little old man
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
your 8th month out of my uterus.
Benjamin Ian Bartlett,
You are 8 months old today, buddy! Happy birthday!!! While you are sleeping away, I thought I’d take the time to post something on your blog because certain someones have been bugging me about not posting lately. Well, certain someones, I’m tired. And I feel dumb because I did poorly on my interview on Thursday. And my house smells like mildew. And yesterday I lost a chapter of the bestselling book that I’m working on because I’m stupid.
Today we are going to look at a house to rent. Yes, it’s little too expensive. But it is our dream home. It is white with blue shutters. It has a fenced in backyard. It has a washer and dryer. And, the most important qualification for being our dream home: it has a front porch. Oh, and we won’t share any walls or floors or ceilings with anyone ever again. The people below us make it incredibly clear that they do not enjoy Ben jumping in his Exersaucer, or screaming or rolling around. They apparently have supersonic hearing and can detect the slightest motion in our apartment. While it is my feeling that they should purchase a cd featuring ocean waves or waterfalls or forest noises to counter their incredible hearing abilities, they don’t seem to agree. They are the older type of renters, the ones who have been there for many years, the ones who think because they have lived there for so long, they own the whole building and make the rules. Ben’s going to start making a hell of a lot more noise in the coming months, and we don’t want to feel uncomfortable, so we need to find a house to live in, one with a yard that he can run around in, and a porch on which Ryan and I can drink beer...er...ice tea.
Unfortunately, there is competition to rent our dream home, and we have to pile in the house with a bunch of other people who mistakenly believe that this house is their dream home, and we all have to apply for it together. Now, although Ryan and I have good jobs and good rental history, living in New York kind of kicked our asses, so we don’t have what one might call “good credit.” So our only hope is to give you a bath, Ben, put some nice-smelling lotion on you, dress you in your best outfit, iron our clothes and brush our hair, and try to charm the pants off of our future landlords. Hopefully you will cooperate by exhibiting your Walter Mathau face, that irresistible expression that will win over their hearts. It is more likely, however, that you will screech in their faces, possibly even throw up on their carpet.
You are making progress Ben, but I am worried that you aren’t crawling yet, or even lifting your giant belly off the floor. It may be because you are an enormous baby–you are 8 months old but wear 18-month-old clothes, but I’m scared you might be behind. You can wiggle and scoot and roll, but you don’t show much interest in it. I’m thinking it might be because you have everything you could ever want handed to you by your hovering, adoring parents, so each day, I put you on the floor and sit a little ways away from you and let you roll around and reach for things that you might want. In this way, hopefully, you will learn to go after what you want. Now help us get that house, baby. You’re our only hope.
You are 8 months old today, buddy! Happy birthday!!! While you are sleeping away, I thought I’d take the time to post something on your blog because certain someones have been bugging me about not posting lately. Well, certain someones, I’m tired. And I feel dumb because I did poorly on my interview on Thursday. And my house smells like mildew. And yesterday I lost a chapter of the bestselling book that I’m working on because I’m stupid.
Today we are going to look at a house to rent. Yes, it’s little too expensive. But it is our dream home. It is white with blue shutters. It has a fenced in backyard. It has a washer and dryer. And, the most important qualification for being our dream home: it has a front porch. Oh, and we won’t share any walls or floors or ceilings with anyone ever again. The people below us make it incredibly clear that they do not enjoy Ben jumping in his Exersaucer, or screaming or rolling around. They apparently have supersonic hearing and can detect the slightest motion in our apartment. While it is my feeling that they should purchase a cd featuring ocean waves or waterfalls or forest noises to counter their incredible hearing abilities, they don’t seem to agree. They are the older type of renters, the ones who have been there for many years, the ones who think because they have lived there for so long, they own the whole building and make the rules. Ben’s going to start making a hell of a lot more noise in the coming months, and we don’t want to feel uncomfortable, so we need to find a house to live in, one with a yard that he can run around in, and a porch on which Ryan and I can drink beer...er...ice tea.
Unfortunately, there is competition to rent our dream home, and we have to pile in the house with a bunch of other people who mistakenly believe that this house is their dream home, and we all have to apply for it together. Now, although Ryan and I have good jobs and good rental history, living in New York kind of kicked our asses, so we don’t have what one might call “good credit.” So our only hope is to give you a bath, Ben, put some nice-smelling lotion on you, dress you in your best outfit, iron our clothes and brush our hair, and try to charm the pants off of our future landlords. Hopefully you will cooperate by exhibiting your Walter Mathau face, that irresistible expression that will win over their hearts. It is more likely, however, that you will screech in their faces, possibly even throw up on their carpet.
You are making progress Ben, but I am worried that you aren’t crawling yet, or even lifting your giant belly off the floor. It may be because you are an enormous baby–you are 8 months old but wear 18-month-old clothes, but I’m scared you might be behind. You can wiggle and scoot and roll, but you don’t show much interest in it. I’m thinking it might be because you have everything you could ever want handed to you by your hovering, adoring parents, so each day, I put you on the floor and sit a little ways away from you and let you roll around and reach for things that you might want. In this way, hopefully, you will learn to go after what you want. Now help us get that house, baby. You’re our only hope.
Friday, May 27, 2005
if you don't believe that i love you...
Ben, there is a bookshelf in your room. A pretty but precarious bookshelf that threatened to tip over on you whenever you were near it. There are earthquakes here in California, and you are learning to propel yourself forward, so for the last week, I'd been meaning to install this furniture anchor onto your bookshelf. It started with the screws. The screws wouldn't fit through the brackets. The drill kept coming unplugged. I put the brackets at the wrong height on the bookshelf. You bounced in your Exersaucer and laughed at me. Your bookshelf is apparently made of titanium and not wood, and I couldn't get the screw to penetrate it, so the brackets and screws kept flying across the room. After screaming, "If I had a gun right now, I'd shoot myself" and "Nothing in this world should be this hard," Ryan scooped you up and took you into the other room, away from your crazy mother. After seriously considering the statistical likelihood that the bookshelf wouldn't tip over on you, I finally decided that I love you too much to risk it. After a half-hour of pure hell, I got the damn thing installed. So you are safe. And I love you. And this proves it.
I remember when I was little, I used to wonder what my dad's problem was when he yelled when he couldn't assemble or install something. Dad, I totally understand now. And I totally get why you had to knock a couple of cold ones back when you finally finished the job.
I remember when I was little, I used to wonder what my dad's problem was when he yelled when he couldn't assemble or install something. Dad, I totally understand now. And I totally get why you had to knock a couple of cold ones back when you finally finished the job.
i got an interview...now what do i do?!
After receiving a discouraging email from my superior at the college where I teach, an email which basically implied that a person with a degree in creative writing will never get full-time teaching work at this particular college, I grew angry and began looking for another job. I wanted a job where people appreciated me, where I got benefits, where I would have some upward mobility. I stumbled upon a position at the University of Redlands as the Assitant Director of Academic Support Services. I would basically hire tutors, help students with their academic goals, counsel and give workshops. So I'd still get to work with students, but I'd get paid more and be able to, say, get new glasses or a cleaning at the dentist. I could probably pay my rent and my student loans and my car off. I applied in May and the position was announced in March, so I figured it was a long shot. Then yesterday, I received a call from the U of R. They asked me if I wanted to interview. When I said yes, relieved, the person on the other end of the line said, "Oh, good. You didn't find another job yet." I was confused and delighted--she sounded as though she was genuinely interested in me. At my college, they act like I'm lucky just to have leftover adjunct positions.
So now I have an interview. And if I nail it, I probably have a job. A full-time job. That starts on July 1. HOLY SHIT.
Am I ready to be a full-time worker? Am I ready to leave Ben at daycare? Am I ready to miss his every breath and sound and movement? Am I ready to work 40+ hours a week again?
So now I have an interview. And if I nail it, I probably have a job. A full-time job. That starts on July 1. HOLY SHIT.
Am I ready to be a full-time worker? Am I ready to leave Ben at daycare? Am I ready to miss his every breath and sound and movement? Am I ready to work 40+ hours a week again?
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
why tom cruise is so creepy
Nearly a year ago, when I was still pregnant, Tom Cruise visited me in the night. In this horrible nightmare, I woke to find him jumping out of my closet wearing a black leather jacket and laughing that maniacal laugh of his. He grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed in my face, "Congratulations!! You just won two tickets to my premiere!" This might be some girls' dream, but I woke in a cold sweat. My heart was beating; my blood was racing through my veins. I shook Ryan and made him reassure me that Tom Cruise was not, in fact, in my closet. It took me a long, long while to fall asleep. I'd forgotten all about the dream until Hollywood recently plastered him all over all forms of media--magazines, news, t.v.--and now that night has come back to me, and, with it, all the terrifying memories.
Why is Tom Cruise so creepy? Is it that crazy, crazy laugh? His tireless search for adventure? The way he pumped his fists and jumped on Oprah's couch last week, declaring his love for the girl he's dated for one week? What person in his right mind jumps on Oprah's couch? If it had been a regular guest and not an actor, Oprah would have had him thrown out on his ass. Maybe the thing that bugs me the most about Tom Cruise is that he criticizes women for taking antidepressants for post partum depression. I never had to take any, but I felt like I was damn close for a while. And all I know is that once Tom Cruise squeezes a human being out of an orifice of his body, lets this human being eat from his breasts on an hourly basis for months AND, finally, gets an M.D. from an accredited medical school, then, and only then, will he qualify as an expert on such matters.
Why is Tom Cruise so creepy? Is it that crazy, crazy laugh? His tireless search for adventure? The way he pumped his fists and jumped on Oprah's couch last week, declaring his love for the girl he's dated for one week? What person in his right mind jumps on Oprah's couch? If it had been a regular guest and not an actor, Oprah would have had him thrown out on his ass. Maybe the thing that bugs me the most about Tom Cruise is that he criticizes women for taking antidepressants for post partum depression. I never had to take any, but I felt like I was damn close for a while. And all I know is that once Tom Cruise squeezes a human being out of an orifice of his body, lets this human being eat from his breasts on an hourly basis for months AND, finally, gets an M.D. from an accredited medical school, then, and only then, will he qualify as an expert on such matters.
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