Heat Wave

It's gotten hot. Summer has hit full force and the temperatures are soaring well over 105. The heat shimmers on the horizon and the asphalt is sticky.

I hate this time of year in the Valley of the Sun. It's unrelenting sunshine and heat.

I know that it's a dry heat, but still, sometimes, I feel like my soul is shriveling from the heat. The humidity represents a certainly level of fecundity that feeds a soul, keeps one alive even in the heat. Sweaty glasses of iced tea on a porch, the low hum of cicadas, the sticky feeling on the backs of your legs, the curls on the back of your ponytail.

I am looking forward to the humidity of VA.

Set Up

Since I started work, I've been wanting to participate in an apartment set up, but unfortunately, until today, I hadn't been given the opportunity.

In a nutshell, our organization receives clients throughout the week. When a new arrival is slated to come, it's our responsibility to set up an apartment for them the day before their arrival with furniture, food and other basic necessities so when they stumble into their new home, exhausted from travel and the unknown, they're covered for a few days to get their bearings as best they can.

Today, I learned just how basic those necessities are.

Three of us went to Walmart and went shopping off of a list which included things like "female deodorant" and "laundry soap." Total, the apartment I set up cost $194 (not counting furniture). That's it. $194 covered everything from dish soap to a shower curtain to pots and pans and sheets and utensils and towels and dishes and toiletries.

In one way, $194 went a long way. I mean, we got a significant amount of stuff for that apartment. But simultaneously, I kept thinking how much excess there is in this world and in my life. I don't go around dropping $200 on stuff every weekend, but it was a bit of a sobering thought that the money I spend on miscellaneous and inconsequential things in a few weeks could put together an apartment for a family of 3.

XYZ

Today, I walked around for a good portion of the day with my zipper down.

No one told me.

I hope the reason no one told me is because no one noticed my bright green panties peaking through my fly.

When embarrassing things happen (skirt caught up in tights, toilet paper on shoe, zipper down), I always wonder why people don't point out the obvious. Fear of embarrassment? I'll be honest. I'd much rather have a moment of slight embarrassment with one individual than a massive moment of embarrassment alone when I realize I've been walking around all day grinning at people with a big piece of lettuce in my front teeth.

Or flashing my green panties at all my clients as I sat on their floors playing with their babies.

Honesty Honestly

Perhaps one of the greatest things about getting older is insight about honesty in one's own life. (Now, I realize that "getting older" means closer to 30 in my case, but you know, bear with me.)

This weekend, I had a my weekly 2-hour phone call with my Law Librarian Jen. I can't even remember what sparked the conversation, but LLJ pointed out that one great thing about maturing is being honest with yourself and subsequently making decisions based on what you enjoy as opposed to what you think you should enjoy. It's not about faking enjoyment for something that you hate, but more showing enthusiasm for something you feel apathy for.

I will never forget when I was about 20 my mother confided to me that she, in fact and contrary to what I had thought for the last 15 years, didn't actually care for shrimp. It sounds rather ridiculous for something so seemingly mundane to make a lasting impression in my adult mind, but after an entire life of summers spent at the beach, peeling and deveining freshly caught shrimp to boil for my entire family, I felt rather taken aback. Why on earth, if she didn't really care for shrimp did I have to stick my fingers in shrimp guts for hours on? She, like I, was taught that shrimp were a treat and something special saved for the summer (which it is in my opinion), but if she was honest with herself, shrimp would never be her choice of a treat or special meal. It isn't that she hates shrimp--just that if given the choice of a summer seafood meal, she'd rather enjoy something else instead; she simply tired of pretending that she thought shrimp was something special and was completely unapologetic about it. She said, "Life is too short for other people's shoulds."

She's right. LLJ is right. As I get older, and I'm sure LLJ and I are not alone in this, I find myself becoming more secure in myself and the small choices I make. Who I surround myself with, the parenting choices I make, the food I eat, the movies I watch, the music I listen to and the books I read. And frankly, no one cares that I'd rather read a modern British mystery novel than the searing political commentary of our time.

Honest.

A Farewell to Pride

During 8th grade, one of the required readings for my literature class was The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway. I hated it. I dreaded reading it, writing about it and (to be completely honest) am not entire sure I even finished the book. If you know me and know anything about my literature consumption habits, you know that refusing to finish a book is a rare thing indeed.

Since that 8th grade misfortune, I've refused to have anything to do with Hemingway. Flat out refused to read any of his novels or show any real interest in his life as a historical figure. In fact, I'd go so far to say that I purposely have been openly critical and hateful toward Hemingway and his writings (all based on one novel read when I was 14).

Weirdly, my life has paralleled his in many ways--at least in travel experiences. I've been to Havana (and am sure I insulted many a Cubano by telling them I was not interested in "Papa," and no, I didn't care about his damn six-toed cats), I've lived abroad in Spain (but refused to watch a bullfight), I've traveled to Kilimanjaro (though I failed to take home any big game animal heads).

Yet, the entire time, I adamantly maintained that Hemingway was an author I'd never read again.

And then a coworker and I started a conversation about books. His preferences tend more toward what I think of as *man-lit*--a combination of nonfiction and novels that appeal to men. But he mentioned Hemingway as one of his favorite authors. I laughed and told him I'd never touch a Hemingway book thanks to my 8th grade experience The Old Man and the Sea.

What a smug person I am. A day or two later, I found myself wandering the fiction section of the library again. I routinely do this--go to the library needing something to read but with no concrete ideas of actual books to take home. And then the idea occurred to me. I *could* check out a Hemingway novel.

After browsing the new releases but not finding anything inspiring, I settled for The Sun Also Rises. Short. Not too intimidating. I checked it out with low expectations.

I am a jerk. Clearly. I am willing to admit this publicly and openly.

All these years of my life, I've spent hating Hemingway, publicly denouncing my dislike for his writing and one novel, one short novel of his that took all of two days to read, felled me like a tree. I loved the story. Loved it.

I don't know if I was too young to appreciate his writing style, too immature to understand such adult themes in literature or maybe I've been a jerk my whole life. Who knows (although, I suspect the latter)? His descriptions of Spain's countryside had me reminiscing about riding through the countryside. The aimlessness of the characters floating through life abroad, the lost innocence, the effects of war on an entire generation, the drinking to suppress feeling the emasculation just resonated with me in a way I didn't expect.

All I know is this: I have given Hemingway another chance and I suspect it's a relationship that will last a lifetime.

PHX

This city of shimmering heat is starting to grow on me. So much so, we're actually debating buying a home in the next year. Committing. To one of the hottest metropolitan places in the world. Forever. (Or at least a good 10+ years.)

I never thought I could make PHX my home. Too hot. Too crowded. Too sprawling. I would grow weary of the commuting, the distance, the sheer volume of people in my space.

Or so I thought. And then, I started to notice the culture, the arts, the community (yes, community) in this improbable city in the middle of the desert.

Maybe this isn't so bad, after all. Maybe, just maybe, I ended up in the right place.

I Forgot

This year, I forgot.

Five years.

The days slipped past me without conscious thought and before I knew it, the moment had passed and I had forgotten.

I thought somehow this year would be momentous. Five years is not to be taken lightly. But miraculous that five years has passed and the day slipped by and I forgot.

For the moment of my life I thought I would be scarred forever and yet, here I am.

So for one more year, one more moment. Even if a bit late.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Lost in Translation

We had a baby group at work today. (Side note: Burmese babies are the cutest babies in the entire world and I am always scheming as how to get myself a Burmese baby. Unfortunately for me, any baby that comes out of me is NOT going to look like a Burmese baby, no matter what I do.) Anyways, our program's baby groups replace the regularly scheduled well-baby checkup which means that babies get naked and weighed for their vitals.

This particularly baby group had all three and four-month-old babies. Truly the best part about that age is just how fat the babies get. They have rolls on their thighs--roll upon roll upon roll. It's most certainly a product of being in the baby furniture stage. Babies that age are like seals storing up their fat for when they start becoming mobile and then they just burn through that fat and become lean again. (Another side-note. All of our babies in that group were well above the 75th percentile in both weight and height which just warms the cockles of my heart. So healthy and strong!)

At one point, I was holding a chubby boy who was wearing nothing but a diaper. He had these luscious, squeezable rolls and I had the sudden desire to just gently bite his soft thighs like I used to do to The Bean at that age. I turned to our interpreter, a lovely middle-aged gentleman, and asked him if there were any affection expressions in Burmese that expressed a desire to eat a child. I was thinking along the lines of the English phraseology of, "He's so cute, I just want to eat him up!" or "I just want to nibble his thighs!"

However, "S" immediately gave me a look of panicked alarm and I realized how culturally relevant expressions about eating children are. After I explained what I meant (i.e. terms of endearment, because the fat rolls are so kissable and naturally, kissing leads to biting, just a figure of speech, etc., etc.) he had a good chuckle and assured me that, no, there was not an equivalent turn of phrase or idea in Burmese.

But at least now I've realized how the rumors that white people eat ethnic babies got started.

Chop Chop

One of the most annoying things about moving is having to find a new salon. The entire three years that we lived in ABQ, I never once found a salon that I liked. After the first year, I pretty much gave up getting my hair cut. It's been a long time since my last hair cut. It was time. I found an ad in a local paper (support local business, right?) for a salon the next block over and made an appointment yesterday.

The stylist was a nice older gentleman and he did a great cut. Unfortunately for me, the style (blunt, chin-length bob) makes me look like I'm about 12. I profusely thanked him, tipped him well and then left with a sinking heart. I hated my hair.

But more than hating my haircut, I hate the fact that I lied. I had the sinking feeling as he was cutting that the style that I requested was not the style that I envisioned in my head. And yet, I effusively thanked him.

Why is it so hard to tell someone that I don't like a service they did for me at the time the service is rendered? I mean, I flat out lied to the man. I tipped him 20% for crying out loud! What the fuck? Why am I sitting here the next day, dreading going into work on Tuesday because I know that my haircut is not flattering? Why do I feel the need to help a hairstylist who I don't know save face? Am I afraid to hurt his feelings?

I think perhaps this is an American trait. Or an American woman trait. I have several coworkers who are not American who flat-out tell you what they don't like. You ask them if you look fat in this dress, they'll tell you yes. No sugar-coating it by saying "Oh, I think it brings out your eyes!" They'll just say, "Yes, it does." And you know what? Said dress probably does make me look fat! Better to not wear it again than naively walk around thinking I look svelte when really I look like a Guernsey cow. In the long run, an honest opinion is far better than a lie (for fashion, anyways. Perhaps not other things?).

I really do think I need to do a better job of being honest when people ask for my opinions.

Especially if I'm paying them.

Footloose

In a desperate attempt to make friends at work and actually make this craphole town feel like my home, I've done the unthinkable (well, unthinkable since I was in my early 20s). No, not binge drinking--my last attempt at that ended in my mid-20s with my head in a toilet next to Roommate Barb sometime in Feb. 2007.

I have joined work's intramural soccer team.

Since The Doctor works nights, CEWG will be accompanying me to the games which are every Weds night. I haven't run in a long time, even after my own child (I tend to just let her go off. She usually come back pretty quickly if I stop looking for her.), so this should be quite the adventure.

So here's to a whole new round of shin guards, soccer socks, sweat and sore muscles starting at 7:30 tomorrow. I can't hardly wait.

Seriously.

Small Heros

One of my personal pet peeves since 9/11 is the overuse of the word "hero." Everyone is a hero these days. It's all over the Info-tainment: "Hero Dog Saves Small Squirrel from Certain Death!" But surely, we can't all be heros, right? What use is a word that applies to us all?

Working with such a significantly underserved population has again reminded me that sometimes, the word hero is still applicable to regular people. There is so much need in my line of work. So much material need--people needing rent, food, clothes, shampoo. Not to mention emotional need and spiritual needs that are neglected in favor of those more pressing physical needs like hunger and shelter.

But every day, my colleagues come into work to face another day of doing only what they can, giving only what they can and having to say "no" more times than they say "yes."

This line of work isn't for people who want to be heros or have glory. It isn't a career that will pay much more than entry level. Ironically, it isn't a career that even has a lot of gratitude. Sometimes, it seems that everyone is always asking for more and something is never enough because when you have so little, there is always more needed.

But every day, my coworkers come back. Some days more burned out than others. Some days, tired with circles and exhaustion, the toll of endless "no's" and "cannot's" evident in their eyes. Some days there is a triumphant smile or a story of success. But still, my colleagues come, each with their own reasons for their work, their own passions, their own stories to tell but with one goal: a desire to give respect and dignity to those who have gone without for so long.

Confessions of a Monoglot

For someone who would love to fancy herself a writer, I have absolutely no talent in language. Well, let me rephrase. I have adequate command of the written English language. I often joke, however, that my written vocabulary significantly exceeds my spoken vocabulary-- not because I don't know the words but because I simply cannot pronounce the words correctly. I often settle for words that don't exactly convey the true meaning and intent because at least I won't make an ass of myself if I say the word incorrectly. (I once pronounced the word "hypothetical" "hi-poth-i-call" in front of my entire 150-person MPH Biostatistics class and almost died of shame when, yes, everyone in the room burst out laughing. And let's not even talk about "posthumously.")

I distinctly remember the day that I discovered that language acquisition was not my forte. I was about 9 and struggling through 3rd-grade phonetics (Mrs. George, how I hated chanting those charts out loud: "PH says ffff, TH says thhhh"). I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table eating lunch and reading a list of clothes that my father was planning on ordering from L.L. Bean (these were the days of the catalogue phone orders, mind you). I saw the word (forever burned in my memory) written out next to "pants" and I could not figure it out. I asked my father how to pronounce the word and I will never forget the incredulous look on his face. "Sound it out, Elisabeth. You know this word. You've heard it before." I struggled and struggled for what felt like an hour but was probably three minutes, and still, I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to shout to my father, "I may have heard it but if I haven't seen it, it's meaningless to me!"

When he finally said the word out loud, I felt like a dipshit (though, that word had yet to be in my vocabulary). The silent "k" combinations had yet to be covered in my phonetics class.

"Khaki." Please.

I've tried my best to move forward from my 9-year-old self. I studied Spanish through high school and in college every semester my entire four years. I even studied abroad in Spain, desperate to learn another language and prove myself to be better than those Amerophiles who refused to learn foreign languages based on principle. I flopped at Spanish. Next on my list was Kiswahili during my stint in Kenya, at which I also failed.

Well, perhaps "fail" is too strong a word. I actually had an amazing grasp on the rules and structure of both foreign languages. I loved seeing how sentences and thoughts fell together, how the rules guided the parts of speech, the nuances of verb tenses. Even the structure of the noun classes of Swahili opened a whole new world for me. But for the love, I could not pronounce a damn thing correctly in either language. My tongue always felt thick in my mouth, unable to make the proper combination of sounds at the right time.

Fast forward to my life in the present. I've given up on foreign languages. Completely stopped. It's been five years, more or less, since I've even attempted speaking more than a short phrase of anything other than English. Whenever my linguistic past arises in conversation, people always smile knowingly and say, "Oh, it'll come back to you if you just practice." I have to refrain from outright laughter and tell them that it was never really there in the first place. No one ever believes me, though.

One of the best things about working at an international organization is the languages. Every day that I walk into that office, it's like being greeted by the Tower of Babel. It's not just languages spoken by our clients, but our staff, too. Each day, there's a good chance that I will hear each of these languages: Arabic, Burmese, Karen, Karenni, Nepali, Farsi, Spanish, Cuban, Russian, French, Swahili, Kirundi, Chin...the list goes on. My office mate alone speaks four languages fluently and I am beginning to pinpoint who she is talking to on the phone by the sounds of the words coming out of her mouth.

The hum of foreign languages flows around me, seductively luring me in, enticing me to want to learn again, to pour over lists of flashcard vocabulary and learn new rules and structures of speech. I hate that I am that typical American, unable to communicate with anyone outside of my language because I think it truly hinders my ability to understand a culture. Understanding language and syntax is the first step to understanding a different worldview. Language is the first glimpse a novice has into the way things fit together in the mind of the other. I've always wondered if lovers who speak different language use their mother tongue in that critical moment of passion or clumsily try to use their common language to express their mutual feelings of ecstasy. I marvel when I hear the sounds of other languages spilling out of others' more fortunate mouths, "Does that sound/grunt/tone actually mean something to someone? Amazing!"

But I must accept my shortcomings. I will never be able to seamlessly switch between languages to use the words that best describe my intent. I will always be clumsy and never witty in another language. I am confined to reading inferior English translations of Tolstoy and Sartre and Rumi, never to grasp the full beauty of their written word.

Here is my confession: I am, and will never be more than, a monoglot.

Tonight

It's raining in the desert right now. There is something so satisfying about the gentle patter of the drops as they run down my windowpanes. Most often, it seems, we get the torrential rains, the pounding sheets of driving rain that turn a person blind, the fast cataclysmic downpours that shake up our brown earth and turn our empty washes into coursing rivers..

But occasionally, we get the soft rains of the East, the leisurely splatters that instead of washing away the dust in a torrent of floods, gently caresses our dirt, healing, coaxing change and bringing green, even for a short time.

This is one of those rains.

Rediscovery

I never thought going back to work would change me. I mean, I knew my life would change, I knew that my schedule would be different and I'd have less time to cook and clean and play with CEWG. I knew I'd be juggling the demands of The Doctor's career which is neither forgiving nor flexible. But I figured that at this point in my life (ripe old age of 29, thank you very much!), I've come to figure out who I am and where I am going. If not, what was that quarter-life crisis for?

Boy, was I ever wrong.

This job has thrown me into another world that I had forgotten which challenges who I am now and where I want to be every single day I walk into that office. I have never worked harder, more intensely and with more discipline in my life and I have never been happier than I am right now.

The only thing that has affected me more is becoming a mother.

I cherished the time that I spent with CEWG at home. I got 22 beautiful months to intensely fall in love with my child. Learning how to be a mother and setting a foundation for perhaps the most powerful relationship a person can have has truly been the most life-altering experiences I have ever embarked on. I feel so fortunate that I could make the choice to stay home and simply exist with my child without any other demands placed upon my time.

I feel like I'm in rediscovery mode again, but this time, instead of learning who I am as a mother, I'm relearning who I am as a person. I am reminding myself who I am outside of my family, reminding myself of my interests, my passions. Each day, I learn more about myself. Each day, I am given a new challenge, a new viewpoint, a new problem, a new way of looking at the world.

How awesome is this?

Old Friends

Last night, ex-Beloved came over to my house for dinner. We hadn't really spent any quality time together in the last five years. In fact, I hadn't seen him in 4 years except for once for a brief encounter a few months ago (The Doctor, CEWG and I invaded his house for an hour to say hi).

There is something wonderful about seeing people from your past. They remind you of who you were and you can get a glimpse of your old self as well as a new perspective on who you've become. It was wonderful to simply sit and talk, laugh about old times, reflect on memories and who we used to be and begin to learn who we are now.

I am so thankful that I have so many friends who are comfortable friends. Friends who are like favorite pairs of jeans--you can slip them on and just be yourself. My college experience was wonderful, the education was top-notch. But truly, the best gift that William and Mary gave me was a collection of friends that have been there for each other through thick and thin.

A New Year, Another Beginning

I can't believe it's 2010 already. For some reason, 2010 sounds so futuristic to me. But I suppose since it's here and now, futuristic it is not. And here I am. Starting another year, one step closer to 30.

We're firmly settled in PHX. I didn't turn the air-conditioning off until mid-November. Pity me, please? At least our electric bills will get a respite since we don't need heat and I doubt we will since the projected highs hover around the upper 60s/low 70s before they shoot back up to the upper 80s.

But of course, the biggest news is that I'm back at work full-time! I somehow, I managed to land my dream job with my dream organization. I'm still in shock that I'm so lucky to get up every day and do what I do and take home a paycheck for it! How does that happen? And how does that happen to me? But it did.

And amazingly, we've all adapted to the change well, CEWG included. She's enrolled in daycare (AKA nursery school) and after two to three weeks of transitional crying, loves loves loves her teachers and class.

I'd like to start to get back to blogging, simply because it forces me to write. I didn't get time to do NaNo this year because of personal extenuating circumstances. And of course, since I've moved, I have no writing group to force me to write, either. But hopefully, writing here a few times a month will at least get it out of my system and give me that creative outlet.

To here's to the New Year, you and yours!

Moving On

Well, we've moved on. Or, over. Our family has officially relocated one state over, back to Arizona, but this time in Phoenix. It's taking a bit of adjusting (as to be expected, naturally) and I'm anxiously awaiting the end of summer (and thus the end of 105 degree heat). Yes, it is almost October and yes, it is currently 102 with a high of 106.

But we have a beautiful home that is (mostly) unpacked. Much more space than we had before, which is nice. We're slowly making new friends and reconnecting with old ones.

I am enjoying my toddler who occasionally tries my patience and almost always makes me laugh. It's nice to have a bit of my life back now that she isn't so needy as an infant.

I Didn't Know

I didn't know it would be like this. Motherhood. Wearing your heart exposed. I see the photos of Mary holding the Christ Child, her Immaculate heart exposed with a sword in it and I just get it.

Motherhood is like that. A heart on the outside, waiting to be pierced with both sorrows and joys.

Last night, I spent the evening reading a blog by a mother whose fourth pregnancy had a "poor prenatal diagnosis." She chose to carry her pregnancy to term and give birth to a daughter who lived for two and a half hours, a daughter who died on her birth day. I'm not a sentimental person. But I wept, wept at the photos of her tiny daughter, wept at the thought of losing my child, wept because throughout the world, there are mothers who lose their children every day.

Every six seconds, a child dies of hunger.

Every thirty seconds, a child dies of malaria.

Every eight seconds, a child dies of lack of water or a waterbourne illness.

Every three seconds, a child simply dies.

That's 20 children per minute, 1,200 per hour, 28,800 per day.

Those statistics should stun anyone. But it should especially stun us who are mothers. The mere thought of losing my child is enough to bring me to my knees in grief because I love her so much. And motherlove is the same across all languages and cultures. Every child on this planet--every person on this planet--is loved like I love my child. The thought of that much love is staggering.

That is over 28,000 women a day whose exposed hearts break as their beloved babies and children die in their arms, the sword piercing.

The thought of that much sorrow is staggering.

The Deepest

I thought maybe I'd forget this year, that my life had woven its way out of your memory and into the future. But here we are again.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
*e.e. cummings

Co-Sleeping

Five tiny toes
pointed high
straight to the ceiling.
Arm thrown out.
Sweaty hair pressed
against forehead.
Hand patting my face
reassuring
while sleeping.
Sweet smell of
milk breath
mingling with mine.

Snapshots of my nights.