don't knock it till you try it: wedding rings

I recently saw this statement on a billboard, right next to an image of a big tacky wedding ring:

"It was easier picking out the guy."

Of course. Finding a dude to marry is fucking easy, the real decision-making comes when it's time to PICK OUT THAT ROCK!

I find the whole thing with wedding rings to be completely bewildering. An expensive, custom-designed ring seems like something that you might purchase if you were extremely wealthy--not something that your average working sap should be expected to buy.

Did you know that those things cost thousands and thousands of dollars? Well, they do. I know, because I went out shopping for them a few years ago. I was getting married, and I thought, "Well, there's usually an exchange of rings, right?" So I started to look around.

Someone referred me to a custom jeweler. I thought that sounded kind of cool. Not your average mass-marketed blood diamond, right?

But when I visited his shop, I quickly realized that everything there was going to cost thousands and thousands of dollars. "I guess I have very simple tastes," I said. "Can you show me some plain metal bands?"

He showed me some plain metal bands, the cheapest of which cost five hundred dollars.

Someone else told me to go to this "arty" jewelry store in the Minneapolis skyways. I don't remember exactly how she described it, but she made it sound like it was for people who were "too cool" for normal wedding rings. "That sounds like me!" I thought.

This time I went with Nick. But once again, it became immediately apparent that everything there was on sale for thousands and thousands of dollars. The clerk could tell that we weren't satisfied with the offerings on hand.

"We do custom designs, too," she said.

"Could we custom design something for less than three hundred dollars?" I asked.

"For your wedding?" she asked, her tone redolent of divorce.

After that, I lost all interest in the wedding ring task. "Who cares?" I thought. It seemed pointless to cough up loads of money for something that I was inevitably going to leave next to the sink at the Turf Club.

But even more than that, I was embarrassed by the idea of an expensive wedding ring. Even if we could afford it, would I really want that message projected to the outside world? "Look at me, a unique and special creature who has traded her maidenhead for this shiny symbol of possession!" No, I wouldn't want that, not at all.

So the day before the wedding, Nick and I were like, "Fuck--the rings." We went to an antique store where I tried on everything they could find in the cabinets, but virtually everything was too big. Finally, I came across a ring featuring a stone that can only be described as a "black teardrop." Of course, it fit perfectly! It was $24, but when we told the clerk it was for our wedding--which was the following day--she was so impressed that she gave it to us for half price.        

don't knock it till you try it: being boring

Back when I was about 13 years old, I was dating some guy I just wasn't that into. (And by dating I mean, I think we held hands once.) Our "relationship" mainly consisted of labored phone conversations and the occasional outing to the Boulevard movie theater.

I remember one particularly grueling phone call. After making some stilted small talk ("How are you?" "Fine...") the conversation promptly trailed off into nothing. I finally broke the silence, asking him what he'd done that day.

"Well, you know, I returned some movies to Blockbuster."

I was appalled. Although my speaking skills were clearly pathetic, I knew better than to give voice to the reality of my daily life. Much better to be vague and (hopefully) project an aura of mystery, right? Blockbuster? Really? I pictured him riding his bike to the movie rental chain, opening the little drop box door, placing the VHS cassettes in the chute, and riding back towards his house. There was something almost poignant about it--driving home the absolute mundanity of daily life.

There was also something totally hilarious about it. For years afterwards, those words became the punch line for a running family joke:

Mom: "So, how was your day, Shannon?"

Me: "Oh, you know, great! I returned some movies to Blockbuster!"

And we'd laugh and laugh.

But these days, this classic joke is hitting a little close to home:

Husband: "So, what did you do today?"

Me: "Oh you know....stuff. What about you??"

I practice this deflection technique so that I can use it when I meet new people. It might seem like the typical "woman deferring to the man" kind of scenario, but it's really just self-preservation. No one needs to know the tedious details.

But sometimes, for fun, I provide a comprehensive blow-by-blow, like this:

"Well, I got up and fed Lydia her breakfast. It took FOREVER. Why does it take so long to feed babies?? Oh my god! She totally smeared the food all over her head. I checked my phone while she ate, but all I got were emails from groupon. Then I changed her clothes. Those baby jeans I got at the Salvation Army are a pain in the ass to get her into! Wow! Eventually she took a nap, and I wrote some captions for a corporate magazine article."

But you have to be careful when you act all ironic about reporting on your mundane life. There's a thin line between ironically over-reporting the boring details and earnestly reporting the boring details because, in fact, those are the only details you have to report.

It almost makes me re-think all the laughs I've had at "Ned's" expense. Seriously, I should be so lucky to be able to return some movies to Blockbuster.

don't knock it till you try it: going back to work

When my official maternity leave was drawing to a close, I received an email from my manager. "Well, looks like you'll be back in the office before you know it, right?" Obviously, he thought I was returning to work. I suppose I'd given him no reason to suspect otherwise--most people who worked at the company would just come back after three months (or sooner), and that was that.

But I had other plans. Actually, referring to my mindset at the time as "plans" is probably being too generous with myself. Basically, I had a negative physical reaction every time I thought about returning to work. I would meditate on the reality of going back to the office, and the bile would rise.

"I really don't want to go back to work," I told Nick, the father of the baby. I felt like I was telling him that I was, at heart, a man.

"Yeah, right," he said, unmoved. "I mean, of course you're not going back, right?"

Of course I wasn't, but I pretended to wring my hands and fret about money. I suppose I actually did fret about money--obsessing about my imminent financial ruin one of my favorite pastimes. But the threat of a huge credit card balance that would take decades to pay off was not enough to make me do the normal, practical thing. When it came to going back to work, I simply didn't want to, and I wasn't going to.  

I emailed my resignation. They didn't want to accept it, which I guess was kind of flattering. At their suggestion, we arranged a work-from-home-for-ten-hours-a-week thing for a few weeks while I "thought about it." But it was like a trial separation when you've already bought a one-way ticket to the home town of your secret true love. At the end of the trial, I decided to leave for good.

I spent several months doing freelance stuff, almost solely for my former employer. I was grateful for the arrangement, which allowed me to work from home, primarily while the baby was sleeping.

But all things move toward their end, and one day I received a proposition--to return to the office, part-time, to cover someone else's maternity leave. I would only have to come to the office twice a week! And only for four hours at a time! It was a pretty flexible arrangement.

I totally didn't want to do it, but I accepted the offer.

I went in to meet with "Lena", the woman whose job I was going to be covering. She was quite pregnant, and obviously more than ready to get out of the office. "I'm sure you'll do fine," she told me a really familiar way--a way that says, "I don't actually care, and I won't be around to know otherwise."

Her job seemed pretty straightforward, so I didn't worry too much. She'd documented everything I was supposed to do in super-detailed Word documents. But then suddenly she was gone, and I had to start meeting with people.

See, the thing about my old job is that I was writer, and nothing more. I'd get my assignment and crank out the work. I appreciated that my manager didn't expect me to manage projects--she considered that her job.

Lena's title was "communications consultant," which I stupidly assumed meant that she was basically just a writer, like I once was. But no, it quickly became clear that one of her primary duties was to "manage expectations." I'm an introvert and a committed avoider-of-conflict, which I quickly discovered were strikes against me when I was called into action.

For example, I was cornered by the manager of something-or-other in HR who wanted me to draft up a communication plan about this-or-that related to employee engagement in the commercial department. I was still trying to mentally process the stuff he'd said ("communication plan," "employee engagement," "commercial department") when he started pressing me for a completion date. "End of business this week?" he asked me. My feeling of irritation must have translated into my face, because he then suggested that it was okay for me to "push back." ("Pushing back" being yet another thing that people are always doing at this company instead of "disagreeing.")

And I just can't get used to actually listening in meetings. I now realize that I had it made in my former role--I'd attend meetings and zone out, planning my outfits for the rest of the week or whatever, and my manager would later fill me in on the important points. Not so anymore. I recently sat through a mind-numbing PowerPoint presentation during which I stared at the wall, debating whether or not I should try jogging again, never imagining that anyone thought I was actually paying attention.

I prepared to leave the conference room, but "Jared," HR manager of compensation, indicated that I should stay. "Wait," he said, as he got the attention of his direct reports. "Let's get a download from Shannon."

A "download"? Clearly I was meant to have an opinion. I stalled, asking to see a copy of the "deck" (why are PowerPoint presentations always referred to as "decks"?). I paged through it, imagining myself to have a critical eye for something. Coming up with nothing, I pitched my alto voice even lower (hoping my masculine tones would channel authority), and spoke a few sentence fragments that I imagined sounded both corporate and managerial.

Everyone nodded seriously, and no one called me on my bullshit. "So that's what 'managing' is all about!" I thought, as I hurried out of the room.

And really, that seems to be it. I keep getting caught off guard, usually by someone who is very adept at corporate-speak. But then I just turn on my serious voice and focus on shifting responsibility, and I'm pretty sure I'll be okay until Lena puts her two-month-old into daycare.

don't knock it till you try it: being a teenage girl

Time marches on, and things change. You get a deadly boring job in the suburbs, you start doing Pilates, you sometimes try not to drink so much. You get married, you have a baby, you take her to baby storytime. Certain things are gone for good--like the freedom to book a spontaneous flight to Europe or to drink whiskey all night long with (almost) no consequences. And in my case, one thing that is definitely over is my time as a teenage girl. In particular, my teenage girl-appeal to creepy older men.

I'm assuming most women know what I'm talking about. Am I right?

I should establish one thing before I move on. I was not a "hot" teenage girl. During the time when my appeal to creepy older men was at its zenith, I had really crappy hair. I wasn't exactly fat, but I wasn't svelte in the least. I was super awkward, and couldn't find an age-appropriate boy to "take me to the mall" to save my life.

But bring a divorced, late-thirtysomething dad into my bagel shop and watch the one-way sparks fly!

When I was 16, I used to spend a lot of time hanging out at Know Name Records, where I would buy records as well as cigarettes. You were supposed to be 18 to buy cigarettes, but there was no problem with that when Mike was on duty. I totally looked like a 16-year-old in the nineties--cargo pants, shapeless L7 t-shirt, braces--but Mike could see past this horror show to the teenage knockout within.

One day he peered over the counter. "Nice bumpers," he said.

I tried to act nonchalant--after all, this was my nicotine dealer--but I probably accidentally looked a tiny bit alarmed.

"They're new," he said, and I realized he was talking about my shoes.

The next time I went in, he chatted me up more than usual.

"So, what are you doing this weekend?" he asked me. I was noncommittal, since what I was doing was probably along the lines of smoking pot out of an apple in someone's basement.

"I'm going to the Run Westy Run show at the Entry," he said. "Wanna come?"

I asked him if it was a 21+ show, and he confirmed that it was. He must have thought I had a fake ID--but of course, he'd never asked to see it.

"Uhhhh..." I said. "I don't think I can. I'm not 21."

Mike acted shocked. "Really?" he said, as if he was actually surprised.

One night when I was working at Bruegger's Bagels, a middle-aged dude came in with his two kids. I got them their food and sent them on their way, and went back to my food service tasks. But every time I looked up, the dude was staring intently at me. I pretended not to notice.

Time passed, and he approached the counter. He ordered something else. "You make a damn good bagel sandwich," he said.

Later that night, after I'd sweeped and scrubbed and mopped the floors at the bagel shop and was back at my parents' house, the phone rang. It was probably close to 10 pm. "It's for you," my dad said, all abrupt the way he always was if anyone male ever called me (which admittedly wasn't often).

"Hi, this is Tim," said a mostly unfamiliar voice. (I'd use his real name, but I can't remember it.)

"Tim?" I said.

"Yeah, from the bagel shop," he said. "I was in earlier tonight."

How had he gotten my number? I asked him.

"Oh, I got it from the office. I borrowed the phone, it was right there on the wall."

"Oh," I said. I didn't know what else to say. There was pause.

Suddenly Tim got all rushed. "I really enjoyed meeting you tonight, and I'd like to see you again. I'm supposed to go back to Buffalo early in the morning, but if I can get my flight bumped, could I see you again?"

"What?" I asked. I was still confused as to how he got my phone number. "When, where?"

"Well, tonight," he said. "You could come to my hotel."

His hotel? I imagined his kids--back with their unappealing 35-year-old mother, no doubt.

"Do you know how old I am?" I asked.

"What?" he asked, sounding annoyed. "What does that matter?"

"Well, I'm 16," I said.

Like Mike from Know Name, he pretended to be surprised. "I thought you were at least 21!" he said. What he didn't say was where a middle-aged dude in khaki pants gets off trying to pick up a young girl--even a 21-year-old "woman".

Now that I'm well into my thirties, this kind of thing never happens anymore. Obviously, I guess--what would it be now, some 70-year-old acting all surprised when he finds out I'm not 45? Whatever--I'm sure all the sleazy 70-year-olds have set their girl age cut-off at 22 years old, too.

Now my charms are only appreciated by men who appreciate real things about me, including the reality of my advanced age. This is mostly good, but it's a little bittersweet. Never again will some old dude approach me while I'm working at the neighborhood coffee shop and invite me to his Valentine's Day party. His Valentine's Day party that, when pressed, has no other invited guests aside from me.    

don't knock it till you try it: a colicky baby

My manager, "Sharon," had one piece of hospital childbirth advice that she was adamant about. "You have to send the baby to the nursery," she said. "You need sleep more than you need to 'bond' with her."

Sharon, the mother of three kids and a person I respect, clearly knew something about the matter. Of course, I didn't really listen to her. I had, after all, chosen my hospital at least partially for its anti send-the-baby-to-the-nursery stance--its low c-section rate, its respect for natural childbirth and its insistence than one "room in" with one's child.

It turns out Sharon knew what she was talking about. Following my unscheduled c-section, there was nothing I wanted more than to zone out, completely alone, for about a week in a morphine haze. Instead, there was a baby girl in a plastic bin to my left, for whom I was meant to care.

And unlike other babies I've heard about, she did not sleep all the time or coo contentedly as I cradled her in my arms. On the contrary, she screamed and screamed from the get-go--while I held her, while Nick held her, while she flailed in her plastic bassinet, while I attempted to breastfeed her, while Nick changed her diaper--whenever. She was in this world, and she hated it.

I couldn't really blame her. I've found most of my daily life to be pretty excruciating for basically my whole life--why should my own baby feel any differently? I have a bad attitude about being alive, and it seems I transmitted it to her in the womb.

I spent about three days in the hospital following the surgical birth of my baby, and I estimate that I slept for possibly 45 minutes during that time. Virtually every moment was spent attempting to breastfeed my painfully small child or grinding my teeth as I listened to her howling angrily wherever she happened to be at the moment.

"Could this be colic?" we asked various nurses and doctors, but "colic", according to the textbooks, doesn't start until a baby is at least two weeks old, and with our baby arriving three weeks early, well, we wouldn't know if we had a colicky baby for well over a month.

"But then why is she screaming inconsolably?" we asked. "Is something wrong with her? Is she in pain?" But no, evidently there was nothing to be diagnosed or done. "Babies cry," they would say, as they rushed from the room and the screaming.

One evening, Nurse Betty came into my room. I was supposed to leave the hospital the next day, and I was in a unique mental state that was informed by sleeplessness, Percocet, distant pain and maybe a little post-traumatic stress disorder. "How are you doing?" I think she asked me. I have no distinct memory of how I responded, but I think it involved deeply negative jokes and probably some crying. The still-nameless baby howled in the foreground.

"Why don't I take her to the nursery?" said Betty. "You need some rest." I couldn't believe it--she wasn't going to force me to try some new breastfeeding "hold" instead? She wheeled the baby away and I had about an hour of non-screams in my dreary little room. I don't really think I slept, but it was still pretty great.

Eventually we went home, and the screaming just got more intense. Everyone always says that a baby will "change your life" and looks at you with these wide eyes, but no one really says that the baby will scream virtually non-stop, red-faced and flailing, as if you are continuously sliding burning-hot needles under her tiny little fingernails.

"Is this normal?" Nick asked me, as the frantic howls continued despite our constant attempts to soothe her.

I didn't know. I guessed so--everyone says "babies cry" and "it's so hard", right?

We called some 24-hour baby care help line that I must have found in the hospital discharge papers. Nick placed the call, since I was holding the screaming child and weeping to myself.

The person on the phone asked him a bunch of questions. I could tell he was getting frustrated. "But what should we do?" he asked. "Is there anything we can actually do?" He looked irritated as he listened to the response--clearly someone reading off the list of things one should try to soothe a colicky baby. "Yeah, we've tried all of that," he said. The white noise, the bouncing, the swaddling--whatever--all of it like taking a plant spritzer to a wildfire.

In the days and weeks following the birth of one's child, the baby has many appointments with the pediatrician. Ours was a perky, fast-talking woman who--when we asked her about our daughter's misery--suggested that we weren't swaddling her correctly. "Babies cry!" she said. "You just need to learn how to swaddle her better--I'll show you." We told her we'd been swaddling to no avail, but she was sure of her superiority. "No really, I'll show you and things will get better," she said.

She took wailing Lydia from my arms and attempted to wrap her up in her "expert" pediatrician swaddle. Lydia broke out of it immediately. Nick and I looked at each other, perversely pleased. Our baby showed the pediatrician who was boss! She might not be "easy," but she was definitely a badass.

I joined a "new mother" group, since this baby-having stuff was challenging and I didn't really have any friends with small babies. I wanted to take preventative measures so I wouldn't alienate all my childless friends with diaper reports.

Every week in class I sat on an inflatable exercise ball, bouncing Lydia vigorously while she yowled. All the other new mothers lounged on the floor, their babies napping in their carseats or lying motionless and awake on blankets in front of them.

It still didn't really occur to me that anything was "wrong." After all, the pediatrician, the phone-in baby consultant and the hospital staff had all just looked at me condescendingly while sharing their version of the verdict that "babies cry." If those other babies were much calmer than mine, well, that was obviously what I had coming.

But one day, "Sonya" and "Laura", the instructors who moderated the group, approached me after class. "Sometimes we have to stage an intervention," Sonya said. Both mothers of three kids, they could see that I had a special situation. I don't really remember how they phrased it, but they basically informed me that my situation was fucked.

"How are you holding up?" asked Laura. "What are you doing to take care of yourself?"

I wasn't doing anything to take care of myself, unless you count "hoarding the last two painkilllers for a really bad day" a self-care plan. They laughed supportively at my bitter jokes and hugged me.

Weeks passed, and Lydia continued to scream. The only time she slept at all was while lying on my chest, usually around 4 a.m. I would hold her with both hands, terrified that I would fall asleep and drop her. Occasionally exhaustion would take over and I'd pass out for a few minutes--only to wake up with a shock, scared that she had toppled onto the floor during my period of negligence. (She hadn't.)

Nothing really "worked" when it came to soothing her. Everyone tells you to take the baby for a ride in the car, which I tried many times, often in the depressing hours of the morning. She would scream the whole time and I felt like a monster.

We did experience some success when we'd bounce her vigorously for hours while listening to the same droning records over and over, Stereolab being a particular "favorite" of Lydia's.

But most everything we tried was a total joke.

We sought outside assistance, including the services of a chiropractor who suggested that I eliminate all wheat and soy from my diet to see if that helped. I followed that suggestion for about a day and a half.

"Isn't colic usually caused by something in the mother's diet?" said some hippie at the baby-friendly yoga studio. "Maybe you should eliminate dairy...since of course you're not drinking coffee or alcohol or anything."

"That's bullshit," said my friend "Jessica," who had a colicky baby of her own several years ago. "The sad truth is that nothing helps, you just have to wait it out. I was drunk for basically the whole first year, I was so miserable."  

So I gave up, and just accepted that I had what could be lovingly described as a "high need" baby. And once I stopped trying to cure her, I found that I took some sick enjoyment from the situation. I decided that Lydia was actually sort of cool for being so vocal about her angst--not at all like her repressed mother! I could actually learn a thing or two from this child.  

don't knock it till you try it: figuring out music

I owe a debt to "Alex", this dude who worked at Disc Jockey (!!) at the Southdale Mall back in about 1990.

See the thing is, I'm an only child, and I've found that most of my friends who have any real "taste" when it comes to music had the benefit of an educated older sibling--the older sister who'd eject the New Kids on the Block tape and replace it with the Pixies, or whatever.

I didn't have a situation like this. My situation, in fact, was dire. Like I said, I'm an only child. And while my parents' taste in music is just fine, I certainly wasn't programmed at age 13 to notice or care what my parents thought about music.

In fact, I was languishing in a cultural wasteland. At junior-high age, I was a cynical and unpopular student at a small Catholic school in south Minneapolis. While many girls in my situation might have taken solace in artistic pursuits, I had the misfortune of being the student of a "creative arts" teacher who had what I can only describe as misogynistic tendencies (and according to the school's website, is still teaching there!). But that's a subject for a different blog post.

What I should really be talking about here is Twin Peaks. I was a total Twin Peaks nerd--a Twin Peaks nerd in the sixth grade. In other words, not a cool member of my class at Annunciation Catholic School.

But whatever. I became obsessed, of course, with Julee Cruise. Shortly after she appeared on the show, I hustled out to the Edina mall to purchase her album. And that's when I met Alex!

Alex was--and I suppose it should come as no surprise--a total dork (in retrospect). But at the time, I thought he was SO FUCKING COOL. I didn't even know better to act nonchalant--I eagerly sought his assistance in locating my Julee Cruise record. He walked me over to the CD (probably my fifth), and then said those magic words--"Well, if you like Julee Cruise..."

My tapered jeans were already half-off. He walked me over to the "soundtracks" section and presented me with the soundtrack to the Wim Wenders movie "Until the End of the World" (filled with tracks by "washed-up punk rockers" according to my German teacher in high school several years later).

"You should check out the Talking Heads, and Nick Cave and Elvis Costello," he said. Weak kneed, I assured him that I would.

And check them out I did. In fact, one thing led to another, and I ended up a manic Nick Cave fan girl, dragging two of my soccer player friends to his show at Lollapalooza in 1994 ("Oh my God, did he just say 'I've been CASTRATED?'").

I went back to Disc Jockey to buy more CDs and "flirt" with my mentor. He was always helpful and accommodating. But when it came down to it, he had to let me go: "If you really want to get good music, you should go to the Electric Fetus or Let it Be," he said. And well, he was right.

don't knock it till you try it: baby story time

So, being both introverted and masochistic, I took my child to baby story time. The first session was presided over by a manic, relentlessly positive woman who played violin, wielded puppets and made "funny" voices.

I was mortified, but it wasn't about me, right? So I suppressed my emotions, reminded myself to ignore my intuition and imagined the least shameful alcoholic drink I could consume at 2 pm.

Regardless of my reaction, my daughter seemed to love it. So I took a week off to recover, and then I packed her up to try a different story-session at the public library. This one was more subdued--a dreary and repetitive song was used to "introduce" the babies, which used up about half of the allotted time. Then we read several books as a group. That was it. I don't know why I needed to leave the house for that, but I guess I secretly hoped that I'd spot my misanthropic soul mate-mother rolling her eyes across the circle. No luck so far, though.

The most nerve-wracking part of these endeavors actually comes after the official "program" in the form of "baby play time." I guess some of the older kids are playing, but not my kid. It's obviously a chance for parents to chat each other up and make friends, but when the only thing you have in common is parenthood and you're an antisocial malcontent, this is tough.

Actually though, I really tried to make an effort the first time. One woman was funny and displayed a personality, but I was surprised to discover how reserved so many of the parents were. "But I'm reserved!" I thought. "Aren't the majority of normal people extroverts? This is fucking exhausting for me!"

Although I respect the pedestrian nature of the library story thing, it's still not quite the right thing. I think there's a real need for something different. But not like that "rock the cradle" event, which is just a bunch of dads in horn-rimmed glasses dancing around with their daughters to Bjork songs. I guess what I'm thinking of would involve songs in a minor chord, stories with a bleak angle and plenty of opportunities for parents to slink off into dark corners, instead of hanging around talking, pretending to be well-adjusted.