Is This Real Life?

"I’m not prepared for this." - Jack Donaghy

"I know. I’m not drunk either, but we’ll manage." - Cooter

Alas, I do not really know what to write about this week. So much happened, and yet so little of it seems worth talking about. I am slowly resigning myself to the fact that Dawson and I have become like two ships passing in the night (literally, not emotionally. I may not have a blog theme yet, but it isn’t going to be that). Our schedules have become hectic, and most days we only see each other for 20 minutes to pass off the dog, the hassle of which only further demonstrate how outrageously spoiled she is.

These separations are new for us; one or both of us was usually working from home or unemployed for the majority of our marriage. While our apartment now is pleasantly small, we cut our wedded teeth in a New York City apartment the size of a shoebox. Seriously, the place didn’t even have a closet. Fortunately, I really like him, and he really likes me, so we got used to working in the same room, taking breaks together, and generally being unhealthily attached. It works for us. This bifurcated life we’re currently leading does not. Even Virginia seems stressed out. Well, more stressed out than usual. She eats less and refuses to go to the bathroom when I take her out at night, cowering at every noise and plane in the sky, waiting for Dawson to return, and looking at me disdainfully, as if to say, “This is your fault.”

To make matters worse, this topsy-turvy existence has made us edgy and oversensitive. Last week, Dawson was laboriously trying to mount our new TV to the wall when I broke apart the stud-finder thing. For the first time ever, he responded to my clumsiness by saying, “What’s wrong with you? How do you manage to do things like this?” Normally, he has an endless supply of patience and good humor. My eyes welled up with tears. Normally, I do not cry and would have found the situation funny. Luckily, he quickly apologized and retrieved his sense of bemusement at my lack of grace, and I swallowed the traitorous lump in my throat and retrieved my dignity. To borrow a line from David After Dentist, “Is this going to be forever?” Because this grown-up business is hard work.

Brave New World

In You've Got Mail, Meg Ryan says, "So much of what I see reminds me of what I read in a book, when, shouldn't it be the other way around?" I remember being momentarily stunned by this. First, because I don't really have common sense, and it took me a minute to suss out the meaning; and then, because I didn't understand why she seemed forlorn about her question. It rings true for me, and I've never thought there was anything wrong with my bookworm status, other than it's slightly expensive. (For example, my mom instituted a moratorium on the purchase of new books when I was 14 and instead presented me with a library card. To this day, I insist on owning my own books. Hardbacks and library books are for those who are self-disciplined enough not to bend and write and eat and bathe whilst a book is in their hands.)

In fact, it was a book that made me face an ugly truth about myself: I am not brave. I am sure of this. I just read Freedomland by Richard Price. I can only describe it as detective fiction having sex with The Wire. It is about a black detective who gets the case of Brenda, a white woman who claims that she was carjacked by a black man in the projects and that her four-year-old-son was in the car. At some point, Brenda states, "I am not brave. I've always known that about myself." I was struck by this because I never actually admitted my own cowardice, but instantly recognized the truth of it in Brenda's statement. I don't mean it in a daring-do sort of way (although it applies), but more about everyday decisions. I hate change, mostly because I'm scared of the new and like the path of least resistance. I avoided becoming a teacher because I was paralyzed by my own fears -- that I would be ineffective; that I wouldn't be able to explain content in a way that was understandable; that the students would see right through me.

Well, I am knee-deep in my teaching credential program and on the cusp of taking over a classroom full time. Although there are days when I feel effective, my fears remain -- the successes yo-yo with the failures. I am constantly questioning myself. How do I know which battles to fight (with and for my students)? How many times can I say the same thing before my students or I go crazy? How shrill does my voice sound right now? How many times can I wear the same pair of khaki pants in one week? Why don't they just shut up? This week, I had a kid say "Fuck you" to me because he was mad he had to wait for the bathroom pass and because I told him he had to apologize to the girl he made cry. The best part was he tried to waltz back in class after he said it, like it was a normal farewell, "Fuck you Ms. Ludwig. Have a great weekend!"....On the other hand, I managed to get a student who hadn't turned in any work for 3 months to write an entire essay. You win some, you lose some.

take a walk on the wild side

This week, I saw Avatar. At the risk of being redundant, it truly was an amazing visual experience. But I kinda hated it. For the first hour and a half, I just kept thinking, "This would be awesome if it were a silent movie." I wanted to be able to take in the beauty of that made-up land -- it was like watching a Planet Earth episode on acid -- without the awful dialogue distorting it (a personal favorite: "If there is a hell, you should go there for some R&R after a tour on Pandora"). For the rest of the movie, I vacillated between irritation and amusement. It was Disney meets Heart of Darkness, and it didn't work. Avatar tried to send a big message about colonialism and environmentalism and the rights of indigenous people and yet the savior of Pandora was white guy Jake Sully, who manipulates the Na'vi's history and religious beliefs to spring them to action. Give me a break. Plus, watching James Cameron's ego-stroking via gratuitous violence and 30 extra, should've-been-edited minutes was annoying. And, the reused 3D glasses grossed me out, but I'll admit that now I'm just being picky.

In other happenings, Haiti was devastated by an earthquake, and I feel disgustedly helpless. I've noticed that despite the continuous news coverage (a Haiti Earthquake Relief link is even on Dictionary.com), it is hard to talk about with other people. What can you say besides truisms like 'it's so tragic'? Talking about it implicitly brings responsibility. We know we should help and do something and speaking the tragedy aloud makes our unspoken obligations hang heavy in the air until somebody starts talking about Avatar or something equally banal. What do to, what to do? Oh sure, we donated money, but a reality check tells us that it isn't doing anybody in Haiti any good yet. Pat Robertson seems to have it figured out. He boomeranged any guilt and/or responsibility right back on the Haitians. He is either brilliant or a despicable fool. My money's on the latter, but it seems as though Patty's money is safe either way; he probably won't be giving any to help the relief effort. Not unless those heathens repent -- live on the 700 Club! Hmm. An Anglo-American manipulating the history and religion of a poor nation to further his own agenda. Sounds familiar. Maybe James Cameron can direct a movie version.

Happy Birthday!

I am twenty-seven today. As is my wont, I started the festivities about three days ago and the closing ceremonies will be Monday (it’s like Mardi Gras). My actual birthday was good…Dawson bought me a bright red raincoat that is so damn beautiful it makes me wish I was a cuter version of myself. Or more aware of my appearance. Or a combo. I love that he buys me presents based on the version of me that he has in his head: Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada post-Stanley Tucci versus Anne Hathaway in that god-awful teal Gap sweater (I have it in black; I wore it last Thursday).I didn’t really think about getting older until my mom called me up and said,

“So, mija, I was talking to my very-best-friend-since-fourth-grade-Veronica (no lie, this is how my mom talks), and we can’t believe that we’re middle-aged and have children who are almost thirty. You’re not a young woman anymore, mija!”

Alas. I guess not. I’ve been married for almost four years now, so that part doesn’t make me feel old, but Dawson and I are officially entering that phase where everyone we know from high school is preggo. It’s freaking me out. I keep waiting for one of us to light candles, ply the other one with wine, and declare that we’ve been surreptitiously poking holes in my Nuva-Ring because we really are just dying to have a child. Is something wrong with us?

Virginia Woof just came up and laid her beauteous head on my lap. This is kind and unexpected. I think she knows I broached the subject of human children. Or she’s hungry. Or she read my mind and wants to eat our future children. She looks suspicious and disapproving. Yep, she definitely knows. Her brown eyes have hypnotized me…I think she might be the reason we don’t want real children. Would we have to kick her off the bed? Would she sense that I was pregnant and try to eat the baby, and thereby me, in my womb? Should we just get life insurance and take the chance? If the baby survived gestation, would she disfigure it or just pee in the house out of spite? Worse still: would we love her less? Such questions make it not worth it. Our date night conversations are already pathetically dominated with post-game analyses of her bitchy ways.

For now, 2010 is off to a great start. I am twenty-seven; we are happy.