|
|
cooking, knitting, and other fascinating events
Posted
November 11th, 2008
by Michelle
So… rather than the hundreds of other topics flying around my brain these last few months, I’m going to write about domestic chores I adore.
First and foremost, vacation has taught me that I really, really, really enjoy not working for a living. I’m hopeful I can do that more often. Once upon a time, I thought it would drive me crazy not to have a, y’know, “job” and all- that I needed “purpose”, “ambition”, “drive”, “meaning”, all that stuff. But right now, I think I could spend a week perfecting my baba ganoush recipe, only to abandon it to perfect french bread. Or, I could listen to NPR and knit all day. I think I could do that, and be content.
On the flip side, with the right company, I feel like I could follow my ambitions of five years ago and finally go to Africa in Peace Corps. So, I haven’t entirely lost my edge; I’ve just found some solace and peace in a wee bit of nothingness in my life, as opposed to constantly craving crises. Or, at least, I think I could find that peace, given the opportunity.
Alas, I still have to go to work every day, and most likely will have to continue doing so- in one form or another- for another 30 years or so. But the love I am finding in cleaning out closets, finding new uses for arugula, and tying colored ribbon around clean sheet sets is really revelatory for me, considering I’ve been a completely focused career girl for as long as I can remember.
I don’t know how age is manifesting in me, other than the typical ticking clock and the new crop of silver hairs my stylist fights with every time I get my hair done. (Seriously? Those things stick straight up. They are thick, wiry, and stubborn, and my stylist has to use some serious goop to get them to lay down with the rest of my highlights.) But I wonder if this nesting impulse, this love of hearth and home, of bubbling pots and clicking knitting needles and the sheer joy I feel when the yeast blooms for an impending loaf of honey whole wheat bread is all a result of age.
Or maybe it’s more that I’ve finally found my talent when it comes to arts and crafts. I’ve always been a wretched artist; even my handwriting is embarrassing. But I’ve always wanted to create, beyond the written word or song interpretation, and now I feel like I’ve found my niche. Maybe it was a disservice that traditional Home Ec had been cut from the school day by the time I was in 7th grade (and maybe I did myself a disservice by insisting on taking Shop so I could make napkin holders) but this, like so many other things in my life, is a joy that has come to me later than expected.
But I’m delighted it’s here now. And my baba ganoush rocks.
In brief
Posted
October 30th, 2008
by Michelle
Thursdays are usually my favorite day of the week. I’m always up early, and to work early, because I take an hour and a half out of my day to go to my favorite yoga class with my most favorite yoga teacher ever. And the class always colors my day in gentle, warm hues, fueling productivity while keeping me somewhat saner than usual as I navigate the madness of my work.
Thursday also means the next day is Friday, which is followed by two days generally spent in the house that I love, or with friends that I love and rarely get to see.
Today, however, I missed yoga, because of a wretched grant deadline, and we had the first rainfall and therefore the first dark day of the year. Truly, it was the first time that wet stuff fell from the sky since April. And although I find some comfort in the rain- it means I don’t feel pressured to get out and enjoy yet another perfectly gorgeous California day- I struggle with the darkness, and I know that with daylight savings just a few days away, we’ll be plunged into dark all the earlier.
But it was still a good day, for a few reasons: I work with really smart and fun people; we’re almost done with the grant; and there is such possibility in my world right now that how can I feel dimmed by a dark sky. I can’t help but obsessively watch the electoral map and pray for more blue. And I can’t help but daydream huge swaths of my day away. This is a turning point on so many levels, and I’m almost sick with anticipation.
on having children
Posted
August 4th, 2008
by Michelle
I turned 36 not too long ago, and my life is shifting in a way that makes the idea of having children a real possibility in the next couple of years. Well, I should say, that that idea of trying to have children is a real possibility. So many people I know and love are struggling with this right now, so all I can do is hope that when the time comes, my ovaries and uterus and his lil’ swimmers all cooperate, play nice, and aren’t too aged. But that may be the topic of another series of blogs, quite some time from now.
Now, all I can think about is: what is it going to be like? What is it going to be like giving up my fierce individuality and particularity (which entails everything to how I load the forks in the dishwasher to how I’m not accustomed to a partner of any kind) when first I enter into a relationship, and then when I (ye gods willing) bring forth another human into this world? How will I negotiate all of it? I really don’t know. I’m very curious. But I’m also terrified.
First of all, I’m the youngest of five, so, it may be possible that I’ve never, I repeat, NEVER, changed a diaper. I wasn’t one who wanted to babysit kids when I was younger and looking for work in the neighborhood; instead, I was the cat-sitter and dog walker. Cats and dogs I understand. But, um, a kid? Lucy and Barnaby may be the first babies I held since Sean Patrick and Lucas were born, lo over 20 years ago. And now I’m somehow supposed to figure out how to hold one, and feed it and care for it and know how to make it feel better ALL THE TIME? I really don’t know how much of this is encoded in the female DNA. I think most of it is learned, and I really haven’t had the chance.
I taught myself to cook through books and questions. I taught myself to run a non-profit the same way. I taught myself Excel by wandering through it for hours on end (and then asking my staff to make my spreadsheets do what I want them to do when I get frustrated). I don’t think that’s exactly going to work with a baby.
I feel really comfortable- and really competent- with infants, and with 20-year-olds. What am I supposed to say for the other 19 years?
What’s it going to be like if I’m lucky enough to get pregnant? How will I deal with the additional body issues? My mom says that the butterfly tattoo on my belly will look like a pterodactyl. That would be awesome. But. How will I not be scared all the time? What will it mean for my career? What if I have a baby and then never, ever want to work again? What if I have a baby and can’t wait to get back to work? What if I have TWINS?!
The thing is, I have no idea what it’s going to be like. I already feel woefully unprepared, terrified that between my inexperience and linear, particular ways, I might be a crappy mom.
But, maybe not. Maybe not. And the thing is, next to marrying the man I love, there is nothing that excites me more than the idea of giving it a shot.
Posted
May 30th, 2008
by Michelle
For about two years, in the late 90’s, I worked at a restaurant in Hollywood that shall remain nameless. It was less a restaurant and more a “chicken shack”, as we called it not so much affectionately, and at night it turned into *the* place to be if you were a young, hot movie or TV star, hip Scientologist, or poor drunk unemployed actor. I served cocktails to Kristie Alley, Tina Fey, Jenna Elfman, Edward Norton, Fiona Apple. I brought free french fries to Jonathan Silverman more than once because I kinda felt sorry for him that his most memorable role was in “Weekend at Bernie’s”. I made almost as much money as I make now, except all in cash, working four five-hour shifts a week.
I had a wretched crush on the bartender, who was a decade my senior but strong and adorable. (When I finally confessed my crush, on my last day of work, he basically smiled ruefully and patted my head.) I was also systematically ostracized by almost every person who worked there. The owner used to joke- incessantly- that I must be on Prozac, because who in god’s name is happy most of the time? The people who worked there, my colleages, my partners in crime, would loudly make post-work plans and pointedly not invite me. One time, a certain waiter and waitress were discussing renting a movie after work, when they realized neither of them would get off in time to make it to the rental place before it closed. (There were always three of us working the floor, and I was the one who was to be “cut” first that eve, which meant both of them worked late.) The waitress, knowing I got off early, actually looked at me, said, “Hey, would you rent a movie for me and (fill in name) to watch?!” and walked away chortling at the funny like clown joke she had just made.
Everyone there were “actors” who just hadn’t quite made it yet. This waitress in particular had been working at the chicken shack for eight years, and let’s just say the bloom of her youth, according to Hollywood standards, had left her some time ago. Alcohol, cigarettes, late nights, and an angry, cruel, bitter heart had aged her well past ingenue status. I was somehow still firmly in that category, and she loathed me for it. She also hated that I was an accomplished singer, since she fancied herself talented, even though- and I’m just saying this as fact- the girl couldn’t sing in tune. One time, I was singing a little Alanis Morisette to myself, and the waitress happened to walk by, and she looked at me and sneered, “ugh, that just sounds so… *perfect*”, indicating that if I was a *real* singer, it would have been, I dunno, more raw, more interesting.
I once made one decent friend there, a guy whose first night on the job was with me and one of my coworkers who was far more decent to me. We hit it off, and started spending time together outside of work. He was a mess, but he was a friend. And, then, I took two weeks off to travel to Italy, and by the time I’d gotten back, the waitress had turned his eye away from me- and indeed, was the cohort who guffawed when the waitress asked me to rent movies for them.
It was a sad, dark time, for so many reasons, but the really, truly disturbing part of all of this is I took it. I never once defended myself from the attacks, never once told one of them to fuck right off, never came back with equally ugly retorts. I may as well have laid down on the cold, sticky, ketchup-covered cement floor and allowed them to take turns kicking me. I dreaded every moment of being there, when I was there, when I was off at the beach, when I was anywhere. It was an infectious, poisonous place, where I gulped the Kool-Aid by the bucketful without ever once raising an eyebrow.
I know I’d never let that happen now, and indeed, I’ve become someone wholly unafraid of positive confrontation. But it saddens me that for two years, I spent my days mostly alone, my evenings selling my soul for a paycheck, and my nights, without exception, entirely alone. It was also my skinniest two years, which I accomplished by obsessive cardio exercise and utterly starving myself. Really, I was starving myself in numerous ways, and it just makes me sad that I was willing to do any of it. It’s stunning how poorly those people treated me; but even more stunning was my willingness to embrace the abuse.
strong wish of walking
Posted
May 27th, 2008
by Michelle
So, it’s been ages, I know, and with sunshine beckoning (which means everything from gardening to trips to the coast to cruiser-riding) I just don’t know if I can do better by this blog. Also, even though I’ve had no compunction in the past about writing about everything from heartache to surgery on my bum, I’ve finally learned that not everything should be public domain. That, or I’m just getting too damn lazy to write as much as I used to. Either way, I’ll do my best to either write with some degree of regularity, or be done with this. We’ll see how I do.
Seven AM this morning found me in upstate New York, where I was the very last person to leave the annual Jartacular. I was most definitely the very last person to pack, and indeed, were it not for the driving prowess and hyper awareness of my sister-in-law Tessa, I would have missed the train that got me to the subway that got me to Queens that got me into Sean’s car to get to the airport to fly back to California. Six hours in the air and 1 1/2 hours in the car and now I’m back in my house, wishing I could sleep and dream the rest of the week away.
Between work and play, I now travel so often that I am creepily familiar with even the lane changes necessary to best navigate into the weird long-term parking lot I use in Oakland. My modus operandi for all things packing and planning is so familiar- everything from the pre-trip lists and duties to the post-trip schedule for unpacking- that I can almost sleepwalk through it. I’ll admit I much prefer the planning of play trips rather than work trips, but many of the logistics are the same. The only real difference is wardrobe.
It feels so strange to go from inhabiting one world to an altogether different world in the space of half a day. In some ways, that is what I love about travel; but in other ways, it also makes me ask a rather melancholy question, which is this: am I any different now, because of this trip? This time, I can most enthusiastically say “yes” to that question. But that hasn’t always been the case, and that, I think, is what I ultimately sometimes find difficult about traveling. I don’t know why I seem to feel I need to have a value judgement of sorts on my trips, but there’s been many times that I’ve flown across the country (or even just driven two hours up the coast) and returned home, not having found whatever it was I was looking for, which sometimes led me to wishing I’d just stayed home.
This trip, however, was lovely on so many levels, and now I wonder if I couldn’t just leave my bag packed by the door, and choose where to go tomorrow. I know I’ll just end up at work, like I’m supposed to, but when your bag is already packed, it’s awful tempting just to keep on going.
jitters
Posted
April 23rd, 2008
by Michelle
I’ve been experiencing a profound restlessness of late, and not the usual Michelle-boring-garden-variety “whatever should I do with my life?” kind of restlessness. It’s been a physical restlessness, that no matter how tired I am from my day, no matter how sleepy I get at night, I can’t seem to rest. I get home from long days at work and I can’t sit, can’t burrow into my fantastically comfortable couch to watch guilty pleasure TV. I don’t allow myself to do this often, so I’m wondering why my body isn’t letting me do it at *all*. I come home, do whatever I need to do for the evening (chores, cook, rearrange my sock drawer, etc.) and then I try to settle in and I literally can’t.
I’d say I have that new invented “restless leg syndrome” disease, except for it’s in my whole body. So I get up and do pathetically geeky things- like, set out the clothes for the next day (gym clothes, check, real clothes, check, what day is tomorrow? Spin or yoga? check) or even get the coffee maker as ready as possible for my morning ritual (one packet of Splenda, cinnamon, favorite travel mug, check) until I run out of things to do. Then it’s off to nighttime trimming of roses out in my yard to put on the table. Check.
And then it’s still only 10:12 PM, and I know no matter how tired I am, I’m hours away from sleep. Cue digging out best possible bad fantasy novels, diving between warm flannel sheets, and then reading for, literally, hours.
Maybe it’s because I’m exercising too little, or more likely, too much. Maybe it’s because, let’s be honest, it feels like a hundred years since I’ve, umm, *known* someone, in the biblical sense. Maybe it’s because my stress level at work is at a whole new, Grade A, fuel-injected 241 horsepower high. Maybe it’s a combination of things. But I’m running out of fantasy novels, and heading toward full-scale actual exhaustion.
But… it’s that time of night again. At least the roses are beautiful.
I said no, no, no
Posted
April 22nd, 2008
by Michelle
I’ve had a strangely long and emotional day. I didn’t sleep last night- truly, tossed and turned and looked at the clock most of the hours of the night- because of the fear of today. Today was, at work, a very charged day, for a number of reasons, and I spent most of last night talking myself out of giving in to fear. Fear of anger, fear of disappointing people, fear of retribution, fear of unfair but still painful attacks. And yet… most of what I met with today was grace. And I was humbled, and moved by that grace. There are a lot of people in the world who are comfortable with being and acting from a low, ugly place; but there are also a lot of people who, faced with rejection or loss, see through it all and respond with an open heart. This doesn’t happen often in my line of work, but it happened today, and I am grateful.
At one point today, I quite literally flung myself on the floor of my office, in front of my staff, arms to the sky, and thanked the gods. At another point today, I danced alone in my jammies to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” with- no joke- a big glass of red wine in my hand. It’s been one of those days.
But this idea of giving in to fear is something that has been haunting me lately. It seems there is so much to fear, if I choose to operate from that place. There is everything from: when I answer this call, will it be someone who is unkind? to, will I ever be lucky enough to have children? And sometimes it threatens to pull me under. Last night, when my staff was in hour 10 of what would be a 13-hour day, one of them had the insight to say, “I don’t want to make a decision on this based on fear, or on finances, or on anything other than what we truly believe in.” And so we made a courageous decision, and today, when I expected the house of cards to fall down… well, it turns out it was made of stronger stuff.
The aftermath is not done. Tomorrow might be even tougher than today. But I’m grateful to be in this work, and grateful that I’ve managed to surround myself with people who can be strong, even when I can’t. And it inspires me to recommit, to these people, to my work, and to my life, even when things feel so fuzzy and strange. I’m still in desperate need of a couple of weeks in Hawaii, but for now, I’m here, and I’m in.
brown paper packages tied up with string
Posted
April 19th, 2008
by Michelle
Just a few of my favorite things…
Barnaby’s smile:
Sweet Hildy’s unconditional love:
Barnaby “making eggs” in the bath:
Barnaby putting up with Aunt Michelle’s adoration:
sacramento, part II
Posted
April 15th, 2008
by Michelle
Three breezy days in a city where things actually happen. The company of people from all over the state who are smart, seasoned, and yet who also see this as a learning experience. The finding out that the five of us were chosen from forty, that maybe we are just a little bit special. The finding out that my organization won another grant… and finding out face-to-face with the program officer, who is as excited to tell me as I am to hear it.
The shifting of feeling dismissed to feeling valued. The ability to serve, in a way that matters most. The ability to be a part of a process that brings arts education to children.
Another hotel room, with crisp white sheets and free internet, where I don’t mind that the view from my windows is of the dumpsters.
And the wondering, if I could go back to living half a life on the road: would it feel any more or less like home? And the realization: maybe I need to stop wondering, and need to start focusing on the life I do have.
Sacramento
Posted
April 13th, 2008
by Michelle
A desolate pool surrounded by empty chairs and a nodding, creaky “WARNING” sign that no one has thought to properly bolt down in years. A still, unseasonably hot afternoon, after hours in the car. A quiet walk to a small, dark hotel room with mismatched everything including a tired white duvet paired with a long brown velour body pillow.
The sadness of friends gone back to foreign lands, and a birthday party missed for a little one. The depression of looking in the mirror and seeing the same body, no matter how many torturous hours in the gym. The exhaustion of trying so hard to have fun the night before, when emptiness was the real order of business.
The cavernous maw of the week ahead, the stings of the week before, and an unsettled uncertain hope that guides what I do. Another evening of pouring over work at the bar of an unfamiliar restaurant in an unfamiliar town. Another weekend shaped around the work that spilled over from the last week.
The dread of a life long hoped for, and the yearning for something altogether different, again. The battle against loneliness, against anxiety.
And the going to bed, only to get up, to do what is expected, whatever is next. And the knowledge that, sometime soon, I’m going to snap.
|
