Sublimation. Or the Gray Area I Call Home.

When you're younger, the answer is always easy.

Second grade math problems are just like all others: there is only one answer.

You're either right.

Or you're wrong.

You learn the opposites. Hot. Cold. High. Low. But you never really learn about the states in between.

Adulthood is a great languishing.

Of course, there are highs and lows and hots and colds. But mostly, there's a lot of nothingness. It's the kind of nothingness that stems from the fact that you thought it would be all hots or colds. Or highs or lows. It's not always a bad nothingness, not at all. It just is. There's certainly room for debate, for argument, for decision making (steak or chicken? reply today or tomorrow?), for progressive thought. All of these are followed by fits and starts of manic activity (sometimes solely contained within the still hopeful mind).

The melancholic side of the nothingness brings about the inevitable introspection, which leads to planning, which leads....back. And sometimes, a little change is enacted and you've suddenly reverted from melancholic nothingness to that blissful nothingness, where everything is calm and smooth and beautiful.

For a time.

Alas, we've arrived back in the gray area.

There are no answers.

There exists no right, no wrong. We're all waging war against opinions.

After pining and creating this odd little relationship (that isn't one, he'll be quick to add), everything has fallen into place.

Or out of place, perfectly.

Whichever is a more apt statement.

He came this weekend.

He met Mom and Dad and Mike and G and AJ.

I met his friends.

He stayed at my house five nights (all except for Friday) - which was something I definitely did not expect and something that wildly pleased me.

He told me he wasn't going to be with any other girls.

I smiled.

We began to think ahead (a bit), based on the thought that he may end up back in Denver as soon as January. Would I be his girlfriend then?

The cracks appeared, began to show and spread.

With my detective hat on, I began putting clues together.

It's a minor incident, but it may very well be the deal breaker that ends it all.

It's seriously little better than an episode of the children's show Blue's Clues.

Clue #1 was a chance glance, a peek. Too bad I'm an incredibly quick reader.

Intrigued but not irate, I put it aside.

Clues #2 and #3 were more tangible. A story of a meeting, an incorrect name. There it was again, my brain flagged it. And three pushed me over the edge.

What's wrong? he asked me as I sat slumped, nauseous from the ill-advised blood donation without any food. I guess he gets points for discerning anger through nausea.

We talked. He told me she was a girl he knew in college.

I'm no moron.

Our night continued with his promise of some modern form of long-distance fidelity.

After he left, I spoke to one of my co-workers, a woman I have mad respect for, who told me, "Honey, let me tell you something. They never grow up. Trust me." Great.

I spoke to one of my dear friends in Chicago. "You need someone who impresses you. Who gets you. Who respects every single inch of you." I asked her why it is that I have such terrible taste in men. She laughed. "Daddy issues. You can totally blame it all on him. I certainly do." We commiserated over the fact that there are so few intelligent, mature, responsible, fun, adventurous, adorable, assertive-yet-not-an-asshole men.

I called him on it last night. I told him that it wasn't the other woman (but it is, and we all know that) but it was the lie (that's a serious violation for me. I don't lie, cheat, or steal, and I expect the people I associate with to do the same). The words "trust" "respect" and "honesty" dominated my appeal. I remained calm, collected and clear (odd, right?). I laid out the situation. I laid out why I was angry. I listened to his responses, called him on his bullshit, and told him I didn't know how I wanted him to fix it. I told him I was too angry with him to cry. I pushed him. I'm glad I did.

Frustrated and tired, I told him I had to sleep. Of course I didn't. I stared at the dim screen of my laptop while it played reruns of 30 Rock.

Today, I woke up numb and even more exhausted, if that's at all possible.

Dragging through the morning, doing my very first support bit - eek! I'm going to have to start handling technical issues with our product, and as exciting as it is, it's really scary, too! - and then it came. The buzzing of my phone. I didn't look. Three more buzzes lead me to believe something catastrophic may have happened or that I'd just received a novella.

It was in fact that latter.

A novella of contrition. Of admission. Of (his) understanding (of the situation). A little bit of my anger melted away when he admitted that he's been taking me for granted, and that last night made him realize how much he stands to lose if I bail. (duh, I'm Katie Barry)

I'm still hurt, still annoyed, still frustrated. But it's salvageable, I think. We spoke again at lunch today, a soft, quiet conversation. But positive. Communication is not a bad thing. But my bullshit meter is on high alert (threat level orange).

And while I am well aware that this may be one of my more fantastic mistakes, I also think it's a fantastic adventure. Sorry, Mom, I know you've tried tactfully to hide your disapproval, but it's going to be awhile before this is over.

Welcome to life in the Gray Area (I'm imagining that it must be something like the Twilight Zone, although I'm not entirely certain).

I promise, I'm still alive.

But I am exhausted.

I've been staring at this screen, desperate to relay my (as usual) turbulent emotions and thoughts on the past week, but after some brief stalling and deleting and reflecting, I think it would be best to put (at least) 8 hours of sleep between myself and this blog.

That way, instead of reading crazy talk, you'll be reading about the Gray Area post I was originally going to write.

It goes a little something like this:

"Let me tell you something," she said to me. "Men never grow up."

It's a romantic tale, full of need and loss and anger and pain. And it was my weekend. You'll enjoy it.

I'll highlight the best and worst parts and we'll all leave exactly where we were: confused.

Or maybe that'll just be me.

The Weekend Wrap Up: Nightmares and Expectations

The twins that I babysit for always use "sleeps" as a way to countdown to things, like the next time you'll see someone.

Two sleeps until S comes! I've been out of sorts (and in my head) about this whole ordeal for the past few days, and it will be nice to reset all of that.

Ready for last night's real live nightmare?

I was at G and G's house - but it was all dark, just like you'd imagine a dungeon. And M, Dad, and I were all sitting stiffly at the table. I had my hands clenched in my lap.

We were talking to G and G and there were Christmas decorations everywhere.

Then, she told us the reason she'd invited us. She spread her arm out, bent at the elbow, sweeping toward the living room.

Our heads turned in unison.

There, in the living room, were the scattered remains of their Christmas celebration. Papers, boxes, plates of food, all glinting under the eerily twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. She'd invited us over to clean it up.

I woke up breathing heavily, convincing myself it wasn't real.

It's not real.

It's oddly telling, though.

I wish my brain could stop chewing on it, though, and just swallow it so I don't have to taste my own bitterness every day.

*breathes deeply, thinks inner peace*

On a positive note, I went to IKEA this weekend! Emily and I woke up early on Sunday and headed out there before they opened (good call - no lines, parking, etc.). We went into the cafe to have $1.99 breakfast and .50c coffee, then somehow ended up going through IKEA backwards. But it was lovely. I got a new duvet - white with gray flowers on it - and new gray sheets. I also picked up wineglasses so I won't have to serve guests in my everyday drinking glasses anymore.

It was fun and busy.

I really enjoy all of their odds and ends and kitchen things more than I enjoy anything else.

$5 for 6 wineglasses will get me every time.

I was at Mom's house yesterday doing my 1800 loads of laundry for the week, and we were chatting. It's nice to have someone so wizened to bounce ideas off of. I came away from our conversation reminding myself that I'm 23. I think I forget that sometimes. It's not so much that I'd like to be older, it's that I measure myself against people who have five or ten years on me and wonder why I don't match up. So for today, I am trying to embrace 23, however one embraces something intangible like that.

I also came away from our conversation very curious about what other G has to say about S.

But let's save that for after his visit - I can only imagine how this going to go. He's meeting Dad and J on Wednesday, and I haven't told him that yet. And then he's meeting Mom on Thursday. Ah, well, surprise surprise!

On "The Help"

I have not had time to really read a book from start to finish in a long time.

Instead, I do what I normally do: start a book, read about a hundred and fifty pages, and set it down. I'll start another book, then pick up that first book and finish it, or at least get a little further, and then repeat the cycle.

Pretty soon I'm halfway through about five books and finished with none.

One of my co-workers lent me the book "The Help."

And so, with recently atypical abandon, I went to town on that book. Literally devoured it. I read nearly three hundred pages the first night.

The movie comes out today, and the blogosphere is up in arms about the racist-ness of the movie.

I'm rolling my eyes. Not because I'm a white bitch, but because I read something totally different in the book. Of course, it might be that I'm always wearing my feminism lenses.

Here's the article that basically sums up a lot of the backlash: Why I'm Just Saying No to The Help

Before I begin, let me note that I don't think the author of the article read the book.

Her refusal to see the movie is based on a whole bunch of other things - like people's opinions and their reviews of the movie.

That's all fine, but it strikes me as interesting that people are so quick to label this movie as one of those white-people-reinforcing sort of deals. Like, "oh, let's take pity on the blacks. Those poor blacks, where would they be without us whites?"

Bullshit.

We're so over-critical these days. We're hot on the lawsuits, quick to jump to a conclusion, way less forgiving, and super focused on political correctness.

This book was not like the "Blind Side," as some are claiming. By the way, how would the story of Michael Oher have been a different one had it not been framed by his race?

(Don't get me wrong, there are serious race issues still in play today. And there are still a disproportionate number of under-educated, underemployed blacks. Expectations and cultural disparities exist. The prevailing attitudes and undercurrents are still not about equality. But that's not always the case. And we can't always revert to that rule - in my opinion, that sort of thinking helps perpetuate the oppression, self-inflicted or not.)

This book was about women. It was narrated by three women, two black and one white. They each had a ton of shit to deal with. The white one is college-educated but unmarried. That's sort of a problem, since all of her upper-crust friends are married and having kids left and right. There is an educational disconnect here - Skeeter, the unmarried one, is more ambitious as a result of having finished college.

Her two friends are more obsessed with social standing that social justice.

That's not to say that Skeeter herself is interested in social justice, she happens to stumble upon it and then grow into it as the story progresses. Her interests in writing the book about the black experience stem from her desire to attain legitimacy in the eyes of Ms. Stein, a New York-based editor.

The black women are so badass. There's a woman who's got five kids, a serious attitude, and an abusive husband. At the end of the book (SPOILER ALERT) - she's leaving her husband. She's more secure in her position than ever - granted, she's still a maid, so there was really no upward mobility, but at least she has the gratitude and respect of the people she's working for.

The other one has lost a son, is constantly fretting about money (who isn't?), and is deeply attached to the white babies she's raising. And it's so fulfilling when the white child colors herself black in school, starts to identify the black woman as her mother, and then starts to play Rosa Parks with her younger brother and then lies to her father about who taught her all of those things. The maid has been telling them stories about Martian Luther King, the alien who didn't fit in with the humans because he was green.

Aww, heartwarming as that all is, it's also heartbreaking. There is violence directed at people in the movie, stories of horrible things done by the whites, stories of how hard life is for the blacks.

I guess for the first time, it really hit me that my grandparents were adults by the time that the Civil Rights Movement rolled around. That my mom was entering adolescence.

But that's not my point:

This book is about women.

The men play supporting roles. They manage to dominate their women while at the same time being absolutely dominated. Leroy beats his wife. Johnny supports his even though she'll never be able to carry a baby. The Senator's son dumps Skeeter for her progressive views, god forbid. The socialite queen of the town runs her husband and supports his going-to-fail campaign for government.

It's about being over-dependent on a husband. It's about not having a future without one. It's about upper-class misery, dependency on popularity, isolation.

It's about women on their own. In the end, there are no love matches for the three. Skeeter's lost her fiance, Minny's dumped her good-for-nothing abusive drunk husband, and Aibileen hasn't had one in a long time - her husband left her when their child was no more than a baby. They are independent, strong, driven women.

They are united in that.

They each have different goals to reach. It's not one of those, "all the ends are so neatly tied up" sort of deals.

The book highlights the struggles faced by single women, shows the oppression of marriage - the social pressures and expectations from parents, children, family, friends. It also shows the power of community.

While it may not paint the most accurate picture of life in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, I think it does a damn good job at reminding us that we've come a long way. We've still got a ways to go with both racism and feminism, but the battle is moving forward.

So read the book and get back to me. I'm going to go see the movie and let you know.

God, give me the strength...

And so it begins anew.

This is a continuation of previous post, which can be found here. (I got a bit heavy-handed with my use of [Redacted] in that post, and for that I apologize, but also smile a little - I think it's odd that I attempted to apply such civility to that post. It adds a small element of youth, of naivete, of hope, I guess.)

Again, I share the sentiments that I am entirely confused.

I guess the refrain is this: I cannot understand what I've done wrong.

The email came from G on Thursday, and can basically be summed up as saying, "Let's meet in Washington Park on Sunday night to celebrate the 57th wedding anniversary."

I was keen.

Friday night, I get a text from Aunt X saying that they're in town. How about Saturday? I respond that I'm unable to do Saturday as I'll be babysitting (Barney live, anyone?).

The response comes via email. Here's my favorite line: (Katie & Mike can't make it...understandable at it is a Saturday night and they are in their 20's!)

I am in my 20s. But the implication lying beneath that sentence would have you believe that I was out partying, rather than helping a family with three children attend their first Barney concert. For the record, they loved it. It was a really magical experience for them, and the day went smoothly. I stayed there from 2pm until 8pm. After, I went to Aunt S's birthday at other G's house. I arrived in time for lemonade and cake. And then I went home and went to sleep, as I had to babysit another family the next morning.

No partying at all this weekend. Babysitting. (Just so we're all clear about my priorities.)

I texted Aunt X and asked for a drink/coffee date so that we could have a heart-to-heart. She responded that she'd get back to me, then asked if I could let her know if Dad was going to be coming that night. (It was Saturday) I responded that I hadn't talked to him.

At this point, I was livid. Fury. I am a passionate person, but I'm slow to anger. Once I'm there, though, is a different story. But don't think that just because I'm angry doesn't mean I can't be rational - I consider myself very logical, rational, even cold, at times.

I will not relinquish a point simply because I feel pressured to do so. I don't lie. And I'm not fake, so pretending nothing's wrong isn't my style, either.

And so Dad, Jeanie, Mike and I had a lovely evening in City Park last night, listening to jazz and playing frisbee. It was non-argumentative. It was light. I gushed about S and blathered on about my exciting news and future plans.

This morning, I woke up happy. Calm. Family is what you make of it, good or bad. And creating your own family is something that's the most fun to do.

I got a text from Aunt X saying that we were meeting for a picnic at the pool at 6pm tonight. I groaned inwardly. I don't get off of work until 6 at the earliest. I'm not trying to use that a crutch, I've got time quotas to meet.

So I wait, text my brother, see if he's going. He is. I text back that Mike is in and that I'll be there as soon as I'm off of work, what can I bring?

I am not by my phone when I get the call.

I listen to the voice mail. My stomach lurches, the hurt crawls back up into my heart. My ears ring. I turn up my music. I gulp for air.

I call her back. We exchange muted pleasantries, and then I say, "First of all, I want you to know that I'm not looking for a food hand-out. I offered to bring something, and I'd be more than happy to bring whatever you'd like. Just let me know what I can bring."

And suddenly, she's off on me. Talking about the medical conditions of her hostess, my G, and this and that and how she'll take care of dinner and she'll haul it over to the pool by herself. I cut in, "I am well aware (of the medical conditions)," I say. She tells me not to bring anything. Just to show up. The line cuts off.

My hands are shaking.

I'm more confused than ever.

I consider myself a strong woman, not one to back down from something that's seriously upsetting me. But I'm finding myself unable to find a logical opening on the other side. It's as though every step I try to take is a misstep.

I guess I'm not sure if this means that it's time to stop trying so hard to be a part of a family that seems to be making it very clear that I'm not welcome.

My Aunt X once told me not to go to grad school, and then made some joke about "not everyone can be a housewife." Well, being a housewife isn't everyone's dream. I mean, it must be nice. (Don't for a second think I'm negating the stresses and workload of the domestic spouse - it's a very necessary and overwhelming experience. The raising of children is a complicated matter.)

But for someone to question why I babysit and who I babysit for - that's crossing lines I'm not prepared for. I don't want a running commentary going on about the rich people I babysit for. That's hardly the case. Sometimes two parents work - it must seem strange to someone so removed from that - but in that case, childcare becomes a very necessary, and expensive, expense.

And that's where I come in.

I babysit for two reasons: I love it and I need the cash.

I love children. I am not making enough at my day job to sustain myself, and in order to not have terrified tears streaming down my face at the end of every month, I work extra hours to make ends meet. It's not a new thing, the idea of two jobs has existed forever.

I'm great with children - all of my families love me, have loved me, and continue to love me. I'm engaged, polite, I uphold their disciplinary standards and their values. I've sat for Christians, Jews, atheists...and my manner has not wavered. Respect, I believe they call it. I'm not sure if they are teaching that in churches these days or not. (And yes, that comment was derogatory and disrespectful. I'm not turning my other damn cheek - I am no doormat. I wasn't raised to not stand up for what I believe in and I'm sure as hell not going to back down now, especially because I am the one who has been attacked.)

I find it interesting that the financial element keeps rearing its ugly head. I've been told no less than three times this weekend that I've got a financial obligation toward my Gs. I wish I could explain that I've offered to bring over dinner, that I do offer consistently. I provide my G with a magazine subscription, something that I know he really appreciates. That's a lot of money for me, and it's something I do out of love. If I had more money, I'd be more than happy to buy groceries, to treat them to things, but the fact is, I don't. I could start mailing some small amount every month, if they'd like. It wouldn't be much, but maybe it would help.

But again, I'd like to reassert that I'm not asking for anything monetary or good-related. I don't need crackers and chips or snacks or food or cash in an envelope. If that's who they think I am, then they need to step back and reassess.

From more than one of the U or A's, I've heard that someone or someone else doesn't want to cook, or entertain, or this and that. I'm not asking to be fed (again, I don't need a food hand-out). I'm just asking for some face time. I'm not asking for a five-course meal, or for treats, or for anything. I'm not asking for money for holidays, or my birthday.

I just want to see my family.

I want to feel like I matter to them as much as they matter to me.

But it's clear that it doesn't work that way.

Being rejected by people who should know you, people who you love, is really hard. And it's tearing at me. At the very least, I'd like some closure on the subject. I'd like to be able to understand fully what I've done that is so reprehensible that they can't be civil toward me. That's all I'm asking for.

It's one thirty now. I have four and a half hours until I leave work. Four and a half hours to decide if I should show up or not.

I'm a proud woman. I am proud of who I am, proud of what I do, proud of what I stand for. I live my life in the best way possible. I try to make sure that my actions have few ripples, and other than a few minor skirmishes with friends (no more than anyone else I know), I maintain a very balanced life. It's full of love and loyalty, and people who genuinely care about me. I genuinely care about them as well.

I call a friend for advice:

"What are you maintaining, other than this idea of a family?...your mom's side loves you. It's not like vindictive and gross and vile as your dad's side is being to you...It sounds like they can't even pretend to be decent. Why do you keep trying to make amends? It just doesn't sound right. If you do have this obligation toward your grandparents, then they'd better start treating you right."

That friend is right.

I try to explain that I guess I want to stay in it for my Gs and cousins, but at the same time, I wonder if their minds have been poisoned against me as well.

This is where I'm sure that the root cause of all of this must be bigger than me. I honestly can't believe that I could have done something so egregious as to be excommunicated from my own family.

I really hate to stir up trouble in an otherwise happy family.

So perhaps it's time for me to back down and back away.

Family. What does that word mean to you?

Odds and Ends. Weekend Edition!

Oh Friday, the promise of a weekend that will fly by too quickly, that sense of release building in your body, the way your mind floats around, outside, like a lost bird.

I imagine that prisoners must start anticipating their release date months in advance, and I can only imagine the immensity of the first footfalls outside the gates.

That is overly dramatic, but that is how I feel on Fridays.

I'd like to have a quick chat with you, dear reader, about sacrifices.

Because right now, I am considering myself god-like. (And by god-like, I mean Jesus-like - it's all part of the holy trinity, so I'm technically correct. Full of hubris, of course, but correct.)

I am missing the ONE concert I'd like to see at Red Rocks this year to go to Barney's Birthday Bash live at the Pepsi Center with three small children. I love them dearly, but I'm so creeped out by things in costumes. Like mascots. And giant purple dinosaurs and their primary colored friends.

So creeped out.

Don't know I'm going to explain why I'm covering my eyes with my hands and peering through my fingers.

Ah, Slightly Stoopid and Shwayze - I've been dying to see you. I guess that want will have to slowly simmer inside me until next year.

I already have the "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family," song stuck in my head.

In future news:

I'm excited. S will be here in a week and a half (ish)! And he's meeting Mom. I think he's more scared to meet Mike. I told him that I'll do way more damage to him than Mike ever will. And I'm not wrong.

I've not been this twitterpated since, well, the college boyfriend. I mean, that ended poorly, but it was fun while it lasted, which was a good long while. Someone was asking me about my past relationships, and it was weird to think that I spent most of college in monogamous relationships - there was D and H, both of whom lasted between a year and a year in half. For someone with my attention span, that's remarkable.

But this kid is driving me nuts. Usually in a good way. Ugh. I secretly don't like this vulnerability, although it's kind of nice. There I go, reinforcing gender stereotypes. Don't worry too much, I'm not going to go all soft on you.

Not yet.

I hope you're eagerly anticipating the Barney recap. I know I am.

From Forbes.com: Retirement is Blocked by the Revolving Door

I did an informal poll at the office asking the following question: if you had adult children (say age 30), would you want them to live with you, or would you encourage them to get out and be independent? The answer was overwhelmingly for independence, and one man even said he’d feel like a failure if they returned home. Everyone who was available today was under 45 years old, and few actually have adult children, but their answers were interesting. Our culture fosters independence. I asked the financial planners what they were hearing in their one-on-one meetings with pre-retirees and I heard a different twist. The employees feel that they have no choice but to help out their family members during these tough economic times, and it was a drain on their finances. In an ideal world, while preparing for retirement you wouldn’t have this additional expense, but then again we are not living in an ideal world.

The planners heard these stories:

“My daughter is a very hard worker and has three jobs. Yet she never seems to get ahead. She got her wallet stolen at the pool yesterday and the thief left her wallet and ID but took her cash and her credit cards. Fifty dollars may not seem like much to some people, but it was a lot to my daughter. Couple that with no access to a credit card when she had $200 worth of school expenses (she is a teacher) and she won’t be able to make her rent. I had to loan her $400 to get by. I was not expecting that expense and it was not a trivial amount.”

“My son is working and going to school and having trouble making ends meet. When a necessary expense comes up for my ten year old granddaughter, what am I supposed to say? I can’t say no. It now costs $89 to register her for public school because I am in a state that is broke and my son doesn’t have the money. Now as a grandmother, I am ending up paying for the necessary things instead of the fun things.”

One of the biggest challenges of retirement planning is to estimate your future expenses. We assume housing costs may go down in retirement, when your mortgage is paid off and medical costs will rise, so at least some estimates can be done. Unplanned and unpredictable high and recurring expenses, such as assisting adult children and grandchildren, can certainly prevent the parent from being able to retire.

This is a growing phenomenon. As I mentioned in a blog a few weeks ago, the number of adult children between the ages of 25 and 34 living with their parents has exploded in recent years, going from a little over 10% in 2003 to 13% in 2010. Unemployment certainly is a big factor. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics the unemployment rate for 20-24 year olds in 2010 was 15.5% and for 25-29 year olds it was 10.9%. With the economy struggling to produce jobs, this is a problem that pre-retirees with adult children and grandchildren can’t ignore.

Many will argue that families should take care of each other and that is what family is for. In other cultures, families have been living together in multi-generational households for centuries, so we are the odd culture in encouraging our family members to live separately. That may all be true, but the key isn’t so much where they live, it is the support they need when the pre-retiree still has to fund their own retirement, and that support is often an unexpected high expense. The challenge is to manage the pull of caring for your family without sacrificing your own retirement.

Ideas on how to help adult children without going broke:

Rethink your emergency fund. Carry a high emergency fund balance even in retirement. We normally think of the emergency fund to replace 3 – 6 months of income if you lose your job. In retirement, we used to be able to keep less in liquid savings because of steady retirement income. Consider keeping additional liquid dollars available for unexpected expenses.

Lend rather than give. The teaching goes, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” A gift or a hand out can turn into a steady stream of support. Lend your children money with a clear payback structure at a low interest rate rather than a hand out. This sets a clear boundary with your adult children and shows mutual respect.

Ask that they contribute. If they are living with you, ask that they contribute to the household by paying rent and helping with other household expenses. Even if the rent is a nominal amount, it sets up an expectation and lessens any financial drain on you. Set a time limit if that is appropriate under the circumstances.

Make sure they make the most of the situation. This is a time for them to improve their financial literacy by sticking to a bare-bones budget, getting out of debt and living within their means. Financial lessons they learn from the economic downturn can be an incredible opportunity for them to realize how valuable the cash flow of a job is or how expensive it is just to run a household.

Don’t sacrifice your own financial future. In our college planning workshops, we always remind parents there are no grants or scholarships for retirement. Set limits with your children if you plan on helping them or supporting them until they get their feet on the ground. Determine what you can afford and have a meeting with your child to make it very clear.

During the Great Depression families stuck together and they did without. Stella Anderson is 97 years old today, and she is one of six sisters who grew up on an almond ranch in Northern California. During the depression, her parents couldn’t afford to send her to college (they sent her older sisters before her) but she didn’t complain. She delayed her education, stayed at home and helped out on the ranch for two years before moving on to obtain her college degree. She and her parents took the practical approach and did what they could at the time. That kind of practical mentality will serve our families well today while getting through tough times together. It may even make the family bonds stronger. Plus, in your later years, you can lean on them like they leaned on you. That is what family is for.

by Liz Davidson link to article here

shhh....

I'm so terrible at keeping secrets.

Things that are beautiful....

I am so grateful for so much...but here's a list of my current favorites:

1. My brother. He is the best roommate a girl could ask for and he's genuinely one of the wisest people I know. He keeps me together when I think I'm going to fall apart with his simple yet accurate advice.

2. My friends. You're all weird and beautiful people, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

3. My cat. That sounds stupid but knowing that some living creature depends on you for survival is really beautiful.

4. My car. To go anywhere....to breathe the fast air, to watch the endless nothing slide past you on the highway....to be no one....it's wondrous.

5. My mom. (Just so you're not mad - this list isn't in priority order...you don't really follow Simon.) Just because.

6. S. To capture my attention for so long. To keep me interested and nervous. Those are all wild achievements.

7. The Cosby Show. It's on Netflix and I can't get enough - I want to raise my children like Heathcliff Huxtable did. With good humor and grace.

8. City Park. I wake up to you and fall asleep to you. Your sunsets never cease to catch my eye.

blah blah blah, I'll stop now.

Self-sufficient

I've decided that I'm sick of hearing that I don't do enough.

That I go out too much.

During the month of July, I went out 2x on a "school night," not counting trivia on Thursdays.

I hardly think that's excessive.

I work my regular, full-time 40+ hour/week job. I show up, I work, I go home.

On top of that, I regularly babysit for 3 families (others are in the rotation, but I've got three regulars). There are weeks that I'll be at the office five days and babysit five nights, including the weekend.

I don't have time to breathe, let alone party.

It's not fair for people with combined household incomes far exceeding mine to tell me what I can and cannot do with my money. I work damn hard. Most Friday and Saturday nights, I'm more than happy to sleep rather than going out. Why? Because I am either exhausted or poor or both.

So if I want to go to Chicago, then I will. Trust me, I make up for the financial cut in other ways.

For example, when I was in Chicago earlier this month, we went to the grocery store and got food/beer for the weekend. I made no meal outside of the home. I bought no beer at a bar.

I manage to pay all of my bills on time. I'm more self-sufficient than a lot of people I know. And it's not like I expect anything to come easy, but I would just to wake up one day and not have to juggle fifteen different schedules. It'd be nice to have a free afternoon, just saying.

I'd one day like to have a job where I don't have to work like a madman outside of work to make ends meet.

I'd like to not have to keep pushing out starting my IRA.

I'd like to be able to save a little bit each month.

I'd like to have a "just in case" fund for when I need new brakes.

I'm sick of worrying about it constantly and I'm even sicker of hearing about it from other people. I'm doing what I have to do, thank you very much. I realize that part of being 23 is about being poor and making sacrifices, but this isn't healthy.

It's time for a change.

"That that is just the person that you are."

There are moments, usually quiet moments in the dead of night, when the world shifts. I found myself relaxed, calm, anxious for my phone to buzz with the continuation of the nightly conversation that I look so forward to.

I sat and heard her start to tell me a story. I wasn't all there, my mind drifting off to Chicago while maintaining some semblance of concentration.

What she said broke my reverie and brought me swiftly back to my body, sitting on the steps staring across the darkened street.

No, what?

And there it was.

The reasoning, his version of the truth, conveyed to me via her. The nerve of this slimy coward. To later tell a mutual friend that it wasn't his fight to fight, yet to have never even told me about it.

It.

Allegedly.

Apparently, it - that alleged indiscretion - happened on the fourth of July. Happened when I, the sober driver, was saying goodbye. Well here's a sweet goodbye for you...

It was an anger I have not felt in some time. My jaw clenched, my eyes narrowed, I was, in that moment, comprised solely of steel and tingling fingertips.

Untruths!

Annoyance filled my steel-skeleton, and I drove home in a concentrated rage. I grabbed my phone and sent a message - abrupt, rude, sharply displaying my acute disapproval.

I did not expect a response, but when I saw it, my anger flared past steel. I am molten iron now, white hot.

I still am. It's been some hours now, edging toward twenty four, yet I cannot break the script from my mind.

"...everyone conceded that that is just the person that you are."

What am I?

I have lists of occasions I could reference, all to refute this claim that "that that is just the person that" I am.

But they fall far short of the damage I wish to inflict.

Self-control serves me well, but in all honesty, I am so hurt by this assertion, this accusation, the untruth of it all, that if we come face to face, I won't hesitate to show him just what kind of person I am.

The Economist...

Work and parenting

Motherly love

Jul 26th 2011, 10:20 by S.D. | LONDON

A WORKING mother knows that balancing the demands of private home and high-rise office is not her only worry. While busy, breadwinning fathers are unlikely to provoke moral panic, the public’s interest in how working women raise their children is easily piqued. One of Britain’s biggest-selling newspapers proclaimed fearfully on Friday: "Three in four middle-class mothers continue to work after having a baby, a study shows... The figures point to a relentless rise in the number of working mothers of very young children."

ever, to dislodge the stigma that attaches to single parents.

Contrary to these veiled aspersions, the study in question should reassure career-minded mothers. Conducted by researchers at University College London, it surveyed 19,000 British households to determine how parental employment affects a child’s behaviour throughout the first five years of life.

The results will startle those who think that children benefit from having a stay-at-home mum. In fact, the paper indicates that maternal employment can often improve the chances of having well-adjusted kids.

For example, five-year-olds whose mothers had been at home when they were babies were more likely to have behavioural problems than other children. For each child, the longer the time their mother was off work, the more bratty was the child's behaviour. Housebound women were also far more likely to report symptoms of depression than their working counterparts, problems which can only make the process of childrearing more difficult.

Of course, life can rarely be boiled down to simple equations of cause and effect. What complicates this picture is the correlation between work patterns and other factors like lower household income, poorer education and depression, which might affect whether a woman chooses to go to work. Interestingly, when the study adjusted for these factors, the relationship between bad behaviour and maternal unemployment remained strong for girls but not for boys. This may reflect, the authors said, “the importance of gender in family role model processes”—the inference being that girls benefit from having a mother as an exemplar of a woman who is successful and independent, while the effect is less pronounced for boys.

The paper also looked at the working arrangements of all adults in the household—a sensible method, and a point of distinction with other studies that focused exclusively on what mothers do with their time. Once again, the trends differed by sex. Boys, but not girls, were likely to suffer from their mother being the sole breadwinner, although once the results were adjusted for income, education and depression, the detrimental impact on boys disappeared. Boys thrived equally in homes where both parents were working, and in two-parent "traditional" families in which their mothers stayed at home. Girls, in contrast, appeared to have significantly fewer problems where both parents were employed than in traditional homes.

For social progressives, the results are mixed. Working women can head to their desks knowing that they are doing their daughters a service, and that they are not doing their sons any harm. Yet the study also suggests (the admittedly widely-accepted proposition) that the children of single mothers are more likely to be troublesome, and that the best arrangement for both boys and girls is to live in a two-parent household in which both adults are employed. These results provide a robust defence of why women should be supported in returning to work after childbirth; they make it harder, how

The study has other limitations, too. It restricted its analysis to white children because of problems with sampling other ethnicities. Statistically, that is not a huge drawback: 92% of Britons identified themselves as white in the 2001 census. A bigger issue is the way the data were collected, involving questionnaires about children’s behaviour, almost always answered by mothers. Working mums know that they are vulnerable to criticism from certain sections of society and the media; when surveyed, this might incline them to paint defensively rosy portraits of their children, and so to skew the results.

Race and Stuff...

I've been meaning to blog about racism for awhile now, but I found this article today, and until I get around to finally actually blogging about it, I think this will do:

Vintage Racism: The "We Don't Want Trouble" Defense Makes a Comeback

NONA WILLIS ARONOWITZ

Back in the Jim Crow days, there were two basic approaches to racism in the segregated South. You were an aggressor—a lawmaker wedded to segregation, a member of a lynch mob, a scientist trying to prove non-white people were inferior, or your garden variety white person who might use a racial epithet. Or you were a bystander—someone who maintained the status quo by saying, "We don't want any trouble."

Nowadays, being racist in public is less acceptable, so people come up with all kinds of excuses for prejudice. Like, "Just kidding!" Or, "I'm not racist, I'm just honest. (Variation: I'm just exercising my First Amendment Rights.)" "I have black friends." "Posting on Facebook can't be racist." And so on. Even amid claims that America is now post-racial, one of the tried-and-true ways to be racist has endured: the argument that fighting against bigotry is more trouble than it's worth.

Take, for instance, what happened recently at an Arkansas graduation: A black teen mom named Kymberly Wimberly was the top student at McGehee Secondary School in Little Rock. Despite these accomplishments, a white co-valedictorian was named along with her. Was it because this white student had the same GPA? Nope, it was because school officials worried that making Wimberly valedictorian would result in a "big mess" at the majority-white school.

This response may seem antiquated, but it's not uncommon—and neither is the old-school racism it defends. When Prescott, Arizona, residents shouted racial epiphets at non-white students while they were painting a school mural, the administration's first thought wasn't to speak out against racism. It was to lighten the skin of the Hispanic boy depicted on the mural. Why? They wanted to avoid "a controversy."

As late as last year, schools in states like Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama have held segregated proms for black and white (and sometimes Hispanic) students. Overt racism still exists—one parent in Charleston, Mississippi reportedly said in 2008, "I'm not going to have any of those niggers rubbing up against my daughter"—but others prefer these divided dances because they want to side-step "racial flareups, a fight."

In this case, fear of violence is code for fear of change. And that's not much different from the Jim Crow era. A student named Chasidy Buckley, ensnared in the Mississippi prom fight, didn't mince words when she described what was at the heart of the segregation: "The [school] said, 'why change now? Let's just keep going.' That's the whole thing with our town. Everybody's afraid of change. It's just horrible."

I'm embarrassed for America.

We have so much hate. It's not just directed at Blacks, or Latinos, or Asians. It's directed at everyone - gays, lesbians, women, minorities. (I apologize for any missteps in capitalization - I'm not hip to the politically correct shit these days.)

I remember my high school English teacher Mr. H drawing boxes on the whiteboard and explaining that people need to think in categories.

I'll give him that.

I personally put myself in many boxes, all at once. The two that stand out are White and Woman. I was so excited to receive a book I ordered just before I went to Chicago about the modern definition of feminism written by two girls about my age.

The one thing that struck me as I was reading the book was how many women said that they never really explored feminism proper because they thought it was for white women. The term "feminism" was too academic, too Ivory Tower, too haughty for the regular woman's vernacular. And so they avoided it. It didn't mean that they weren't living it, engaging in it, defining it for themselves. It just meant they weren't calling it that.

But they had a hard time seeing themselves as both Black (or Latina, or whatever they were) and as a woman. It was like they didn't think it was possible to be two things at once. (It's hard, especially when one or more of the boxes you've put yourself in - or are put in - are minorities.)

I'll give Americans the opportunity to think in categories. Race, gender, economic standing - those things are all categories. You're free to make observations. But you're forgetting to observe other important stuff to.

Instead of: "Hey I bet that Black kid is going to steal that lady's purse. Look at his baggy pants; the kids these days." It should be: "How nice of that young man to help that lady across the street. Look as his baggy pants; the kids these days." (You're still an ageist ass, but better that than a racist, right? I'm just kidding, I've got an ageism rant you're probably dying to hear. - I just made myself laugh.)

But we've failed at educating people how to stop it all at observation. Instead, we've let our categorical thinking invade our lifestyles, our habits, our daily lives.

We categorize, we lump people together, we judge.

We don't embrace all of our categories, our weirdness, our faults. We push them away and instead pick the thing we like the best.

I'm a marketer.

I'm a doctor.

Well, what else are you?

It's a hard habit to break, I know.

There are a lot of pieces that make each of us a whole person - color, gender, passions. I wish we as Americans could try to look for the whole person.

We're too sensitive to race. Let's stop focusing on it because we're creating the "other." We're providing the boxes to put people in. Let's focus on humanity.

Fuck the statistics, we just keep living up to them. You tell someone what they will be and they'll be it. You're going to end up in prison. You're going to end up the President. You're going to get pulled over if you keep speeding.

I am sad to say that I'm ashamed of how we act like we stand up for rights, and the American dream, and advancement, and equality, and education, and morality - and really, we display very little of that to the world.

We are not a nation of equal people. We are not a nation of prosperity. One in seven of our citizens is on food stamps. (To qualify for food stamps, you have to make 130% of the poverty level or less.) We are a nation of hatred, of bigots, of uneducated, arrogant fools. And until we learn to accept and tolerate, we will get nowhere.

Let's get together and create a better future.

For everyone.

Dreams

It's been one of those weeks where your dreams are too real. I am living in those moments, making conscious decisions, and ultimately, freely thinking my own thoughts.

That's the weirdest part for me. The thoughts.

I woke up startled, not quite terrified, on Thursday morning. I'd just had a pregnancy-labor dream. I realize I've probably just been reading too much of NPR's Baby Project (it's sort of cute; if you're into that sort of thing, you should check it out).

In my dream, I was in labor, at the hospital, walking around with my mom and wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns. But the strangest part of the dream was that I kept thinking how I was only x amount of time into labor and already bored.

I sincerely hope that someday, my worst fear for childbirth is how bored I am. I reached down and felt my flat stomach and breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos meowed as he usually does when I bother him too early in the morning, and then came up to snuggle me, and I fell back asleep just as the sunlight was starting to creep through the trees that shelter my window from the street.

And last night, again. But nothing like babies this time. Last night I was an assassin. Don't ask - it was one of those vivid, shifting dreams where it's suddenly winter and you're in Minnesota and then you're creeping around a house/building/warehouse and you're killing people. I went down a faux-grass (astroturf) slide like a fish and killed a Japanese guy with crazy hair and a nice suit who happened to be a better at imitating fish movements than me.

That was probably really weird for you, so: Imagine a dark room with a giant, twisty slide that's not a slide at all, but rather an astroturf covered ramp, and in order to get down it with your gun in your hand, you have to flop like a fish. (I'm not even graceful in my dreams. Great.)

This is the prime example of why I'll never work for the CIA. I'm not graceful, I'm bad at stealthily fish-flopping, and I have a conscience.

Usually, these wild dreams mean I have a lot on my mind and that I'm overtired. Surprise! Guess what? Both are correct.

The Chicago trip was so worth it, but it nearly killed me, even though I got to spend most of Monday asleep on the couch (as much as I hated missing work, it was so nice to veg out and watch bad television).

Anyway, I'm hoping to get caught up on my sleep this weekend. Babysitting means I'm usually exhausted by the time I get done, so there's little chance I'll want to go out dancing (which so bums me out - I haven't had one of those wild, reckless and possible regrettable [just kidding] nights in ages). Which means sleep - definitely necessary since I have to work essentially a full day tomorrow. The 9-5 hours I missed on Monday and then more babysitting!

Maybe I'll be able to get to the park before I babysit on Sunday. Or maybe I'll get to work and log more hours! (That's ambitious - it won't really happen and we all know it. I'll sleep, I'll probably make some pasta, I'll be slow to get going - and by then, my weekend will be over.)

But I'm excited for real work tomorrow because I am in creativity mode and thus more prone to devoting my attention to the task of brochure creation. We'll see how it actually turns out.

The Chicago Trip

I didn't blog about my Chicago trip last time, either.

I didn't take any pictures this time, which I'm kind of bummed about.

I think it's because I never know what to say. I don't want to say too much, but I feel like saying too little would damage the experience.

It was perfect.

S picked me up at the airport like a gentleman. He was right on time, too. I misread the text directing me to a quieter pick up location, so he had to do an airport loop to fetch me.

Saturday included a grocery store run, sushi and BLTs for brunch (don't ask - it made me very happy), a softball game - I forgot my sunglasses and nearly died in the heat, and his dad's birthday party. I was determined not to be stressed, and so I wasn't. (That's worked twice this weekend, but failed miserably once. So I'm shooting 2 for 3 on mastering stress.)

It was a very lovely evening. I spent it eating chocolate cake and talking to a million people. I reminded his grandmother that we'd met previously - when she told me she wanted to trip a 4th grader at a basketball game. It was great. I really hope that the consensus was solidly in my favor at the end of the evening.

Sunday was a calm day. I made that watermelon salad and headed to a friend's BBQ. I forgot how hard it is to park in Edgewater (just south of Rogers Park!). The BBQ had been moved inside, thank g-d, because it was miserably warm outside. I went outside to inspect the new grill, stayed outside for about five minutes, and came directly back in.

Then we headed to his mom's for dinner. His mom is also wonderful.

After one too many White Russians, I declared that we need to leave "now!" And so he took me home. That's when, overwhelmed by my own emotions, I began to cry. Such a noob mistake, I can't believe I did that. At least I made it back to the safety of his house so I won't be known in his house as "the girl who cried" for the rest of my life.

Upon missing my flight and spending the morning laying on his couch, sweating in the blistering AC-less heat and sipping a Gatorade, I realized that perhaps the night before hadn't gone so terribly. And by "hadn't gone so terribly," I mean exactly the opposite.

In the end, it was nice to have some time to chat about it. Being able to talk things out before you fly a thousand miles is really helpful. I informed him that I am indeed a girl, I do cry sometimes, and that it doesn't get any worse than what he witnessed (drunk tears are so attractive, let me tell you - nothing says "I'm a great girl, I swear" like puffy, red eyes, frizzy lion hair, and rings of mascara).

His response? "You were mad at me for things I hadn't even done [yet]!"

Ah, welcome to life with the opposite sex, my dear.

I had forgotten how much I love that city. I love the intensity, the illusion of calm, the people, the nights. I didn't get to the lake, to the Bean, anywhere, really, but I went everywhere I needed to go. The nights slipped away from me, standing on a rooftop overlooking the city - lights all around, never-ending noise. And the mornings broke beautiful, warm, sensational.
I felt so alive.

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.