Even the bottled water is called “quench”

So I’m in San Diego, and I’ve never been here before. And I’m about to expose you Big City Dwellers to my charming Midwestern naivete because MYGAWD this hotel is fancy/trendy/CRAYZEE. We are staying at the W San Diego, which is kind of like having a role as an extra in an episode of Private Practice or Nip/Tuck.

Everything is fancy and modern  and shiny and mostly black and white with pithy little names like “wet” (the pool) or “sweat” (the gym, closed for renovations) or “wired” (business center). Instead of a picture of flowers or some picturesque countryside in my room, there is a chalkboard. Should I leave a nice note for housekeeping? The elevators have actual real floormats that have to be physically changed according to the time of day. Right now, they say “Good evening.”

I have a down pillow shaped like a beachball in my room and am currently playing my ipod through the state-of-the-art system that is ipod compatible. Each room has a dvd player and small dvd library, with rentals available upon request. There is 24-hour room service (which provided me with a Kobe beef cheeseburger at midnight this morning), and I was a little self-conscious taking a shower because the door only goes halfway across the shower… and it’s clear glass. The girl who checked me in was wearing a half-shirt.

Everyone who works here is constantly saying things like “everyone at the W is a VIP” and “whatever/whenever!” Seriously. The customer service is phenomenal. PHENOMENAL, I SAY.

The hotel bar, from whence I just arrived, is called beach (lower case) and purports to have heated sand. I stepped in the sand and inquired Jeremy the bartender about its temperature. He exposed the hotel managers for the lying bastards they are, telling me that the sand was only heated for the first two weeks the hotel was open, and then they turned it off because it was crazy expensive and kept shorting out the power to the kitchen. HA!

So Jeremy supplied me with my second rather-large pomegranate martini (expense account! which also paid for my split of champagne at dinner!) to carry up to my lovely room with the view of the harbor, and here I am, missing R and Dave and wanting to go home. As always on these trips.

This was the first trip that R truly understood that I was going away. She begged me not to get on the airplane. She didn’t want me to go “play with Diego” (San Diego). She wanted me to stay there and eat hot dogs and play with her new Barbie horsie with her.

But she’s doing great with her dad. It’s great that they have this time together. And good that I have a chance to get away, too, I guess. But there’s only so much loneliness that champagne, a Padres game and two pomegranate martinis can take care of. Even if I do get to listen to my ipod in my hotel room.

I-L-L…I-N-I

Jennie often writes passionately about her love of her alma mater, Texas A&M, and how, as a child, she hadn’t imagined herself becoming an Aggie.

I graduated from the University of Illinois ten years, six weeks and four days ago. In some ways, it doesn’t seem like that long ago. In other ways, it seems like longer. I loved my time in Urbana-Champaign. I spent three years at the Daily Illini, the last year as campus editor. I made some wonderful friends there.

I spent two years entangled in a difficult and sometimes abusive romance with a man who I thought I might one day marry and who broke my heart a little bit every day we were together and for a good year after I got the strength to tell him we shouldn’t be together anymore.

I spent my senior year with my best friend, a woman I felt such a connection with I just knew we would be friends forever – until she became involved with the man who was still breaking my heart.

Senior year was joyful and complicated and bittersweet. I was on my own – no roommates, no boyfriend, no parents directing my every move. That was when I found myself, found who I really was; found the girl who could stay home on a Friday night to write papers for her English 300 20^th Century American Women Authors class and play Flip Cups with the hockey team and  flirt with the goalie on Saturday night. I found the girl who believed passionately in President Bill Clinton and the injustice of a mascot that parodies Native Americans. I found the girl who learned to love herself for who she was, not who she was with. I found the girl who was a loyal friend to a fault. And I discovered the girl who loved cold white wine on a hot summer night, the Chicago Cubs, Old Style beer and the Beastie Boys.

For some reason, I was thinking about all this last night when I was pushing R around the neighborhood in her stroller, her little blonde curls bouncing as she urged me forward, forward, further away from home – don’t go home Mommy! Don’t go home! Someday she will go to college (sob!), but I hope I can put her on a path to independence before that. I hope I can teach her to find herself – and love herself – before she turns 21.

She’s already on her way.

Sex and the old married ladies

So, I finally saw the Sex and the City movie last weekend. I know, perhaps the last woman on the planet to have seen it (of those that want to see it). I found myself tearing up several times during the film, which really says very little about its quality because for God’s sake, I cried during “Runaway Bride” which I believe might be the worst movie ever made. At the very least, it’s the worst movie Julia Roberts ever made.

While I don’t have much to say about the actual film – other than I liked it pretty well but thought that it wasn’t as good as the series – I was really interested in the audience. When I walked in (alone), I saw another woman my age, perhaps younger, toward the front. Another solitary woman sat all the way in the back, she was a little older than me. Two girlfriends sat in the middle of the theater. A few minutes after I walked in, two additional older women came in, each by themselves. One of them sat behind me.

Now, I haven’t seen a movie alone in nearly ten years, though I used to do it a lot in the late 90s. And Sex and the City seems like a friend kind of movie, the kind of movie women go to see in packs. So why were so many of us alone?

I know I was drawn to the friendships in the series – the kind of friendships that are like a marriage without all the paperwork. I haven’t had a friendship like that in a long, long time, unless you count the one I have with my sister. Seeing it on screen, even though I know it wasn’t real, made me a little sad. Some people do have friends like that.

I have struggled with making friends since moving here. My problem is I don’t have the time to devote to a friendship like I used to. I can’t go out for drinks after work or out dancing on the weekends. I can’t spend an hour on the phone at night or Saturday afternoons at the mall. And what’s left? What do I have to give?

I sipped my Diet Coke in the darkened theater and listened to the other women laughing in the theater around me, and I wondered what their stories were.

I like things the way I like them. End of discussion.

I was tagged by Vixen at Vixen’s Den.

The Rules:

• Link the person who tagged you
• Mention the rules on your blog
• Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
• Tag 6 fellow bloggers by linking them
• Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged

 

 My quirks:

1.    I like to drink milk out of these blue glasses we have. We drink milk (skim) every night with dinner, and if there is just one blue glass and then the rest clear glasses left, I always take the blue one. If Dave does the milk pouring and gives me the clear glass, I am slightly irritated. But I can’t say anything. Because it’s weird.

2.    I only wash my hair every other day, which means I only get on our elliptical machine every other day (then wash the sweat out immediately afterward). I am fairly upset if this routine is disturbed. My hair is color-treated (what? You thought I was really a blonde?) and gets really dried out if I wash it too much. Zoot finally gave me the courage to admit this publicly.

3.    I hate the texture of mushrooms, especially on pizza, but eat them because my daughter loves them. And I’m too lazy to pick them off.

4.    I hate shopping, except grocery shopping. I think this is a function of having no money to spend at the mall. I have a feeling that if I could buy whatever I wanted, I’d like shopping a lot more.

5.    I am nearly thirty-two years old and I still sleep with the same blanket I’ve had since I was in third grade. Whenever I go on business trips – or leave the house for an extended period – Dave washes the blanket. I hate that. It is falling apart. I sew it. Soon it will disintegrate and I’m very worried about what I will do. I sometimes wish I could have my blankie at work with me so when I get stressed I could rub its silk edges and calm myself.

6.    I can flip my tongue over completely, a hereditary trait from, I think, my father. I can also wiggle my ears (not the ear lobe, the entire ear), which I think I got from my mother. I hope I didn’t confuse which parent passed on which oddity. That would be embarrassing.

 I tag:

Mandy at Piaku

Erin at The State I Am In

Christina at Rockin’ the Suburbs

That’s only half the required number. I suck.

 

Potty training, part one of what will probably so many parts you never come back here again

R will be 2 ½ next week. We’ve been potty-training her in a casual sort of way for a few months now. I’ve had a pretty laissez-faire attitude about the whole thing – all my friends say it will happen when she’s ready, it will be sudden and then it will be done.

We have a little bit of history here – she showed some interest early last fall, and we got a potty and started sitting her on it with some regularity. Within six weeks, she developed a bladder infection, kidney reflux and sustained some damage to her kidneys. She’s now on medication that supposedly makes her urine sterile. After that episode last October, we backed off on the potty training.

We’ve recently started again with some vigor – sticker charts and prizes for using the potty. Last Saturday (on the fateful trip to Target), I bought a second potty to keep on our ground floor and some Little Mermaid and Dora panties that she picked out. She went diaperless from late afternoon until bed time Saturday, with no accidents. Sunday morning, I took off her diaper and she continued to use her potty… until she pooped her pants. (When I showed her what happened when she pooped in her pants without a diaper on, she instructed me: “Mommy, you clean it.”)

Because it was Father’s Day and her grandparents were in town, I cleaned her up, dressed her in a pretty sundress – and a diaper.

Now, when I went to pick her up yesterday, she ran to me with joy and jumped into my arms. But she was followed by some of the kids in the four-year-old class who were chanting “Baby Poopypants” repetitiously and wagging their fingers at her. I was horrified.

I looked down at these children and told them, particularly their leader (a little blonde boy in an orange basketball jersey) that calling names wasn’t nice and they could hurt people’s feelings. He immediately justified himself by saying he wore underwear and she wore diapers and pooped in her pants. I told him he was a lot older than her and that he used to wear diapers too. He didn’t care, and the trio went back to chanting. I walked away, wondering a little bit where the teachers were.

R seemed okay, and we played and had a nice evening. Then, when her father was putting her to bed, she said, “Daddy, C called me a big baby and said I pooped my pants.” She remembered. It made an impression. Dave told her that if he did it again to tell him that wasn’t very nice and she wasn’t going to play with him anymore. I thought that was good advice.

I wanted to kick that kid. I wanted to call his parents and tell them what a bully he was being. I wanted to demand that the teachers step in and do something. But I didn’t do any of that. Dave’s advice – letting her handle it – was perfect. And I hope it works.

When I went to pour out the pool after her swim, it was a lot heavier than I remembered…

I lost my temper with R on Saturday. I mean, over-the-top, out-of-control crazy, scene-stealing anger. While it was going on, it was like I was watching myself, tossing back some popcorn and thinking how entertaining this would be if it weren’t actually me all screaming and red-faced.

I’ve found myself justifying my anger since then. But it’s not like R did anything so terrible to warrant the first Mommy Meltdown of her life. She was sassy and whiny and defiant, refusing to get into her carseat to go to Target. On the way to the car, she had spied the kiddie pool I had filled in the backyard while she napped. She decided she would much rather go swimming than shopping. And she told me so, physically and verbally.  After ten minutes of arguing with her, I pulled her out of the car and told her fine, we weren’t going shopping (even though I needed to go to buy things for breakfast for my in-laws). But she also wasn’t going swimming.

The tantrum continued, this time with tears and flailing about. That only revved my RPMs even higher. I picked her up, carried in her into the backyard and made her watch while I adopted superhuman strength and in mere moments emptied her pool into the lawn and shoved it back into the shed. Then I put her inside on the naughty step and flopped on the couch for a little timeout of my own.

The crazy thing? It worked. After a few minutes, she stopped the godawful tantrum. A few minutes more passed, and I went to sit next to her. She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and tear-stained face and said, “Mommy, let’s go shopping, then swimming. I’ll be good.”

I told her that sounded great. She watched as I filled the pool back up so the water could warm while we were at the store. And all was right with the world. I keep telling myself that even though sometimes it hurts or is difficult to discipline her or make her do things she doesn’t want to do, in the long run, it will be better for everybody. She’ll be better behaved (for me), and she’ll learn that life doesn’t always go her way (for her).

But I can’t say that I didn’t feel just a teensy-weensy bit of satisfaction dumping that pool water onto the grass. It felt good to be two years old again and expressing my anger in such dramatic fashion. Most of the time, I fight my anger or suppress it or feel like I have no right to it. But the glimpse of her face as I marched back from the shed, heartbroken and crushed, really took the wind out of my sails. I almost relented right there. But the timeout was necessary. And out of it, we both got what we wanted.

And she still loves me. And I still love her.

After three weeks of trying and two and a half hours with a computer engineer…

We have wireless!

I’m sitting on my couch, watching the Cubs!

And connected to the outside world!

I planned on tackling the elliptical machine again tonight… but this is much more fun!

Perhaps I’ll have a margarita to celebrate. And send one to Dave’s engineer co-worker who spent the entire evening away from his wife and two kids so that I could sit in front of the television and blog.

Oh and work. For my actual job. Because that is the real reason we got wireless. Wink wink.

Did you know the Cubs hosted Michael Barrett Bobblehead Day four days after he was traded?

Have I ever told you about my family’s jersey curse?

We are cursed. In the realm of sports jerseys. The home I grew up in was not particularly sports-loving. My dad watched sports a lot and even played basketball and softball in leagues when we were young, but I can’t say my mother was ever interested in athletics competition. The love of sports – and not the aptitude for athletics – was passed on to my sister and I (completely and totally skipping my brother by about 50 football fields har har har).

Lisa and I love to watch sports – football, baseball, basketball. I’ve written about my passion before. It naturally follows that we identify with certain teams and, eventually, certain players on those teams. Sometimes, it’s enough to lead us to purchase a jersey.

The curse began in 2003, the year my sister broke down and bought a Marty Booker authentic jersey just weeks before the Chicago Bears opened their season. And, it turned out, weeks before Booker was traded to the Dolphins. Curse #1. Fortunately for her, she moved to Fort Lauderdale soon after, and her jersey was actually supporting a local player. Unfortunately for her, she moved to Pittsburgh last year and, prior to the move, donated the jersey to Goodwill. Just months before Booker was traded back to the Bears. Curse #2.

Last year, after doing a careful situational analysis and several seasons of debating the likelihood of a future trade, I broke down and asked for a Chicago Cubs Michael Barrett jersey for Mother’s Day. I considered asking for Carlos Zambrano’s numbers, but the lifespan of a pitcher with a single team is not something to bet on like that, so I went with Barrett. Four weeks later, he and Zambrano got into fisticuffs in the dugout. Two weeks after that, he was traded to the San Diego Padres. He is currently injured and playing in the minor leagues. Curse #2.

When Dave and I moved away from SmallTown, Indiana to the big city, he left behind a community that pledged allegiance to his beloved St. Louis Cardinals to join a city that bleeds Cubbie blue. To make it up to him, I purchased a Scott Rolen jersey. Rolen was traded to the Blue Jays last year. Granted, it took nearly four years for the curse to catch up with him. But there it was. We theorize that because he simply married in to the family, the effect isn’t as strong.

My sister says she’s putting out in the universe statements like she “absolutely doesn’t want a Sidney Crosby Penguins jersey” and she “really hopes Ben Roethlisberger gets traded sometime soon.” Just to see if the reverse happens.

At least it forced me to clean it out

Christina showed us all the contents of her purse earlier this week, and I was instantly inspired to try it myself. When Sarah did it too, my fate was sealed.  After all, I wasn’t sure what was in there myself. My bag, purchased in Chinatown in New York City in 2004 (I never said I was an accessories maven), isn’t as big as many these days, but it holds a lot.

Enjoy the lovely painting done by R as the backdrop.

First, the pile off to the left there contains a variety of items I threw away, including approximately 11,000 grocery lists and receipts for Super Target. Interestingly, it also contains a prescription bottle of Naproxin from when I had thumb tendinitis. Expiration date: May 26, 2007. Also in that stack was my plane ticket for my connection from Atlanta to Savannah back in February and a plastic container from the cheese samples R ate at the grocery store on Sunday morning. And all the political paraphernalia acquired before I went in to vote on Tuesday.

The other stack? Beyond the normal cell phone, keys, BlackBerry and wallet, I have the mom staples of fruit snacks, baby wipes, a Sesame Street juice box, hand sanitizer, three suckers, a plastic Boots action figure from R’s second birthday cake and (call me Kelly Ripa) a tide-to-go pen. I also have the woman must-haves: tampon, maxi pad, lip gloss, hand lotion, pens, cough drops, cold medicine, pack of gum, etc.

Among the more random items: wine cork from a dinner in Las Vegas (January 2007), a ticket to the August 5, 2006 baseball game between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Milwaukee Brewers at Busch Stadium (R’s first MLB game), three suckers, a press pass to a Barack Obama event in Indianapolis, a Wendy’s gift card from the summer they introduced the Baconater and were cris-crossing the country giving away free hamburgers and they coerced me to put on the Wendy’s wig and pose for a picture that ended up on their Web site all for a lousy $5 gift card and a picture of Dave and I on our first canoeing trip to the Ozarks as we came triumphantly out of a “rapid.”

That’s pretty much me - sentimental and practical all in one. One thing I don’t carry that I wish I did? A little pad of paper. That would really help when I get blog post ideas whilst driving home from work.

that’s the ticket

So I had planned some sort of inspiring, awesome post about how great it is that my primary vote finally counts for something and I waited in line for 40 minutes to fill out my ballot but that’s okay because democracy rocks and all sorts of power-to-the-people stuff. You know, something like what Frema wrote.

But then my candidate did not win my state, and some of the luster just rubbed right off Election Day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not sour grapes (okay, maybe a little bit – I haven’t picked a winner in a presidential election since 1996), and I know my little state’s results don’t mean a whole lot empirically. Especially in a world of delegates and, what’s this now, SUPER delegates? And you say they’ve been around since the Eighties? REALLY?

It did feel good to wait in line to vote. Normally, when I go vote before work I’m in and out in less than five minutes. And to have to wait, at 6:15 a.m., for the privilege to cast my ballot, was actually kind of cool. I waited in the gymnasium of an elementary school with a factory worker, a CPA, a stay-at-home-mom, a student and two school teachers. No one complained about waiting. We all commented on the abnormally long lines.

In graduate school, when I was young and idealistic and even more passionate about exercising my civic duty, I wrote my master’s thesis on increasing voter turnout. I rhapsodized about the virtues of mail-in voting (with Oregon as a model) and the future of possibly voting on the Internet. I guess what it really takes to get people out to the polls is a candidate they believe in. Why can’t we have that come around more often?