Mother's Day Madness

Ok, so I am not a mother. I do have a mother, though, and since I am flat broke, I endeavored to construct a suitable gift from just the craft supplies I had on hand. Behold! This creation is a banner to hang on the wall. I embroidered the dolphin mother and baby designs, then colored the background with crayons to give it a sort of a "childhood project" feel. The hope is that she will be persuaded to like this picture simply because I am her daughter and I made it for her. I will start a similar picture for my mother-in-law today. I don't know that my mother-in-law will be as susceptible to my crayons, but maybe she will forgive me. We'll see.

Reading on the patio

Today I had my first really pleasant moment since we got to Logan. I've been really miserable since we moved, but today I took a camp chair out on the patio to read in the sunshine. The sun was gentle, which was refreshing, as I know it will turn into a searing death ray when summer comes. Everything was quiet and peaceful and I had the pleasure of ripping apart an inferior novel, metaphorically speaking, and denouncing it as rubbish. A lovely afternoon.

The Curious Case of The Frying Vegetables

So for dinner tonight I decided to make a fusion style vegetable stir fry. I didn't have any Asian veggies on hand, so I diced some sweet potatoes, onions, turnips and brussels sprouts. Yum! The Asian touch was going to come from the dressing. While the veggies sautéed I mixed up a bit of soy sauce, seasoned rice vinegar, red pepper, ginger and garlic. It smelled odd. Oh well, I thought. I haven't made this in awhile.

Once the veggies were done cooking I drizzled the dressing over and mixed it all up. I took a taste and detected not even the slightest hint of soy sauce. I shook some more soy sauce over the veggies, stirred, and sampled again. Nope. Couldn't taste it.

I tried once more, adding a touch more sauce, with no result. What was wrong? I glanced at the bottle resting glibly on the counter and a terrible thought struck me. Slowly, I turned the bottled around. There, written on the label in the clearest lettering possible: Worcestershire Sauce. Yep. The Tamari stood innocently in the cupboard where I had left it.

Ugh. The veggies were gross! It was meant to be fusion, but the Worcestershire sauce just did not work well with the other flavors. Shayne, ever the gentleman, ate it and called it good. I called it ruined, but I ate as much as I could so as not to waste. Quelle dommage! The tragedy! Another Idiot Girl moment.

In Which We Examine The Cost Effectiveness Of Procreation vs Purchasing a House

So, Shayne and I were watching a show on HGTV about first-time homebuyers, and Shayne commented that the people were crazy to be buying a house right after they were married.

"Well, I don't know." I countered. "In her book entitled Autobiography of a Fat Bride, Laurie Notaro remarks that others in her community expected her and her husband to either have a baby or buy a house in their first year of marriage."

"What, is this some kind of rule I haven't heard of? Why would they need to do that?"

"I don't know. Everybody was just all like, 'when are you having a baby? When are you buying a house?' and Laurie felt like they needed to do one or the other in the first year."

"Weird. I would have a kid. It would be cheaper."

There was a pause in the conversation as his assertion sunk in.

"At least at first it would be cheaper." He amended.

"I'm not sure." I told him.

"It would be cheaper at first. At least in the short term." Shayne insisted.

"Well, I don't know. These people are getting a thirty year mortgage. I am now thirty, but my mom isn't free and clear. Mortgages end, but your kids are still your kids forever. Worlds without end."

"Without end?" He echoed.

"Without end." I confirmed.

And I think it's true. I mean, I have a credit card that my mom gave me to use when I need it. And lately I've put some charges on it. And I'm thirty, my friends. And my mom isn't free. And since families are forever, She Never. Will. Be.

Yeah. I think I would buy a house.

The Continuing Saga Of Cydni's Attempts To Convince Herself She Is Capable Of Motherhood

So, Shayne and I went to visit some friends last night, which was fun. At one point during the evening, the baby came up to me and laid some seriously sticky hands on my jeans. "Um, no. I'd rather you didn't touch me with your yucky sticky hands." I told the baby as I gently removed his digits from my clothing, at which point he began screaming.

"Oh. He's not used to not being loved. That's exactly what's wrong." The child's father asserted. Everybody was looking at me with expressions ranging from shock to exasperation to condemnation. It was as if I had committed a crime.

"I didn't want him to touch me with his sticky hands." I told them lamely. "It's gross."

They shook their heads. Shayne and his friend cleaned the baby's hands with wet wipes.

"There." The child's father deposited the baby in my arms. "Now she will allow you to give her loves." He was speaking to the child. I accepted the baby and he happily sat in my lap for a minute or two before moving on the other adventures.

As the night's festivities wore on, the older child came up and hocked a giant loogie on the couch cushion right next to where Shayne was sitting. (Good job it was Shayne, because I would have freaked out.) The combined mucous and saliva ran along the upholstery and oozed under Shayne's pant leg.

"Oh, move your leg. It's getting on your pants." I told my husband.

"yeah, so?" He didn't care.

"Well, OK, if it doesn't bother you..."

I tried to ignore it. The viscous fluid sank into the fabric slowly, eventually creating a damp spot with a slick pool of thick mucous at the center. I felt glad that my clothes were nowhere near.

Shayne's friend found my disgust highly amusing.

"Oh, if you think that's bad, just wait till they poop on you." He warned me. "Kids do everything. They barf on you, they pee on you, they spit on you..."

"Man, I tell you what. If you love Shayne -- as a friend, I mean -- please do not do this to me, because I am totally freaked out right now." The fellow wisely stopped teasing.

I was thinking about how, just a couple of months ago, I had managed to convince myself that I could be a mother. Even though I wasn't able to have my children back when I was too young and stupid to realize I couldn't handle it, I told myself that my greater maturity (compared to myself at age eighteen) would benefit me and make me a better mom. And I really better get going at it, I thought, now that I'm thirty and stuff. So odd that it only took a few visits with Shayne's friends and relatives to set me straight on that point. How quickly the tide changes!

Far, Far Away...

Now that Shayne and I are in Logan, my very favorite author of all time, Laurie Notaro, has released a newsletter announcing that she will be doing a book signing in Seattle. I want to use the word "irony," but I'm not completely sure it applies. I indulged in a moment of fantasizing that I would actually drive to Seattle to attend the signing, but really that would be foolish. And anyway, I bought her new book on Kindle. What am I going to do, have her sign the screen?

Alas! I won't be meeting Laurie this time. And I haven't read her new book, Spooky Little Girl, quite yet, but I highly recommend The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death (http://www.amazon.com/Idiot-Girl-Flaming-Tantrum-Death/dp/081297574X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1270761294&sr=1-1 ), which made me laugh until I cried. I've often remarked that one of my reasons for existing is to make others feel better about their own selves, and Laurie is a kindred spirit. I'm so glad to know I'm not the only Idiot Girl in the world!

Ants

The Aggie Village apartment where Shayne and I now live was scrupulously clean when we moved in -- I would even say it's the cleanest apartment I've even moved into. Even when I was filling out the move-in inventory and I walked around the place conducting what amounted to a white glove test, I was able to find only two flaws: the vent fans in the kitchen and bathroom were coated in dust. That was all.

So what were the ants looking for? I discovered them the first night, when we sat on the floor eating our Taco Time dinner. Little black ants crawling on the living room carpet. In an empty apartment. In the middle of winter. What could they possibly want?

The thing that really mystifies me is that they seem more interested in the bathroom than the kitchen. I just now sprayed ant death in the bathroom for the third time since we moved in. Why are the ants undeterred by the corpses of their fallen comrades? And what could they possibly be looking for in the bathroom of all places? We have absolutely nothing edible in there. (Conversely, in my last place, I had a vanity just outside the bathroom where I kept my hot cocoa canisters and mixed nuts and dried fruit. The ants never found it.)

So my next order of business is to thoroughly clean the bathroom floor, a task I was putting off until I acquired, well, a mop. But really, a mop is no longer the appropriate tool for the task. I would only throw it away once it was covered in ant remains. No, this is a job for paper towels, which I will wield on my hands and knees. And I'll get to that whenever I'm done procrastinating...

The Laundry Tango or Why I Need To Steal A Shopping Cart

So one of the drawbacks to living on campus is that I either need to use the communal laundry room or invest in a stacked washer/dryer combo with a GAS dryer. Thus far, the gas dryer seems iffy to me. So, since I figured my dry-clean-only clothes I wore to my Qwest interview were perfect for the laundromat, I decided to do some laundry.

k, so I'm just estimating, but I say the laundromat is about a quarter of a mile from my front door, which seemed not at all daunting when I set out with basket in hand. But by the time I got into the laundry room, the plastic edges of the basket had imprinted themselves so deeply into the skin of my fingers that it hurt more to peel my hands away than to just leave them there forever.

Undaunted, I got to work. Three loads of laundry in, I decided to go back to my apartment and get a garbage bag of laundry that I had on reserve. Three more loads. Then Shayne texted to thank me for doing the laundry, so I went back to the apartment to get his laundry bag too. Only two loads. He changes clothes much less frequently than I.

By the third trip, I started carrying the basket on my head, as my hands just weren't having it any more.

But now I began to run out of money for the dryer. I decided to do a bit of a dance -- I quickly pulled two loads out of the dryers halfway through their cycle, and then I replaced them with wet laundry. feeling proud of myself, I walked back to the apartment with two loads of damp clothes in a basket on my head. I hung up everything that needed hanging, piled the rest on my bed for folding later, and headed back with the empty basket to get more clothes. Another two loads in a basket on my head, hanging what needs hanging, piling the rest to sort later. Empty basket.

And again. more laundry on my head. By this time I was out of money, so once I was done hanging I jumped in the car and zoomed over to Walmart, where Shayne gave me five dollars. back again to the laundry room, then returning to the apartment with two last loads of laundry on my head.

At the end of the day:

Miles Walked: 2.5 (in dress shoes)

Loads Washed: 8

Money Spent: $12.00

Fingers Mangled: 8

Bruised heads: 1

Huge Piles On Bed: 1

Baskets Of Non-Folded Men's Clothes: 1

Resplendent Housewives In Pearls: 0

It's easy to see when the door closes, but where is the window?

I went to Qwest for my interview today, and everything was going really well, right up until they told me they didn't want to hire me. It seems I didn't pass the entrance test. Now, I felt confident about the customer service and general knowledge sections of the test. I feel that my answers to the survey questions must be what disqualified me. Like where they ask what I would do if my coworker were stealing from work or something. unfortunately, there is no feedback available to indicate exactly why I failed.

I feel surprised. I genuinely expected to get the job. Call centers have always been my old standby. I hate them with every fiber of my being, and I used to compare my job at Convergys with a dysfunctional, codependent relationship that neither one of us could ever break off. But they have just...always been there. When I need them. Not comforting, exactly, but dependable.

As I drove out of the Qwest parking lot, I caught myself laughing delightedly and grinning with relief. They don't want me! Heaven be praised! I can't even apply again for another six months! Glorious!

I pondered the idea that perhaps Father is closing this door for me. Maybe, just maybe, He's making it so I can't continue my dysfunctional job behavior. I've never adapted to the rigors of call center life, and I truly believe I never will. I will always be too sensitive, too easily hurt for this line of work. I can't harden my heart -- believe me, I've tried. For years. I'm too much myself, and I can't change the pattern of what I am.

All right. Qwest is over. But what now? I see that door closing, and I have no problem with it -- on the contrary, I feel relieved. But where is the window? I will need a job of some sort.

I stopped at SOS Staffing on the way home from Qwest and was told point blank that they are not doing any interviews these days because there are no jobs out there. Another closed door. All right. Today I discovered two places not to get a job.

maybe it's odd that my lapsed faith should stir at a time like this, but I feel oddly peaceful to know that my sure thing was a mirage. I wasn't meant to be there anyway, and I knew it when I applied. Still...Where can I go from here? My experience is mostly in call centers. What new line of work can I enter, knowing that my back won't hold up to a job on my feet? I need a window.