the pieces of my life

So as a completely biased, totally subjective, blinded-by-love mom, I can state with absolute certainty that my son is the most adorable five year old ever created and my daughter is the most beautiful thing on earth. I’m fine if you disagree with me. In fact, I expect you to.

The thing is, people tend to fawn over Pie a bit. The girl is unquestionably a fashionista and whenever possible, she will dress as if she were going to a black tie event. Today, though, after her ice skating class, we headed to the mall to make a dent in our holiday shopping (and, Peter, if you don’t tell me ASAP what you want, you’re getting this). We went straight from her ice skating class, so she was donned in her “dancing” outfit–a pink leotard with a flower skirt (over a turtleneck and tights). We could not walk more than 50 yards without an “Oh, isn’t she adorable! [Person standing next to her] Have you ever seen someone so darling?” I worry what it’s going to do to her, all these folks telling her how pretty she is. I mean, I’m her mom. That’s my job. Honestly, I think it was the outfit. But the message is questionable.

But we made it through shopping. We went to the mall because I had bought Doodles a pair of gloves that was size 4-6. Those things won’t fit him until he’s 12. Seriously. He looks like some (very good looking) robot thing when he has them on. So Pie and I headed to the mall after skating class. I got a holiday gift for my brother- & sister-in-law. I got some lovely Hanukkah bowls for my family. I got Eloise for my kids as we’re going to NYC for Thanksgiving and I thought it would get them in a New York holiday kind of mood. A couple of other holiday gifts were taken care of. And the mittens? The mittens that were the sole purpose of my trip to the mall? I remembered those halfway down the Middlesex Turnpike on my home. So, kindergarten, here comes robot-boy!

While I was at the mall with a most agreeable shopper (seriously, that girl loves to shop especially if there are samples. Any kind of samples. Food. Lotion. Lip gloss), I figured it was nigh time I bought myself a lipstick. I own a lip stick. It’s very pretty. I got it for my wedding. Six and a half years ago. I figure it’s time to update my collection. I’ve also been meaning to do this crazy thing I’ve been hearing about: washing my face at night. Yep, I never got into the habit. I stopped by Sephora.

I needed help. Really. So I asked for help. “I need a lipstick. Not expensive.” And it was actually helpful because I ended up with a lipstick in–I think–a not hideous color for under $20, which I figured was fine. I mean, according to the New York Times sales of lipstick is an indicator of the economy (which may be a myth, but who cares?). I’m just proving the economy is in the crapper. The woman said to me, “Do you want to try another product?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m game.”

She proceeds to pull out some skin stuff. “Are you wearing makeup now?”

“I’m wearing makeup never,” I told her.

“Okay,” she says and she goes into her spiel about this great new skin product. It’s a foundation! It’s a concealer! It’s a powder!

“It’s how much?” I ask.

“$57,” she said.

“Yikes!” I replied. “A bit much for me.”

“It’s really economical,” she assured me. “It takes the place of your foundation and your powder and your concealer–“

“Yes, but since I don’t use any of those anyway, it’s really not saving me any money, is it?”

And I left her speechless. From the look on her champion saleswoman face, I’m guessing that doesn’t happen too often. No comeback. She had the good grace to let me go quietly.

The woman in skin care was more my speed. “I don’t wash my face. Really. When I do wash it in the shower, I use plain old soap. But I’m forty. And there are wrinkles. I won’t spend a lot. Do something for me.” She steered me to a (relatively) cheap face wash and loaded me up with samples. “Use one pump twice a day.”

“Really?” I said. “Because if I remember to use it once a day, I’ll consider myself really well groomed.”

So now I have a lipstick. And a face wash. And it’s exciting. Which means that the transformation to suburban haus frau is complete. I went shopping. With my beauty pageant daughter. And then I blogged about it. Tomorrow’s post will be about how to remove those stubborn coffee and tea stains from your white mugs (sneak preview: baking soda!).

It’s a good thing.

Jenny…

…is apparently living with Princess Pee Pee and King La La in the Land of Underwear

…doesn’t understand why–even after she (okay Adam) repeatedly washes her running clothes–her workout clothes drawer STINKS!

…isn’t answering another question (Mommy, why are the lights on? Because it’s dark. Oh. But why are those lights on! Because it’s dark there, too. But, Mommy, what about– It’s dark everywhere, damn it!)

…is annoyed at Trader Joe’s (if you buy a kit that says “Hyacinth Indoor Blooming Kit, Easy to Grow in 3 Simple Steps!” don’t expect to go home and plant them with your kids. Because the first “simple step” is “Remove bulb from kit and chill in a dry, dark, 40-45 degree F location for 8 weeks.” Note, we are skipping that step and reducing the chill time to one hour, which is how long you’re supposed to let the compressed planting mix soak in water. All of which means in about ten weeks, I’ll have to buy some stupid plants, replace the bulbs, and tell the kids they’re magic flowers that develop fully in one single night.)

…has got to stop thinking that Pie is ready to give up the nighttime Pull-Ups, because that’s just invitation to a nighttime soaking.

…is about to harm an inanimate object. {Please refer to the previous status update. Sheets soaked with pee. Jenny puts sheets in a laundry basket, carts them down the two flights of stairs, puts them in the washer, inserts $1.25, washes sheets and mattress cover. In 20 minutes she returns, moves sheets and mattress cover to dryer, inserts $1.25… and nothing. Jenny brings sheets back upstairs and drapes them all over apartment to try and get them to dry decently enough to return to bed by nightfall.)

…isn’t answering another question (Please don’t touch the sheets when we get home. The dryer broke, so the sheets are drying in the apartment on the chairs. But why are the sheets drying? Because I had to wash them and then the dryer broke. Will the dryer be fixed? Yes, I called the management company; they said they’d fix it. Why did it break? I don’t know. But you understand what you’re not supposed to do? What? Please don’t touch the sheets. Why? Because they’re clean and I don’t want you getting them dirty and they’re hanging up in the apartment. Why? Because the dryer broke? So you won’t touch them, right? Touch what? The sheets! Why? Because they’re clean and you’re not. Why are they clean?…)

…doesn’t have a snack for you.

…thinks seven meals a day should be plenty for anyone.

…really, truly, doesn’t have a snack for you. Please. Go ahead. Check my purse.

…is going to make you a snack from the year-old crumbs that are trapped beneath your car seat.

…is done. So very, very, very done.

I so clearly remember the absolute horror I felt when my father described to me his childhood. What do you mean you didn’t have color TVs? How do you listen to a show on the radio? No tape players? How did your grandmother do the laundry? How much did the movies cost? You couldn’t have copies made? No electric typewriters? WHAT was your phone number? How could a phone number have a word in it. How far did you walk to school? In the snow? Uphill?

And now, it’s a game I’ve inadvertently fallen into with my children. Yesterday they went to get their flu shots. Which I still call flu shots. Even though what they got was actually a flu nasal mist.

“It’s a new thing, guys! It squirts up your nose. It won’t hurt at all!”

“Did you mind getting flu shots when you were a kid?” Doodles asked me.

“Actually, we didn’t have flu shots when I was a kid. They weren’t invented yet.”

“REEEEAAALLLY? So what did you do?”

I shrug. “I guess we got the flu!”

It’s funny, we joke about the kids not knowing why we say “dial the phone” when there’s clearly no dial. But the kids play these games, where I hear Doodles saying things like, “Check us out at jumpingonthebed.com!” or he’ll say to me when I don’t know the answer to something, “Can’t you look on the computer? Use Google.”

I wonder if I’m being naive but it seems like the distance between my father’s childhood and mine is shorter than that between my childhood and my children’s. (And why my father and not my mother? My mother never told as many stories about her childhood, so I don’t have the same frame of reference there.) In other words, life in the 1940s was different from life in the 1970s, but not as much as life in the 1970s is different from life in the 2000s.

In my pre-twelve year old life, we had multiple TVs, but no computer, no cable. Our first computer came in 1980, when we bought a TRS-80 Model III with a cassette drive and what we called “the red button of death” (press it and with no confirmation, everything you worked on disappeared forever). I took BASIC programming my senior year of high school, which put me ages ahead of most of my peers in computer literacy. I didn’t get my MTV until high school. I remember begging my parents–pleading–in the late ’70s for a princess phone. Remember the smell of dittos in elementary school? Ah, the scent of the mimeograph machine.

My son is conversant on using the iPod. My daughter can pause live TV. Doodles begs for time to play the new game on pbskids.com. The both receive their party invitations on evite. “Let’s watch a DVD!” they plead. Pie is capable of displaying all the photos on my iPhone to her friends.

Well, just wait. One of these days they’ll ask for the own cell phones. And I’ll look at them as if they are crazy and say, “You know, when I was a kid, I had what was called a ‘party line,’ and I couldn’t even call my friends when I wanted and I had to get off the phone when a neighbor wanted to us it.” (True story of my brief life in Colorado before returning to my rightly position as a Floridian.) And then when they stare at me in horror, I’ll explain how I had to ride my bike to school, two miles, in hurricanes, uphill… in both directions. See my childhood wasn’t that different from my father’s.

Yesterday, at the playground, I leaned back on the bench and put my hands behind my head as I gazed around… (You all know this is pure artistic license, as no mother of two ever gets to lean back on a bench and just gaze around. If–if–she gets to sit, she’s hunched over, ready to jump up as she shouts, “Pie! Get down from there! You are not big enough for those monkey bars! Doodles! Doodles! What are you doing? You know better! We do not hang upside down from the see saw! Oh shit, where the hell are the Band-Aids?”). Where was I? Oh right, sitting on my literary device, gazing out at an idyllic scene of children happily playing, when I smelled something pretty foul. I turned my head a bit to figure out what it was and then I got it. The smell was me.

I go running three mornings a week. On a fourth morning I do boot camp. I generally cross-train one other day a week (biking, yoga, occasionally even a swim). And that means I shower at a minimum four days a week, but usually five.

Only I sprained a tendon. And I’m off of running for two weeks. Which, inadvertently, has led me to two shower-free weeks.

The thing is, I just don’t think about taking showers when I’m not all sweaty and gross. So days and days go by without cleanliness. Until I sniff. And then I go running for the water.

Funny thing, at my kids’ annual check-ups yesterday, I asked how often they needed to bathe, because my kids HATE it. With a passion. And the answer was, that kids really only need it when the dirt is absolutely caked on or, really, every three or four weeks. They don’t get oily and greasy like grown-ups do.

So there you go. Adam showers to go to work–usually. And the rest of us will be living a life embracing the dirt. You may not want to come by until I start running again. This small apartment can really absorb smells…

Our cable company went digital and we got about a zillion new channels, most of them completely worthless. There has never been so much nothing on TV. But… we’ve had the return of one channel that I’m in enthralled with and that Adam is completely horrified by. This is saying a lot. That man has watched Bridezilla. He’s sat through The L Word. He’s even been known to put up with Tori and Dean. But I’ve found his limits. And it’s going to cause problems. Because I can’t seem to avert my eyes from…

TBN. I don’t know what it is! TBN got me through grad school. I’d procrastinate for hours on end by watching it. Something about Evangelical Christians just sucks me in. The other night there was a show hosted by Kirk Cameron (of my beloved Growing Pains), and he was teaching us how we should be witnessing to complete strangers. He had this great analogy: If you saw an elevator plunging, and you noticed that at the bottom there was a gap, and in that gap children were playing, wouldn’t you run and save the kids? You wouldn’t stop and say, “Wait! They look like they’re having fun. And I don’t know them! Who am I to ruin their fun?” No, you’d save those kids! So why would you not save the world? Because you don’t know them? Because they’re having fun? According to Kirk, friends don’t let friends go to hell.

They get me! I’m hooked! I’ll witness! I’ll send in my five dollars! But then it hits me. Oh right. I’m Jewish. Jesus does nothing for me. Damn! (Which, apparently, I am!)

Anyway, I find it fascinating. And Adam? Not so much. He’s trying to figure out how to disable the channel. But there’s no way to do that without also disabling NESN. And that’s not going to happen. Ah. What can I say? The lord works in mysterious ways.

It’s 8:11 a.m. and I’ve run 8.58 miles (which included 5 x 1200 at an average of 7:45 pace), showered, had breakfast, drank coffee, made my kids’ lunches, read e-mail, and am now writing a quick blog. What have you done so far today?

Seriously, though, I’m at the point of my marathon training where I kind of dread the next workout, although when I’m actually doing them, I’m moving pretty much by rote. I was talking about this with my friend A.M. on our Saturday run (14 miles, 9:23 pace), how your legs can be moving but it’s as if they’re moving on your own–you’re completely disconnected from them. I feel that way about my workouts in general. I don’t set an alarm anymore; my body just wakes itself around 5 a.m. I roll out of bed without even thinking about it, dress, eat a banana, have some water, and then head out the door. I’m barely aware of what I’m doing. I just go. I only run three days a week, although I cross train the other two. Boot camp one day–that’s easy as it’s already part of the schedule. I’m having problems coming up with what the other day of cross-training is. I alternate between biking and walking, although I’m hoping to add some yoga in.

I keep a poster in my office from my first marathon that reads, “At 18 miles you wonder why you do this. At 26.2 it all becomes perfectly clear.” I feel that way these days. I’m running, I’m running, I’m running, and I think, “Why? How ridiculous is this, a woman in her 40s running and running and running and where does it get me?”

But then I remind myself. I do it to be healthy (although I’m at the other dreaded point in my training where I start adding on weight–always happens). I do it to set a good example for my kids. I do it because I love that feeling of crossing a finish line, of completing a goal. I do it to hang another medal onto my collection. It’s just what I do.

So when the next line on my training schedule says 5 miles at an 8:30 pace, that’s what I’ll be doing. And I’ll just keep telling myself, “One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other,” until I have another medal to hang.

I’m starting to feel old. On two separate occasions in the past week, I’ve made references to friends that I felt a need to corroborate because it occurred to me they were young enough to not know what I was talking about. Let me ask you guys:

1) If I said, “You can bring home the bacon. Fry it up in the pan. But don’t ever let her forget you’re a man,” would you know what I was spoofing?

2) If I sent you an e-mail that read, “We’ll Do Our BBQing in the Rain,” would you know what song I was referring to?

(I won’t make you wait for the answers. This is the first one, and this is the second one, although I see that A-ha actually did a pretty cool remake of it, so maybe that will trigger with folks.)

I have this evil cold that was given to me by my dear, darling children. Of course, they get a cold and keep running. I get a cold and I want to bury myself beneath a pile of blankets in my over-A.C.’d house, with a stack of magazines and a big bowl of chicken soup. So, because I don’t have an original thought in my head right now, other than, “Nyquil! Now!” here’s a little wrap for you of the past couple of weeks.

Our vacation: Did you know we went away? No, you didn’t because I oh-so-cleverly scheduled a post for while we were gone, just to keep you entertained (wasn’t that nice of me?). We took our third–and final (boo hoo!)–trip to the Wildflower Inn in Lyndonville, Vermont. It was as heavenly as ever and the kids loved going to “camp,” Adam and I loved having alone time, and it was nice to escape computers and work and room parent assignments and all that other good stuff. This is only our last year because the program we go to is for babies, toddlers, and preschoolers. And we’ll have but one preschooler next year.

The highlight for Pie was definitely her counselors. Oh, she found one who she fell in love with. Pie came back to the room on Tuesday afternoon.

Pie: I asked my counselor to paint my nails.
Me: What did she say?
Pie: She said, no. She said, ask your mommy.
Me: Does your mommy let you paint your nails?
Pie: No.
Me: When does Mommy say you can paint your nails?
Pie: When I’m three.
Me: And how old are you?
Pie: Two.
Me: Right, two. So no painting nails.

Of course, Miss Thang comes back very proudly from dinner, showing off bright purple-y nails.

Pie: Mommy, look!!
Me: What did Mommy say about painting your nails?
Pie: Mommy said no.
Me: And what did you tell your counselors?
Pie, with absolute innocent glee: I told them YES!

How could I get angry with that joy? We had a little to-do today when I went to paint her (toe)nails for the 4th of July. But I’m talking about the relaxation of vacation, so we’ll just not go there now. And it was relaxing: swimming, kayaking, massage, dinner sans kids, hiking, hot tub, swimming, batting cages (for Adam and Doodles), goofing off on the tennis court (for me and Pie), drinking, and a general good time was had by all.

Boot camp: Ever done anything like say, oh, skiing, and there’s some person who has the top-of-the-line everything–the professional goggles, the killer skiis, the aerodynamic skiing outfit–but is clearly a completely novice who doesn’t know he should point his skis down the hill? That was me, today. Boot camp went on a bike ride and I still had all my gear from back when I biked almost seriously. Back when riding was something I spent entire weekend days on; when I rode to work, from work, and then tossed in an extra ride at the end of the day just for good measure; back when I had money to burn and a Bianchi road bike.

I still have all that stuff. But do I have the biking body that I did in 2002, which as far as I can tell, was the last time I was on a bike? Again, let’s not go there. A friend was kind enough to do a tune-up for me on my hybrid (no way was I going with the clipless pedals of my road bike), but I showed up in my little biking shorts and my cute purple biking jersey. Thank goodness I left the fingerless gloves and groovy glasses at home. Because, man, are they wrong. You can totally forget how to ride a bike. “Wait, wait!” I kept asking. “I don’t remember! The bigger gear for going up the hills? Or down?” It was humiliating. But fun. And who knows? Maybe I’ll start biking again. Once I remember definitively what the big gear is for.

Movies: I’ve been working my way through the suggestions everyone gave me for flicks to watch (still open to more! Always welcome a good movie recommendation). But I want to give a particular shout-out to Lionness, because a movie she suggested, The Bubble, is one of the most thought-provoking movies I’ve ever seen.

My birthday: Adam outdid himself. I didn’t think he could do it, but he did. Got me my own personalized bowling shirt. Had my sister come up to surprise me. Arranged for his brother to babysit. Rented a limo “happy bus.” Stocked it with friends and beer and champagne. Took us all to Jamaica Plain for bowling and food and booze and cake at the Milky Way. And you know what? For once, I don’t have a single snarky thing to say. It was perfect.

And with that, I’m off to find the Nyquil. Ah, happy Nyquil. How I missed you all those years. Welcome home.

Those Peace Lovin’ 1960s
June 25, 1968: I was born. Flower and Fifth Hospital in New York City, although my parents at the time were living in West New York, New Jersey.This causes three decades of debate (it wasn’t an issue that first decade) of whether my home state is New York or New Jersey.
1969: TV enters my life, in two notable ways:

1. My father props me up to watch on TV the first moon landing/walk. My father says that he wanted me to witness such a monumental moment, but really (he claims), my sister got the better show, because he let her watch Hank Aaron’s 733rd home run. “Lots of people will walk on the moon,” he told me. “I don’t think anyone will break Hank Aaron’s record.” Dad, meet Barry Bonds.
2. My mother discovers the wonderful world of Sesame Street. My father claims this is the root of all my problems. “Your mother heard about this great new show for kids. The problem is, she heard about it after the first day it had aired. You started with the letter B and the number 2, and you never caught up.”

Those Wild and Crazy 1970s
1970: Family lore states that I attempted to kill passers-by by tossing blocks off our 22nd floor balcony. My mother ran downstairs, saw some dented cars and a very angry doorman and pedestrians. She acted shocked and indignant that someone could be so irresponsible as to let her child do this and she retreated upstairs. I never saw those blocks again. Also, my best friend was Feefer, I sucked on a LaLa, and apparently, I liked apples and was “scared cows.”
1971: We’re movin’ on up, movin’ on up, to the ‘burbs: The Brown family migrates to Westchester Country, and all hopes of my having any pretensions of being a city girl are shot. And, oh yeah, my sister, the Tweedle Twirp, is born. This is significant because from here on out, she protected me from the cows.
1972: My family makes the move from Briarcliff Manor, New York, to Miami Lakes, Florida, and thus my identity as a Miami girl begins its formation.
1973: 1973 was the year of the gun. Already told you about it; no need to repeat myself.
1974: From Miami Lakes to South Miami. A play house in the front yard, built by my mother out of–why?–railroad-ties. A front walkway, laid by mother built out of–why?–railroad ties. These railroad ties always turned my feet orange and were a nuisance to walk on barefoot. In the house: Halls with orange and brown stripes painted by my mother. An orange metal fireplace in the living room that us children were not permitted in under punishment of death by my mother. I remember being allowed by my mother to watch TV at dinner for one event and one event only: Richard Nixon’s resignation.
1975: I get in trouble for fighting with the boy down the street. My mother tells me that violence is never an option. My father tells me, If someone hits you, you hit him back harder. I decide my father’s philosophies are more in tune with my own. I get in trouble a lot this year. But only with my mom.
1976: The whole country is celebrating the bicentennial. I’m mourning the fact that I am the youngest person at Pinecrest Elementary School–possibly even Dade County, possibly even all of South Florida!–to ever get braces. A full headgear. To be worn twenty-four hours a day. Yes, I know my teeth look great now. No, it was not worth it.
1977: I’m looking at my diaries. 1977. None of it’s ringing a bell. End of third grade, beginning of 4th grade. Not a memorable year in any way.
1978: Was the headgear not enough? Let’s add glasses to the repertoire. Farrah Fawcett-style. Tinted, partially, a gray and blue. My initials are in gold foil on the corner of one of the lenses. This year, I also take my first trip abroad.
1979: How to torment an almost-eleven year old? Uproot her and move her across the country. To a land where there are no Jews. To a land where this strange white stuff falls from the sky and where the snazzy jean jacket her mother bought looks nothing like the space-age parkas everyone else wears. A land so liberal and crunchy that her father’s new job, as the president of a company that turns animal poop into gas (hey, thanks Carter years!) is actually considered cool by the kids in her class. Bye Bye, Miami. Hello, Boulder, Colorado.

Like, Gag Me with a Spoon! It’s the 1980s!
1980: From my diary, Nov. 11, 1980: “The world is going to shit! The Presidental [sic] Election is today. I want Carter to win. Of course he’s losing. Reagan has 252 electroal [sic] votes so far. Carter has 15 & Anderson has 4. Even Anderson would be good. Reagan is against E.R.A. & abortion. This country is falling apart. Between Reagan & the hostages in Iran.”
1981: From my diary, a selection of things I received for my 13th birthday: bicycle helmet; 2 cassettes: Pat Benatar’s Crimes of Passion, and Styx’s Paradise Theater; 2 tube tops, pink and blue & white striped; 2 books: Petals on the Wind and If There Be Thorns; a “gorgeous” card with a unicorn on it. I also recorded a description of myself: “I have a volunteer job at North Boulder Rec Center. I help teach swim classes. It’s great! I’m going to try to describe myself: braces, plastic rimmed glasses, a bit of acne, tan on my nose that stops where my glasses start, dark eyebrows, fairly dark brown eyes, dark brown hair that parts on either the middle or side depending on my mood, small (real small) bust approx. 32 inches (really 31 but…), A cup (ugh) so I hardly ever wear a bra, I’m 4 feet 11 3/4 inches. I’m 13 and I still don’t have my period!”
1982: And little did I know… the beginning of my running career. I joined the Casey Junior High Track Team. However, I had a dismal coach who did no coaching and who neglected to tell me that when running the mile, I should hold myself back, and not try to sprint the entire way. Despite my $45 Nike shoes (my mother asked my father, “How much did you spend on running shoes?!?”), I consistently came in last place in every track meet.
1983: Deep sigh. Nightmare over. We return to Miami Beach. In my Colorado years, I made exactly one friend (hi, Karin!), learned how to roll a joint, and almost flunked out of Algebra. I pretend the previous four years never happened.
1984: The future is now! But I’m still stuck with an old Atari and we still don’t have MTV in the house! I sneak General Hospital after school (no TV allowed) and I spend more time grounded than not. Life pretty much sucks, but in your normal, I’m sixteen-years-old sucks kind of way. On the plus side, I do get a driver’s license. But also a serious curfew to go with it.
1985: I GET MY MTV! And use of a car (a a manual Volkswagen Rabbit) to drive to school. I force the Tweedle Twirp into 1) waking me up 2) making my breakfast peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and 3) having my Diet Coke ready to go. She complies because 1) She cares about getting to school on time, 2) I don’t, and 3) see #1. I grudgingly drive her but do insist she move to the backseat when I pick up my boyfriend, Greg.
1986: Who are we? Wild and sick! Senior Senior ’86! Whoo hooo! I’ve got Hi Tide Pride! Go Beach High!
1987: Hook ’em horns! One semester at the University of Texas lets me know that 1) I would never be the president of Chase Manhattan Bank 2) I will never get the bows in my hair to stay that neat and pretty and 3) Texas, well, let’s just say, me and Texas, not such a good fit.
1988: Bye-bye bowheads. Hello city that never sleeps. Film school NYU. Much better fit.
1989: My first solo trip–three weeks in Europe. I’m hooked, starting a decade-and-a-half obsession with travel.

Grunge It Up, Girl. It’s the 1990s
1990: After working for a glamorous nine months in the world of advertising, I discover I hate advertising. I become an editorial assistant for the glamorous pay of $14,000. I share a one-bedroom apartment (my share is $450) on the fifth-floor of a walkup on 11th, between Avenues B & C, where the front door doesn’t lock and the light on the third floor landing is always out, which means stepping over the men sleeping in the hallway. I survive by dating for the free dinners and swapping the free books from my publishing job for the free concerts and movie tickets my friends get from their jobs.
1991: I leave the lucrative publishing job for a stint as an assistant at a talent agency. This job pays the even more astounding $11,000 a year (to be raised to $13,000 at the three-month point). It was not a good fit. I’m not perky. I can’t stand Off-Off Broadway theater. My movie tastes ran that year toward Delicatessen, Barton Fink, and Thelma and Louise; the agency cast deodorant commercials and soap operas. I never made it to that raise. I retreat back to publishing.
1992: I test the waters of adulthood. Steady boyfriend. Job that has potential for a career. A decent (well, for New York) apartment. Testing. Testing. Testing…
1993: Nah. Not for me. Which leads to 1993. I remember nothing of 1993. Well, I remember getting the phone number for that door-to-door pot delivery service. But other than that, 1993 is a complete blank.
1994: Time to try a new tack. I pack it all up and head west. Onward to U Dub for grad school. But first, a three-month cross country road trip. My mother is so freaked out about the idea, she leaves me a letter the morning that I am to leave that reads in part: “It’s 5 a.m. and I haven’t been able to sleep. As usual these days, I’ve been worrying about you…I keep wondering how I could live with myself in the future if you’re dead (a very distinct possibility) from some mishap on this trip, and all I was was be ‘supportive.’ … Sylvia Plath aside, I have no romanticized notions of the young, dead writer. I don’t thinky our father or I could function after having buried one of our children. … I want you to live to have the experience of being a parent so you’ll know exactly what I mean….” I can report that I survived the trip, with nothing more harmful than one speeding ticket, a new boyfriend, and enough material to get me through two years of a Creative Writing master’s degree program.
1995: Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read.
1996: My degree is done. I have two choices: Find a job, marry my boyfriend (different one from 1994), think about procreating. Or, run away. I choose run away. I head for a kibbutz for six weeks to work in the kiwi fields.
1997: Six weeks somehow became six months plus a couple of months trekkin’ through Eastern Europe. I return back to Seattle, and begin the glamorous life of freelancing, as a proofreader and copyeditor.
1998: A friend says to me, “Hey, have you heard of that little Internet bookstore? I heard they are hiring copyeditors.” I apply. I get a job. My father, the Certified Financial Planner lectures me, “Take this job if you like the job. But don’t take it for the stock options. This company is worthless and you’ll never make a dime.” I bitch and moan and th
en ask him to tell me what a stock option is.
1999: I cash in my worthless stock options. I take my sister and my best friend on a bike trip from Vienna to Prague. I undergo Lasik. I get a DVD player. I buy a house.

Bring on the Minivan! It’s a New Century!
2000: My father says, “The stock is at the highest it’ll ever be. Cash it all out now.” I ignore him. I lose thousands upon thousands of dollars. My father continues to remind me of this fact even now, eight years later. In other news, there’s this guy. He’s kind of cute, but rather arrogant and when I asked him out, he simply said, “No.” Assohole.
2001: Got engaged to arrogant guy.
2002: Got married to arrogant guy. Let arrogant guy drag me across the country so he can attend the most arrogant school in the country and become arrogant MBA guy. Should I procreate with arrogant soon-to-be MBA guy? No let’s not procreate. Instead, let’s go to New Orleans and spend the entire time drunk off our asses. Oh, what’s that? Too late? The genesis of Brown Brown occurs amid the primordial haze of hurricanes and Cajun martins.
2003: Bye bye martinis, hello breastmilk. Little do I know that I’m about to spend the next five years either pregnant or with a child at my breast. Brown Brown enters the world, and formally becomes known as… Doodles.
2004: I think life is tough with a baby. I think it’s impossible to get any writing or work done. I think that I’m exhausted. But it turns out I know nothing. But this is easy compared to…
2005: Welcome to the world, Pie!
2006: I breastfeed. And cosleep. And breastfeed some more. And cosleep. Did I mention the breastfeeding? There was quite a lot of that going on. And a bit more. Yes, I breastfed this year. Boy, did I breastfeed.
2007: For 11/12 of this year, I continue to breastfeed. But then, miraculously, children leave my breast. They sleep for longer stretches of time. They enter school programs and make friends with whom they can be dropped off. Visions of not necessarily my old life, but some sort of life begin to emerge. Which leads me to…
June 25, 2008: I turn forty years old. Happy freakin’ birthday to me.

This past weekend was a big running weekend for me. I went up to Alton, New Hampshire, early Saturday morning to run the Big Lake Half Marathon. Supposedly it’s a very beautiful course. I’m not really sure. I didn’t fuel up properly beforehand (normally I eat a peanut-butter sandwich and a banana, but since I left the house at 5 a.m. and the race didn’t start till 9, my belly got all rumbly before then) and I tried to keep up with my much-faster friends for the first three miles, so by the middle, I was just kind of chugging along without a whole bunch of steam. Much more “I think I can, I think I can,” than any speed engine. I did notice some very sweet houses on the lake (oh, how I want a summer home on a lake!), but other than that I was very focused on getting to the end. I did respectably: 465 (out of 1202) and 24 (out of 89) in my division. My chip time was 1:54:47 for a 8:46 pace, which is fine, but not my best. I was heartened to see that if the race were just one and a half months later, I’d have finished 20th in my division (the only reason I can see to truly look forward to turning 40 is that it bumps me up into the next age category).

As a recovery run, I decided on Sunday morning to do the Melrose Run for Women. This is the third time I’ve run it (fourth I’ve signed up, but one year the rains were so bad the course flooded and the race was canceled), and it’s such a lovely run. My kids talked all week about the race they were going to run, as there’s a fun run beforehand. I think Pie was disappointed because the kids’ run for the under 8s was only a dash (“too short!” she said after) but she had a blast doing it. And she ran in the right direction this year! Last year was her first time running it and she kind of spun around confused. Doodles of course took off and proudly wore his ribbon afterward. I’m so psyched my kids are into running–I look forward to the day we can do full races together (remember the days, before we were married, when Adam ran with me? Ah, yes. And we were married–what? five minutes–before he announced he hated running and never laced up any running shoes again?). The race is a nice course and it’s an easy 3.5 miles. I did a fine job on it, especially after the half: no chips, but my gun time was 27:11.5 for a 7.46 pace. I finished 56 out of 644.

Now I have to figure out my next races. My name is in the lottery for the NYC marathon again. If I don’t get into that, I’ll run the Baystate Marathon. I have a half scheduled for September, the same day my brother-in-law is getting married (and by pure coincidence, the race and the wedding are in the same town in Maine and the race is in the morning and the wedding in the afternoon. What luck!). I don’t want to schedule too many other halfs until I figure out which marathon I’m running . But if anyone wants to meet up somewhere for a race, I’m generally game. The races wear me out, but in a good way, and I’m always up for another one.

Run run run. Of course there is one added benefit: Sorry, Adam. I’m really too tired after those races to put the kids to bed. Can you handle it yourself? Snooooooze.