Thoughtful Thursday: Meeting a Blogger

I’ve met lots of bloggers in person after reading their blogs, but this week I had the rare experience of knowing someone in person then subsequently learning that they have a blog.

I mentioned something to the mother of one of Burrito and Tamale’s classmates about their blog (not BabySmiling; their non-anonymous baby blog). She said eagerly, “Oh, you have a blog?”

I explained, “Well, it’s <i>their</i> blog. It’s about them.”

“Oh. I have a blog too! But it’s not about my daughter, it’s about me.”

Part of me wanted to exclaim that yes I have one of those too, and it’s such an important part of my life, but no one knows!

Part of me was curious and wanted to read her blog.

Part of me, the part that won, wanted to respect her privacy even though she clearly opened the door. Because so many of my online friends use secret identities and don’t share their blogs with people they know, my instinct was to let her keep her two lives separate, even though I don’t think she actually has two separate lives. But then again, maybe she does. Maybe she’s one of us. Maybe she’s reading right now.

Has someone in real life ever revealed to you that they blogged? How did you react?

Thoughtful Thursday: Horrible

I am good at a lot of things, but I am horrible — horrible — at going to bed.

Biologically, I am clearly a night owl. In 2nd grade, I can recall being shocked at how early all of the other kids went to bed, and in turn how much it shocked the other kids that I stayed up to watch Saturday Night Live on weekends. (They were also shocked that I was allowed to watch SNL, but that’s a post for another day.)

For much of my adult life, I’ve gotten away with going to bed late, because I’ve had flexible enough hours that I could sleep in and then work later than everyone else. Sometimes I’ve kept hours like 11-7, sometimes 12-5 and then more work at night.

Now, I have to go to work at a normal time, and Burrito and Tamale wake me before 7 a.m. No more sleeping in, no more napping. Yet, I can’t get myself to bed at a remotely decent time. Most nights, I go to bed between midnight and 1 a.m., and then only because I make a point of putting myself to bed “early.” I make it to bed before midnight about once a month, and well after 1 a.m. more than once a week. Sometimes I am working, sometimes not. Even though I am a zombie almost every afternoon, by the time night rolls around, I am wide awake. Even when I know I’ll pay for it the next day, even when I mean to go to bed at a decent hour, I just don’t. I am truly horrible at going to bed.

What are you truly horrible at?

Thoughtful Thursday: Estate Sale

Welcome to the May Intelligentsia.

#31: Elana from Elana’s Musings
#27: Lost In Translation from We Say IVF, They Say FIV
#23: Strongblonde from Strong Blonde
#17: Ernessa from Fierce and Nerdy
#15: Tara from Turkey In My Oven
#13: St. Elsewhere
#11: Lori from Write Mind Open Heart
#11: Rebecca from Get Lost With Me, Darling
#10: Mel from Stirrup Queens
#6: Sara from Aryanhwy

Lori wrote eloquently a few days ago about attending the estate sale of her childhood piano teacher. I noted in my comment on that post:

Some of my favorite random items in my house are from the kinds of estate sales that involve loved ones clearing out the house after the funeral — the napkin holder that DH’s grandmother always had on her kitchen table; ramekins from my college roommate’s grandmother; a Shabbat candleholder from a great-aunt that I find wonderfully kitschy but which she clearly enjoyed without irony; a never-used purse from my mother’s closet that I can imagine an avant-garde teenage Tamale carrying someday. I also have a few that would qualify as actual heirlooms, some taken from the houses posthumously and some given to me while the people were still alive; the needlepoints and handmade sweaters mean so much more to me than the gold watch or diamond rings.

Buying things from a stranger’s estate sale seems icky to me, but having objects from someone special feels like keeping a piece of them alive. Using that napkin holder puts me right back at DH’s grandmother’s kitchen table, folding napkins into triangles with her.

I’ve written before about the heirlooms, items owned by loved ones that are either valuable or valuable due to sentiment. This estate sale idea brings up something else, though: having items owned by a deceased person who isn’t dear to you. The ramekins from my college roommate’s grandmother qualify here: I never even met the woman. She was close to someone who was close to me at the time, but when my roommate cleared out the house, she ended up with a bunch of stuff she didn’t need and decided to find good homes.

The Shabbat candleholder from the great-aunt also qualifies here. That great-aunt was actually a step-great-aunt-in-law, the aunt of DH’s stepmother. She met me many times and rather liked me despite despising almost everyone, but truly we barely knew each other. Again, though, she was close to someone who is close to me, close enough that I helped her clear out the house.

There are some other similar objects I didn’t mention in my comment on Lori’s post nor my heirloom post. My favorite high school teacher was also a close friend of our family. When he retired and he and his wife moved out of their home of almost 40 years, he needed to downsize his library significantly. Dozens of those books ended up at my house; my dad still has a few. The best thing about the books is that they are highly annotated, in his distinctive handwriting. I had a great fondness for him, so even though he wasn’t quite a loved one, the books do evoke wistfulness and good memories.

Having objects from strangers is, for me, another story. I just don’t like the idea of estate sales. It’s not that I object to antiques, and I clearly don’t object to used objects — the vast majority of Burrito and Tamale’s clothes are pre-owned, either by friends or strangers. What creeps me out is the idea of rummaging through a dead person’s belongings, looking for bargains. I’m sure I’ve bought something for myself at a second-hand shop that was donated after someone’s death, but at least there’s an intermediary. Going to a dead person’s house to buy their stuff feels like bad juju. There was a vintage clothing store near my old house that got most of its stock from estate sales; also feels like bad juju, as if a ghost might follow you around every time you put on her clothes (though I must say, there were always some marvelous clothes in the shop’s windows). I also get bad vibes from pawn shops, based as they are on stolen goods and drug addiction and desperation. There obviously needs to be someone out there shopping at estate sales and vintage clothing stores and pawn shops, and I’m fine with that, just not me.

In sum, I love having things from dead people that the person would have wanted (or did expressly want) me to have — me, specifically. I can tolerate having things from dead people that someone close to the dead person wants me to have. I want nothing from dead strangers, nor from sad strangers.

What’s your stance on acquiring objects from dead people? Estate sales? Other types of used goods?

Thoughtful Thursday: Effusive

I just got an email from an old friend.

My dear you are the most wonderful person in the world and you will have such a wonderful success in your new job.

I am so happy for you!!!!

I have never, in my whole life, written anything like that to any friend. To anyone at all, in fact.

At first I chalked it up to English not being her first language, but apparently she’s like this in her native language too.

It’s just who she is.

For many people, if they sent a message like the one above, it would be disingenuous, if they could even get away with it. Not this friend; she really means it. She is genuine and open and so warm.

I do not have an expressive face; I do not feel emotions as strongly as others; I do not tend to say expressive sentiments. Most people, except my children and my husband, and perhaps my blog readers, see very little emotion from me. Even so, it feels marvelous to be on the receiving end of such effusiveness from this friend, or my closest friend, or my husband, or my children, or my late mother, all of whom are tremendously expressive (of the full gamut of emotions, not just love). I may not express much emotion, but I’ve surrounded myself with it.

How effusive are you?

Thoughtful Thursday: The Best

My real estate agent isn’t that great. Not terrible by any means, but not the best. My now-former house has been for sale since my mother’s health took a turn for the worse, almost 6 months before she died, which was over a year ago. That means my house has been for sale for a year and a half. It’s been empty for 3 months and counting. We keep dropping the price, and it keeps not getting bought. Our agent does all the things she’s supposed to do, but we can’t help but feel that if we had someone top-notch, they’d be doing more. More marketing, more staging, smarter pricing from the outset, something. It may be the horrendously crappy real estate market, or it may be her.

The catch is that we can’t fire her, and we couldn’t have gone with any other agent — because she is my now-former boss’s wife. He never said that I had to use his wife, but it seemed like it could really be asking for trouble if I didn’t.

DH has a good friend who is the opposite kind of real estate agent, in a different city. He’s the kind you see on billboards. Everyone in the industry knows him. He’s been featured on one of those TV shows that follows someone looking for a new house. If we lived in his city, we’d be obligated to use him, the same way we’re obligated to use my boss’s wife, but I’m glad that we’re not. He is The Best, and he knows it. Maybe because he and DH have been friends for more than 30 years he’d give us extra personal attention rather than charming us at key points in the process and delegating all of the real work to his underlings. Maybe. But he is The Best because of volume, not because of personal attention. No, in the case of real estate I’d rather have someone who wants the best price for me rather than the fastest sale for him. I’d rather have someone who is good but not a superstar.

In many domains, though, I do extensive research to find The Best. Burrito and Tamale’s first pediatrician was absolutely the best in the area, in terms of both skill and bedside manner. My first RE was one of the most famous in the world; my 2nd RE was the most respected in the region. Each car we have bought has been the absolute best possible choice for our needs at the time. Twice I have worked for one of the most important people in the world in my field; both times I have gotten mistreated and been miserable, but I also ended up with letters of recommendation from two of the most important people in our world, and for the rest of my career people will say, “Oh, you worked with him? Wow. He’s my hero.”

In other domains, I settle for fine. For example, the guy who plowed our driveway was fine — I don’t know if it’s even possible to be the best at plowing driveways. Even if it was, how much better could the best plow guy be than the fine one? What difference would it really make? Sometimes, beyond driveways, it does matter. Trust me, when it comes to dentistry it matters — I once had a filling fall out because the crappy dentist hadn’t removed all of the decay. When it comes to selling a house, so far it’s made $100K of difference in the asking price (and counting? please, no, just let it sell, c’mon, please?).

When I was a child athlete, the difference between best and fine was the difference between 1st place and 3rd place.

I was a competitive figure skater as a kid. I was not blessed with natural athletic talent, but I had been taking dance since I was 2, which made me flexible and graceful. I don’t know how my mother chose my skating coaches. My main coach, Brenda, was very nice. Everyone in the rink liked her. Her students did pretty well in competitions. I, however, was perennially 3rd place. There was a Girl Who Won Everything, and every time I moved up to the next level she did too. She was way better than I was, but somehow she didn’t advance faster than I did. It was really annoying. That explained not being 1st, but I almost never got 2nd either. I just wasn’t that good. Not that I was the worst; I usually scored above the middle of the pack. But once I was the only one in my division, and I didn’t get 1st place. They only gave 1st if you deserved it. I was the only competitor, and I placed 2nd. Humiliating.

The Girl Who Won Everything had a very young coach, Tania. When I started skating, Tania wasn’t a coach, just a teenager who skated at the same rink. Then, when she turned 18, she became a coach. And, because Tania had been one of us, a bunch of kids left their coaches and went to her. She was fun and young and so nice, and good. Really good. I stayed loyal to Brenda. I went to her wedding. I helped her evaluate potential baby names. I accidentally blew out the candle on her baby’s first birthday cake. We had a relationship.

Meanwhile, Tania’s students started winning. And winning. And winning. Especially the Girl Who Won Everything, but everyone else too. They collectively swept every competition.

One day, my mother arranged for me to have a single lesson with Tania. I would still be staying with Brenda (and my 2nd coach; don’t ask me why an 11 year old who’s not that good has to have 2 different coaches, but I did), but everyone knew that Brenda’s students were killing it, even the kids who weren’t naturally talented, and I wanted to know what the fuss was about. I had just one lesson with her. In that one lesson, Tania completely changed the way I jumped. I was a better skater after 45 minutes with her. My muscle memory can still recall how it feels to jump the old way vs. the Tania way — I can’t do it anymore, but my brain remembers exactly how Tania taught me to jump twice as high. She was clearly The Best. Yet I stayed with Brenda, fine but unremarkable Brenda.

I don’t know what might have happened if I’d switched to Tania from the start, or what might have happened if I’d switched after that life-changing lesson. Maybe I would have stuck with skating longer. I was never destined for the Olympics, but maybe I could have learned to do the double and triple axels that Tania’s students were doing. I probably would have received at least a few 1st place trophies, which seemed so important at the time even though all of my trophies and medals are gone forever now: after my mother’s death they were all thrown away when her house was cleared out.

Or maybe if I’d switched to Tania, I wouldn’t have learned the feeling of being with someone mediocre and knowing that you could do better, knowing that you are trapped by your own inertia. That feeling is now embedded deep within me. When I should be choosing something better, I feel it at such a visceral level. That feeling has saved me from bad doctors and loser boyfriends and inferior cupcakes. That feeling is why I will find a kick-ass real estate agent for the next house.

When do you want The Best? When do you settle for fine?

Thoughtful Thursday: Medium

I love blogging. Not quick Tumblr-style blogging that you do from your phone, but crafted, deliberate, edited and re-edited blogging. Email is good too, for the same reason. Most people would be shocked at how many times I edit and tweak even the simplest emails. Lack of editing is why I don’t like hand-written letters… that, and the ink that my left hand smears across the page.

Unlike regular blogging, micro-blogging is a challenge for me. How am I supposed to think complete thoughts in 140 characters? Where is the nuance? I’m the only person I know who not only doesn’t abbreviate when texting but uses full punctuation: I’ve never received a semi-colon in a text, but I’ve sent plenty.

Long-form is too long for me. I’m such a perfectionist that I can’t see a very long piece of writing through.

In the olden days, pre-Twitter, DH used to say that instant messaging was perfectly suited for him. Now, he is a masterful Tweeter. He, somehow, can encapsulate nuance and wit and depth into 140 characters. He’s great at mid-length like blogs and longer-lengths too, but on Twitter he shows a gift for brevity that I can only dream about.

What medium is best suited for you?

Thoughtful Thursday: Space

Welcome to the April Intelligentsia.

#30: Elana from Elana’s Musings
#26: A from Are You Kidding Me?
#26: Lost In Translation from We Say IVF, They Say FIV
#22: Strongblonde from Strong Blonde
#14: Tara from Turkey In My Oven
#12: St. Elsewhere
#10: Lori from Write Mind Open Heart
#10: Rebecca from Get Lost With Me, Darling
#5: Sara from Aryanhwy

Current home tastes (at least in the U.S.) seem to skew toward big, open living spaces — the “great room.” My now-vacant, still-unsold, hemorrhaging-money house is the opposite: many separate living spaces. I loved it. I loved that DH and the twins and I could each do our own work/play without hearing each other. Conversely, multiple prospective buyers have specifically complained that there was no great room. Aren’t there any introverts who want to buy my house?

Preparing for fall, I’ve just toured several very different preschool classrooms. They are all within the same philosophy, so the toys and learning materials are very similar. There are differences in teacher styles and general vibe, of course. But the biggest difference is the physical space. One classroom is enormous, three connected rooms, with 12-foot ceilings, century-old woodwork, all sorts of nooks and crannies to work independently or interact with peers (or to get into trouble — I’m looking at you, Burrito). Another classroom is “cozy” — smallish space (accommodating half as many kids as the first one), low ceilings (not that you care when you’re 3 feet tall), dark — a Hobbit House feel. A third classroom is a big airy room with two walls of windows, bright and modern.

For several reasons including but not limited to the physical space, the bright airy classroom is the current frontrunner for our preschool choice. The first one would have been the frontrunner if I were picking a house. The Hobbit classroom would have been the frontrunner if I were picking a workspace.

My tall husband, on the other hand, would steer clear of the Hobbit room regardless of the purpose: he’d be okay with either of the other two, but dark with low ceilings is a dealbreaker for him.

Burrito is happy pretty much anywhere.

If it were up to Tamale, they’d attend an outdoor school. “I’m sitting on the ground! I need some sunscreen.”

What kind of physical space are you drawn to?

Thoughtful Thursday: Photographic Intention

Based on a recent suggestion from Strongblonde in a comment on my post about blank pages in my mother’s photo album, today we’ll be thinking about photographic intention.

Why do you take the photos you do? What do you hope to get out of it?

Historically, a lot of my photographic intention was a combination of aesthetics and capturing moments. One big feature of my travel photography is that I take very few photos just of sights; I always work DH into the shot (or, I set up the shot for him and switch places, or I balance the camera on a post and set the timer).

A friend of mine couldn’t be more opposite. He has been everywhere (seriously, everywhere — 7 continents, and most of the countries on most of those continents). He takes brilliant photos wherever he goes. He will send me 400 photos (culled from several thousand) of a trip, and he will be in 3 of them. Instead, he takes not only the typical wide shots of monuments, but photos of those same monuments from unusual, artistic angles; detailed macros of architectural details; slice-of-life photos of locals. Once he and I went to a historical site; we each walked away with over a hundred of photos, with literally zero overlap in the shots we’d taken.

With Burrito and Tamale, my main goal is comprehensive documentation. That, and the hope of capturing their cuteness.

When they were infants, we went on a little boat ride with my friend and her kids. Burrito and Tamale were too little to know they were on a boat. My friend commented that her goal for the ride (and most activities) was her kids’ subjective experience, often leading her to end up with no photos, whereas my goal was clearly to end up with photos of the babies on the boat. It’s not that I ignore children’s experiences; it’s just that I also want to have a nearly exhaustive record of these years.

At this age, if I don’t take photos, it will exist only in my memory, since they won’t remember this age long-term. By documenting everything, they can relive their old experiences. Here’s one of your many hayrides last fall. Here you are on an airplane. Here you are with your cousin. Here you are with your late grandmother. Some photos help them prep for the next similar experience. Other photos document something that will never happen again in their lives — and the photo will be all they have.

What is your photographic intention?

Thoughtful Thursday: Equal

Another Mel-inspired Thoughtful Thursday, two in a row!

In the context of a trip back to the White House, Mel wrote about the contradiction between her Quaker leanings and being star-struck.

“I don’t believe in elevating people in importance any more than I believe in demeaning people (aren’t they just two sides of the same coin). Though sometimes I forget that and get all ga-ga, like… you know… being around people in the White House.”

DH is the biggest equal-treatment person I know. Once he was sitting in the waiting room of a company that was the partner of a company he was doing business with. A man walked up and started talking to him about a common interest. DH talked to him, the same way he’d talk to anyone. After a few minutes, they finished their conversation and the man walked away. Then the person DH had been dealing with at the company walked up. “Oh, you’ve met our CEO!” DH had no idea, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have acted any differently. If the janitor had approached DH and started a conversation instead of the CEO, DH would have responded exactly the same. Everyone is equal.

The flip side is that he does not have the deference to authority that most people have. This was particularly a problem when he was a kid… something about being kicked out of class for saying, “Who are you to tell me what to think? You’re not smarter than me.” Everyone is equal.

I, on the other hand, am acutely aware of status differences in my mind even though I try to treat everyone with respect in practice. I was raised by an Old World, Old Money mother who paid a lot of attention to class, status, background, etc. She was very nice to The Help, but she never forgot that they were The Help. She was tremendously gracious, though, to people with power — actually, a combination of gracious and deferent. Her whole demeanor changed.

I’d like to think I come across pretty similarly to everyone regardless of status or class or money, but I do treat people differently based on knowledge. Someone in my field gets a very different “What do you do?” explanation than someone outside my field. I respect the doctor’s advice more than the medical assistant’s. I offer more input about caring for Burrito and Tamale to college-student babysitters than I do to their teachers. I’m still nice to the people with less knowledge, but I am respectful of erudition and experience. I’m a knowledge snob; I readily admit it.

Burrito and Tamale are approaching the age where we have started giving them messages about how to treat people (so far, mostly along the lines of “be gentle”). To date, we have not delivered any messages about treating people differently based on status. It’s tough, though, because I do want them to heed their teachers’ instructions more than their peers’, because the teachers are probably right and because listening to toddlers’ (or kids’, or teens’) instructions will invariably get you in trouble. DH would never want them to call anyone Sir; I’d love to have people remark about them, “What a polite child!” DH and I agree, though, that regardless of how they act, we want them to feel comfortable around everyone. To feel equal. Never to feel like they’re below anyone, nor that they’re above anyone.

To what extent do you perceive status differences? To what extent do you act differently according to status?

Blank Pages

Photo albums rarely seem to have the right number of pages.

All of the old albums that I’ve seen from my grandmother, or DH’s grandparents, have exactly the right number of pages because they were bound by hand. Same with my wedding album — I inserted exactly as many pages as I needed into the book, and when I received some extras, I took the book apart and inserted more.

Most of the albums from my childhood have the right number of pages too, because my father (and later, I) spaced the photos out in such a way that they fit the album exactly. As an adult, I bought a 200-slot album for a trip that DH and I took; I had 205 photos to put into it, so I took out the 5 that were least worth keeping.

I’ve seen a few albums that didn’t have enough pages. A bunch of photos were arranged more densely on the last few pages than in the rest of the album, or a little stack of photos was stuck between the pages, loose.

I’ve seen some photo albums that have far too many blank pages at the end. Most of the albums that I have from adulthood are like this actually, because they are ongoing records of our life together: we have one album of photos of our friends from college through the present, one of family, one of the two of us… The advent of digital photography also has something to do with the blank pages, as very few photos have been printed and put into those albums since I got my first digital camera in 2002.

Many albums I’ve seen from other people, though, are not intended running records. They cover a specific event, or a specific time period. They seem to have bought an album that was too big. Or, conversely, they didn’t take enough photos to fill the pages. It feels… not quite right. Incomplete.

When my mother’s health started to turn and she first went into the hospital, I bought her a little album and printed out a bunch of photos of then-infant Burrito and Tamale so that she’d have something to look at while she was hospitalized. While I sat by her bedside, trying to catch the doctor during his once-a-day visits, I put all of the photos into the album in chronological order, complete with little Post-It flags to label each one: how old Burrito and Tamale were, who else is with them, what the photo depicts.

The last time I updated the album for my mother, Burrito and Tamale were 14 months old. There were 9 spots left in the album. I wondered if the next time I saw her I’d have to buy a second album, or maybe I’d move everything into a new larger album.

The next time I saw my mother, less than 3 months later, she was non-responsive and on the verge of death. I had some new print-worthy photos but there was no point in updating the album, which she would never look at again. She didn’t even have it — or anything but her purse — with her in the ICU, not having known when she was whisked to the hospital for the last time that she’d be staying there for weeks, and certainly not knowing that she’d never be coming out.

When I cleared out my mother’s home after her death, that album was one of the few things I took back with me.

Today, exactly one year later, those 9 pages remain blank. Not quite right. Incomplete.