The Art of Procrastination

This is where I let you feel a little bit superior to me, because odds are you are getting way more done than I am. This is procrastination, December style.

Today, I am not doing so many things. Well, to be honest, this month things aren’t getting done.

I am not finishing my photo calendar for next year.

I am not taking my family Christmas photo.

Therefore, I am not ordering my Christmas cards.

Thus, I am not SENDING Christmas cards.

I am not shopping for Christmas. I am not making a list and so I am not checking it twice. I am being way too nice and not nearly naughty enough.

I am not cleaning my house. The dust is getting thicker. The carpets need vacuuming. The bathrooms…need a Haz Mat suit to enter. The refrigerator needs cleaning.

I am not doing yard work. The piles of leaves are piling. I am not spraying for weeds. It's like the weeds are the Crips and the garden plants are the tourists who took a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong place. It isn't pretty! Not pruning the roses. Not dead heading the plants. None of it.

I am not cleaning the pool. I am not cleaning the pool filter. I am ignoring the leaves in the pool. In fact, if I squint just right, I don't even notice the leaves in the pool!

I am not cleaning my gutters. I am not removing dead pigeons from those gutters. What are Kamikaze pigeons doing in my gutters anyway?!

I am not hanging the Christmas lights outside.

I am not clearing off my desk. I am avoiding my paperwork. My filing. My accounting work.

I am not writing my To Do list.

Therefore, I am not getting anything done on the To Do list. Well, actually, I can say that everything on the list is done because there is nothing on the list! Somehow, I feel a little bit successful.

I am not downloading a new version of Quicken on my Mac because to do that I would have to figure out how to transfer the information from the laptop. Too many steps and too overwhelming.

I am not planning my Christmas menu.

But I did get a blog posted! Ta da!! Problem is, it's not very creative and not very funny. Oh well. It was funnier in my head, after all.

Useless to the Tribe

They happen without warning. As a woman of a certain age, I get a weird feeling at the top of my stomach followed by a surging wave of heat that starts inside and radiates to my skin. Sometimes it feels like I produce enough heat to warm a small town. In the midst of a hot flash the back of my head feels like a car radiator that is about to explode. No one’s ever mentioned steam coming out my ears but I'm sure I resemble  Yosemite Sam after being been beaten by Bugs Bunny yet again. My face flushes like a junior high girl who has just tooted in class. The sweat trickles down my back and I flap my clothes in order to cool off.

Night sweats are even worse. I wake up with sweat pooling between my boobs, damp pajamas and sheets. When the heat subsides and my body temperature regulates, I am freezing. I throw off the covers to cool off. Bring them back when my body temperature regulates and I’m covered in sweat and freezing.

As women, ever since we hit puberty, we’ve been subject to the indignities of hormones. PMS mood swings. Pregnancy hormones that make us bat shit crazy. Postpartum blues. We can’t get cranky without someone suggesting we’re hormonal.

Enter peri-menopause and things start to get worse. We begin having hot flashes. And our metabolism slows to a crawl. Weight gain happens in a blink of an eye; weight loss takes Herculean effort. And even more mood swings. Why?! Why?! Why?!

No, seriously, why? What possible purpose could hot flashes and slowing metabolism have on the survival of humans? I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure this out during my sleepless sweaty nights. And I have a theory that would make Darwin proud.

Think about it. Back in Clan of the Cave Bear days, tribes of people stuck together for survival. You can picture them gathered around the fire at night. Fire was precious and meant warmth, food and protection from the creatures of the night that might carry you off to eat you.

But there’s only so much room around the fire. There was probably some sort of hierarchy in place for assigning the prime spots nearest the flames. These would go to the most revered members’ of the tribe, the leaders. These guys were responsible for keeping the tribe safe and flourishing. And they were most certainly guys as these primitive societies were patriarchal. Once the leadership positions were filled, they would want to keep the hunters and gatherers happy.

After the guys who brought home the food, they would have placed some value on the young women. They cooked the food, made the clothes, and provided support if not servitude to the men. But even more importantly, they bore the children that insured that the tribe would survive another generation. And speaking of children, they would be protected as well as the future leaders, hunters, child bearers.

As you got farther away from the fire you’d find the less important folks, the ones who didn’t contribute as much. The old guys who couldn’t hunt, lead or tell a good story were probably out there. But most certainly, women of a certain age were on the fringe. They were useless to the tribe. They had been replaced by younger, more fit women. They didn't offer anything of substance.

And that is where the evolutionary changes must have come in. These tough broads would manage to survive in spite of having the crappiest spot away from the fire. They would have hot flashes to keep them warm. Their metabolism slowed down so they could survive on less food. And probably the most important evolutionary change was the bat shit crazy mood swings that kept everyone, including the creatures of the dark, from messing with them. Useless? In the eyes of the tribe, perhaps. Defenseless? Absolutely not. Even the cave men would have learned that their survival depended on not messing with women of a certain age.

What do you do?

“What do you do?”

These four harmless words are a common cocktail party question, a seemingly innocuous if predictable conversation starter. You know the scenario. You meet someone for the first time and have to engage in that awkward yet polite small talk. You look for something to talk about while not appearing to search for someone better to talk to. Throw me a bone, stranger, you silently plead when you ask that basic question.

But it’s not all that innocent, really. A lot hinges on the answer. It allows you to define a person, put them in context. Are they smart or interesting? Is there any common ground? At the very least, it provides an opportunity for a follow up question and a conversation.  But for those of us with no career, the reaction we fear most is dismissal. Because when you tell someone you are a stay at home mother, they hear unemployable, uneducated, unsmart. (Careful. Don’t make any sudden movements. Back away slowly…)

Since I haven’t worked since my oldest kid was born 17 years ago, answering this question can be tricky. Lots of unspoken answers to unspoken questions fill my inner dialogue. Yes, I went to college; graduate school even. Oh and I have a teaching credential too, expired but I’ve got one. Yeah I choose to stay home.

A lot has been written about the Mommy Wars. You know, who’s got it better. Or whose lot is harder. Used to be, we had no choice but to stay home once we had kids. I was raised by a stay-at-home-mom. A depressed mom, to be honest, but that’s what mom’s did back then. They stayed home and raised their kids. And got depressed. There were very few working moms that I knew, and fewer single moms.

It was easier to be an at home mom back in the day. There weren’t a lot of expectations. Dinner? Frozen fish sticks and macaroni and cheese. You betcha. Kids need to get to school? Get out the door and walk. In the rain (I’d claim snow but I was raised in California). Uphill both ways. Kids want to play with someone? Run outside and see if there is anyone around. There were no such things as play dates. Or sports teams. And I don’t think I met a crafty person until I was about 30. Martha Stewart hadn’t happened to all of us.

But as I was growing up the bra burners refused to be relegated to the housewife role. I am woman: hear me roar. So the pendulum started to swing in a different direction. Fast-forward a generation and women are expected to work. Working moms have achieved a sort of acceptance, and there is even an expectation that moms will work. To be honest, that American Dream requires two incomes these days. I mean, what is the next generation going to do? Send their kids back to the coal mine?

The trailblazers of my generation were the ones who chose to stay home. But the acceptance that working moms fought for hasn’t trickled down to those of us who abandoned careers to stay home. So we push our kids, making an art out of volunteering. We approach raising our kids with the same fervor and dedication as anyone climbing the corporate ladder. Our kids are going to Achieve whether they want to or not! Sports, clubs, organized play dates and working in the classroom. That’s what we do.

So, how about those Giants?