Advanced Maternal Age

I understand that I will not be a young mother. And I'm okay with that. I also understand that having children in your late 30s is wholly different from having babies in your early 20s. It is for this reason that I understand the label on various portions of my medical record that say "AMA" for advanced maternal age. This has necessitated some extra or more thorough tests, but has not been a big deal. If anything, we've had the opportunity to view our Bird via ultrasound fairly often so I'm not complaining.

I feel like my stomach is huge and obvious, but others do not think so. I've heard the advice to not ask a woman if she is pregnant unless you see the head crowning, so I get that people aren't going to just come out and ask me. And this is a good thing since I was once asked my due date many years ago and first thought the person was asking when my thesis was due and then realized that the person thought that my grad student pounds were pregnant belly pounds. That was fun. So anyway, I think I look pregnant, but it may not be obvious to the casual observer given my size to begin with and my winter attire.

And yet.

A couple of weeks ago when I was starting to believe that I actually do look pregnant, when my skin was looking noticeably clearer (the pregnant glow?), I was in the bathroom at church during the homily as is my pattern. (Yes, I can make it more than an hour without having to take a bathroom break, but choir rehearsal starts at 9:00, I drink a decaf, I start drinking my water, Mass starts at 10:30…..) While I am in the stall a mom comes in with her young son. He is maybe four years old at the oldest. They utilized the space offered in the disabled stall. He went first. I had finished and was standing at the sink. During mom's turn, the little one bolted from under the stall door and rushed in my direction. In his defense, my back was to him. He ran up, wrapped two strong arms around my legs, kissed my knee, and said "Nana! What are you doing?!"

I looked down at him at the exact moment that his mom came out of the stall. He was immediately horrified and embarrassed and put his hands to his mouth in that way that toddlers do when they are frozen with uncertainty. I started to apologize to him for scaring him when his mom stepped in to defuse the situation….

"Oh I'm sorry about that. He must have gotten confused because you just look so much like my mother."

Bird Brain

My new status has involved a few side effects. By "new status" I mean pregnant. I'm saying it out loud here. Watch out world, David and I are reproducing.

I have been lucky, however, and have not really suffered. In fact, I feel pretty good. Even though I have not been puking, I have recently discovered a powerful side effect that can do almost as much damage -- I am losing my mind. I occasionally have trouble remembering the simplest of things. I can walk into another room (or even another building on campus) and then ask myself "What am I doing here?" I have to stop myself sometimes (and say "wait" out loud which causes David no end of entertainment) when I am mid-thought because I lose track of said thought.

This morning I got up to go to First Friday Mass as I have been doing since June. For the last three months I have been going to a church that is not our parish church because it is closer to work and has a mass time that allows me to get to work on time. I have convinced myself that getting up so freaking early in the morning is a penance that I can handle once a month. I reminded David last night that I was going to mass today. We scheduled our bathroom visits accordingly. I was surprised this morning when things went smoothly. I didn't feel rushed. I didn't think it was so bad.

On my way to mass I remembered that the first time I went to this church the mass was so short that I was able to go to mass, go home to pick up David, take him downtown to work, stop and get a bagel, and then still make it back up to the Northwest Side to work on time. Because I am losing my mind, this didn't register -- how could all of this be possible after a mass that starts at 7:30am? Well, my friends, it is not possible because mass does not start at 7:30, it starts at 7:00. I arrived (proud of myself for being a couple of minutes early) to find the priest wiping the chalice and getting ready to give the final blessing. It took me a whole two minutes to realize he was finishing the mass, not getting ready to start it. I am sure the other eight people in the church thought I was nuts. I, of course, acted casual -- like I meant to come at the end of mass. Then I stuck around for one-half of the recitation of the Holy Rosary before I jetted to the nearest IHOP.

I got to IHOP (it's near work, I like breakfast, I will not argue about it here), got a paper, and told myself to skip bacon on account of having skipped mass. I settled in while I waited for pancakes, eggs, and oj. I had just started reading the paper when I became convinced that I was hearing voices -- voices that sounded like Bing Crosby. I was relieved to learn that I am not crazy (well, not hearing voices crazy) when I heard a man in a booth behind me ask the waitress why they were playing Christmas music. Whew. It turns out that the restaurant plays the local easy listening station. I knew that the station played holiday music 24/7, but I thought that was something they did starting Thanksgiving weekend -- you know, during the holidays.

Twice in the last month I have had crazy, yet vivid and convincing, dreams. The kind of dreams that do not allow you to sleep restfully because the conscious side of your brain is not allowed to rest as it is repeatedly screaming "What the hell?" in the back of your brain.

The first dream involved a vivid and realistic understanding that David had left me. It culminated in a dream sequence on a sunny fall afternoon. I was alone and outside somewhere where there are stores and restaurants. The weather was cool but sunny and the leaves were at the height of autumn glory. I was walking past a small place with outdoor seating and thinking how it would be nice to sit outside and get something to eat when I spotted David with another woman. I knew in my head that we were over, but it made me so sad (and I really wanted to eat there). She had long hair and a black leather jacket that looked super on her -- a black leather jacket like you find at Talbots, not the Harley Davidson store. I watched David get down on one knee and propose. And I wanted to die. It wrecked my whole day even though I knew it was just a stupid dream.

Two nights ago I had another wild dream. I dreamt that David and I had moved back to Urbana so that I could finish my PhD. (You may recall that shortly after my graduation this was more in the nightmare category for me.) We moved back into a small house that I had purchased while in grad school and then sublet when I moved to Chicago. I knew all of this in the dream. It made so much sense. I knew that all of the stuff in house was mine even though I didn't recognize it. There were some great 1950s chairs in the living room with beautiful upholstery. The bedroom was in the back of the house. It had a tiny tiny bed and a huge alarm clock -- huge like it needed handle to move it huge. I opened the chest of drawers to find neatly folded clothes that I knew were mine and that were covered with a thick layer of dust.

Something distracted me -- something from the living room. David called out and said that he needed a pillowcase. I took the tiny pillowcase from the tiny pillow on the tiny bed and found David in the living room trying to corner an angry rattlesnake. I told him to leave it alone. I'm not sure what happened with the snake because the next thing that happened in the dream was the two of us trying to sleep in the tiny bed. We couldn't sleep because the little house next door was having a huge loud party. That's a college town for you. The party raged and raged until finally David decided to go next door. I was looking out the bedroom window into the backyard of the house next door. People started coming out the back door of the house. I was expecting loud, drunk grad students. But since I am losing my mind, the party-goers in my dream were middle-aged Korean ladies. They each had perfectly coifed hair and a really nice dress on. The dresses were all black and white. I did not wonder how it was that these nicely-dressed women were at such a raucous party. No, I stood at the back window and wondered where these ladies got their beautiful dresses because I was sure you could not find such nice things at the mall in Champaign….

If anyone reading this is of such a mind or expertise to interpret these dreams for me, please keep the interpretations to yourself. I am not really interested in any confirmation that I am losing my mind.

Back to School -- Oh, Wait, It's Midterm Already!

Yes, I realize it's been a long time -- almost two months exactly, to be precise. I've had a few ideas in my head to blog about, I've had David remind me that I could just put up a short post in less time than I spend reading others' blogs, and I do miss it. All I can say is that I've had BIG, MAJOR, AMAZING! things going on in my life lately. Oh, and then there's work (my "regular" job at the university) and school (my teaching job at said university).

I have started a post about it being back-to-school time at least three different times. It just seemed so repetitive to me. I like school. I love back to school. I love fall. I like to shop the back-to-school sections at all kinds of stores (Have you noticed that even places like Home Depot now have "back to school" sales? "Hey Junior, it's almost time for third grade to begin. Let's swing by Home Depot and pick up some carpenter's pencils and all the lumber you need to build us a deck!" How does that work, exactly?).

I've written that post. I think I've written that post each year that I've had this blog. So I didn't write it. And the blog sat silent.

Today, however, a few things happened that made me want to blog about school starting again even though I will be giving my midterm next week.

(1) My university is a mid-sized, urban, commuter campus. That means no dorms. Lots of people use that fact to define us as being in some ways different from your more traditional 4-year institutions. Not having dorms does impact the sense of community on campus. However, today I saw evidence of a universal university truth. The temperature plummeted here last night. It was 30 degrees this morning and it snowed for a brief time. I pulled my hood up and wrapped my scarf around my neck as I made my way to the student union for some hot chocolate and noticed that there were more than a couple of students who did not get the memo about the weather. I should not laugh at their misery, but there is something funny about a young adult person trying to look like they meant to wear shorts and t-shirt on a windy 30-degree day.

(2) My university has a prominent fine arts program. You cannot go more than a few feet or a few days without bumping into an art display, a calendar of dramatic performances, music recitals, dance performances, etc. Our urban-ness and geographic location also provide the university with tremendous diversity. So I'm in the union a little while ago to pick up some yogurt and I hear a musical performance. A group of musicians and dancers are performing classical Spanish guitar music with vocals and the occasional dancer. A large crowd was enjoying the performance. During a break between pieces, one of the guitarists took the microphone and began to explain who was present on guitar, on the drums, etc. He was particularly pleased to note the representation they had from various countries -- "We have someone from Spain, Brazil, here is Colombia, and Peru." One of the multiple guitarists chimed in with "And Iowa!"

(3) I listened for a couple of minutes and then headed back out into the cold because my office hours were about to begin. On my way across campus I swear I almost bumped into Jeff Spicoli from Ridgemont High.

I complain about my jobs from time to time just like anyone else. Everyone once in a while, though, I am reminded of how lucky and happy I am that I get to earn my paycheck on a university campus.

Three Years & Storm Fronts

Three years. I've had this blog for three years. You couldn't tell that from the total number of posts, but it's been three years as of today. I wish that I would post more often -- I used to have a better average than once a month.

The pics above were taken on our back porch last week. I think it was last week. This is a great time of the year for good summer storms. Summer storms are one of my most favorite things.

My home town suffered a pretty bad one a couple of weeks ago. Lots and lots of people were without power. A few people died, lots of property was damaged. It really was not good.

And yet I was drawn to it. I've always been drawn to storms. My bedroom when I was growing up was on the third floor of an old house in an old suburb with many trees. The view from my bed out the window was of the tops of trees as tall as our house. I loved watching the branches sway in the wind as the storm front moved in and feeling the cool breeze cut through the humidity that hung heavily in my room. As the storms blew in the leaves would get whipped around to reveal the pale greens of their veiny undersides.

Eventually, my mother would start yelling for help closing all of the window in our old house. And getting the bikes in garage. And taking the plants down off the porch ledge. If we were lucky we got to watch the sheets of rain hit the driveway and then stop as the sky turned an uneasy green from the basement windows with our latch-hook projects on our laps while we waited for the tornado warning to pass.

I have had the pleasure and exhilaration of witnessing two tornado near misses. One on David's birthday in 1996 and once while driving my trusty Metro up to Chicago on I-57. I have pictures of the latter. I drove up on an overpass to get some of them. David nearly had a heart attack when I told him. Wow, was it great. Each deserves its own story.

So my second career will be as a meteorologist. You won't find me in a smart blue suit absently pointing to a portion of a blank, green screen that I'm hoping is a cold front moving into Kankakee. No, I'll be in the front seat of a van that has is full of equipment and has been modified to be heavier to withstand tornado-force winds. I'll be examining the radar screen in the front seat while I evaluate the barometer measurements being radioed to me at regular intervals. The data will help me make the decision about which direction we need to drive to find the funnels. And I'll see the sky's green warning and the dancing leaves and figure out where to go.

A Latte Afternoon

I love coffee. Have I mentioned before that I love coffee? I love coffee. I love coffee from a bowl -- a coffee-appropriate bowl. If you try to drink coffee from a regular cereal bowl you will likely lose your fingerprints. I drink my espresso drinks from the latte-appropriate bowls that my sister Lucy gave me for Christmas a few years ago -- see the pic. I have a set of six perfect thick bowls each in its own perfect hue.

I'm pretty sure my first bowl of coffee experience was in Europe fifteen years ago when I was a globetrotting (well, more accurately, continenttrotting) college student. Years later I enjoyed the first of an unfortunate few café au laits from Café Fanny in Berkeley, California. Just looking at the pictures on their website makes me want to lick the screen.

There is just something so right about drinking warm coffee and milk from a bowl. It's natural, maybe primal. I could never bring myself to drink the discolored, leftover cereal milk (David just doesn't understand), and yet I'll drink any kind of caffeine concoction out of a bowl.

In grad school I had some problems with caffeine. The nurse practitioner that I was seeing at the "health" center for some mild chest pain I had been experiencing casually asked me if I drank pop. She snuck the question in somewhere between "when was your last period" and "do you use recreational drugs." Pop? Not so much. Before I nearly eradicated it from my life, David and I had switched to "super unleaded" Coke -- diet, caffeine-free. After a couple of years of that I started to wonder why the hell I was bothering. No, the pop follow-up question is what stopped me in my tracks,

"Do you drink coffee?"

"Yes."

"How many cups a day?"

"Well, let's see, how many cups are there in a triple latte?"

"How many triple lattes?"

"Well, how many triple lattes do you think you can get out of a half-gallon of milk?"

You see, my Dearest One had become my supreme enabler at that point in my coffee life. David bought me an espresso maker for Christmas. I could make lattes (never really could work up enough foam for cappuccinos) until I ran out of milk. It turns out that stress and lots and lots of lattes don't really mix well -- at least for me. I had to make a choice: chest pain or caffeine. Oh, and I had to go for blood pressure checks twice a day for three days which really did not deplete my stress at all.

I actually tried to go cold turkey. It lasted only a few days. I had headaches and the shakes and probably looked like a strung-out junkie. Which is what I was. However, once I got with the program, my chest pain eased up as my caffeine intake went down.

I quieted my nerve endings by moving to a moderated schedule of "normal" caffeine dosages. It took some work, but I slowly learned to say the words "Decaf, please. No, no really! I'm not kidding" when I frequented my favorite cafes. Blasphemy!

I have learned that I enjoy the smell of coffee, the color of coffee, the flavor of coffee, and the feel of some suitable container of coffee in my hand almost as much as I love the caffeine. And so, I have been controlling my caffeine intake for many years now.

Dave has moved from being an enabler to being the controller of the caffeine. We buy beans in bulk and keep them in the freezer -- a big bag of decaf and a big bag of caf. He then mixes the beans in various ratios and puts the mix in a small tin near the coffee maker. I don't know how much caffeine I've ingested each morning until I get to work.

Come to think of it, in a lot of ways, Dave is my dealer.

The start of this all, then, was the picture above. The other day, I enjoyed an afternoon fix on our tiny porch surrounded by my boxes of flowers. Caffeine, the outdoors, and wireless internet -- this junkie's favorite fix.

The Light of a Thousand Suns

David moved into our apartment four years ago last month. He scouted it, he previewed it, he told me not to make a decision from the outside alone (the icky screens on the porch have since been removed). I remained downstate for a few more months having finally defended and deposited what my mother called "that paper you have to write" (read, dissertation) and then wrapped up a visiting lecturer position. I moved in full-time, officially, name on the mailbox and everything in August.

We figured it out our first night while trying to get comfortable on the mattress on the floor. (The mattress that remained on the floor until August when I moved in full-time even though the plan was to buy a platform bed pronto because surely we wouldn't be able to sleep on the floor for long!) There is a streetlamp outside our bedroom window that illuminates the alley. Directly outside our window. David put up with it every night. I put up with it on the weekends.

I am all for public safety and the enlightenment of dark spaces, but holy crap. This streetlamp could light a stadium. This streetlamp competes with the huge Burger King sign at the opposite end of the alley. Though it is directly outside our bedroom window, it sufficiently lights the dining room and living room as well. You could sit on our bed and read a book at midnight. (The bed? A trip to IKEA on hot day in August; awkward, slow drive home with the trunk lid flapping up and down; assembly of bed on hottest freaking day of the year by two people who both need to be in charge and aren't good at sharing one allen wrench. I may have stated already that the best marriage preparation is putting together a bed with your Intended on a sweltering day with insufficient tools and directions that have no words but attempt to guide the builders with smiley faces and sad faces.) Yes, this streetlamp has a light of a thousand suns.

My wonderful fiancé took action before we had suffered too long. (I'm sorry. Did I mention that our apartment does not have air conditioning? Okay, so you can stop wondering why we didn't pull the shades and/or install some sort of aluminum foil sun guard.) David called the city's new information number and voila, someone showed up and removed the domed lens from the light surprisingly dimming the street lamp to maybe a half sun. The naked bulb still lit the alley to a safe level and we could sleep in peace.

That lasted for four years.

On some mornings I like to lie across the bed -- near the foot -- while David gets dressed for work (mine is life of late mornings to work in the summer). We chat. I stealthily hide his socks from him. He follows the same exact get-dressed protocol every morning. This particular recent morning was different. I heard something outside the window. It wasn't the usual garbage trucks. It wasn't the usual pain-in-the-butt-condo neighbors slamming their gate and then their dumpster lid. No, this sound was different. It was close. I glanced out the window and saw a man wearing a yellow hard hat glancing back at me.

I casually slid myself across the bed, behind David, and safely off the bed to the floor. "David, there is a man outside our window."

David laughed -- perhaps because he had clothes on. I was trying to calculate how much Mr. Hardhat could have seen. I don't sleep in the nude, but I'm not exactly public-appropriate either.

He was gone as quickly as he appeared. He left a calling card. In a few brief moments he managed to re-install the lens on the street lamp. We were amazed. That night we were sitting on the couch and noticed a warm, orange glow coming from the alley. We noticed it through the living room porch door. We noticed how it sliced through the bedroom to sufficiently light the hallway and the bathroom. We thought we could handle it. We were sure our memories had become exaggerated over time.

We were naïve. We were plain wrong.

The second night was particularly bad. I was sure that the light was intensified by reflecting off the white paint on the bedroom door. It was warm. Maybe I could throw our dark comforter over the door and dampen the light…

My dear husband moved into action after the second night. He called the city's informational number again. Within 48 hours of the phone call, the lens was removed and a sleek, flat panel was installed. The bulb was no longer naked, and we are no longer sleeping with stadium lighting.

I'm Glad I Shaved My Legs Today

It started out a crappy week: back to work after a little break, more work at work than I had figured, an impromptu departmental meeting related to things I'd rather not think about, a big screw up with an important package I was waiting for, and a hair appointment that was not recorded correctly by the salon.

I was supposed to get my hair cut (and colored, but don't tell anyone) yesterday afternoon. I made the appointment Tuesday morning. The young woman at the salon and I both expressed shock that this Thursday was already June 1! When I did not get the usual incomprehensible reminder voicemail on Wednesday, I wondered. So I called yesterday before I left for the appointment -- you know, just in case. Sure enough, no appointments. My appointments had been set for Thursday, June 8. My hair should look something like this by then.

One of the good things that happened this week is that I made an appointment for a facial at my favorite salon. It's been maybe six years since I've had the pleasure. Though I talk a big game with fancy hair cuts and getting my groceries delivered, I don't frequently get facials. Since I have not yet outgrown my acne, and since I found a nice lady at the salon, and since I have convinced myself that I deserve it, I made an appointment for this morning.

I started the day by attending mass. I know, I know. I'm a little surprised myself. It's a long story that goes back to my days in high school. June is devoted to the Sacred Heart of Jesus (the devotion of the nuns who taught me in high school). The Sacred Heart revealed 12 promises to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque (see #12). The twelfth promise is related to the practice of attending mass on the first Friday of each month. It's all actually pretty interesting. I've always liked old traditions in the church. The Sacred Heart did well by me way back in high school, I figured it couldn't hurt to rekindle my friendship with the ol' guy.

Mass this morning was also attended by our parish grade school -- their last mass of the year. I can't tell you the flashbacks that resulted! Wow. The uniforms, being seated by class, being monitored by strategically-placed teachers -- and the principal! The other usual suspects at an early morning weekday mass were present as well: the young man who can't figure out if he wants to enter the seminary, some ladies from the local shelter, some men who could benefit from a local shelter, a few elderly couples who attend mass daily, and, um, me.

I had forgotten how refreshing a simple, to-the-point mass can be. I had forgotten how miserable it was as a grade schooler. Today's gospel was the one when Christ asks Peter three times if he loves Him (three – it's a magic number). Instead of preparing a homily geared toward the ears, hearts, and minds of first through eighth graders, the priest gave a homily quite over the heads of the students (and probably a few others in attendance) about eros, filios, and agape. Actually, he concentrated on filios and agape and tried to "translate" Jesus' three questions into the Greek to make his point. Yowza.

Okay. I'm way off point here. What does morning mass have to do with shaving my legs? David keeps telling me that I would post more often if I would write short blurbs about my day. I am realizing that I don't ever write short blurbs.

So I attended mass in an attempt to rekindle an old devotional practice, reminisced about being stuck in a hot church before a long day of grade school in a hot building, and then headed to Julius Meinl for baked eggs and a mélange.

The Meinl visit was an opportunity for a nice (but far from quiet) breakfast and to kill time before my facial appointment. Ah, there we go, clean-shaven legs. I leave the café and decide to drop off the Metro at a tire place that we frequent for a long-needed tire rotation and oil change. I pull in, notice all the employees standing around the empty, open garage doors, think "Super! It'll be finished when my face is!" and park the car. I walk to the door -- it's locked. I walk to the idle employees and ask "Are you guys open?" Nope. They're not. In fact, they will never be open again. My usual basic maintenance place has fallen victim to the Brown Line expansion (as has my old, favorite hot dog place). With the tire place closed, only one corner at that three-street intersection is the way it was when David first got his place there.

That sucked. I was hoping to not only get work done on the car, but dropping the car off would also remedy the whole crappy parking situation in the old neighborhood. I worked it out.

I stopped in at our friend Vanessa's café and got a hazelnut coffee for the brief walk over to the salon. Nice. Hazelnut coffee and an impending facial on a beautiful Friday morning.

Have you ever had a facial? Bliss. Well, except for the zit-popping part. After putting on a weird, terrycloth wrap -- no other way to explain it, I was comfortably wrapped in two layers of sheets like a cocoon. Oh! and she put a bolster pillow under my knees. It would have killed David. He would have run screaming from the place. The lights were dimmed, I picked a scent, was treated to some aromatherapy, and the facial commenced. Almost sounds like a date, right?

So we get to the point when she paints layers of good-feeling stuff on my face while the steam is billowing over my humongous pores. She unwrapped the sheets from one of my legs, covered it with a hot wet towel, and rubbed and rubbed, and put lotion on and rubbed. Insert all happy ending jokes here. It wasn't like that. But it was so super nice. Leg and foot rubs are the best thing ever. And leg and foot rubs during an aroma-facial? Please.

I am so glad that I thought to shave my legs this morning.

I Am Woman

I recently came across, bought, and read a book before it actually appeared in the New York Times Book Review. I don't actually read the Sunday Book Review, but David does and he mentioned the book to me on the Sunday that I was finishing it. So that's how I know I found the book before the New York Times did.

I found the book in a small ad in another magazine – could it have been the Smithsonian my new favorite magazine? I don't remember. The book had me written all over it: it was Caitlin Flanagan's To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife.

I ordered it from our local bookstore – The Book Cellar – supporter of local businesses that I am. Well, I ordered it from them after I searched the shelves trying to find a book about housewifery that was not by Maureen Dowd and I'm pretty sure it had a bad word in the title. A helpful employee did a search for me, figured out what I was looking for, told me it wasn't released yet, and then promptly offered to order it for me. Since the Book Cellar saved my butt during the Amazon-Harry Potter debacle, I thought I'd throw them the business.

I'm already making what should be short entry long but not in the way I wanted, so I am not going to enter into the now growing debate about whether Flanagan is feminist, anti-feminist, Schlafly wannabe, etc. See here, here, here, -- you get the drift -- if you'd like to read all about it.

I found Flanagan's book to be sometimes entertaining, sometimes informative, mostly one-sided and reflective rather than well-reasoned or argued. In fact, I'm not really sure what her argument is. The book reads like a collection of essays, does not present a thesis or argument that I can nail down, and often betrays the author's own indecisiveness. I'm still confused by the "feminism"-is-a-bad-word movement, and I'm not sure of Flanagan's age or generation, but my reading of this book makes me think that Flanagan doesn't know if she is a feminist or not because she, like many others, doesn't know what the word means.

Which brings me to my mother and the picture at the top of this entry.

My mother was the first feminist I ever knew -- though come to think of it, I don't know that she would embrace the label either. My mother always taught me that I could be whatever I wanted to be (her examples always included "Catholic-" in front of them), such as a "Catholic lawyer." My mother coached me to not be dependent on a man. My mother also taught me how to make German potato salad, gave me countless opportunities to hone my vacuuming skills, and rarely let me leave the house with an un-ironed blouse on or imperfect skirt pleats. Once I got older I was also tutored on not leaving the house without a little lipstick on "so that you have some color."

My mother supported me in all my pursuits and pointed to other strong, independent women: Ann Richards, notably during her Democratic National Convention Keynote Address in 1988; Mrs. Schwartz, a down-the-street neighbor who was one of the first women to graduate from Washington University's School of Law (and made killer snickerdoodles); Mrs. Cushing, who lived next door to Mrs. Schwartz and who nursed both her husband and her sister through their terminal illnesses and was also an impressionist painter with art hanging in the St. Louis Art Museum (and who gave out full-sized candy bars on Halloween); Sacajawea, the Shoshone woman who made it possible for Lewis and Clark to get where they were going and get help from native peoples without getting killed by them (and was a woman I was fascinated by thus resulting in me portraying her for Halloween and for a school history project for which my mother made my costume and my father helped to fashion a baby board for my papoose -- I still have my string of blue beads made out of blue buttons); and the women in our family who ran local Democratic parties, coped with major illnesses, supported husbands through new business ventures, followed husbands during their war service, supported families back in the old country, and raised their families. There were many others, but I think you get the picture.

My mother also told me in high school when I was upset that boys did not seem interested in me that I should sometimes not talk a whole lot or be smarter than boys because "boys don't like girls to be smarter than they are." She also told me that I had to decide between a career and motherhood -- that I could not devote myself to both at the same time. In my mother's defense, I should note that she currently denies both statements.

Long before my days of teenage hormonal rages and general angst about my future as a Catholic lawyer, my mother had me use a canvas totebag in which to carry my library books on the walk back to the library. I was very young. It was likely the mid-1970s. I remember using it a couple times and librarians and other women commenting on it. I came across the totebag again the last time I was in St. Louis. It was hanging on the door right next to Torso Jesus. I was born liberated.

All of this is to say that I can relate to being confused about a woman's place in the home, in the workplace, in society. Everything my mother taught me is true. And yet, it can't possibly all be true -- at least not at the same time.

I like working in the academy, and I (somewhat secretly) covet most Martha magazines, a few knitting projects, baking cookies, and the cleaning tips in Real Simple. Is it possible to be a woman pursuing an academic career who also dreams of closet organizers and the next great product from Swiffer? Can I reconcile my occasional daydreams of being a stay-at-home mom and my pursuit of becoming a published author? Is it okay that I have my groceries brought to my door and have twice now had non-English speakers at a local laundromat wash mine and my husband's dirty underwear when my mother did all of those things herself?

I am a feminist and I was born liberated and I do want it all. I'll admit that I collect cookie recipes and I have tried more than once to learn how to properly fold fitted sheets and I take pride in my doctoral degree. In my 30s I have grown to learn that I am a multifaceted person with diverse plans and dreams. I get the "loving and loathing" part in Flanagan's title, but unlike Flanagan, I accept both sides and know now that they make me the liberated woman I am today.

Easter

Holy Week is always a busy time for me. I usually manage to overload my school/work schedule the week that I have to sing for each night of the Triduum and on Easter Sunday.

This Holy Week was a particularly good one for the choir. We are smaller this year (20 singers), but wow what a sound! Add some brass, timpani, the organ at full power, and a five-pound binder full of music, and you've got a kick-ass Holy Week.

To celebrate this important holiday I thought I would finally post a picture I have been meaning to write about for some time. The picture above was taken in my parents' home a few months ago. That crucifix has been hanging in that spot for longer than I can remember (the angel is a somewhat newer addition). You may notice that Jesus has lost his limbs. It is indeed a miraculous crucifixion.

The crucifix is hung on the wall in a hallway directly across from the door that leads to the third floor where all of us girls had rooms. I don't remember the actual incidents that led to Jesus' multiple amputations, but I am sure they were related to teenage hormones or individuals rushing to get out of the house. Poor Jesus was knocked from his perch enough times that He has suffered the complete loss of all of his limbs and the nails that once secured them.

But what do you do with a broken crucifix? My mother lovingly replaces, re-hangs, and re-straightens Torso Christ in His location in the center of all the bedrooms.

However, I am afraid that this particular crucifix no longer gives me pause or inspires self-reflection on Christ's sacrifice.

I just have to laugh every time I see it.

I'm a Geek

Last weekend I had the opportunity to return to my most favorite library. David, being an active and loyal alum, was down on campus for a day of panels and mock interviews with current law students. This left me with a day to do as I pleased in the twin cities that I lived in for nine years. This means, of course, that I went to the library.

It is the greatest library ever. Unfortunately, since I am no longer a student or faculty member, I no longer have access to the stacks. Ah the stacks. Pure bliss. Levels and levels of treasures, movable shelves, ancient study carrels… I really miss that place. I'll have to post about that later.

Since I was not able to hang out in the stacks and since I was not prepared to do any big searches and since I did not have enough change to photocopy articles out of recent journals on the open shelves in the Education and Modern Languages & Linguistics libraries (Libraries within libraries! It's like Disneyworld for geeks.), I decided instead to go to the café within the library (This place is better than a mall!) and grade student papers.

The café is one of multiple branches of the café that I frequented when I was a grad student. It wasn't great, but it was convenient. Toward the end of my time in school, the café opened a branch in the small space between the underground Undergraduate Library (there's a great story about that -- you'll have to take the campus tour or click here) and the underground tunnel of vending-machine goodness that connects it to the Graduate Library.

I made my way downstairs, ordered a decaf latte, and scouted out a table. It was a Saturday afternoon, so most seats were open. The first evidence that I was back on campus was one of the young women working at the café, well, standing at the café next to the woman who was working and bitching about her boyfriend. She was wearing pajama bottoms (obvious pajama bottoms -- not the ones that I wore to class with my oversized school sweatshirt), a tank top a la Drew Barrymore at this year's Golden Globes, and flip flops. Health codes be damned.

Once I got my drink, I made my way over to the corner to get a prime people-watching seat. I spent the next two hours getting an undergrad fix. To wit:

• Two young women speaking very rapid Indian English, who were way concerned about school. It was 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon, they're at the library freaking out to each other about school. I wasn't that bad.
  
• A young woman who was a tad hung over trying to recover from last night's Chinese New Year party. She was on her cell phone with a friend trying to figure out what she was going to cook for the Chinese New Year party that night.
  
• Two Dutch (?) young men talking talking talking very animatedly to each other. I found it annoying because I could pick out a word or two (maybe it was some wacky German?), but I had no idea what they were talking about -- except that it was clearly about hooking up with some women. Some things are universal.
  
• A young, tall, super-white young man -- probably rural kid -- with a backpack heavy with books. He was very put together in an outfit his mom probably bought for him and coordinated with some sort of Garanimal system now that he is out on his own (crap, they still exist!). He had on a baseball cap and glasses that he got when he was a freshman in high school. He sat down at the table across from me and got out a bag of carrots. He pulled a book out of his backpack, took off his hat and his glasses. Then he left for a moment to go around the corner to get a bag of potato chips and a can of pop from the gallery of vending machines in the tunnel between the libraries. (See what happens without parental supervision? This kid was going nuts!) To his credit, he ate the carrots along with his contraband. He opened his book of choice and held it two inches from his face while he indulged allowing me to see the cover. I too had my glasses off, but still thought I could see Captain America. I nonchalantly replaced my glasses. Yep, he was reading a Captain America comic. I thought it was sweet. Then I noticed the library label on it. He was reading a Captain America comic book that he had checked out from the library.

I freakin' love libraries. Which reminds me. A faculty member at one of my recent workshops made fun of me for stating (allegedly) "I just love annotated bibliographies." What can I say? I'm a geek.

I am too important to shop…

…or, so it would seem. When did I become this oh-so-important woman with a life that does not allow for mundane tasks such as grocery shopping? My "other" car (yes, my dear Wagenschen) is almost 10 years old, I wore a skirt to work today that I have owned since 1997, and yet I have my groceries delivered to my door, nay, to my very refrigerator door.

I don't know how I became this woman. It was a gradual process, I guess, but one that frightens me nonetheless. What's next? Someone to cook my meals and pick up my dry cleaning? (Okay, maybe I should not have typed that out loud.)

Perhaps some background is in order. I live a simple life. I work a part-time academic job and teach a college course. I work hard, but I don't typically have to work insane hours. I teach early in the morning on Fridays and then (often) have the rest of the day to myself. Being showered, dressed, and conscious (and having accomplished something before 9:00 am) by 9:00 am with the rest of the day in front of me allows me to do things like run errands – you know, like grocery shop.

Okay, okay, or I could catch up on the reading I didn't do for the week, respond to student work, take care of bills, actually wash a dish or two, take some time to knit for more than a few minutes, work on improving my sudoku skills, label and catalog our digital pics, update our website, put some thought into jazzing up my lecture notes for the next week, read more than two sections of the Sunday New York Times, catch up in my correspondence – like with my family, or even (dare I say it) work on getting a part of my dissertation published.

Whew. I typed that paragraph without even looking once at any of my to do lists. Thinking about my lists reminded me that I could add watering the plants, vacuuming the living room, and going to the UPS store to my "wide open" Fridays.

We got our first grocery delivery back in November. We had discussed it a couple of times over several nights of delivered pizza and more than one morning of coffee with rationed portions of milk. The turning point was the junk mail that arrived with a significant discount on our first order. Sold.

We thought we'd give them a shot. A trial period, if you will. Because they're probably too expensive to do on a regular basis. And they probably don't pick nice produce and fresh meats. And the service probably sucks. And the price is probably too high to be worth it.

Predictably enough, we loved it. The delivery came on time, the fresh items were wonderful, the convenience was worth the price. Even the delivery guy looked like the polished, perfect delivery guys in the promotional materials. He was also extremely polite and very helpful.

He made it easier for me to get over my guilt much faster than I thought I would.

And so I am that much closer to becoming the kind of woman I loathed (see the old post here about working in a cubicle et al.). If I start getting regular manicures and worry about having the right handbag (or start using the word handbag), somebody shoot me.

Happy New Year!

And so we start again. I'm a fan of new beginnings. I think I've stated here before that that is part of the reason why I so love the academic calendar. I've also stated here before that I hate resolutions (click here for my rant which looks like it is about giving things up for Lent, but ends up really being about New Year's resolutions).

So I will not be making any resolutions again this year. However, I do have a few plans. And, naturally, I might have to modify some of my behavior in order to accomplish said plans. But I have not made any resolutions.

January is always nice because it is the start of a new year and the start of a new semester. My syllabus is ready, my course site is ready, I'm sure I'll get myself ready by Sunday night. I have to admit that I'm excited to start again. I always enjoy the second shot at a new course I'm teaching. I wish I had had more time to regroup and make some more changes, but the state-funded institution that I work for went back to work on Monday, January 2.

Gotta love that.
Here's to a new year, a new semester, and new plans.