Me type. Me no write.

The only reason I wear my pajamas to work is because my
ruffly dress is at the cleaners!

About a year ago, I took a promotion.  I'm a medical transcriptionist, and technically I'm an independent subcontractor, so there's this relationship thing where the woman who assigns me my work is not actually my employer, but we interact in some ways as if she is, and it's all good.  I've been typing for a living for almost eight years now, and it's been a perfect type of work for me for several reasons:

1.  I types real fast, y'all.  *shakes her money makers*
2.  I get to work at home.  Mixed blessing, but a blessing, no question, especially with kids.
3.  I have a great memory, and memorization is a huge part of my job - I don't have to stop to look shit up.  Well, of course I do, but less and less often.  

So each day I'm assigned 1500 lines of work, which is a full-time load and probably eight solid hours of work for me.  My other job is running my household.  My husband helps out, but the bulk of all things domestic still falls on me.  About a year ago I got a raise because I started proofing my own work. I worked for this raise and it felt good, because I have a certain higher level of responsibility now, which didn't scare me as much as I thought it would.  I also started making more money, but it came with longer hours.  I started getting up earlier. 

When we got back to Montana four months ago, my husband got a job right away and began working long hours.  I kept up my long hours, usually 12 hours in my office, taking necessary breaks to take children places, prepare meals, and sometimes just goof off with my kids.  Then I had the opportunity to begin proofing other transcriptionists' work, which meant another small raise on top of a per line rate for the documents I proofread.  It adds at least an hour to my work day and adds about $300 to my check each month, $150 every paycheck.  Oh, and did I mention I took a big chunk of non-medical transcription as well, with no definite deadline but which is totally looming over me?

Meanwhile, my husband is working hella long hours at the restaurant.  All this is to say that we're now making enough money to get by.  We're able to pay our bills and buy some healthier groceries.  We've been able to take the kids to the local water park and for the first time in years (maybe ever) I bought my husband a father's day gift.  I'm still working on a budget, but I think we're doing all right now.  I hope to be able to get insurance for myself soon (my kids and husband are able to get health care on the Crow reservation nearby, though I do plan to sign my kids up for Healthy Montana Kids)

Working these long hours at home is different than working long hours on my feet like my husband does.  Today we had a mild disagreement about how much time he was allowed to relax on a day off.  I was a little bitchy.  I do love working at home, and I am lucky.  Every day I get up around 6, make coffee, and either shower or get right to work.  One by one as my kids wake up they come upstairs and push open the door, eyes squinty and chins crusted with drool.  They'll come close for hugs, and sometimes curl up on my lap or on the floor while they wake up for the day.  I pretty much treasure those moments.  But it breaks my heart when my four year-old says "Why do you always have to work a long day!" or when my eight year-old brings up the fact that we need to have some time alone together.  And so sometimes I take a break from work and have a picnic under the tree in our front yard, or watch a program with my kids.  Once in a while if I feel I can't make it through the day without, I'll ask one of my younger kids if they want to nap with me. They always say yes, and my favorite way to fall asleep is with my hand across their narrow bodies. 

So I make time for my kids, and I make time for my husband.  Even though I'm exhausted by 10 p.m., some weeknights and most weekends I'll stay up until he gets home at 11, 12, or 1, just so I can sit with him and hear about his day, and so I can tell him all the stories of what happened around the house.  We've still managed to have sex a couple of times a week through all this, and I'm so glad we still have the passion we've always had for each other.  Even being exhausted I can be quickly convinced by my extremely amorous hubby to participate in some bowchickawowow.


I work hard to make sure my relationships don't suffer, and of course I have tremendous guilt.  But something has to give, and so lately what gives is my writing time, and my reading time.  I'm trying to turn a thesis into a book, and I have no time and not much motivation to work on it.  When I finally get the kids to bed at night, I gotta do some cleaning.  I can't relax in the living room unless I pick up and sweep, and the dishes are my personal chore, so I have to keep up with that.  So around 10 p.m. I collapse on the couch (which we just got FREE from our neighbors at a garage sale) and ponder if I should read one of three books I'm in the middle of, or maybe do some writing, or if instead I should maybe watch one episode of Reno 911 and then take my sleeping pill and hit the sack or doze on the couch till High Hawk the hubby gets home.  Sadly, the latter's been winning almost all the time. 




Over a year's worth of notes! And
why yes, that IS Anchorman there
in the corner!

I'm so grateful to be able to move up in my work, to have this particular kind of work, and to be making enough money to get by.  But. 

 I started to borrow Anne Lamott's idea about writing words, ideas, sentences, etc., down on index cards.  I started with white, but then I got a stack of different colored ones, and when I'm typing away at medical records, if I have an idea for a blog post, I write it on a green index card.  Pink is for ideas for my manuscript, and orange is for a different book idea I have.  So I've got a stack of neon reminders that alternately inspire and taunt me, tease me and tempt me. 


Mostly, they just get scattered all over the floor.

Molly's Mom's Toaster

When my sixteen year old daughter told me she had invited Molly’s mom into our apartment while I was napping, my stomach clinched so tight I nearly puked. Molly was my daughter’s new best friend in high school marching band. My family and I (me and my hubby, our four kids, and our dog) had just moved to the area so I could finish up grad school, and I was looking upon our tiny, two bedroom single level apartment as temporary. I did not plan on ever entertaining company – at least not without an extensive explanation. Making buddies with a fellow parent wasn’t really a workable plan – unless the parents were more than a little free-spirited, nontraditionally young (I had my first three kids all before I was 21), and struggling (I mean food stamp approval level struggles) for time and money. THEN maybe I could relate a little.

Molly’s mom seemed to me, an alien, over a decade older, a city woman, a future helicopter parent, two car garage and tiny yappy dog owner, a God Complex attender, likely conservative. Molly’s mother seemed more organized, more involved and connected, more flexibly employed, more traditionally married, more housewifey, and so fit to the given plastic-mold in her concern for her daughter’s education. She had a two story on the outskirts of town, where all the houses were brick and the townspeople cruised to the grocery store in golf carts. Her and her kids were always dressed in name-brand clothing. She had afforded BOTH kids clear braces. She wore decorative sweatshirts appropriate to season. She worked part time in some office. Her husband kept the money flowing but was rarely home because he was always “off on business.” They had four dogs and a fat black cat that would all peer down their noses at me from her bay window whenever I pulled into her driveway to drop off or pick up my daughter.

I was overwhelmed by things like squeezing our money through a sieve, pulling together a work schedule, attending late night classes, and getting my writing done. I didn’t clean house much, and my husband kept up with it well enough. I sort of felt cozy in the muck and muddle. I was good enough if I was giving my children – the youngest 6 and the oldest 20 – a warm meal and some sort of minutely positive attention daily. I had to hope that the public school system was doing well enough and, occasionally, I tried to reverse any disreputable damages. I imagined myself stepping up later. I thought the older I became, the better I’d fit in with those “traditional” type parents like Molly’s mother, but I was beginning to realize I wasn’t catching up with anyone.

I had nearly puked because I realize Molly’s mom had seen my apartment in an outright wreck. She saw the piles of shoes and coats which beaver damned the flow of traffic from the front door. She saw my gritty carpet after my kindergartener had been chopping up one hundred tiny paper triangles to prove her newfound counting skills. Molly’s mom saw our family dog, sick and coughing and weepy eyed, in need of a vet’s attention, if only we could have afforded it. She saw a twin bed as it sat unmade on the floor without a frame in the space traditionally reserved for a dining table. There had been toys and papers everywhere. She saw stacks of half-filled cups on the end table and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and discarded chewing gum. She saw my sink full of dirty dishes, the leftovers of supper, and, of course, it had been spaghetti. The worst was she saw my husband napping half-naked on the couch in his Darth Vader-esque sleep apnea mask. Surely, she bore witness to his hairy belly button.

My daughter had tried to wake me so us two mothers could meet, and I, being exhausted from staying up über late the night before, brushed it off in a sleepy mumble. I told her – perhaps half aware of what I was avoiding – I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Later, when I learned of Molly’s mom’s invasion, I beheld visions of the woman running a manicured finger over the top of my television to calculate the depth of the dust. I envisioned her kicking coats and shoes aside, fighting the urge to organize them herself or perhaps thinking she should graciously loan me one of her organizational cubbyhole systems (like a good fellow mother would). I saw her sniffing the air and lifting her chin in an attempt to raise her head out of the scent of dirty dog and cigarette smoke. I saw her gazing caringly at my sixteen year old daughter, wishing the Lord had given her a more suitable set of parents.

After learning of my exposure, I snapped. I assured my family they were a group of totally careless people, not concerning themselves with the appearance of the apartment in the face of new company, and the worst kind of company – a “traditional,” older, conservative mother. I started tossing shoes into the shoe basket, started rinsing dishes and shoving them in the dishwasher. It is a given, I insisted, that when anyone – not just another woman – looks upon the interior of a living space and it’s messy, it’s immediately blamed upon the mental state and ability of the woman. Among mothers, there can be a brutal competiveness, a tendency to sneer, judge, and share gossip. Mothers can seek to show up one another. Society sets this up the regulative order of things. When I was very young, I witnessed my own poor, single mother as she was practically tortured by fellow female church goers. Having had my first three kids before I was 21, I have had nightmares about such castings and have always felt like I had a wider tail to cover.

After my mini-explosion upon being exposed as incompetent, my husband stared at me like I was crazy. He raised his eyebrows and stepped away from me as though I was contagious. But all this falls on me! I cried. Can’t you see? Molly’s mom thinks I’m awful. His stare sunk deep. What had I just said? I was thinking crazy. I stopped and laughed at myself and convinced myself to brush it all off. Why should I care what Molly’s mom thinks of me? She’s so freakin’ plastic.

Not long after all this, Molly’s mom let me in her ranch to make a quick phone call. As I walked up to her house, I realized I had never noticed her grass was dry and tan unlock the other lush green lawns on the block, nor had I noticed that there sat a rusting Bronco in the driveway that never moved. “Just kick the dogs away,” Molly’s mom had told me. The dogs had yapped and jumped and sniffed over all of my lower half. There sat a tiny pink bow on the head of the Pomeranian, and when I saw this I thought I had been spot on in my assumptions. But then I noticed the fur on its belly and the underside of its tail was so grungy it was twisted into dredlocks. As her big black cat nuzzled my calves, I saw it had bald spots. Something was off. After Molly’s mom pointed me to the phone, she ran to the bathroom to ponytail her flaming red hair which suddenly seemed insanely frizzy and unruly.

Molly’s mom’s house was disgusting. I stepped over pets and pillows and dirty clothes in the living room to get to the phone in the kitchen. With all of those pets and that overfilled trashcan, her house was so odorous it was tangy. Stringy dust bunnies waved from her heating vents. Her front bay window was cloudy and had a line of slimy dog saliva. Her sofa was ripped open in places, exposing chunks of yellowed foam. Her carpet was stained – pee? tea? Her houseplants were all brown and slumping, neglected. Her family portraits were all goofy, off-center, and hanged crooked. She had a large kitchen table, but I couldn’t see the top of it for the stacks of junk mail, magazines, and cookie packages. She had a plastic basket on her kitchen counter overflowing with little orange bottles of prescription pills. Then I saw her toaster which sat there by the phone. It was covered with caked-on crumbs and burnt crud. It was a repeated tool of the easy breakfast, littered with PopTart pieces, a symbol of neglect, overuse, and exhaustion.

TheToaster - FA+, by Ingrid Falk & Gustavo Aguerre. 

Buenos Aires, 2000 - installation

2500 slices of bread on foamboard. 500 x 450 cm.

I would come to learn that when Molly’s mom’s husband was “off on business” he was trekking across the country as an OTR truck driver – and she hated his guts. He never helped her with anything, being stout to follow the “proper” rules of gender expectation. They were in massive debt, she was suffering from multiple health problems all multiplied by depression, and she ran herself ragged every day. The only relief she ever found was in the occasional bottle of wine, and, on that day, she hinted to me I should have some with her some time. I told her maybe, but doubted myself, knowing she was indeed a conservative Christian and, when I drink wine, I can get testy. I did hug her after making the phone call that day, but I was unsure of whether I liked her better or worse having discovered she wasn’t so Disney. I had left her driveway sporting a half-smile, and even as irony waited to punch me in the face, I patted myself on the back knowing I would never let my toaster get that nasty.

Why I Married Charlie Sheen...

In being a part of this blog, I have become more aware of what is going on in the world. Not just because I feel I need to find things to respond to, but I am just more engaged in the cycle of news and happenings in the world which can be ignored if you avoid news sites, don’t have cable or say, have spent the last two years immersed in an MFA program.

So, being more plugged into politics, I find I am more in tune with personal politics as well. Take for example this article from the Huffington Post Style section. Tracy McMillan has written a not quite satirical piece entitled “Why You Aren’t Married.”

McMillan addresses a specific set of women in the article when she states she is addressing a ‘you’ who has “never dreamt of an aqua-blue ring box.” Those of us who have always dreamed of a “real” wedding day are not included.

But then, a shocking turn occurs when McMillan says this about herself:

“I was, for some reason, born knowing how to get married. Growing up in foster care is a big part of it. The need for security made me look for very specific traits in the men I dated -- traits it turns out lead to marriage a surprisingly high percentage of the time.”

McMillan has been married three times and the advice that follows her backstory is aimed to tell the women who are dying to be married why they aren’t.

Ready for why?

They’re shallow, slutty, lying, selfish bitches who think they aren’t good enough.

It’s enough to make your head spin, right? Because 1) how dare she? and 2) whoa, wait lady…you’ve been married three times and hence, DIVORCED that many times…couldn’t the finger be pointed right back at McMillan? In an article titled “Why You Are Divorced?”

As a woman who has been married and divorced…and perhaps, would like to get married again someday with a pretty dress this time, not 8 months pregnant and with some dancing afterwards, I took offense.

Let’s just look at some quotes:

“But I won't lie. The problem is not men, it's you. Sure, there are lame men out there, but they're not really standing in your way. Because the fact is -- if whatever you're doing right now was going to get you married, you'd already have a ring on it.”

Yes, McMillan, because men are PERFECT and INFALLIBLE beings that women must serve? I think not. And they are ALL just waiting for a non-bitch, wholesome woman to walk into their lives. Again, I think not.

Marriage is a two way street where yes, you are going to have to put up with farts and belching (from both sides of the fence perhaps), the bad mood he gets in when he’s hungry, the way she snaps when you interrupt her concentration, kids complaining about homework and being too tired for sex. But that is MARRIAGE. It isn’t some sort of play where the woman tiptoes around so their husband doesn’t leave them.

“You've seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man's fear and insecurity in order to get married.”

99% of American women are not Kim Kardashian. And I have been pissed off since I was 13 and I am pretty sure it was a part of my charm to my ex-husband. I am not going to stop ‘being angry,’ what I assume is reference to the Feminist stereotype, for anyone. If some man thinks I am ‘too angry’ for him, then he best just move along. Compromising my self isn’t the deal. And I wouldn’t want any potential partner of mine to do that either.

“This thing called oxytocin…it's why you can be f**k-buddying with some dude who isn't even all that great and the next thing you know, you're totally strung out on him…And since nature can't discriminate between marriage material and Charlie Sheen, you're going to have to start being way more selective than you are right now.”

Whoa. Who said we were all sleeping with Charlie Sheens?! Can we not be seen as capable of having a casusal relationship without going all gaga over some sort of chemical cocktail? I say we all lay off the booze and call it good.

“Which is also to say -- if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly. Motherhood has a way of weeding out the lotharios.”

Haha. Ok, that one was funny.

When we get to McMillan’s last point (and after I had read the article six times) it struck me that she may be writing this list to herself. That she, as an American woman, has fallen prey to what everyone (men, family, media) has ever said to her.

Perhaps, it’s a sad diatribe on the harmful words spewed from the angry soon-to-be ex-spouses, who have been pointing out faults for years before the split. I could feel bad here, but I guess I am thankful in a way, to think McMillan is just telling her story.

She’s a little angry.