much crap in this genre! But maybe we've had a bit of a break since one of those responsible for a good bit of it has gotten into the government business. (Does that still stike anyone else as just colossally funny? He seems to be doing a decent job of it, so whatever... but damn. Arnold Schwarzenegger is the Governor of California! I mean really. I've watched some of the "special features" on the DVDs of his movies, where he explains "what they were trying to show" with his character, and, well... yikes.)

ANYway. Matt Damon is fine, fine, but the supporting cast makes this movie more than a star vehicle. I'm becoming a David Strathairn fan (a little late, I see, as he's been working steadily for decades). He played the harried D.A. in the unremarkable Fracture, but I like his look so was happy to see him as the CIA dude hunting Bourne down. Joan Allen is terrific as well. I love her in the Bourne movies, but check out Off The Map for a total change of pace. She's amazing. So yes... see Ultimatum. It's well done, and precisely what I wanted after a run of serious dramas.

We also watched Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End. And -- well, I love the makeup and the effects and the premise and the concept, and Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow is all kinds of clever, quirky pirate fun -- but. I must be some kind of dummy cause I can't follow the plots of these movies. They're too long, I can't understand what anyone's saying, and I've fallen asleep during each one. So, yeah. Old Fartitude, here I come. But the Pirates movies, while definitely sort of cool, haven't wowed me overmuch.

In other DVD news, the girls got Season 2 of The Muppet Show, which is an honest to God riot, and some of the best television ever produced. Statler and Waldorf heckling Milton Berle? Comedy gold.

So there ya go.


Meme time. This one is honorably pinched from the lovely Patois at whee! allthewayhome. Since my brain is watery post-Christmas mush, it felt almost like exercise or something. Want to do it too? Consider yourself tagged. The idea is to come up with something in each of these categories that begins with the first letter of your name.

1. Famous Singer: Siouxsie Sioux
2. Four Letter Word: shit
3. Street: Sesame
4. Color: scarlet
5. Gifts/Present: silver
6. Vehicle: scooter
7. Things in Souvenir Shop: souvenirs
8. Boy Name: Scott
9. Girl Name: Suzanne
10. Movie title: Shrek
11. Drink: shiraz
12. Occupation: sous-chef
13. Celebrity: Susan Sarandon
14. Magazine: Smithsonian
15. U.S. City: Springfield
16. Pro Sport: soccer
17. Fruit: strawberry
18. Reason for Being Late to Work: stalled subway
19. Something you throw away: singed suppers
20. Something you shout: STOP!

New. Improved?

Stop & Shop has recently installed a "self-scanning" system in most of its Cape Cod stores and probably elsewhere. Not the self-check out, which has been in place for years now, so we consumers are used to the idea of doing stuff for ourselves. This is the next step in fully automated, employee-free shopping: a scan-and-bag-as-you-go, pay-at-the-end system. No humans required.

Here's how it works, in theory: You enter the store, get a cart, scan your card at the stand, pick up a handheld scanner and some bags. Proceed through the store, scanning items as you put them in the bags. Done shopping? Head right to a self checkout, scan an "end of order" barcode posted there, scan your card again, pay the total, return the scanner, and scram, smiling at the time you saved bagging as you shopped, while the rest of the poor consumer schmoes shopped the conventional way and are now stuck staring blankly at the latest cover photos of Brangelina while they wait for a cashier to become available.

Here's how it works, in reality: You enter the store, get a cart, stop just inside the door with said cart while you get out your card. Wait for people ahead of you to pick up their scanners. Scan your card at the kiosk. It doesn't work. Try again. It doesn't work. Try again. It works. Pick up a handheld scanner. Get bags. Empty plastic bags don't stay open in the cart, so you use paper. Open up a few paper bags in the cart. Head to produce section for squash. Select a lovely squash, grown, oddly, without a bar code. How to scan it? Park squash in top of the cart (getting crowded up there with a scanner and a child and a squash), because you don't want to bag it till you've scanned it. Look around for a scale. Find one on the opposite side of the produce section. It doesn't work. Find one that works. Someone is using it. Wait till they're done. Put squash on scale, and key in the PLU code... um, there's no sticker on the squash. Look up the code on the handy chart over the scale... is it under b for butternut, or s for squash? Key in the code. Print out a bar code. Scan the bar code. Put squash in bag. Repeat for every item of produce you need. (I did learn to select all my produce first, pile it on top of the protesting child, then go to the scale to print labels all at once, but still, the idea that this is a timesaver? is just silly.) Proceed through other aisles. When bagging cans, rearrange produce items already bagged, so they won't get squished. Midway through shopping, run out of bags. Go back to scanner stand for more. Resume shopping. When finished, head to a self-check out. Scan card. Scan end of order bar code. Hear buzzing noise. Repeat. Hear buzzing noise. Scan end of order bar code first, then card. It works. Pay the total, return scanner and unused bags, and scram, wondering 1) if you really saved any time, or if you're the schmo, and 2) if Brangelina are still the picture of family bliss.

What I like about it:

• When I'm shopping for just a few things, and without children in tow, and using my giant flat-bottomed tote bag instead of grocery bags... under those circumstances only, it is faster.
• The no-humans required part. More than once a well-intentioned cashier or bagger has said strange things to my children, and/or touched them. This is not OK with me. Frankly, I don't mind not dealing with store employees for that and other reasons, especially in flu season.
• The endless variety of bar codes is kind of fascinating. Yeah, I'm reaching here.
• It's cool to save an extra few dollars for using it, but the "incentive" period is over soon.

What I don't like about it:

• The scanner racks are located just inside the store entrance. They need to be more out of the way so as not to create a big clog of people and carts right where it's least convenient to block the way.
• If I misjudge how many bags I need, even by one, it's a hassle. Too many and I have to return the extras, too few and I have to come back, against traffic flow, to get more, which may be not enough again or too many, so repeat that as needed. I know the store throws away plastic bags that are unused but not untouched. The potential for waste bothers me.
• Picking up and putting down the scanner a thousand times is a pain in the ass. You can't hold the thing all the time and have your hands free, so you pick up an item, pick up the scanner, scan, put the scanner down, put the item in the bag, instead of just picking up an item, putting it in the cart, and moving on.
• The scanner makes a "ka-CHING!" sound at you every few minutes to advertise a product you can get for 50 cents less if you're using the scanner. I don't want anything to make a "ka-CHING!" sound at me every few minutes unless it is going to start spitting out hundred dollar bills. There is no way to turn off the "ka-CHING!" sound.
• I shop the store systematically, end-to-end: produce first, dairy and frozen products last. But I don't want my stuff bagged in that order. If I bag as I go, I have to either rearrange things periodically, or shop for heavy products first, stuff I don't want crushed, last. But neither logic nor the store layout (coincidence, I know) dictates shopping that way. People say it doesn't make sense to load your cart, unload it to pay for things, then load it again. But packing-wise, it makes very good sense. I take things out of the cart and put them on the belt in the order I want them bagged.
• Not my problem, I guess, but this system strikes me as a loss-prevention nightmare. I guess Stop&Shop figures they'll make up the difference in cashiers not hired.

Now, I'm the first to admit I can be reluctant to change. I don't store music on my computer. I am a text message virgin. I even still write checks to pay bills. However, I am not going to become one of those elderly grouches who complains about newfangled this n' that and how everything was better in 1952. I well know that new does sometimes mean better. DVD is way better than VHS. My Dell is way better than my PowerMac. My husband is way better than my ex-husband.

But since my shopping habits are formed -- nay, honed -- deliberately and for good reasons, I'm not eager to change them to make things more convenient for the store. Because this new system is not proving to be more convenient for me, which I'm falsely (and straight-facedly!) told is supposed to be the point.

Which brings me to my last objection: At least in some stores, the scan-it-yourself system is being rather aggressively promoted. If you express any reservations whatever about it, you are either outright pooh-poohed as behind the times, or met with affected surprise -- "really? No one else has said that" with "obviously, you are some kind of dolt" clearly implicit -- which I find insulting, both when it happens to me and when I hear it happening to other customers.

We bond, those other customers and I. We are not falling for it.

And yes, most of them are older folks... sigh.

Hi, my name is Sandy, and I'm a Hypochondriac

A partial list of conditions -- just the ones I can think of at the moment -- that at one time or another I have been convinced or terrified I might have:

acid reflux
angina
anxiety/panic disorder
arthritis
attention deficit disorder
Barrett's esophagus
bipolar disorder
blood clot
brain tumor
cancer: brain, cervical, esophageal, ovarian, skin
chronic depression
chronic fatigue syndrome
colitis
conjunctivitis
deep vein thrombosis
diabetes
glaucoma
heart attack
hypertension
insomnia
irritable bowel syndrome
Lyme disease
metabolic syndrome
multiple sclerosis
Parkinson's Disease
pregnancy
stroke

Of those, I actually have had:
acid reflux
hypertension
pregnancy (No, not currently.)


So does this make me a hypochondriac? It does, doesn't it! Oh, my, God.

It's funny, but it also isn't. There's a low-level background anxiety (disorder? is it? IS IT???) to all this that I wish would just go away. Humor helps. If I have a bad headache, Mr. Sandy might ask if the brain tumor is acting up again, and the out loud ridiculousness of the question dispels any silly subconscious worry. Same when I tell him I can't sleep because the esophageal cancer is keeping me awake. I know I don't have these things. The possibility still pops into my head sometimes. Knowing it ain't so doesn't help.

And some of it isn't silly. Hypertension is in my family, and I got it. Just the cards I was dealt. So on some level I'm waiting for diabetes and glaucoma and colitis to follow, and I'm scared! These conditions do happen to people, and some of them (the conditions, not necessarily the people) are awful.

And there's the whole self-fulfilling prophesy factor to consider. If you dwell on something, mightn't it come true? Huh? HUH? Isn't there a whole school (maybe "school" is putting it kindly) of thought (maybe "thought" is putting it super-kindly) that says you can make yourself seriously ill by thinking like this?

When I'm feeling fine, I'm quite reasonable. Here's what I think: That the simplest explanation is almost always the likeliest; that yes, there are conditions to watch for and do my best to prevent, but that worrying doesn't help.

In the middle of the night, with a new ache or pain -- that's a different story.

Gaaah. I don't want to be such a worrier! It's not really me, y'know?
Unless I DO have anxiety disorder.

I'd better go update my will, or something.

Tagged! The Dream Meme.

Thank you to Bunny for tagging me to do the Dream Meme! We share two dreams, as it turns out. Guess which ones, then check hers to see.

Part of the reason it’s taken a while to get to this is that it taps into a Long, Serious, Navel-Gazing Post that’s been lurking in the back of my mind for a while, the theme of which is that I have a graduate degree in geology, but I’m not suited to, not especially good at, and don’t like the jobs I’ve had as a geologist, so I probably won’t get back into it when I’m looking for paid work again. That means a “second career,” which feeds into all the hackneyed crap that’s been written and said about re-entering the workforce as a middle-aged mother with no tangible qualifications. I’m not ready to face it yet.

But for now, good grief, it’s just a meme, so I should relax and type, already. Instructions are to “write five things you want to be when you grow up. Big dreams that seem like folly, but in your heart of hearts are very real and dear to you. Things that maybe you have forgotten about in the ebb and flow and toil of the everyday, but that never really leave your soul. What would you do if anything was possible?”

OK, in my heart of hearts, I'd like to be a(n):

1. Nutritionist. I love it when I read something like “pomegranate contains anthocyanins, compounds which protect tissues from free radicals, have anti-inflammatory and anti-cancer properties, lower risk of cardiovascular and neurological conditions, lower blood pressure, aid in oxidation of LDL cholesterol, and improve blood flow.” (Holy cow! I want pomegranates in my house right now! I want them to do the dishes and vacuum under the couch, too!) It makes me want to learn all about anthocyanins and how they do this stuff, and whether the hype is substance or hot air, and how much of it comes from the Association of Desperate Pomegranate Growers. I’ve also read that cinnamon has blood sugar-regulating properties -- that’s so cool! -- and a thousand other things about a thousand other mysterious compounds that we can get in good, whole, fresh foods. I want to know all that stuff -- I want to organize and store and relay and USE all that information instead of just reading it in Cooking Light and saying “huh. Nifty.”

2. Editor. This dream is a bit more than pie-in-the-sky. I do get to do some editing once in a while, and to my delight I’ve found that I’m very good at it. I can spot a typo, misspelled word or misplaced comma at two hundred yards, so that’s useful, but I’ve also got a very good ear for the right word, and a knack for questions of style, order, and consistency. I love this kind of work. You know how sometimes when you’re doing something that comes easily and seems kind of fun, like you might enjoy it for a hobby, or you can’t NOT do it, it’s hard to believe you’re being paid for it? No? Me neither. But this would be how an editing job would feel to me, some days.

3. From the sublime to the ridiculous: Rock star. Now of course you are thinking “but Sandy, as a geologist, aren’t you already a rock star? Ha! Ha!” But putting aside the fact that I wasn’t exactly stellar at geology, I mean rock star in the non-gooberish* sense. Specifically drummer, or bass guitarist. Do you ever hear a stretch of music that makes you put everything else down and just melt with it, become part of it? When that happens to me, I don’t mentally put myself on the lead guitar, or singing lead vocals. What makes me happiest is to get under the music -- find the bass line or the percussion, and groove with that while the other parts soar all around. I have some rhythm aptitude, potentially strong arms, and a definite need to bang on things, and I’ve heard enough stupid drummer jokes to know that this is all it takes to succeed in that business, right? So I think I’ll join a band and bang the bongos and be a rock star. Heh. That ain't workin'. That would, well, rock.

*I looked up goober, expecting to read "see: dork." But "goober" means "peanut." Who knew? Which brings me to:

4. Librarian. Really. Stay with me on this. Library Science is one of the academic Paths Not Taken that I’m kind of wistful about, and which I would consider even now if there were a local program. I love libraries, yes. (One of many reasons it was hard to get work done in college is that the dorm was too distracting, and the library was too tempting. I could wander the stacks for hours. Days. Probably weeks, with the occasional sandwich delivered by an unseen someone and cleverly left for me to discover next to a biography of the Earl of Sandwich! Hm. Too obvious, maybe.) But more importantly for a career choice, I’m drawn to the methodical, the systematic, the orderly (see my alphabetized spice rack? Right, well, maybe that’s a few blocks past “drawn to” and into “compulsive about,” so never mind). I’m jazzed by knowing how to dig up all kinds of information. I am delighted to discover a new reference. I think our nation’s libraries should be funded on the scale of, say, the space shuttle program. They should be hallowed halls, sacred places, repositories of learning both ancient and new. And they should be accessible and pleasant places, but that’d have to be someone else’s domain, because although I could love specialized or university library work, in a public setting I might be prone to becoming one of those don’t-touch-my-archives-till-you’ve-proven-you’re-worthy type librarians. Yikes.

5. Therapist. This has actually been suggested to me from time to time. I’m a perceptive, calm and thoughtful person, grounded, sometimes insightful, occasionally even wise. I listen effectively. I am supportive, open-minded, hard to shock. There isn’t much I haven’t heard. I don’t think there’s much I couldn’t help people through. In fact the only reason I don’t hang a shingle right now is for lack of honest credentials. Someone mail me some honest credentials, mkay?

In truth I think patience is my limiting factor here, and aside from the practical considerations of getting an appropriate degree and setting up shop, that’s what prevents me from pursuing this dream in real life. I wouldn’t be very good with addiction therapy, for instance, or with situations where people have more invested in complaining about the status quo than they’re willing to give up to make changes. I’m solution-oriented and not always very good at not seeing progress. Still, I know that I have a talent for listening to people and helping them with what’s on their minds, so it’s a possibility I never really let go.


So there it is. I know none of it (except the rock star part, and I even made that as uncool as possible) is particularly thrilling. It’s as if I get a chance to do a no-holds-barred dream list and all I can come up with is “um... so I’ve always secretly wanted to be an actuary...” But what I want, when the time comes, is a job that 1) taps my aptitudes 2) happens in a setting that suits my personality, and 3) adds some good to the world, for lack of a better way to say that.

Think how exciting your dreams will look by comparison! If you read this, and you want to do it, consider yourself tagged. Let me know where to find your list.

I'm not tired. I'm not tired. I'm not ...zzzzzzzzzzz.

That'd be me in denial, not my children.

I have always (since babyhood, says my mother) had better things to do than go to sleep. That is until pregnancy, during which I could easily fall asleep at any time of day, and would sometimes find it impossible not to, even standing up. Mr. Sandy observed that pregnancy seemed to have permanently changed my falling asleep process from an hour-long ordeal to a two-minute slide to slumber. Having the babies didn't bring back the old toss-and-turn habit... as a new mother, you catch what rest you can as efficiently as possible.

It's now been 3.5 years since I was preggers, and lately the old slow-to-sleep pattern seems to be creeping back. Unfortunately, it doesn't feel like I need less sleep, just that I'm getting less.

But! Aren't we supposed to need less sleep as we get older? When does that kick in? As someone who's always half resented needing sleep at all, I'm sort of looking forward to that.

Or is it just a myth?

"Myth?"
"Yeth?"