Wild thing

Yesterday the cat brought to my back door a female cardinal. In his mouth. I did only what I knew to do, which was to yell through the glass, "You're not impressing me with that!" Because what the cat didn't know was that I am a bird lover. It's one of the things that's happens to you when you spend inordinate amounts of time at your kitchen sink staring out into the yard washing out your coffee mug again because it beats getting back to the many unread rejection letters awaiting you in your inbox.

Husband continues to beam at the abundance of home-cooked meals, all prepared by the time his stomach begins to growl at 4 p.m. most afternoons. But of course, he finds occassion to become angry about other things, like why I don't promptly fold and put away the laundry, or why my newspapers and magazines manage to land on every end table and night stand in the house. Overall, though, he's trying to be very supportive. He encourages me to go to conferences. He wants me to join book clubs. He doesn't balk when I want to attend a yoga class at the gym after 5. This is mostly due to his guilt over the whole situation, because we all know that if it weren't for him, I'd still be working for The Man, and very happy at that. I'm not sure how long I can play the victim here, but it's a cow well worth milking. Plus, I've convinced myself that I deserve it.

I am not in the black hole I was in a few weeks ago, when the husband actually hid the sleeping pills from me. That was a caring thing to do, but useless. It's not like I'd end it all that way. I don't know that there is a lethal dose of sleeping pills. Maybe just an extended check-out dose. But anyway, that's beside the point. I'm sleeping just fine these days. And in decent shape. And I'm busy. Like, why am I taking on all these assignments busy. And, I'm so glad not to have to be anywhere tonight busy. And when you're busy, I'm finding, you have little time for self-pity. Now if I can just figure out how to get the cat to stop hunting down birds.

Free time

I left my job so that I'd have more free time. And for that I'm a better runner, a better mom, though just as bad a friend. But the worst part of this new pace is that I have too much free time. It gives me hours to think about whether I'm working enough, whether I'm loving enough, where I'm failing and falling short.

This constant self-evaluation is sometimes crippling. I had PMS to blame on my moodiness the last two weeks, but now that's over and in between happy times, I'm tearful, or on the verge of tears. By the way, do not watch Hotel Rwanda when you're feeling this way unless you need confirmation of what a fucked up world we live in. (Lesson learned yesterday)

Sometimes I think all I need is to be busier--more assignments, more appointments to be at, more people to interview. It was hard to dwell on things and to hang onto people's words for too long when you had a ton of things on your plate. But when your most important decision of the day is whether to make chicken with red onions or with a Thai coconut sauce, you find yourself wondering how you got to where you are.

There are happy times. And what keeps me going is this proverb I once read that said "There is no happiness, just happy moments." And I do have happy moments. And like an addict, I find myself often just looking for the next high.

Performance review

So it's going on a year now that I've left the paper, and I can finally say that if presented with even the ripest package to go back, I'd turn it down. Don't get me wrong, I still miss it. I miss the deadlines that aren't three months out, the immediate gratification of seeing your work done quickly, and the people...God do I miss the people.

But I do like picking up my kid on my bike (he rides on the handlebars) now that the weather's nicer. And even though we're not gathered around the table doing enriching activities, I'm still there for them.

The freelance life is still as tough as ever, but I think that as I'm checking off goals I've accomplished, I automatically set the bar higher. And when I don't immediately move up to the next level, I'm pissed. No, I'm actually in a deep black hole. Things seem pretty hopeless, and I imagine they'll never get better. It's weird feeling this way when you know that you're not being realistic, and that you just need to keep things in perspective. It's like looking at yourself from the outside and seeing that your way of thinking is totally wrong, but you still can't convince yourself otherwise.

Anyway, that little episode lasted a few days. I'm over it now. I've set some revised goals for myself, sort of like I would have at my old job. I interviewed one guy who was amazed I was writing for one particular magazine he had tried to break into for months. He was even more surprised I had been freelancing for less than a year. "Yeah, it's a different world," I said. He agreed, based on his friends' assessments, who had gushed about how much better the freelance life is. I secretly wondered who his friends are, and what kind of assignments they're getting.

It isn't the most positive thing you can say to yourself, but things aren't as bad as they seem.

Au lait!

So I'm sitting in the coffee shop, a place I go when I need to get some work done, or just need to be alone. This guy walks in, good looking, but I can just tell he'll be bald within five years. He sits at a nearby table anxiously, and finally his girl comes in dressed all in black. Nothing fancy, just pants and a t-shirt, and a black cap. A uniform of some sort. They greet each other with a hug. He's glancing over at me from time to time, and from her profile, I can tell that she looks a little bit like me.

I wonder what goes through a man's head at times like these. Hey, she looks like her, only she's a new version. Who maybe nags less. Or knows how to handle money better. Or isn't as emotionally dependent.

The barrista here is overly friendly. In 20 minutes, I have heard her tell the story at least half a dozen times of her colleague with his eyes swollen shut, who is, presumably, now on his way to see the doctor. She personally delivered coffee to the man now seated behind me, who a minute earlier was asking for a cloth to clean off his table. I wonder how many times a day she is asked out. I do not like her.

It's been awhile since my last entry. Let's just say I have work--enough to keep me busy. But my daughter asked me the other night on my way out the door to the coffee shop, "You're going to real work?" I wonder that myself sometimes. I miss "real work", which I take to mean, "work with other people." I hadn't realized how much social interaction feeds me until I had no more of it, or at least had it reduced to very small doses.

My resentment has subsided, at least. But I'm still living a farce. It's a good farce, by any measure. I have everything I need, provided I remain home-based (oh yes, with a career), and as much the domestic goddess as Giada de Laurentiis ever was. It's not a tall order most days. Still, it isn't the life I would've chosen for myself. And that is why I'll always have this underlying angst, this unabating restlessness about me.

It could be worse. Much worse, I'm told. Just ask all the envying women out there.

Almost there

I left work almost two months ago. I still miss it, even with all its stresses. I dream about it. In one dream a few nights ago, I was going on about how I'd love to be back at work, and the publisher of the paper was at my house while I was saying this. He was in the kitchen, where he made some conciliatory remark about how they value employees like me, and would keep all this in mind if a position opens up.

Lately I've been thinking about how I've got to do something with myself. Maybe throw myself into some civic duty. Join the city Parks and Recreation Board. Build houses with Habitat for Humanity. Volunteer at a school. Anything to get out of the house.

When I'm home, my neighbors' children come over to play. They come in waves. One household of children comes, then another. Then one set leaves, and another arrives. We play soccer and we read. I had one girl try sardines today for the first time. Her sister tried minestrone soup yesterday.

I high-fived Caroline, who ate the sardines and acted as if she liked them. I popped open a Sprite for her. She said all the kids come to our house to play. She said it's because I'm so energetic. Not like her mom, she said, who was grumpy most of the time. She went on to describe her mother as being bogged down with work all the time. Work at her day job. Work in the house later.

Then it hit me.

I was that mom. So busy I hardley knew what my kids were doing, let alone what they ate or who their friends were. And when I was home I was always distracted, still not fully unwound from the day, yet racing to get the kids cleaned up and in bed by a reasonable time. It was so brief, the time I had with them each night. Then the whole crazy cycle would start over again in the morning.

I may miss my job beyond belief, but I don't want to go back to being a mom my kids hardly knew. I may have less social interaction, but my kids, who have lived in this house two years, never played with other kids on this street until now. I knew in my heart I needed to leave work, but for a long time, I couldn't see the rewards. Today I did. My kid's friend showed me.

Looking up

We spent the Fourth of July with some old friends from work. I'll take any piece of the newsroom I can still have. After all, my friends there are what I seem to miss the most. Others stop by regularly. My front porch is usually humming with activity during the day and into these long summer nights. Friends visit. Kids play. Keeps my mind off things.

Freelancing is pretty tough, but I keep telling myself not to give up. Persistence paid off today. Got a note from a national mag editor saying she liked my idea and clips, and that she'd like to run the story I'm proposing in October. That was enough to send me over the top. This from someone who spent the last several Sundays bordering on suicidal over not having a job to go to on Monday morning.

If I can make it work, this place won't look so bad after a while.

On second thought

Would I call today productive? Maybe, depending on what you call work. I hadn't written a lick by 7 p.m., but I did manage to fix the toilet flush handle, raise my daughter's bicycle seat, catch a spider in a bedroom by trapping it into a baggie and release it outside, and grounded my son for keying my car with a wrench (yes, the same one I used for the bike seat adjustment).

I also played piano, took the kids to the library, and had dinner ready by 4 pm, just how hubby likes it!

Then I thought about calling my old boss to ask for a job.

To be sure, two setbacks today propelled me into thinking I can't do this for long. One, EB announced that his mother would probably be coming to town in August to stay for at least a month. Second, I realized that summer camp won't start, as I had thought, on June 1, but on June 5. Mind you, it's not an all-day thing. It's from 9 to 2, but it's just enough to where I can be with them most of the time, and still do what I love.

I'm trying to keep it all in perspective. Maybe it was just a bad day, an ordinary day. But I had those at work, too. And they passed. So will this.