The Post Where I Spout Depressing Talk

15 12 2009

Sometimes I have moments where I take an honest look at my life — where it’s been, where it is, where it’s headed — and I wonder how did it end up this way? And, I don’t mean that in a good way. That doesn’t include Azita. She really is the best decision I’ve ever made, the best thing that’s ever happened to me, just the best thing period. I just wonder about everything else and I wonder how are other people happy in a world like the one we live in? The polar ice caps are melting, people are killing each other, children are starving, I hate my job. How do people get happy? And how do I learn that trick? If anyone knows how one gets happy, I wish you’d teach me or at least point me in the right direction. And please don’t say ignorance. I already know it’s bliss, but I just can’t take that route.

Please excuse that digression. We’ll not return to the regularly scheduled upbeat portion of our programming.


The Precious

14 12 2009

The precious

Sometimes when no one is around, not even the cats, I talk to Azita as if I’m Gollum and she’s THE ring. I mean I do the full on Gollum voice and everything. Feel free to judge.

I Wish I Was…

14 12 2009

When I was a kid I used to play this little “game” with myself where I’d invent the person I wish I was. It went something like this. I’d decide I wished I was the most popular girl in my class. But then I realized that I liked my hair better than hers, so I’d want to be her but with my hair. Oh, and as long as I’m fixing things I may as well want Brooke Shields’ face. And Einstein’s genius, and the ice skating talent of Dorothy Hamill and the singing voice of Eartha Kitt and…you get the idea. Actually, as long as I’m confessing this silly game, I’ll confess that I didn’t just do this when I was a kid. I’ve wished to be a pastiche of people basically my whole life. Things seemed to have changed since Azita was born though. I’m pretty happy being myself. I still wish for different life circumstances at times, but I basically like who I am at the moment. It only took me 36 years. Maybe by the time I’m 40 I’ll be really happy with me.

The Fourth Stooge

4 12 2009

I’m trying to remember why I decided to sign up for NaBloPoMo in December of all months. Not only are there a ton of holiday related activities and a trip to North Carolina to visit my sister, but there’s also our yearly appointment with our friend the common cold. It’s a standing appointment for sometime in the month of December, preferably as close as possible to Christmas so as to put a nice, heavy damper on the holiday cheer. This year is particularly special, because not only do Roger and I get to be ill together, but Azita gets to join us. This means for those of you who don’t know, i.e., aren’t married or living in some capacity with a man, that I get to take care of two babies while I’m also feeling like mess. Yup, that’s December for you.

When am I going to find time to write something every single day? I suspect there is going to be a whole lotta cop out posts where I find the cutest, most recent picture I can find of Azita and post it with a short caption in the hopes that no one notices that the busy has chased all the post ideas out of my head.

For example, I could post a picture like this one of Azita with my two favorite men.

Look at how they are both gazing at her like the little goddess she is. If she has this much power at 11 months, I can’t even imagine how many men will be twisted around her pretty little fingers when she’s older. Sheesh. You’d think she was doing something truly spectacular, like demonstrating her new favorite trick…

poking people in the eye. She’s a regular Stooge this one. If she’s not pulling your hair or head-butting your nose, she’s now poking you in the eye. I know she’s a wee little thing, but she can really do some damage. And when I try to admonish her she laughs. At me. To my face. I swear, I’m not kidding anyone. I have no power in this relationship of ours. But power is overrated anyways.

Paring Down the House

2 12 2009

Living in the D.C. area means that housing is expensive and complicated. If you buy something closer to the city it’s more expensive, but if you work in the city you also spend a lot less time commuting. At times that can actually even be cheaper when you take commuting costs into account. Roger and I decided a while ago to live closer to the city. When you spend as much time working as we do, you just don’t want to add several hours of commuting to the mix. As a result, we live in a two-bedroom condo. It’s definitely a lot bigger than friends’ apartments I’ve stayed at in New York, but our home is pretty modest by most people’s standards.

Now that we are a family of three people and two cats, our modest home is becoming a little more, well, little. This morning alone I bumped into Roger, our cat Maggie, Azita’s Pack n’ Play, the closet door, a chair and an ottoman. That’s all within the span of one hour.

For years now, we have had storage outside of our home. At one point we had 3 storage units. Excessive, I know, but Roger and I joined our lives right on the cusp of our 30s. Both of us had lived on our own for about a decade by that point, so as you can imagine we had accumulated lots of stuff — from CDs and DVDs to couches and desks.

Right about here is where I should probably mention one of the core differences between Roger and myself. I am a big fan of Spring cleaning. I love to go through everything I know and clean, sort and toss. I give bags and bags of stuff to charity regularly. I am attached to few things. Roger, on the other hand, is a hoarder. He collects things and stows them and stacks them. When I moved in with him, he had this closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and believe me when I tell you that every inch of those shelves was piled high with stuff. There were 3 broken televisions, boxes and boxes of newspapers and magazines, piles of receipts, clothes he hadn’t worn since he was 8 years old. I can’t even begin to recount the sheer enormity of amount of stuff he (and now we) owned.

When we moved to D.C., Roger just couldn’t get rid of any of that stuff. I donated half of my possessions, but Roger rented another storage unit. By the time I was pregnant, our storage units were stuffed to the gills, and we were paying more than I care to admit to store crap we didn’t need and didn’t use. Still, Roger wanted to keep it all.

I’m not sure what has changed. Maybe Roger will chime in with a post of his own to explain it, but at some point this year Roger has caught the purging bug from me. One Saturday morning we woke up, and he suggested we go get rid of stuff in the storage unit. Next thing you know, we have no storage units, and we’re getting rid of stuff from our apartment. Our home is looking bigger and bigger by the day, and the best part of it is that Azita has more and more space to roam and explore.

We do have plans to get into a bigger place when we can swing it, but for now we’re sticking it out in our little home. And, it feels good. Not just because I prefer a more pared-down existence, but also because we are finally in-synch on this one aspect of our lives. If we keep this up, we may be the same person in 50 years. To tell you the truth, I really wouldn’t mind it.

Anywhere But Here

9 11 2009

I haven’t written anything in about a week, mostly because life kind of sucked last week. In addition to both Azita and me being sick, work really, really sucked.  I mean,  it sucked as in I kept trying to remember why I took a massive paycut to work more hours with less meaningful work. Hours that are often filled with busywork that someone else is supposed to be doing if she could do anything right. Hours filled with annoyance and well, more annoyance and yet some more annoyance to top it off. It sucked so much that I really just wanted to become a hermit. Interacting with the world was just too much for me to handle after being required to do so during the day. It was physically exhausting, and my language skills were completely depleted by the time I left work.

Yeah, it sucked like that.

And, whenever life sucks, I’m all flight and no fight. I’ve been this way ever since I was a kid. When times are tough, I want to run away to Shangri-La. I mean that literally. I had a really big Paradise Lost obsession.

I had a lot of literary obsessions, actually, and there have also been many times when I want to move far, far away. For a long time I wanted to move to Prince Edward Island, thanks to  Anne of Green Gables. In my high school years, Faulkner convinced me that the deep south was where I needed to be. Edith Wharton made me yearn for New England. Actually, I still yearn for New England. This past week, I’ve put some serious thought into New England. And, North Carolina. I know they seem disparate, but my sister is in North Carolina. She is my closest confidant, the person I’ve loved the most for the longest. My nephews are there. My niece. I really want to move to North Carolina.

I’ve lived in the DC metropolitan area for my whole life, minus a brief stint in Baltimore.  I’ve always loved living here. In spite of wanting to run away here and there, I’ve never really wanted to leave. Not REALLY. Lately though, the hustle and bustle of this metropolis just doesn’t hold the allure it once did. It’s all rush, rush, rush, get stuck in traffic, claw your way to the top, never sleep, never stop moving, etc., etc. It’s all of that minus the really cool stuff that comes from being in a big city like New York or London, and I’m just over it.

Yesterday when I had my nearly daily phone conversation with my sister, I mentioned that I was starting to feel less competitive than I’ve always been. Competition has been a way of life for me for as long as I can remember, and it’s made life exciting and rewarding at times. Then this morning I wake up, and  it’s still dark outside. I have a long day ahead of me, and as I’m trying to get out of bed, my baby reaches out and puts her arms around my neck so I won’t leave. Yeah. Then that happens, and I don’t care anymore about being competitive. I really just want a slower and quieter life. I want to spend more time with my baby. I want to be present in the moment when I’m with her and not worrying about the million things that need to get done just to make it through a day in D.C.

Maybe trying to be anywhere but here is not so selfish as I think.  It’s not just trying to get away from my troubles. It’s also trying to find a place where Roger and I aren’t always rushing around and just getting through life, dragging Azita along with us. I really don’t know where I’ll be a year from now, but I hope it’s somewhere more placid. If anyone knows where that place is, let me know. I’m on the next train there.

I Can’t Remember This Post

2 11 2009

I swear that over the past three days I’ve thought up a minimum of 10 posts that I just had to write. I hope you enjoyed reading them or at least imagining what they were about if I actually wrote them.  I really think they would have been superb species of the blog post variety. The issue here isn’t that I got lazy or even had writers block, something I’m really familiar with since I was afflicted with it until T-8 hours before every single paper I ever wrote in college. The reason is much simpler than that. I’m pretty sure I have early onset senile dementia. Seriously.

The symptoms of senile dementia are…Ok I won’t list the symptoms, because I don’t really have any of them. What I have is actually more like imaginary dementia. But I really did forget every single post I sat down to write over the past few days and I mean within minutes of sitting down to write them. As in, I think of something to write about, run to my laptop, sit down, select to add a new post and nothing. My mind becomes blank. I can’t remember anything other than my throbbing head, stuffy nose and achy muscles.

So I guess what I really have is a cold and extreme exhaustion since Azita has also been a bit under the weather, refusing to eat, and therefore waking up constantly during the night to complain of her hungry tummy and to cough up a lung. Also, Roger just interrupted me to give one of his spiels that he finds oh so adorable where he incessantly asks me questions one after another to give me a preview of what Azita’s toddler years will be like and then doesn’t take the hint that I really just want him to shut up already. Sheesh. Now I can’t remember what I was going to write next.

I probably should go to bed now, especially since I have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow to vote and workout before work and Azita will likely be up and starving for some milk since she again refused to eat much of anything today. But, actually I can’t remember what the but is, but it really was something.

All this is to say that I’m sorry for rambling. I’m just trying to cover up the fact that I forgot what I was going to write about, and I can’t remember the previously-written paragraph of this post let alone the first sentence. So, yes, I have no idea where I’m coming from or where I’m going to and therefore cannot be expected to write anything intelligible in between.

Now I really will go to bed and hope that when I wake up in the morning I will actually remember what I’ve wanted to share with the world these past few foggy days. Copious amounts of coffee will surely help with that. I’m winking at you now, Roger.