State School

Claire-Adele committed to the University of Maryland.

I should be thrilled, right? She's in the Honor's Program, she got in her major government and politics, and she will be in Washington, D.C. where there are hundreds of opportunities to get internships with the federal government. This will be awesome for her.

For me, this is a state school which is about $22K less than a private school, plus she got a nice scholarship, saving me close to $30K.

Claire-Adele joined the UMD freshmen Facebook page, and connected with several like minded students. Claire-Adele could have written this herself:

"I like hiking, reading, going to political protests and watching Parks and Rec on Netflix."

I was happy for her.

Then, she said, "I am going to need cut-off t-shirts to wear to tailgates."

Whaaa, I thought. She is on the waitlist for an all women's college in NYC where, if they did tailgate, they would not wear cut-off t-shirts.

I did not go to a state school. Neither did Jack. I know not all state schools are party schools and private schools van be rowdy. Animal House was based on Washington University in Saint Louis, blocks from where I used to live. Yet, I have an assumption--that might be right or wrong--that state schools party more than private ones. Jack checked out some videos on YouTube of UMD students. One girl was at what looked like a fraternity party where she smashed a beer on her head, it cracked open, and she drank it.

Oy. At that moment, I realized I know nothing about UMD. Sure, the college counselor said it would be a great fit for Eleanor. Sure, it has great programs in what she is interested in. Sure, it is considered a top twenty value in college education. (That is per Claire-Adele. I did not verify.) Sure, it is saving me $30K a year compared to a private school.

But is it a party school? Am I sending my daughter off to a drunken bachanal for the next four years? I hope to god not.

Then I wondered, could this be good for Claire-Adele? No, I do not want to see her hammered in a YouTube video slamming a beer. But maybe an environment that is somewhat festive could better than a school where everyone studies all of the time. Or better than a school where everyone studies all of the time and then power drinks on the weekends to escape the intense academic pressure.

So I googled "Top Party Schools" and found a few lists. According to the Princeton Review, UW (Wisconsin) Madison is the number one party school in the U.S.. That list wasn't complete enough, so I continued to Google and found another list from niche.com. UMD is listed at #41. University of Washington, in my backyard, is #84.

I relaxed. That isn't so bad, but I did figure out where all of my angst was coming from, in addition to one YouTube video. What college conference has the most party schools?

The Big Ten. Eight schools made the top 25, including UW Madison, Ohio State, Penn State, Indiana, Michigan, Michigan State, Iowa and U of Illinois if I remember correctly. MIT and Rice beat out my alma mater, which ranked so low, I can't even find it. (Okay, I did. #260.)

No wonder I was freaked out. I was born and raised in Big Ten country, home of some of the big party schools in the country. Then I read a little more. While my alma mater was ranked #260, its partying grade was A-. UMD was graded an A+ in partying. I suppose it is all the same, at some point. Unless I send Claire-Adele to a convent, partying will be part of the scene.

You Have Nothing to Prove, and Where Did I Go Right?

I need to remember this the next time I do anything. I have nothing to prove to anyone ever, including myself. Most especially myself.

You are welcome for this hard earned wisdom I learned today.

Yesterday was wet, so wet there was a rainbow.

I am with my family on Spring Break in Whistler. This was not my first choice for vacation, but everyone else wanted to go here, especially the Boy. To me, a big ski vacation is like going to Disneyland--the only reason I would go is because my kids want to go. And my kids have never wanted to see Disneyland or Disney World, so I dodged those bullets. When he was younger, the Boy wanted to see Legoland, the masculine version of Disneyland -- all building materials and no tulle in sight. When Claire-Adele was ten, she wanted to go to London and I was totally hip to that.

I wouldn't be complaining about skiing if I wasn't such a laggard compared to my family. Eight years ago, I was the best skier in my family, as the kids didn't know how to ski and Jack was meh. Jack and I thought skiing would be a great way to get out of the house in the gray and gloomy winters in the Pacific Northwest. Little did I know then my kids would take to skiing like rats to a sewer. Where did I go right?

I am not complaining about going to Whistler for Spring Break. I am complaining about going to Whistler for Spring Break again. Seriously, I'd like to go someplace else for vacation. My friends on Facebook are in Mexico, Iceland, Hawaii, and Palm Springs. Claire-Adele's boyfriend went to Europe. I would like to be in any of those places. I have other friends who are in Ohio, Iowa and Boston for vacation. The midwest is looking good. The friend in Mexico is remarried and I am FB friends with his new wife, which is nice. I was so jealous of her pictures. What I am going to have to do to get a vacation in Mexico where I can sit on the beach and/or poolside while someone brings me cervezas? Get divorced, remarried, and find someone who wants to go to Mexico for vacation? That's a bit extreme, if you ask me.

Not exactly a bluebird day.

Instead of floating in the ocean in Maui, I am burning my thighs, hamstrings and glutes in very wintery weather. This morning, the snow at 6,000 was firm. Lower down in the middle of the afternoon, it was heavy and wet. Very heavy and very wet. And the runs here are long. Very long. Which means unless I stopped and rested, my legs got really tired. Pre-ACL tear, I loved it when my thighs burned when I skied. Post-ACL tear, I freak out when my legs burn.

A few runs after lunch, I left my family on Blackcomb and I went back to Whistler on the Peak-to-Peak. Whistler was blustery. Not regular blustery, but mountain blustery. I decided to try to the snow lower on the mountain, which was--as mentioned before--heavy and wet. The Eskimos must have a name for this shit, but likely not. Or they do now with the global warming. They probably call it something like snow that should melt if it weren't for the vast amount of it keeping it cold itself. My daughter called it mashed potato snow. This was more like mud snow, except it was fast. I hated this snow.

More than I hated this snow, I hated myself for thinking I could get down. At the mid-station, I could have ridden the gondola back down. There was even a nice sign "Tired? Cold? Ride the Gondola down!" Did I listen to the sign? No. I thought if I rested a bit my legs would feel better and I could make it down. So I rested. Nevermind my legs were pooped. Nevermind I asked some old timer on mono-ski what the snow was like, and he said "Just as bad as this here, except worse."

Did I listen to my legs, the sign at the gondola and an expert old guy skier?

No. I did not.

I can make it down, I told myself.

But you want to ski another day, I told myself back.

You did it yesterday and it was a piece of cake, I told myself again. And the snow doesn't look that bad. It could be fine.

Alright, I told myself. I can do this.

Are you sure? There is no shame in taking the gondola down, thought my sensible, sane, conservative self. You've already skied down 2,800 vertical feet. That's enough.

You can handle another 1,000 vertical feet, I told myself. Come on. What are you, some kind of a wuss? Besides, it will be fun.

Fun. Right. I wouldn't talk to my best friend like that, but I talk to myself like that. That is messed up. What is more messed up is that no one else was there pushing me to go down. As much as I'd like to, I cannot blame Jack, Claire-Adele, or the Boy. I brought this whole disaster on myself.

The snow was a mess. When I made it down the first turn, I seriously thought about marching back up. There was one steep spot that wasn't too steep except for the shit condition of the snow. I had to side step down. I had no pride. I was snowplowing part of it. Evan, my physical therapist, would tell me I was good at recruiting other muscles to do the work in my physical therapy, which is not a good thing for physical therapy when you are trying to re-activate your quadriceps. Recruiting other muscles was fantastic today when I was trying to get down the hill.

All of this makes me forget how much fun I have skiing. Skiing is like the little girl with little curl right in the middle of her forehead. When it is good, it is very, very good. But when it is bad, it horrid.

We only have three more days here before we head back to Seattle. Tomorrow, I will listen to my sensible self.

Views from Peak-to-Peak

The Baby Bucket

Today, Claire-Adele heard from a few colleges she applied to. Nixed at one, waited listed at another. She seemed to be in a reasonable mood, considering.

I bought her some flowers at the Market today before I heard any of the news. I made the decision to buy flowers last week, knowing this week was going to be crazy. We went out to dinner at Rositas to celebrate the near end of the college admissions process/rat race.

At the table next to us was a young couple with a baby in a baby carrier car seat bucket. The baby was covered up, so I didn't get a peek. While Claire-Adele and I waited for the check, Jack and the Boy went to Gregg's Greenlake to look at mountain bikes. (Gear heads...) The couple and their baby walked by.

For a few moments, I remembered bringing Claire-Adele to Zuzu's, a Mexican restaurant in Clayton, MO. It was the first time we went out with the new baby, which was scary and thrilling. People stopped and told us what a cute baby we had, and of course, I believed them. This was the cutest, best baby ever. The first time people come up and look at your baby is something remarkable. It is amazing that this little tiny creature exists.

And here I am, seventeen years later, my baby in the bucket is about to leave for college in few months.

Holy crap. I hope the next six months aren't like this. I hope I don't start weeping every time I see a wagon or a stroller because my kids is going off to college. Ugh. I am going to sound like a new mom who thinks they baby is pure angel and they are the first person to ever experience the miracle motherhood.

And yet, I think this is as big as becoming a mother, maybe even bigger. It is easy to bring a kid into the world, and much harder to get them to the proverbial finish line.

The Fish is Dying

Years and years ago, we acquired some fish--three little tetra types about an inch long--and kept them in a ten gallon tank in the kitchen. No one in my house can remember when we got them--we've had them that long. Our best guess is when the Boy was in third grade six years ago. We had them well before we got Fox when the Boy was in fifth grade.

The time marker for the fish was when the Boy was on a First Lego League (FLL) team and they had to create a team poster. Each boy listed their favorite movie, favorite book and pets. The Boy wrote "Three fish and two snails" when everyone else wrote about their cats and/or dogs. I felt sorry that he didn't have a real animal, one that required walks or could interact meaningfully with humans. Nope, we just had fish and snails.

It was better than nothing, I suppose.

Three weeks ago, one of the two remaining fish died. After I started working and became more busy, cleaning the fish tank became just another chore added to my long list of "To Do's" at home. Jack works all of the time, so stuff like cleaning the fish tank never makes his list. I consider myself lucky when he empties the dishwasher, makes dinner or takes out the compost, garbage and recycling.

Even though the fish tank had been neglected, the fish carried on like British subjects during WWII. They didn't seem to mind the algae covered walls after the snails died or the slowly dropping water level that would only get replenished when it was in danger of not reaching the filter intake tube. They didn't mind that the water was naturally de-chlorinated by leaving a bucket of water out over night instead of using the fancy fish tank chemical that adds vitamins and whatever to the water to keep the fish healthy.

I was getting kind of tired of taking care of these fish. It seemed kind of pointless. After the first fish died, I wondered why bother with one? I was kind of hoping the remaining one might have a quick demise.

It didn't make sense to have one fish the size of a quarter in a ten gallon tank. Like an elderly person losing their mobility, this fish needed a smaller domicile instead of the four bedroom, three bath house it was currently residing in. I found a smaller tank in basement from when the kids had water frog (life span: two months) and moved the last fish in there. Instead of sitting on the kids art table from when they were preschoolers, the fish bowl was now in the kitchen counter next to my tea kettle. 

I got to know this fish a little better. I sat him (her?) several times a day when I'd make tea or chop vegetables for dinner. I wondered if this fish had any idea of who I was. My dog recognizes me and the rest of my family, plus our dog walker. Did the fish know I was the one who cleaned its tank and fed it? Or, did the fish think I was a god, a mysterious force of the universe who makes things happen, for good or bad? Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

I was making scones for the kids this week for breakfast, and I saw the little fish belly up. I kind of freaked out and banged on the bowl. The fish wasn't dead yet and began furiously swimming around and around. It seemed to be revived.

Whew, I thought. The fish isn't dead. And then I felt regret for wishing it would keel over. Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

The next day, the Boy saw the fish resting in the bottom of the bowl, which is odd because fish don't really rest. He did the same thing I did--except way more gently. He softly shook the bowl and the little fish woke up and started swimming around again.

This morning, the fish is on the bottom of the bowl. When I shake the bowl, he stirs around for a few seconds--perhaps he fears being eaten by a larger fish--and then he sinks back to the bottom, and rests.

I read an article recently about a woman who bred dogs and kept a few on her farm. When one of her larger dogs was about to die, the pack circled around the ailing dog, protecting her from potential harm. Here, my little fish was going to die alone, not surrounded by the rest of his school.

Thursday night, I re-read In the Gloaming by Alice Elliott Dark, originally published in the New Yorker in 1993. It is a story about a mother reconnecting with her thirty-something year old son who is dying of AIDS. It is a beautiful and heartbreaking story that has had different meaning for me each time I read it, decades apart. When I read it in my twenties, I wasn't even as old as the son. Now, I identify with the mother and wife.

Yes, it is much easier to write about a dying fish instead of a dying child. Or dying parent. Or dying dog. 

So here I am sad about a little fish. "Sad" might be a bit much, but pondering. This week was rough. Jack wasn't home much, and both kids were using me as their emotional garbage can, dumping all of their frustrations and worries on me. They were not sharing their worries or talking about their frustrations. They were using me as their punching bag because they were worried and frustrated. A person can only take so much before they cry uncle. 

Right now, the idea of a no-maintenance little fish friend seems like a nice idea. Maybe I'll get a bright blue Betta to keep me company on the kitchen counter when this little fish finally dies.

See the Scar and a Job Offer

The other day, Jack had a young patient who was dying. (As he is a pediatrician, all of his patients are young.) While I can't talk about the kid as it would violate HIPPA (not that I would), I can talk about the dad since he was not the patient.

The man was a younger dad, and kind of rough. Some of the nurses were afraid of this guy. Jack was in the middle of rounds on the ICU floor, when this father caught Jack's attention when Jack entered his daughter's room.

"If you want to talk to me, sit your ass in the chair and look me in the eye," said the dad. The mom knew what was coming, and scurried out of the room.

Jack did as he was told. He sat in the chair and looked the dad in the eye.

"Five years ago," the father said, "I nearly died. I was riding in the backseat of a car, and when I woke up, I was in Harborview hooked up to a bunch of tubes. I was shot five times."

Jack listened.

"I was dead. The surgeons took out the bullets and put me back together," the dad said. The man opened his shirt and showed Jack a large scar that ran from his neck down past his belly.

"That's impressive," said Jack, a guy who has seen thousands of incisions in his life.

"I've seen death. I've seen other people die," the dad continued. "I am not afraid of it. Look me in the eye and tell me: Is my daughter going to die?"

Jack came home from work and told me the story.

"He wanted me to understand what he had experienced. He needed me to know what he had been through so he could trust me," Jack said. "He needed me to see the scar."

He also realized something else. "You need me to see your scar."

A few years ago, Jack had been guilty of some very bad husbanding. I understand that people screw up and make mistakes, but it is nearly impossible to heal when the person who has hurt you doesn't want to admit that they did. In addition to screwing up, Jack had been reluctant to embrace my suffering from his bad husbanding. I still need an apology, an apology that acknowledges the pain and anguish that he has caused me.

"You need me to see your scar," Jack said. I was just about to give up, throw in the towel, call it a hopeless cause, when he comes through with this. Why did it take an interaction with one of his patient's parent for him to get the message I had been trying to deliver for the past few years? Will this insight stick? Will he remember and adhere to this when he finally does see my scar? Do I want to even bother after banging my head against the wall for the past few years? Can I trust that he will truly see and accept it?

Perhaps the timing of Jack's insight correlated with a conversation I had with my manager the day before, a conversation where we discussed my future role and position, and a forthcoming job offer. Perhaps as I grow more financially independent, inspiration was easier for Jack to find.

Out with the Old

The next two weeks are going to be rough as Claire-Adele waits to get her acceptance letters from colleges. Our Spring Break plans hinge on where she gets in, which is a drag since this is her last Spring Break before she leaves.

Last night instead of getting involved in her spinning about what to do over break, I re-arranged my book stacks (i.e., the stacks of books I have around the house that don't fit on our shelves). With Claire-Adele leaving in less than six months, I don't need these books anymore. This morning, I donated them to the Little Library in our neighborhood.

We bought these books when we moved to Seattle in 2004, and they were well used. Instead of getting a pass to the Seattle Children's Museum (which is cool if I remember correctly), I am now buying tickets to Bumbershoot for the Boy.

These new books have replaced those old ones:

I had to balance out the geriatric knee book with something more inspiring. The Pacific Crest Trail is a gorgeous coffee table book with cool photos of places I'd love to see. While I have no plans to do a Cheryl Strayed and hike the whole thing from Mexico to Canada (or wherever she stopped), I wouldn't mind hitting parts of it. I can't imagine the kids would think it would be a fun vacation, but I can make plans for when they are gone. My neighbors Jen and Dave are empty-nesters as of this year, and they are having a blast traveling all over place.

After I moved some books around, I went to brush my teeth before I walked the dog and take the books to the Little Library. I looked around the bathroom and found other debris that will likely be left behind when Claire-Adele leaves, including a drawer full of nail polish. The old eye shadow will need to be tossed, but maybe I can find a place to donate the nail polish. If the YMCA Homeless Teen Center doesn't want it, maybe I can offload it on some of the neighborhood girls.

It is hard to believe this phase of my life and Claire-Adele's is coming to an end. It is not like she's dying, but there will be an extra empty bedroom in my house by the end of the summer. When someone dies, the loved ones are left with all of the crap the person has accumulated over a lifetime. Except for what she decides to schlep to east, all of her shit will still be here: dozens and dozens of books, a closet full of games, craft kits that are mostly used up, and a baby grand piano in my living room that no one will play, except maybe the Boy who dinks around on it once in a while or his friends who play when they come to visit.

Some parents leave their children's rooms as museums, untouched after the kids leave. That's not going to happen here. The Boy, who has been sleeping in the coverted attic space, will move into Claire-Adele's room when she leaves.

"Oh that's mean!" you might be thinking to yourself. "Poor Claire-Adele getting booted out of her room when she goes to college."

Nope. The kid has a view of Lake Washington and Mt. Rainier from her bedroom. It is the nicest room in the whole house, and she has it all to herself. There is no way I am leaving the hottest piece of property in my house unused while she is gone. Instead, she was extremely lucky for the years she was here. When she visits, she can either sleep in the converted attic, or out in the shed.

He's Back

Five weeks after he broke his collarbone, the Boy was back on skis this weekend. The sports medicine doc--the same guy I saw when I tore my ACL--said the Boy could go on the greens and the groomers with his mom after six to eight weeks. No "sending it" until twelve weeks. Jack and I decided the Boy needed to get back on the mountain for his sanity and ours, collarbone be damned.

"The Boy doesn't fall when he skis," said Jack. "Well, he doesn't fall when he regular skis. That doesn't count jumps or rails."

"I am not worried about the Boy as much as I am worried about him getting plowed over by other people," said Dr. Kary. His own ten year old son got creamed by a guy the size of a linebacker the previous weekend while snowboarding.

Friday afternoon, I got a text from the Boy.

The Boy: Let's just say I have to go skiing tomorrow.

Me: Can you find a friend to take you?

The Boy: (Crickets.)

Hmmm, I thought. When I got home, I asked if anyone could take him.

"Nah," he said. "I am going to stay on the blues and greens." Jack was worked this past weekend. "Can you take me?"

I agreed. Saturday morning, the Boy woke me up. He came into my bedroom and started clapping. (I'll have to remember this the next time I need to wake him.)

"Let's get moving," he said.

Dude, I thought. It's Saturday. Let me sleep. "You can pack up the skis and equipment," I said, rolling over and hugging my pillow. He went to the basement and gathered the gear while I ate breakfast and walked the dog.

As we were getting on to I-90 from 405--about twelve minutes from home because I was driving wicked fast--I asked if he had packed my boots.

"Fuck," he said.

"I can rent boots," I said.

"No, you'll be happier in your own boots. and you'll need to use shitty rental skis. We can go back and get them." So we did. I drove back to Seattle. The Boy got my boots and we drove off.

"I didn't want someone else's parents to be liable if I got hurt while skiing with their kid," he said. The other part was he didn't want to ski with his friends on his first turn back.

"Besides," he said. "I am going to teach you how to ski. You need to improve your form. This will be work. This will not be cruising down the mountain for fun. This will be your job."

Since my ACL injury, I have been stuck on the greens. Last year, I asked my physical therapist if I should take a ski lesson to get my groove back.

"You might," said Evan. "That might help." I stalled on the idea because I wasn't sure I wanted to be pushed. I was comfortable skiing on the greens. I wasn't sure I wanted to make it to the blues.

We got to Summit West, the beginner hill, a place where my son would typically not hang out with his friends except for the dudes who like Wildside and the mini-terrain park.

The Boy hit the top of Pacific Crest while I was putting on my knee brace. I thought he might not be serious about teaching me until I got a text from him asking where I was. By time I got to the green lift, he was there waiting for me. On the lift, he asked in a drill sergeant voice "Do you want to ski better than you did before?" I almost barked back, "Yes sir."

"Let's go," he said. When we got to the top of the lift, he gave me directions. "Go down, do a few turns, then stop."

I followed his instructions.

"Your form doesn't suck," he said. "Try it again." After two runs, he was still amazed. "Your form isn't shit. Let's go to Pacific Crest. You can do it. You need to build up speed so it is easier to turn."

When we got to Pacific Crest, we watched me on a steeper section. "You lift your uphill foot when you turn. Don't do that. Keep it down. Roll back and forth from your uphill and downhill ski when you turn, Keep your skis flat in the middle when you are going straight."

I did what he said, and followed him down the mountain. I watched his form and followed his tracks. I watched his posture, and when he bent his knees, and tried to copy him like I did took ballet lessons as a kid.

Don't think, I said to myself. Just let your body mimic what he is doing. I was easily skiing the steepest hill I have since I tore my ACL. Here I was thinking I needed to hire ski instructor, when I have a coach right here in my family, and he didn't charge me $150 to spend an afternoon on the hill with him.

Everything was fine until the middle of the afternoon. The Boy and I were on the lift with two other people. I was in the far right side of the chair and the Boy was next to me. As we got off the lift, the girl next to Peter crossed her skis with him, and then his skis crossed into my path. I was afraid to get off the chair, until it started to turn and go back down the hill when I jumped off. The chair stopped, and the Boy and I were down on the ground.

Fuck, I thought. I've known people who have gotten hurt getting plowed over by nubes getting the chair lift. "Are you okay?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he said. I felt fine, too. We both survived the beginner crashing off the chair.

After that, the Boy wanted to go his own way. He wanted to hit the moguls and the black runs to shred the gnar. He left me for the afternoon. At the end of the day, he met at the bottom of Pacific Crest, and we did one last run together.

We both are back.

View from the lift.

Jack's Work Dinners and Focus on the Food

I might get divorced after I post this, but oh well. Four people read my blog, so it’s not like this is going to make the front page of the Seattle Times. The trade-off I make for not publicizing my blog is that I have more freedom to publish my more bitchy thoughts.

Here’s the deal: I had to attend a recruiting dinner for my husband’s job this week. This is a recruiting dinner where he is trying to woo someone to work for him and I get to go along as the wife. At best, these dinners are pleasant as people are generally polite and on their best behavior.

At worst, they are a fresh slice of Hell.

As the wife, I have to be exceptionally well behaved, which generally is not a problem. Since these are recruiting dinners, I can’t openly talk about my kids or complain about Trump or bitch about how much my husband works like I could at other of his work events where I know the crowd. Because of these high expectations, I usually skip the wine course. When I drink, my tolerance for bullshit reaches zero. The last thing that Jack needs is me corking off on something to a recruit. Instead, if they have kids, I talk about schools. If they don’t have kids, I talk about neighborhoods. Five years ago, neighborhoods were a safe topic. Now, not so much given the exorbitant cost of Seattle real estate, especially close to the hospital.

Me: "Can you drop a mil or more on a house that needs $250k worth of work?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Sucks for you. You should have moved here 2008."

Just as I am expected to be on good behavior, there is an assumption that everyone else is on their best behavior, too. That is not always the case, however. Like I said, the bad dinners are horrid. I almost got divorced after one a few years ago. Jack was recruiting a woman who I will call "The University Bitch." I've dropped the university name, as it might "out" her. The likelihood of her knowing my name and reading my blog is zero, so theoretically, I can say whatever I want. But that would be mean. Nevertheless, the University Bitch and her husband were on exceptionally bad behavior. I don't expect people to kowtow to me, but I hoped they would be reasonably civil. I was seated next to this woman so I could talk to her about schools and neighborhoods. I tried to make small talk:

"Jack did his training in Chicago," I said. "We lived there for a long time."

"I considered training in Chicago," the University Bitch said "but it was too cold. I visited when it was 20 degrees outside. I am so glad I went to ---- University instead. It was so much better."

After she insulted the town where I was born and raised, she never looked at me again for the rest of the meal. Which lasted three plus fucking hours. While her husband did talk to me, everything I said was met with a case of one upsmanship. They had three kids, all of whom were born since she was a fellow.

Me: My son is on a Lego robotics team. It is really cool.

Him: My kids built a computer from scratch.

Me: What do your kids like to read?

Him: <Listed a million books until he found one my kids hadn't yet read and talked about it like I was an idiot parent whose kids were going to end up on welfare because they didn't read The Pilot and the Pirate or whatever.>

If this were a blind date, I would have left. But this wasn't a blind date--it was for my husband's job so I sat there for three hell filled hours. I started this little mantra Focus on the food, which got me through most of the meal. If the company is bad, I thought, at least the food here is something to be experienced. The only good thing that came out of the dinner was that I tasted raw oysters for the first time, a win out of what was otherwise the worst dinner experience I've ever had.

We finished eating and the meal continued to drag on. At that point, I got up to pee and didn't come back to the table for fifteen minutes. No one noticed I was gone. When Jack got up to pee, the waiter came and the rest of the table ordered dessert. I ordered bread pudding. They ordered Baked Alaska which is a ten minute spectacle where the waiter sets the ice cream on fire in the middle of the dining room.

Jack and I got back to the car at the end of the marathon meal. As soon as the door thwumped shut, I said, "That was a fresh slice of hell."

"What do you mean? I thought it was great. She is top recruit. I need to hire her," he said.

"She and her husband were both horrid," I said. "If she treats me like shit, how is she going to treat respiratory therapists and nurses?"

"They all love her," he said. "I checked with them."

"Do they really want to move to Seattle?" I asked. "I know her husband has a job that requires him to be here three days a week, but something was off about the whole thing. They never asked about schools or neighborhoods."

"The husband already knows Seattle, so he probably didn't need to ask. I really need to hire her," Jack said. "She has a specialty that no one else in the division has."

"While was developing all of these magical skills that you so badly need, I've been at home taking care of your kids," I said. "And this woman is so awesome? What does that make me? Chopped liver?"

"I really need to hire her," Jack said. "You don't understand."

I was dumbfounded. He was right. I didn't understand. It was slowly becoming clear that I perhaps had made a mistake in placing all of my eggs in this basket that was being carried by someone else who didn't care about or consider my opinion.

"If you don't want or care about my opinion, why did you invite me to dinner?" I said. He did not reply.

Jack offered the University Bitch the sun, moon and stars. She sat on the offer for a long time.

"I think she using this as leverage to get a raise or promotion where she is at now," I said.

When she came back to Jack, she told him --- University had offered her the sun, the stars, the moon and all of the planets. Jack who made another offer which was then re-upped by her current employer. Jack's offer was the best he could do.

"You were right," Jack said. "She used my job offer to get a promotion where she is working."

So after a few year hiatus/ban from these events, I am back on the circuit, much to my dismay. How do I cope? My secret again is to focus on the food. Like a zen archer, I block out most of the other stimuli and drive all my attention on the menu. I prepare days in advance, visiting the website and imaging what I might eat. I figure out how I will get there from work and meet Jack there. I usually try to remember a few facts about the person ahead of time, like their name, where they are from, and if they have kids.

The day of the event, I was happy to be at work where I could focus on other stuff and not get stressed about the dinner. Before I left for work, though, I had to decide--should I drive to work so I would have a car at dinner so I could leave early if I needed to, or should I take the bus, which is far simpler? I decide to take the bus. I figured I could hijack Jack's car to drive home and he could catch a ride with someone else.

I was dreading this event before I got there. One of the women in attendance from Jack's group openly hates me. At dinner she dropped details about my husband that I didn't even know or bother to remember, like his marathon pace time which she announced to the table. She told the group stories she heard from Jack about my daughter whom she has met only a handful of times. Why was his real wife there when this other woman could fill in?

The only non-physicians in the group of seven were me and the recruit's husband, Bert. Bert and I got along swimmingly. It was great. This dinner greatly exceeded my extremely low expections. Bert is a mental health worker with a focus on kids, which I found fascinating. He asked me about running for School Board and was genuinely interested in what I had to say.

That was when I realized why I get invited to these events--I am not there to add to the conversation or offer an opinion. I am there so I can make the other non-physician comfortable, so he or she will have one other person to relate to at the table. Sometimes it doesn't work, but other times it does.

"50 Candles" and Dishwasher Soap

Last week, my husband took off work as the kids were on Mid-Winter Break. Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele were going to ski while I was at work. Plans changed when the Boy broke his collarbone, but Jack already had the time off scheduled. While he was home, he attempted to do more around the house, like vaccumming. One morning before I left for work, he asked--verbatim--

"Where do you buy dishwasher soap?"

I want his life. I wish I could have lived a life where I don't know where to buy dishwasher soap.

"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean do they sell it at QFC* or just at Bartell's?"

Still, I want his life. I told a friend at work the story and he asked what kind of soap we use.

"Some organic kind that doesn't have a bunch of toxic chemicals," I said.

"Fancy dishwasher soap," he said. "That's harder to find."

"Nope. We've bought the same soap for years. It's not like I switched to this last week."

Later that afternoon, I was reading "Fifty Candles" by Wendy Aarons on McSweeny's. This is where Sam from Sixteen Candles hits the halfcentury mark. I haven't turned the corner on fifty yet, but I'm close enough that my turn-signal is on. I almost died laughing when I got to the end.

Or, in my life "Good luck trying to figure out where to buy dishwasher soap."

The following weekend, I was at the grocery store and bought the dishwasher soap. I took a picture for future reference.

* aka Kroger

Drive v. Bus

I lied. This post is really (again) about the mass shooting in the high school in Florida.

Last night, Jack and I went to a YMCA event. It wasn't a fundraiser. It was an event for people who previously donated to the YMCA with free food and beverages and Eric Liu as the speaker so that when they call to ask you for money, you will say, of course and open your wallet very wide because you believe in an organization that promotes social equity by creating "weak ties" so we may have a decent, kind and respectful citizenry. "Weak ties" according to sociologists are the small interactions with have with people we kind of know, but not very well. These relationships are the glue that keeps society civil. When we have weak ties with people not like us, our society tends to have more social justice. This was a balm after hearing about the high school shooting in Broward County on Wednesday.

The next morning, I was dressed and on my way out the door to go to work when the Boy said, "I don't want to go to school."

I had driven the kids to school three times this week because

a) the Boy broke his collarbone,
b) the weather was crummy, and
c) I had to drive to work anyway those days, so I might as well drop the kids off at school on the way.

Today, I wanted to take the bus. I wanted twenty-five minutes on the bus to read the newspaper and another twenty minutes to walk from the bus to the office. All three days this week, the kids bickered and bickered and bickered as Claire-Adele wanted to eat the last piece of Jack's birthday cake for breakfast.

I was really looking forward to my bus ride this morning. I was relishing my alone time, so I could come to work relaxed, not annoyed and pissed off at my kids.

"Why don't you want to go to school?" I asked, looking at the clock, knowing I was going to miss the 8:11.

"I just don't," he said, slumping into the couch. I thought why he might not want to go to school: homework, missing ski bus, possible problems with friends. Last night, he said he, Milo and Anna had a deep conversation about school shootings in Chemistry class.

"Is it about your conversation with Milo and Anna yesterday?" I asked.

"No, not that," he said, and I believed him.

"Why don't you eat something. I can toast you a bagel."

"I'm not hungry," he said.

"At least get dressed," I said.

No answer.

"If you need to rest, I can take your phone and computer with me to work," I said in the kindest, least antagonistic way possible. I had to stay calm. Arguing with the Boy, telling him to get his butt of the couch and get to school would only make the situation worse, and I didn't want that. But I'd be damned if he was going to skip school and watch YouTube all day.

"I'll get dressed," said the Boy. And he did. He ate 3/4 of my breakfast sandwich, which was fine. I was glad he ate.

"I can give you a ride to school," I said. I needed to make sure he got to school. I didn't want to get to work and get a phone call from the attendance lady telling me my student wasn't there.

"I can walk," he said. The next bus didn't come until 8:26, so I hung out at home as late as I possibly could. I left when he was putting on his shoes. With a sprint up the hill and around the corner, I made it the stop as the bus was pulling up.

I sank into my seat and checked my email.

Then I read the newspaper, the front page, first article I saw in the New York Times:

Just 24 hours after a shooting that turned this city numb, Lori Alhadeff stood near 17 cream-colored angels with gold wings that lined the park stage where a vigil was held Thursday night. One of those angels represented her daughter, Alyssa, 14, who was killed in the massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School.

Trembling, she said she was there for her daughter, and she was there to talk to anyone who would listen. “My daughter is dead, but all these children out here have to go to school. A shooter should not be able to just walk in,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I hope she didn’t die for nothing.”

Here is a mom whose daughter died twenty-four hours earlier and she is worried about the survivors of the massacre, the kids who have to go back to school.

I lost it. I started crying on the bus. I was glad I was the only one on my team in the office today so I could come in with puffy eyes and no one would notice.

I should have driven my kids to school.

Valentine's Day (sigh)

Note: I was going to write a happy, upbeat little post on why Valentine's Day sucks, but first I need to comment on the school shooting in Florida. Now that both of my kids are in high school, this kind of thing scares me exponentially more than it did when I only had one kid in high school. And I am going to stop thinking "Thank God my kids are safe," which they are. Instead, I will think about the mom who doesn't get to think that tonight.

How much of collective human joy has been destroyed because of these shootings? How many people were planning a festive evening to celebrate their loved ones and then have to experience the shared grief of Florida teenagers and their parents? Should we all become numb--shrug and move on--every time something like this happens? Do we need a magic number of dead kids (say, a dozen?) for a massacre to make national news? Don't kids have enough to worry about these days that they don't need "I could get shot in school by a stranger" added to the list as a credible threat?

I came back from the YMCA this evening and I heard the news on the radio. My son heard about it on Instagram hours before I did. Teens hear about everything that happens anywhere moments after it happens. When I was in middle and high school, we would have the Dan Rather on in the background while we ate dinner. I mostly tuned it out unless something major happened like the Space Shuttle explosion. Now, my kids know more about what Trump said or tweeted today than I do. For better or worse, they are not shielded from the world events. I needed to check in with my kids this evening, to see how they are feeling--worried? angry? sad?

The only hope I have is that my kids and their friends will all grow up someday and call bullshit on allowing people with records of mental illness to have access to AK-47s. Or even anyone to have access to an AK-47. I get blue and moody on occasion and I wouldn't want me handling a weapon on those days. Seriously--even though the likelihood of me committing a mass killing I hope would be infinitely small, would I trust myself that I could keep such a weapon safe and out of the hands of someone who might want to do harm to themselves or others? What about the kids next door? I’d be most worried that the eight year boy next door would think it was a toy and gun down his sisters.

I remember years ago reading about Chechen rebels who attacked a school in Russia and killed more than 300 people. Back then in 2004, I thought that was an act of considerable barbarism. What would be the worst, most reprehensible thing a rebel or terrorist could do to a group of people? Attack their children. It is the lowest of the low. We even think of animals they prey on the young as awful. What birds are considered the worst? The ones that steal other birds eggs. The fox gets a bad rep for stealing eggs from the hen house (and probably a few hens, too.) 

And yet, we permit this to happen. I am not calling for repeal of the second amendment, but nor do I buy the argument that “a few school killings is the price to pay for freedom.”

A Ski, a Pole and a Bone; or "Karma is a B*tch"

The only thing that the Boy hasn't broken this season is his will... and boots. He broke a pair of goggles, too. He went shopping today to get new poles.