Beyond the Mood Meter

My son's school uses the RULER approach for their social-emtional development curriculum.   We went to one of the meetings at school the other night and they talked about the mood meter.  The mood meter is a cool tool where you plot your energy level against your mood.  There is even an app for this.  I downloaded it for $0.99 from moodmeterapp.com.

Red means high energy and low mood (generally angry).
Yellow means high energy and high mood (generally happy).

Green means low energy and high mood (generally peaceful).

Blue means low energy and low mood (generally sad).

Each point has an attached emotion.  The one below shows despair, the bottom corner point in the blue section.

The upper left corner is enraged.

There are other emotions that are more moderate, like serene and peaceful.  But I am not talking about those.  I am talking at times when our lives fall of the rails, when we are Beyond the Mood Meter.

Enraged is pretty mad.  Can someone be more than enraged?  I would argue there are different levels of enraged.  Someone lies to you about something important that impacts your job.  A special project you've been working on for years gets cut because of the budget was mismanaged by someone else.  You might be enraged.  You find your spouse isn't honest?  That is beyond the mood meter.

What about despair?  Someone could be in despair about losing a job.  No doubt that is bad.  That ranks high on many lists of things that cause loads of stress.  What about a child with cancer?  Or a baby who died?  Off the mood meter.  Or let's say you lost your job because someone you know lied about you.  You might feel both enraged and despair -- low energy and high energy duking it out for who gets top billing.

Happy Children, Part II

Lately, I've been pondering the question of happy children: is happiness a personality trait, a state of mind, or both?  I am guessing both, but I suppose a larger portion is inborn.  Mores, each person's manifestation of happiness is different.  While Winnie the Pooh and Piglet are probably close on the spectrum, could Eeyore ever be as happy as Tigger?  Each of their ideas of happiness is likely different, like colors on the Pantone color chart.  I bet Tigger's is a bright orange, while Eeyore's happy is grey.  As far as moods go, Tigger is probably happier.  On the other hand, I doubt Tigger would be happy with a popped balloon and an empty honey pot like Eeyore was.  The donkey had such low expectations that he even liked the worst birthday gifts.  He was happy that someone thought of him.

I was thinking about Eeyore and Tigger when I came across the "Editor's Note" in this month's Utne Reader (Summer 2014) which discusses the topic of why some art or music transform us.  Christian Williams quotes NPR science correspondent robert Krulwich:

"We are born with a sort of mood in us, a mood that comes to us from our genes, that will be seasoned by experience, but deep down, it's already there, looking for compnay, for someone to share itself with, and when we happen on the right piece of music, the right person, or, in this case the right artist, then, with a muscle that is as deep as ourselves, with the force of a life preserver, we attach."

This comment, albeit a non-scientific one, supports my theory.  "We are born with a mood in us..."  I look at my own two kids and see their different moods.  When my daughter was an infant, she was a fussy baby.  I wouldn't say cholic--it was more than that. This was her general way of being.  I was obsessed with figuring out why she was the way she was, and how I could help her to be more calm.  There was a high dose of self-interest here: a mellow baby is simpler to care for and tend to.  If she were happy, I wouldn't need to assess her mood before going to the grocery store.  If she were in a snit, mission aborted.  I did not have the reserve or skill set to manage a tantrum in the store.  It wasn't worth it.

The magic word during that time for me was temperament.  The best book I found was Raising Your Spirited Child by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka.  Much of this book is about how to help your child adapt to his environment to help them decrease their stress levels.  A spirited child might be like Tigger or Eeyore, with goal of helping them find a more reasonable emotional state closer to Pooh or Piglet.  Can you imagine Eeyore or Piglet stuck in Rabbit's hole for a week?  Help the mother who has to deal with that.

But temperament can evolve.  My daughter had a difficult time before she started kindergarten, was fine though elementary, and is a case study of the agrumentative and moody teen.  But will she be happy?  My guess is she will have her own version of happy, different from anyone else's, likely a rare and hidden color on the Pantone charts.  Time will tell what color her happy will be.  And like Krulwich says, may she find someone to share it.

"What do You Do All Day?" or The Used to Be's

Last night, I asked my daughter to fold the laundry.  After school, she went and hung out with some friends and went swimming at the "beach" at Green Lake.  (Yes, swimming in Green Lake.  In May.  In Seattle.)  After dinner, she was going to work on her Personal Passion Project for school.  I asked her to help fold about a weeks worth of laundry before she worked on her project which is due in two weeks.  Folding laundry for 20 minutes was not going to set her back.  Naturally, she was annoyed. Reading and writing about Greek myth is far more interesting than sorting socks.

"What do you do all day?" she asked, implying that since I don't have a job outside of the home, I should be folding all of the laundry.

What do I do?  At first, I was a little defensive, thinking I am busy and productive.  I run errands, do PTA and school volunteer work, hangout with friends, manage the house, pay the bills, cook most meals and write.  I didn't know what to say.  Jack came to my defense and told her she was insensitive and rude, a trait shared by many thirteen year olds.

The next morning, I went to my office and picked up both of my yet-to-be published books.  One is the story of becoming a mother after losing a child.  The other is the story of my brother's lost battle with schizophrenia.  I plopped them in front of her while she was looking for a pair of socks.

"This," I said, "is what I do all day."  She stared at the ream and a half of paper.

"Oh," she said.

I let the stack speak for itself.  This was way longer than the 15 page "prezi" presentation on Greek mythology she had created for school.  The longest prose piece she has written was twelve pages.  It was a lovely gothic romance, a fiction writing assignment for school.  In all of past, present and future K-12 education, I doubt she'll approach 180,000 words if we were to total up all of her work.

"Oh," she said again.  She seemed remorseful and impressed.

"This is what I do all day," I said.  "And I'd do more, except I have to run to the grocery store during the day to buy you peanut butter."  The fancy kind of peanut butter from QFC where the machine grinds the nuts right there at the store.

"I used to work at a day job.  A day job where I worked 60 hours a week and traveled almost every week,"  I said.  "I traveled so much one year I paid taxes in California even though I was living in Chicago at the time."

"Oh."

"I couldn't keep traveling with your father's schedule," I said.  "We'd need to get overnight childcare."

"Oh."

I wasn't trying to beat her down, but I didn't want her to think I was a slacker.

But really, I have mixed feelings about all of this.  I've talked to several friends who have also walked away from workaholic jobs to raise kids.  I'll call us "The Used to Be's."  One of them used to be a manager at a large dot com.  Another was a music promoter for a major record label who traveled around the world accompanying rock bands.  International tax accountant.  I could go on with the women I've known who gave up the all consuming job for their kids.

"I know myself," my friend Helen said.  "I get wrapped up with work and I can't turn it off.  If that happens, how can I be there for my kids?"

I haven't read Sheryl Sanberg's Lean In, but I understand the premise is that there aren't enough women in the C-suites.  I completely understand.  However, the only way I could have maintained my career would have been to
a) live in the same town with the grandparents who could have raised my kids,
b) married a guy with a 9 to 5 job, or
c) paid someone else to raise my kids.

Since choices a and b were not options, I was looking at c.  After my first child died, I wasn't ready to outsource parenting.  I wanted to be there for the ones who lived.

So here I am.  Me, a Used to Be.  Yes, not having a day job causes internal conflict and turmoil at times.  No, I am not certain I made the right decision.  I question it all of the time.

And now, I have another reason to question it: What will my daughter think of me not working?  What kind of role model am I being?  It used to by hypothetical, but now it is real.

My friend Helen mentioned to her boys that she used to work.  "You mean workout?" one replied.  She was mortified.

And yet, some of us chose careers that were simply ill-suited for motherhood.  I have lawyer, psychologist and doctor friends who have flexible schedules.  Others of us aren't so lucky.  "I can't work during tax season," said my accountant friend.  She shudders when she talks about it, and quickly changes the subject.

And how do we go back?  My music promoter said it was a young person's job.  She can't go back to globe trotting with two kids.  She would never be home.  Now the challenge is what can she do: she had a job she can't go back to.

I don't have an answer for us Used to Be's.  In the meantime, I'll be at the grocery store in the peanut butter aisle, writing my blog, and working on my books.

"What do You Do All Day?" or The Used to Be's

Last night, I asked my daughter to fold the laundry.  After school, she went and hung out with some friends and went swimming at the "beach" at Green Lake.  (Yes, swimming in Green Lake.  In May.  In Seattle.)  After dinner, she was going to work on her Personal Passion Project for school.  I asked her to help fold about a weeks worth of laundry before she worked on her project which is due in two weeks.  Folding laundry for 20 minutes was not going to set her back.  Naturally, she was annoyed. Reading and writing about Greek myth is far more interesting than sorting socks.

"What do you do all day?" she asked, implying that since I don't have a job outside of the home, I should be folding all of the laundry.

What do I do?  At first, I was a little defensive, thinking I am busy and productive.  I run errands, do PTA and school volunteer work, hangout with friends, manage the house, pay the bills, cook most meals and write.  I didn't know what to say.  Jack came to my defense and told her she was insensitive and rude, a trait shared by many thirteen year olds.

The next morning, I went to my office and picked up both of my yet-to-be published books.  One is the story of becoming a mother after losing a child.  The other is the story of my brother's lost battle with schizophrenia.  I plopped them in front of her while she was looking for a pair of socks.

"This," I said, "is what I do all day."  She stared at the ream and a half of paper.

"Oh," she said.

I let the stack speak for itself.  This was way longer than the 15 page "prezi" presentation on Greek mythology she had created for school.  The longest prose piece she has written was twelve pages.  It was a lovely gothic romance, a fiction writing assignment for school.  In all of past, present and future K-12 education, I doubt she'll approach 180,000 words if we were to total up all of her work.

"Oh," she said again.  She seemed remorseful and impressed.

"This is what I do all day," I said.  "And I'd do more, except I have to run to the grocery store during the day to buy you peanut butter."  The fancy kind of peanut butter from QFC where the machine grinds the nuts right there at the store.

"I used to work at a day job.  A day job where I worked 60 hours a week and traveled almost every week,"  I said.  "I traveled so much one year I paid taxes in California even though I was living in Chicago at the time."

"Oh."

"I couldn't keep traveling with your father's schedule," I said.  "We'd need to get overnight childcare."

"Oh."

I wasn't trying to beat her down, but I didn't want her to think I was a slacker.

But really, I have mixed feelings about all of this.  I've talked to several friends who have also walked away from workaholic jobs to raise kids.  I'll call us "The Used to Be's."  One of them used to be a manager at a large dot com.  Another was a music promoter for a major record label who traveled around the world accompanying rock bands.  International tax accountant.  I could go on with the women I've known who gave up the all consuming job for their kids.

"I know myself," my friend Helen said.  "I get wrapped up with work and I can't turn it off.  If that happens, how can I be there for my kids?"

I haven't read Sheryl Sanberg's Lean In, but I understand the premise is that there aren't enough women in the C-suites.  I completely understand.  However, the only way I could have maintained my career would have been to
a) live in the same town with the grandparents who could have raised my kids,
b) married a guy with a 9 to 5 job, or
c) paid someone else to raise my kids.

Since choices a and b were not options, I was looking at c.  After my first child died, I wasn't ready to outsource parenting.  I wanted to be there for the ones who lived.

So here I am.  Me, a Used to Be.  Yes, not having a day job causes internal conflict and turmoil at times.  No, I am not certain I made the right decision.  I question it all of the time.

And now, I have another reason to question it: What will my daughter think of me not working?  What kind of role model am I being?  It used to by hypothetical, but now it is real.

My friend Helen mentioned to her boys that she used to work.  "You mean workout?" one replied.  She was mortified.

And yet, some of us chose careers that were simply ill-suited for motherhood.  I have lawyer, psychologist and doctor friends who have flexible schedules.  Others of us aren't so lucky.  "I can't work during tax season," said my accountant friend.  She shudders when she talks about it, and quickly changes the subject.

And how do we go back?  My music promoter said it was a young person's job.  She can't go back to globe trotting with two kids.  She would never be home.  Now the challenge is what can she do: she had a job she can't go back to.

I don't have an answer for us Used to Be's.  In the meantime, I'll be at the grocery store in the peanut butter aisle, writing my blog, and working on my books.

Quote of the Day: Horrific

I pulled up to our house.  The Boy was in the backseat.  I commented that we should get the goats to come and eat the ivy* on our hill.  The Boy replied:

"Why don't we get a flame thrower and we could watch the ivy burn from the house.  That would be far more horrific."

Yeah.  That'll never happen.  And where does he get these ideas?  We don't watch a bunch of wild action movies.  Do boys just dream about this stuff?

*In Seattle, English Ivy is considered a noxious weed that squeezes out native species.

The Midwest, or "Business or Pleasure?"

Last week, I flew back to Ohio to visit my parents.  I grew up in the midwest, and live there for the first thirty-five years of my life.  For the past ten, I've lived in Seattle.

On the plane to Ohio, I noticed how friendly people were.  I hated it.  Was I becoming a misanthrope?

The guy next to me on the flight kept looking at me like he wanted to talk, but I didn't give him an opening.  I cracked open my 770+ page copy of The Goldfinch so he wouldn't try to engage me.  I wasn't even sure I wanted to read.  I mostly wanted to stare stupidly out the window.  When I started to stretch to turn on the overhead light, the guy next to me turned it on.  I was annoyed.  Maybe he was lonely.  I didn't care.  I didn't want to talk to him.  He didn't look awful or anything.  I was just not in the mood to chat.  The nicer he tried to be, the worse I felt for being standoffish.

I didn't want to be asked the most obvious questions to ask the person sitting next to you on an airplane: Business or pleasure?  Neither.  Where are you going and why?  I am going home to visit my mom before she forgets who I am.  Eh.  What a downer.  I wouldn't want to talk to me.  I wonder what my in-laws said when they were traveling to Chicago years ago to attend my daughter's funeral.  "Our baby granddaughter died."  It would have been the truth, tragic as it was.  I could have lied, I suppose.  After a long day of travel, I didn't feel like playing cheerful.

On the way back to Seattle, I sat next to an equally affable man.  He was wearing a fancy watch and a shirt from a fancy golf tournament, clearly traveling for business.  Instead of burying my nose in my book, I let him say hello.  I don't remember what I said, but I remember his story.  He was flying from Columbus to Minneapolis to Paris to St. Petersburg.  He had 45 minutes to make his connection, and our plane was late.  I was more worried about him making his flight than he was.

Maybe I am not a misanthrope after all.

The End: The Goldfinch and It's a Wonderful Life

I just finished reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt yesterday.  Interestingly, I stopped at the nadir of the book Monday morning, the point in the book where the hero is in the worst possible situation and shape ever.  It sunk my mood for the entire day.  I was depressed on behalf of Theo Decker.  I felt horrible for this fictional character, as if I knew him.

This reminds me of the time my friend Heather and I were in high school and watching It's a Wonderful Life for the first time.  We started watching it kind of late, and it is a long movie, more than two hours.  We got to the point where Jimmy Stewart was wandering the streets disheveled and looking for a bridge to jump off.  It was late.  We decided it was too depressing and turned it off.  This was before It's a Wonderful Life became a holiday staple and was shown on television almost everyday on some channel in December.

The next morning, my mom asked what I thought of the movie.  

"We didn't finish it," I said.  "It was a downer."

"You need to watch the end," she said.  I was leaving for college in a few weeks, and didn't get around to it.  I saw it at A&O Films, the campus film society, in Fall Quarter.  I should have guessed it had a happy ending by the title.

Fortunately, I learned my lesson on not finishing movies and books from It's a Wonderful Life.   Interestingly, two of the characters in the book watch It's a Wonderful Life at the end of the book.  

Quote of the Day: Aristocrats

I was walking with my friend Deepali.  She has two kids, one the same age as the Boy and one younger.

"I cook my kids three meals a day and take care of everything they need.  I am raising them like aristocrats, without the staff of twenty.  No wonder I can't find time in my day."

I feel like that way too often.  Kids take time, even as they get older.  If you don't do this all yourself, you have to pay someone to take care of them.  One friend was looking for a "channy" -- a combination chauffeur nanny to drive her kids to different activities and sports.

Portraits of Two Women

I was visiting my parents last week in Ohio and we visited the Columbus Museum of Art. On the flight to Ohio, I was reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, in which the painting of the same name by Carel Fabritius is featured. I had art on my mind before I got to the museum.

We stopped in the European art gallery and right next to each other were two paintings of women.  Looking at these paintings, I wondered how much of these portraits were embellished. I would not accuse the artists of misrepresenting these women, but they are artists and as such have the right to make choices.  How much did they create?

Christian Bruce, Countess of Devonshire by Anthony van Dyck, 1635
http://www.columbusmuseum.org/blog/collection/christian-bruce-countess-of-devonshire/

How much did van Dyck change this woman's neckline? Her face is blotchy and her neck is lumpy. Were red splotches common at the time? Was the Countess happy with this picture, or did she want her money back?  It looks like the estate doesn't have the picture anymore as it is in Ohio, so maybe her ancestors didn't really like it all that much. Did Van Dyck embellish other things? No doubt the woman had pearls, but did she have as many and were they so perfectly round, large and luminous?  Were her dress and the curtains so silky? Just curious.

Varvara Ivanovna Ladomirsky by Elisabeth Louise Vigee Lebrun, 1800
http://www.columbusmuseum.org/blog/collection/varvara-ivanovna-ladomirsky/

Putting the Countess next to Varvara is cruel. Sure, the Countess was showing off her wealth. But the round, red cheeked middle aged woman has be next to the fresh young girl? I feel bad for the Countess, even if she lived nearly 400 years ago. Little did she know this would be her fate, placed next to the portrait of timeless youth and beauty, and then chatted up by some blogger in Seattle centuries later. This juxtaposition is like a mother walking around town with her teenage daughter.  The mother rots as the daughter ripens. This is so not fair. Nevertheless, I have to ask, was Varvara this pretty in real life? Did Lebrun cover up pox marks or scars? Was van Dyck uber-realistic, where Lebrun might have made the truth more than it should be?

I suppose it doesn't matter. Unless Varvara was 47 years old when this portrait was painted, youth wins beauty. Age wins wisdom. Or so I pray. But I also know that Varvara, if she were blessed with good health, might have had her portrait painted when she reached the same age as the Countess. Did Varvara age well? (Who am I kidding?  She probably looked great.)

I find comfort in knowing the Countess was once young, too. Here she stands tall and proud in a life size painting. Maybe she wouldn't care where her picture hangs or who she is next to.

Happy Children?

I wonder what is means when people say they want their children to be happy.  Are they hoping for a state of being for their children, or a personality trait?

Some kids (and adults) are naturally jovial.  They are in a good mood and are pleasant to be around.  I would assume most of these people are happy.   Think of Mr. Bingley in Pride and Prejudice, the man who eventually marries Elizabeth Bennett's older sister, Jane.  He is a happy-go-lucky guy.  His happiness is a personality trait.

Now think of Mr. Darcy: moody, brooding, sensitive.  Is he happy?  Is he capable of being happy?  He will never be a jolly fellow, but is there a problem with that?  Do you think Elizabeth Bennet would want to be married to someone as carefree as Mr. Bingley?  No.  The world needs the likes of Mr. Darcy, especially the new and improved kind who arrives at the end of the book.  We need people who worry about things and solve problems.

So do we really want our kids to be happy?  Aren't they happy when they get a new toy, are loaded with sugar, and zoned out after playing video games for hours?  Reasonable moms (with the exception of the likes of Aunt Petunia in Harry Potter) would cringe at the thought of letting their kids live in such a state of spoilage.  Reasonable moms set limits.  You save your money if you want that toy.  Dessert is for after dinner.  And, You can play video games for x amount of time after you finish your homework and chores.

Instead, would we prefer they have a sense of accomplishment?  A sense of peace, responsibility, and the feeling of loving and being loved in return?  Engaged and curious about the world?

Or should we ask the kids what they want?

Saying Good-Bye Before She is Gone

I went home this weekend to visit my mother who has Alzheimer's.  It was a short trip -- I had to squeeze it in between John's work requirements.  This is the first time I've seen her since she has been diagnosed.  My dad has been keeping me up-to-date on her progress for the past few months, and wanted me to come visit as soon as was reasonable.  I hadn't been to Ohio in years and was worried about the trip.  If she didn't remember she was married to my father, would she remember me?

I went alone.  My dad thought that would be best, and I agreed.  I wanted to get a sense of where she was at before I brought the kids along.  My dad sent me an article about how to communicate with people with Alzheimer's.  I am not sure my kids would be sensitive enough to understand she is not insulting them when she asks four times if they remembered their beach towels.  She doesn't remember she asked the question.

In the end, the trip went better than expected, which is good.  I am glad I made the trip before she further declined.

Flying into Columbus, I wondered what would happen if she didn't remember me.  How would I say good-bye to someone who isn't going anywhere?  Unless some other illness kills her first, I know that eventually she won't remember me or my father or brother.   What will happen then?  I am not sure how much she is aware of her disease.  I know she knows she has Alzheimer's, but I don't know that she understands it.  In a way, the disease is incomprehensible.  How could she forget what she already knows?  How could she understand that her disease is causing her to forget her husband?  So I can't say good-bye.  She is saying where she is at, but leaving just the same.

Stay-at-Home-Mom of the Month: Alice Finch

This afternoon, I took the kids to see Beyond the Brick: A Lego Brickumentary at the Seattle International Film Festival.  Rather, the kids took me to see it.  They saw it Saturday with John, and today was my turn to take them.*  The Boy is a huge KFOL (Kid Fan of Lego), and along the way, I found that I have warm spot in my heart for these little plastic bricks.

One of the AFOLs (Adult Fan of Lego) featured in the film is Alice Finch.  She is from the Seattle area, and was at the screening.  She is famous at BrickCon and has won awards for her humungous Hogwarts from Harry Potter and Rivendell from Lord of the Rings.  (Check out her flickr page.)

I took these pictures at BrickCon in Seattle last fall.  Sorry this one of Hogwarts is blurry.  It is hard to get a clear shot with all of the people there.

Alice Finch's Rivendell

Rivendell

After the movie, I asked what she did before becoming an expert Lego builder, thinking she might have been an architect or engineer.  She was a middle school teacher, and her father was a builder.  She learned how to read blueprints growing up.

"I am a stay-at-home-mom," she said.  "I build after my kids go to bed until I crash."  She started building when she was ten, but started again when her kids got interested in Lego.

Alice's son, Thorin, was in the movie.  His line: "My mom is the best builder."

I am giving the first Stay-at-Home-Mom of the Month award to Alice.  She seems to have found a great creative outlet for the limited downtime of motherhood.  I admire her stick-to-itiveness to create projects on such a large scale, and then share them with other people--both kids and adults.  Lots of moms work on projects, but these are impressive.

I imagine it takes some coin to build a 400,000 piece design (Hogwarts) and a 200,000 piece design (Rivendell).  I imagine she has spent lots of money on these projects.  To which I say:  Huzzah!  If she comes from a family with that kind of disposable income, why not use the funds to create art, something she can share with other kids and families and bring delight?  She could be buying shoes or jewelry or remodeling her house for the 8th time.  A giant Lego Hogwarts?  Way cooler.

While I am sure her kids love her magnificent Hogwarts, I hope it finds a permanent home where it can be on display, like The Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Florida, or Legoland in California.

* I have no problem with seeing the same movie two days in a row.  I saw Strictly Ballroom two days in a row at the Chicago International Film Festival back in the 1990s.

Middle Age

I was at the airport last night catching a 6:00 flight out of O'Hare.  This flight was full of people likely traveling for business.   Most of my recent travel has been for vacations and with the kids to tourist destinations, so other fails are usually along for the ride.  In my daily life, I am around other pages, whose ages are very close to mine, give or take five years.

Middle age.  I am forty five.  In the middle.  Twenty-five years younger = twenty years old.  Twenty-five years older = seventy.  I am in the middle of adulthood.  (I suppose 50 is the more magical milestone, but I digress.)

Sitting at the airport, I was a wide range of ages.  Since I am in the middle, I tried to guess who was older than me and who was younger.  It was really weird to see some guy who looked 43-ish and I thought "I am older than him?"  Then there were the dozens of people who I could not guess their age.  They could have been anywhere from 35 to 50.

Mad Money and the Sweep

Once in a writing class, the teacher asked us share an obsession.  Her thought was things we think about often make good writing topics.  I didn't say it in class, but I obsess about money.  I don't obsess about shoes or clothes or beautifying my house.  While I might not remember how and when I acquired a pair of peach socks, I can tell you the interest rate on my mortgage (3.25% fixed) and when it will be paid off (September 2021.)

My obsession with money has nothing to do with excessive greed or frugality.  It has everything to do with control combined with my love of spreadsheets.  My interest began when my husband had sizable student loans from graduate school, and I kept track of them.  If I managed my weight as well as my checkbook, I'd be in supermodel shape.  Instead, I've used my discipline to build a decent safety net for my family and I can account for 98% of the money we spend.

I've been so frugal for so long, recently I have been experimenting to unlearn some of my frugal tricks.  This is like someone with anorexia learning to enjoy food again.  A few weeks ago, I tried an experiment, breaking one of my favorite frugal rules, the sweep, to see what would happen.

A friend of mine taught me a little trick for savings.  When she was newly married, she and her husband got a joint checking account.  Michelle knew how much was in there, and then was surprised to see it gone a few days later.  She asked her husband what happened.  At the end of the month, he "swept" unspent money into their savings where was was less likely to be spent.  Since then, I do same.  Surprise money -- birthday gifts, tax refunds, credit card cash rebates -- get put in savings, too.

This month, however, I didn't sweep the account.  We had a small bolus of extra income and I wanted to see what happened.  Would I blow it all on clothes and new shoes?  Eating in fancy restaurants?  A trip someplace exciting?

I felt rich for about a week when I saw our checking account balance, and then the novelty wore off.  Did my frugality cease?  It faded.  (Granted, it was my birthday and Mother's Day.)  I acquired two new teapots that I didn't need, but wanted.  I bought new pearl earrings to replace my old pair that I have worn everyday since I was sixteen.  I did indulge, but on things that I use or wear everyday.  I also made more charitable contributions, which kind of surprised me.  Instead of just spending the money on myself, my generosity increased.

The biggest change I noticed when I spent this mad money was I finally got around to some house projects.  I am using this money to get the exterior of the house painted and have an arborist tend to the half dozen old trees around my home.  This surprised me the most.  Feeling "rich" made me get stuff done and cross off the home maintenance to-do list.  By letting control of one area, I gained control in another.

Peach Socks, Extras and a Trip to Alzheimer's Land

This morning I woke and put on a pair of socks.  In Seattle in the spring, it is hard to pick the right pair of socks to wear.  I have summer socks (white and peek out above the ankle) and winter socks (wool, colorful, and come up mid-calf.)  I dug to the back and bottom of the drawer and found a pair of peach colored cotton socks.  Spring socks!  Ta-da!

I looked at the socks, and I couldn't remember where I got them or when I got them.  Did I have these socks for three years or five?  Ten?  Did I get them at Target or did I buy them at a fancy shoe store?  Did John and the kids get them for me at Christmas?  Ack!  Clearly, these socks are not a madeleine in my life.  They did not zoom me back to a sunny day or bring back any fond memories.  Now that my mother has Alzheimer's, I get a little worried when my memory doesn't work when I want it to.

How important is it to remember stuff like where I got a pair of socks?  It is important if I want to buy another pair just like them.  If I were a hunter or a gatherer, it would be useful to remember where I found something.  Other than that, it doesn't matter.  Am I better off clearing out the minutia so I can remember more important things, like when my kids have a field trip and need a special lunch?  Why does it freak me out that I can't remember getting these socks?  Should it?  Or is this a common middle-age brain thing?

I was talking to my friend Diane the other day.  Her daughter has not seen her biological father in ten years.  The girl is now fifteen.  Ten years is an eternity in the life of a child.  Ten years is the change between listening to The Wiggles to Macklemore.  It is the change between being friends with boys to having boyfriends with the middle where girls think boys are silly and/or gross.  These ages are almost unrecognizable to each other.

As a middle aged adult, ten years is nothing.  Unlike childhood time, middle age time is more fluid and amorphous.  I have a friend who recently told me he was 48, and I was shocked.  I remember when he turned 40 and had a party, but I didn't figure that was eight years ago.  I thought he was 42 or 43, which makes no sense because I know he is older than me.  I don't know how I got older but he didn't.

Similarly, I was reading online about a guy who associated the rock band Modest Mouse with college.  I love Modest Mouse, but it seems like they just came out maybe two years ago.  Or was it six years ago?  I'd have to back pedal to figure it out.  My favorite Modest Mouse album came out the last time we were in North Carolina, which was maybe four years ago.  I remember listening to them when we would drive to the Mountlake Terrace Pool every Sunday.  2008?  2010? I suppose I could Google it, but Google has its limits.  Google can't tell me where or when I got the peach socks.

There are other times when I fear I am visiting Alzheimer's Land.  There are time when John will tell me a story about something at work and I don't remember the details.  Usually, the stories involve people I have never met or have heard of before. Usually, there are twelve details in the story, of which two are relevant.  Usually, he tells the story while I am balancing the checkbook, working on a blog post, or otherwise pre-occupied.  I listen, and when he gets to the punchline, I ask him to go back and tell me what the relevant details were.  Conversing with him is like taking the reading comprehension part of a standardized test.  While I love him dearly, I just don't have the bandwidth to take in the all of these details which will not matter to my life six seconds after he tells the story.

Okay, so I may or may not have a memory problem here.  Maybe I am not paying attention.  Not in a bad way.  I pay attention to lots of things he says and does, especially when they pertain to major and minor characters in his world.  The extras, the ones who float on the scene for 30 seconds and I never hear about them again?  Forget about it.

I suppose it is okay to forget about the extras, like peach socks and people who are peripheral in our spouse's lives, but what happens when we forget the main characters?

I talked to my mom on Mother's Day.  Our conversation was pleasant and my mother was upbeat.  This was a surprise for me as my father said she was having a rough week her her short-term memory and getting frustrate.  At the end of the conversation, I said, "Say 'hi' to Dad for me."

"Well," she said and paused.  I could hear the smile in her voice.  "It's not your father anymore.  It is someone else."  She seemed excited to tell me.

I was shocked.  My dad said she had forgotten that they were married. Earlier in the conversation, she mentioned him several times.  I asked her about this new guy, but she didn't have any details.  I am hoping the new guy and my father are the same.

When does the slide between forgetting about socks decline into forgetting about a spouse?  I know those are dramatic differences.  I knew never memory could be so fragile.

Gutenberg vs. Bezos, Part III

In recent posts, I was debating whether to stick with conventional paper books or get an e-reader.  My internal debate rages on.

The Boy and I were sitting down to stream Parks and Recreation on Netflix.  It was taking forever to load and we had to reboot my computer.  The Boy said, "I hate the internet!  Books never crash!"

Books never crash.  I love it.  Recently, his Kindle ran out of charge and he couldn't read it before he went to bed.

Point: Gutenberg

I read Gone Girl entirely on my iPad.  This was the first book I've ever read entirely in the digital format, and I survived.  I even enjoyed the book.  I brought it to my daughter's track meet and read it in the sun before the races started.  It was fine even in portable mode.  It never crashed.  Reading this book on an e-reader was not a fail.

Point: Bezos and/or Jobs

Now I am reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.  This is the nicest book I've ever read.  As Linda Richman says, this book is like butter.  It has the softest, thickest, creamiest paper I've ever seen in a hardback.  I collect stationery and I don't have stationery this nice.  I want to rub my cheek against the pages.  I can't say that about the iPad or Kindle.  I am afraid to read The Goldfinch at the dinner room table for fear of sullying it.  The book probably weighs three pounds, and I don't care.  I feel bad for people who will wait to get this in paperback.  They will miss out.  The book itself is a thing of beauty.  It's like the publishers went all out to say "Ebooks?  Whatever.  This is how REAL books are made."

Point: Gutenberg

Who Do I Want to be When I Grow Up?

Since I have finished my volunteer job last summer, I have been wondering what the next step is.  In a previous post,  I wished I could be a ballerina.  I know that is a bit unrealistic given my age and lack of training and talent.

Now, I've decided I want to be Tina Fey or Suze Orman.

Tina Fey is one of the funniest women ever.  I read her book Bossypants and nearly suffocated from laughing so hard.  My favorite part was about "Growing Up and Liking It," a pamphlet on puberty that I too had read in 5th grade in 1970-something.  Amy Poehler would be my next choice of a comedienne.  My family loves Parks and Recreation.

The next person I want to be when I grow up is Suze Orman who gives financial advice on PBS (and other shows) and has written books about money.  I could also be Jane Bryant Quinn, another woman who helps people manage their money.  I would love to be a profession nag (in the nicest way, of course) and tell people they need to save more, get rid of their credit cards and find the lowest rate on their mortgage!  I would be really good at it.

Years ago right after our daughter was born, I asked my husband what he liked best about me.

"Your ability to manage money."  He didn't even pause to think.  This was the first thing that came to mind.

"No, seriously.  What do you like best?" I was hoping he would have said my warm smile, or my great sense of humor.  No.  He liked me for my analytical abilities.

"I am serious," he replied.  "You were able to help us figure out how we could afford to buy a house."

Okay, I know I can't be someone who already exists.  One thing that I have read about these women is that they, too, did not know who they wanted to be when they grew up.  After college, Tina manned the front desk at a YMCA branch and Suze was a waitress.  And look at how they turned out!  Maybe a period of indecision isn't a bad thing.

Crying Day

Today was a crying day for me.

I could blame hormones, but I won't.  I think I've had cumulative emotional experiences that have exceeded my capacity to be stoic.  Earlier this week, I started reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.  This morning before I got out of bed, I read a difficult scene where one of the characters is lost.  I didn't cry for the character.

Last night, I went to a fundraiser for the Seattle Children's Theatre.  Earlier in the day yesterday, I was talking to a friend about bringing children to live performances, whether theater, dance, music or opera.  Kids not only have to respect the other audience members, they have to respect the performers.  One of the most moving times I have been in a audience was this winter during a Seattle Children's Theatre's production of James and the Giant Peach.  James' parents died, and his aunts broke his father's glasses and ripped mother's scarf.   For what seems like an eternity, James very carefully packs up these fragments.  The theater was packed with kids on field trips.  No one breathed.  No one fidgeted.  It was intense.  At the end of the show, there is a question and answer session  One boy about eight years old said, "I don't have a question.  I just thought this was a great show.  This was a great show."  At the time, I burst into waterworks.  Yesterday reminded me of that experience, but I didn't cry.

I met with some friends today for coffee who are looking for work.  It is a great and lively group, yet finding a job is more critical for some than others.  I smiled along with them, but I didn't cry.

After that, I talked to my dad on the phone about my mom's Alzheimer's.  "She's had a rough week," my father said.  "Her short-term memory has been bad."  My father is an optimist.  When he says something is bad, it must be awful.  My mother must have forgotten her own name or something equally bad.  I listened to him, but I didn't cry.

Then I read an article on BrainChildmag.com about a mother's experience with her son's diagnosis with diabetes.  Perhaps the hardest part for me to read was when the woman called her mother to ask for help.  The grandmother is a psychologist, and was meeting with a patient.  The boy's mother phone-stalked her own mother until she answered the phone, and asked her for help.  I don't even know this woman, and I cried my eyes out.  And not a little trickle of a tear, but several minutes of flood.  I had to stop reading and make some tea before I could finish.

This article was moving, and I do have two friends whose children were diagnosed with diabetes recently.  Nevertheless, I would not normally cry for ten minutes over a magazine article.  Hence, the idea of emotional overflow.  This article opened the floodgates and released all of the emotion that had been building up over the past several days.

I settled down for a bit after reading the article and then went to Metropolitan Market to get something for dinner.  At the store, I saw a woman with a sloppy buzz cut.  I thought, That is an interesting and unattractive haircut, I wonder why... When I saw her twelve year old daughter bouncing behind her with the same haircut, I knew.  Metropolitan Market is right next door to the Ronald McDonald House, where families can stay while their children are treated at Seattle Children's Hospital.  Thank goodness I had a good cry earlier today, otherwise I don't think I would have made it through the store.  I was able to hold it together until now.

Likable

I was at dinner a few weeks back with some friends who had read Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn.  I was the only one of the four who hadn't.  One of the three loved it, one was in the middle, and the other thought the characters were "unlikable."  The last comment begs the question: do main characters need to be likable for a book to be enjoyed or considered a good read?

Given the group's mixed reaction, I wasn't sure if I wanted to read it until I saw the movie trailer with Ben Affleck.  Then I was in.  It sounded like a complicated story.  A couple's life is falling apart along with their marriage.  They lose their jobs, their money, and move from New York City to North Carthage, Missouri.  On the stress tests, they would rate pretty high.  Both behave badly during this time.  One day, the wife is missing.  Where is Amy?  Did Nick kill her?

Back to the question.  Do books need likable characters to be good?

Short answer: No.

Long answer: No, but I think my third friend raises an interesting perspective.

Books need unlikable characters sometimes.  Where would Jean Valjean be without his Javert?  Where would Clarice be without her Hannibal Lecter?

The first book I think of that I loved with a very unlikable main character was Fatal Vison by Joe McGinniss.  McGinniss followed Jeffrey MacDonald, a physcian who stabbed his wife and kids to death and made it look like someone broke into his house.  MacDonald suffered stab wounds, but none of them were fatal.  Sometimes good books have a villain as a main character.

Those are the evil characters, but what about the complex and the flawed?  Maria Semple's Bernadette is flawed, as is Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy.  I think they are wonderful, but are they likable?  While I enjoyed reading about them, I am not sure I'd want to be their friends, but that isn't the point.  What is likable in a live person is very different than what is likable in a book character.  Perfect and nice people in books are boring, and boring people aren't interesting unless they are being tortured or experiencing some disaster.  Charlotte Lucas from Pride and Prejudice is nice, practical, and dull as toast.  When she marries Mr. Collins, the Bennet's obsequious distant cousin, her life gets interesting, and not in a good way.

In Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn creates characters who hover between flawed and evil.  Clearly, all flawed people are not evil (see Bernadette and Mr. Darcy).  But are evil people flawed or just evil?  That depends.  In Perfume by Patrick Suskind, a man craves what he lacks, and goes to extraordinary means to get it.  Is he evil for wanting to be whole?  No.  Is he evil for taking what he wants from other people?  Yes.  Therein lies the complexity.

While I enjoyed Gone Girl, I could understand why some people would not.  Every reader has their own threshold for reading about people who self-destruct or make bad choices.  This is a psychological thriller, which means at least one of the characters is going to be psycho, and not everyone wants to read about people operate by their own rules.  I can see how these characters could push that threshold for some readers to where they wouldn't want to read it.

A Pleasant Surprise

My 45th birthday was last weekend.  For 24 hours, I stood equidistant between 40 and 50.  I've been fine with other birthdays, but I was not excited about this one.  Jack worked all last weekend, so this milestone was not well marked by my family.  While I did not marry my husband for his gift giving prowess (one year he got me a bike seat for my birthday and I married him anyway), it would be nice if once in a while he would figure it out without my prodding.

Tuesday, I ran into my neighbor.  She knew it was my birthday because of Facebook, which now makes birthdays public events.  She asked how my day was.  She is a big holiday and birthday person.  She has wonderful parties for her kids, turning her yard into Fairy Forests, Neverland and other imaginary places.

"What did your family do for you?" she asked, waiting to hear the details.

"Jack worked."

"What did they get for you?" she asked cheerfully.

"Well..." I said.  I didn't mention that my husband needs a detailed shopping list for holidays, anniversaries, and birthdays.  I didn't have time to shop and text him ideas this year.  "I took the kids to City People's to get some things for the garden and the kids picked out some candles and stuff for me..."

"Did the kids make you cards or anything?" she said, sounding hopeful.

"Well, Jack would have to organize something like that."  Itemizing my family's lack of enthusiasm made me slightly depressed.

"Oh," she said. "Did they take you out to dinner?"  She was grasping for something nice my family did, and she was coming up empty.

"Uh..." I was sounding pathetic.  "I went to the grocery store and bought swordfish.  Jack cooked it for dinner."

In fairness, it wasn't all bad.  Even though my immediate family kind of failed, others pulled through.  My friend Diane and I went out to lunch Friday, my parents sent me flowers, and other friends took another friend and I out for a joint birthday lunch this week.

The morning after my conversation with my neighbor, this appeared on my porch:

She brought me flowers, a tin of tea, and croissants from Bakery Nouveau, home of the best pastries in Seattle.  It was one of the very best surprises I've had in a very long time.

This reminds of another story.  Years ago, I was working at a large consulting and accounting firm.  While the partner I worked for was generally a nice guy, he made a huge flub.  He was interviewing someone for a job and was walking this potential hire around the office.  Bob caught me on the way to the printer in the copy room and said, "We are a big family here.  Lauren, what did you do over your vacation?"

"I got married," I said.  Bob's jaw dropped.  I went in to get my work off the printer.  I never saw the guy who was interviewing again.

Yet, a few days earlier, I got a package in the mail from Thailand.  I was helping a partner in the firm from overseas, and she sent me a Jim Thompson silk scarf as a wedding present.  I was so surprised, and grateful.  It almost equaled the $100 John and I got from the family of a second grade boy I tutored at the Southeast Asian Center as the best present from our wedding.  Khoa's family had moved to the U.S. from Vietnam a few years earlier.  The dad worked the third-shift at a local factory and the mom was studying to be a manicurist.  Their gift was extremely generous.

When I told another colleague, this story about Bob and the partner from Thailand, she smiled.  "People you who are close to you may disappoint, while others will surprise you."

She was right.  Thank goodness for those who come through for us when those close to us don't.