Went to storytime at the library this week (the first time I’ve dared to show my face at this event since last year when Henry knocked over a little girl with a cast on her leg trying to be the first kid to get a hand stamp from the library lady…) and ran into a woman I know from the playground. We’re not close or anything--I initially thought she was one of those smug SAHMs one sometimes encounters. But I’ve kind of come to appreciate her after a handful of conversations over the past year and a half.
Anyway, she and her husband have a relatively modest house on a chic little country road not far from Lovetown. They have apparently decided that they’re in over their heads and are walking away from their mortgage. They’re moving to a neighboring county on the other side of the mountains where the skies are blue and the necks are red. And the houses are cheap. She seemed upbeat, but I was kind of shaken. Had her pegged as a princess only to find that they’ve been scraping by on one teacher’s salary and just couldn’t take it anymore.
She also informed me that the fabulous 70 acre estate across the road from her (which I’ve often drooled over) is on the market (for over 5 mil). Rumor has it that the upstanding owners are splitting up.
I like to think I’ve got a fair amount to bitch about: a quirky old house, an intractable husband, the economic insecurity of the self-employed and so on. But this was one of those interludes that makes you think about how good you’ve got it. So, let me say (particularly in light of my last post) that I’m grateful for our decrepit (but cozy) farmhouse. Grateful for our wide open spaces and the often stunning view from the front porch. Grateful for my raucous but sustaining marriage. And, of course, ever so grateful that the powers that be have chosen to bestow our little podunk with DSL technology so I can blog a little and effortlessly facebook every day for 15 minutes during naptime.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Outcast in Exurbia
Had a cup of tea the other day with a high school friend who recently moved back to exurban hell after living in Europe for a number of years. She seems pretty happy about it, God bless her.
“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”
“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.
To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.
I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.
It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.
Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.
Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...
“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”
“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.
To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.
I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.
It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.
Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.
Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...
Saturday, November 22, 2008
NO Nostalgia
Experiencing an intense wave of New Orleans nostalgia after reading Poppy Z. Brite’s recent post about Cajun eggnog daiquiris. I have such wonderful (if hazy) memories of cruising through City Park during the annual Christmas lights display while sipping an eggnog daiquiri. (By the way, if you’re in any way surprised or offended by the idea of someone driving around with a to-go cup full of alcohol in one hand, you have clearly not spent enough time in New Orleans). I’ve noticed that while I wear my love for Paris and New York on my sleeve, I tend to bury memories of New Orleans. For the most part, I find that they’re either too painful or too sublime to contemplate, full of the sense of manic depression that was an ongoing motif during my years there. Seems like I was always either elated or miserable. Of course it could have had something to do with all the booze. But there’s something about that city that lends itself to heartache.
More memories stirred up with the realization that my alma mater is in the process of being dissolved. Well, sort of. While I got my diploma from Tulane University (which is still, from what I’ve read, alive and kicking), I actually attended the women’s coordinate college, Sophie Newcomb. After Katrina hit, Tulane decided to get rid of Newcomb College as a separate entity and merge it with a bunch of other undergrad colleges to save money. While I suppose I was vaguely aware of this through some propaganda from the school that came my way after the storm, it has only recently taken hold in my awareness. The restructuring has inflamed a group of alumnae who contend that money hungry Tulane is just looking to grab up Newcomb’s endowment. It’s kind of like poor old Sophie’s been date raped, used up and left high and dry. The ladies are backing a descendent of Mrs. Newcomb who has filed lawsuit against the university seeking to restore Newcomb to its former glory. While I’m about the farthest thing from a Newcomb groupie and have mixed feelings about my entire college experience, I do feel a little unsettled at the idea of my alma mater vanishing from the earth. Oh well, nothing a little eggnog daiquiri wouldn’t cure, I’m sure.
More memories stirred up with the realization that my alma mater is in the process of being dissolved. Well, sort of. While I got my diploma from Tulane University (which is still, from what I’ve read, alive and kicking), I actually attended the women’s coordinate college, Sophie Newcomb. After Katrina hit, Tulane decided to get rid of Newcomb College as a separate entity and merge it with a bunch of other undergrad colleges to save money. While I suppose I was vaguely aware of this through some propaganda from the school that came my way after the storm, it has only recently taken hold in my awareness. The restructuring has inflamed a group of alumnae who contend that money hungry Tulane is just looking to grab up Newcomb’s endowment. It’s kind of like poor old Sophie’s been date raped, used up and left high and dry. The ladies are backing a descendent of Mrs. Newcomb who has filed lawsuit against the university seeking to restore Newcomb to its former glory. While I’m about the farthest thing from a Newcomb groupie and have mixed feelings about my entire college experience, I do feel a little unsettled at the idea of my alma mater vanishing from the earth. Oh well, nothing a little eggnog daiquiri wouldn’t cure, I’m sure.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
In Case You Were Wondering...
I’m delighted to report that the local library can take me off the delinquent list: my very kind NYC friend Jake had Amazon send me a copy of Ballistics. Astoundingly thoughtful, and in the midst of a pre-wedding maelstrom no less. My old roommate Eileen said that she was on the verge of doing the same thing, all of which I find very touching (not to mention encouraging since it means that a few people other than my husband are reading this blog). This, by the way, was not at all what I was going for with that post. However, in case any of the rest of you are feeling generous, I could really use a VitaMix blender and a Volvo station wagon. Have been dividing my arts and leisure time (such as it is) among Billy Collins, Julia Glass’s new novel I See You Everywhere (a library book I am enjoying but do not in the least feel the need to own), the latest VF and the final episodes (thank God) of the original Star Trek series. Billy, by the way, apparently does not have a facebook fan page. Either that or he has taken up the bass and changed his name to Bootsy.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Just figured out my next career move...
Just had a great idea for the president-elect: why not make me ambassador to France? I really do, as they say on facebook, have more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin. Plus, it would provide job for yet another unemployed American. I think I'd be a hit over there and I'm sure I'd get along swimmingly with Carla (and her husband). So, Barack, what do you say? Maybe after you've tackled that nagging treasury appointment, we can get down to the important stuff!
Halos & Heinekens
My perfect angel is getting to be downright sassy these days. Now that she’s on the go (mostly kind of slithering on her belly), she wants to be on the ground at all times and puts up a fuss when she doesn’t get her way. Her favorite activity: picking up debris from the floor, looking right at me as she pops whatever it is into her mouth, and then crawling away as fast as she can while laughing devilishly.
She’s been down on the afternoon nap these days and turns into quite a crabapple later in the day. The window between 5 and 7 pm is usually rather hellish around here. Henry’s usually kind of surly after his nap (if I can get him to take one) and now with baby sis getting in on the act, it devolves into one of those old Calgon commercials with the screaming/whining children, the pot boiling over on the stove etc. Unfortunately, they don’t make Calgon anymore, so no chance of getting taken away... On top of that, Christian has been working in another accursed exurb about an hour away and has been getting home late, so it’s been kind of an exercise in solo parenting for the old mama. Not complaining though because it’s paying the bills…
He did get home the other day in time for me to scoot over to a tennis class I’ve been taking at our local community center (which has pretty much become the hub of my universe). Fun class, but the best part was having a couple beers with the ladies afterward. We closed down Lovetown’s new pizza joint (at 10 pm!). Didn’t know two little beers could give one a hangover, but apparently that’s all it takes anymore. (This is the same gal who once put away a magnum of Pierre Gimonnet over pork chops with one other person.) Marriage, commuting, pregnancy and, now, breastfeeding have led me to cut waaay back. But the nursing gravy train is getting ready to unload its little passenger. Will this mean a return to the drinking life? Unlikely. While it wasn’t so bad nursing a hangover in an office (you know, you can kind of hide under your desk and try to leave early), the days in the motherhood game are just too grueling to survive in a depleted state. But a couple of Heinekens with some new friends….that I can handle.
She’s been down on the afternoon nap these days and turns into quite a crabapple later in the day. The window between 5 and 7 pm is usually rather hellish around here. Henry’s usually kind of surly after his nap (if I can get him to take one) and now with baby sis getting in on the act, it devolves into one of those old Calgon commercials with the screaming/whining children, the pot boiling over on the stove etc. Unfortunately, they don’t make Calgon anymore, so no chance of getting taken away... On top of that, Christian has been working in another accursed exurb about an hour away and has been getting home late, so it’s been kind of an exercise in solo parenting for the old mama. Not complaining though because it’s paying the bills…
He did get home the other day in time for me to scoot over to a tennis class I’ve been taking at our local community center (which has pretty much become the hub of my universe). Fun class, but the best part was having a couple beers with the ladies afterward. We closed down Lovetown’s new pizza joint (at 10 pm!). Didn’t know two little beers could give one a hangover, but apparently that’s all it takes anymore. (This is the same gal who once put away a magnum of Pierre Gimonnet over pork chops with one other person.) Marriage, commuting, pregnancy and, now, breastfeeding have led me to cut waaay back. But the nursing gravy train is getting ready to unload its little passenger. Will this mean a return to the drinking life? Unlikely. While it wasn’t so bad nursing a hangover in an office (you know, you can kind of hide under your desk and try to leave early), the days in the motherhood game are just too grueling to survive in a depleted state. But a couple of Heinekens with some new friends….that I can handle.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
True Blue
You know it’s truuuuuue. We turned Virginia bluuuue.
(Must give credit for that charming little couplet to my old pal Libby from my days as a reporterette at a local rag.)
Oh man, it’s delicious! And the Old Dominion electing a second Democratic senator: icing. Haven’t actually done a cartwheel yet. Too exhausted from staying up all night crying tears of joy. And fighting with the old man. He was all hot under the collar because BO said we could “perfect our union”. Doesn’t take too kindly to anyone trying to one-up the founding fathers…
Don’t know if I’m gonna be able to contain myself when Barack winds up meeting Carla. Is it legal to have that much cool in one room?
(Must give credit for that charming little couplet to my old pal Libby from my days as a reporterette at a local rag.)
Oh man, it’s delicious! And the Old Dominion electing a second Democratic senator: icing. Haven’t actually done a cartwheel yet. Too exhausted from staying up all night crying tears of joy. And fighting with the old man. He was all hot under the collar because BO said we could “perfect our union”. Doesn’t take too kindly to anyone trying to one-up the founding fathers…
Don’t know if I’m gonna be able to contain myself when Barack winds up meeting Carla. Is it legal to have that much cool in one room?
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