Unwelcome insight

So we have this neighbor. I'll call her Edwina (not her real name.) From day one at this house, Edwina has inserted herself firmly into every single moment possible. She has come traipsing over to our driveway and door through every single home project, especially those within clear view, to offer advice and general observations. She has accosted each of us in our own ways, not just my own family but the other neighbors as well, to question us about intricacy upon intricacy. She seems to have no verbal filter whatsoever, and although her intentions appear to be merely friendliness borne of boredom, her curiosity can range from slightly annoying to downright rude and intrusive. She tells us what to do, tries to tell our child what to do, points out unfinished house business, and pries at us until we snap a bit. Even my unbelievably patient husband has grown weary of it.

When I'm in the wrong mood, I covertly check through shaded blinds to see if she's outside before I hurry into the yard for any reason. When I'm in the right frame of mind, I try to placate her endless queries with generalized but good-natured answers. I wish I could say I am in the right frame of mind most of the time, but remember? I'm a self-admitted loner and a privacy freak... so I often don't appreciate her nosey questions.

While I've been repeatedly dealing with Edwina's boundless curiosity, I've been simultaneously participating in a Bible study at a nearby church. We began by tackling the ancient book of Job. Wow. Short name, long suffering. Much wisdom about the character of God can be gleaned from that book. Each week, we've worked our way through more chapters, and the other women in my group and I have all discussed the depths and nuances of Job's ordeal.

The biggest lesson I've taken from it has been my need to question God less and accept and praise more. Even though Job is a righteous man to begin with, the humility that he learns by the end of his book is astounding. Who are we to question God, His ways, His means? Where were we when the world was formed? Do we know what all the animals are up to? Did we arrange the cycles of life, the rotations of the planet? Did we create any single living thing around us, including ourselves? And Job sits with his hand over his mouth, frankly embarrassed by his own impudence, listening to God and feeling small.

We were discussing the way that Job had initially questioned God's purpose, how he had wanted to know why things were happening the way they did. That led to some talk about our own questioning nature as humans. A few of the ladies in my group went on to say that often, we mere people want to win God over to our own plan, to "help Him" get things done in a way that pleases us. Sometimes we ask God too many questions, or try to insert ourselves and our desires into His plan. And God doesn't appreciate that; God works independently on a need-to-know basis, and honestly, most of the time we don't need to know. We probably wouldn't understand anyway—our perspective is pretty selfish and skewed.

And then, in the midst of this discussion, God poked me in the side and reminded me of Edwina. Her nosey ways. Her constant questions. Her advice. All unsolicited, unwelcome, and—here's the kicker—totally uninformed.

Just like my ways. I have been known to play Edwina to God.

Yikes, that was a disturbing thought. I remembered all the times I had bitten my tongue with frustration when Edwina asked yet more pointed questions about things that did not concern her, that she had no need and no right to know.

Just as I have done with my very own Maker.

So. There it is. I need to trust God more. When I do that, then I can stop asking God all those unnecessary questions. I'll bet He would really appreciate that.

The kid, and the kids, have got game

You'll hopefully be relieved to know that our boy had his stitches removed earlier this week, and his behemoth gash is healing nicely and now looks like any old pink, new-skinned scratch. You'd never know that his muscle tissue and grey matter were hanging out of that fissure just over a week ago. Isn't skin amazing? Especially young, healthy skin. Yeah, I'm sure we just got that cool, self-rebuilding skin cell setup by accident. Millions of years of lifeless goo somehow gave way to, oh I don't know, living flesh and bone? That makes itself, then heals itself? Yeah. Sure.

Anyway, he's on the mend. He's over it. (I'm almost over it. Can you pass me those aspirin?)

This will have to be quick, because I ended up with a temp assignment that began today, continues tomorrow, and will likely spill into most of next week—which means I don't have time to blog or paint or think of creative, healthy meals or get up off my fat can instead of sitting in front of a computer monitor for hours on end. It's money, yes...but I'd forgotten how much happier I am when I can move around freely. Sitting still makes Mel a dull girl.

The big decision at this point is this: do we dare to get up at the crack of dawn and venture into the Strip District on Saturday morning? I know I'll be glad if I make myself do it, because Penn Avenue the day before a Steelers playoff game is an experience that simply cannot be duplicated anywhere else. That said, however, it will involve early hours, biting cold, parking difficulties, crowds (which make me uneasy anymore), and the dragging along of a squirmy little kid with a huge scar on his face.

Of COURSE we'll be there. Silly. I was just teasing you. The real decision is whether to go this Saturday, or to just wait until the day preceding the Super Bowl. Because you know we're headed there, don't you. You can feel it in the air. You can smell it, like something burning.

I've got a feeling
Pittsburgh's going to the SU-PER BOWL!

Thanks for checking in!

Preparing to be turned on my ear

I accepted a job offer today, and will begin at the end of this month.

No, really. I did. You might have noticed my conspicuous inactivity of late in the blogosphere; it's been quite busy here at our place. Freelance work for my hus, and interviews for me. Three of 'em in 4 weeks. And I turned down a fourth option just this morning. There are still jobs out there, people. Don't listen to the news. And these jobs mostly definitely do NOT exist because of that asinine stimulus bill... But that's another entry.

The job I've taken is part-time, at a non-profit tutoring center 10 minutes from my home. The boss is great. The other folks I've met are great. The hours? They stink. Truly. Because guess when tutoring happens? After school, into the evening. Yep. And even though I won't be tutoring much, I need to be there when that's going on.

There are a lot of good things about this opportunity, other than those wonky hours. Mostly, it'll give my other half the time to pursue his type of work; that was the main reason I was looking, after all.

I have fears. Many of them. It's been awhile since I've worked for pay and recognition. And I've never tried to work while I have a family hangin' at my cozy home without me. Yet, I figure if I'm going to do this, I'd choose to do it with these people at this type of place. And those bills... they just keep showing up. So, maybe there's really not a lot of choice about it.

Wish me luck. Say a prayer. Tell me it'll all be okay. Remind me that God is faithful and an awesome provider. Please.

Thanks.

Double whammy *

What lovely weather we’ve had! And tonight for dinner I was able to make haluski from the beautiful cabbage we’ve grown in our own garden—delicious! Marcus frolicked in his new little swimming pool shaped like an alligator. And my husband came home early from work yesterday.

Can you guess why?

Go ahead, I’ll give you a minute. We’ve been through this drill before, haven’t we? Remember?

Yep. We’re unemployed again. The new employer, after a ridiculously short trial period, decided that Todd is not a good fit for the position. They told him how much they like him, admire his work, wish they could use him, will keep him in mind, etc. And then they asked him to go home and not return.

In truth, he had misgivings from the start, even before he accepted the position. He hasn’t enjoyed the work at all. He’s told me time and again that it’s hard to learn, the environment is rushed and unforgiving, the people who offer the tiny bit of training available are set in their ways and inflexible about the current, problematic systems… I am figuring out now that he really hated it. So, I compared it to a bad love relationship. It wasn’t working. Someone had to speak up, to call it what it was, to cut the cord. But boy, the timing surely does suck. And can you imagine how demoralizing for my poor guy? I really can’t. I just can’t.

I was “let go” from my very first job at a grocery store when I was 17. I failed as a cashier. I can just barely recall the numb feeling I had when the manager called me into her office and told me it wasn’t working out and I need not come back. I’ve blocked most of it from my head, but the whole experience really messed with my confidence. How could I be fired from such a simple job? I was an honor student! Yet it did not matter. I wasn’t the best cashier, I know—I got rattled with long lines, made some mistakes with the scanner, did not memorize the codes for produce… but I only worked about 8 nights before they ditched me. This sort of feels the same way; we’re dazed, confused, mystified as to how this whole experience fits into the big picture of our journey. And perhaps, just perhaps the judgment that came down was premature? Not that it matters.

Whatever the reason(s), this is the place where we stand right now. And I feel a little panic, yet I also feel a little reassurance. God is good. He is faithful. Maybe we misread His will. Or maybe there was some reason my hub had to be at that place for almost 2 months, and we’ll never know what it was. Perhaps there’s a really great, appropriate position that will use all his amazing talents and it just wasn’t available until now. Maybe God wants me to go back to work instead. (Please excuse me while I go throw up now.)

I don’t know. I guess I don’t need to know. I just need to keep pressing on. To continue to take steps. To believe and trust and pray.

Hope you choose to join me in that venture. Thanks for listening.

* If you're a regular reader, then you'll know what I mean by this title.

Transitional thoughts

I’ve been thinking a lot about transitions.

I’m sure this is related to the recent situation here at home, what with joblessness and job-searching and the [now-at-least-temporarily-eliminated] possibility of role reversals between Todd and me. And I’m certain that I’m still thinking about changes in part because Todd is still in the midst of transition, and will be for a while; he’s started a new job, at a new company, in a different field of work. He’s trying to absorb a lot of information as quickly as possible, and he talks about how overwhelming it is when he gets home—so I’m experiencing the transition vicariously, if you will.

I suppose I’m also thinking about it because of changes within our church, some long past, some recent, some current and upcoming. They all make me ponder what the future holds for this body of believers, many of whom have taught us much and have become friends on the journey.

And I’m faced with undeniable transitions in my son, of course—every day he grows, learns a skill, discovers a new pastime or toy or treat to embrace. He’s a walking change machine. And there are some changes in me, although not nearly so pleasant to observe: lines, droops, the occasional wiry gray hair…but enough about that.

I’ve always been one to scoff at people who fear change. I claim to love change, to accept it and even seek and encourage it when need be. And I still believe that is true. Change is healthy; as our pastor reminded us today, “Healthy things grow, and growing things change.” So true. But age and experience have added a new dimension to my comprehension of the side effects of change. Whereas I used to see transitions as refreshing and a little bit dizzying, now I also see the downside: transitions reveal fissures in the big picture—some tiny, some not so—and those fissures often grow and lead to more transition. It’s almost as if change is the catalyst for more change.

And why not? I recall my pregnancy (although I honestly try not to), and being diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The nurse likened pregnancy to an extended stress test of sorts, explaining that often, a pregnant state reveals other issues that are or will likely soon be amiss in the woman’s body. She recalled cases of pregnant woman uncovering not just diabetic tendencies, but beginning stages of heart problems and even multiple sclerosis. That huge change the expectant female body goes through is just the sort of stressful transition to cause other tiny cracks to grow and spread until they, too, are discernable, diagnosable concerns of their own. They weren’t really caused by pregnancy, they probably would have happened anyway at some point, but there it is—pregnancy can egg on other ailments until they all start showing up as an ugly package deal. Transition begets transition—at least in that case it does.

So, perhaps every change is a mini-stress test, and often it reveals the fissures that are hidden in the infrastructure but would have waited quietly until later if not forced into noticeable existence by the stress of the first change. Does it happen that way in relationships? In work situations? In neighborhoods, government, communities and culture? I think so.

Maybe that’s the way life is supposed to be. If transitions didn’t build on each other and didn’t happen in clusters, then there’d never be any down time between clusters where you could catch your breath and be comforted by the thought that you have a slight clue what tomorrow will bring. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself; maybe there is no such thing as down time, and probably none of us will ever have a clue what tomorrow will bring. Maybe when you stop transitioning, when change stops occurring in your life, then you’re done.

Could it be that simple? Change or stop living?

Wow. Too deep for me. I think the sudden heat outside has gone to my head.

Pondering my potential comeback...or lack thereof

I apologize for my absence. Just in case you noticed I’ve been absent.

I’ve been turning over some heavy subjects, not the least of which concerns whether I will have to return to work sooner than planned. (And pretty much anytime is sooner than planned, since I had cherished the hope that I’d simply be adored and supported comfortably by my patrons for the rest of my life. Don’t laugh; you know you hope for that, too.)

Now, please don’t misread my statement. I am not in a complete panic about the possibility of returning to work. There’s a not-so-small part of me that would embrace an opportunity to work outside of the home again. To work for pay again. To work for recognition again. To work at something I’ve studied and practiced and feel somewhat competent while performing. To be acknowledged by the rest of the working world. No, those aspects or returning to work don’t sound too daunting. My concerns run much deeper than that.

I fear that all the time and effort I’ve invested in my son will be lost. Suppose my investment should fade, those memories we’ve made become lost. Suppose his wild boy instincts are nurtured aggressively by an alternative caregiver, and my sensitive little sweetheart who loves to read and make his stuffed animals talk suddenly becomes a rough-and-tumble bruiser who thinks I’m a sissy neatnik. I know that will likely happen anyway… But does it have to happen already? So soon? I gave up a lot for this kid—and now he probably won’t even remember the bulk of my commitment, if it is to end at this point.

I also shudder when I consider that perhaps, no one will want to hire me. Why should they? What have I to offer? A frumpy housewife who’s been out of the workforce for over 4 years… My work experiences of late are probably not so useful to a potential employer. Yeah, I know there are lots of people out there touting the returning-to-work SAHM and how much common sense and no-nonsense attitude she brings to the office, but honestly, most of the folks spouting that opinion are—you guessed it—other SAHMs who are trying to return to work outside the home. The minute they see I’m not on LinkedIn, they’ll toss my skimpy resume aside like last week’s Us magazine. (Although, in honesty, isn’t LinkedIn just a work version of Facebook? “Connections,” “friends,” whatever you want to call ‘em—it’s all sort of high schoolish to me.)

And the biggest fear of all? That if I somehow can overcome everything, market myself successfully, iron a shirt and wear lipstick for a change, slough off the old homemaker/mom dinginess, and be a valuable commodity again, that it won’t be enough. Because, you see, it won’t be just me pulling myself up by my bootstraps and hitting the street, will it? No sir, it’ll be me…and thousands of other people who live quite near to me. Of which possibly hundreds are qualified to do the same sort of work I am seeking.

So, you can see why I haven’t had much to say of late. I’ve been thinking way more than I’d like to. Sometimes, it really does stink to be a realist.

Maybe next time, I can write something light and funny about my boy. I hate to milk him for amusing anecdotes like that, but I’m just not seeing much else worthy of sharing right now.

Stay tuned. And thanks for checking in.

This should come as no surprise

Silly me, telling you that my next post would be happy. Tut, tut.

Yesterday began simply enough. Todd’s truck was being repaired, so he took the car to work—which always makes me feel trapped. The kid and I woke up later than normal (that was nice!), hung around, played a bit, watched Sesame Street, and then decided it was warm enough to go outside. The sun was beaming, the sky was a glorious shade of blue, and we donned our jackets and stepped onto the porch.

It was a pretty day, but the wind was whipping. We ended up huddled first in the protected sunken driveway, and then on the sunny porch that is somewhat shielded from the buffeting gales. We finally gave up and went inside. The whole time we braved the cold, I was wondering where Todd was. He was supposed to come home for lunch, thus returning the car, and then I would take him back to work after lunch and he’d ride home with a friend who lived near the car-repair shop that had his truck.

He didn’t come. And he didn’t come. And a twinge of worry crept into my tummy. We started to eat a late lunch without him. And finally, I heard the garage door. He was home.

And I knew, as he climbed the steps toward me, that we had become a statistic.

I knew from his face, from the unspoken apology in his expression, from the stiffness of his gait. I knew before he ever said, “You don’t need to take me back to the office.” I knew.

No one yelled or cried. We were amazingly calm, although I realized my hands were shaking as I finished making my sandwich. It’s not as if we’re the first to have this happen, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been half-expecting this for the past year. We kept ourselves slightly perky, to belie our trepidation for our little boy’s sake. Daddy told him he’d need to find another job, because he wasn’t needed at this one anymore. And our attentive boy commented, “So 3 people lost their jobs.” Which means he’s been listening carefully—because yes, last week’s scary announcement at Todd’s job involved a layoff of 2 other folks from a sister company.

We finished lunch in mostly silence, while I tried to distract the kiddo with questions about preschool. I don’t think he was fooled, but he seemed to appreciate the conversation.

Then we all climbed into the car for the long drive to retrieve the truck, a haul even without traffic, and we timed it perfectly to coordinate with end-of-day traffic. To make matters worse, there’d been a misunderstanding between mechanics and while one had told us the truck was finished, in actuality it was not. We paid and loaded ourselves back into both vehicles, knowing all the while that Todd would have to turn around and make the same stupid trip the next day.

As I followed my boys through the streets of that small town, making our way toward the inevitable hell of rush hour around Pittsburgh, we stopped at a red light and I found myself gazing around at various store fronts. One place was an embroidery specialty store (now, honestly, do you see that surviving this economy? What a shame.) The store had a large window with a low, wide ledge, and I noticed motion on the ledge. Awww! There were two adorable pugs, watching the traffic, their funny compressed noses tilted slightly upward as they gazed at passersby. I looked at the light to make certain it had not yet changed to green, and then I glanced back at the storefront.

The dogs were copulating.

Yep, right there, in the window of an embroidery store. So inappropriate. And I guess I shouldn’t assume that the male dog was accomplishing anything—I was not close enough to be sure of his success or lack thereof—but the “under-dog” had resigned herself to the activity and was just trying to outlast the event. She looked distracted and weary. She knew there was no use fighting or trying to escape; she was just waiting until it was over. When the light changed to green, I pulled away, leaving the dogs to their scandalous window activities, and the thought that was foremost in my mind was this: I guess everybody gets theirs at one point or another.

The moral of the story? Sometimes you’re “top dog” (not to be facetious), and sometimes you’re the other dog.

Peaches just past their prime

I waited a day too long--when I'd finally dragged out the easel, I had to arrange these fellas to hide the spots where they were starting to turn. We sliced 'em up later that night and had a bite.

I wondered as I nibbled and wiped peach juice from my chin... would I enjoy painting as much if it were my vocation instead of avocation? What if I suddenly had to do it every day? Is the mere act of accepting compensation for an activity sufficient to strip the activity of its joy?

I still enjoy blogging/writing. But if I had to do it? For pay?

Thoughts?