Great Expectations

Marriage is hard. Just ask anyone who's been divorced. It's hard and it's frustrating and it's demanding. And I sometimes wonder what it is that keeps a couple married and tears a couple apart. All my mulling over has brought me to one simple word: expectations.

Wednesday night, I met up with my gorgeous, wonderful book-club friends at the new Megaplex Theatre in South Jordan to see "The Break-Up" with Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn. The main thought I carried away from the movie is that I could have just started a fight with my husband, and I would have ended up with the same feelings and in the same place as I was in when I left the theatre. I have to admit that I was a little agitated over all the yelling and arguing and fighting. And then I was further disturbed with the fact that my husband and I have said a lot of those exact things to each other. Such as, "Why don't you want to help me around the house" or "You do nothing but nag me" or "You should start working out" or watching my husband playing video games. I'd heard them all before floating around my own house. And I understood Brooke wanting out of that relationship. I've felt the same way before.

But haven't we all? Most of us have said most of these things to our significant others and well, some of us are still together and some of us are not. And I think it all boils down to our expectations: Are you expecting to grow old with this person? Are you willing to fight through the tough times to when life becomes peaceful again? Will we run? I'm not saying that my marriage is perfect. It's not. Of course it's flawed. I work at it every day, as does my husband, and it's a work in progress. Perhaps someday we'll stop fighting, but I doubt it. And sometimes I wonder how it is that I've been married for seven years and I still don't have my husband figured out.

But if I stop and remember back to the two and a half years I dated my husband in college, I know that a lot of our relationship thrived on arguing and debating with each other and challenging each other and making up. We've always had the kind of relationship that actually runs on fighting. In a way, it's an integral part of our marriage. It's part of what makes our marriage, as long as we keep it at a distance, in a place where it doesn't break it.

I still have a lot of learning to do. I am selfish sometimes, so is my husband. But we love each other, and we're working and working and working, and my expectation is that some day, many years down the road, we will be sitting on our front porch, rocking in wicker chairs, and arguing over each others families or that damned pile of clothes at the foot of the bed that he just won't pick up. Yeah, it's a long journey, but it's one I'm willing to fight for.

A Day in the Life of a Stay-at-Home Mom

I try to be a good mom. Sometimes I feel like I'm not so bad, othertimes I feel like I am. A group of moms with pre-school age kids in my neighborhood put together a list of weekly activities to do throughout the summer, such as waterparks, regular parks, the zoo. The first activity of the season was to Red Butte Gardens. I packed a lunch. Carpooled over with my friend Amy. Then spent several hours meandering through flowers and greenery and even heavily wooded areas in the middle of Salt Lake City. We let the kids run through the fountains, feed the fish and the Canadian geese. I was surrounded by a lot of my friends who all still have their babies and were busy changing diapers and running after their kids and it was extremely obvious to me that my hands were idle, my baby always gone. I didn't get home until after four.

The neighbor kids were out playing when we returned home. Bianca wanted to go ride bikes with the kids, so I grabbed my book--The Dive From Clausen's Pier--and sat on a blanket out in the front yard while she rode her bike. I don't know why, but everytime I come outside, I don't get farther then a couple pages in my book. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, the kids flock around me. I really don't get it. I'm not a kid person. To get them off my blanket, I decided to have a quick gymnastics lesson--cartwheels and handstands--which then turned into cheerleading stunts--shoulder sits and shoulder stands. I had every kid in a mile radius on my shoulders yesterday afternoon. Finally, I took my leave. I hadn't done my writing yesterday. I had to go inside. Ambria, the seven-year-old from the house next-door, asked, "Please can I come with you?"

"No, Ambria, it has to be quiet. I need to concentrate."

"I won't make a sound, please. I just want to watch you."

"Watch me what? Typing?"

"Yes."

"Fine. But no talking and no moving."

She sat there on the couch next to me (I got my laptop on Saturday so I'm able to take my writing wherever I go), and she didn't move. She just sat and watched. Surprisingly, it wasn't that distracting. She stayed for about 15 minutes, then was called home to clean her room.

7 a.m. next morning. Bianca was awake already, watching PBS Kids in the family room. I was slipping on my Nikes when she begged, "Please mom, let's go to the park while you 'extracise'." We have a new park behind our house that has a quarter-mile track around it--perfect for letting her play while I run. I wavered. "Okay, but no asking how many more minutes while I'm running."

"I promise. But can I bring Tig?" (Tig is our annoying little chihauhau who barks at anything, including me everytime I run past them on the track, which was approximately 18 times this morning. Finally, I jogged right past him and kicked him and that finally shut him up. I told Bianca we must never, ever kick a dog. She nodded, agreeing, I'd hurt Tig's feelings.)

I realized something as Bianca wasn't sliding down the slides or really playing at the park much--she just sat on the bench with her sidekick Tig and watched me go around and around the track for 40 minutes. I'm adored by my daughter (and possibly even the neighbor kids), and I'm loved, and I guess I'm not such a bad mom after all.

The Price of School These Days

I finished my eight-week writing class last week. I should have known I'd get what I paid for, as it was a local community school district class with $38 tuition fee. Why do I keep thinking I'm going to get more than what I pay for something? Add also the $20 materials fee.

The instructor was a 60-year-old lady, named Tyna (not Tina, that's Tyna, rhymes with vagina) complete with peach hair and polyester shirt, who has never published a book in her life. She has, however, been thanked by several local writers in the Acknowledgement page of their books. She photocopied these acknowledgements, highlighted them, then handed them out--charging us all the while for her pathetic pages in our materials fee. Let's not mention the pyramid scheme advertisements she also handed out, charging us for the photocopying. Unbelievable.

The class began with seven enthusiastic young writers searching for something. I'm still not certain what some of them were looking for. But the class ended with three. I would have dropped out, but I'm too cheap and refuse to pay my $58 without getting something in return. I'd at least make her read my manuscript.

Yes, she looked at my manuscript. She's not a bad copyeditor--could tell me when I had inadvertantly changed tense or had a typo. Maybe this would make it worth the money. But I couldn't stand the sheer stupidity of most of her comments. Is this why I came home irritated each night?

I normally brought a book along, read In Cold Blood or A Fine Balance beneath the stack of photocopies she was continually handing out. Yes, Tyna, I know the difference between affect and effect. I learned that in middle school. At least I had a moment to myself, without having to worry about where my daughter Bianca was, as she was safely scribbling on the dry-erase board in my husband's office eating gummi bears and yanking sodas from his office mini fridge.

I will admit I learned several things, like how to format a manuscript and what a query letter is. I could have just read Writer's Market--or bought three of them for the price of the class.

A Rainy Saturday at the Zoo

A couple friends from college were coming into town this weekend and decided to meet up at the zoo (since we all have children). I watched the weather. Knew it was going to rain and nearly freeze. Pleaded with my husband to convince them to just go to lunch instead. But at 10:00 am, I was at the Hogle (Salt Lake) Zoo.

I've never been very much impressed with Salt Lake's zoo. In fact, I feel like "zoo" is actually too strong a word for what is really there, maybe it should be called the "Hogle Animal Exhibition" or something to that effect. They raised the price. It's now $8 per person. Then an extra $1 to take a train ride that is slower than a riding lawn mower ride.

Everytime I go, it seems like there's another animal that died. Last year, somebody dropped a glove into the polar bear's cage and the polar bear tried to eat it and died. Hogle Zoo is so bad that even when they buy a new animal (as they bought an elephant from the Chicago zoo), the animal actually died in transit and they unbelievably lost the elephant's body. How do you lose an elephant's corpse? The monkeys are so old there are signs on their cages stating, "Please don't tap on the glass. This monkey is extremely old and needs its rest." Is Hogle Zoo so horrible that they can only afford to buy animals in their last legs of life? Are they cheaper if they only have a year or two to live?

I suppose I'm biased. I grew up in St. Louis where the zoo is amazing. It's free and it usually takes two full days to see everything. (Hogle Zoo typically takes two hours.) The St. Louis Zoo always has something new. A couple years back, they opened a penguin and puffin house that is kept at 30 degrees year round. I feel for the poor sweating penguins at the Hogle Zoo. I spend a month every summer at home with my parents and take my daughter to the zoo a couple times a week while I'm there. That way, I'm not forced to spend the money to take her to the crappy Hogle Zoo.

Sometimes it's a sacrifice to see old college friends. I hope they realize how much I like them to brave the cold rain and pay $22 to see dying animals. Well, as long as we get to reminisce about college days at lunch afterward, I guess it's worth it.

I'd like to tell the writers to "Stick It" . . .

. . . and give my $7.50 back. My book club went to see the movie "Stick It" last night. It was only showing in one theatre, the new Century on 78th S. and 13th. E., which should have been a big fat red flag. After my writing group adjourned last night, I headed over and waited for the crew to arrive--Amber, Brenda, Christie G., and Christie M, and a neighbor (sorry, I can't remember her name).

We had the theatre to ourselves. We were able to openly mock the movie's mind-numbing dialogue and jokes. For example, one character (she was so bland I don't remember her name) said, "It's not called Gym-Nice-Stics." And what's with the hand phone messaging in order not to talk to each other? And the farting? It's so junior high. At least we didn't have to worry about ruining anyone else's movie experience.

When we walked in, Amber said, "I'm worried that I'm going to see someone's breast tonight." This probably stemmed from several weeks ago after we were helping Deanna (another member of our book club who couldn't make it last night) paint her new house, both Christie and Amber helped me climb a tree in Deanna's front yard and had to nudge me up. Both testifying that they had touched my butt that night. Well, Amber was almost right . . .

The movie's climactic peak was when the gymnasts decided that they could control the outcomes of the meet if they decided only one gymnast would compete on each event, and the others would "scratch" because a certain gymnast was penalized for having her bra strap showing. The rest of the gymnasts, as they were "scratching" each event, yanked out their bra straps defiantly. As we were leaving the theatre shaking our heads dizzily and wondering where our money went, Amber and Brenda cartwheeled across the theatre and the "neighbor" stretched out her bra straps for us all to see. See, we did see some bra last night.

We thought we had had the theatre to ourselves. As we walked out, I looked up into the small alighted window and a guy waved, where he had been watching overhead.

The next morning, as I'm still picking popcorn kernels from my teeth since I didn't have time to waterpik at midnight last night, I'm wondering if the movie was in fact really that stupid or if I simply need to accept that I'm just not a teenager anymore and these movies aren't meant for me. I'll let you know after the next one . . .

Rantings of a crazy bereaved lady

Cemeteries are a place for quiet reflection, reading a book on a blanket spread on the grass near my baby's grave, and crying, even wailing (depending on the day). Not for soccer games.

Last weekend, my husband and I went by the cemetery to leave some flowers. Cars were parked bumper to bumper around the edge of the cemetery. We had to park on the other side and walk over. Kids were playing hopscotch on the headstones, pulling flowers from the sides of graves and yanking pinwheels from the earth. Referee's whistles and shouting parents intensified my anger. Who in their right mind would approve the cemetery for soccer games? Are there really people that insensitive in the world?

I left shaking, angry as hell, and couldn't get the image of children catapulting themselves off the tops of headstones out of my head. When I went back to the cemetery on Wednesday (the day my daughter Bianca and I allotted to have a quiet, pensive picnic at my baby's grave, eating chicken nuggets and a Frosty from Wendy's), something was missing--a stuffed duck we'd brought over at Easter--and a pinwheel was broken in two lying near Miranda's grave.

I marched over to the Herriman City Building and filed a formal complaint. They took my name and phone number and seemed to simply forget. My phone did not ring.

So last night, we went to a church party where we sat at a table with a member of the Herriman City Council and his wife and Salt Lake Tribune columnist Robert Kirby. I probably wouldn't have brought it up, but my husband asked the city council member, "So, how long are they going to be having soccer games at the cemetery?" To which he promptly replied callously, "Until we start burying people over there." My head went red. I spit across the table, "That is the most insensitive and disrespectful thing I've ever heard. You have children playing on headstones and cars parked all the way across the cemetery and around the corner, and you think that's a decent use of this piece of land?" I don't remember exactly what I said, but it went on and on until everyone at the table hushed. Even Robert Kirby went scurrying away to get away from the crazy bereaved lady.

I couldn't take a drink of my lemonade, my hand was shaking uncontrollably. Nobody dared talk to each other. We all concentrated on our food and the Irish dancers tapping their shoes gleefully nearby. I lamented all night over the fact that I can't properly function in a social setting anymore. If I keep this up, we'll undoubtedly be sitting alone at future social functions.

But this isn't over yet. My next plan of action? A letter to the editor, of the local paper, then maybe a bigger paper. And I'm thinking about what comes after that. You may think there's nothing worse than a crazy bereaved lady, but you're wrong: it's a crazy bereaved lady with an agenda.

UPDATE: I got the assignment to write an editorial on this topic for the Herriman Herald. I wrote a scathing editorial and turned it in on Thursday, then found out on Saturday that this weekend was the last shift of games. The cemetery won't ever been considered for sporting events again. The city council member, from the church party, was patrolling the cars and watching the cemetery to make sure no kids were playing near the headstones. I thanked him with a huge knot in my stomach, thinking of that article with my name on it that is coming out this week. Ahhh, at least I accomplished my goal, right? And perhaps I made just a couple enemies along the way. Sometimes you pay a price to get what you want.

Jogging

I started jogging on Saturday. Usually, I start early-morning jogs at the beginning of April, when the sun creeps over the mountains a little earlier each morning. This year, however, I was dragging my feet. Waiting another day each morning. I didnt have a triple A battery for my MP3 player. I needed some new running shoes (as my old ones had literally worn through the sole).

Finally, I spent some extra money. I bought a new pair of running shorts and a tank top. See, I have myself figured out. I've always been a little cheap (yes, I admit it) so if I invest any money in something, it's a big enough motivator to get me doing it. I know this is how I work. I trick myself into spending the money when I'm not having to drag my heavy feet out of my warm, comfortable bed, complete with 600-thread-count sheets, at 6 am.

So, I did it on Saturday. I lied in bed for almost an hour before. But then I jumped up, put on my new running outfit, turned on my MP3 player, and ran out the door.

I start out each year by running a little, walking a little, running a little, you get the picture. That way my chest and head don't explode by the end of the first half hour. And it always feels so good. (Well, about a half hour after I've swallowed three Extra Strength Tylenol and had my strawberry-banana shake.)

I love though how when you are out in the morning exercising, you're thrown into an elite group of other die-hard, early-morning exercisers--bikers, Olympic-paced walkers, other runners. I think several years ago, even the deer thought I was one of them. (They never ran off skittishly as I went by, as they've been known to do. Unfortunately, the neighborhood isn't as deer friendly as it used to be. Not with all the million-dollar houses being built up the mountain.) When you're up early exercising, the other exercisers are friendly in a way that they're not several hours after the sun's been up. I like being a part of that group.

It's no mystery why I've been dragging my feet this year. The last time I'd awoken early to jog was the morning I was in my life-altering car accident. I'd stopped jogging immediately, as my ribs and a knee had been roughed up and I was planning a funeral for my daughter. Yes, starting my jogging this year signified the end of something. Or was it the beginning of something? Moving on. As much as I don't want to, I guess I have to live on--and jog on.