The Woodstock Factor

You would be surprised if I told you that I have a secret not-quite-obsession with Snoopy and Woodstock and virtually all things Peanuts. I don't go out and collect all things Peanuts-related, but I don't argue when presented with a gift of said items, especially if they are actually useful.

My car doesn't have a Peanuts sticker (stickers on cars are something I never understood - what happens when you go to sell it and the buyer doesn't have the same feelings toward your crusade that you do?). There is not a single visible Peanuts item in my bedroom, living room or kitchen. There are no Snoopies or Woodstocks at work.

I do, however, have the entire collection of Peanuts cartoons, the history of Charles Schulz and Peanuts, two Peanuts Puzzles, Peanuts checks, mints in the shape of Snoopy and Charlie Brown - some of them headless, a result of an angry spurt one day when I shut myself in my room and bit the heads off of every character-shaped food I could find. (Satsifying, yet far less permanent than biting any human heads), Snoopy shorts (no worries - they aren't worn in public, ever), all the Snoopy DVDs, even a Woodstock avatar on a site I frequently post on - and on and on.

Himself feeds this not-quite-obsession and gets all sorts of excited when he finds something that he knows I would like (the book with the cartoons was a particular piece of pride and joy for both of us). He has begun developing the assumption that Baby Girl will have the same not-quite-obsession that I have - Baby Girl is already the proud owner of two Snoopy outfits and a Peanuts pop-up book, both purchased by her father.

I was thinking about this as I was unpacking - wondering what other things about me people might be surprised about - weird quirks I have that I actually manage to keep under wraps for the most part. I don't seem the type that would have a not-quite-obsession with a cartoon dog (or maybe I do?) or his little Woodstock buddies, even if I do find great bits of wisdom in the silent communications between the canine and his birds (is that rationalization)?

I realized the following interesting tidbits:
-My favorite sitcom in the whole world, even more than Friends is The Cosby Show. I have watched every episode more than once, thanks to a bad bout of insomnia several years ago and their air time on Nick at Night as a 'classic.' I think it's because Dr. Huxtable, even though he's black and a doctor, reminds me in some way of my dad, who is definitely neither black nor a doctor.

-I own stuffed animals (dogs) that reside on my bed when it's made (right now they reside in a box marked "Stuffed critters and misc.", as I haven't actually unpacked the not-entirely-useful things yet). They are another thing fed by Himself over various Valentine's Days and birthdays. Somehow, early on, he found out I had a fondness for stuffed dogs and teddy bears. He's gleefully increased my stuffed critters ownership over the ensuing years and is again spreading it to Baby Girl, whose nursery theme is teddy bears.

-I don't like ice cream that has chocolate in it (usually) with three exceptions: Oreo cookies, chocolate chips or cookie dough. Even then, I'm relatively picky about the brands, etc. But the ice cream itself cannot be chocolate. I realized this is still true when trying out Ben & Jerry's "Half Baked" the other day. Entirely too much chocolate. Truth be told, I'm not a chocolate fan period, unless it involves chocolate covered raisins.

-I have a unicorn collection. Granted, I haven't added to it since I was about 12 or 13, but I never got rid of it. It's boxed up at The Parents' house. There are some beautiful figurines in the collection, including a hand-blown glass unicorn. I'm not sure how it started or why it stopped, only that at one point it was a fairly impressive collection.

-Himself and I own more board and card games than any other person I know, other than The Parents. Clearly, I know where my board game addiction came from, but Himself's is a puzzle, since no one in his family even owns games. At one point, we had so many free points at the local game store, we got $50 worth of games free. Twice.

As I continue to dig through boxes and sort things out, I'm sure there will be more surprising tidbits that reveal themselves. It's like an adventure in self-discovery, unpacking things that have been packed for three months. I'm learning more about myself every day. Scary.

The Reign of the Wicked Witch

I am a step-parent, which almost everyone in my life knows.

What they don't know (or refuse to believe) is that, in reality, I am The Wicked Witch. I was just crowned on Thursday evening, as just over a week of drama finally wore me down to the core, and I passed the audition with flying colors.

I didn't mean to sign up for auditions. I really didn't. I didn't even mean to stumble across the notification. I meant to float effortlessly through the three-week span, sparkly wand in hand, glass slippers and frilly dress on display, a la Glinda the Good Witch. Somehow along the way I took a wrong turn down a road filled with "No U-turn" signs and no crossroads. When I arrived at the end, they were holding auditions. I thought I might peak in - laugh at everyone else who was behaving so insanely for the title. Roll my eyes and think, "I'm glad I'm just visiting." Somehow, I ended up staying, and then, I realized I could win.

There was the food incident. The floor incident. The "I swear there is a vast conspiracy against me" incident. The towels and bathing suit incident. The field trip and eating out incident. The DVD incident. The phone call. The stomach ache. Too many more to mention. I passed every single portion of the audition with gusto. I left everyone stunned.

They asked me what I was going to do, as a way to celebrate the beginning of my reign. I vociferously proclaimed, "I'm going to visit The Parents!" They agreed that it was a very Wicked Witch thing to do - abandoning all Wicked Witch responsibilities for two whole days.

By the end of the two days, my crown (er, pointed black hat), was tarnished. I kept thinking of Glinda, and how I had so abruptly abandoned my "fairy godmother/good witch" project. I marveled at how easy it was to win the title. How easily I bowed before those whom I had pitied from the doorway. My heart was sad - a sign that somehow, while I had claimed the title, I was having a hard time bearing the crown (er, pointed black hat).

I don't WANT to be the Wicked Witch, but I'm afraid the audition was signed in blood and the title is non-refundable.

Serendipity

I went to visit The Parents this weekend. My sister and best friend from high school had taken pity on me and had arranged for a baby shower this weekend in my hometown. I had a rough week, and I knew the timing of this visit would soothe my wounded soul.

I love going to visit The Parents. I love arriving home, knowing that they are both waiting for my arrival. I love the fact that there is always a kitchen (and pantry and storage room and extra freezer) stocked with good food. I love that there are no beds more comfortable (or with more pillows) than those at The Parents' house. I love that The Parents are early risers, like I am, making the days seem longer. I love that I get to order breakfast the first morning, and someone else will cook it. I love that I can have deep-thinking conversations about life, events, philosophies and the weather with The Parents. I love feeling like the world has stopped, while I am wrapped in the arms of a safe, loving haven.

Friday night, I actually slept blissfully, given the increasingly large state of my stomach and the fact that my energy-conscious parents don't run the AC at night. I woke up on top of the blankets, cooled by the ceiling fan, bathed in the warm glow of the just-after-6-a.m.-sunlight. I stretched lazily, did yoga and wandered into the kitchen, where my mom asked what I wanted for breakfast. I ordered a fruit smoothie (plug here for their Vita-Mix - it is a small appliance I greatly covet), and laughed as a debate ensued between my parents as to what fruits were suitable for that morning's concoction.

Mom and I took our smoothies outside where my Dad had begun working with his puppy, Roger on obedience skills (which were about as successful as training a 13-year-old to not roll his eyes when he disagrees with you). We sat on the edge of the deck, legs dangling, sipping our breakfast and playing fetch with Roger. We laughed as he shot back from the far corner of the yard, dropping his sloppy tennis ball at our sides and covering us with soft golden fur. I marveled at how cool the air seemed for mid-summer and how wonderful the gentle breeze felt on my skin.

We talked of simple things - Roger versus Charlie (the dog of my teen years who passed away just before I graduated from college). We spoke of the weather, the progress of dad's fruit trees, the plans for their upcoming camping trip, updates on the neighbors, memories of past family outings and what the day held; things that seemed to be of utmost importance in that second of time.

I sat, mesmerized, slurping the last of my smoothie through my straw, just to grate on Mom's nerves and remind her that some things never change. I tried not to laugh as Roger spent his time chasing my dad's bootlaces while Dad tried to leash-train him. I inhaled the clean air of a small town, relaxed as the sun warmed my skin, felt Baby Girl come to life inside me. Then, we finished our breakfast, brushed ourselves off and returned to the house for a the start of the day.

I spent a lifetime anxiously awaiting the day I could move away from The Parents. I spent the morning wishing that I could have more of these quiet Saturday mornings on the back deck, encapsulated in absolute contentment.

The Hobbit Hole Has Visitors

Excluding the variety of strangers (and some really good friends and really insane family members) who helped us move in and a few assorted relatives, last night we had our first real visitors to the Hobbit Hole.

First, Himself's childhood friend came to have dinner with us and spend the night. He's living temporarily in another state, commuting to The Frontier every day, while waiting for his house to close. I personally think the man is nuts - that's 100 miles of driving each way! To save his sanity and ensure he got some additional sleep, he stayed with us last night. Himself insisted I make Balti Chicken and Vegetables with Basmati Rice. Not usually something you serve to guests about which you know nothing of their food preferences. Astonishingly, Himself's friend liked the food (or was really good at faking a love of a food that was medium-spicy, has 30 ingredients and originated on a different continent).

Second, Julie of The Brown Brigade fame came to see us. She is in the area for a reunion and e-mailed me to see if she could come tour the Hobbit Hole. I was so excited, I immediately called Himself. "Two friends in one night!" I exclaimed. "I feel like I actually have friends." Granted, neither of them live in the area (Himself's friend is moving to the next county south of us, but it might as well be another country for as often as we'll see them), but for a brief moment, I felt like I actually knew people in The Frontier.

It was a lovely evening. Julie and Himself's friend both got tours of the Hobbit Hole. Himself's friend even christened the bulkhead near the entrance to the kitchen when he forgot to duck (ironically, Himself hasn't hit his head once - yet - and he's taller). Fortunately, the visitors of the 8-legged-variety stayed blessedly out of sight. (side note: the exterminator came yesterday as well - it was a very good day indeed!)

I had the most wonderful evening, just sitting and talking - catching up, reminiscing and enjoying ourselves (I even learned that Julie wasn't kididng when she cursed Hasbro - there is no way I could have figured out Coulter's transformer if my life depended on it). I don't think I had fully realized that my deep longing for VA is not just for the familiarity, but for the friends that we left behind. I began to realize that many of our East Coast friends, like ourselves, were expatriates, themselves on a journey of independence and self-discovery, and that, together in various groups, we had cobbled together a sort of surrogate family. There were military friends, work friends, church friends, neighborhood friends, social friends - each providing a sense of stability and belonging, a network of roots that mutually fed us as we forged our way through life, often without relatives of the traditional variety nearby.

I wonder what our friendships will be like here. In The Frontier, we are much closer to family - though our immediate families are still several hours' drive away. Still, the compelling need for a complete network of surrogate family members will be lessened, though I hope and pray that we are still able to forge some of the strong, beautiful friendships we did in the East. My life is forever richer because of those associations and deep friendships. I cannot imagine continuing life without them.

Night fell on the Hobbit Hole last night, highlighting the warm glow of lamplight, laughter and pleasant conversation brought by good friends. And we rejoiced.

If You Ever Interview With Me ...

Not that any of you would, but if you do, I offer the following "advice" (yes, some are quirks, but as the interviewer I'm entitled to those quirks) - gathered from the candidates I am interviewing at The Factory for an entry-level position on my team (I use the term "team" losely - The Factory isn't exactly in the thousands of employees range), and from internship and other entry-level candidates I interviewed in past lives.

1. If the "application instructions" are specific - FOLLOW THEM. They are specific for a reason.

2. If you mention a job in your cover letter and include portfolio samples from that job, it should be on your resume. I thought that went without saying, but apparently not.

3. Wear a suit. For crying out loud, wear a suit. I realize I'm of an East Coast, my-entire-wardrobe-is-various-shades-of-black mindset, but wear a suit - or at least something that looks like it didn't come from the casual side of The Gap. Even Himself wears suits to interviews and he gets to wear his pajamas to work on a daily basis.

4. Don't apologize for lack of experience. It's an entry-level position, posted as such. I know you don't have any experience. Instead, tell me what in your life (internship, volunteer work, academic, side job) qualifies you for the position. Don't tell me you have no experience and no qualifications, but will learn everything. Learning is good, but I can't (nor do I want to) teach you everything. You have to bring something to me to work with.

5. Don't make me feel old (see yesterday's post ). This is one of those weird "I'm the interviewer quirks," but don't assume I don't know something about something just because you are younger than I am. I probably don't, but that is irrelevant.

6. Don't send me your resume for a position which wasn't posted. If it says "entry-level" or "internship," I'm not even going to open your e-mail that says "Director" or "Senior Manager" resume - that's me. My job is filled. If it becomes available, someone else will let you know.

7. Don't ask what the salary is on the first interview. You gave me a salary range, you got an interview. Assume that you're in the ballpark or close to it. Those who weren't didn't get invited in. The salary will depend entirely on who is hired.

8. If I start to count how many times you use the word "like" in our conversation, it isn't a good thing. I promise.

9. Do me a favor, take the facial piercings out. I understand freedom of self-expression, but it goes along with wearing a suit. Just humor me.

10. Don't act desperate. I've interviewed 40+ times this year alone, for countless jobs. I thought I was desperate. I wasn't. Trust me, you're not desperate until you're 8 months pg, the primary income and spend 90 minutes unemployed. Even then, don't act desperate. I don't need to know you are so excited (with those dreaded multiple exclamation points!!!!) to get an interview finally because you having a hard time finding a job. It makes me wonder why. I don't want to wonder why.

I do have to say, two things really impressed me this particular interview round:
1. The cover letters of everyone I called for an interview were excellent. I hate writing cover letters. I hate reading them even more, but in a writing-intensive job, they are critical.

2. Bonus points to those who asked me what my management style was. Double bonus points because no one said, "so how are you when you aren't pregnant?" (Okay, if someone would have asked, it would have been point #11, but I had to issue double bonus points, because HIMSELF did ask, when I was giving him the down-low on my day. Then again, he does get to wear his pajamas to work. I have to cut him some slack).

A Treatise on Aging

Today, for the second time in less than a week, I felt as if I was aging much too quickly.

The first time came when I received and e-mail from a good friend, from whom I hadn't heard anything in awhile. She is expecting Baby #6 a short while after Baby Girl is due. She is a little more than two months older than I am. I am beyond happy for her, but at the same time, I felt my bones start to creak, my back ache and my lung capacity reduce slightly (okay, it might have something to do with the fact that Baby Girl has wedged herself, permanently, underneath my right lung in full breech position). I said to myself, "I cannot possibly be old enough to have a friend my age who has six children."

The second time came today, while interviewing candidates for an entry-level position at The Factory (I'm not coming up with a new name for my new job, since I was only at the last one for a short time). One candidate looked at me from across the conference table and said, "I don't know how old you are, but I'm young and this is my perspective." It didn't help that the candidate looked to be about 16, even though I knew from the resume that the candidate had to be at least 21.

Lesson #1: Don't make the person who is interviewing you (who is going to be your boss, if hired), feel old. (Lesson #2: Totally irrelevant to this post, but when you're interviewing for a professional position, wear a suit for crying out loud!)

In The Frontier, I've come to feel as if my aging process has sped up. In VA, I was "the norm" - having Baby Girl just shy of leaving my 20s, after having been married nearly half a decade - the epitome of young, professional women everywhere in metropolitan East Coast. Here, everyone assumes I am just starting my 20s. When they realize I'm not, I get the knowing look of "oh that's too bad, there aren't seven children in your future." (Side note: even if I had Baby Girl in my early 20s, there still wouldn't be seven children in my future - especially if I had to be pregnant seven times).

Aging isn't a bad thing. I've long proclaimed that turning 30 will be my favorite birthday. All of my post-30 friends claim 30 is a far better decade than 20. I have to agree, and I'm not even there yet - ones 20s are turbulent. They are full of self-discovery and adventure, to be sure, but they are also wildly unpredictable - a recipe for chronic heartburn and ulcers for a "plan everything out years in advance" kind of person like me.

Even still, I don't want to FEEL old until I am. Right now, I feel old, and I don't like it.

O Pioneer!

I have never been so excited about a random state holiday in my life. I had completely forgotten what a big deal the 24th of July was in Utah (especially in The Frontier) until I moved back. Lo and behold - it was a paid holiday for me (I made sure to mention that to my East Coast friends, in an attempt to show them that there are some benefits to living in The Frontier).

As a kid, the 24th of July meant a car trip to visit my maternal grandparents. The weekend before, we would dress up in pioneer garb and walk in the local children's parade. The day of, we would gather at my great-aunt's home, conveniently situated along the parade route, and watch the local parade. It was about 100 times longer than any parade my hometown had, and while it paled in comparison to the "official" Days of '47 Parade just to the north, it was the perfect length for my childhood attention span. We would visit with relatives we only saw while watching the parade on the 24th of July. Then we would eat.

The last time I remember thinking about the 24th of July as a holiday seven years ago, while working in downtown D.C. I was pitching Hurricane Disaster Relief PSAs to major television stations across the country, including the three major network affiliates in The Frontier. I happened to be doing the last of the states (T-W) on the 24th of July. Guess who had messages saying they would be out for the holiday? The Frontier's stations. I paused, thought, "wow, if I was in Utah now, I would be celebrating," and didn't think about it again until a few weeks ago.

The 24th of July in The Frontier is a BIG DEAL. Fourth-of-July-in-DC-level Big Deal. I discovered there is a whole non-profit organization that is in charge of all the hoopla around the 24th of July celebrations. There were an endless array of opportunities in which to celebrate the arrival of weary pioneers into The Frontier. Himself and I, wanting to give Son a taste of a local holiday and our new hometown, discussed which event(s) to attend. (Really, I presented a list of potentially acceptable events to Himself, who, not being from Utah, still is trying to figure out this whole random holiday in July thing).

Were Baby Girl not arriving in six(ish) weeks, I would have sprung the whole shebang on Himself and Son - parade, fireworks, day-long celebration. It's our first Pioneer Day in The Frontier, after all. But something about having my increasingly tender abdomen elbowed by thick crowds and sitting on a curb for hours on end seemed somehow less than appealing. Instead, we ventured up to This is the Place Park to participate in various Pioneer activities.

We wandered through 150-year-old cabins, marveling that 11 people could survive to adulthood in a one-room cabin with a loft, equalling a total square footage something in the vacinity of the Hobbit Hole's living room. We petted Baby Goats (okay, I didn't - I have this weird thing about getting my hands dirty, but Himself and Son did), saw piglets, lambs and calves and marveled at the view from the mouth of Emigration Canyon. We treated ourselves to candy sticks and Sasparilla from the General Mercantile, and reveled in the slightly-less-hot-than-usual weather.

I thought to myself as I looked at the "This is the Place" Statue, "I wonder how many people, as they descended out of the canyon, caught the first glimpse of The Frontier and said, 'This is the place? Are you kidding? Does it look dead on purpose? Who was in charge of this operation? Where is the map?'" Having recently traversed a route similar to that taken by thousands of pioneers headed westward in our trusty Hoopty Mobile, I realize even more now the disparity between the homes in the lush fields of the Midwest and the pre-irrigation desolation of The Frontier. It's beautiful to me because it's part of my childhood, but it's not rolling hills, green grass, verdant fields beautiful. Even now, it would hardly inspire one to run forward proclaiming visions of a thriving life and community. It does look a bit dead, especially during the driest summer on record.

All in all, we had a nice quiet, celebration. Somehow though, after recently moving my family from the heavily forrested East to the barren browns of The Frontier, this year's celebration meant a little more than just a paid day off. It was a reminder of the promises and future this valley held for thousands of immigrants 160 years ago - a reminder that Himself and I cried "Westward Ho!" with many of those sames hopes and dreams.

They were right. Perhaps This Is The Place.

The Alpengeist Hangover Syndrome

There is a roller coaster, which I both loved and hated, at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg: The Alpengeist. It is a modern engineering marvel, one I don't want to ponder too much, because I'm pretty sure it defied all the laws of physics I ever managed to learn and a great deal that I didn't. It goes upside down and sideways and not once, after leaving the platform, do one's feet ever touch anything solid. They just dangle there, looking goofy.

I was horrified when I went four years ago and my brother suggested we go on it. I looked at him as if he'd asked me to jump off a cliff (effectively, I felt the outcome would be the same). I flatly refused. I don't like heights, feeling out of control or being scared. He went. Several times. Raved at how much fun it was. I said I would only go if the husband of the friends we were with would go, knowing he was even more terrified than I was. Somehow, his wife brainwashed him into going. He lived, therefore I had to go. I sat in the seat with trepidation and screwed my eyes shut. The ride was about the worst thing of my life, but the adrenaline rush from going in all sorts of unnatural directions with your feet flapping freely in the breeze scrambled my brain cells, and I went again.

That time, I made the mistake of opening my eyes when my brother delightedly yelled, "look!" (Temporary lapse in sanity - one should never immediately follow orders of a younger brother). I opened them realized that the sky was below me. I think I probably screamed. I definitely shut my eyes again. I rode the Alpengeist several more times, still due to the scrambled brain cells. I did not open my eyes again. I got off, for the last time feeling a bit hung over from the adrenaline rush, weary, emotionally exhausted, my heart racing and wondering if my temporary insanity would become permanent.

That post-near-death-roller-coaster experience about describes my weekend - I drug myself into work this morning, feeling rather bedragled, as if I'd just stumbled off the Alpengeist for the fourth or fifth time. Strung out, emotionally exhausted, heart racing, terrible pounding headache. Feeling hung over and out of sorts - just like after one's insides have been scrambled by ridiculous roller coasters.

It was the best of weekends. It was the worst of weekends. All rolled into one. Delightful discoveries, good friends, bonding with nature, moments of absolute frustration and hair pulling (pulling of my own hair, lest one wonders if I've descended into the netherworld of girl fights), exasperation, resignation and blessed silence - all rolled into one.

I think Monday has never looked so good.

Incognito

For weeks I've been banging my head against the invisible wall of knowledge, trying desparately to understand what on earth prompted the need to move to the Frontier. I've alternately spent days awash in waves of homesickness for my life "back there in the other place," and days where I eagerly anticipate not being pregnant, so I can fully explore my new surroundings.

On Sunday, someone asked a question in Sunday School, in relation to Mary Magdalene's failure to recognize the Gardner's true identity, "How many times have we pleaded for something, only to not be able to see the answers because of the tears in our eyes?" It struck me. Hard. So I stopped banging my head and asking why. Instead, I decided to just give in.

Interestingly enough, while I still don't know why, I am starting to see the good things on my own, without having to be reminded. Himself and I both have jobs with brighter futures and incomes that are higher than what we were making before we moved, which will hopefully allow us to become more financially secure in the long-term. Being pregnant through a Frontier summer instead of an East Coast summer has definite advantages - the air is not quite so suffocating and, being a child of the desert, I've easily settled into the lazy, dry summer heat (Himself is another story, but he's not pregnant, so it doesn't matter so much). I can now sleep in my own apartment - somehow, having someone to curl up beside and talk with as you're falling asleep makes almost any place (even the Hobbit Hole) feel like home.

Nothing big, but a little sense of peace, of "okay, I'll stop fighting this and recognize that some good has come, if you won't make me feel guilty for missing Virginia sometimes still."

Then today, I had my first experience where I felt like I belonged.

I was downtown for a meeting with a major newspaper. After, I was standing on the sidewalk, speaking with my boss, when someone came up and said, "Excuse me, is that Sara...?" I turned to find my neighbor, one of the few people with whom I've had any kind of meaningful conversations with outside of work - and that was only on the walk back from a women's activity last week. She said, "It is!" and hugged me, apologizing for interrupting. Then she continued on her way.

I stood there, silent for a few seconds, and thought, "Funny how things come in disguise, a little at a time."

Little messages. Little reassurances that while I don't know why, and while everything seems to be swirled in intrigue and mystery, I'm not forgotten. I will make this desert Frontier my home, and I will grow to love it, to feel I belong.

One day at a time.

The Alarming Confession

Two things spark this lunchtime post (sitting here in my almost-bare-naked office, waiting for help schlepping my stuff to my new digs):

1. A conversation I had with my mother a couple of weeks ago and another conversation held at my home with Himself and the bishop last night. (Our first visitors to the Hobbit Hole!)

2. This article posted on MSNBC.com.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me well that I am not what one would term "natural mother material." I would go so far as to say there is not one maternal bone in my body. (Okay, maybe at least one, I did conceive Baby Girl on purpose). I didn't play with dolls (but my teddy bear did have clothes, thanks to my lovely grandmother). I didn't like babysitting (perhaps that had something to do with the fact that I was always volunteered to watch the charity kids - the hellions whose parents couldn't really afford to pay me anything). I firmly declared in high school and then again in college that I didn't want children (partially to watch the slow, glazed look of horror creep into my mother's face, as she tried to decide if I was serious or not).

It's not that I don't like kids. I do. Mostly. I am positive I will adore Baby Girl, because she represents so much more to me than anyone else's child does. I particularly like babies. But I don't get all gushy over them. I've never felt the need to sell my soul to have a child.

The woman in the article had a friend put her hand on her stomach and ask if she was pregnant yet. I haven't had that happen, but I have had random people, almost strangers, really, ask why I hadn't had children yet (once coming only weeks after a miscarriage where I wondered if carrying a child would be as difficult as potentially conceiving one - the timing couldn't have been worse). I have had people tell me that I was selfish for waiting so long to have children (as if they knew for sure it was my choice). And other such absurdities.

But those who knew me well kept mum for an entirely different reason, apparently. A couple of weeks ago, my mom confessed to me that she was a *little* bit worried about my bearing a child, and not just for the page-long list of medical reasons I could give. "You know, she said, you really aren't naturally maternal..." and launched into the list of reasons I listed above, all of which had previously crossed my mind.

It might have made someone else mad. But I already knew that. It just underscored the fact that I am probably insane for having a child mere months after other life-changing events, but who really times these things anyway? Then, for reasons known only to him, last night Himself brought up the same conversation with the bishop of all people (who was visiting us to welcome us to the neighborhood). Had I not been sitting across the room from him, I would have kicked him. Hard.

He said, with all the love in his heart, "Sara isn't really maternal. She and her sister are complete opposites. She's the driven, career-minded, independent one. Her sister is the Martha Stewart mothering type." It was slightly relevant to the conversation we were having, and Himself did say it with absolute love and pride, but I still wanted to kick him. It, of course, prompted a concerned bishop to ask what I planned to do with Baby Girl upon her arrival - as if he expected me to say, "Well, you know, once that is over, I will just return her." As if! I tried to do damage repair on my already bruised reputation, but I'm not sure he believed me. I wasn't as innocently convincing as Himself had been.

I will confess: Baby Girl has only a carseat and a stroller, thanks to grandparents, and a few clothes, thanks to friends. She has nothing else, because I don't seem to find the same thrill in baby gear shopping as other women. I would happily send Himself to buy the necessary items if I wasn't convinced he'd buy the store out and spiral us into bankruptcy in the process.

I don't think Baby Girl will change me into some mushy, motherhood-crazed being, like the article's author described. Because I have some of the same gripes she does - I get tired of the implication that I'm somehow imperfect for not being the queen of maternal instincts, for one. I wanted to hug Himself last night as much as I wanted to kick him - because he doesn't find me lacking. He's proud of me - crazy, mixed-up, psychotic hormonal pregnant-with-no-nurturing-instinct woman that I am.

Truth be told, on the days I'm not ridiculously scared out of my mind about this motherhood stuff (and the stuff that has to come to actually produce Baby Girl in the flesh), I'm head-over-heels-in-love with Baby Girl already. To me, she already has a personality, and I revel in the quiet moments I get to spend with her headstrong self every day. In my own way, I am maternal.

It might not win me any accolades from those concerned about my eternal welfare, but for us it is enough. Baby Girl is loved by both her crazy mixed-up, imperfect parents. And that is all anyone can ask for really.

Happily Ever After

By the time life resolved itself (as much as life in my world is ever resolved) yesterday, I was too physically and emotionally exhausted to face yet a fourth blog post in one day. Things ended well, but I could go a very long time without that much emotional upheaval in a month, let alone a single day.

As I had hoped, the layoff wasn't as bad as it could have been. Within a couple of hours, my boss came back, announcing she had bought out the division of The Factory that I worked for, under her old company (I can't keep all the dealings straight of these venture capital/private equity guys). She offered me a job - the same job I have now (same title, benefits, etc.), working across the street.

It means a couple of things:
*A potentially more flexible work schedule when Baby Girl arrives.
*Definitely more growth potential for me, including the potential to consult on my own down the road.
*More opportunity in the business strategy end - which is where my real passion lies.
*An opportunity to provide marketing and pr consulting as part of the technology package, which we were restricted on under the current arrangement.
*Greater financial potential down the road.

Honestly, it feels better than even my current situation. I didn't have to think very long about it (hello - I'm 8 months pregnant, an offer of being employed doesn't require much thought at the moment). I knew things would work out in my heart, though my brain was just short of having a major malfunction before I got the good news. I knew I had made the right move in coming here, I couldn't imagine being stranded after making a right decision.

This morning I came in and was offered yet another job doing full-time consulting work for yet another key player in the business. I haven't even met the man. Apparently, my reputation proceeds me. I didn't even blink. The other opportunity, at least at this point, is more appealing. Still, it was reassuring to know that regardless of what happened, I would not have been unemployed for more than a couple of hours.

When I got home last night, Himself said, "You know, that wasn't funny, (referring to my 'I just got laid off' text message), I nearly drove off the road." (Surprise! Himself does have semi-non-rational actions when confronted with emotionally-charged information - I had no idea.)

I spent the evening in my surprisingly comfortable arm chair (I always hated it, but now that the ottoman actually fits in front of the arm chair, as it is supposed to, it is my favorite late-pregnancy perch), discussing with Himself everything in our world that had happened that day.

We went to bed feeling as if the day had ended much better than it had begun. One cannot ask for much more than that.

BREAKING NEWS: Hold That Thought!

Three posts in one day - Sara must either be REALLY bored, really chatty or ...

She got laid off.

(Side note: I always wanted to be one of those people who blogged about something as it was happening - well, here you have it, I'm in "process" - haven't signed the final forms, or received the final information, so it's truly "in the middle of breaking news.")

Yes. Second time in 4 1/2 months. This time is alternately worse and better than last time. I can't decide yet. I don't have enough information to process everything. Everything is up in the air. It will prove to potentially be a great thing, but anyone who knows me knows I absolutely cannot stand the unknown. How I've gone twentysomething years without giving myself an ulcer is a medical mystery and a miracle of monumental proportions.

So. Himself has a job. Making not what I was making, which wasn't *quite* enough to relax and say "we can survive on one income." And I don't. I need to be panicked. I need to be freaking out. I wouldn't be panicked except who on God's Green Earth hires someone due in 7 weeks? Really. Don't give me the schpiel about it being a protected class and a temporary disability. I worked in the HR industry for about 4 years - I know the game. I've seen it played. I've heard it admitted in the inner sanctums of corporate discussions. The ones which the EEO people aren't privvy to. People don't hire pregnant people. Especially not this pregnant.

Except I'm not. Because I don't have enough information to be panicked or freaked out yet. Because I might be doing something else - taking an equity stake in another start-up. Or not. Or starting on my own (that freaks me out in 1,000 different ways, even though it's what I've wanted my entire life). Or not. Or carrying around a letter of introduction, a bit like a homeless woman with a reference to soup kitchens, hoping that somehow people will think I'm just fat in an unusual place and not really 8 months preganant (though I don't look 8 months pregnant, even to me). It could mean greater flexibility when it comes to Baby Girl. Or not. It could mean more money, but probably not less - except during that oh-so-fabulous-time during which I'm unemployed. I haven't seen my severance check - it was referred to as a "final check." Final as in final paycheck or as in final paycheck plus a little something to tide you over? I'm praying it's the second option.

I have connections now. I know I took this job under divine guidance, and it was the right thing to do when I did. But, really. Can we just get settled? Can life stop throwing curve balls? This was supposed to stop when we moved. What happened to the "okay, I listened, let's get on with things?" part?

Holy cow. That's all I can say. Holy cow. Two layoffs, three different jobs, a move 2,200 miles away from anything familiar, pregnancy and its assorted madness, stressing about Himself finding a job ... remember that post about the experts and what they say? One major change a year? I'm all for it - except the pitcher keeps throwing unexpected curves and I can't quite make it to first base.

I'm trying to remember to breathe here while I'm rambling on and on and on. I seem to remember oxygen is an important part of Baby Girl's development. Food is as well, but I'm staring at my lunch and thinking that quite possibly, if I eat it, I will end up depositing it in some unfortunate place as the rest of my life unfolds this afternoon. So water and the apple and cheese I had hours ago will have to do for now. I'm trying to keep everything south of my neck from tensing up, but my abdomen keeps tightening up involuntarily and Baby Girl, who is amazingly in tune with my anxiety, is going beserk. (I've noticed that lately - she reacts instantly to my adrenaline levels - I'm going to give birth to a MiniMe - an adrenaline junkie).

Stay tuned. I can't even call anyone, because I can't say anything - not really, since it's a weird reconfiguration of sorts, and no one really knows what is going on. I sent a text message to Himself, who is on his way to the netherlands of the Frontier to pick up Son from his grandfather's - If he had done the same to me, I would have caused a traffic accident that would have made national headlines. He's a bit less reactive, a bit more rational, and a bit more patient, as he immediately called. I let it ring, then sent a message back that said, "I can't talk about it yet. Options. Could be good. Might not be." As if that is going to calm the man's nerves.

I hate raining on his parade.
I really, really hate not knowing what is going on.

I think I want a new life.

We Interrupt This Broadcast ...

HIMSELF IS EMPLOYED!

Enough said. It is a good job. With a good company. Making a good wage. Still not enough to get me out of "primary breadwinner status," but we're getting there.

Today is a very good day.

The Interviews

Interviewing seems to be the word of the day around our house lately.

Himself is interviewing for jobs (pray he gets one soon, for the sake of my nerves, if not for the sake of the bank account). I, while employed, am starting the process of interviewing labor coaches (Himself would roll his eyes here - I am convinced men think babies just appear out of thin air) and potential childcare providers (sigh) for Baby Girl.

I have never liked interviewing. It's not that it's new or foreign or that I get all clammed up in the situation. I spent four years in competitive public speaking (you would never know it now) - debate, persuasion, current events, senate - I've interviewed for things hundreds of times. I've coached interviewing. I've coached competitive public speaking. I've interviewed people - for jobs, for competitions, for any number of things. It doesn't matter which side of the table I'm on, I still don't like it. I think it's part of my "Sara is inherently an introvert" persona.

I like interviewing providers for Baby Girl even less. (Himself interviewing for something only ranks slightly above that - I feel like I am the one interviewing every time he goes - I'm a wreck until he calls and gives me the scoop). I hate the fact that I am going to have to leave Baby Girl with a complete stranger (not a stretch, seeing as I can count the number of people I know in the valley on one hand). ALL DAY. Five days a week (Himself seems to be interviewing for jobs that want him to work a traditional, 5-day work week).

I feel like a horrible mother and Baby Girl still (hopefully) has another 7 weeks before she makes her grand entrance into the world and I can actually say with authority that I am a mother. I feel wicked (not, as my New England friends would say, "wicked good," just wicked). I feel so underqualified to be grilling someone about their childcare philosophy, experience, medical certifications, etc. I'm going to be Baby Girl's mother for crying out loud, and I couldn't answer "yes" to a single question I'm asking.

Not that there are that many contenders. Truth be told, I'm starting to add that to my list of things to get nervous about ... that could be an entirely different post: 487 Things Sara is Going to Drive Herself Nuts Over.

I wonder if I'm being too picky, not picky enough. Feeling too guilty. Not guilty enough. Realizing I'm pretty much going to be a wreck for the next 18 years - she's not even here yet, and I'm already critical of my parental judgment.

Funny - the one thing in life that hasn't involved an interview is Baby Girl. No one asked me if II was ready, capable or a "good fit" for the position. It might just be the one interview I would have made a complete disaster of, all my training notwithstanding.

It is probably a really good thing that Baby Girl was given to us based on faith, not on qualifications.

Invisible

I've been attending church in the Frontier, in my new congregation, for 5 weeks now (minus a Sunday I spent at The Parents' house). The first week, I introduced myself, indicated Himself was still in Virginia and that he would be arriving in about a month. Other than the little old ladies, who found me entertaining, that's about the only interaction I've had.

Until yesterday.

Himself and I went to church. After the main service, a bunch people spoke to us. People asked how we were doing, how the move was going, etc. Someone mentioned how excited I must be to have Himself home. Then, on the way home, Himself tells me that the bishopric (leading lay ministry of the congregation) is coming over on Tuesday to meet us. We were welcomed.
I felt invisible.

For five weeks, I struggled, desperately trying to hold myself together. Lonely. Overwhelmed with the need to unpack and put away and just as overwhelmed with the physical limitations and pains of pregnancy. Feeling homeless and out-of-sorts.

I mentioned to Himself last night that I felt invisible - that suddenly I am "complete" because I have a husband in town, but that no one seemed to notice me before, when I needed human interaction more than anything else. Of course, I had struck up conversations on my own and never asked for anything - mostly because how do you ask complete strangers? And did I really want to be the one labeled as "the psycho pregnant woman who just moved in?" Some things are left better uncovered over time.

But yesterday's conversations and attention were spontaneous. Now comes the offers of help. The "you must have been so lonely in a new place with no husband!" comments. I hadn't felt invisible until that point. I felt like I apparently hadn't existed until then. Nothing big, just a small bruise to my independent ego - I'm not used to being so defined by someone else, I guess, much less Himself.

Practice for the rest of my life - being known as "Baby Girl's mom," I guess.

Having it All

Yesterday, I had an epiphany on the way to work, a not uncommon thing, since I actually enjoy my commute now - 12 minutes of no traffic, zipping along at 40-65 mph (my favorite thing about the Frontier, other than the dry heat).

I am listening to a book on CD "Saboteur" about a small-town guy turned OSS spy in WWII France (**Sidenote: my absolute favorite genre is WWII spy fiction or non-fiction, for reasons entirely unknown). My ephiphany had nothing to do with the novel itself (no worries - no desire to be a spy here!), but had to do with the conflict of a woman in the story, Whisper Harris, and her deisre to marry, raise a family and keep house while her friend, Adele, just wanted to BE somebody - in her opinion, a totally different path altogether.

It made me think of one of my favorite pieces of Americana - the "I wish I were a man, I'd join the Navy" recruiting poster and the Rosie the Rivters - the women who joined the workforce in unprecedented numbers, started wearing slacks and (gasp!) blue jeans, and learning they could indeed make the world go 'round while the men were off soldiering. The women who taught their daughters there was more to life than housedresses and three meals a day, who grew up to teach their daughters that they could "have it all."

And that is where the epiphany came in. After years of wanting it all, and firmly believing it was possible, I've come to realize it is the greatest myth perpetuated to women. For a second, I longed to be Whisper Harris - to know what was available to me - to know what expectations existed: Marry. Have children. Keep house. Hold the family together.

Of course, me, the idealist, longed for the June Cleaver or Donna Reed version, not the version where one slaved to the whims of the man of the house, who came home at the end of a long day, sat in his favorite easy chair, read the paper, smoked the pipe, demanded dinner and then retired to bed while the wife cooked, served, ate, cleaned up, bathed and entertained the children and put them to bed, before getting ready to start the whole thing over.

I realized that somewhere in our campaign for equality of opportunity and equal treatment and respect, we failed to realize we were just asking for MORE, not something in exchange of something else. Society (albeit slowly) gladly heaped more and more upon women - "Okay, you want to work? Sure. Here is a job, then here comes inflation, things to make your life easier, convience items, luxury goods - now you have to work, but wait ... who is going to take care of the children? You can't shirk those duties, you know."

My epiphany is a "grass is greener on the other side" kind of thing - I realize that I am fortunate in so many ways for the opportunities, the education, the respect ... but at the moment, I'm so overwhelmed at having to do it all, that a tiny part of me wants to be able to be the pregnant woman who isn't allowed to do anything, who stays at home and nests, who has no expectations beyond caring for her family and the house. A big chore. Exhausting. But limited in scope. Finite.

Because guess what? I'm the primary breadwinner, and I still care for my family and the house and everything else. I still find msyelf feeling the need to be doing everything (like many, many, many women). Himself does a lot, to be sure, but it is still that unwritten "expectation," that I also be the nurturer, the caretaker - provider or not. Because society, while telling me I should be independent and liberated and look out for myself, doesn't make provisions for everything else women are.

It doesn't make provisions for days like yesterday when I couldn't keep food down and was tired and hurting and really just wanting to spend time with Himself, whom I've seen for a few hours in the last four weeks. It doesn't make provisions for providing for women who are growing or raising children who, like me, can't take time off or it takes away from the little paid time I get when Baby Girl comes. And I was mid-stream on a big project, but I couldn't concentrate.

I sat and realized I HAD everything (except a husband who has a job, but who's beeing picky?). An education. An ability to take care of myself. A career. A husband. A daughter on the way. A decent apartment, even one named The Hobbit Hole. A car. Stuff. Potential.

But I also had everything else: A realization that I HAVE to work. I have no choice, therefore Baby Girl will be with someone who is not a parent 5 days a week. A realization that I have two laundry baskets full of laundry. Boxes galore to be unpacked. Two weeks' worth of menus and a grocery list on the fridge. A stack of bills to pay. A realization of the finite resources in the checking account that will possibly tide us over until Himself finds a job. A husband to be a wife to. Sooner or later, church responsibilities. That I am not going to get a paycheck in September. That I won't get a paid day off between having Baby Girl and May of next year. And on and on.

I want to be a great wife, a great mother to Baby Girl, but I wonder how we as women got ourselves into the "have to do everything" mindset and failed to realize why it was a really dumb idea. Sometimes, it's so overwhelming. Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out, if I actually resent being pregnant, deep down, because it limits me physically, emotionally, mentally - and it shows the cracks in my super woman facade. The facade I've worked for years to build.

The recruiting poster may have had it right - "I Wish I Were a Man" - if I were, I could join the Navy, sail away and leave someone else to handle the world and play superhero. Somehow, it sometimes looks like they got the better end of the deal.

Yes, I HAVE it all - but I realize, at the ripe old age of a late twentysomething, that I'm pretty sure I don't want it all, and I'm even less sure of how to give the unnecessary stuff back and start over.

The Worst Night

So, yesterday might have been The Greatest Day, but last night was The Worst Night. Not because Himself showed up, but even him showing up didn't negate the sheer agony of the night.

In an effort to say, "I may have called you on hormonal rampages during the last four weeks, but I really can do something," I set out to cook dinner for Himself and Son last night.

The Problem: I haven't cooked a meal since early May - at, oh, about 22 weeks. It is MUCH easier to slave over a hot stove when you are mid-second trimester, I realized. I also have ZERO desire for food. ZERO. Meaning cooking just isn't the passionate endeavor it usually is. And, Himself and Son were beat. So, while I'm sure the Chicken Teriyaki and Fried Rice were excellent, we did no more than pick at the food. I had three little pieces of chopped chicken and some orange juice. Two food groups. It was all I could handle. And ... I didn't realize how hard it is to serve a meal to a family of three when one doesn't have a dining room set, let alone a dining room (I am so visiting Ikea this weekend...).

In an effort to convince myself that my sleeplessness was a matter of me sleeping alone in a strange environment the last couple of nights, I went to bed sans another Tylenol PM (plus, the darn think worked so well the night before, I was sleepy until noon yesterday).

The Problem: My great "Eureaka!" moment of how to sleep in relative comfort while pregnant involves several pillows and takes up most of the bed. I failed to realize this would NOT work when Himself arrived with an understandable need to share the bed with me. It was also alarmingly hot in the Hobbit Hole last night, meaning Himself was in no mood to substitute for my back pillow by lying against me. We spent all night tossing and turning, trying not to get to close to each other and smother each other in body heat (pregnancy has definitely made me hot in one way :), trying not to fall out of our respective sides of the bed, as I moved myself and my army of pillows to one edge and Himself clung valiantly to the other edge in an effort to remain mum on the number of "objects" I had in bed with me, while trying desparately not to fall out of bed himself.

And the dog barked. The upstairs neighbors have an ankle-biter dog and a hoarde of grandchildren, whose parents don't seem to believe in bedtimes. Between the dog and the kids, one couldn't sleep even if it was cool and there were no baby bumps or pillow mountains in the way. About 5:30 a.m., when the cool breezes of morning began to blow, the dog and children were mostly asleep and I had given up on being comfortable, Himself rolled over, gathered me up and held me.

I slept for a blissful 90 minutes. The Worst Night was over.

Take Note: Human Census

Check this out: Human Census.

I found it during one of my morning research forays. A daily question out to humanity. Definitely an interesting read for those days when the doldrums of office life convince you there is no stimulating conversation left to be had.

The Greatest Day

**Side Note: Today's blog comes to you from Heidi's kitchen. Still no a/c at work, although they've rigged a suitable alternative in the large conference room, so for the next week I'll be working in one room with 15+ people - I didn't even have that kind of ratio as an underpaid intern! At least they swear the room is significantly cooler than my toasty office and I don't have to invade any more coffee shops or kitchens.

Today is The Greatest Day. It will be superceded by other greatest days, but for now, this ranks as the Greatest Day probably in the entire month of July, definitely in the last 7 weeks.

Himself is, right now, somewhere in the wilds of Wyoming, headed west. He and Son arrive tonight!!!! (I loathe exclamation points as punctuation better left in jr. high, but in this one case, a period was totally underwhelming and one ! just didn't seem quite enough). I have seen Himself 4.5 days in the last 7 weeks. Since then, while I haven't actually gained any weight, I have grown significantly larger, gotten more grumpy, and Baby Girl has firmly lodged herself in my right rib cage. I've unpacked a mere half of what we owned, learned where the dry cleaner, a less-than-adequate grocery store and a pharmacy are and killed my weight in spiders (okay, that is a slight exaggeration, but only slight).

If, yesterday around this time, you would have asked if I was excited about today, I would have started crying or yelling and said emphatically "NO," for a variety of reasons, most of which had nothing to do with today at all. Fortunately, Heidi is a very good friend and rushed to the "other side" of the valley to give me a private "therapy" session over the world's best Artichoke Dip. She also shared with me a secret: Tylenol PM.

Most of the reason the world seemed ready to end was probably due to the fact that I had slept about 4 hours in two days, due to a variety of reasons. I am more convinced of that now, since the single Tylenol PM knocked me out, I didn't wake up, and slept an entire 6 hours (6 hours of uninterrupted sleep is a minor miracle for me in the last several years). I'm thinking the Artichoke Dip, good friend therapy and Ben & Jerry's Half Baked also contributed.

So today is better, and it will be even better in about 5 hours. If I wasn't still so tired, I might be too wired to even work. Tonight I will cook the first meal I've cooked in two months - Teriyaki Chicken & Fried Rice. I won't wander around the empty Hobbit Hole wondering what to do with myself. I will play Fairy Step-Mother and Happy Wife.

And all will be well.

It's Getting Hot in Here!

Yesterday, for what is probably the fifth time in seven weeks, the air conditioning at The Factory died.

It was miserably hot ... painfully hot ... and with Baby Girl taking up my insides, I can't cool down once I get hot. The office manager took pity on my and sacrificed her fan for me. She also made sure to use me as an example of how desparate we were when communicating with the building people and the a/c company.

I didn't think much of it, except I dressed in the most cool clothing I own this morning that is work-appropriate (remind me again why maternity clothes come seemingly only in polyester?). I got in, all the lights were off to reduce heat. And everyone was working in the conference room, with the portable room air conditioner laboring on what sounded like its last breath.

It was then I discovered that the a/c would not be fixed until July 19 - nine days away. At this point it's not really necessary to point out that we're in the middle of a 100+ degree heat wave here, nor that this morning the office was warmer than it was outside (it clocked in at 90 degrees. It hadn't even reached 80 outside yet).

By 10 a.m. we'd crammed so many people in the conference room we'd negated the weak output of the room air conditioner. We can go home to work, but I don't have Internet access yet, which means I have no way of communicating with the outside world once I leave. It is days like today that I desparately miss my BlackBerry and the my wireless network card on my former laptop. I could work from anywhere (including home, not that I'd rather be there than here at the moment).

So ... today's temporary solution is sitting on the world's most uncomfortable hard chair at a coffee shop down the street. They have free wireless AND the air conditioning works. I've already spent $4 in "guilt purchases" though - after all I am taking up an entire table (and their free wireless and their air conditioning) ALL DAY. This heatwave could get expensive.

I am already scoping out tomorrow's solution ...

From Somewhere in the Middle

This well might have proven to be an explosive issue today because I've had no sleep, and the day has continued downhill from there, but I doubt it, since it's been an ongoing aggravation for a good long time now:

Executive Nonsense.

I am beginning to think there are a few qualities that executive hiring committees look for when hiring executives:

-Inability to manage time
-Inability, even when laden with every mobile gadget known to man (and the latest versions of all of them) to respond to voice mails, e-mails, text messages, post-its on computer screens or any other form of communication in a timely manner
-Inability to conform to deadlines
-Inabilty to have a realistic expectation of how long some work takes to complete - (with that, an inability to realize that yes, some things are indeed IMPOSSIBLE)
-Inability to convey all necessary information at one time
-Inability to not change one's mind seconds before a deadline, final presentation or other immediate scenario
-Inability to not triple schedule everything on the calendar

It has been my experience, almost without exception, in every executive with whom I've worked that they all share these same characteristics.

From someone who is ensconsed firmly in a non-executive management position, the above list only serves to permanently bruise my forehead as I bang it against my desk. Repeatedly.

It makes me want to write the "From Somewhere in the Middle Credo," based on my collective years of reporting to senior-level executives:

-I cannot meet expectations or deadlines that change without my knowledge.

-I cannot read minds. While I am working on this, I anticipate it taking much longer than this lifespan to accomplish.

-I cannot be held responsible for your failure to read/listen/respond to the forms of communication because a) your voice mail is full, b) you left your cell phone on your desk (or in your last hotel room), c) you have "too many" communications.

-If you do not feel like you know what is going on, it is likely because there is a stream of communication of which you have not read/listened to, and not because I've failed to provide the required information as requested.

-If I tell you something is impossible, trust me, I've explored every possible avenue. It does not do any good to tell me that I need to do more research. Some things just cannot be done in the required amount of time.

-Failure to plan does not constitute a national emergency. Failure of your boss to plan, might feel like it constitutes a national emergency, but it doesn't. The world will still continue to function. Even if he/she says otherwise.

-Just because you can't sleep and issue a comminique at 3:30 a.m., does not mean I will receive or respond to it prior to normal working hours, typically because I have no way of knowing you can't sleep.

-Suggestions presented as "suggestions" are just that. Not set-in-stone-commandments. If they are to be treated as such, they should be properly conveyed as such.

-Just because you are overscheduled and need to change something, does not mean that I can be expected to drop everything to conform to your liquid calendaring. I will do my best. Please refer to the statement about some things indeed being impossible.

Until then, I will sit and bang my head on my desk. Repeatedly.

Lions, Tigers, Bears ... and Spiders?!

Little known fact, for which Himself would kill me if he knew the entire world now knows: He is afraid of spiders. Deathly afraid of spiders. He will NOT kill a spider himself. Rather, the appearance of an 8-legged creature requires yelling to whomever is within shouting distance to "come take care of the problem." This, of course, is more humorous when I am not the one who has to "rescue" Himself from said spider.

A fact neither Himself nor I considered when renting the Hobbit Hole: Utah + Basement = Spiders.

It wasn't so bad the first few days. A spider here, some webs there. "Honey, don't worry, they're harmless" as Himself fretted about what I had gotten us into without his supervision.

Then came Tuesday night. Tuesday was an all-around bad night anyway, because I had come to the crushing realization that pregnancy did equal helplessness, as I struggled to complete the grocery shopping and the schlepping of food down into the Hobbit Hole.

I walked into the bathroom to do some laundry. I pulled back the shower curtain to balance the laundry basket on the side of the tub, only to discover a colony of 8-legged arachnids camped out in semi-permanent fashion.

I think, at that point, was when I hit the end of my very short, very frayed rope. I called my mother 300 miles away, who wondered what on earth I wanted her to do about the problem. Very calmly, I said, "Nothing, but I can't call Himself, because at the revelation that we have a colony of spiders camping in our tub, he will steadfastly refuse to relocate. He's still in Virginia. Once he makes it to Utah, he can't go back. I need him to move in with me. That is in serious jeopardy if I disclose the spider issue is really this bad. And I have to tell someone about this ridiculousness."

The very end of the rope really came when, after killing all of the spiders I could find, I called Himself, sobbing, with an emotionally wrought discourse on how much I hated it in the Hobbit Hole. (This of course, was only slightly more rational than disclosing the spider issue, after all Himself is still in Virginia, and already having second thoughts about having to fear hitting his head every time he enters or exits our bedroom).

A total of 16 spiders (21 if you count the 5 I killed on Wednesday morning) and a half a roll of toilet paper later, I sat down and composed an e-mail to my landlord, explaining that while I applauded his "no pesticides" motto, I could not possibly live in a place occupied by more than one 8-legged critter (or their webs) at a time.

Then, I put the drain plug over the tub. I am having visions of taking it off only to have the entire bathroom overrun with a hoard of angry spiders who have been pent up in the tub drain waiting for escape. Then I remind myself that one of us being afraid of spiders is enough. I have to be the strong, sane one on this issue.

At least until I find another spider.

Independence Day

Yesterday was the 4th of July. Ironically, a holiday I cared not much about growing up. I grew up in a teeny little town. Not a teeny little charming town with a lot of character and a solid foundation of town spirit, just a teeny little town on the outskirts of nowhere with little character and little spirit.

We had a 5-minute parade. If the drought wasn't the worst drought on record, the city shot off fireworks at the baseball field, but it wasn't something anyone ever planned their lives around. We never went. We typically spent the holiday in the even smaller town in which my grandparents lived in - they had a lot of town spirit, a little more character and their 4th of July celebration FAR exceeded ours.

When I moved to the East Coast, several holidays took on more 'festive' meaning for me, including the 4th of July. It was a holiday about friends, family, fireworks, freedom ... all the things I'd read about, but never really seen. The picture-perfect celebrations with oversized monuments sillohetted against a specacular fireworks display.

I realized this morning, driving into work, that living in the middle of the most politically powerful metropolitan area in the nation, the notion of Independence Day had changed for me. That the representation of "America" is different there.

In DC, independence, freedom, America, is all about Pomp & Circumstance: tailored dark suits, white shirts, red or blue ties (or occassionally, the radically striped one), McMansions and Lincoln Town Cars, politics, hot-winded speeches, important people, press briefings, security screenings, and picturesque celebrations. One of my favorite images of patriotic holidays in DC is the rows upon rows of miniature American Flags placed at each bright white headstone at Arlington National Cemetery. It is the quintessential illustration of America for me, even now.

I spent this holiday eating cold cuts, veggie and fruit platters and potato salad at my aunt's house. It is the first 4th of July I have spent with any family in 9 years. I realized, as we dragged our blankets and lawn chairs across the street to watch the fireworks at the stadium just down from her house, that independence, freedom, America is something different in the American Frontier.

It isn't about Pomp & Circumstance as much is it is about Opportunity. It still includes fireworks and parades, but it lacks the polished, preening nature of a DC patriotic celebration. Gone are the suits, ties, picturesque photos of monuments, perfectly synchronized firworks and patriotic music, and flags placed "just so." Instead, it is replaced with the casual relaxation of summer, the heartfelt stirrings of ordinary people. Food, family, fireworks, face painting, sparklers, the promise that each year will be better. This year's image of patriotism struck me on my drive in, as I passed a huge irrigation sprinkler system in a field, upon which was perched an American flag. Some farmer, who undoubtedly couldn't care less about Washington, wishing the world Happy Independence Day. This year, somehow, the holiday had more meaning, even with fewer overt references to patriotism, war, sacrifice and freedom. This year was about opportunity - a better life, being with family, building a foundation.

I realized then, that perhaps a little of the polished East Coast persona I had tried so hard to cultivate, quite possibly was a veneer; that maybe, I had never left behind as much of the small-town, red-dirt kid that I'd thought. Although I'll never go so far as to say my hometown throws a great Independence Day party. There's not that much red dirt still stuck in my soul.

...or for Worse

Today is revenge of the First Trimester.

I haven't felt this close to bonding with the porcelain throne due to pregnancy in 15 weeks. Every time I move, blink, swallow, I am consumed with a feeling of "grab your toothbrush and run - NOW!"

I sat through a morning meeting trying hard not to look at anyone, because any movement, any change in focus, any change in my carefully regulated breathing (a trick I learned as a kid plagued with horrible motion sickness) threatened to send me fleeing out of the room, as if pursued by invisible swarms of killer bees.

The problem is ... during my First Trimester a) I had a boss who couldn't handle having you at work if you even appeared that you might be sick, guaranteeing that my green pallor would earn me a one-way trip back home and b) I couldn't feel Baby Girl rolling around inside, which today is only adding to the misery (it's been a common issue - certain movements by Baby Girl bring on the motion sickness). I had also slept a little the night before, rather than tossing and turning because of a lack of comfortable positions and an onset of mild contractions.

I'm loathe to play the "I'm sick because I'm pregnant" card at work, since I've been here all of 5 weeks, and I don't want them thinking hiring a pregnant woman was a really bad idea.

In a perfect world, I want to curl up somewhere comfy (ha ha, is there such a thing at this point?) with a fruit smoothie (the only thing that I could sip/eat when having First Trimester misery), and lie perfectly still.

In reality, I still have a pile o' work on the "to do" list, that has to be done by tomorrow. And Wednesday is a holiday, making bailing out today even less appealing from a professionalism standpoint.

What I really want to know is how I managed to learn about the swelling, the swollen belly, the sciatic pain that plagues the third trimster, while missing the discourse on resurgance of hormonal insanity, "morning" sickness and general exhaustion reminiscient of the first trimester.

A friend e-mailed last week, "I would be pregnant more often if it didn't result in newborns." I would have to counter,, "I would probably end up with more newborns if it didn't involve being pregnant."

Baby Girl will be worth every minute, but at the moment, I can't think of things like that - it breaks my hard-fought concentration on keeping breakfast where it belongs.

For Better ...

It's no secret that this move has been taxing - physically and emotionally. I knew it would, especially given the whirlwind way in which it was decided upon and executed.

I did a lot of thinking this weekend, about the move, about where life was going, and how I felt about it. I did a lot of pondering. And it all came down to one thing: Hope.

This move was about that one thing - hope for a better life, better financial situation, better job opportunities, better opportunities for Baby Girl to grow up knowing family, better opportunities for Himself to forge a relationship with Son. It wasn't about what Himself or I wanted for ourselves so much, as what we wanted for Son and Baby Girl. What we needed to be able to offer them the kind of life we felt was necessary. It was about extracting ourselves from materialism (I think the Hobbit Hole is an inadvertant, if not fitting, illustration of this concept in action) and re-focusing on what was most important.

Utah was never in the plans of my life prior to retirement age. When I spoke of "eventually" moving West, it meant "eventually, after we're established, we'll move to Denver, Seattle, California ... anywhere but back to Utah." I suspect Utah was in the plans of Himself's life, but he dared not discuss it with me, of the "Don't even think about it, I've shaken the red dirt of my feet, and I'm not coming back," mindset. Hence, the difficult transition ... added to being 7 months pregnant, seeing Himself 4.5 days in the last 5 weeks (a total of 6.5 weeks, by the time he arrives), starting a new job in a new not-so-corporate environment, and all the other woes of moving 2,200 miles.

As I sat this morning, my heart full of pleas to help me figure this all out - how this was such a good idea, how we were going to survive with so many unknowns... I kept coming across messages of Hope, Peace, Trust. Hope for a better life. Trust that things would work out. Peace in knowing we were doing the right thing. The right thing didn't have to be logicial or have a clearly defined path. That I didn't have to be okay with it all at once - that it was okay to be homesick, to look out over the desert landscape of the Frontier and miss the lush green of the East, to sit at church and long for even one familiar face, to have home not feel like a strange, awkward place.

Hope for the better things we are seeking was enough for now.