My Lonely City

Okay, people. I’m only going to say this once. ASK before you %*&!^@$ touch my baby!

And just as an aside, I’m going to disembowel the next person who says they want to “see” Jameston. Oh my stars and garters, people, he’s not a %$#^! exhibit. Yes, he’s cute; yes, he’s friendly; yes, he’s amazing. But he’s not some kind of living freak show babydoll. Get a life.

I took piano lessons when my hands were little. My teacher had large hands, with thick tapered fingers that could spread over the keys; she would have me lay my hands over hers to feel how her fingers moved, and my hands could barely stretch to her fingers, let alone over them. My mother stayed with me through the lessons, sometimes chatting with the teacher (I don’t remember her name, but she had thick grey fuzzy hair and a strong voice. I liked her, but she was a little … intense) about God and miracles and prayer. She was, I think, a friend from church.

I didn’t learn very much piano.

I did learn to read music, sort of, and I still can lumber my way through a piece if it’s simple enough and I take my time. The first song I learned to play with both hands was “Let it Snow”. I’ve taken to singing that particular song lately to my son; he seems to like it. Perhaps we’re longing for cooler weather in this June heat. (God preserve us come August.) I can still play the first little bit of “Für Elise”, but I learned that from my mother, not from the piano teacher. I played endless scales and learned simple melodies. I played “Malagueña,” puzzled out the right hand of “Greensleeves.” I learned “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

I think the piano is the most versatile instrument, ranging from Jerry Lee Lewis to Mozart, Avril Lavigne’s overplayed ditty to “Chopsticks” to the Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven’s piano music is my favorite, of course. (Of course.) But I love jazz piano too, and also the sort of flamboyant keyboarding of our church’s praise and worship leader, as well as the lovely rolling softness of the music from the latest Pride and Prejudice adaptation. I could listen to other people playing all day.

When it comes to my own playing, however, I soon weary of the required hours (or even minutes, consistently) applied in practice, the scales and drills and all. There’s no room at our house. There’s no time. There’s no … There are so many reasons – excuses if you must – not to pursue this interest. And of course, I’ll console myself with the comforting thought: I can always do it later. So, I’m not going to try to re-learn (or learn, period) piano “right now”.

Instead, I’m going to move on down the list.

Okay, I have a confession (an obvious confession): I never got around to learning how to make my own blog theme – in Mephisto or anything else. Or, rather, I did, but it involves a husband who knows computer stuff backwards and forwards and lots of saying “Babe, how do you do [this]?”

I needed a layout for a new blog I decided to start called Books Worth Reading. The next best thing to reading good books is talking about them, so it’s all about books I like and why. Eventually I may branch out into books I don’t like, but I figure there’s enough negativity on the internet these days, I might as well not add too it any more than I have to.

So I made my little how-I-want-it-to-look in Macromedia Fireworks, like so (this is for a different site idea that I never got around to):

And … asked my husband how to make it into a real live site. And he’s taking me through it, little bit by little bit. We’re not completely done, but it’s been a good time so far. There are even a few articles! It’s not, however, enough of a good time for me to want to describe what I’m doing to get the site up and running. Sorry.

Conclusion: If you want to know much about programming – applications, web design, all sorts of fun jazz – you’re WAY better off looking up his blog, which is Half-Penny for Your Thoughts than you are looking at mine.

So, on to the Next Big Thing: Piano!

Wait, what? I don’t even HAVE a piano. Oh, but Mom does … maybe I could use hers … I wonder where my old books are … hm …

Actual comment:

“I used Blurb to slurp my blog from blogger”

Er …

I stumbled upon a fascinating article yesterday called “The Case Against Breastfeeding”. The title makes it sound like the article is trying to convince women not to breastfeed, which is a little misleading – instead, it’s more of an examination of the discourse (ha!) surrounding and especially promoting breastfeeding combined with an honest reflection on the drawbacks of breastfeeding exclusively. Fun stuff.

Have you seen this? It made my day. No, really. I may have to revise my “YouTube is Evil” policy. Well, maybe just attach an addendum; no need to get carried away.

I know, nobody cares about my dreams but me. (And even that’s debatable.) Too bad. I had the most fascinating and – almost, at least by my standards – coherent dream just now, and I want to remember as much as I can because I think it would make a good story (if I change it significantly, because … you’ll see). Also, it was very colorful.

There was this secret society thing – kind of, more like a club, I guess – and the members got these little gemstone claw things that they could use to … I’m not really sure. They were about the size of a fingernail (no, they didn’t grow on the new recruits, they were detached, and losing one meant serious, painful, and instant death). They were indestructible and interesting, very powerful and what-not, but you can forget about them because after that they didn’t matter.

So I (well, the main character, who wasn’t really me but good enough for government work) was part of a group of new recruits (I’m using that term kind of ironically, because this society was nothing like militaristic, think more along the lines of the hipster nightclubby vampires in Blade). And we were … not really trying to take over the world, more along the lines of undermining its inherent order and safety. (What inherent order or safety, right?) Our jobs kept getting more and more difficult and destructive as we became more involved in the organization.

And they had a hostage. He was fascinating. (Also, our apartment – I mean Jared’s & mine, the real one we live in – was full of original art and looked really cool and I played loud music there, but I don’t think that was relevant.) He wasn’t a member of the society, but he (the boss dude – he had a desk so you could tell he was important, with posters of astronauts and star maps all around it because he was obsessed with getting to space, which I will return to later) wouldn’t let the hostage go. He wouldn’t kill or hurt him, but … something was going on there that I didn’t understand.

And the more involved we got in the organization the more clauses there seemed to be in our contract. The only one I remember was that we couldn’t believe in God. (I/main character chick asked, why not? What do you care what we believe? They didn’t answer.)

One of our jobs – also, we wouldn’t know that we were on a job; they were more like just things that happened and we found out later, when we got back to the base thing, that they’d been set up – involved being chased by these two huge Great Danes (beautiful dogs). I/main char of course made friends with them, so the org had to send a few more members to re-antagonize them so that they’d chase us and make me – which was the point of the job – pick up this little blonde girl on my flight from the dogs. I thought the woman running in front of me was her mother, so I carried the girl after her. However, the woman turned out to be another claw member, and we’d just kidnapped this girl “by accident”. I’d just kidnapped this girl by accident. (Real-life lesson – before coming to the rescue, make sure that you know what’s going on.)

There was another recruit who came along around the same time as me. He was one of those overachieving types, very go-getter, etc. Exhausting. Anyway, he was as good a friend as any, I guess, so we talked occasionally. He was the one who helped me figure out that the boss man was obsessed with getting into space. There was more that he was trying to puzzle out, and he’d decided that the boss man liked me more than most of the new folks and might tell me, so he asked me to talk to him about it. (I have no idea what it was, though. All I wanted to know was why he wanted the girl. I woke up before he could tell me, not that he would have.)

(Actually, going on like this, I take back what I said about coherence. Just roll with it.)

I’m curious about why the hostage was so interesting; he didn’t really play any role, he was just there. But it was like he had “Interesting” blazoned across him every time I talked with him. What’s funny is, for a group so focused on the beliefs of its members, he wasn’t a prisoner because he disagreed – he was actually on board with a lot of their philosophies, but there was a bit of an indication that that was part of why they were keeping him … weird.

Anyway, by the time I woke up I realized that the club was actually (well, metaphorically speaking, and my dreams usually don’t go in for explaining their funky metaphors) hell, and the boss man was of course the devil. But not, say, the Paradise Lost cool, charismatic kind of devil. More frightening and driven and doesn’t-even-care-enough-about-anyone-to-not-give-a-shit-about-them. And it wasn’t a logical, stratified kind of hell like Dante’s Inferno. (Hey, if we’re referencing hells, we’re probably referencing literary ones. In fact, there are some science-and-math-focused folks who’d argue that all hells are literary … and all literature is hell.)

Also, no, the hostage wasn’t Jesus; he didn’t believe in God (seriously, that aspect makes the dream so weird, because … well, partly because if the “this is hell” aspect was more literally applied, then the clause would really be “you can’t believe in your enemy” which seems a little … stupid. Also, the major players in that particular drama don’t have to “believe” in God – Jesus, well, is God and the devil has a good memory.) But partly because that was why it was so weird that they wouldn’t let him go.

Maybe they didn’t like his music? (I mean the music he played, not the music he made. As far as I know, he wasn’t a musician. But I could be wrong. It’s fading fast.)

Yes, I think so.

Because I have another one today: Things I am Excited About.

1. Daffodils are blooming, and that means … SPRING! Actually, that means “unseasonable weather and probably at least one more frost in the near future”, but I’ll go with optimism here and enjoy the idea of approaching springtime. Spring is my favorite season. Unless it’s fall. Anyway, whichever one is next in line is my favorite season. I love the colors and the weather, the thunderstorms and the way the world seems to be changing every day. (I’m sure this happens in summer and winter too, I just notice it more in the spring and fall.)

2. Being a Mama. I think I’ve turned a corner in the past week and am starting to become – a little – more excited than I am frightened. Pretty soon (fifteen days! gack!) and I’ll have a little mewling person to hold and take care of. And at some point, when he’s asleep (they have to sleep sometime) and I can hold him and look at him, I can think, “This is my son.” A brand new adventure!

3. Watching Jared be a Dad. He’s going to be awesome.

4. Various trips & weddings are in the works for this year, and I’m looking forward to all of them. Well, I won’t be able to go to the first one – I will have just (two days before) had the kiddo, and as much as I love my cousin, I don’t think I’ll be up for an out-of-town trip. But I’m still excited for him. Them. Whatever. But the other(s), yay! I like excuses to dress up and look pretty, and these things are GREAT for that.

5. Speaking of dressing up and looking pretty, getting back to looking and feeling like me again. It will probably take longer (and be more work) than I expect, but I’m still looking forward to it. I wonder how long it will take my skin to calm down and realize that I’m not pregnant anymore …

6. My hair is almost long enough to put up in a ponytail again. Hooray!

7. There is no seven.

I like lists. I’m going to make another one. I realized today that many of my childhood and college-age friendships were not necessarily … fruitful and positive experiences. And, of course, I have not always been a good friend either.

So – Things to Know About Friends

1. Someone who hurts or tries to manipulate your feelings on purpose is not your friend.

2. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but it’s freaking annoying.

3. “Friends Forever” is bullshit. Meaningful relationships happen in present tense.

4. You have no obligation to stay friends with people who treat you inconsiderately.

5. Respect is worth much more than agreement.

6. If you have something your friend wants, and there’s not enough to go around, a real friend will get over it.

7. Solving someone’s problems is not the same thing as being their friend.

8. It’s okay to fight. It’s courteous to let each other know.

9. Real conversations = the people involved being vulnerable with one another. Not everyone is worth having a real conversation with.

10. Getting out of a bad relationship is less painful than staying in one.

Everyone has them. Those things that they don’t want to ever, ever do to/with/for their children. And things that, as soon as they’re out of your mouth, you’re like “oh #%)&! I didn’t want to say that, ever!” Or “I sound just like my Mother”. Or whatever. Here’s my list (so far).

1. Lie. “It won’t hurt.” “Be good or the (whatever bogeyman’s on call that night) will get you.” “No more (whatever devious behavior is driving me mad) – I mean it.” “You can do anything you set your mind to.” etc.

2. Bribe.

3. Turn personality conflicts into power struggles. I don’t know how to avoid this, and I don’t have a good example, either. I just get really impatient with people who have certain personality traits that are very dissimilar to (and a few that are very similar to) mine, and I want to watch out so I don’t misinterpret a different but legitimate way of doing things with deliberate disobedience. You know?

4. Keep giving the toy/napkin/spoon/whatever back as the kid keeps throwing it on the floor. (Maybe go ahead and give it back – but covered in jalapeño juice? I am a cruel, cruel woman indeed…)

5. “Because I said so” things that have reasonable, external reasons. I mean, yeah, there are some things that are just because that’s the way I want them to be (if you’re going to set the table, set it RIGHT, even though it doesn’t matter to ANYONE ELSE, it matters to ME), but some things have, you know, real reasons.

6. Pidgeonhole him into some “kind” of person, or back other people up who do it.

7. Expect too much.

8. Expect too little.

9. Live my life through him.

10. Let myself go – and let myself become someone completely else (and … less) as I become a mother.

What’s worse than being sick on vacation?

I’ll tell you. Being sick when you’re eight months pregnant. And there are a week’s worth of dishes piled in the kitchen, three (at least) home-improvement-projects almost done/almost begun/almost thought through scattered throughout your long-suffering abode, the dining table is piled with baby stuff that you somehow must find room for (all useful, helpful, adorable things – just … where to put it all?), the next available doctor’s appointment is in two hours, your cat (not the copiously-shedding white one, but the copiously-shedding dark one) is laying on the whites that just came out of the dryer, you still need to wash the sheets (sometime … this month …) and your wonderful husband is far too sweet to berate you for the stupidity of always biting off more than you can chew. So you have to do it yourself.

That’s what’s worse.

I guess this is where I should type something heartwarming about at least we have a home, and people who care, and blah blah blah. I’m not going to. I’m going to go blow my nose again and take a shower. Hopefully not at the same time.

You thought I was gone for good, didn’t you?

Well, Jared & I finished up our last Prepared Childbirth Class last night. And watched the Cesarean Section video. Which had this nice clean computer-created graphic of a cesarean at the beginning to lull you into a false sense of security so that you can be really freaked out by the footage of the real, live one they do at the end, with the blood and the fluid and the muscle fibers, and people ripping open the skin over your stomach (while your skirt – well, a detached drape, but that’s still what it looks like – is pulled up in front of your head so you can’t see what’s going on). I know, I know, it’s a darn sight better than dying in childbirth or losing another baby, but … all I can say is thank a loving and gracious God for anesthetic.

The closer I get to delivery, the more I don’t care so much about the “ideas” behind the medical establishment. (I know, surprise, surprise.) I mean, yes, I still think, philosophically, that having women labor lying down only, or raising a #*%^& SHEET between a woman and the people who are ripping her infant from her OWN abdomen (because she can’t handle it? or because they can’t handle her?) or having a special little drape with a hole in it so that the anesthesiologist can forget that there is a PERSON attached to the spinal cord they’re poking with a needle full of drugs – I do think these policies (or rituals) are ridiculous and also indicative of lots of tangly, possibly harmful ideas and attitudes regarding bodies generally and women’s bodies specifically that remain entrenched in our cultural blabbedy-blah-blah … but I just don’t care so much right now. So, lurking in the deep recesses of the psyches of my nurses and pokers and prodders and slicers is a fear or anger or anxiety about me-as-a-body. Well … so what? Can I do anything about it (besides bitch on my blog)? More to the point, am I so upset by these ideas that I refuse to take the good because it’s not all good?

Let me put it this way. One of the reasons it’s smart to use a good Realtor to sell your house is because they do it all the time, they know what to look out for, what to avoid, and what to be sure to do, because they sell houses every week or month, and the getting it right is just part of their daily routine (the good ones, anyway; I wasn’t that good, but at least I knew what it looked like). Anytime you start something new, you make mistakes. You make mistakes a LOT. Even if you’ve had oodles of training and read tons of books and whatever, you still screw up because things – important things that you ought to remember – slip through the cracks. This is a good thing when you’re learning, because it calls your attention to those mistakes so that you can then more consciously incorporate them into the habits you’re building, but the more important it becomes to get it ABSOLUTELY RIGHT THIS TIME the worse it is when these inevitable mistakes happen.

I love my doctor. And the closer it gets to the time for me to deliver, the less it matters to me that the institutions and procedures through which she has received her training are still, you know, flawed. And the more it matters to me that I don’t have to know all about all of it in order for the birth of my baby to go okay, because for her, delivering healthy babies to healthy mothers is part of her routine.

Unfortunate Truth #2: No matter how much (or little) you care about environmental issues, and how much (or little) you do to reduce the negative impact you have on the global environment, many – if not most – of your choices will impact the environment in ways that you do not understand and over which you have no control.

I’m feeling Biscuit move! I have been for the past week or two, and it’s going on right now. Partly awesome, partly freaky – I half expect it (him) to burst out of my abdomen, all tentacle-y and insect-like, and start eating people (what can I say, Aliens is one of my favorites). The feeling of being a host organism is definitely increasing.

Everything that has value also has cost.