Nervous Girl

Why the name of this blog will not be changed to "Serene, Unruffled Girl" anytime soon

Twelve Anxieties about upcoming move to Georgia:

1. I'm about to pack myself and my innocent, unsuspecting babies into a sealed metal tube that will go hurtling through the air miles above the earth at hundreds of miles an hour. What kind of mother does that?
2. They have snakes in Georgia.
3. Venomous snakes.
4. I'm not sure it's such a great idea to move to a place where the state crop could kill one of my kids.
5. The nearest Trader Joe's is 79 miles away.
6. People will think I'm a hippie bolshevik who hates Jesus, babies and America because I'm a liberal.
7. People will think I'm a rabid terrorist who hates Jesus, babies, and America because I'm an Arab.
8. People will not care whether I'm a terrorist or a hippie bolshevik, because I'm a Yankee and I don't drink sweet tea.
9. I will have no friends.
10. My children will be shunned because they are the children of a hippie bolshevik Arab Yankee who doesn't drink sweet tea.
11. The lovely, crisp "new home smell" in our lovely new home will turn out to be toxic and I will wake up some morning soon with severe and irreparable brain damage.
12. The lovely, crisp "new home smell" in our lovely new home will turn out to be toxic and I will wake up some morning soon with severe and irreparable brain damage, and nobody will be able to tell the difference.

What are you doing right now?

I had the opportunity to participate in an online focus group today with a group of mom bloggers. A couple of them were well known to me, and it was exciting to be in their virtual company. At least until people started talking about, you know, Internet stuff, and I realized that if there had been an Amish grandmother on the conference call, I still would have been the most clueless person in the group.

I had to admit, for instance, that I don't use Flickr (although I raced to the site after the call and discovered that I had once signed up and promptly forgotten all about it). I don't use Technorati or Bloglines, either, and have only the vaguest idea of what an RSS feed is and how it works. You can blame TypePad for all of this: they made blogging so easy that someone like me is free to roam cyberspace, calling herself a blogger. But this other stuff? I am, how you say, clueless.

I was also forced to concede that I don't use Twitter. As I understandd it, Twitter is a mechanism by which one can, via various electronic devices, notify the world minute by minute of one's activities. I have no use for such a mechanism because the only electronic device I own, unless you count my blood pressure cuff, is my computer. Therefore my only possible answer to the Twitter question "What are you doing right now?" is "Sitting at my computer." Also, even if I had a groovy phone that could access the Internet, I almost never go anywhere. So I could whip out my phone in the kitchen and answer the question, "I'm trying to scrape spatters of dried strawberry yogurt off my bottom-of-the-line wood-look cabinets." Again, I can't imagine that, even if I felt like sharing this, anyone would feel like being shared with.

Obviously, Twitter has great appeal for many people. If you use Twitter, and enjoy it, I am not mocking you, and would be interested in knowing what you like about it. I can imagine that it's great for, say, getting updates on your friend who's in surgery from her spouse, or staying in touch with your husband who's on a business trip to Japan. What I am having more trouble imagining is why most people would think the day-to-day minutiae of their life is worth documenting, day in, day out. And why other people would care. Any insights?

Those Who Cannot Remember the Seventies Are Doomed to Repeat Them

I went shopping the other day for a smart spring frock. I am forty years old, and roughly the size of the average American woman. It should not be hard for me to shop at a large store, like, say, TJ Maxx. Surely in a store the size of Rhode Island, there should be one dress appropriate for a youngish-middle-aged, average sized female person?

Perhaps there was. Perhaps I have simply lost touch with what currently constitutes "appropriate." I was thinking that "appropriate" meant a garment constructed of natural fibers, in a cut that more or less approximated the shape of my body. Which does, still, for the moment, have a shape.

But that was the old appropriate. The new appropriate apparently means either "a bright stretch polyester Pucci print mini with the approximate dimensions of a pencil case" or "a bright stretch polyester Pucci print housedress with the approximate dimensions of Marlon Brando right before he died."

I actually like Pucci prints. It's the stretch polyester and weird shapes that knock me unconscious and drag me back to 1974, when my grandmother, God rest her precious soul, had a wardrobe of loose fitting polyester housedresses. But see, the thing is, she wore them in the house, hence the name. These things they're trying to sell me are designed and intended to be worn in public.

You would be proud of me. I refused to bow to the current tacky fashion gods. I drew myself up haughtily and strolled down the plaza, dignity intact, to another store, one that looked as if it carried classic, quality wares. I went inside and was surrounded by cotton garments of a sturdy weight and pleasing colors.

They were spring sweaters covered with appliques like my now-elderly aunts wear.

You'll forgive me for running screaming into the parking lot.

Happy New Year. Now leave me the hell alone.

No, not you. If you can read this, you can stay. It's just the actual people I've had too much of.

The holidays are a hard time for an introvert, what with all the, you know, people. I'm hard-wired to need a certain amount of time to myself. It's not that I want to do anything that's particularly forbidden. I'm 39. There's not a lot that actually is forbidden, except wearing clothing that shows my midriff. And even that has less to do with being 39 than it does with the state of my midriff. But I digress. I don't want to do forbidden things. I just want to do regular things, by myself.

When the kids are in school, there's at least six hours a week where, in theory, I can be completely alone. Not that I don't adore my family; I absolutely do. But sometimes I love them, you know....elsewhere. (For instanced: my adorable and adoring husband came into the bedroom where I am typing for some well-deserved kisses. I gave him one, but apparently I was scowling while doing so, because he just laughed and left, saying, "I'm distracting you." Yup.)

Just wondering how I went from feeling alone and lonely fifteen years ago directly to being unable to go to the bathroom for thirty seconds without somebody checking in. Surely there's a middle ground somewhere?

Why I'm depressed

1.    Because I've been so busy trying to keep up the other blog that I've neglected this one.
2.    Because in neglecting this blog, I've also neglected keeping up with the people on my blogroll, whose lives I really care about, and that makes me feel like a bad friend.
3.   Because when my son dragged his heels at writing the thank-yous for his birthday party, I said I'd do it just so it would get done, and it hasn't yet.
4.  Because our alleged President is such a terrible asshole, and I can't figure out if he's truly evil or just very stupid, or both.
5.     Because Ann Coulter's latest book is so high on the bestseller lists and she's such a horrible, attention-seeking manipulative shrew, and there are obviously millions of people who don't mind heaping money and attention on her, which just reinforces her dreadful behavior.
6.  Because my husband has been working such long hours that my kids have actually started drawing family pictures that don't include him.
7. Because Lebanon's infrastructure has been set back decades by the Israeli bombings, and thousands more innocent people will certainly die, and Hezbollah still will not be eradicated, but nobody in this Administration sees any fault on Israel's part.
8. Because my son got called for a playdate last weekend while we were gone, but I think the mother called the wrong kid because she said she was returning my call but I never called her.
9. Because my sister was supposed to come and visit this weekend, but now she can't.
10. Because there are several more things I need to put on this list, but I'm not going to be able to get to them because I need to go fix breakfast.

In which Nervous Girl looks for a job

From time to time I think about all the cool stuff I could do if I were pulling down a couple hundred bucks a week. Then, invariably, I start thinking about how I could earn a few shekels. For a person of my educational background (Bachelor's Degree, Master of Social Work, Juris Doctor) I'm surprisingly not-picky. The thought is that I would work to live, not live to work. In other words, as long as the job and the environment are relatively pleasant, it's all about finding a way, any way, to finance enjoyment of my real life, life with my husband and kids.

Of course I do most of my casual job-hunting online. I'm hoping to come across a magazine or newspaper that wants a weekly column on something I have expertise in, like how to avoid cleaning a master bath for two months straight. Since that hasn't materialized, I make sure to look around at other positions for which I might qualify.

Only trouble is, sometimes the postings aren't exactly clear on the requirements and parameters of the job, like this one. Would one have to actually be French, or would a working knowledge of the French language be sufficient? And what exactly do you suppose "similar outfit" means?

Making plans for Nigel

There is a dead fish on my kitchen counter, and I can't do a thing about it.

Usually when there is a dead fish on one's kitchen counter, it is waiting to be cooked. But I can't cook this fish. For one thing, I don't think it's very fresh. For another, it's not very big. And last but not least, it has a name. You can't cook something that has a name. The fish's name is Nigel.

Or it was, until its demise, which I think was sometime yesterday, or the day before. It's hard to tell, because Nigel was never a very active fella. He was a betta fish, bought as a present for Julian's fifth birthday almost eighteen months ago. I was told bettas only last about a year, so Nigel had a good long life. Until his recent death, which nobody actually noticed for a day or two.

It's not that I didn't pay attention to the fish. But he's been pretty sluggish for a while, rousing himself maybe a couple times a day to swim to the top of his tank, then right back down to the bottom. And, importantly, I have been told with some authority that fish float at the top of the tank when they're dead.  Nigel was lurking (admittedly, sort of sideways) at the bottom. I thought I was just missing his occasional forays to the surface.

I know this doesn't sound good.

Anyhow, last night, a few members of my book club were over and commented that Nigel looked, um, deceased. I assured them otherwise, informing them with not a little disdain that FISH FLOAT WHEN THEY ARE DEAD. Nigel was an old fish, but all that was necessary to prove he was still alive was a teeny jostle to the tank. Well, perhaps a bigger jostle. No? Oh, look. There appears to be some sort of white film growing over his face. Oh.

Maybe it's just a coincidence, but nobody touched the salmon spread for the rest of the night.

So why is Nigel, now confirmed dead, still on my kitchen counter? Well, G went to bed last night and left for work this morning before I could give him the sad news. And, quite frankly, there's no one in this house right now who's up to the disposal of a body, even a little tiny scaly red-and-blue one. I tried.

But there are stones in the bottom of the tank, so I couldn't just dump gently pour it into the toilet sanitary porcelain fish mortuary. I got a net to pull Nigel out and flush him dispose of his earthly remains. But, while in life, Nigel used to spring eagerly from the net into a waiting receptacle, in death, not so much. I couldn't dislodge him from the mesh. I whacked the handle of the little net around on the toilet seat for several seconds, trying to release his body into the, um, wild. Then I saw his little tail wiggle and I remembered the time I almost told the kids he was dead and it turned out he wasn't and I panicked and I flipped the net over and dumped him back into his tank where he slowly floated to the bottom like an extra in Titanic, and that is where he rests still. (Very, very still, come to that.) I concluded that I do not have either the heart or the stomach for this particular activity. So I carried the tank back to the surface from which it came.

And that is why there is a dead fish on my kitchen counter.

Is that why they call it Devil's Food Cake?

So Julian's birthday party is next Saturday, and I have decided to get him a chocolate cake, with chocolate creme filling and chocolate frosting. (He has expressed a mild preference for chocolate, but all he really cares is that it has dinosaurs on it. It's a dinosaur/bowling party.)

This cake business is a big deal for me. A leap of faith, if you will.

My mother, though a devout Christian, had a number of odd little superstitions. One of these was that chocolate cakes for birthdays are bad luck. We always had chocolate cakes for picnics and potlucks, but birthdays--never. The year my sister turned 22, she was given three birthday cakes, all chocolate, by non-family members. She claims the following year was her worst ever.

There are loopholes, apparently, like you can have chocolate frosting on a white cake, or the cake is okay if it's not ALL chocolate, like a marble cake. But I've never given my family members an all chocolate birthday cake, and the only reason is my mother's superstition.

But we are feeling like chocolate cake this week, for this birthday. And I actually caught myself worrying that Julian will have a traumatizing first grade (something I tend to worry about anyway) if I get him this cake. And for the first time I realized how absurd that is, how literally un-Christian. Do I really, seriously, think that the God I purport to love and trust and praise would screw over an innocent six year old because his mother got him the wrong kind of cake? How much sense does that make? Even if I weren't a Christian, what is the correlation between cake flavor and anything? More importantly, what would Jesus eat?

It's hard to know for sure, as they didn't have Costco bakeries in Biblical times. But here's what I think:  I think Jesus would smile at the five and six year olds bowling, and I think He would sit down and eat chocolate cake with them, and smile again at the chocolate frosting all over their faces. I don't think he would let one damn bad thing happen to them on his watch. I think he would laugh, but lovingly, at my ridiculous notions about chocolate. Possibly he'd remind me, firmly, of who's in charge, and pass me a piece of cake.

And then after we'd eaten all the Devil's Food,  I guess the ol' devil would just have to go hungry. 

But don't give yourself away...

This is a post about surrender, and if you clicked on that link, then for sure it's not even going to be the best one you read this week.

A couple of weeks ago, I invited Julian's friend Vishnu over for a playdate. Vishnu is the first guy friend J has made on his own, without the kid being the son of one of my friends, or a member of our church, or neighbor. Like all five year olds, the two of them have the occasional spat, but like all five year olds, they seem to make up. 

Vishnu's mom was hesitant about making a playdate, although she and Vishnu had been over before.  She left it with, "I'll call you," that vague and distant death knell for relationships of all kinds.  I wrote it off to perhaps a cultural thing; I've heard "I'll call you,"  before.

Imagine my delight, then, when Vishnu's mom called last week and asked to set up a playdate for today. Their family had been planning a trip to India, she explained, and she wasn't sure they would be around for a playdate, but the trip was off, and they would.

You know how I worry about Julian, his ability to make and keep friends. He's not aggressive, but he can be bossy and egocentric. So last night I tossed and turned, imagining this playdate getting canceled because Vishnu no longer wanted to come over. How would she do it? I wondered. Can't say her kid is sick, because J will see him later at school.

Does anyone not know what happened next? At 8:30 this morning, Vishnu's mom begged off, claiming she had a terrible earache and couldn't drive him over at 10:30. It's entirely possible she was telling the truth. I asked if there was anything I could bring her; if she was indeed sick, perhaps I could be of service.  And if she wasn't, then at least I could make her feel bad for lying to me. Oh, yeah, I'm proud of that, right.  Good Christian behavior there.

Julian came down for breakfast. I hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed. He wasn't. A little conversation over cornflakes revealed that he had told Vishnu he was a bad friend, or Vishnu had said that to him, and the reason was apparently that Vishnu had been copying Julian and J didn't like it. Not copying off his paper. Just acting like him. As in, most likely, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," which I tried to explain in 5-year-old-speak. Ye gods and little fishes. My kid has one good pal of his own, one boy in the universe who regards my son as an alpha male, and he alienates him.  What in the Sam Hill am I going to do?

Apparently, very little. Apparently, I am going to try to model and (very) briefly explain what it means to be a good friend. The plan is then for me to shut up and place this in God's in-box and try to remember that he loves my kid too, and will help him. I know that this is the plan because I have reviewed God's track record of managing the universe and compared it with mine and I seem to fall the merest bit short. As an example, not the only one, God created the universe in seven days, and I cannot even manage to get my bathroom cleaned in that time. (Although in my defense, at the time God created the universe he didn't have kids.)  So, I am going to not only hand this sticky little issue over to God for his tender care, I am going to avoid snatching it back from him because he's not working fast enough for my tastes. I am not going to keep poking Him and asking, "Are we there yet?" I am going to let this go.

Somebody hold me down. It's killing me already.

Nervous Girl goes to a Party

So, the Nervous Family got invited to a party. It was the 40th birthday party of Molly, a friend of G.'s, and since she has two kids and a third on the way, kids were invited.

As a rule, parties exacerbate my ambient level of nervousness. There's the having to talk to people I don't know, and the likelihood of spilling food or drink on someone's silk blouse or heirloom sofa. Add the kids, nicknamed Mischief and Mayhem for a reason, into the mix, and the anxiety can reach fever pitch.

Surprisingly, none of those things were registering on my anxiety scale. This time, such petty nervous-makers were dwarfed by one thing: Alice.

Alice and her husband, Brian, used to work with Molly and with G. They were all good friends, and I got to be friends with them too. Alice and I were pregnant with our first kids at the same time. She was my labor coach because G. doesn't do hospitals very well.

And then there was the Falling-Out.

I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say it was a misunderstanding. I think. We both had infants. She said something that, if intentional, cast aspersions on the quality of my mothering. Insecure as I was about my mothering at that point, I couldn't get over it, though I tried. Our friendship was never the same. Eventually, it just dissolved. By the time our daughters were born, a few months apart, we hadn't spoken for years. And then I realized that Alice had become an icon.

I had started to see her as a symbol of everything that was wrong--with me. She was a better mother. Her son was rosier, plumper, happier. She was prettier, thinner, smarter. Her house was bigger, cleaner, and better decorated. She had a better job. No wonder I couldn't be friends with her. It was too painful, and to make matters worse, I had brought it all on myself. She hadn't told me how much better she was than I; I had.
After all this time, I thought I was over it.

And then we got invited to the party, and the old monster started moving and muttering again. I convinced myself that Alice's daughter, younger than mine, never threw tantrums and was potty trained. I was sure that her son could read perfectly, never whined, and didn't have odd little quirks like Julian's. And I convinced myself that Alice would judge me on all of those things--although, clearly, I had already condemned myself, and two innocent little kids.

That's right, people! I invited my children to my all you can feel self-loathing buffet!

That's when I knew I had to call in the big guns. As Anne Lamott has put it, this was a problem for God's in-box.

At first, I prayed without much enthusiasm. God, I said, I seem to have this teensy hurdle I can't get over. Mind giving me a boost? But I really didn't want a boost. I was having too much fun despising myself and everything in my world, and pretending it was Alice who was gearing up to judge me. So God sat there, patient and a little bemused. I think he has a soft spot for me, the way you do for a kid who's not very bright, but keeps trying.  I think he's rooting for me.

I stopped pressing on the bruise named Alice for a few minutes. I allowed as how her kids might not be perfect, that she might occasionally get stressed out and snarky to them. I pictured having a conversation with her at the party, one that didn't make me hate myself. I imagined God nodding to himself a little, like you might when the non-very-bright kid makes progress in tying her shoes. I remembered to breathe. I decided to forgive Alice, not for the first time, for her hurtful comment. Even if I couldn't forget it. I decided to forgive myself for not forgetting it.

On the way to the party I was focused on balancing a crock-pot of cocktail weenies between my feet, so I almost forgot about Alice, except once to wonder if she was bringing a more elegant hors d'oeuvre than Li'l Smokies in a sauce of mustard and grape jelly. I shushed myself. I forgave us again. I breathed. My husband pulled in the driveway at the party house, and I went in the door. Alice wasn't there.

She never showed up. The kids behaved like champs. And everyone loved the weenies.