Little Timmy

I am going to give birth on foreign soil, in the middle of the wilderness, surrounded by a beautiful and peaceful landscape. Waterfalls, mountains, and a stunning sunset will circle my heaving body. There will also be two of the world’s finest doctors, a midwife, a sterile tent, air conditioning, and preferably that long needle they jab in your back to numb the pain. Enya can be there too, her voice is soothing.

After the blood and gore is over and there is a real live human being attached to me, I will remain in this paradise to raise little Timmy to be an intelligent and responsible young man, away from provocative Internet spam, R-rated horror flicks, suggestive beer commercials, crack, and Jay-Z.

Today my boss asked me if I’m ready to have children. I said, “Not right now, but maybe after lunch I would have some time.” She found this amusing, but not enough to laugh out loud. Later she made the comment that I would make a good, sturdy mother, sturdy enough to have six or seven children, at least. Though I was flattered by this blind confidence in my durability, the word sturdy made me uneasy. I pictured a thick housewife wearing faded high cut jeans and a pastel kitten sweatshirt over a flannel button down. I didn’t say this, however, and accepted the compliment graciously, happy she had overlooked the unnecessary comment earlier. I admit I have hips to do the job, but I’m not sure I have any of the other qualities needed to bear six or seven offspring. I always assumed I was a 2-3 kind of girl. A boy, a girl, maybe a puppy. Seven sounds a little excessive.

At the moment I am quite content to be responsible for myself and my fish, Tomais, though I would like to have a brood someday, despite the immense responsibility. Strangely, it’s not the potty training, temper tantrums, or teen angst I worry about. I worry about the fragile complexities of emotional and mental health. Though we are all rightfully caught up in global warming, I’m less concerned about the physical danger than the mental danger of my future cherubs. If video games are violent now, who knows what kind of 6-D slaughter fest paraphernalia will be out for the Nintendo Wii of my kid’s generation. Even though I may not allow it in my home, what if little Timmy becomes hopelessly addicted to violence at little Bobby’s house and becomes a bloodthirsty mass murderer or worse, a Republican?

I suppose this fear has been alive since Elvis or even Eve, but I’m still concerned about little Timmy’s emotional health.

(FYI, I would never name my child Timmy. Jackson maybe, a good strong name. My sister and I fight over baby names much like we argue over anything that involves “calling it.” I think this originates back to the well-known era of the front seat. One of our favorite things to call are my parents various valuables, family heirlooms, and assets. We will be leisurely sitting at dinner and she will say, “I call the big green vase.” And then it begins, everything from our cabin in West Virginia to Mom’s paintings to the miniature change bowl must be assigned in order to be prepared to divvy up things after our parents impending death. Even though I swear I called the name Lily a few decades ago, she insists she came up with this name first. Benjamin is also a name I know I called before she could even speak and yet she has the whole thing all planned out. Regardless, when I am in the wilderness, it will not matter what the name is. Maybe I’ll let them name themselves.)

As my friends slowly get married off to one another, I can’t help but wonder what sort of parents they will be or what sort of children they will produce. Will I let my children play with their children? Maybe after they take a drug test. One of my most favorite friends, who I will call Beatrice, is one of the messiest and most disorganized human beings on this planet. I can’t imagine how her kids will survive being lost and wandering about the streets when she forgets they exist. I suppose they will be fine, probably better than my little Timmy, who has never heard the word kidnapper before in his life.

How do you raise peaceful, responsible, and healthy children who are still street smart? Obviously I don’t want to be that parent who has those children who walk around in a sheltered daze, afraid of anything that moves. But I’m not sure how to make that happen naturally. I want them to be brave think for themselfers who would rather play cello, conserve energy, and organize sports leagues than date the next Britney Spears, slew foreigners with accents, or try LSD.

I’m glad Tomais does not need this sort of supervision.

So no, I’m not ready now (or after lunch) to bear the fruit of my loins into this daunting world. I may have sturdy hips but I do not have the energy to be worrying about Timmy’s mental health or which of his friends are sneaking him cheese curls and tequila.

PS: I call Timmy, just in case.

Welcome to the Church of the Holy Cabbage. Lettuce pray.

[Feminism is] a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians. ~Pat Robertson

It begins when the doctor says, “It’s a girl.” I always wonder if fathers are disappointed by this news. Suddenly little league baseball and fly fishing and father/son camping trips disappear when a daughter is born. Instead, this tiny human being is furnished with a host of other expectations. It is a strange thing, for sure. Though the ideas of feminism and gender roles and sexism have been discussed, debated, and dissected plenty over the past decade, the thought of ones identity based on genitalia is still fascinating.

In any case, one of those expectations includes the ability to and love for cooking, at least in my Pennsylvanian suburbia. My mother tried her best to instill this interest into me, but I stubbornly resisted, hoping that if I ever did need to cook, the ability would appear naturally. 23 years later, this is not the case.

It wasn’t that I thought cooking and baking were unappealing; I simply would rather play. Cooking was not mandatory in our household, but cleaning, laundry, and gardening were, so in my spare time taking directions and learning were not as attractive as swimming, playing, and friends. I certainly never minded helping bake cookies, but the thought of making a whole meal sounded messy. I didn’t want to have to clean it up.

When college and adulthood arrived, I admit I was less than prepared to handle even simple cooking tasks, calling my mother weekly to find out how to fry an egg or keep the rice from exploding all over the stove. Even now I struggle with basic things, especially when there is no recipe. I find myself staring at ingredients, trying to somehow unearth my womanly instinct amidst the butter, flour, and eggs. However, in my quest to discover Kate 2008 I have tried to stretch myself, trying to do and say and be things I previously resisted. That, coupled with my infamous tendency to get overexcited about new hobbies, has brought me into a cooking frenzy.

I am hoping this interest in cooking and baking lasts longer than my brief passion for rollerblading, or the time I thought I should major in Psychology. My boyfriend would probably like this spell to last as well, though I fear he has had to endure plenty of first time blunders, such as the undercooked egg I tried to give him for breakfast or the pork chops I drained of any moisture, taste, or enjoyment. Somehow it has always been exceptionally easy for disaster to strike when I am in the kitchen. Flames are common, and somehow I always measure out the wrong amount of salt.

But seriously, cooking is fun. Baking too. The whole mixing, pouring, and seasoning thing amuses me. And it’s always lovely to be appreciated after you feed someone. It satisfies a very primal urge, one I’d always dismissed as nonsense. Naturally, I am inclined to cook healthier foods, using natural products and low fat accessories. This has proven to be quite expensive, but I think a worthy endeavor. Yesterday I made fruit smoothies for the first time and the result rocked my world. I was in heaven, spiraling into a hodgepodge of lemon, vanilla, and strawberry flavor. No sugar added!

So, if you’re every hungry and in town, feel free to give me a call. I will make you a fruit smoothie, full course dinner and a delicious dessert, as long as you eat everything with a grain of salt (or a few grains, in my case). It will be my way of thanking you for indulging in my non-feminist and domestic ventures, preventing me from leaving my future husband, killing my future children, practicing witchcraft, destroying capitalism, and becoming a raging lesbian.

Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education. ~Mark Twain

a pair of pants or a wig with curls

I made a list of things to do before I die. No, this wasn’t inspired by the new movie, The Bucket List. I started this list a long time ago, and now I’m adding to it and crossing things off in an attempt at having a revelation, revolution, or maybe a combination of the two. This list has been sitting on my desk at work for the past week, staring up at me as I make phone calls and take messages, mocking my inability to do anything while sitting in an office chair.

Truthfully, I love my job and so this is not another rant against the 9-5 routine. But it is somewhat disheartening to be reminded of how much traveling, ballroom dancing, and surfing I’m not doing. Today, it was confirmed that it is in everyone’s best interest to remove the list and file it away for safe keeping.

“What is that?”Scott is staring at my list. I should be thankful he’s not staring down my blouse, but I am immediately aggravated. Nosy people distrust other nosy people.

“Nothing,” I shrug, quickly moving my tape dispenser over the heading. I try to change the subject, initiating a barrage of questions regarding my computer’s health. Why is it freezing? How do you change the screen contrast in Vista? How do I set up wireless? Where can I find PowerPoint?

Scott’s eyes narrow and I wonder if he knows that I know all the answers to these questions. Scott is our IT guy, or at least he pretends to be. Though he has no formal training in computer technology, he has been elected the maintenance man for all computer needs. I think it is because he is tall, male, and awkward. This does not please me, mostly because on my first day of work he thought it necessary to give me a lengthy crash course on the vast complexities that is Microsoft Office. He has also informed me since then that Macs are “stupid” and Gmail is “a waste of time.” Consequently, we do not get along.

“No seriously, what is that?” Scott moves my tape dispenser. The audacity of this man is amazing.

“It’s a list, I don’t know. No big deal.”

“Throw a colossal party?” Scott reads, smirking. “That is on your list of things to do before you die?”

At this point, I see three choices. One, get defensive and explain that yes, I will be throwing a mammoth party and no, you are not invited. Two, ignore his inquiry and ask more asinine computer questions. Or three, smile and nod. I choose option three.

“U2 and Bon Jovi are on the guest list,” I inform him. “Not to play, just to relax. Have a few hor devours, skinny dip in the chocolate fountain.” I’m making things up.

“I hope I’m invited.”

The familiar childhood song from Sunday school suddenly pops into my head. Hold your tongue from evil, hold your tongue.

I hold my tongue.

“I think making a list of things to do before you die is kind of morbid, but whatever,” Scott concludes, still skimming down my inventory.

“To each his own,” I mumble.

To each his own. Scott is not the first one to criticize my list of lofty goals, and perhaps some of them are a bit pretentious. I can barely keep a bonsai alive, how will I ever learn how to grow grapes, item number six?

A few weeks ago I received a free box of Dr. Seuss books and a Cat in the Hat t-shirt in the mail in order to entice me to buy more children’s literature through a catalog. Later, after I left work and had gone home, I leafed through one of my favorite stories and came across this fitting passage:

Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting   perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with   curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting.

I am just waiting. Most of us are just waiting. And while I am a great supporter of the Carpe Diem movement, waiting isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If I did everything at once, what would I have to look forward to? To work towards? To make lists of?

I will drive across the US, learn how to surf, and see the Brazilian Beaches. I will also throw a colossal party, so be prepared. It’s going to blow your mind. And no Scott, you are not invited.

Shelby, share.

Hank Williams Jr. looks about 56 years old, though he claims he is in his twenties. When he asks how old I am, I tell him to guess and he just laughs and says I need to exercise more. I am, of course, offended.

Over the past few weeks I’ve tried to resurrect the fine art of running. It isn’t something I look forward to, though I admit that once I finally reach the doorstep after 30 or so minutes of turmoil, I feel better. My whole body and mind exhales out of relief. I think I’m just glad it’s over.

I meet Hank along the last block before I reach my house. Though I’ve passed him every evening for the past few weeks, this is the first I’ve stopped to talk to him. Or rather, this is the first time he has stopped me. By the time I reach him, I’m walking, trying to ignore the merciless cramp in my side and ache in my shins; also, I’m trying to cool down. Coldplay’s “Lost” is playing so loud in my ear I don’t actually hear him, I just see his mouth move and his fingers wag at me urgently. When I slip off my headphones he smiles, triumphant.

“Hello!” he says, “You are almost home!”

Immediately I am uneasy. How does this guy know where I live? “I guess I am,” I answer vaguely, looking off into the opposite direction.

“That’s it, right there,” he says, pointing at my house only yards away from his porch. “And you have a roommate with curly hair and one with straight and sometimes the curly hair one comes home late and the straight hair, she is a nurse. She gets up early. I see them, and I see you. You are always rushing, why are you rushing?”

He speaks quickly, in long run on sentences without stopping for breath.

“How do you know so much about me?” I ask suspiciously, wondering if anyone is watching just in case Mr. Happy suddenly tries to kidnap me and cut me into little pieces.

“I watch you, I watch everyone. Can’t go very far with this thing on my leg, nothing else to do.” He points to a tracking device strapped around his right ankle. House arrest.

I almost say I’m sorry, until I realize I’m not sorry. I’m glad. I don’t want some crazy lunatic criminal neighbor wandering around my backyard. He goes on to tell me how sad it is to be spending your twenties confined to a tiny house with your mother and pet poodle. This is when he asks how old I am and tells me I should exercise more.

“What are you trying to say?” I ask defensively, though I’m sure he is right. Lately my daily exercise outings have become less than daily.

Hank laughs and I see he is missing most of his front teeth. “I like to see you outside. Tell your friends. It’s good for your brains.”

Before I can respond, what appears to be an overweight and undergroomed poodle pushes through the screen door holding a large bloody hot dog in its mouth.

“Shelby, share,” orders Hank.

Shelby pauses to consider her options and chooses to obey, carefully dropping the hotdog into Hank’s hand to be immediately rewarded with half. I swallow hard, hoping that one, the blood was catsup, and two, Shelby has good dental hygiene.

I want to ask Hank about these things, along with what would happen if he stepped off his mother’s porch, but instead I say goodbye and wish him a good night. But Hank is unimpressed by this adieu and shouts after me, “More exercise. Less rushing around. And stop getting parking tickets!”

When I reach my porch, I try to sneak a glance at my nosy neighbor to see if he’s watching me, but he is already waving before I turn. Maybe Mr. Hank Williams Jr. is wiser than I think.

God, Men, and Canolis

Recently I read the New York Times Best-seller Eat, Pray, Love by novelist and journalist Elizabeth Gilbert. The book was handed to me by a good friend as a “must read” after it was also recommended by everyone from my college roommates to Diane Keaton. Needless to say, there was and still is a lot of hoopla surrounding this memoir. And so, as with anything that carries such high expectations, I tried to approach Gilbert’s tour de force with an open and unbiased mind.

By page 20, I was telling everyone I knew how wonderful this book was. I recommended it to coworkers, friends, friends of friends, family members, and I alerted all who had recommended it that the book was, truly, wonderful. I felt enlightened, liberated; my skin would tingle with urges to reinvent myself. I shopped online for international cookbooks, looked up train tickets prices to Brazil, and searched for classes in the city that could teach me how to do yoga without having to chant to a sun god.

By page 75, however, I was singing a different tune. As Ms. Gilbert’s journey wore on, I liked her and her soul searching self less and less. I’m sure this was not the intent of the author; you are supposed to sympathize, relate to, or at least enjoy the protagonist. And I suppose I did, to some degree. Liz is witty and charming and has the potential to be laugh-out-loud funny. But she can also be self-congratulatory and narcissistic, which I expect is an occupational hazard with a spiritual memoir like this. Yet I could not get past her ever present whine over her failed marriage and sticky rebound romance. I also could not accept her travels across the world as beneficial for anyone but her already inflated ego (which is accidentally obvious under a guise of self-deprecation).

Now, that may seem a little harsh, and to be fair, there were good bits of advice and revelations in the book that I should probably harvest and use in my own life. The title speaks for itself. Eat (well), pray (more often), and love (without expecting everything you want in return). Good advice and possibly wonderful results if these habits are taken seriously. The problem is, not everyone can get paid to scamper off to Italy, India, and Indonesia in search of God, men, and canolis to discover these things. I couldn’t help but wonder, what were the less than wealthy natives thinking while this white American woman was traipsing around in search of peace and refuge from her depressing New York love life. I can only imagine.

Not that I am any better. And, perhaps part of the reason I began to dislike her so much was because I saw parts of myself in her. We judge others by their behavior, but we judge ourselves by our intentions. Though I may intend to be thoughtful and sincere, I could easily appear the opposite by letting myself ramble on about unimportant personal matters or forgetting a good friend’s birthday. There is a fine line between saving yourself and serving only yourself. I am sincerely glad that Elizabeth Gilbert found light in a once dark and meaningless world, but I fear that her story gives false hope to the abundant crop of Americans who feed off easy fixes to serious problems. Want to lose weight faster? Drink this shake. Want to make more money? Sign up here. Want to feel better about poor life choices? Go on vacation for a few months and drink tea and meditate.

Bottom line: I believe Gilbert had good intentions, but the hype over her memoir was excessive and I did not really enjoy the book as much as everyone said I must. Don’t hate me.

Oscar Wilde said some wonderful things in his lifetime, though I question if he ever did anything else besides come up with clever quotes for uncreative writers to insert into their own writing. Regardless, some of his quips and sayings are quite wise, and often I read them like I should read scripture, repeating it over and over until it becomes part of my thoughts. Often throughout the book I waited for Liz to do something original without being guided by a guru, wise civilian, or lover. Then I remembered Wilde’s words. He said, “Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” Though this bothers me, it is also reassuring and very significant in Gilbert’s life. Nothing about the book is life changing or revolutionary. The only thing she really accomplishes is spending enough time away from men to stop crying and obsessing over them, thank goodness.

I think if I were to ever come across this person, I’d pass along another one of Wilde’s tips for maintaining peace and balance in your life, something Gilbert desperately tried to do over the course of a few months. He said, “If you don’t get everything you want, think of the things you don’t get that you don’t want.” For example: malaria, earthquakes, stillborn babies, starvation, to name a few.

Though I fear she would also remember his other well known quip, “I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.”