Eleanor Scott's new writing. Ella Jane Sender

Wow. It's been far too long since I have posted! Life is rich and busy and the dirty dishes have still not managed to do themselves. Alas.

But thanks to my hardworking friend Eleanor, we have some fun reading ahead. She is working on a novel about a single mom, her perspicacity and humor in the face of awkwardness(dates), beauty(her son growing up) and reality(doing laundry and finding a job). She will post "Ella Jane Sender" in serial form.

You can check it out on tumblr http://bit.ly/17X6q6c

Or read it for yourselves here.

Ella Jane Sender

By Eleanor Scott

1.More garlic bread

     “Jane, we need to talk to you.” Bryan said. Bryan and his husband, Paolo watched with raised eyebrows from the other side of the booth at the Stinky Rose restaurant in North Beach as Jane, bent over a tub of pesto linguine, nearly inhaled her food.

     “Jane! We need to talk,” Bryan said tapping the table.

Bryan and Paolo were some of Jane’s dearest friends. They had not seen each other in an age because of the baby. This was a big change for all of them. They had performed together and hung out all the time before Luca was born. Evenings were now hard for Jane since Luca was not a great sleeper. But she rallied and finally got a sitter.

Here they were having dinner at the Stinky Rose after Bryan had performed at The Onion comedy club. Jane was so happy! But Bryan and Paolo were sitting solemnly on the other side of the booth. Jane was amazed how good food tasted now that she was a nursing and sleep-deprived single mother.

“Mmm! This ish delicioush,” Jane said her mouth full of another baby fist sized bite of linguini. “I’m so lucky that I can eat garlic and it doesn’t bother Luca.” She smiled at the happy couple who, she realized, looked confused. (They were not confused but horrified by Jane’s transformation and table manners.) “Oh, sorry…some nursing babies are affected when the mom eats garlic. But not Luca!” Jane twirled another huge bite on her fork, “He could suck the rivets off a jet engine fuselage! He loves nursing that much.” Jane said and then sucked up a linguine noodle.

Bryan hid his eyes and Paolo cringed.

“I need another drink,” Bryan muttered. He massaged his temples.   They look like parents who needed to talk to their teenager about the dangers of drunk driving.

“We need to talk to you,” Bryan whispered mirthlessly again. Paolo tilted his head, pursed his lips, made his deep, dark, latin eyes even bigger and nodded.

Jane finally noticed, “What? What’s the matter?”

“This is serious,” Bryan said.

“OK. Is everything alright?” Jane stopped, sat up and wiped her mouth. Jane hadn’t realized how embedded she was in Babyland.  What if her wonderful performer friends had terrible news? She had been out of touch for so long.

Bryan had taken the fringe festival circuit by storm. At one point they even discussed doing a show together but Jane got pregnant miraculously at 39 and 3/4s. She was over the moon to be a mother and the tortured, tense world of theater blurred out of focus. So now she was wrestling, blissfully, with nursing, playgrounds, child-proofing the house, and excavators.(Luca was completely passionate about diggers. Jane had come to admire the huge digging machines and their salt-of-the-earth operators as well.)

But these were her dear friends and she didn’t want this friendship to flag. She put down her fork.

“What’s…what’s going on?”

Bryan put his forefingers at his temples and Paolo patted Bryan’s leg is solidarity.

“Jane. You need to have sex. You need to have sex!” Bryan leaned forward.

“What?”

 Bryon looked forlorn and concerned. “How long has it been? How long has it been?”

Jane blinked.

“Since the baby was born? And now he is what? Almost 2? That’s too long,” Bryan whispered across the table. Paolo nodded reaching across the table and patting Jane’s hand.

“I…” Jane stammered. She had NO interest in having sex. These were her old friends. She could be honest.

“No,” Jane wrinkled her nose, “I don’t want to. I’m too…tired. I don’t even think about it. Really! I’m OK. Are you going to have that garlic bread?” She reached across the table and snatched Paolo’s buttery bread.

“No. You’re not OK. You need to have sex! You NEED to have sex,” Bryon mouthed the words and wide bulging eyes.

“I can’t do the dating thing right now. Really. Too…much…work…”

“You don’t have to date,” Bryon was trying to get a foothold, “You could hire a prostitute and get it taken care of that way,” Bryon and Paolo raised their eyebrows and shrugged. Paolo nodded and looked at Bryan as though to say, ‘what a good idea!’

“Ugh,” Jane winced and shook her head.

“Do you need help with the money? Is that the problem? We can help you.” Paolo said quickly.

“Nooooo,” Jane said sitting back. Still shaking her head. “I don’t think that would make me feel very good about myself. To be honest…”

“Well…” Paolo said with his velvet, charming accent, “what about…a massage with a happy ending?” he offered. “No one has to know. Just a massage with a happy ending.”

“No thanks,” Jane wrinkled her nose and flinched.

“Don’t worry. It will happen soon. At some point.” She soothed her friends.

“Well,” Bryon said tilting his head, “It better happen soon. You’ve got to tighten things up down there.”

Jane looked up from her final bit of pasta. She chewed and swallowed.

“We’ve heard some bad stories.” Paolo whispered.

“I had a C-section. So…I’m good. Still tight as a drum.” Jane sniffed trying to play it cool. She waved at the waiter. When the adorable, buff waiter arrived, Jane smiled her big, nuclear smile: “Do you think we could get a little more bed, I mean, bread? We’d like some bread.”

All three watched the waiter walk away.

“Honey, you need to beat that drum for more than just carbo bombs…” Bryan put his hands on the table.

Jane slowly closed and then opened her eyes. “I’ll have you know that I am involved in several very meaningful relationships,” she pointed at Bryan and Paolo, “With carbs, sugar and chocolate. They are very good to me. Between that, and the advise nurses at Kaiser, I’m all set. I don’t need messy, icky sex and emotions to complicate my perfect relationships.”

“Yuck it up now, but in ten years you’ll be fat and miserable if you don’t get ON this.” Bryan crossed his arms. He was serious.

Jane shrugged, smiled and dove into the fresh warm bread basket. “Mmmm! So good! I’m so happy to see you guys!”

“Maybe you should just be a lesbian,” Bryan tried another tack. “What about that?” Even Paolo looked surprised.

“I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it long and hard. But…no. Not for me.”

“You know, you don’t have to do everything,” Bryan said with a long pause. Jane put up her hand for him to stop but it was too late.

 “Would you eat pussy? Because, if you don’t want to eat pussy, you don’t HAVE to eat pussy.” Bryan said putting both hand in front of him.

“I don’t want to eat pussy,” Jane said starting to take another bite. She stopped and put the bread down. She was full.

“When is your gig in DC?” Jane asked.

“In 10 days. I’m really nervous. I have a hour hour of new material. I might have to call you again,” Bryan sighed.

“Tell me the date and time and I’ll call you at the half hour call. I’ll put in on my calendar. I love the alerts…” Jane wiped her hands and got out her iPhone.

When Jane got home, after throwing on her pjs, she caught a glimse of herself in the mirror. She saw some pesto sauce smeared across one cheek. Her ‘pjs’ were an old stained mens tshirt, and pea green thin cotton culottes. It was a tragic portrait of a tired, dumpy woman who now only saw clothes as something to hide her nakedness.

Hmm. Maybe.

    

When in love or in doubt, toast hazelnuts

When in love or in doubt,

Toast Hazelnuts

February 5, 2012

Right now, I don’t have time for flowing, romantic daydreams about cute, charming, newly single men.

I’m not complaining about my life. Trying to compose a professional life that allows me the most time with my son and offers time to write on a regular basis is time consuming. I barely squeeze in much needed time with friends.

However.

Some crazy, surprising feelings have been bumping into me and jostling me about. It is tricky-with these new, bulky imaginings everywhere- to move through the day, to be present to my lovely child and to stay on top of a fledgling business. To deal with immediate and relevant tasks like, say, dinner, I have to rein in these la-la-la musings and shake them off as silly.

I can’t laze around and bask in quick conversations that I’ve had with a crush. No! It’s a school night, going on 6:30 and dinner is not even a theory. And, K, is hungry, tired and headed for a class 5 meltdown if I don’t get him some protein fast.

You see…I have met someone who has caught my eye. More than that, he has awakened narratives and desires in me that I thought were over, dead, extinct, irrelevant. (For example, I feel pretty again. You can’t beat that with a stick.)

For this, I’m truly, truly grateful to him. To feel enthusiastic about kissing someone and wanting to have dinner and chat for hours with a kind, generous AND attractive man is lovely! To know that kind, generous, intelligent men exist in the real world and are not just fictive creations of Jane Austen is a relief beyond measure.

Since I had not had, for years and years, the flowers-coming-out-of-my-chest feelings about a specific man, I was getting ready to settle. I was going to settle for someone who was nice enough but didn’t really light my fire. If he was good enough to do the dishes three times a week, I was ready to close my eyes and compensate him with sex.

(I hate doing dishes that much.)

But there is someone here, who lives in my neighborhood no less, who is so lovely. He is so charming that he could get away with doing the dishes only once a week.

I might even do his dishes. Every now and then.

Ummm hmmm. That’s right.

He’s that cute and fun.

But.

He is in the mucky, yucky split-up soup.

and I can’t-No, I can’t!- as much as I’d like to, shower him with valentines and/or do his laundry.

So to speak.

He has to go through this crazy, dark night of divorce proceedings alone. While I ache to be his opiate and save him for all the pain, that is not fair. It is not fair to whom?

It is not fair to ME.

I’m MORE than an opiate!

Though I can be the very best drug for men with bruised egos and broken hearts. They are cured and whistling in about five to nine months. And they drop me like a broken, used vial.

FINALLY, I understand this. Only have to make that mistake three times before.

So…I need to box up and reign in my moony, kissy kiss, wish-we-were-stuck-in-a-broken-elevator feelings. (BTW, you KNOW it’s a really crush when you have the broken elevator feelings. I mean, classic. You want to escape life and time and be with that person!) I need to zip that up and make dinner.

It’s hard though. Isn’t it? It’s hard to stop thinking about a crush. Especially when it’s been six years since you’ve had a proper crush.

And it’s really hard to stop thinking about your crush when you are alone.

Like today on my walk, when I was alone, I gave in to lovey-dove, la-la-la musings and I dream and dream about a life together with him(whom I just met two weeks ago What am I, a 12 year-old?) I picture us playing with all our kids together at the playground trading off playing with different combinations of kids; I see us walking on the beach arm-in-arm while the kids dance in the sand ahead of us. I imagine us wrapping Christmas presents, drinking red wine and talking about our favorite movies and novels. Then we ‘unwrap’ each other and have avid sex next to perfectly decorated Christmas tree. Then we cry together when we hear ‘Silent Night’ playing quietly, thinking of our beautiful children and exquisite each other. Looking up at the twinkling lights, the delightful child-made ornaments, and the angel and star on the top of the tree, we have more perfect sex. We love each other so much that we don’t get tired. Not even during the pre-Christmas marathon with four kids running a-muck.

Ah yes. Our lives will be blissful forever.

But then, as I continue to walk, a sage, aunt/angel voice checks in and says: “Ahem. Darcy?”

“Darcy,” the angel voice says: ”Why don’t you admit what you want? Just say it.”

OK. Yes. I do want it. I do want a

ReLAAAAAtionship.

I want a relationship with a wonderful, generous and intelligent(single) man who is also a committed, funny parent like me.

Like this guy. The guy who has caught my eye.

I WANT that. I don’t want to live alone anymore. Meeting this man makes me not want to be a single parent anymore.

I want to work together with someone else cool on this adventure.

But this is FRUSTRATING! (I tell the grown-up, kind, aunt angel voice in my head, as I walk swiftly and look at the heron hunting in the grass.)

It’s frustrating because just last month-just last month! I was on Stinson beach, alone and happy as a clam.

Remember?

I was on the beach on the Solstice and I was taking pictures of my long, tall shadows (a perfect self-portrait!) and I LOVED being by myself. I didn’t want to be with anyone else. My life felt-WAS-IS!!- full and delicious and sparkling. I have my son; he and I are both healthy; both growing and learning; I have wonderful friends and family. My first novel is almost finished. All’s well in the world.

But NOW, today, my life doesn’t feel completely full. I want to share more of it. I want to share with this man. Even with his kids. (Which is insane since I just met them.) What’s going on?!

Then the sage auntie angel voice says as she looks kindly over her glasses at me: “Well, that makes sense. To want all that. He is lovely. However, Darcy, dearest. Maybe, just maybe, your desires could be distorting the reality in front of you.”

Then we both, the angel voice and me, sigh and nod.

Yep. That’s what I was worried about. It’s happened before. It’s happened that my bigger-than-the-sky desires have changed the reality in front of my eyes.

“But then,” the sage angel says, “you and he might be falling in love. Could be. But only time will tell. You aren’t going to know for a while. So stick to your other projects and concentrate, as you do so well, on K and your creative ventures.”

Yes. I agree with the aunt angel in my head. I need to stay the course that I have been on. And I will, I promise.

With this stolid realization, however, I feel sad and pouty. The pouting and melancholy lasts for the rest of the day. I am grumpy to K and I go on a tirade about the dangerous amount of media that he watches at his father’s house. (As though it’s the child’s fault. Poor little guy.) After I have rambled on about video games and brain cell destruction to a 5 year old, it’s time to make dinner. And I don’t give a rat’s ass what we have for dinner! (I cross my arms and knit my brow like a good, grumpy five year-old.) The adult mom inside me stands up straight and raises her stern eye-brows at the little girl me.

“K is not the only kid who is hungry…” The mom in me says. Then the adult/mom me realizes that you catch more flies with honey so she cracks a smile and said to the little girl Darcy: “What would cheer you up right now? I know! Hazelnuts! Your favorite! Let’s toast Hazelnuts!”

The Little girl Darcy loves that idea. So the mom and the little girl Darcy work together. They have a drink of water. They get out the cookie sheet. Even the plunk, plink of the raw hazelnuts as they pour onto the cookie sheet is cheering. Then I open the oven and slide the cookie sheet in. ‘Thunk’ goes the oven door as it closes. Something is cooking. We are moving forward.

In moments, the kitchen smells nutty and divine(a bit like my Christmas wrapping sex fantasy), eggs are cooking and the green beans are being snapped. I’ll have the hazelnuts with my green beans. Yum. K is crunching on carrots and hummus thinking of words that begin with P. We are back on track. We are on our way to a cozy dinner.

(When K is in bed, I wonder if new Mr Wonderful likes hazelnuts. I’m tempted to text him and ask but I get my computer out instead and start writing this to you.)

PS If you all are fighting anger instead of pouty, moony bittersweet feelings, a great option is to buy hazelnuts still in the shell. Then get out the hammer and bang those suckers to oblivion(careful not to smash the nut meat). I did this when I was making stuffing for Christmas when I couldn’t be with K. I missed him dreadfully; I was crankyand lonely. But banging the nuts with a hammer and cracking those hard shells kicked the pouts right out of me.

11/11/11 at 11:11pm Sending out some luck and wishes.

       I have always loved it when I look at my watch or phone and see it is 11:11. I feel like it is a wicked good luck time.  So I send out some love/luck/good wishes to those of us who might need some help or a lift. There are plenty of us who need a boost. I think of those of us who are tired, in the dark, and trying to figure out why the baby is crying.
Or Maybe some of us are wrestling with a bad decision.
Or some of us who have lost their way( I imagine a golden key going into their hands that unlocks the door  they need to open.)
or those of us who can't think of something that makes them happy(their favorite song, seeing their kids laugh and laughing with them, an awe-inspiring work of art, simple but real people, places and things.)
or those of us who can't stop leaning too much into the future( and therefore miss all the juicy incidentals of the present.)
       So, on a date like today(11/11/11--come on!), the wishes will be extra powerful.
So let's have at it!
Darcy

My 11/11/11 Valentine is from the poet Marie Howe

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

BBI(Bad Body Image) it's here and it's entrenched.

BBI it’s back and it’s entrenched!

*BBI= Bad Body Image.

BBI is back in my brain and soul like an insidious super virus invades a big bank's  network and server.

I was having a lovely walk with my dear friend,S, yesterday. She asked in the kindest, most compassionate terms my thoughts on my clothes and style choices. She felt like I could put together more flattering outfits. The problem is, nowadays, I rarely think about ‘putting together an outfit.’ These days I put clothes on to hide my nakedness. And ‘these days’ have stretched from a few month after the baby was born to…today.

And, today my son is five years old.

Huh. Food for thought.

In the process of dressing ‘these days,’ my main concern is pull focus from my mid-section! S, my friend, gently made the cogent, practical point that sometimes trying to hide the tummy actually draws attention to it.  I took a deep breath and realized this is a valid observation.

S made the great suggestion to find my own style icons and think about several simple pieces(a tailored blouse, a perfectly fitting black dress.) that will help me feel beautiful and strong.

Brilliant idea! And so good talk-out loud- about stepping into my own beauty, my own self.

Another important realization: it feels so exhausting to make myself feel beautiful.I literally said that to my friend, S.

I said: “I know how to feel beautiful. I do. But it is just so exhausting.” She looked at me with her wise kind eyes and said nothing. What she was thinking, and what I know is: if feeling good about yourself is tiring, there is a problem.

The good news: identifying the problem is the first step toward solving it. So…yay.

S did suggest, very compassionately, that I suffer from a form of Dysmorphic, disillusioned, dystopic physical perception(can’t remember the clinical term) in short, BBI.

Yes. I agree! I am swimming, nay, drowning in Bad Body Image.

After my walk with S and while I in the thick of errands/teaching/ playdates/ dinner/ homework I had a flash or more like a very sharp pangs. The pangs were clear and acute. They said:

I HATE my body.

I hate and despise it. While I’m very, very grateful for the job my body did producing my son, K, and keeping me healthy all this time, I abhor the way it looks. To me-emphasis on me, remember the Body Dismorphic Disorder that I have-to me, I look hideous and should be hidden from public view. I want the cute, slim body back that I had when I was performing, before I had the baby.

And those thoughts are so so so so

Uncool! Abhorant and unattractive!

It’s blasphemy to all parts of my feminist, nay, my humanist being and spirit! It’s disgusting to think that! When there are woman and men that are ailing that would love more than anything to have a body like mine.

It is truly disgusting not to thank God/Goddess/all that is good every day for having a healthy female body. Not only healthy, it’s  more like a super hero body. Listen to this: at 40 years old, after five days of labor, I gave birth to a 9lb 9oz boy (healthy, gorgeous). This same body that got really, really sick when my baby was 3 weeks old and yet my milk supply never stopped. It’s actually a miracle when I think about it.

So I hate myself for hating my body. Talk about a demon chasing it’s tail!

But still-keeping it real- still when I see a woman who is a size two, even a size four, and she has a one-year-old toddling around, I’m so jealous, I call her bad words in my head.

Only for a nanosecond.

But then, for all you size twos reading this, the feminist me calls me out and gives me a tongue-lashing. It’s so busy in my head.

  

So I could get through the day in the world,I tucked this self-loathing ogre full of vitriol away until after K was asleep. I could only face this craziness and after I watched the hilarious episode of Modern Family for the second time ( the Modern Family episode is the Juice Fast episode. I think it was called, “ Up on a wire.” You must watch it.)

I have found such a wealth of ruminations that I am only half way through the arc of my BBI story!

 So this posting is a two parter. Tune in tomorrow for part two: “Does my son’s bad behavior make me look fat?”

To be continued…

SPC Special recipe: Valentine to summer fruit and local yogurt.

Happy Independence Day all you Single Parents( and to those souls who feel like single parents, which is all of us!  Today, I offer you a recipe. A recipe of Single Parent Special Summer  Surprise. It can be served as dessert/breakfast (with a healthy dash of self-righteousness. More on that later.)

This recipe involves no cooking but I could eat this for three meals a day, as could K. It could be categorized as a fruit crisp.  It's really not quite a 'recipe' really, so much as an assembly, an edible assemblage.  But when you tart it up with designer pottery, kids' art and local peaches, you could draw a double take even from the great Ina Garten.

All you need is:
* Favorite fruits from the farmers market. So, they are local(there's the beginning of the self-righteousness.) and actually divine tasting. Probably because they are local. In today's Summer Surprise I have yellow peaches and raspberries. Note the blond raspberries...they are better than candy. I could have added strawberries but, I thought that might be gilding the lily.

*Favorite local granola.  Of course, if you make your own granola. Well, then...you probably don't need suggestions in the kitchen and more power to you. I confess I do not make my own granola; I go to the store. I am newly obsessed with 18 Rabbits granola. They had me when they combined hazel nuts and cocoa nibs but there is so much more to enjoy in their delicious offerings.

*Favorite local organic plain yogurt. Strauss' is my all time favorite. When I'm on the East Coast, I love "Liberté" yogurt; same concept.  And Voilà!  Find a spot in the sun; sit down with your kid/kids and enjoy.
*Breakfast variations: Slap some of the deliciousness next to or on top of a pancake...have a good time! For kids, if you have the bandwidth, you could do Star Wars pancakes.(We got the star wars pancake molds for Christmas. After a few practice runs, they are worth the effort.)
If you don't have the bandwidth( most days, I have little to none) I put this combo on a Trader Joe's gluten free pancake(K's favorite kind of store bought) or a multi grain eggo waffle.
*Dessert variations: With the basic assembly, I have been known to break up some dark chocolate bars and sprinkle on top. You can also stick a few of the petit beurre cookies into the bowl. Delicious.

*Other notes: You will see in my photo that I have a plate of peaches. They are set out on our dining table. I have noticed that peaches set out to ripen in a city apartment make your home smell amazing. Like you have a peach tree on the fourth floor! I recommend it!

And, now, a shameless declaration of love:
I am a huge, huge, huge fan of Strauss' yogurt. It's organic; it's local and I'm pretty sure(I am touching wood while I type) that it has kept K and I very healthy for his whole life.  K and I have at least one serving of Strauss yogurt a day. In the winter K's favorite dessert and snack is the Strauss whole milk plain yogurt with frozen organic blueberries.
And-still touching wood-K has only had a very upset stomach and actually thrown up, three times. K is now five(I'm not counting spitting up as an infant.)(One of the times he threw up he was on a car trip with his father. He had a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast and then started playing video games. But I'm not judging. OK. OK. I am. This is after all the self-righteous section of the post...)
 I think taking in some of the local cultures and bacteria through this amazing food has saved us from many a stomach bugs. And there have been plenty! Both of us have actually stopped enjoying the other yogurts that are pumped full of sugar. Both of us, if our tummy isn't feeling great will have a bowl of Strauss' and maybe some crunchy lettuce. I really think Strauss is my super food.
As I write I think that I have stumbled onto an important trick! (Unless of course your child or you are lactose intolerant. If so, I'll try to do some research for you. ) I think the important trick is eat something local and or organic every day. Find ways to have that local and/or organic food that tastes good. If it's a chore or yucky, it will be the first thing you forget when you are too tired to think. Find ways that both you and your kids will enjoy that food.
I worry all the time that K's not going to be an adventurous eater. And yet, inadvertently, I have built in a dietary home base that when he does try the new foods, he can always return to it.
Thank you Strauss, Liberté and all you lovely, hard working local farmers!

Don't be a lemon alone. Out and About Valentine.

Out and About Valentine

May 29,2011

SPC Advisory: This is a Free Advise Posting. 

(pictured here: a lemon alone.)

It never ceases to amazing and surprise me, how uplifting it can be to just simply walk of the house and do a simple errand.

I read recently that in a new study they found that the incidence of Alzheimer’s disease and/or dementia plummeted when the subject got out and about everyday.

This makes so much sense to me.(And, thus, I make a note to self. Because after doing this single parent dance and now finally having –some- of my wits about me so that I can write a handful of cogent sentences once or twice a week, I will do whatever it takes to avoid dementia when I am older and, finally, legitimately rested.)

 

Witness the last two weeks: I have been feeling low, low, pit-in-my-stomach, almost-crying-all-the-time low because, 1. K is going to Kindergarten. a new school, a new parent and kid community. No one is responding to my invitations to have a play date. Both of us are nervous but trying to be brave for each other. We have to leave our amazing preschool where we have both flourished, found friends and a support network very much a kin to family.

2. There have been two super cool teaching jobs that were advertised as though I was the perfect person for them, and then, I choked on the phone interview for one (It was in French and unscheduled but still, it was the worse French I have spoken in years. That’s another long, sad story.)And for the other one, while the division head is a fan of mine, the other French teachers “found mistakes” on the board when I subbed for French. What can I say? I’m a dyslexic Francophile. I think I make a great role model for kids in a language classroom. But, hey, I’m not the one hiring.

3.Even though-big picture- there is probably a job out there that’s a better fit for me. Right now, my ego has been kicked in the teeth and cracked a few ribs. So it’s hard to breathe and I don’t look(or feel) pretty.

4. K, my usually charming child has downloaded the Five-Year-old handbook on How to REALLY Push Your Mother’s Buttons(the 5 year handbook is much more advanced than 4 yr old.) and decides to manifest his anxiety and anger about leaving his school by sneaking a bowl of cold soup into my closet and dumping said cold watercress soup into and around a bag full of my clothes. And then, he didn’t tell me about it. I discovered this darkside expression of anger when I was trying to be brave and clean out my crazy(one of many) closets. At that point, I did a cursory soup cleaning while crying.

Thus, we find ourselves at the entrance to…

The Vortex.(cue scary, ominous music)

You know the vortex. It is a sad, messy place where dishes are never clean, laundry is never folded and/or put away. What’s the point? There are so many piles of mail all over the house there is no where to sit. You have no job, no propects, your novel is still not close to finished, your best friend hasn’t checked in in over a month. And your favorite dark-blue sweater is soaked in soup. (Could K and/ or the Universe be trying to tell me to stop stewing in my own juice?)

I think JK Rowling produced the best embodiment of the Vortex in the form of the Dementors. You start to lose the will face the day, much less clean. The pull to the coach and popcorn becomes very strong but you must resist.

You must put on your coat and shoes. Or get dressed. Bundle up the child/children and you must just walk outside. (Oh, bring your wallet or some cash) Step one is simply getting outside. Don't worry about where you are going just get outside. Step two is picking an errand or a friend to visit, it’s really good if you can walk to do the errand but get in the car that the only option. On your errand, you will see other people walking down the street and your child will hold your hand, maybe someone will smile at you, you might run into a friend, maybe you will witness another child having a meltdown. You will have an incidental, but friendly conversation with the check out person.

So, the other day when I was staring down the Vortex, I decided to go and get lemons. I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was going to make the roasted chicken that called for lemons, but that was not the point. The guy at the check out asked how my day was going and I watched K, having a light saber battle with an invisible Sith warrior and-bing- I felt better. Connected, grounded, happy to be in the world.

So, When things are looking dark and you are feeling fat and/or lonely and useless, stand up, get some cash and the car keys and get out and about.

See? Here we have the same lemon, no longer alone on a cutting board but with friends. Much happier looking very pretty.

A new reality show: "OLD Batch"

 “OLD Batch”

A different version of

The Bachelorette

I still am completely flummoxed as to how single parents pull off the dating trick. I have tried here and there, but, the effort is so herculean and the preparatory tasks so daunting.

First there is writing clever, casual emails and/or online dating profile…witness long, exhausted eye-roll. Then if something slips through the cracks and you have a plan for coffee/tea, the next level of difficult tasks: bathing, picking an outfit, finding a sitter or setting up a playdate(which you KNOW you will have to reciprocate, so…it better be good), agreeing on a place to meet( just typing this makes me nauseous), locating your sense of humor. Then you muscle through the flit-flat conversation: “So, what kind of sculptures do you make?” “What do you do when you aren’t working?” And, even though you are dying to, you can’t go to a movie because you are supposed to be Getting to KNOOOOOOW one another. At the end, sighing and weary, you finally return to debrief and spend time with dear friends: sugar, butter, chocolate.

And now, there is a new friend to add to the fun: TV!

I have never had cable TV in my life…until now. And who would want to go to hell on a blind date when I can sit at home and watch other people’s dates on TV?

I confess that, from time to time, I have watched The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. Because the dating sounds so dreamy. I don’t have to plan it, or worry about a sitter or the money,I don’t have to be in my normal drudgery life. All I have to do is go on great dates all over the world and have a bunch of attractive men profess their(supposed) strong feelings for me.

  

One little glitch: I don’t seem to be the demographic(read young enough) for the Bachelorette casting directors.

So I’m going to propose another version:

MATE Batch:

MATE stands for Mature, Artistic, and Terrifically Educated Bachelor/Bachelorette.

Or, Wait.

Maybe We should avoid mincing words and call the show:

“OLD-Batch”

(“OLD” stands for Old, Literate, and Disheveled)

That’s pretty much on target.

There’s a certain ring to it.( “Join us next week when drama strikes the Bachelorette Mansion as Linley can’t locate her first edition Dickens “Great Expectations” and she is convinced Robert nicked it. However the truth will surprise and unhinge you…Don’t miss next weeks’ episode of OLD batch!”

AND there is some poetic justice to it as well! Because isn’t it we, the Mature/Old, Literate and disheveled people that really NEED the trip to Hawaii and/or Bali.

Or... the producers could look at this as a money saving venture. It would be cheap! Because a great date for all us Old Batchs would be a trip to a good bookstore, a walk on the beach, a meal prepared by someone else(doesn't matter who as long as my kitchen remains clean) and then chatting about and comparing  favorite characters from, say, Jane Austen, Michael Ondaatje and George Elliot.

And, let’s be clear, I’m no snob.

I’m in no way above talking about movie adaptations of great works.

The intrigue of the show-- rather than someone lying about whether they have a hometown girlfriends or boyfriends—would be,when a guy I thought I really liked actually can’t stand Jane Austen.

Gasp!

Can I spend the rest of my life with someone like that?

The plot could thicken when I try to reform and educate him. 

I would gently prod him:
”But it was YOU that said to me that you thought that Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley  had a real guy friendship. You SAID that. To ME. And that was a real turning point for me. When you said that, I knew that that you really cared about Jane Austen. But, I mean, do you? Do you even care about…”

And he would cut me off:

“Wow! You are really pushing this agenda. Look, I…I…I’m not ready to say…that I would read another Jane Austen novel. I…I don’t know if I can DO that. I mean, it’s only been six weeks! OK, I see your are disappointed. OK, wait, I mean, can we at least start with the movie version. I mean, maybe. Maybe in a year. I’d read another one.”

I nod my head solemnly and say quietly while interlacing my hands in his: “OK. Well, what about Michael Ondaatje?” He rubs his eyes and mumbles nearly inaudibly: “I don’t know if I can even deal with any fiction.” And he sighs heavily.

And I squeeze his hand and stroke his hair: “it doesn’t even have to be fiction! What about Malcolm Gladwell?”

The guy shrugs, closes his eyes and winces: “I have some issues with his fact gathering. What? Why are you making that face?”

Jump cut to me, talking to the host:

I knit my brow as I talk to the host: “I mean…I don’t want to wake up one day a year from now and find out he is just an engineer who works for Google and all he reads is the fricken’ New Yorker. OK? That’s not honest. You SAW him. There he was two weeks ago comparing Michelle Obama to Elizabeth Bennett. Now this. I just feel…I don’t know if I can trust again.”

Jump cut to Robert: He is in the Guy Mansion looking around guiltily as he picks up and reads…not the New Yorker…but People Magazine. Can it be true?!

I would totally watch and love this show. And, if I got to be on the the OLD bachelorettes, I could cancel my subscription to Match.com.