don't knock it till you try it: dwelling in the past

Back in junior high I was into all things theater-related. I went to plays by myself and took part in all the performance-related stuff at my south Minneapolis Catholic school. Theatrical opportunities mostly consisted of yearly revues featuring students lip syncing to "These Boots are Made for Walking," dancing aerobically to "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen and playing "Props" from "Whose Line is it Anyway."

In retrospect this was all pretty small potatoes, but at time these glorified variety shows were promoted to all and sundry as a VERY BIG DEAL. And the biggest proponent of the serious importance of these shows was "Ms. Stumpings," the resident theater/music teacher at my school and the director of these yearly displays showcasing over-emoting tweens and a soundtrack from her no doubt free-wheeling youth (Pink Floyd, James Brown, the Beatles, etc.).

Ms. Stumpings was a product of the sixties. She wore dangly earrings, clothing with leather fringe and owned a rotating selection of ponchos. She set Shel Silverstein poems to music and showed us Duck Soup. She was the only hint of something "anti-establishment" in our stodgy old Catholic school, and of course we all thought she was totally cool.

Despite the fact that I was a girl (she made little effort to disguise her disdain for women), she took me in as one of her protégés at a fairly young age. She praised me excessively in front of our class and laughed uproariously at my stupid jokes. I imagine this was quite annoying to my classmates, especially considering the fact that I wasn't exactly the most popular girl in the fifth grade. "What does she see in her?" I now imagine my peers asking each other, wondering why Ms. Stumpings didn't wise up and lavish more attention on the Carries.

Everything was great, until I started my eighth grade year and ran into Ms. Stumpings in the hall on the first day of school. I was excited to see her, since I'd spent a ton of time over the summer taking part in an acting program with a local theater company and I figured she'd be psyched.

"It was so great!" I told her. "I got to work with these really cool directors and choreographers. We did You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown!"

Ms. Stumpings' smile froze on her face as I told her about my summer. "Oh, I see," she said. Suddenly distant, she stalked away without another word.

I was confused. I'd assumed that she'd be excited about the fact that I'd "broadened my horizons" and pursued my interests while school was out--but clearly she was pissed about something.

Things went downhill from there. She stopped doling out the praise and started ignoring me in class. I talked it over with my mom, and came to the realization that  she was irritated with me because I'd sought out theater instruction from someone other than her. She probably felt betrayed, and maybe threatened, too. Because I, a 13-year-old girl, had taken part in a summer theater time-killing exercise and in so doing, destroyed our special bond.

She treated me like I'd stabbed her in the back. But she didn't want to talk about it, she just wanted to huff around and shoot daggers at me with her eyes, like I was the girl who drunken made out with her boyfriend at a keg party down by Nine Mile Creek.

Despite my relatively young age, I had a sense that her reaction was definitely childish and maybe inappropriate. I became disenchanted with her. The qualities that once seemed charming--like her spooky, channeling-Stevie-Nicks persona and her dramatic, "theater-person" tantrums-- suddenly seemed like ridiculous affectations.

One afternoon while rehearsing for the yearly variety show, Ms. Stumpings pitched one of her famous fits. Whenever we were lacking energy, or horsing around too much, or simply not GIVING IT OUR ALL the way she wanted us to, she would throw up her arms in the air and pace around wildly while yelping things like, "Oooohhh!" and "Aahhh!" and "You children!!" frequently clutching at her hair for effect. Although these displays were meant to scare us into submission, at this point I was SO DONE. I gave one of my friends the side eye and then rolled my eyes in a noticeable way.

Of course she saw me. But she couldn't just ignore it. "SHANNON!!" she bellowed. "OUT IN THE HALL!!"

I sauntered out into the hall, feeling really fucking cool (I was generally a totally polite, rules-following milquetoast).

"HOW DARE YOU disrespect me like that?" she demanded, doing her best to tower over me.

"God, what's the big deal?" I asked. "I just rolled my eyes. Christ, I didn't think it was such a SIN."

"Oh yeah?" she said. "Well, IT WAS."

I still found her utterly ridiculous after that, but there was admittedly a part of me that felt crappy about the fact that my once-mentor seemed hell-bent on cutting me down to size. Wasn't that supposed to be the role of my peers, not my teachers?

I went on with things and decided to run for student council president. My opponent was "Jake Seever," who I still maintain was weirdly self-satisfied for an eighth grade boy. He was widely understood to be "a really great guy." I loathed him. And I was convinced of the superiority of my platform, intellect and physical attractiveness. Of course he won.

I wasn't actually very surprised ("he won because he's a BOY!" was my proto-feminist conviction) or even that disappointed, except for the fact that that instead of letting us losers slink off into the parking lot for a cigarette and a swipe at our thighs with a razor, we were all appointed to chair a committee--in my case, I was now in charge of the "apostolic" committee, the committee in charge of all things religious/God-oriented. And for this indignity, I was livid. (I was already agnostic, even if I didn't know about that word just yet.) It seemed like a perfect example of God personally telling me to fuck off.

After learning about my defeat, I trudged alone down the hall towards my homeroom, feeling put-upon and singular. At this point, as if by magic, Ms. Stumpings appeared in front of me.

"Shannon," she said, giving me a serious look of great pity. "Shannon, please come sit down with me in my room."

What the fuck? Clearly, I was not in her good graces anymore. I'd betrayed her (Charlie Brown) and disrespected her (rolled eyes)--was there any way to get past that? I assumed not, but here she was, clearly trying to project an aura of empathy.

I went with her; I assumed she was re-assuming her teacher role and that she planned to console me about my loss.

We went into her classroom and sat down at her desk, across from each other.

"Oh Shannon," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Was this my cue to spill my guts? To start crying and wailing about how disappointed I was? I wasn't accustomed to "talking about my feelings," (to the extent that I need to put that in quotes) and so I just kind of sat there, feeling like shit, but hopeful, like maybe she was going to act like my supportive teacher right now. In fact, that's what I expected--there must be something hard-wired in my being that, despite all evidence to the contrary, still wants to think that, when things are bad, that other people will try to be merciful.

"I know you're upset," she said. "And that's why I feel that I need to tell you why I voted the way I did." She looked at me in this very meaningful way. She didn't actually say, "I voted for Jake," but that's what she meant. She looked right at me. It was a shitty sort of look--the look of a 40-something teacher telling a 13-year-old student something she didn't need to hear.

I was really surprised. "This is fucked up," I thought, although I don't know if "fucked up" was necessarily part of my usual vocabulary back then.

I was so surprised that I couldn't respond. This seemed to encourage her to elaborate.

"It's just that I really think Jake needed this," she said. "He's been on the decline, and he needed something to bolster him up. You're strong...you'll be fine. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that."

I don't remember if ever said anything in response to all this, and I don't remember leaving her classroom. I don't think I told anyone what happened, because, of course, it was mortifying.

And now that I'm here, like, almost 40 years old, with plenty of other things to worry about, I think it seems self-indulgent and ridiculous to even talk about this dumb incident. It's not like it's stopped me in my tracks or anything. However, it still strikes me as particularly troubling--more troubling than the fourth grade asshole who tormented me for being a "fat bitch" who was doomed to grow up to be a "hooker," or the boyfriend who claimed he attempted to "rape" me (I did not notice the attempt), or the jackass who accused me of being a "modernist" when I yelled at him for making out with my roommate while we were "dating."

The nice thing about writing to a non-paying audience of three is that I don't feel like I have to "wrap it up." And this is something I definitely can't wrap up. Am I proud of the fact that I'm still thinking about something that happened when was 13? Yes!I mean, no. It's embarrassing. But are other people still hung up on such things? I don't know--probably not! It's probably just me. Even so, that teacher can suck it. I don't care how many glowing profiles I read about her in the neighborhood newspaper.

don't knock it till you try it: taking the blame

I recently had a second baby, and this time around I decided to go wild and splurge on a "home health" visit from a nurse a few days after we got home from the hospital. It sounded like a good idea--a medical professional stopping by to check on my boy's traumatized head (courtesy of the obstetric vacuum) and to evaluate just far down the postpartum depression hole I might be sinking. Insurance was going to cover like, thirty percent!

"Connie," a neat and tidy nurse who appeared to be in her late fifties, showed up at my door on a Monday morning. I immediately tuned in to her judgmental aura--I live in a house that could be politely referred to as "pleasantly cluttered." I should probably have a magnet on my refrigerator that says, "A Clean House is a Sign of a Wasted Life."

Anyway, I tried to smooth things over with an "I know what you must be thinking" greeting.

"I'd apologize for my trashed house," I said, "but I'm sure you hear that all the time, right?"

"Well, I'm here to check on you and your baby, not your house," she said with a pinched smile.

I invited her to sit on my (cat hair-infested) couch and we started to discuss my new-baby situation. We got to chatting, and I eventually mentioned the fact that Lydia, my first child, had been an insanely colicky baby. Connie suddenly looked very empathetic, even brushing away a (fake??) tear.

"Oh Shannon," she said.

She went on to explain that she too had had a colicky baby, but it was back in the day when no one knew why babies were colicky.

"I've made it my mission to do whatever I can to help parents with colicky babies," she said.

I got excited. I too have heard the siren call to "do something" to help other parents with colicky babies. For example, when I was up at 4:00 am with Lydia, bouncing her madly while she screamed and flailed, I often wished there was something for all the hapless parents like me. Ideally a free nursery where you could drop off your screamer for a couple hours (to be cared for by kind people who would not shake her) while you slept or had a drink in a soundproof room. Perhaps she had something like that in mind?

But no, that wasn't what she had in mind.

"Research has shown that most fussiness in babies can be traced to the mother's diet," she told me. (Obviously this is only relevant to breastfed babies.) "If Felix gets fussy the way Lydia was, I encourage you to try an elimination diet." She then went on to write down a list of the foods I should be prepared to eliminate for a minimum of ten days--dairy products, eggs, fish, nuts, citrus, soy and wheat.   

I was familiar with this philosophy. But I wonder if any of the professionals who suggest this approach have actually tried a severe elimination diet while dealing with a colicky newborn? Scientific proof or not (and I think the jury is still out on the scientific evidence, despite what some people insist), what new mother has the fortitude to undertake this kind of masochistic intervention while her baby screams nonstop around the clock?

Actually, according to the online motherhood forums and my own experience, quite a few mothers. The first time around I was so desperate to "cure" my daughter's screaminess that I was willing to try anything. The baby chiropractor we visited determined (through some brand of "energy work") that Lydia was "allergic" to my breast milk, but was quick to tell me not to stop breastfeeding. Instead, I was to immediately eliminate wheat, soy and dairy from my diet.

I took her advice, and kept it up for about two days, at which point I broke the fast because I was super hungry from only eating rice and steamed vegetables.

I think Connie noticed my look of irritation, despite my attempt to maintain a bland expression.

"Of course, it's always the mother's fault," I said.

She quickly changed the subject. "Let's look at your son...we're running out of time."

I realize she might have a point--everyone might have a point. I bet they're all right--that tofu-and-tilapia sandwich is surely the secret culprit behind your average baby's all-night screaming. But I also know our culture's current obsession with all things food-related, and the belief that almost everything can be "cured" with a dietary adjustment. Even more than that, I know from personal experience how quick people are to lump all the blame--for "fussiness," illness, obesity and more--on possibly inconsequential decisions made by parents.

"If it comes to that, I'm switching to formula," I said.

don't knock it till you try it: mediocrity

I got a copy of my college alumni magazine the other day, featuring a story about wine making alums who are "lighting up" the California grape business. I felt exhausted just looking at the cover photo of a woman (class of '99) kicking back with a glass of wine while perched on a barrel.

Of course, this is standard fare for the alumni mag--if it's not a bunch of ex-students making wine it's a story about that guy who started Surly Brewing, or a graduate with an organic farm, or some couple who started out as soulless stock brokers but then launched a web company and quickly sold it for tons of money and now they still look very chiseled and Scandinavian.

In other words, I'm tired of hearing about all this stylish and progressive-appropriate success. It's not that I disapprove--I'm actually glad this stuff is going on. Someone should put a green roof on City Hall--yes, that's definitely a good thing. Hats off to the immigration lawyer who works primarily with seasonal farm laborers. I'm totally on board with educational investment programs in low-income countries.

But as a failure-oriented sort of person who is more interested in weird interpersonal situations and gossip, these empowering, occupation-driven stories of "alums on the make" leave me cold. Where is the story about the guy who always meant to leave St. Paul, but ended up dating that local girl for a few years and even though that didn't work out, the job at Medtronic kept paying the bills, and when it comes to Korean food on Snelling Ave. isn't Sole better than Mirror of Korea?

Those are the kinds of stories I want to read about in the alumni magazine. Seriously, what's so bad about mediocrity? Isn't success actually kind of boring?

I suppose this desire for stories of inertia and ordinariness is strongly influenced by my own experience. Because let's admit it--I'm really pretty mediocre, at least when it comes to the work I do. It took several years for me to "warm up" to that realization. I spent plenty of time thinking that I really "should" do something more meaningful with my life than proofreading the fine print in credit card offers or ghostwriting emails for the CEO of a Big Agriculture corporation.

Other people have also emphasized the importance of doing something else--anything else. Well, maybe not anything, but something better.

I recently told an acquaintance about some of the freelance writing work I've been doing. I was actually feeling pretty okay about my work for once, when I realized he was stifling a look of pity. "You're a pretty good writer, Shannon," he said. "Shouldn't you be doing journalism? Wouldn't it be more fun to write articles?"

I had the sudden realization that I was a loser in his eyes. This has happened before, too.

Several years ago I was at play with a friend and she ran into someone she knew in the lobby. "Shannon, you've got to meet Mary--she's a writer, too!"

It turned out that Mary was a 30-year veteran of the Twin Cities journalism scene, currently holding a high post at Minnesota Public Radio. My friend enthusiastically announced that I was a writer.

"Oh, really?" said Mary. "Where do you work?"

I could tell right away this wasn't going to end well. I informed her that I was editing a trade magazine about window treatments.

"Oh, of course--trade magazines," she said, as if I'd initiated a conversation about hemorrhoids--embarrassing, disgusting and definitively indicative of one's low status. "I've never worked in that field."

The message is always the same--why are you wasting your time with that? I suppose it could be taken as a compliment, that these people think I have more to offer the world than a well-worded and persuasive brochure about heat pump upgrades.

don't knock it till you try it: body dysmorphia

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don't knock it till you try it: expecting brilliance from your child

Billboards have really been getting me worked up lately. For example, a pro-life advertisement in my neighborhood recently caught my eye. The billboard in question featured a grainy snapshot of a toddler on a sled. The "don't get an abortion" message? "Your child could grow up to be an Olympic bobsledder!!!"

This pretty neatly sums up what I hate about that striving, desperate brand of parent who observes some normal, everyday kid thing and immediately equates it with future impressive achievements. Your daughter grabbed a wooden spoon and waved it around? Obviously she's a budding gourmet who will one day run her own farm-to-table restaurant! Your son clocked another kid at the playground? The next Muhammad Ali, no doubt!

I suppose some of these pronouncements are meant to be humorous, but I still think they betray an underlying anxiety about the pronouncer's child. Just under the surface of "mommy's little neurosurgeon" is the possibility that the kid will be disappointingly normal--a clerk at Home Depot, perhaps.

Recently some people came over to my house for lunch. My daughter (just over one year old) was in attendance, and one of my guests entertained her for awhile by encouraging her to drop some coins into a cup. She became quite adept at placing the coins in the cup. I was so proud! "My baby's gonna grow up to work on an assembly line!" I exclaimed.

Although I thought this was a hilarious joke, I later learned that one of my guests did not agree. Evidently he thought that I really was afraid that Lydia would grow up to work on an assembly line due to the putting-things-in-cups skills she was developing that day. Perhaps we weren't encouraging her cognitive development as aggressively as we should have been? Maybe some baby sign language could have been incorporated?

I'm trying to imagine being part of the intended audience for that pro-life billboard--pregnant, not so sure I wanted to be pregnant, weighing the options. But then, the sudden realization: "If I keep this baby, he or she very well might grow up to have some kind of impressive profession or skill that could reflect positively on me!"

Because isn't that the whole reason to have kids? If people knew the truth--that their cute baby would one day turn into a teenager who would take hallucinogens and climb under the Lake Street bridge, then get depressed and graduate from an expensive liberal arts college in preparation for a job as a receptionist a community newspaper--I imagine more ladies would be checking the correct placement of their diaphragms.

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.

don't knock it till you try it: work-study jobs at college

I attended Macalester, a fancy liberal arts college, but I really had no business being there. For one thing, I'm not that smart. In addition, my family isn't well off at all. But most importantly, I'm just not that "interesting."

Those of you who attended Macalester or similar schools probably know what I mean. Along with a bunch of rich kids, Macalester is populated by all kinds of students with backgrounds that are incredibly novel. "From Berlin by way of Sioux City," as one friend summarized.

It's amazing they let in any townies at all. But they do, and I was one of them. Hailing from south Minneapolis, my most impressive claim to fame in my college application was probably my starring role in a poetry reading at the Sears Rotunda at the Mall of America. Other than that, it was corn-fed midwestern mediocrity all around. And I can assure that I received plenty of feedback about this from my freshman year "friends" from the east coast!

Another thing that happened during my freshman year was my assignment to report to work at Kagin, the Macalester cafeteria. Of course I qualified for work-study -- that close-to-minimum-wage job that helps the financial aid students pay for their whiskey and gin.

Like a good rules-following Minnesotan, I promptly reported to work, already accustomed to the food service grind from my teenage years spent in the bagel shop/coffee shop/chow mein joint. I actually didn't mind the job--it didn't take much effort to scoop baked tofu onto a plate for my classmates. There was possibly something a little demeaning about it, but I took a sick pleasure in the role. For example, although I recognized the insult, I basically reveled in it when some girl referred to me as "that hipster who works at Kagin."

The thing I did not revel in was my (completely anecdotal) observation that all the "interesting" financial aid kids got the easy and desirable work-study jobs in the academic departments, while all the locals/midwesterners/southerners got the shit jobs in the cafeteria and the "physical plant" (e.g. picking up your classmates' cigarette butts). I'm sure there were some exceptions to the this rule, but I don't think there were many!

I kept this suspicion to myself for years, so redolent was it of "sour grapes" or perhaps, "not recognizing my own privilege." But finally I brought it up to Nick, my lawfully wedded husband who also went to Macalester and didn't even qualified for a work-study job, so interesting was his background.

He agreed with me. His interesting-to-him but not "interesting-on-paper" friends from Nebraska and Waseca got assigned to the cafeteria, while his technically-cash-strapped but in reality prep-school-educated freshman girlfriend got the "sit around and drink coffee in the English department" work-study job.

The anecdotal evidence was in and I was livid! It was true--there was a method to the work-study madness. The locals and red state students got the crappy jobs (e.g. it was unlikely they'd ever make anything of themselves and donate large sums to the annual fund) while the fancy-poor got the "flirting in the staff lounge" assignments.

I know this probably sounds frivolous but I am convinced that it's a real thing! And if I could get someone in the admissions office at Macalester to back me up (anonymously, I suppose) I think I could write something quasi-factual about this.

don't knock it till you try it: adult conversation

So the thing about having a baby is that I was really looking forward to the maternity leave. Starting at the age of 15, I've basically always had a job. From Cathay Chow Mein to Big Agriculture, I've been working virtually nonstop for 18 years. The one time I was fortunate enough to get laid off (unemployment benefits!!) I was offered a job I didn't even seek out within about two weeks. WTF, right??

For years I've dreamed about getting a break from it all--and finally my reprieve arrived in the form of a small human I must help usher through the world for the rest of my life. And although I had serious doubts about my maternal instincts and my appropriateness as a potential parent, there is one thing I had no doubts about at all--those three months of government-approved, mostly unpaid time off.

I was under no illusion that it would be a vacation. Most of the nauseating cliches have proven to be true--parenting really is a full-time job, the sleep deprivation will render you clinically bipolar, etc. etc. But one thing that is not true is this: I do not miss the "adult conversation."

That's one of the things I hear working mothers talk about all the time. "I loved staying home for a couple months, but it was good to get back to work--I missed the adult conversation."

I really don't understand what they're talking about. Where do these women work?? Are there any open positions there for a hack writer?? In my experience, the "adult conversation" I experience at work can be boiled down to a lot of passive-aggressive nonsense rendered in meaningless corporate quasi-sentences ("Shannon, why don't you reach out to the VP of EHS for his take--I'm feeling rather agnostic about the talking points you've drawn up.")

Don't they have any friends with whom they can chat? I know it's tedious to hear all about someone's baby, but it's also tedious to sit through a breakdown of just how insulting it was when that one executive insisted on two spaces at the end of a sentence instead of one despite the fact that it's just plain wrong and makes him look completely old fashioned!!!

There were many times during the first three months at home with the baby when I would look at her--red-faced, screaming for five hours straight, ruing the day she was born--and think, "Would I rather be at work right now?" The answer was always no.

don't knock it till you try it: a c-section

So everyone knows about the c-section "epidemic" in the U.S. However, two out of three births still need to be completed the old-fashioned way, and when I was pregnant not so very long ago I assumed that I'd be having a "natural childbirth." I mean, I went to Macalester College!! And I'm a Pilates instructor, too--an ideal marriage of power-to-the-mother politics and physical training, right?

I was actually looking forward to the challenge of an unmedicated labor. I imagined it would be the ultimate practical application of my Pilates training--all that breathing and concentration finally put to a task other than successfully executing "Big Splits" on the reformer (which, it should be noted, is quite a challenge in its own right).

I was also kind of smug about my "plan." On one level of my brain I would tell myself that "Every woman should be respected for her choices in childbirth," but I have to admit that when a girl at a party told me she "Couldn't wait for the epidural!" I had a petty little feeling of superiority. I would not be cheating at childbirth! I think I successfully hid this uncharitable reaction from her, but still, there it was in all its assholishness.

So in the grand tradition of divine retribution (which I totally believe in selectively when stuff happens to me that I'm unhappy about, despite my rejection of my Catholic upbringing), naturally I was destined for that childbirth procedure which I dreaded--the preference of celebrities like Britney Spears and Posh Spice.

About a month before my due date I went in to see my midwife (of course) for a routine appointment. She praised me for my healthy, active, relatively uncomplicated pregnancy thus far. We patted myself on the back for what a model patient I was. She asked me about my doula and the waterbirth consent form. And then she noticed that the baby was breech--which, even in my natural childbirth-friendly clinic, is a recipe for a c-section.

Suddenly she canned it with the chitchat about my "birth plan." With the emotional distance of someone who's about to break up with you, she avoided my eyes and told me that I needed to meet with the resident OBGYN as soon as possible. "You're about to have this baby, and you'll have to have a c-section. I hope we can buy you a week." I expressed my dismay at this sudden change in plans. "I'm sure you don't want to compromise the health and safety of your baby for the sake of having a particular 'experience,'" she said. You could actually hear the air quotes!

This was the last I'd see of her and her holistic prenatal care. Like Pontius Pilate, she'd washed her hands of me! (And although that's dramatic and self-indulgent, it's somewhat relevant in relation to the way one is strapped down for a caesarean).

And also, I was going to have the baby in a week?? I refused to believe it, mainly because I was moronically unprepared. Assuming I had at least a month to get ready, I hadn't acquired anything baby-related, aside from some helpful hand-offs from a few good friends. Mainly I'd been making jokes about "packing for the hospital" (of course I'm not the kind of loser who'd pack a bag in advance, WHATEVER!)

So I met with the OBGYN, who I actually liked and who reportedly was "natural childbirth-friendly", but he was like, "Yeah, we should pencil you in for a c-section in a week or so. But I think you're going to have this baby sooner than that."

"Yeah right," I thought. "I'm gonna flip this baby around and show these assholes!"

I was pretty sure I could do it. I started with my acupuncturist who made a valiant effort with moxibustion. I went to the YWCA and did handstands in the pool. I practiced inversions involving an ironing board propped on the side of the bed. In other words, I abandoned my dignity with these futile efforts to encourage my unborn child to disengage her ass from my pelvis (she was a "frank breech"--e.g. "ass down").

On the morning of October 4, I went in for an appointment with the OBGYN. I'd reluctantly gone to the hospital the night before (I guess I was in labor), but since I wasn't "progressing" very quickly they sent me home. I was relieved, as the OBGYN on call (who would have been the one to slice me open) appeared to be in her early 20s and bore a striking resemblance to my freshman year dorm RA ("I'm KT, but my friends call me 'Crackie', because I act like I'm on crack!")

"I'm surprised they didn't section you last night," he said. ("Section" you???) After a discussion of my concerns about the inevitable operation, he sent me home to pointlessly burn my cute little moxibustion incense sticks next to my toes.

Later that afternoon I had a business meeting at a cafe. I became increasingly feverish and sick-feeling as the meeting progressed, sweating profusely and visibly in my light grey dress. I was mortified by this unladylike display in front of my potential client, but in a vague, through-the-fog sort of way. I staggered home and collapsed into bed, where I writhed around until Nick, the father of the child, came home.

He was supposed to go to band practice that night, and I was like, "You should totally go." But he was all, "Uh, you're totally in labor, I'm taking you to the hospital!" And I was like, "Well, okay."

We got the hospital and I was hustled into a room. I was dismayed to see the admitting nurse--a sour-looking, humorless woman who instilled in me an immediate sense of dread. She got down to the business of hooking me up to an IV. Meanwhile, I was having all kinds of contractions. Next on the agenda was the installation of the catheter.

I should explain that I am irrationally afraid of catheters. A few years ago, when recovering from surgery to my shredded Achilles tendon, a particularly nasty nurse threatened me with a catheter if I was unable to urinate unassisted within the hour. I put my mind-over-matter skills into action and completed the task--anything to avoid having a tube shoved in my bladder!

But evidently the catheter was non-negotiable. "Can't you wait until I get that needle in my spine?" I asked, sarcastic but also genuine. She wasn't having any of it, and painfully forced the tube on in. This made it virtually impossible to writhe around during the increasingly intense contractions. However, this negative experience made me almost excited to get the spinal block--one of the aspects of the operation I'd been most dreading. I was like, "Stick that giant needle in my spinal cord RIGHT NOW!"

It was time to be wheeled into the operating room. Nick put on his hospital-issued Devo suit but was kept out of the room while they took me in to get numbed. I sat on the edge of the bed while the anesthesiologist asked me to flex my spine in order to create more space between the vertebrae so he could better insert the needle. The OB stood directly in front of me. At the time I assumed he was being "supportive," but in retrospect he was probably just there to catch me if I pitched forward.

Like a dead deer, I was then hoisted awkwardly from the gurney thing to the operating table. At some point, they allowed Nick to come in. Someone strapped my arms down and out to the side, crucifixion style. The whole thing was becoming increasingly Lynchian. I waited for the light overhead to start flickering.

They installed a curtain over my abdomen to shield me from the carnage. "Don't you dare watch this!" I ordered Nick, uncharacteristically assertive. I was, you know, hoping to preserve "the mystery."

Although it wasn't painful, I could most definitely feel the doctor pulling that baby out. And despite my instructions, Nick did in fact peek over the curtain at one point, later informing me that the doctor had been "up to his elbows" in my abdomen.

So eventually the baby was removed, and they took her over to the corner of the room to do whatever it is you do with babies when they're born in the hospital. Although women sometimes report feeling bad about this separation from their baby, I was on too much pain medication to really be having any "feelings" at that point. I remember someone bringing the baby over to me while I will still strapped down on the table (Nick? The doctor? Some nurse?) and presenting her to me from a distance of several feet. "Oh my god, it's a boy!" I thought, taking note of my baby girl's swollen genitalia. Then I started shaking uncontrollably as the anesthesia wore off.

The days of recovery in the hospital are a blur. Although in theory I have a problem with taking massive amounts of painkillers and then passing them along to the baby in my breast milk, Courtney Love-style, I quickly revised this position when confronted with the reality of major abdominal surgery. Simply rolling from my back to my side in bed was a major undertaking, requiring fortitude and at least two Percocets.

On day two they removed the hated catheter and I was encouraged to stand up and lurch around the room. It was excruciating--as if my organs were about to spill out of my body. One of my nurses (who'd had three c-sections of her own) suggested that I grasp a pillow over my abdomen to provide the sensation of extra support.

For several weeks, the surgery made it painful and difficult to do a variety of things: stand up, sit down, roll over in bed, bend over to pick up the baby and walk. I'm sure a "normal" childbirth results in all kinds of physical challenges as well, but there's just a special something about having a baby sliced out of you. However, as some well-meaning friends informed me, I am trying to take pleasure in the fact that my baby got to emerge with a "perfect," not-cone-shaped head. Indeed, that will have to be the first thing in the baby book.

don't knock it till you try it: pregnancy

One of the most mean-spirited essays I ever wrote was about pregnant women. Titled "Pregnant Women are Disgusting" or something along those lines, it was inspired by a former coworker who waddled around the office, grimacing while clutching her lower back, dropping her pens and then waiting for the rest of us to dive under the conference table to retrieve them.

I was repulsed. I couldn't believe she would come into work like that! There was no dignity in it. Plus, the pregnancy made her even more irritable and unpleasant than she usually was. The whole thing was very inconvenient for me, both practically and aesthetically.

I've never really considered myself one of those "pregnant types." Until lo and behold, one day I was.

I staggered around for a few days, trying to come to terms with it. Surely, the encroaching mediocrity of my life (suburban job, sensible shoes, etc.) would be hastened by the appearance of a child. I imagined myself meeting with a friend post-baby for my once-a-month social outing where I would speak in the third person, saying things like, "Mommy never knew how much she would appreciate a shower back in her childless days!!!"

Isn't everyone rendered tedious when they have a kid? I suppose I know quite a few exceptions to that rule, but I fixated on the worst offenders--the suburban coworkers with their "AVASMOM" license plates, for example. Filled with dread, I obsessed silently to myself, confiding in no one.

Eventually I calmed myself down and went out to purchase a couple books on the topic of having a baby. Although I would have preferred to go to Magers and Quinn, I didn't want to risk it. Instead I went to a bookstore near my corporate workplace in the suburbs. I found the two books recommended to me by a friend who hasn't been ruined by motherhood, and clutched them to my chest (so as to obscure the titles, the way one might conceal some pornography or a self-help manual) as I hurried to the cash register.

As the woman at the counter rang up my purchase, I felt strongly compelled to mention that the books weren't for me--that I was picking them up for my sister, or something. But I forced myself to keep my mouth shut.

Luckily, I didn't start to "show" for a really long time, so I saved myself the trial of having to admit to it too early. I'm still hyper-aware of the judgement leveled at pregnant ladies (being a former offender myself) and I didn't want to invite any unwanted attention if I could help it.

Now that it's pretty obvious what's going on, I've resigned myself to having to acknowledge the pregnancy in public some of the time. But the fact that people--especially strangers--even want to discuss it blows my mind. Despite some evidence to the contrary I am pretty much a prude at heart, sex-negative at my core from years of Catholic training. Being pregnant is clearly a sign that I'm "in trouble", visual evidence that I'm damaged goods. Embarrassed silence would make sense to me--not a battery of questions about how I'm feeling, the status of my "nesting" stage (nonexistent) and whether or not I'm "excited" about being knocked up.

don't knock it till you try it: childhood dieting

Back in the fourth grade I was tormented every day by "Curt Mudger" for being fat and ugly. The abuse was primarily school bus-based--every morning I would get on the bus and there he was, taunting me for the rest of the ride. He'd start in again on the way home, and I'd finish my day with a barrage of insults shouted from his open bus window as I lumbered towards my house, mortified and hating myself.

For the record, I think it's safe to say that I was in an ugly phase that year. And I was by no means skinny.

But a petty, hateful defensiveness rises up as I write this. "I may have been pudgy and less than lovely, but I was by no means the fattest in my class!" I protest loudly in my head to an audience of no one.

I was not so righteous at the time, taking Curt's insults as the gospel truth. "I am hideous," I said to myself as he encouraged his friends to get in on the action. "He's right--no one will ever love me. And yes, I'm definitely going to grow up to be a hooker."

No one rose to my defense, least of all myself. I became depressive and extra-withdrawn and got scolded during class for "daydreaming" (i.e. fantasizing about suicide). I certainly didn't have the nerve or the self-regard to stand up for myself, and no way was I going to swallow my pride and complain to my teachers or parents. I figured that it was just something to be endured.

And I put up with it until the end of the school year, when I was finally released from the daily verbal assault. I approached the summer with grim determination.

That summer both of my parents were working and I was left to my own devices for at least half the day, with strict orders not to leave the house. Since I couldn't go outside to over-exercise, I'd stay in and do cable TV aerobics for at least a couple hours a day. My "meals" generally consisted of plain microwave popcorn and nonfat yogurt--a weight-loss plan I'd probably devised from reading Seventeen magazine. I was also playing soccer that summer, so I'd get my second helping of exercise every day on the soccer field.

It was fear-based, unhealthy and joyless, but it worked! And I suppose it also helped that I grew a few inches that summer. I managed to transform myself from a pudgy little kid into a freakishly tall, overdeveloped woman-child. I certainly didn't look like a "normal" fifth grader when I went back to school in the fall, but I was thin and therefore prettier and that was all that mattered.

And it was true. When I climbed back onto the bus that fall, I braced myself for the inevitable insults. I might have gotten skinny, but I was still the same self-loathing troll deep down inside--and Curt was a manipulative little asshole, he would surely tune into that.

But he didn't. There he was, sitting in his usual seat in the middle of the bus, and he didn't say a thing. I refused to look at him but I could sense his disbelief. I'd "won"--silencing him with socially acceptable attractiveness. I felt like I should be proud of my big accomplishment, but I didn't. I felt pissed off. I hated myself for getting skinny for his benefit, and I hated him because he fell for it. "So, this is how it is," I thought.

don't knock it till you try it: regret

Because of a series of fear-based, wine-numbed decisions I've made over the years (if by "decisions" you mean "lumbering inertia"), you can find me enjoying my lunch most days in the break room of my corporate workplace. Had things turned out differently for me, I probably wouldn't even think to have lunch most of the time. I'd be too distracted foreignly corresponding or whatever.

But as it is, here I am. I generally grab a small stack of magazines from the window sill, the recipient's address carefully snipped off the cover. I'll usually start out with something "smart"--The Economist or The Atlantic, maybe--but on a bad day, stuff like that just makes me think of college, and how what I'm doing now is so completely the opposite of what I ever imagined myself doing with my life back then, and all the wasted opportunities and the shattered dreams...

So I usually end up reading something far stupider, like Ladies Home Journal or More ("for women of style and substance"). Feeling superior, I'll read with nasty delight page after page of woman-to-woman advice on the best way to store your plastic tupperware when cabinet space is at a premium or how to be a "husband whisperer" (e.g. how to make your dude do more housework through subtle coercion).

This is soothing until I make the mistake of reading the celebrity interview, in which the actress "opens up" about her struggles. Without fail, she's asked about her regrets in life. And invariably, she says the following: "I have no regrets in my life. Every experience I've had, good or bad, has made me who I am today."

Fuck that, I say.

Okay, so I've tried to talk myself into believing a version of that sentiment before--usually while I'm resisting the temptation to jerk my car into oncoming traffic. But I don't really mean it. "I have no regrets." It sounds hollow. It sounds like a lie.

Relentless positivity seems to be all the rage these days, like it's a competition to display who has "grown" the most from his or her setbacks. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," said a coworker who was forced out of her job for dubious reasons most likely due to blatent sexism. "It is what it is," said a friend whose wife left him for another man. Really?? It is what it is, sure...and it sucks, right??

I guess what I'm saying is, I have regrets. Lots of them. A whole lifetime of them!

Here are just a few:

• I regret that I didn't tell Ms. Strickland, the theater teacher at my junior high, to suck it when she told me I was "sinful" for rolling my eyes when she threw one of her ridiculous diva fits.
• I regret that I spent my high school years dutifully saving the money I earned from my part-time jobs for college, instead of blowing it all on ecstasy and hair dye.
• I regret that I didn't throw myself at _____ ____ in high school.
• And that I didn't force myself on _____ ______, _____ _______ and _______ ____ in college.
• Seriously, why didn't I at least try? God, I'm so STUPID...
• I regret that I quit my fun, horribly paid job at the tiny newspaper for a better (but still mediocrely) paying corporate job in one of the world's worst and most distant suburbs.
• Yeah, in retrospect, that was totally the wrong decision. The people at the newspaper were really smart and cool. What was I thinking?
• And again, why didn't I throw myself at _____ and _______?

Seriously, this is only the beginning when it comes to my particular ocean of regret. And clearly, I've got a theme going on--it's all the stuff I didn't have the nerve to do that haunts me the most. It's a grim thing indeed to look back on your life so far and realize what a major coward you've been.

Maybe I'm being a little hard on myself. I have positive memories too, things that I'm "proud" of (although maybe "pride" isn't the right word for some of the illegal and/or morally dubious things I'm thinking about). I mean, I've taken a risk here and there. I haven't been a total and complete wuss. I've actually done quite a few "bad" things that I don't feel bad about at all.

I guess the point is that if you really want to cut down on your list of regrets, you should speak up, slut around, do what seems exciting and not what seems "right" and always risk appearing stupid. Here's to selfishness and irresponsibility! And to a fuller and more meaningful life.

don't knock it till you try it: confidence

"I feel that Shannon is very confident but sometimes chooses not to show her confidence." --anonymous "360 degree feedback" from a coworker

I was recently sent off to take part in a "leadership development" program, paid for by my corporate employer. Part of the program involved soliciting "360 degree feedback" from a selection of my coworkers and then obsessing over the negative comments (while ignoring the positive ones) in a small-group setting.

"What should Shannon do differently?" asked one of the anonymous, open-response questions.

• "Shannon should consider working more on speaking up in meetings."
  
  


• "Speak up more and offer her opinion. She has really good things to say but sometimes keeps her thoughts to herself."
  
  


• "Shannon tends to be very quiet in meetings. I would encourage her to dramatically increase the amount she speaks up."

These comments came from three different people, but they basically summarize the feedback from all seven of my coworkers who were surveyed about my weaknesses. There was a consensus. I am way too quiet--so quiet it's troubling, a professional liability.

I was completely irritated by the comments--so clearly did they seem to be a critique of my essential personality. "Become an extrovert RIGHT NOW!" seemed to be the directive. And indeed, outspoken people are clearly respected and rewarded in my workplace. (Whether or not what they say has any value is secondary at best.)

But I don't like to "play the game." In fact, I have a juvenile drive to openly defy people and principles I don't agree with, and am mystified by people who don't react the same way. For example, one time a coworker complimented my new short haircut. "I wish I could cut my hair like that," she lamented.

"Why can't you?" I asked. "You'd look great with short hair!"

She sighed. "My husband would kill me," she said. "He just loves my long hair!"

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, feeling excited in a confrontational sort of way. "In that case, you should shave your entire head. Do it tonight!"

I guess what I'm saying is, I realize that blowhards are rewarded at my company, and I think that's stupid. But if I could just get over it and learn to spout off more inane comments in meetings, people would probably leave me alone. I'd earn some respect, and maybe people would stop questioning how much I "want it" (answer: not much).

"The only limits she will experience in her career are limits she puts on herself," wrote one coworker. Indeed, in true American fashion I am the only thing getting in the way of fantastic success (or my "infinite potential", as they put it). Never mind the rampant institutionalized sexism at my company, as illustrated by a quick scan of the board of directors and the "senior leadership team."

(Hmm. I'm thinking sexism--and the way I should totally not talk about it if I want to be cool--should probably be the focus of another post.)

So in summary, the comments about my problematic introversion seriously bothered me. But after giving it some time to sink in, I realized that they might have a point--that I might be doth protesting too much or whatever. It's true that I don't blather on and on in meetings, and I really believe that it's because I don't say stuff unless I have something meaningful to contribute. But is that maybe only part of the whole story?

I read through the comments again and noticed another theme that I wasn't as eagar to acknowledge, one having to do with things like "confidence" and "courage."

I have a complicated relationship with the idea of confidence. That is, I think somewhere along the line I replaced my idea of "confidence" with what is actually "arrogance." When I hear the word "confident" I picture a strutting, bragging, self-satisfied asshole. Or maybe a hip-swaying, judgemental, "won't-take-no-for-an-answer" bitch.

"Gross, I don't want to be like that!" I often think to myself when I debate whether or not I should display my confidence by, oh I don't know, standing up for myself in the face of a bitchy comment from some judgemental, hip-swaying female. "I'm just not stooping to her level," I tell myself I as I in fact stoop, prostrate myself and offer up my spine to her tasteless but effective spike heels.

It's kind of a harsh thing to realize that what you thought of as a harmlessly modest and self-effacing style is probably just a nicer way of describing what is essentially the quality of being spineless, self-hating and weak.

I mean, it's almost enough to get me to start sharing my real opinions and speaking to the injustices I see and stuff! Then again, I hate people who think their opinions are more important than anyone else's, and really, who I am to say what's right or wrong? Plus, I haven't thought things through and my judgement might be clouded by unattractive, irrational, stereotypically female emotion. Yeah, fuck it, never mind.

don't knock it till you try it: nonconsensual friendship

One day during my freshman year of college, some random dude approached me in the cafeteria.

"Hey, you're Shannon, right?"

I confirmed that I was.

"Yeah, Jason's told me all about you." He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me, letting me imagine, I suppose, just what that might mean.

I gazed longingly at my preferred solo spot in Kagin (behind the pillar next to the dessert table) but I knew, with a sinking feeling in my heart, that today I would not have the luxury of dining alone.

My initial impressions of "Gordon" were mixed. When he first approached I assumed he was harmless--so closely did he resemble a 12-year-old boy. But then he launched into it, and he immediately established himself as one of my most despised collegiate types--the big talker. He wasted little time letting me know all about his love of Foucault and "Brit pop" (surprise, surprise, what with his soon-to-be-revealed habit of ending every conversation with a studiously offhanded "cheers").

As is often the case with these types, I noticed that he didn't bother to ask me anything about myself. Another thing I noticed was the notable discrepancy between how cool he thought he was and how cool he actually was. I mean, seriously. Those glasses! That sweatshirt! But the aura of condescension was undeniable. "Oh right," I realized. "Another dude who feels smugly superior to me."

So it can only be explained as one of life's mysteries how I ended up being friends with this guy. Unlike a traditional friendship, with a slow-ish courtship phase where you get to know each other and figure out if you're really "meant to be", Gordon was just suddenly there, like a mango fly. One minute I was minding my own business, smoking cigarettes alone on the quad, and the next, Gordon was inviting himself over to my parents' house for dinner.

"So, do you ever go visit your parents on the weekend?" (I was a townie, he was from some other state.)

"Well, yeah, um, sometimes..." I mumbled, trying to sound noncommittal.

"How about this weekend? Ask your parents if I can come over for dinner this weekend."

I did not ask my parents if Gordon could come over for dinner that weekend, but when they invited me over a few weeks later, I halfheartedly mentioned that a "friend" of mine was really eager to invite himself over. My parents were always interested in meeting my friends, so they thought this was a fine idea. A sense of creeping dread set in.

I remember nothing of the dinner, but I do remember how, shortly after we arrived at my parents' house, Gordon asked them if they had any records. (Of course he was a DJ.) They indicated that yes, they did have some records. Gordon asked where they were; my parents replied that they were in the basement. Gordon then descended straightaway into the lower level, where he remained for about 45 minutes.

He eventually re-emerged with a stack of LPs. "I'm going to borrow these," he announced.

"Um," I said, my way of protesting righteously.

"Okay, sure, you can borrow those..." said my mom, trying to be nice.

I was mortified; he took the records.

Sometime in the weeks that followed I had a falling out with Gordon that involved junior-high-girl social scheming and double crossing. I was livid. I hadn't even consented to the frienship, and now he was sabotaging it? I went over to his apartment to retrieve my parents' possessions.

After accounting for the records, I made an attempt to confront him about his actions. The exchange went something like this:

Me: "I can't believe the way you lied."

Gordon: "What are you talking about? I didn't lie about anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

Me: "You know, there's just no denying that you lied. Can't you just say you're sorry?"

Gordon: "I didn't lie about anything, you're delusional, your anger is just a 're-action' to you're white American middle-class positionality, etc. etc."

Me: "God, you're pretentious! I will never speak to you again."

And in the year that followed, I was true to my word, despite sharing at least two classes with Gordon and numerous mutual acquaintances. At the time, I was aware that my resolve was juvenile, and maybe (extremely) petty.

You would think that, with the passage of time, my take on the matter might have changed--that perhaps I would look back wistfully, wishing that my younger, less generous self had embraced the spirit of forgiveness and consented to at least make eye contact.

But plenty of time has passed, and looking back, I'm even more sure that I did the right thing. With people like that, zero tolerance is the only policy. Here's to choosing your own friends!