How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?

My dog likes to greet me in the morning by running up to the bedside and snorting in my face. And yet, this is still better than being awakened by the alarm clock at 5:30. Tilly of course has to adjust to my new schedule, too. After many failed attempts to teach her to tell time (I don't care if it's 2 pm, you're home and thus it must be walk/supper time!), I've given up and gotten used to her glaring at me until she gets what she wants.

For both our sakes, I am spending the morning at a Panera. I'm trying to be productive, but I chose a seat facing the menu, and every time I look up I find something else that I'd like to eat for lunch...two hours from now. Darn you, soup in a bread bowl!

I continue to find amusement (or at least bemusement) in the kinds of people I find out in the middle of a work day. Not too many obvious stay-at-home moms at Panera...rather, this seems to be the hangout of the slightly-addled-yet-charming old person. Perhaps, instead of my Baby Bjorn and Cabbage Patch Kid idea, I could adopt a slightly-demented grandparent and have them accompany me to coffee shops. Who knew unemployment would afford me so many different options? Outstanding!

And I've just eavesdropped on a conversation between the manager and the health inspector. They received an A-, so it looks like it'll be safe to order lunch here (two hours from now).

I have all these thoughts, and I'm pretty sure they all contradict each other.

Being home during the week is a completely different world. Everywhere I go, I'm surrounded by stay-at-home moms. And I'm not dissing these women at all, but I am considering purchasing a Baby Bjorn and a Cabbage Patch Kid...just to fit in. I mean, Tilly is my baby, but I don't think she'd appreciate being strapped to my chest and taken to Target.

I have done some work this week--both on writing/editing and around the house--but I have also spent a great deal of time acting like a 14 year-old boy. I opened up two new races on MarioKart and defeated a new level on Monkey Island, plus I just ate a box of SweetTart Hearts (finding a single serving-sized box was the highlight of my day...possibly my week).

I began cleaning out the office yesterday and discovered that I apparently hadn't filed anything since the spring of 2009. Clearly I am an organizational mastermind.

Obviously nothing too exciting is going on--except that I am happy. And for me, that's pretty exciting! Full credit for this must go to my quitting my job (that, or the SweetTarts. Let's face it: they're awesome).

Unemployment, Day One

The battle between me and the DVR began in earnest:

Gossip Girl: You know you want to watch me.
Mary: I can’t! Must…be…productive!
Gossip Girl: Ha! We both know you can’t resist bad tween television.
Mary: But the laundry situation is so dire that I had to resort to my strapless bra today!
Gossip Girl: But you’re unemployed…you don’t need clean clothes! And don’t you want to know if Chuck and Blair get back together?
Mary: Yes…but I haven’t been to the gym since the Bush administration…
Gossip Girl: You are powerless over me.

And so it continued. And yes, I watched Gossip Girl, but I did do laundry and go to the gym, so it’s a draw. (And, dammit, just remembered that yesterday was Monday and there’s another Gossip Girl sitting there on the DVR, tantalizing me with its teen angst and ridiculous-yet-captivating fashion).

In all seriousness, I do think I need a small mourning period before putting the freelance plan into action. Because you can do a good job, and be well liked, and still, as my former co-worker put it, “be served a shit sandwich.” And Good God does that piss me off when I think about it.

So, to recap: Day One: Great American Novel not written.
However, Day Two: Wearing a real bra again!

Small victories, people.

Life is a bore I always say.

Dear "Real World,"

There's no easy way to say this. We've been apart for a while now and, well...I think I'm just better off without you. I'm like a different person -- taking helicopter rides, going on sunset sails, attending luaus, drinking before noon -- and I haven't worn long pants in weeks!

You and I, we were just going through the motions. After some time passes, I think you'll realize that you're better off as well. It's not you, it's...

Oh, who am I kidding? It's totally you! You suck. Hard.

Please don't call me anymore.

With Disdain,
Mary

For My Grandma

You had this habit of saying, "Hiya, Kid!" and grabbing us grandkids by the back of the neck. It kind of hurt, but we didn't mind.

You were the ultimate grandma in so many ways--you always had Snickers in the fridge, and you were a hell of a cook. Cheeseburgers and lasagna were your specialty, even though you didn't like cheese (I often wondered how we were even related!).

You gave the world's worst Christmas presents--but the fact that you were consistent made your presents some of the most looked-forward to.

I always looked forward to your visits, even when I was in Kindergarten and you were visiting Germany all the way from Florida. We always had an ancient electric blanket that came out only when Grandma visited. You could never handle the cold, but the pictures of you bundled up in my dad's winter coat are priceless. And numerous.

You took my brother and I to the beach, which must have been so frustrating, because we were definitely indoor kids who got sick of the beach within 20 minutes. So you'd take us home, fix us dinner on TV trays, and we'd watch Charlie's Angels on the couch. You made everything special.

When you got sick, and finally had to go into the nursing home, you would hallucinate that you were babysitting me and my brother--even though we were both over 30. I can't tell you how guilty that makes me feel. I'm sorry I was a long-distance granddaughter.

One time when you were visiting, when I was around 10, my Dad was participating in some kind of cross-dressing fundraiser pageant at church. He borrowed your bra, which he proceeded to fill with giant pinecones and wear. You were happy to help. I love that my dad and I got that stupid sense of humor from you.

Like I said, you were a hell of a cook. One time, Jeremy and I came to visit on our way to Disney World. You asked, "Are you hungry?" I said we'd eaten already, to which you responded, "There's a ham in the fridge." And no, not ham slices...an actual entire ham. And you were still surprised when we didn't eat it.

You lost your parents when you were young; you would never talk about it. and I regret not pushing you harder. But in later years you were happy to talk about my Grandpa, who died when I was 4. You truly were the "greatest generation." He was in the Army Air Corps, and would have been sent to Okinawa if he hadn't have been involved in a serious crash in Columbia, SC during a practice mission. And still, he and the pilot, who was his buddy, posed for these ridiculous pictures in their full body casts--with the bellies cut out, because it was summer in Miami and, of course, incredibly hot. He went to U of Miami on the GI bill, and when he graduated, my dad and his twin sister were in the audience. "That's my daddy!" my dad apparently called out. If I had a time machine, that's one of the moments I'd travel back to.

The last time I visited, you were lucid, but couldn't hear (you'd been deaf for a long time). The rest of us were looking up at a light fixture, talking about how someone had hooked it up so that furniture could be moved around. All you saw was your family looking up at something, and so you asked, "What is everyone looking at?" And even when it must have been so frustrating to not be a part of the conversation, you still got the joke.

I love you, Grandma.

It's Time to Kick Some Asteroid

Update!

Following my rediscovery of what I now refer to as the "Hippie Mary Photo," I confronted my mother and demanded an explanation. She conceded that the mustard yellow turtleneck and matching bell bottoms were, in fact, part of my regular wardrobe ("They were hand-me-downs from the neighbors," she said. Sure, play the "we didn't have much money" card.)

"But what about the hat?" I asked. Her response? "You did that yourself!"

"What?" I replied. "Look at the jaunty angle--a toddler can't capture that jaunty angle!"

"I'm sure you did it yourself," Mom said. "I wouldn't have taken the time to do that!"

As for the furry shawl-slash-curtain-tassel, the only thing I discovered was my grandmother made it for my mom as a gift--thus cementing the family lore that "Grandma gives weird-ass gifts." (e.g., the Burt Bacharach box set I received for Christmas. I was 15 at the time.)

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I Am Apparently a Heartless Automaton

A Facebook friend always asks questions as her status updates. Today's was, "What makes you smile?" I responded this morning, and have been receiving other responses throughout the day--responses that make me feel about as loving as Mr. Burns. Their answers? Children, grandchildren, pets, nature, etc. My answer? The movie Dodgeball. I mean, come on, people--what's your beloved offspring compared to grown men getting pegged in the groin with a rubber ball? Am I right?

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Premiering after "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?"

It's hot as Hades here. Yesterday, in order to preserve my sanity and my Scotch-Irish skin, I caught the commuter train a station earlier than I normally would, just so I could wait inside. Hooray for self-preservation! The flaw in the plan? This necessitated me getting on the red line. Now, I'm not the type of girl that expects men to open the door for me or let me pass first, but is it too much to ask that you not shove me??? After a mere two stops I was clenching my fists in a strained effort not to kill someone with my bare hands.

Crisis was somehow averted, but Jeremy, having seen the state in which I arrived home yesterday, forbade me from riding the red line today. Still, as the thermometer creeps up throughout July and August, how long can I hold out in the Sophie's Choice of "skin cancer vs. commuter violence"? I fear I'm only one pushy commuter encounter away from having my own special on the Lifetime Movie Network.

Tonight at 9 pm: Homicide on the Red Line: the Mary Barron Story.
Tagline: 'This commute's a real bitch.'
Starring Meredith Baxter Birney, Lisa Rinna, and Mr. T.

Hay HAY Hay!

Can we discuss this photo for a moment? One might take a quick glance and think, "Oh, surely she's playing dress up!" That knit beret? It lived in our "dress-up drawer" for many a year. And that fringy shawl thing can't actually be an article of clothing, can it?

However, as my loving husband pointed out—those plaid bellbottoms and that mustard yellow turtleneck actually fit. I’m not playing; I'm merely a toddler in the late 1970s. Meaning…my mother did this to me. How could this ever have been considered OK—even on a child as adorable as I was? Was she taking me to audition for What's Happening?

Occasionally I'll hear stories from my parents that seem completely out of whack with who they are today. For example, my Dad recently told me about how he used to feed the family dog beer at parties. I can only HOPE that this outfit is one such incident—ill-advised, out-of-character, and merely a "snafu" on the path to respectability.

But for God's sake, Mom…MUSTARD YELLOW???