My Senryu on "Handful of Stones" blog

http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/2010/02/senryu-times-two-no-beer-for-you.html

It's 3 AM and I'm eating - because there's a baby in my belly and apparently little missy can't wait for 5:30 AM to roll around - and also writing about this senryu I wrote a couple of months ago. A senryu is a haiku about human foibles. As much as I love haikus, which traditionally are nature-themed, I wanted to take this form and apply it to my tendencies to make outrageous threats like, "I'm gonna leave you and go to Mexico."

Enjoy. My tummy is full and I'm going back to bed.

Why my "Navel-gazing drivel" matters

So I write about The Old Man, aka The Husband, and The Kid, because it's how I make sense of the world. It's how I make sense of the fact that as a woman I am expected to bring home the bacon, cook it, and look good doing it. I was raised to think I could do it all - and finding out that my whole identity changed when The Kid came was a big shock. And I think that there are a lot of other women out there who feel the same.

And The Husband doesn't fit neatly into any beer-gut, noncaring stereotypes. He's a father unlike our fathers from thirty years ago. Do I have a right to blog about all the challenges even when hunkalicious is right there beside me? Of course I do. Life isn't a fairytale but it's fun.

I could use my ridiculous Ivy League degree to blog about politics or social activism or cooking, but the deeply personal has always interested me more.

Annie Danielson said, "Home is where you story begins." She's right. http://thestudio.danielsondesigns.com/DDShortStory.aspx

Thanks to Don Mills Diva http://donmillsdiva.blogspot.com/2009/01/write-on-respect-blog.html for inspiring this post.

My story on Rose City Sisters Flash Fiction Anthology

http://rosecitysisters.blogspot.com/2010/02/38-bertinas-playlist.html

Hey ya'll,

Check out my story on Rose City Sisters Flash Fiction Anthology. :)

Balance

So, I'm a working mom.

I have found that balance for me means compartmentalizing my obligations. When I am at work, I focus on work to be the most productive. When I am at home, I focus on being a wife and mother and maintaining all the domestic chores. I forget work. When I have my rare personal time, I focus on myself.

Lately, this balance also means cutting out some obligations at work. Saying no. Which is hard, because I should be able to do everything, because I'm sorta perfect that way.

I wake up though in the middle of the night, freaked out that I am missing something at home. Something important. That my mind is not focused enough on The Kid, or the New One coming. I've had moments of panic in the middle of the night where I wonder if I'll die and somehow miss all the important things in life.

So to simplify right now: I am saying no to some work obligations. When I feel rushed on the commute, or overwhelmed by my to-do lists or my mind begins to dwell on job duties, I lean towards that warm sunny place which is home, that Kid who puts a smile on my face even when he's knitting his eyebrows, that Husband who holds my hand while we're watching TV.

I'm also trying to relax about housework. Let the floor get a little crunchy under bare feet for a while. Even though I vacuumed last night, I'm trying.

In middle-of-the-night clarity, playing with and hugging my child is the only thing that matters. It's the only thing that will matter fifty years from now.

Love Letter to The Old Man

Dear The Old Man,

I've been thinking lots about how to write a love letter to you. It is especially challenging because:

A: You aren't impressed with mushy sentiments, and
B: You don't read my blog.

First, let's just get this out of the way: you are my eye candy. I can't help it. I think you are secretly getting hotter every year. Much of the allure comes from the fact that you've never owned a pair of cuff links, you've never had a manicure - except for that one time in high school when you were trying to impress a girl - and you don't moisturize. Yesterday when you were digging in the backyard, covered in dirt, measuring tape slung low across your hips... well, I just want to jump your bones.

Your scrumptiliciousness coupled with the fact that you don't talk much - well, that's every girl's dream. I remember the first gift you gave me. We were sitting in the pickup truck working on a mule deer study, watching the deer gather under the capture net. Too many bucks - we wanted does and fawns to collar. I found a quartz rock in the passenger seat. I held it up to you and you said, "Oh, yeah. I picked that up for you because I thought you'd like it." Then you went back to your sleepy arms-folded quiet pose. I still have that rock - it comes with the memory of the first full sentence you ever uttered to me.

I remember our honeymoon in San Francisco. You were raised on an alfalfa farm in Western Colorado and grew up hunting, fishing and smashing mailboxes for fun on the backroads because there wasn't anything else to do. It was only your third time on an airplane. I took you to the Castro to visit my gay friend at two AM in a bar that played Boy George. You had a great time. Your only comment the whole night: "So this is where all the gyms are."

And when I went back to work after The Kid was born, you were the one who taught him how to use a bottle. You were the one who said no to work obligations to take him to the doctor's office for fevers and colds and skin rashes and eye infections.

And every night, no matter how tired you are, you play with The Kid before he goes to bed. You invent whole worlds and games - the latest, origami mouths who eat origami frogs - to keep The Kid's imagination going.

The dog likes you better.

Feelings aren't your forte, but from day one you have listened to mine. I've never felt, like I have with past ex's, that my words weren't important.

Here we enter the realm of the intangible, and why love is so hard to describe. My guts, the viscera, my nerves and my brain all relax when you're near. I don't freak out. Someone once described me as "strung tighter than a piano wire." When I'm around you I'm unstrung.

I have loved deeply in the past. I don't believe that there is one person for whom all eternity is reserved. I know much of why we're together is based on practicality: we have the same interests, we were at the same point in our lives where we both wanted a family when we met. I've had more spiritual romances, relationships with more sexual sparks, jealous loves, more exciting romances. I would describe our love as steady, dependable. Our love is not a roller coaster of giddy highs and tearful lows. Maybe it's because we have both matured to the point where we look at our lives as a whole, rather than two points of view struggling against each other for dominance.

(At this point you're saying, "Our love is not a roller coaster? What??!!" Well, let me tell you honey, seriously, that compared to how it's been in the past, I am truly less crazy with you. For you, I think before I speak.)

I don't have the rock n' roll ride with you. Instead, I have a feeling of coming home, both body and soul, of looking forward to seeing you after work. Of comfort, of being able to act like me in my own skin.

I think you're a real man.

Real men get their hands dirty.
Real men give rocks.
Real men go to gay bars.
Real men take their kids to the doctor.
Real men do origami.

I love you.

Skinny Comedian

For Valentine's Day I am going to post a "Love Letter to The Old Man." So that is percolating in the back of my brain. Having a strong, steady - hottie Babraham Lincoln - husband is one of the biggest blessings in my life.

I was thinking of a comedy club to help celebrate our love for VDay. Everyone needs a good laugh on Valentine's Day, or as Buffy the Vampire Slayer calls it, Stab In The Heart Day. I saw that Pat Dixon was going to be at Comedy Works on Saturday night. I checked him out on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1vxlB_PJzk.

Normally I could handle the misogynism, the skinny misanthrope on stage exposing his own self-esteem issues through his jokes on how he likes women to struggle a little when he's having sex with them.

But really. I'm in no mood for jackasses like this. I'm almost eight months pregnant. I've gained thirty pounds. I could see myself storming the stage and sitting on Pat, watching him struggle just a little bit for air while my elbow hits his soft tender adam's apple. Stuffing the dozen roses that come with the "Sweet On You" ticket package down his flat-fronted chinos.

So for his safety, I think I'll pass on tickets to the comedy show.

Doesn't take much to get me riled up these days.

Now, back to thinking about love and mushy stuff.

Solitude

Thought for today:

It is normal, even healthy, to limit interaction with other adults sometimes.

Words like:

Hermit
Lazy
Antisocial

are not meaningful characterizations of solitude.

Instead:

Reflective
Restful
Self-acceptance

more accurately describe why solitude is healthy and why one should not ignore the urge to be alone.

Scrapbooking is good???

This may be the only time I ever say anything nice about scrapbooking.

We are cleaning and reorganizing to fit the next little monkey in the house, and I had the idea that maybe I could rip some pictures out of photo albums, put them in envelopes, and save some space.

But I found the scrapbook - a very amateur attempt unlike those scrapbooker gurus I know - I made of The Kid's first six months. I'm preggers so I'm predisposed to tears anyway, but by the end of the album I was crying.

The page that sent me over the edge:

Four photos. The Old Man holds The Baby Kid in each. The Old Man looks tired, depressed. I had written "Daddy Loves You!!" in the middle. With two exclamation points. As if by pasting evidence that The Old Man held The Kid during this time, and by writing that line, I could make it true.

Of course The Old Man loves The Kid. But for the first year, The Old Man was grumpy, withdrawn. Not happy. I'm desperate that this pattern isn't repeated with the new one. I don't have the emotional armory to prop The Old Man up, plus The Kid, plus the New One. I want The Old Man to be happy with me, to show his excitement. I don't want to wait a year for The Old Man to be happy again.

Being the take-charge kind of gal I am, I've already talked a lot to The Old Man about this. He is aware of what might happen, and is right there along with me, going to try everything to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Needless to say, I couldn't rip a single picture out of anywhere. Maybe I'll make space by giving my old ballet slippers and karate uniforms to charity...

Belinda's playlist

Belinda was a large German woman who sat hunched in her office most days. I dreaded asking her for a deadline extension on the paperwork. She always looked either insulted or angry when I asked for anything outside of normal routine.

Her office was in the basement, sandwiched between the custodian's closet and the men's restroom. She wasn't behind her desk, so I decided to wait. I sat in a rickety plastic chair shoved into the corner. It was the first real chance I'd had to study her work space. Usually our conversations were short verbal missives fired at each other while I was half-turned to go and her eyes were glued on her computer.

Haphazard cords fell from the back of her computer, which faced the doorway. There were no plants - no way they would survive in the windowless basement. One glaring ceiling light buzzed above; a dust-covered bookcase housed cracked plastic binders. Belinda had one picture on the wall: a yellow cat with distended claws stuck in window curtains, and a caption that read "Hang in there!"

I shifted - the plastic chair scraped the linoleum floor - and glanced back towards the doorway, wondering if I should come back another time. That's when I saw the diploma hanging above the door. A Ph.D. in Social Sciences with a concentration in economics from CalTech, 1995. Belinda was slightly above a secretary and far below a mid-level manager. She had worked at our company for fifteen years. It struck me that she was probably smarter than her boss and his boss put together.

I heard squeaking shoes and Belinda walked in - I stood up - she saw me and moved sideways. "What do you want?" she asked.

"I just wanted to keep you in the loop. I'll be turning in the StaffCo contract paperwork about a week late," I said. "We have some more negotiations to do."

Belinda was in a blue and green flower-print dress, long-sleeved. There was a ring of dust around the bottom of her dress where the fabric had slid through the muck of the linoleum. Greasy hair framed her red-splotched face. This giant German thought to dress herself in flowers from the early nineties. I choked down a panicked laugh.

"Any changes mean more work for me," Belinda said, and sat down behind her desk. She looked at her computer screen. "I'm sure you can appreciate that I don't have time to waive deadlines for every contract. The answer is no." And she put her hand up and motioned me out of her office.

Ugly, big, mean white lady. No imagination. No flexibility. Out of her office and up the stairs to my corner office with bright windows and plush carpet. Belinda had no decision-making authority. We both knew I would take as long as I needed to with the negotiations, and she would "forget" to process my paperwork until I had to come to her squat dirty office again to check its status. A game, an office power play. I was tired of it.

So I made her a mixed tape. Jon Bon Jovi, Bee Gees, Madonna, P!nk. Joan Jett. A little Slip-Slidin' Away by Paul Simon. A little Michael Jackson. Some Elvis Presley. I kept it light, dance-ready, upbeat. Some Queen seasoned with a little Hall & Oates. I grew up in the eighties, so I still call them mixed tapes. What I really did was go on itunes and create a playlist called "For Belinda;" then I burned it onto a CD. Since she had no way to play CDs in her office, I bought the cheapest CD player I could find: a Hello Kitty pink boombox for $9.99.

I figured at some point in the past fifteen years, she had been confident, maybe even well-regarded. The big bosses must have asked for her ideas. Little by little, she had been ignored. Her promise as a highly educated member of the workforce was forgotten; she was given menial tasks that required no brain power. She could either fight back, challenge her bosses to give her more meaningful work, or become bitter and protect the small responsibilities dumped on her in the basement. I figured she had chosen the latter.

I waited one night until she went home, and then placed her gifts on her desk. No "To...From..." note, just the CD and the pink boombox.

I waited a week, then two; continued my negotiations with StaffCo. I forgot about Belinda. StaffCo and I finally came to an agreement, so I made the long walk down the basement stairs to face her. I found her office - empty. Dust patterns showed where the computer had been, the phone...the diploma above the door. The only things left were the scuffed plastic chair and the cat poster.

I walked back upstairs and went to my boss. "Did you finally fire Belinda?" I asked.

"No," he said. "We promoted her. You need her for the StaffCo paperwork?"

"Yeah...," I said.

"Give it to Sandy until we can find a replacement for Belinda's old position."

I started to walk out of his office, and then turned and asked, "What's Belinda's new job title?"

"Senior VP of Marketing," he said. "She's a couple rungs up the chain from you now."

Senior VPs had offices on the sixth floor. I got on the elevator and rode up. I had to get past the receptionist to find Belinda - I made up an excuse about being summoned there for a meeting.

Belinda was pin-striped and well-groomed, not a hair out of place. Her skin was clear and smooth. She regarded me with a steady gaze, and smiled.

"Congratulations on your promotion." I hovered in the doorway and looked past her to the view of the city. Green plants in a tasteful arrangement on the windowsill framed the skyline.

"I'm just livin' on a prayer," she said.

I caught a flash of pink: the Hello Kitty CD player was nestled under her diploma on a gleaming mahogany side table. "You're halfway there," I said, and smiled back.

Osa

I closed my eyes and there I was, in the Mother Bear's close earthy den, in the middle of the harsh winter, my fingers gripping her coarse fur. I asked her how she does it. How she eats and eats an eats and then disappears into her den for the winter, and then gives birth to sightless, tiny cubs, and then uses her fat reserves to nurse them, to make them grow bigger. And then when her body is depleted, takes her growing cubs into the spare Spring days and nibbles on the green shoots and tries to find enough food to replenish herself while making sure her cubs survive. How she faces down the male bears who have a propensity to kill young they didn't sire. How she finds the strength to bare her claws when she's given so much to her cubs already.

She said:

I don't question the how. Surely not the why. I focus wholly on what I must do in the present, on giving birth, on nursing, on surviving. There is no other consideration during such a time, when I am nurturing new life. It's not a job. It's who I am in the present.

And when another bear grins a horrible grimace and advances, shoulders hunched and claws sharpened, I do not question the how or the why. Self-doubt is death.