not that you asked...

A humble moment

Something that is hard for me is being fair to my husband. Do you want to know what I struggle with on a daily basis? I never seem happy with his work/home balance, and I would like to tell you—here in one of my humbler moments—that it is not his fault.

There are days when I desperately want us to have the life he is working diligently for us to have: a life that includes the ability to pay bills on time, and take yearly vacations, and provide a college education for our children. A life not unlike the one our hardworking parents gave us. A life I am more than happy to help him achieve by being his devoted partner, his right-hand man.

On the other days, though, would it kill him to be home before 6:30 every night? How hard is it to call and let me know he’s going to be late, AGAIN? Does he even KNOW how hard my day has been? On those days, I am the opposite of supportive and understanding; instead I am frustrated and angry, and when he comes home I complain that he is willingly choosing his career over his family.

I vacillate wildly between those two crazy emotions—pride for my husband and his work ethic and his genuinely admirable desire to support a family to the best of his ability, and loathing for all the extra and off-hours he has to work to get us all there. It seems impossible for me to find a balance.

Dave and I made the decision for me to stay home full time together. It makes the most sense for our family right now, especially since I am able to cobble together a meager source of additional income through some freelance commitments. But I am almost ashamed to admit that I never once thought about the strain and the stress it must cause him to know that he is technically The Sole Provider for our family. If the bottom fell out of all of my little projects tomorrow, we could figure out a way to live. I would have to cut Target out of the equation, and we would have to stop eating out once and for all, but we could do it. However, if the same happened to him, well… let’s just say, at least my parents have a finished basement.

And yet, on at least a weekly basis, I find myself angry with him for choosing the career path he’s chosen. A career path that isn’t throwing money at him even though he works a fair share more than the standard 40 hours a week. A career path that doesn’t afford him six weeks of vacation time or generous benefits or a dependable yearly bonus. I lose sight of the most important issues through the haze of Putting My Selfish Interests First. I want my husband to be home, with me and his family. It’s not FAIR that he works so much. And I never think about how fair it is to him, this pull between work responsibilities and a demanding wife. Instead, I’m usually thinking about how unfair it is to me.

I also forget that I want him to love what he does, and to find some fulfillment in the daily grind. It’s only fair, isn’t it? I certainly have found fulfillment in mine. Why wouldn’t I want him to enjoy his job too? Why isn’t that a good trade-off, a few extra hours of work each week that ensures he’s challenged by and excited about what he does?

Because I can be selfish, and egocentric, that’s why. But also because I have a hard time seeing his side of things. He’s not much of a talker, my husband. He doesn’t come home and tell me about how his day went or whether he likes his new clients. I’ve told the story before (I think) about when Dave and I were at a party, and he came up behind me telling someone what he did for a living, and when that person walked away, Dave said, “You know, that’s not AT ALL what I do.” He’s just not someone who can talk endlessly about his job and his challenges and his goals. He’s a quiet, honorable, hard worker. He has more integrity in his pinky finger than I do in my whole entire body. (As such, he would never have an interesting blog.)

And yet, as much as I admire him for all the hard work he does, I wish he told me more about it so that in turn, I could appreciate all he does instead of automatically assuming that I Do More just because I take care of the baby and do the chores and pay the bills. And because I talk about it. I have no issues with letting him know exactly how much I do. He always listens and never complains. And perhaps most admirably, he never counterargues the way I would if he brought up how hard HE works.

It is hard sometimes to know that, for the foreseeable future, my husband’s job will involve long hours. He will never be the kind of person who leaves the office at 5 on the dot and is home for dinner at 6. He’s not going to make a salary that affords us a million dollar home or an endless string of brand-new cars or bi-annual vacations in Antigua.

The reality is that my husband wants nothing more than to be with his family as much as possible. He is trying his hardest to make sure that we get to feel secure and that we feel protected and that we have everything we need. He has the weight of an entire beautiful family riding on his shoulders and he deserves every ounce of my respect, admiration and understanding. I trust that he is doing exactly what he thinks he needs to be doing for his family.

I wish I could always remember that.

In the meantime

I'm working on something kind of serious. Introspective. DEEP, even. Well, maybe. I'm like, two paragraphs in and who knows where it will all end up. But as always, I'll want your input and your thoughtful opinions and maybe we'll all learn something together!

IN THE MEANTIME, enjoy some mating tortoises. We saw them at the local zoo the other day, and I originally thought the one was having some kind of seizure. And then I turned around and looked at him from another angle and WHOOPS! He was having relations, not a seizure. MY BAD. (It sure looked and sounded like a seizure though. Can't imagine how utterly delightful that was for the other party.)

P.S. Don't you love how he couldn't bother to finish whatever was in his mouth before he decided he needed to copulate? HOW CLASSY.

Truthfully, I never even WORE that particular bathing suit, but it's not like SHE knew that

I’m guessing you won’t be remotely surprised that I sold the bathing suit.

I put it out on Saturday more as an experiment than anything else, but by 10am, it was LONG gone. Sold to a woman who also bought two of my purses and a shirt. A woman who spent a lengthy amount of time comparing and discussing the differences between our breasts and whether the $6 bathing suit would cover hers. I assured her that it would, but what do I know? AND WHAT DO I CARE? Frankly, she should have been more worried about how many crotches that bathing suit had come into contact with, and for HOW LONG EACH TIME. But she didn’t ask.

I actually spent a lot of time discussing my breasts with Yard Sale Clientele. For example, there was one woman who wanted to buy one of my adorable LOFT dresses (brown linen with a halter neckline and yellow embroidered flowers) but wanted me to give it to her for $7 (not the $10 I was asking) because she wasn’t sure it would fit. And as she was telling me this, she was gesturing wildly—first to my chest, then to her own and back again—all while wearing a rather skeptical expression, I suppose because if my sad, droopy, minimalist chest once wore that dress, than there was NO WAY ON EARTH her enormous magnificent hooters were going to squeeze in there. But then I cleverly pointed out the elasticized back and the adjustability of the halter straps and LO AND BEHOLD, ALL TEN DOLLARS WERE MINE. Never mind that I probably paid something like four times that when I bought it three years ago. It still felt like victory.

It was also amazing how many women stopped by to peruse my clothes who were (and I say this in the nicest of ways) much larger than me, but who insisted that all of my clothes were WAY WAY too big. And then there were the awkward moments when people asked me if I thought something would fit them, and I wanted to say something like, “Yes, I was about your size right before I lost some weight,” but that sounded RUDE and AWFUL, even if it was honest. Selling your own stuff is hard because you can only imagine it on YOUR OWN BODY, not someone else’s. And remaining indifferent while trying to help someone by sizing up their body, with its set of lumps and bumps that are so different from your own, is completely impossible. It just makes you sort of… judgmental, I guess. I DO NOT RECOMMEND IT.

I sold 95 percent of the clothes I brought and 75 percent of my pregnancy literature. I sold some old artwork and a film camera and my file box. I sold some lamps and picture frames and our rusty brass fireplace tools. I sold a cute blank notebook to a fourth grader for fifteen cents. I sold every purse I arrived with (more than 15 altogether). I ended up making about $175, despite the fact that Dave came to relieve me around 11:30 and proceeded to hold a $1 sale just to get rid of everything else so he didn’t have to cart it back home.

One guy bought three or four pregnancy books for the woman he was there with, and after he handed over the cash, I saw him try to smuggle them by an older woman who I assume must have been one of their mothers. She was all, “What’s THAT? What did you buy?” and he’s trying to stuff them under his shirt, mumbling, “Nothing. I didn’t buy anything.” It was rather amusing.

Then at one point there was a little old Asian man who was investigating my desk lamp who asked me, “Why are you selling this?” I thought he was accusing me of peddling crappy merchandise that didn’t work or something, so I said, “Oh, don’t worry, it works. I just don’t have room for it in our house anymore.” “Oh, ok,” he replied. “I didn’t know if you were selling it because it was a souvenir from a relationship gone bad.” I assured him that I was still very happily married, but part of me was really hoping that was some sort of awkward geriatric pick-up line.

So it was a good day. Makes me want to do it again come fall. Possibly with an entire card table devoted just to underpants. JUST FOR FUN.

Yard sellin'

So we’re participating in a yard sale on Saturday. I say “participating” because we’re not hosting it at our house. Instead, we’re joining a million other people and their carloads of crap a few blocks away in a parking lot. This is good—I prefer neutral ground for yard sales anyway, because yard sales have a tendency to be major self-esteem busters.

I get a little nervous just thinking about it. Me, in a parking lot, with a bunch of people milling around either completely disregarding my stuff or else telling me it isn’t worth what I think it’s worth and they’d like to pay me less than half of what I’m asking, thank you very much. But this is MY STUFF, and even though I don’t have room for it any more, that doesn’t mean it ISN’T NICE. So come Saturday, there I’ll be, with my stack of fives and ones trying not to cry when someone tries to offer me only two dollars for my plastic file box instead of the five it’s TOTALLY WORTH. Come ON! A FILE BOX! Sturdy plastic, gently used, comes with a neatly placed Apple sticker and a half-inch thick layer of dust. Seriously, two dollars, dude? You’ve got to be KIDDING ME!

I also am selling a bunch of clothes that don’t fit anymore, including a handful of cute dresses from Ann Taylor LOFT that I bought at the end of summer clearance in 2005 and then was too pregnant to wear in 2006 and then was too skinny (HALLELUJAH) to wear in 2007. So yes, they’re three years old, but I happen to think they’re still cute. Of course, this theory is easy to shoot down IF NO ONE BUYS THEM. And I’ll be wondering: Is this because they don’t fit anyone or because THEY’RE SO UGLY AND OUTDATED?

I’m just not very practiced at yard sales. I’m not good at having them and I’m not good at going to them. I don’t like to have them because I don’t like to bargain. And I don’t like to go to them because I don’t like to bargain. And also because I don’t want to get sucked into buying things because they’re so CHEAP only to get home and find that I have buyer’s remorse. Not because I spent too much, but because I bought something heinously ugly/pointless/broken. My family hosted a yard sale a few years ago and I was TERRIBLE at selling things. If it hadn’t been for Dave stepping in, I probably would have instigated a Buy One, Get Three Free policy. As it was, I think we only ended up making something like $100 that round. It was kind of pathetic, actually. Until I remember that a yard sale is only as pathetic as its Product Mix, of which ours basically consisted of 16 Rubbermaid tubs of old stuffed animals and a fondue pot.

The other thing that confuses me about yard sales is where to draw the line concerning Personal Items. Like, for instance, I have this bag of bathing suits that are either a little too big or a little too unflattering. Is there even any REASON to try to sell bathing suits at a yard sale? I mean, bathing suits and underwear are like, the only two things I can NEVER imagine buying secondhand. But would other people? Honestly, I’d hate to just donate them to charity without TRYING to sell them for a quick buck or two first. But then I wonder: Will I look like the Yard Sale Newbie for putting crap on my table that all the Professional Yard Salers know will NEVER SELL? Also, how embarrassing would it be to watch someone BUY YOUR OLD SWIMSUIT? About as horrifying, I imagine, as watching a total stranger try on your old bra.

All proceeds from Saturday’s yard sale will go towards furnishing Asher’s new playroom, which, BELIEVE IT OR NOT, is looking a hair better than it was last week.

THEN:


NOW:


Of course, what you’re not seeing is what it took to get us to this point. That journey included one trip to the dump, three vacuum canisters of sawdust, 3,000 decibels worth of nagging, and a giant gash in the carpet made by a circular saw. AWESOME. "Don't worry," said Dave. "I'll tape it down." Yes, Asher, doesn't that sound exactly like the playroom of your dreams? I THOUGHT SO.

I HAD NO IDEA *Now with clarification!*

HOLY CRAP, you guys. I honestly can’t figure out who among us is smoking more crack: me, the person who has a Thing that she decided to write about on the Internet in a moment of Writer’s Block, or ALL OF YOU, who actually think that all your begging and pleading will convince me to REVEAL IT. Also something that does not help your case: ALL THAT DEMANDING TO KNOW in what I perceived to be an angry tone of voice. Oh, and calling me mean and horrible! That really gets you nowhere, EVEN IF YOU WERE KIDDING.

Honestly, I had no idea this post would incite such a Comment Riot. I didn’t think you would care! And I figured if you DID care, that you’d care in a much less frightening and imposing way.

There are some things we have to address here.

First of all, if you are worried because you don’t have a Thing, and maybe you suspect you should? FEAR NOT. I promise you, if you had the same Thing I deal with, you would absolutely, most DEFINITELY know. You would so totally know, I SWEAR. What I do to myself is not something everyone needs to do. And frankly, if you must know, it doesn’t even take a full 30 minutes to correct! But I figure while I’ve secured a good chunk of time to linger in the bathroom, I might as well take a few extra minutes to paint my toenails or give myself a mini-facial or read a magazine after I attend to The Thing. Do you feel better now, Thing-less people? It’s OKAY not to have a Thing! God made you that way, which is to say, God made you a little less… uh, high-maintenance than he did some of us.

Second of all, those of you who HAVE a Thing, and who feel much like I do about MY Thing (which, in case you missed it, is: Moderately Embarrassed and Also Not Willing To Talk About It), thank you for saying so. For the most part, you all seemed to feel similarly. You deal with it discreetly, you’re sometimes ok with your spouse knowing the situation exists, but the day you have to TALK about it with that person is also the day you are DEAD INSIDE. I get that! I respect that. I don’t care if we’re talking about your mustache or your toenail fungus or those crazy nipple hairs that appear after you’ve had a baby and your hormones are going all wacko. I feel your pain. Especially about the nipple hairs, even though nipple hairs are so totally not My Thing.

THIRDLY. I am not administering enemas. I am glad that so many of you were so concerned about my Bowel Condition that you felt a pressing need to email, but no. No no no. Regularity is practically my middle name.

Fourthish. So, in all honesty, The Thing probably isn’t that big of a deal. I mean, I loved that there were a lot of you who also have a Thing that you consider moderately embarrassing and yet, you laughed about its existence with your husbands. But for me, even though I realize most of you would actually be disappointed if I revealed how non-exciting/non-horrible my Thing is, I just… I just can’t, and I think that’s because that comment, all those years ago, made me self-conscious about it for good. I mean, still, something like 15 years later, I can barely think about that moment without wanting to lie down in a busy intersection. It was MORTIFYING, you guys. So mortifying, in fact, that it pales in comparison to the time in seventh grade when someone told me that my maxi pad was so huge that it looked like I stuffed a pillow down my pants.

YES. REALLY.

So you know what’s mainly preventing me from telling you The Thing, right? I mean, besides that whole thing about how it makes me want to throw myself in front of a truck. Also because I am stubborn.

So, eh. I don’t know. Give me some more time to think on it. Let me mull it over. Allow me to become COMFORTABLE with the idea. And while I’m mulling, you can apologize for calling me mean and horrible. And then you can send money, because I am starting to wonder if perhaps I need Thing Therapy.

* * * CLARIFICATION * * *
OK, so I feel like I have to clarify that I am not the least bit angry or frustrated with anyone. This little rebuttal was written BEFORE I figured out that you guys really and honestly thought I was purposely dangling a carrot in front of you. I swear, when I wrote the original post, I thought nothing of it. I wasn't purposely trying to elude anyone, or make it into a tease. I really wasn't. And it wasn't until this post was posted (which didn't come across as lighthearted as I meant it to; I could have used a few creative writing courses in college, I guess) that I realized that. So, apologies to everyone who thinks I am angry or that their comment MADE me angry or that WE ALL CAN'T JUST GET ALONG. 

Sigh. And I hear you on the wetsuit. YOU GUYS DON'T FORGET ANYTHING, DO YOU. Well, crap. Now I owe you a wetsuit video AND my Most Embarrassing Body Quandary. SUCK.

The Thing

There’s this… thing I do every six weeks or so. It’s kind of like routine maintenance for my body. The way it works, each and every time, is that once I remember I should do it, I announce to my husband that I will be locked in the bathroom and COMPLETELY UNAVAILABLE for the next half hour or so, and then, as I’m trudging up the stairs to do my work, he peppers me with six thousand questions, all of them variations on the basic theme, “But what are you going to DO in there?”

I never tell him. I never WILL tell him. And if he really wanted to find out, all he’d have to do is rummage around in the cabinets under the sink in my bathroom and the answer would be OBVIOUS. I suppose he might never have thought of doing that (because he is respectful and kind 96 percent of the time and I make it pretty obvious that I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT), but what I like to think is that he doesn’t actually WANT to know.

Because, remember? I am the kind of wife who pees with the door open and who had a five-year battle with warts and who was suspected of CRAPPING THE BED ON HER HONEYMOON. In other words, if it embarrasses me to verbalize to him what it is I’m doing in there, it must be pretty awful.

In actuality, it probably isn’t that bad, like, at ALL, really. Except that one time in high school, someone made an offhand, joking remark about The Thing, and that comment has stuck with me ever since. I even remember what I was wearing when the comment was made (it wasn’t particularly cute). And as a result, I have remained hypervigilant about keeping The Thing under control.

Let’s be clear here: I’m not huddled inside the bathroom filing down my extra finger or shaving my unibrow into two separate entities or doing any kind of aggressive internal cleansing to prevent odor or anything. But I am still SO EMBARRASSED about it. I don’t know anyone else who does The Thing, nor do I even know of anyone who looks like they SHOULD do something about Their Thing. I feel… so alone and isolated in my… Thingness.

In fact, remember when Survivor first came out? And everyone was all, SURVIVOR! AWESOME! and the first three or four seasons were so fun to watch and everyone was thinking about how great it would be to actually be on Survivor?

And there I was, thinking, “There is no way on God’s green Earth that I could be on Survivor because what in the world would I do about My Thing?” It is bad enough that I wouldn’t be able to keep my bikini line in check (I know what you’re thinking: pre-trip WAXING, DUH, but you apparently aren’t aware of my Aggressive Hair Regrowth Problem). Anyway, HEARTBREAKER—Survivor was totally out, becuase I couldn’t let My Thing be revealed to the world via national television.

Now you’re dying to know what it is, aren’t you? I BEG OF YOU NOT TO WAGER A GUESS IN THE COMMENTS. That would just be like creating a multiple choice answer key where Dave could begin his Thing research.

Is there anything you refuse to share with your husband or spouse? I can’t be the only one, right?

Another Emily Update

Asher is screaming at me from the other room, so forgive me for cutting and pasting from Emily's CarePage. I wanted to make sure everyone who wanted to be involved was exposed to this latest fundraising effort. Also, I have gotten lots of wonderful emails from people whose children are also praying for Emily, and this is a wonderful project for them to do with you. I've also gotten lots of emails from people who want to send written messages, and this is a great way to do that!

On a related note, Emily's chemo will begin this coming Thursday. It is the first day of what will likely be at least a year (most likely, more) of treatment in Boston. Please keep the entire family in your thoughts and prayers. The good news is that they're doing great, and Emily is feeling healthy and strong.

From Emily's CarePage:

Hi everyone! This is Christie, Emily’s aunt and Katie’s sister. First, I want to say thank you so much to everyone out there for all of your love and support. I can’t tell you how much it means to Emily, Katie, Brian and to our entire family. We couldn’t get through this tough time without your countless prayers, love, and positive vibes so keep them coming! We love you all so much.

Now, I know everyone has been anxiously awaiting news on how to get their own Emily bracelet and I am very happy to say we been able to get this all figured out!

The bracelets are solid green (Emily’s favorite color!) and say Emily Faith Hope Love with tiny hearts between each word. They are adult size (not youth size). The bracelets are $5.00 each, but any donations above this amount certainly are welcome! ALL proceeds - 100% - will go into the Emily Anne Mandell Fund at Bank of America. Checks should be made to Alan Levin.

To order your own, please send a SELF-ADDRESSED, STAMPED envelope to:

Alan Levin
6319 Mayfield Lane
Warrenton, VA 20187

The bracelets weigh 2 ounces each, so please figure the weight when calculating how much postage to put on the envelope. The order for the bracelets should arrive in about 2 weeks, so if you order today your bracelet will arrive in about 2 1/2 to 3 weeks.

We are so excited to have a way for everyone to show their love and support for Emily every day from Virginia, to Boston, to Australia, and everywhere in between!

Ok, and we have another little project that we’d like to get everyone’s help on. We want to let Emily know how many people out there are thinking of her and wanting to wrap their arms around her in a big hug! If you’d like to participate, trace your hand on a piece of paper (preferably something a little bit thicker than your printer paper), and cut it out. Then decorate it however you would like and write your best wishes, thoughts and prayers to little Emily and her family. Then, send them to:

Kelin Dotts
5010 Hill Street
La Canada, California 91011

She will punch holes in them and string them all together so that Katie and Brian can hang them around her room. This will be a visual reminder of how many of us are praying for & embracing little Emily. We would like to be able to work on this and get them mailed to the Mandell family within the next couple of weeks so please spread the word and get your hand mailed out as soon as possible! Also, if you have more than one hand, it would be great if you could string them together before sending them to Kelin. Save her a little time!

Thanks so much to everyone. We are so happy to be able to show Emily how many people love and care for her and know that she is going to beat this!