Babysitter, heal thyself

So on Friday the weather had me housebound with the twins, and at some point, as tends to happen, things get physical: they love nothing more than being tossed about like potato sacks. I've devised a clever method of sitting, leaning against the couch, tossing each child in the air for a few minutes each. This gives me a good view of the TV, I don't have to get up, and it works my upper body better than a Nautilus. Oh yeah, and the kids like it.

I got a bit bored with the repetition, so I began twisting the girl upside down, bringing her to land softly on her head, then flipping her over. (She has no fear, and I swear will be an amusement-park junkie faster then you can say, "You Must Be As Tall As This Line.")

So from time to time now she'll come over, give me a wide smile, bend over,  and it's my cue to flip her forward onto her head, then over. 

Friday I decided that, since she's so imitative, I'd do a summersault for her as a demo so that she cold do it herself.  Summersaults were such a part of my childhood that I can recall doing them as clear as day, as if it were yesterday.

So when I cleared a path on the carpet and began my roll, I was shocked at how foreign it all felt, how foreign my own body felt.

It was as I rolled over that I felt something ...give in my neck. Simultaneously, I heard a bit of a sound, also coming from my neck.

Through  my mind flashed images of me as a quadriplegic caring for two twins for the several hours until their dad came home.

Then I was over, and I could move my limbs. My neck felt a bit sore, but suddenly... looser. Less tightened up.

I had given myself an adjustment. I did another roll to be sure and yep, no noise, no pulling, just wide-open summersaulting.

The children were amused, but have not yet imitated me. I've gone back to Baby Toss for the time being, Less hazardous.

Gun, Gun, Son of a Gun

Earlier this week I went to The Grind in Lincoln Square. Like many coffee shops, it has postings of all sorts of upcoming events in its window. A poster for The Vaselines caught my eye. Apparently, they are touring, 20 years after they broke up, and last night was their one Midwest show.

I've given up asking people to go to live shows any more; it's like they all want to look back on their lives when they're 90 and have no regrets about the TV they didn't miss. So I bought my ticket and headed over to The Metro.

The crowd was pretty cool, and the ID-checker was a little twentysomething hottie in a hoodie. He took my license, held it up, looked at it, looked at me. A smile spread across his face. Not a smirky smile, but a pleased smile. A flirtatious smile.

"Go right on in," he smiled, handing my license back, looking into my eyes.

"Thanks man," I smiled back.

I've never been to The Metro, although I knew of it - it's a popular venue. I really liked it. It was intimate, for one thing: the back of the main floor is 25 feet from the stage. It's an old-fashioned theater, complete with nice old fixtures and a proscenium stage. Best of all, there is an upstairs balcony, where tables and chairs sit against the railing, and the floor is raised about a foot behind this. The result was that I was standing behind seated people with a clear view of the stage, and room to dance.

And dance I did. It was a really fun show, and they did a great job. There was a section of people in the main floor who were dancing, but up in the balcony it was pretty much just me. This may be my new super hero name: The Lone Dancer. The couples at the tables sat there, holding hands, and the boys standing near me performed that quintessentially male routine where they hold a beer in one hand, put the other hand in their pocket, and nod their head (maybe) to the music. 

Me? I'll be putting sport cream on my neck before I go to bed.

The one drawback is that The Metro is smack in Wrigleyville, spawning ground of Frat Boys and Trixies. The streets are lined with sports bars where beefy drunken jarheads hook up with platinum blondes with high-enamel lip gloss and braying voices.

There are many Cubs shirts and side boobs.

Whenever I have to pass through Wrigleyville I'm usually accosted by some loser who feels the need to yell something; it's apparently genetically impossible for these douchebags  to see a woman walking alone and not be an asshole.  Tonight it was the guys yelling at me from their truck as they cruised down Addison, trying to get my attention. Seriously, does this ever work? And how drunk does someone have to be if it does? I'm never afraid, because a.) there are plenty of bouncers I can turn to, and b.) I have a ready supply of thermonuclear rage. And I fight dirty. I'm not some college girl who worries that the boys won't find her cute if she isn't nice.

At my El stop, one of my neighbors got off another car, so we walked home together, which was nice - crime is up in our 'hood, and it's better to have company.

Dear SP,

Because you are very stressed and busy and I have the knack for telephoning at exactly the time you are sitting down to eat/watch a show with AN/study, I am going to post this so that you can read and re-read it at your leisure.

With all the interesting things there are to do in the world, and with all the time that the things we don't like to do take up, it seems that we have very little time to give enough attention to the gazillion things we want. It becomes easy to feel stressed and overburdened, because we go in many directions at once, lest we miss something. In your case, working, taking Shiatsu classes, preparing for your first bee colony, planting your terrace garden and defending it from pests, building a straw-bale shed and studying for your Master's degree. That's a lot for one person, even for you. So take a breath, focus on one thing, cut yourself some slack, and call me whenever. I will still be here.  Harry and George may not, but I will be.  

And make sure to let me know if you go off cheese.

JC

Vienna Redux

When SP, AN and I were in Vienna, I wanted to buy a gift for our Hungarian translator, so I went into a Lush store to get her a gift box. We were in a hurry, so I was really focused as I looked over the racks of things.

One of the shop girls took SP aside and asked, "Why is she so angry?"

SP asked me that again today, And you know, I have no answer. I just am. Not angry in the way you feel it when it forms a filter between you and other people, just angry in that I'm easily irritated by, well, everything. 

I feel a lot better when I get home, close the door, and lie on the floor with the animals, the cats especially. And make popcorn. I like popcorn.

My Lucky Number's One -- Lene Lovich

The other day I was baby sitting and the neighbor across the street I also work for, "Joan," called me.

So we're doing a music session with a friend of ours later and I want you to meet him."

*GROAN.*

When I first met Joan, she wasted no time telling me that she knew some fun single guys she could introduce me to. I know people mean well by this, but when they start in on the matchmaking, I start to have a serious case of feeling hunted. Or like a gay person sent to a Christian conversion camp. MUST! NOT! BE! SINGLE!

I usually dodge the issue, mention that I like being single, and move on to another subject.  I thought I'd been successful with Joan, but apparently not.

"You're sweet," I said to her over the phone, "but really, I'm not looking."

"He's really fun and nice. He's a musician!"

If I were 15, this might thrill me. Now, I just imagine all kinds of arrested development and constant poverty.

"Joan, really, you're sweet, but I haven't dated in three years, and I'm OK with that."

"He's really a great singer. I mean, he's not a model, but he's a great guy. And he's your size!"

Bingo. The Devito-Perlman syndrome: I'm required to date a guy because he has trouble finding women as short as he is. 

I begged off, claiming a baby was crying. Later, she called me.

"I'm in front of the house - come out!" 

The girl was sleeping so I walked out carrying the boy. Joan was in her car. We went over and the boy tried out his new hello wave, and Joan suggested I bring the kids over later on when the session was over, and hang in the yard with them.

"You can meet my friend." Lord, she was NOT going to let this go.

"Yeah, I don't want to give the impression I'm a Kid Person."

 I have this theory that guys gravitate to women who show a fondness for kids, because they go through this transference: if you are good at taking care of children, then you are clearly someone who wants nothing more from life than to follow people --including grown men -- around, feeding them home-cooked meals and doing laundry. A mommy is a mommy is a mommy. It's like I'm some sort of dating Statue of Liberty: Give me your egocentric, needy, and immature; your drunken, lying, flexibly and serially monogamous liars yearning to take me for granted. Behold, I lift my lamp beside the golden doormat: me!

 I'm wired to be sexually attracted to them, but every time I sense one has a crush on me, I feel like I want to chew my foot off and run. Call me what you will, but after a life of really frustrating dating, I'd be deluded NOT to feel this way.

"He has a kid," Joan said.

And it gets better.

"How old?"

"Ten."

"Yeah. Nope. No way."

"Why?"

"I don't date men with kids. Tried it once. Nope."

Joan looked at me incredulously. "The kid has a mother."

And we know how much fun it is to deal with the ex-wives, who will always see you as getting what they deserved to have. 

"And she has a father," I replied. "Who is going to have to be in her life, and that means if I date him the kid is in my life, and if I wanted kids in my life, I'd have had them. If I'm going to date someone, I'd like to be in a relationship where I have a reasonable chance of being a priority at least 25% of the time. That hasn't happened since 1988, and I'm feeling nostalgic."  

To get her to leave, I promised her I'd bring the kids by later. I didn't. Instead, we all fell asleep on the TV-room floor.

I guess I do have a line.

So one of my recruiters called with a temp assignment that would go through the end of the year. Not my dream job (executive support, some office management - you know the kind of culture you're dealing with when they specifically list as one of your duties "replace toner in printers." Yes. Masters of the Universe, but they can't change a cartridge.)

But the pay was above average for temp work, so I thought it might be worth trying to go in and start my personal radical revolution. I asked how big the office was.

"I'm not sure. It's Big Well-Known Wall Street Investment Firm." (Not its actual name of course, but every single person in every industrialized country has heard of them).

Crap.

I asked if I could call her back, then did some research, not wanting to lump all the bad guys together. But what I found was that BWKWSIF is one of those places that made my stomach turn -- took government money and then paid out bonuses. Not to its very top execs, but to enough that I just couldn't make excuses. Plus, who wants to work for a firm that is that arrogant and self-deluded? Who wants to change their toner?

So I called back my recruiter and told her that for that long a term I didn't think it would be a good fit. (That sounded better than "seriously, most of the firms you represent should burn in hell.")

I'd rather spend my IRA on my mortgage than swallow the gall that I know would rise in my throat as I prepared the well-padded expense reports of these people. And I know myself well enough that at some point I would, Tourette's-like, blurt out some snarky comment about good thing my tax dollars bailed them out so that they could go to an expensive lunch.

Dawn of the Furry, Manic Undead

So I've gotten a regular baby-sitting routine, which is good for the pocket money, but not good in terms of brain stimulation. The girl continues to be a perfect child, but the boy is starting to show signs of moodiness. Cries when disappointed now.

"It's like [Girl] sometimes gets mad," says their dad, "and [Boy] gets indignant."

"For him it's totally personal," I agreed.

Of course, my main behavioral background comes from working with animals, so when he cries and I know it's not diaper/food/injury, I ignore him, go into another room, and occupy myself.  I am not rewarding that behavior with attention. Today is an early day (I was here at 5:30am, no joking), so I'm a little foggy.

You would think that baby sitting for one of Chicago's top pastry chefs would be like a trip to Fantasyland, but when you have two people trying to get a business off the ground and finding themselves very busy, they don't exactly spend all kinds of time at home baking cookies. There is never any food to eat. Not that I'm looking to eat them bare, but when you've been somewhere for a few hours, you get peckish. I can usually scrounge up some Cheerios and milk, maybe some bread and peanut butter. 

Then there are the squirrels. In the office addition upstairs, the roof has been infiltrated by squirrels. This would be less disturbing if there were not already a baseball-sized hole in the wall, clearly squirrel handiwork, that has been stuffed with steel wool.  The skittering, scratching and gnawing taking place five feet above my head is kind of freaking me out; it sounds like they're either building a nest or holding a rave. I mention this to the parents, and they get this resigned look and say "Oh, I know," sheepishly. 

Have been online applying for more jobs, using more search engines, hearing nothing. Actually applied to MillerCoors as an admin, and realized too late that my autofill filled in a misspelling of my name (I tend to mistype my last name, but the browser records the mistake). I'll just explain that I was drunk on Miller Light at the time.

May be applying for mortgage relief soon, because I'm not going to take a fall while banks still cruise. And not for nothing, but I wish this administration would start kicking some serious banking ass. What the hell is up with the Dems who voted against the cramdown? What, we can't force banks to re-negotiate mortgages because -- why? Because we don't want to discourage banks from lending? Um, aren't the mortgages that would be re-negotiated the ones that the banks should never have written anyway,  the kinds of loans we DO want to discourage banks from making?

I love Obama but he and Geithner need to pull their heads out of their butts on this. 

*sigh.* 

Sanity. Where is sanity?