Final Draft

This isn't my last blog post, in case you were confused.

Last week when Claire-Adele and I were at Maryland, she critiqued my blog.

"That's not what really happened," she said. "I need to edit your blog posts to correct the errors. Or I should write my own version of what happened and post it on your blog.

"I'll call it Final Draft."

Maryland!

It is hotter than fuck here.

Seriously.

If I lived here, I'd be like super skinny because I would sweat five pounds off every day. Even the squirrels here are languid from heat. The move so slowly, as if they have given up and don't care if you catch them. Not that I want to chase a squirrel in this heat. Claire-Adele and I walked around the campus for an hour without a water bottle. Mis.Take. I was parched at the end.

I am further convinced that the Pacific Northwest has the best weather in the continental U.S.. Rainy and cool while at times can be emotionally bleak, it is at least livable. In the fourteen years I've lived in Seattle, I never thought I might to die because of the weather. I can't say the same for the Midwest, with its heat waves, freezing spells, blizzards, tornadoes, floods, etc. I am sure four of the six of my blog readers will agree with me about the Pac Northwest. The other two live in the Midwest.

Anyway, Claire-Adele was excited to show me around. It looks lovely.

Isn't this great? I am sending my cosmopolitan, nose-ringed daughter to a farm school.

Ha ha. Not really. But they do have a little farm in the middle of campus. The colleges we looked at in NYC and Philadelphia didn't have cows, sheep or horses. The campus has a dairy and the student union sells its ice cream. That's kind of cool. You don't see that every day.

The rest of the campus looks like a regular college campus. It has a bit of southern influence, but not that much. Technically, the university is south of the Mason-Dixon line, but there is enough Yankee influence and sensibility here that I can tolerate it. I hope. This college didn't let women attend until 1916 and African Americans in until 1951. Seriously? WTF? Wait. I did some googling and it seems that that was fairly common. And some people don't believe in institutional racism. This institution (like many other universities) was racist, which is the definition of institutional racism.

Tomorrow is new student orientation where Claire-Adele will meet other students and I will learn all sorts of administrivia about the college. Goodnight, University of Maryland. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow.

Do or Die, and My Favorite Drug

Friday, I was having kind of a shitty day at work. I was the only one in the office from my team, which by itself wasn't bad, but it wasn't great, either. I was also having a rough time at home. The Boy was scheduled to come home from camp Saturday, which was good but also stressful. Jack informed me of work schedule for the rest of the summer and September, and it totally sucks. When the three pistons of work, kids and my marriage (notice I don't include anything about my own personal life in this list, because it doesn't exist) all down at the same time, it is it a huge drag.

I didn't pack a lunch on Friday, so I had to punt for food. I could have ordered from Peach and had something delivered, or I could have bought food from the little refrigerator we have in the lunch room. 

Fuck that, I thought. I want a burger. I trekked over to a Belltown pub.

"Do you want a seat at the bar?" the host asked as I was dining alone. The World Cup Brazil versus Belgium was on the three televisions behind the bar.

"Sure," I said. I sat next to a couple who was watching the game. Brazil was down 0-2. The woman's ninety-four year old mother lived in Belgium during World War II. The mother was watching the game from her home in Iowa. I didn't have the heart to tell this woman I was rooting for Brazil. 

Watching this game felt familiar. Two weeks ago, the Boy's soccer team played a tournament in Burlington where they played five games in less then forty-eight hours. The first three games were qualifiers, and the last two were elimination rounds. The Boy's team made it to the finals for their group. For the last game, the boys (young men?) played an equally matched team from Portland sponsored by the Portland Timbers, the MLS team. The Boy's team was sponsored by the Sounders, Seattle's MLS team. Civic pride was at stake.

Both teams played hard. I've never seen a youth soccer game where there was so much heart from both sides on the field. The ball went back and forth, the players charging and sweating and grimacing. Every kid was fully engaged with the game. Parents on the sidelines dropped their usual conversations about life and kids and vacations to focus on the match. It was do or die for both teams.

It was awesome.

So there I was, in a bar on a Friday, watching the same thing play out in Russia between two of the top ten teams in the world. There was no holding back, no doing "just good enough." To lose is to die. These grown men, among the best athletes out of 7.4 billion people on earth, reminded me of the Boy's team in that last game. The size of the audience and the number of people who cared about the game was different, but if you were a parent on that sideline in Burlington in June, it might as well have been the quarter finals of the World Cup.

I am so glad the world has found a replacement for gladiator sports in soccer. Instead of people actually dying, they just feel like they have died when they lose. Sports Illustrated reported that

"Neymar has admitted that suffering elimination from the World Cup with Brazil was the 'saddest moment of my career' and claims he is having a hard time 'finding the strength to play again'."

To paraphrase, he felt like he died. I am sure something in him did die--the dream that he probably had since he was a little kid that he would lead his country to a World Cup victory one day. The dreams of his country died, too.

But Neymar lives, and will play again, even though that doesn't diminish the pain he feels today.

Sometimes life sucks not because you just lost the big game, but because of the thousands of smaller details of your life add up and weigh you down. It isn't one, big, terrible thing like cancer. As a mom, it is the lack of control over everyone else's mood and schedule, being at their mercy, and having no way to escape.

And then my favorite escape came to the rescue...

This week, I am taking Claire-Adele to orientation at the University of Maryland. I have to take three days off of work for this, which I really don't have. I wasn't dreading this trip, but I wasn't exactly thinking of it as a full-filled, exciting vacation as the main gist would be how I am going to part with my first born and approximately fifty thousand dollars. Seems kind of lose-lose. I texted my old friend Kendra who I knew from Chicago who now lives in Bethesda, Maryland to see if we could get together. Kendra is loads of fun.

"Want to see Hamilton?" she texted me back. This summer, Hamilton is at the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts.

Hell yeah I want to go.

"My husband said I should go with a friend, but he said I couldn't spend more than $300 for a ticket."

I was so excited I couldn't sleep Thursday night. Kendra and I both searched online. The cheapest tickets I could find for Wednesday night was $500. Ugh. I was still hopeful.

This morning when I woke up, Jack was sitting at his computer. "There are Hamilton tickets for $299."

"What?" I said, looking at his screen. Saturday, seats in the first row of Tier 1 were $500. The Kennedy Center must have dropped the price as the day of the show was getting closer. I texted Kendra. She wasn't there. Did everyone know about this last minutes drop in prices? If they did, these tickets wouldn't last. I bought the tickets. If for some reason Kendra couldn't make it, then I'd figure something out. For an hour, I sat waited for her text.

In the meantime, I had to two tickets to Hamilton for Wednsday night. The problem of getting rid of an extra ticket was peanuts compared to the thrill of having them. The escape is what I imagine what a shot of heroine is like, when it creeps into your veins, and nothing else matters except the high.  Jack and Claire-Adele were screaming at each about her getting her driver's license. Suddenly, I was less pissed off about Jack's schedule, about my son staying out super late last night, about the crap at my job. I was floating in my Hamilton glow, the anticipation of seeing it again.

Just as the grit in of life's gears was wearing me down, sometimes things fall in my direction. Two weeks ago, the Boy's team won the tournament with a goal scored in the last ten seconds. And Kendra can join me for Hamilton.

Doctor Dinners

Last night, Jack had another Doctor Dinner. (I've written about previous Doctor Dinners here.) Generally, I loathe and despise these events. As the trailing spouse, my role is ambiguous. Part of it is: "Hey, we want to invite your better half to dinner and we'd look like a jackass if we didn't invite you!" The other part is "Hey! There are going to be a bunch of other spouses there and we decided we couldn't have just one spouse, so invited them all!"

This Doctor Dinner was at one of my husband's colleague's home. Melvin is an executive at the hospital, and was hosting two physicians from Kobe, Japan to visit Seattle. I had met the doctor and his wife at a fundraiser a few years ago, but I haven't seen him since. While Jack doesn't work with this guy closely enough to have direct experience, rumor on the street is the host is extremely difficult to work for. 

The short version of what I was up against: The host is an asshole and the guests of honor won't speak English. And I couldn't cheat and read the menu ahead of time online and pre-plan my meal because this was going to be at someone's home. Oh my god this was going to suck. Why do I agree to these things? If I were a novelist writing about this, I'd have to ask the question: what is at stake?

1. My pride
2. Three hours of my life that I can't get back.
3. My pride

Since my last dinner, I've adopted the strategy of talk to the other non-physicians at the event. Sometimes this can be challenging since doctors marry other doctors. The trailing spouse could be a geneticist or endocrinologist versus a normal person. This strategy was going to be hard given the other guests might not speak English. 

Given the track record of most of the physician leaders and executives, my pre-dinner guess was that Melvin was on wife number four. I was pleasantly surprised when I got there that he and his current wife have lived in their house for thirty years. It was rather shocking, in fact. Linda, his wife, was remarkably nice, considering all of the gossip said her husband was a jerk.

Aside from Linda, there was other non-physician spouse at the event. He is in tech and we discussed work before he had to go off and chase his twenty month old daughter.

That left me with the non-English speakers.

One of the doctor's from Japan brought his mother along on the trip, along with his wife, his five year old son, and his mother-in-law. I introduced myself to the grandmother, who spoke about as much English as I speak French, which was great. Tokiko said when she went to the market, the checkout person spoke so fast, she couldn't understand a word the woman said. I laughed and said the same thing happened to me when I went to France. I would put together a great sentence in French, and they would talk back to me as if I were fluent. (And correct my grammar. Gotta love the French for that!) I guess that was better than the sales person just jumping to English, but still. I could understand this woman's struggle. 

I was patient as Tokiko asked me questions. Her English was very good. When dinner was served, I sat down next to her. I was the only American at one of the tables with one of the Japanese families. I figured that was my job, right? To entertain these people who came from a few thousand miles away and make them feel welcome. 

Tokiko was delightful. She asked me if I ever ate "orange raspberries." No, I have only seen them, but never ate them. Next time I see them at the Market, I'll have to try them. She talked about the hot springs in Kobe and asked me about earthquakes. She had never eaten a meal "American Style" aka a buffet. Do we do this all of the time when we have dinner parties? 

After we began to eat, Melvin joined our table. I maintained my strategy of talking to the non-doctors, even if it meant struggling to converse with someone whose language I don't speak. If Tokiko can try to speak English, the very least I could do would be to be patient and listen. This dinner was probably much harder for her than for me, after all.

My favorite part of the meal was when this sixty- or seventy-something woman took a picture of her dessert, likely to post on social media. The pound cake with raspberries, blackberries, blueberries and whipped cream made a cute picture. She looked a little embarrassed that she was photographing her food until I gave her a thumbs up. Then she giggled, and asked her son to take a picture of the two of us.

At dinner, Melvin was actually nice. He smiled and was polite and cleared everyone's plate from the table when we were done eating. Maybe he was nice under Linda's watchful eye, or maybe he was playing nice for the international guests. Either way, he was far more civilized than advertised.

I realized my non-position at these dinners actually gives me power: the power to ignore. I didn't have to suck up to Melvin like everyone else at the hospital does. Because I wasn't sucking up to Melvin, there was no reason for him to be a louse. I could easily give all of my attention to the charming and funny Japanese woman sitting next to me. 

And I did. And I had a very nice time.

Starbucks & Me

As anyone who has read the news in the past few months knows, the Starbucks corporation came under fire when an employee in Philadelphia called the cops when two African American men came into the store and didn't order anything. They were waiting for a friend, who happened to be white. Starbucks closed all of its stores in the afternoon on May 29 for inclusion and racial awareness training for 175,000 U.S. based employees.

This morning, I read an article in the Seattle Times about Starbucks' continued efforts to decrease racial bias in their stores. Two experts in racial equity gave Starbucks a report on further ways to make inclusion a major part of their company. I began to wonder how much of this is a Starbucks problem versus an American problem. Of course, Starbucks was caught in a dramatic example of racial bias when their employee called the cops. Small companies don't make the national news when that kind of shit happens. Starbucks employees come from every state in the U.S. and there are probably people from every demographic working there, likely with a higher rate of young people and urban dwellers.

Yet, these people weren't born Starbucks employees nor did Starbucks give them their biases. They were hired by Starbucks with all of their biases already in place. Is Starbucks right to continue to work on anti-racial bias training? Absolutely. Is this just a Starbucks problem? Hell no.

As a result of the Philadelphia incident, Starbucks is now opening their bathrooms to anyone, regardless if they make a purchase. When I read this, I thought about the time I've spent in big city libraries where the bathrooms are open to anyone. There you will find lots of homeless and addicted people hanging out, staring blankly at a newspaper, suffering the internet or trying to bathe in the bathroom. The Seattle Times article says Starbucks will train employees to deal with patrons in crisis, telling them to call 211 for resources instead of calling the police:

"'This police alternative is essential,' McGhee and Ifill wrote. That national option should be augmented with local resources and programs, they added. Damodaran said the company’s new 'Third Place Policy' spells out ways for employees to help 'de-escalate disruptive behavior.'"

All of America could use this number where people reach out for a range of help, where people need help but it isn't an immediate crisis where someone's health or safety is at risk.

I read the article to the last paragraph:

"The Seattle company also recently revised its financial forecasts to reflect slower-than-expected sales growth, some of which was attributed to the training. Then Starbucks announced that chief financial officer Scott Maw is leaving later this year, sending the company’s stock to its lowest point in three years."

Which got the capitalist in me thinking--maybe this is a good time to buy Starbucks stock and keep it for the long haul.

Yes, I boycotted Starbucks for about a week (likely less) after the Philadelphia incident, and now I am licking my chops because the stock price dropped? What is wrong with me? Does that make me evil?

My Great Uncle Tom would tell us at holiday dinners to "buy low, sell high," obvious and common wisdom. He followed a collection of stocks and would buy when there was a dip in price. "I bought Coca-Cola before I went to Florida and when I got back, the price rose and I paid for the trip!" No, this guy wasn't simply a gambler. He and my Great Aunt Kay were frugal and savers. They paid cash for their Chicago bungalow in 1940-something house and lived there until they died in the 1990's. They couldn't have kids, so they saved and invested most of their income.

Will Starbucks crumble if they let everyone use their bathrooms, or can capitalism bring about social change? Can capitalism be good, or do good, or is it just about making money? As my new millennial co-worker would say, "yes." If this racism is an American problem and capitalism is the foundation of the American economy, then perhaps corporate America can help to solve the systemic issues of racial biases and homelessness. Is it their fault these issues exist? They cannot solely be blamed, but they can help create an open, fair and equitable place to work. They can create economic opportunities for employees and they can treat their customers with dignity and respect. Will they be perfect? Probably not. Can they make a sincere and focused effort and make measurable improvements? I hope so.

Is it something I can buy? Sure, I can pop $4.25 for a tall decaf mocha which will give me a fifteen minute break from work and give me 250 empty calories, but is $48 a share going to pay social and financial dividends?

Shoes

I think some of the people I work with think I have an excessive amount of shoes. I was showing my collection to one of my co-workers and I pointed out my Prada's. He blanched.

"They cost way less than a thousand dollars," I said. I am sure he thinks I am a princess. I am not a princess, by the way. I am a queen. Claire-Adele is a princess. I took a feminine archetype class where we learned princesses are women with little to no real responsibity, nothing to look after like kids or pets. Motherhood is the next phase. Women who survive motherhood become queens.

I digress.

They are probably right--I probably do have too many shoes and I have probably spent more money on shoes this year than I did on rent my first year out of college. (I just did the math and its not even close. I spent more on rent.)

So why? Why do I am I spending so much money on shoes? Why?

First, I used to not be like this. Really. My financial hero is my friend Carla who saves so much money. She bakes hew own hamburger buns, paid cash for her house. She wears old, not fancy clothes but has traveled (and travels) all over the world. Whenever I think of money, I ask myself, "What would Carla do?"

Carla would not own a pair of Prada red velvet shoes. So why do I?

A few years ago, Jack worked too much. It was intolerable. If the shit hit the fan and our marriage imploded, Jack would probably marry some chick in her thirties who didn't have kids and wouldn't care how much he worked. The chicky would get half of the nest egg I spent twenty years saving, which would piss me off.

How do I know this? I've seen several divorced guys in their mid- to late-forties get remarried to younger women. The new women don't have kids, so the new couple has time to take awesome vacations and decorate their new home.

Basically, I didn't want Jack's next wife to spend my money on Prada shoes and trips to Paris, so I decided to buy Prada shoes and take vacations myself.

Ibex and Name Dropping

Jack, Claire-Adele and I were at a political fundraiser this weekend where we met Sally Jewell, former President of REI and Secretary of the Interior. Jack knows Sally's son so they chatted about their common connections.

After a few minutes, Sally pointed at my black sweater and asked, "Is that an Ibex?"

"Yes," I said. Ibex makes wool clothes for work and outdoors.

"I thought so," she said. "Did you get it at REI?"

"No. I got it at the Ibex store in U Village," I said.

Only in Seattle could I be at a posh party and someone would recognize an Ibex sweater. People here wouldn't necessarily recognize Chanel, Versace or St. Johns, because so few people get that dressed up out here. Ibex? You bet. And I could wear Ibex to a fancy party and no one looked at me askance.

Driving home, Jack and I thought it was hilarious that Sally Jewell recognized my sweater.

"She really knows the shit on the shelves," he said.

Superstars

I was at the mall with the kids getting new shoes for the Boy and I got a pair of Adidas Superstar tennis shoes.

My children were appalled.

"You can't get those shoes," said Claire-Adele said. "Those are for high schoolers."

"SMH," said the Boy, which is texting lingo for shaking my head.

Yeah. About that. First, I have no desire to look like a teenager. Full stop. These shoes are retro. Adidas came out with the Superstar in 1969. I think my dad wore them when I was growing up in the 1970's. If not these, a similar Adidas shoe. Maybe he wore the Stan Smiths, the white shoe with the green tag in the back. People in my generation wore the Superstars before they were retro, when they were just regular shoes. I wore K-Swiss shoes, which are very similar to the Superstar.

Retro means appropriating clothing, music and the like from another generation. Instead of borrowing from another culture, retro is borrowing from another time. Since I was alive when these shoes were popular the first time around, I am allowed to wear them without apology to my hipster teens. I am NOT trying to look like a teenager. Teenagers are trying to look like people my age when we were teenagers. Heck, they are trying to look like my dad when he had kids in his house. These kids today are not only wearing "mom" shoes, they are wearing "grandpa" shoes.

The Rack

Damn you, Nordstrom Rack and your "good" deals and telling me I saved hundreds and hundreds of dollars!

I don't own a Costco membership because I know people who go in for 138 rolls of toilet paper and come out with a bouncy house for their kids. Seriously. You can save $17 on a years supply of TP, but the budget killer is buying the stuff you never needed in the first place. While I safely avoid Costco, Nordstrom Rack is my kryptonite.

Friday after work, I went to Nordstrom Rack after work to get Claire-Adele a birthday present. She wanted a new tote bag to carry her books. She grabbed a bag I had bought for myself after I tore my ACL, and she claimed it was her own. Which is fine. She took it every day to school for the past two years. I had offered that we could go together and she could pick one, but she wanted me to get one for her.

I walked from the office to the Rack. Little did I know that the Rack is one block past my entrance to the bus tunnel. There is even a tunnel from the Rack directly into the bus tunnel. I do not have to step outside. I am sorry that I now possess this information.

So, I went to the Rack. I found two bags for Claire-Adele. I couldn't decide which one to get her, so I got both. I'm going to let her choose and I'll return the other.

As soon as I finalize my plan, I turn to walk to the checkout when lo and behold--there is it: the Tory Burch Bermuda bag. Me and a million other seventh grade girls in 1982 had a Bermuda bag. Not nearly as fancy as this one, but a bag with wooden handles and a canvas or corduroy bag part. They were not practical nor were they pretty, but man, everyone--EVERYONE--had one.

This one was awesome. It is made of Nubuck which is a fancy type of leather. It has these fantastic patterns and colors. Someone had finally made a gorgeous and practical Bermuda bag.

I needed it. I needed something this beautiful and fun that was such a marvelous upgrade to what I used to have when I was twelve, so much so that it doesn't resemble the original.

But then it was expensive. Crazy expensive. Even at 50% off, it was outrageous.  Anytime my brother or I had money to spend as a kid, my mother would ask us "Do you really, really, really want it?" just as we picked something out. It was a completely annoying exercise, as nothing--NOTHING--could pass that test ever. As a result, it put the fear of god in me to buy anything ever unless it was something that was essential or for someone else. I had no problem buying thousands of Legos for the Boy or 35 bottles of nail polish for Claire-Adele.

So here I was at the Rack with purses. I had "racked" up a massive bill and I never made it out of the hangbag section.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I resist?

Or, it is really a problem?

My year of on-the-job-training ended a month ago and converted to a regular job. Friday was the first day I've had a "real" paycheck since 2000. I can always tell myself I need nice stuff for work, but this was different.

I didn't need it.

I wanted it.

I really, really, really wanted it.

Decades later, my mother's advice came in handy. For years and years of not buying stuff that I didn't want and living frugally, I finally found myself in a time and place where I could afford to buy something just because.

Sick Day

As a wife of an intensive care doctor and a mother, I've learned to perfect the art of not acting sick when I am. I need to be bleeding out of an orifice or not breathing to be considered "ill" by my husband. Anything less = Suck it up, Buttercup. You'd think he was a Marine. As a mom, I never had a day off when I was sick. Ever. I know there are some nice husbands who skip work when their wife is vomiting or whatever. Not mine. He goes to work when he is sick himself. The only accept reason for missing work in his line of business is: Death, Your Own. You'd think doctors would be more sympathetic to themselves and their colleagues when they are sick. They are not. They are completely hypocritical.

So, I've perfected the art of pretending not to be sick. I should get an Academy Award. Or maybe an Emmy. I've driven carpools. I've gone grocery shopping for myself. My secret: drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. 

-- Allergy pills (Zyrtec, Sudafed, etc.) and cold medicine
-- Allergy eye drops
-- Allergy nose spray

-- Ibuprofen

-- Pepto Bismol

-- Vitamins: D, C, B, Folic Acid, whatever else is in the cabinet

-- Cough drops

-- Tea: black, green, and herbals like Wellberry made with elderberries to prevent the flu.

-- Hot lemon and honey
-- Kombucha

-- Coffee

-- PLUS: Vacuuming to get rid of allergens.

My second secret is make-up, dressing up and smiling. Sick people don't smile; ergo, if I smile, people won't think I'm sick. I've got this mastered. I've been on death's doorstep, did my drugs-make-up-smile shtick, gone to run meetings, and come back home and dropped dead again and no one knew I had that horrible pig flu that was going around a few years ago.

Why the martyr act? Eh. I don't know. I know my blog is supposed to be about introspection and whatnot, but even I can't make sense of my irrationality here. I suppose it has to do with my old job -- stay-at-home and volunteer--not having clear boundaries around being sick. And my husband doesn't think people are sick if their heart is beating.

Monday, I was feeling sluggish. I tried biking twenty miles, but couldn't. I am good enough shape to ride twenty miles, but I was too tired to pull it off. Tuesday morning, I woke up with a sore throat. I went to work anyway. I figured between dry night air and stuffy nose, my throat might have been a little achy as a result. I figured getting up and moving would make me feel better, plus I did my little regimen above. 

Tuesday morning, my co-worker called in sick with a sore throat, and then I felt like a heel for showing up possibly germy. So I smiled and told myself I am fine. It is probably just allergies and I am not contagious. I was outside all weekend and this is what the plant debris looks like in my neighborhood. Mother Nature gave this mouse statue a pollen blanket.

At work, I was fine until after lunch. I became very, very sleepy and my throat hurt like a bitch. I went to the company over-the-counter medicine cabinet (where I am a frequent flier) and took one of everything. I still felt like I was going to fall asleep. I told my manager I not feeling well and went home. I slept for three hours.

This morning I woke up and still felt a little meh. I took a handful of vitamins and allergy pills. I went to the coffee shop and got a split shot mocha, and I still felt meh. I figured I was really sick if I still felt bad after coffee.

Why am I dissecting this? Because now I am back at work after being a mom for so long, I no longer know what it means to be sick. I don't when I should stay home because work and home used to be the same thing.

When I came home Tuesday night, my daughter asked me, "If you are sick, why are you running around doing the dishes?" Excellent question: Why am I running around, doing the dishes? Answer: because no one else will do them and... I suppose the dishes could wait, but I'd have to do them anyway, so sick or not... It is all messed up.

The standards for decorum and professionalism are higher at work than at home. Today, I had the attention span of a gnat. And I was grouchy. And tired. I ordered a Beacon Hill sandwich from Bagel Oasis and I had to drive to the other side of Ravenna to get it, which is like five minutes away by car. I was too tired to drive. Who on earth is ever to tired to drive? Me, I guess. I was a cranky driver, too. Why is this pedestrian trying to cross the street? They are in my way, I whined to myself. Why is this car trying to park in a spot I want? My thoughts had the same hideous virus or allergy attack I had.

I laid in bed for and hour and a half, not asleep, but not awake either. I just laid there and did nothing. The phone rang and I didn't get it. 

At one point during the day, I checked my work email. There was a note from a leader from one of the lines of business congratulating a group for a successful service launch. This group of twenty people did this work in the middle of the night, like 2:41 a.m. 

Then, it all became clear. Those people who normally work regular business hours who had to pull an all-nighter didn't need me grogging around, possibly contagious. That is why people stay home from work when they are sick. 

Also, being sick sucks and people who love you should take care of you when you are sick. But when you are a mom, the people who love you can't take care of themselves, yet someone needs to take care of mom.

Tell that to the good doctor.

Tuesday

This is my first Memorial Day since I started my job last August. Last Tuesday, I went to lunch with several members of my team, and the conversation turned to plans for the holiday weekend. One person had plans to go to Oregon, another was going camping. Another was going to host a barbeque with friends.

"What are you doing, Lauren?" they asked. What should have been an innocent question gave me a pit in my stomach. Jack would be working all weekend and I would have the kids. I wasn't sure if they had plans or not. Jack and I did have plans to see a play Saturday night, but that was it. The pit in my stomach grew larger when I thought about the Tuesday after the holiday weekend, when everyone comes back with tales from their holiday.

Being a doctor's wife, I have experienced every holiday, birthday and anniversary alone, all more than once. That is part of the deal of working a field that requires 24/7 coverage: someone always has to work.

I hadn't thought about the loneliness of the Tuesday after a holiday weekend in a long time. Before, I was a stay-at-home-mom, so I didn't have to go talk to a group of colleagues about my weekend, what I did or didn't do. Northeast Seattle is a ghost town over holiday weekends. My friends are usually not available because their families are often just as busy or out of town, too.

Thursday, I was feeling super cruddy about my lack of plans for the weekend.

So I made some. I texted Ellen and Carla to see what they were up to. They both had half a day open. I didn't want to just walk Green Lake for the 3,000th time. I dusted off three books of walks in the Seattle area. We picked walks outside of Northeast Seattle. Carla and I walked Interlaken Park and ate lunch at the Volunteer Park Cafe. Ellen and I went to the Boeing Creek Park in Shoreline and then Richmond Beach. Yesterday, I took the Boy to Duthe, a mountain bike park where he rode a trail called Gravy Train with thirteen roller hills jumps. I logged about 30 miles biking for the "Bike Everywhere Challenge."

Peer pressure made me get off my duff and make plans, whereas in the past I didn't have to report to anyone about my weekend. Even if my colleagues don't ask about my plans, that is fine. I know I had a good weekend.

Ellen crossing the creek at Boeing Creek Park. This trail was super sketchy, which was fun.

A Nice Weekend

I spent the afternoon with Claire-Adele and Fox today at Discovery Park where there was a seasonally low tide. Surprisingly, the park was not jammed packed.

Nothing major to report here other than I had a lovely afternoon with my daughter in a beautiful spot before she leaves for school in three months. Jack and I used to bring the kids here when they were little. After a while, they became too busy with soccer and Lego Club and volunteering to go to parks on weekends.