Background Noise

new world

The only place I’ve ever worked where I had to go through such an intensive orientation and training program was Disney World, many many years ago. But unlike Disney World, I was not required to know the names of the seven dwarves at the end of it all.

I had a nightmare on Thursday night, after a trying day which involved maps I couldn’t read and getting lost on my way back from lunch while trying to find my office. I dreamed that I was starting school again and I kept getting lost trying to find my classes. I can’t believe where I work. There is a store down the hall from my office. There is a post office, a bank, three cafeterias and a gym. Each day I have to consult my map to find the different rooms and buildings I am supposed to be in for my next training class.  I lose my car every day and I spend at least ten minutes wandering around trying to find it at the end of the day.

In my orientation class there were lots of people from different departments all over the company. Luckily, in my group there was another scientist who will be working in my department so I didn’t feel so alone. He is from China and there is the obvious language barrier, as I discovered when I asked him if he knew where I could find a shredder close to our office. He started laughing and kept asking me to say it again. Shredder? Shredder? Ha ha, what is this thing you are talking about? He probably thought I was talking about something kinky because when I asked him to tell me about his first impression of American culture, he told me SEX. “When I think of America I think of SEX because you are very free here.” He was probably very disappointed that orientation was not a week long orgy.

Anyway, Joey is having a hard time with daycare, but mostly just in the morning when Eli drops him off. Eli is very clever to take charge of dropoff and leave me out of it. He knows that at the first sign of distress I would scoop the child into my arms, bring him back home with me and promptly resign from my job. And then I would spend the rest of my life watching Sesame Street and building block castles while ignoring phone calls from the bill collectors. Sort of like how I’ve spent the whole summer up to this point.

I had a hard time on Monday when I looked at the clock and saw that it was Sesame Street time. And then at lunch when I only had to worry about myself and I didn’t even know what Joey was eating. And then again at nap time when I would normally be settling Joey into his crib and kissing him on the head before settling down in my own bed down the hall to read for a while.

My new life is strange and exciting and scary and exhilarating all at the same time. But I’ve never felt more that this is the right thing, that this is exactly what I am supposed to be doing at this point in my life. And nothing beats walking in at the end of the day and seeing Joey’s eyes light up as he drops whatever he’s doing and rushes at me screaming, “MAMAAAA!!!!”

It makes me feel like a hero.

a history of violence

I’ll admit, I didn’t take it very seriously the first time it happened. But that’s because I thought it was an isolated incident that would never happen again. But when Joey bit me again last night, I had to come to terms with the fact that maybe this is not a phase and perhaps my child is on his way to becoming a sociopath. Though I think true sociopaths start with torturing animals first, before moving on to humans. And Joey is extremely gentle with the cats. We started teaching him very early that you are gentle with the kitties, you do not poke at their eyes and you never pull tails. Now when he pats the cats he says, “Nice kitty, gentle,” and mimics the way we’ve shown him how to treat the animals very gently, softly patting. And I’m really happy that he’s so kind to the pets, but if it’s them or me, I’d happily offer up a cat as a chew toy. At least they have their fur for protection. And if he was busy chewing on the cats he would not be working so hard to cannibalize his mother.

I was leading him over to the couch to change his diaper before going out last night, and in front of Eli and the babysitter, he latched his teeth into my arm and tried to tear my muscle from the bone. He only had his mouth on my arm for two seconds, but the damage is pretty outrageous. It doesn’t look as bad as it could because my skin is tan right now, but there is the shadow of a nasty bruise under the tan, and if I run my hand along my arm, there is a huge knotted welt under the skin. I don’t know what to do short of wearing body armor to protect myself from this kid and his fucking teeth. And why is it only me he bites? Is everyone else not delicious?

If there was some kind of hotline for this shit, I’d be on it because I want answers. Why is my child biting me? And even worse, what if he eventually finds it so satisfying that he does it to someone else who isn’t me? Someone who could press charges? Or Eli, who would probably handle it by ripping out his baby teeth and making him gum everything until he can handle the responsibility of owning teeth.

The worst part about getting bit is that he growls as he’s doing it and that makes it all the more savage.  I should call the pediatrician to get professional advice on how to handle this, because I'm afraid if I go with my own homemade solutions I will scar the child for life. And I don't want to do that. I just need to make this stop.

when a big bag of coffee is not a good thing

Today I continued my search for the perfect work bag. I went to every store I could think of that sells bags, and at the very last store, when the realization was starting to set in that my perfect bag does not exist in the world, and I will have to use a diaper bag as my purse at work next week, my gigantic iced coffee was spilling itself inside the bag, and 32 ounces of delicious coffee (along with gobs of cream and equal) was pooling in the bottom and ruining everything inside. I was walking through Macy’s when I felt something drip onto my foot, and when I looked down my flip flops were wet and I was leaving a coffee trail behind me as I walked through the store.

I lost a whole book of checks and now my bag has high tide marks showing exactly how much coffee my bag can hold before it starts to leak.

 

In case you’re wondering why I would put an iced coffee inside my purse, it’s because a cup of iced coffee is my child’s favorite toy. So it is easier to just stick it in my bag when I am shopping than try to wrestle the damn thing away from Joey every time he lunges for it from the front of the shopping cart, trying to pull the straw out so he can fling it at the racks of expensive clothes. This is also why I wear my sunglasses as a headband when I am carrying Joey anywhere because the minute he gets anywhere near them he strips them off my face and sets about dismantling them with sheer toddler force as his only tool.  I have lost too many coffees and I have too many piles of broken sunglasses parts to try to use these things like a normal person when he is around.

You’re probably wondering, “So why don’t you discipline him, then?” And that’s a very good question except that I do discipline him but I think he is misinterpreting my messages. Take for example my CD player that holds three hundred (shiny and colorful) CDs and even has a little blue light inside to make the shininess and colorfulness of the CDs even more attractive. Joey has figured out how to get the door open and pull them out and he has been doing it for so long now that whenever I see something shiny in his hands, I automatically tell him, "NO!" even though sometimes he’s just holding a spoon. Anyway, yesterday I heard him having a quiet conversation with himself in the living room that sounded like this:

"No! No! No! Nooooo! NO!"

I thought he was just playing a game, but then he came wandering into the kitchen with one CD in each hand, and before I could say anything he held one out to me and said, "NO!" and then he held the other one out and said “NO!” And it was the same way he holds out his cup and says, "Milk!" He stood there in front of me, waving the CDs in my face, yelling, "NO NO NO NO!" So either he thinks a CD is called a NO, or he is taking a hard-core, in-your-face approach to mocking my disciplinary methods. Either way, he almost got choked.

For reference, this is an example of the kind of bag I am looking for:

I'd buy it in a second, but I'm not comfortable enough yet in my new employment to justify spending $298 on one bag.  Maybe once my bank account recovers from the recent drought. But when I think about starting my new job with a stained diaper bag, I want to cry. We'll see if good sense prevails or if I just say fuck it and buy it anyway.

headcase

I don’t know how to do therapy. I get in there and we start to chat about what’s going on in my life, and talk a little bit about my medication, and then gradually the conversation evolves into an entirely unrelated discussion about science and medicine.

Yesterday we got off on a tangent about the human genome project and how researchers are working on ways to genetically identify infants at risk for developing specific diseases and beginning preventative treatment at birth. I questioned the wisdom of this kind of labeling, at birth no less, which then led to a discussion about nature versus nurture, and how temperament and personality are sometimes considered abstract notions when they’re actually derived from physiological structures, the same way eye color and height are. Which then led to a discussion about the movie Gattaca, and I realized that I am treating my therapy like a graduate seminar on psychological disorders. I take advantage of my therapist’s medical background and question her about research studies, and make her qualify her statements by telling me about the scientific data that supports her theories. Overall I use my therapy sessions to geek the fuck out.

This can’t be the normal way that therapy is supposed to go, can it? Am I steering the conversation away from my feelings and into topics I’m more comfortable discussing like anatomy and physiology and chemistry? I can’t get into the whole touchy-feely aspect of sitting around talking about my feelings without first acknowledging the scientific basis for psychiatric disorders and trying to pick my therapist’s brain about the latest research being done in the field. And by the time I am satisfied, our time is up and I never have to do any difficult introspection. My insurance company would have a fit if they knew what I was doing with my therapy sessions.

something wicked

Thunderstorms should be rolling through today, bringing some relief from the heat that has kept us holed up in the house next to the air conditioner for the past couple of days.

The humidity is doing bizarre things to my head and with all the cash I lay out for gels and cremes and anti-inflammatories for my hair, there is still no product out there that will combat 99% humidity. Yeah, Fructis, not even you.

Last night I cracked open my computer planning to catch up on some email and do a little shopping while Eli watched The Contender. But first I glanced through my blog barrel to see if there were any new blogs to check out. And that’s how I found Big Picture Small Office. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever read before, and I sat on the couch completely absorbed in it, reading entry after entry, unable to stop myself because it hurt so good. The blog is written by an anonymous VP in an unnamed corporation, and it is all about soulless corporate management. This should be required reading for…well, everyone. There is a delightful cast of characters like The Black Widow (HR), Rigor Mortis (Head of Legal), and Whiney Baby (Corporate Communications). The way the author reports the misguided daily antics of these characters is not humorous but introspective and sad in a way that, well, you should just read for yourself. I recommend starting with the four part series called Something Wicked This Way Comes.

I felt so down after reading that I had to watch Project Runway to refresh my soul and remind myself that there is still good in the world. 

petty crime

Joey broke two of my calculators this week because I keep forgetting how tall he is and leaving them close to the edge of the table. I’ve been doing a lot of calculating because I’m setting up a grand budgeting control sheet for our household. I’m so giddy about the fact that we will finally have money left over after the bills that I am taking a shot at trying to manage it even though my cats could probably do a better job of handling the finances around here. But Eli and I are trying to be more responsible, and so he is taking on the exciting task of learning about mutual funds and I am making a budget.

I’m not finished with my project yet so it’s a lucky thing that I still have two calculators in the house that work. And that is because I am a thief.

I took a small collection of stuff with me when I left the soul-sucking job that fucked me over after I gave them three whole years of dedicated service. Okay, I wasn’t exactly dedicated, but I went there every day. Well, most days, except when I was burning sick time. Still. Somehow I can rationalize it--like the establishment owes me calculators.

But because I am a professional, I did not do anything disastrous before I left. I did not free the rats and frogs, I did not kill the cells, I did not lick all the culture plates. And even though it was especially tempting, I did not delete the database I made that took me one whole year to compile that should have earned me a promotion and instead earned me a spot in my department forever because the thinking in a poorly managed company is such: When someone shows initiative you must never promote! You keep them for yourself because they make you look good. 

I did not delete the database. Though I did password protect it before I hit the road.

Anyway, when you’ve worked at a place for three years, you accumulate a lot of stuff. And you start to form attachments. That doesn’t explain why I took four calculators with me when I walked out for the last time. But it does explain why I have a nice selection of pipettors on a rack next to my paints in the basement. And some pH strips. And a gel staining tray and strainer set. I was planning to work it all into an acrylic-based rage piece entitled BIOTECH CAN SUCK MY ASS. But then my rage cooled and I decided the world doesn’t need more stupid art. Though if you ever come across an abstract piece that looks like it was created by spraying the canvas with human blood and bits of bone, and there are also pH indicator strips embedded in the paint, it is probably mine.

 

a necessary function

I was in the middle of updating last night about my drug test and our day at the beach when my computer beeped and then went black. It turned off just as I had just finished typing my take on the severely overweight woman sitting near us at the beach who was breastfeeding her three year old child all day.

Wouldn’t it be cool if every time you were about to type something shitty and mean your computer just gave you a reality check and turned itself off?

The internet would empty out like a bowel full of tainted meat.

Joey's World

I woke up this morning feeling like maybe yesterday was just a really great dream. But judging by the way I slept I figured it was real. I haven’t woken up feeling this rested since the doctor put me on tranquilizers and I spent three days in my bed, unable to pry my drugged head from the pillow. But when I was out in the front yard this morning (having coffee with my neighbor while our children played on the lawn in their diapers AND NOTHING ELSE—white trashin’ it like it’s 1972 and children can go around barefoot and free! I fully expect one of the neighbors to mention my practically naked child outside playing, in some context or another, in the next few days) the FedEx truck arrived with a package for me. And it was confirmed.

So I was leisurely reading through the offer packet this morning, and some thoughts I had were at first hmm, which medical program should I pick? And then wow, I never knew there were so many ways a person could get fired AND be brought up on criminal charges at the same time. And finally my mind shifted to a detail infinitely more important than proper medical coverage and legally binding confidentiality agreements. The one detail that I’d overlooked in this whole thing. I don’t own a bag good enough for my new fancy job!

I have an assortment of handbags and cute purses in all different colors and sizes, and if I need to carry something bigger I have my favorite Nike backpack (school bus yellow) and my Patagonia messenger bag (fluorescent green). And lately I’ve been using the most perfect bag in all creation, the Kate Spade diaper bag that Eli got me for Mother’s day that doesn’t look like a diaper bag at all except for the insulated pouches and changing pad inside. You’d think with my collection I’d have it covered, right? Wrong. I need a business bag. Not a briefcase, but something that looks nice and will hold all my work stuff and a laptop. So I’ve decided I can delay the Grand Week of Big Fun I have planned for Joey by one afternoon. Anyway, bag shopping is about him too since he needs an insulated lunch box for school, and I’m thinking something…Elmo. Or Builder Bob. Dark, masculine colors. With washable material. Something fashionable, yet boyish. (GWoF is a concept I came up with yesterday after receiving the job offer and realizing that I’ve been spending a lot of time frantically worrying and obsessively waiting for phone calls and sitting in front of my online banking program trying to figure out how to play around with the bills creatively enough so that no one will realize that we’re not paying them, and in general just not being very much fun. Joey will probably forget he even has a mama after I’m back at work for a few days. So I’m planning on counteracting this unavoidable side-effect of employment by making next week the best week of his life. Though I suppose it could backfire and make him miss me even more once I’m not around all the time)

One thing I’ve noticed over the last couple of days is that it is impossible to get a big head or feel like some kind of fancypants with Joey around to remind me that I am, at the core of my being, first before anything else, from now until I die, his mother. And as such I will be subject to his daily abuse and I will just put up with it because this is Joey’s World and in Joey’s World you cannot write someone up for harassment or fire them for insubordination. And this is what happens when I forget that.

 

 
Check it. That's where I got bit on the leg. Hard. Broke the skin and everything and left a huge ugly bruise (about the size of a silver dollar) that looks like what would happen to your skin after a bite involving a serpent and necrotic venom. I’ve shown my mark to a lot of people and it is so base in its ugliness that every single person immediately asked me what I did to Joey after he attacked me. As though I’d be like, Yeah, so I fucking kicked his ass and told him: son, you best be keepin those baby teeth off my AUTHORITAY! What the fuck do you think I did? I was startled and pulled my leg away in shock, then after inspecting the damage, scooped the child up, walked upstairs with his body hanging over my forearm like a sack of potatoes, and without a word deposited him into his crib where he would be safe. I mean, he had to be sleepy, right? Because what kind of person would do something so deranged to another person, especially when that other person gave you fucking LIFE, unless they were literally de-fucking-lirious with exhaustion. Right?

Joey knew I was angry by the way I picked him up and by the lack of pre-naptime sweet talk and singing I usually indulge him in. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t even be able to speak English, as my rage would overwhelm my vocabulary and leave me sputtering the devil’s latin.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve forgiven him and unless I have to go to the hospital to be treated for a bacterial infection (he broke the skin with his razor sharp baby teeth, providing a direct passage into my bloodstream for anything gross that may be living in his mouth) we will put the whole thing behind us and move on. But this serves as a reminder that like the human mouth, Joey’s World can be a dark and dangerous place. And just because something is small and cute doesn't mean it can't fuck your shit up. I live with a Gremlin.

working girl... but, not that kind

I’ve written a little bit about my search for employment over the past month, and despite the fact that I have around fifty resumes floating around out there, I've had my heart set on one particular job that I applied for back in May. The whole thing has been a tedious saga involving pre-interviews, written interviews, actual in-person interviews, a background check, reference check, one scary moment of not getting the job, but then being considered for the same job again a few days later but with slightly different hours, and so much waiting and waiting and waiting.

Last night I began to accept the bitter fact that it might not happen. It just wasn't meant to be with this company ... fuck that place, man, MOVE ON!

So of course it would only make sense that today I would receive the call I’ve been waiting on for weeks. It’ll be officially official when I receive my offer package tomorrow, but I got the job.

I cannot believe I will have a salary that I could support myself and my family on if I had to, and I don’t have to sacrifice any body parts to do it. I never thought this would be a possibility living in New England (with a mortgage). Almost as important, I will have a title that does not dance around what I do with clever corporate-speak words like analyst and associate. I know now that companies do this not because of what you’re expected to do, but to avoid paying people a proper salary. I am a scientist, and I will finally be paid as one.

And for the first time in my life I can look at salary.com without losing my shit because I don’t match up.

I feel high. But Im not. I still have to take a drug test.

night of the web

I used a good bit of my camera’s memory last night filming the fascinating progress of a spider building a web between two long cosmo stems in my windowbox out back. I wasn’t able to capture all the detail with my camera, but I have to say that after seeing a spider build a web from scratch, I have a lot more respect for the intelligence of the average arachnid.

It’s almost like they have a body compass the way they're able to get everything so perfectly symmetrical and neat. I still don’t understand it, but I sat on my back deck in awe and watched the spider work for thirty minutes.

Which leads to what happened after I showed the web to Eli, and the resulting loss of respect for the intelligence of a certain human that lives in this house.

After I shared the special construction task happening out on our deck with him, Eli spent the evening watching out for the web and checking on it constantly to see if the spider had caught anything. At first I thought it was just an innocent fascination with nature. Until I realized that he was actually bonding with the spider and rooting for its hunting success.

I heard him mutter from out back a few times. Things like What the fuck, still nothing! And then he looked around at the air as though maybe our yard had spontaneously purged itself of all bugs and that was why the spider had none.

After the sun went down, Eli turned on the back deck light to lure the bugs closer to the web and make things easier for the spider. But by the time we went to bed, the web was still empty, with only the hungry spider suspended in the middle, waiting patiently for its prey. And that’s when Eli took things into his own hands. He started catching moths and flies from around the outside light and then CHUCKING THEM AT THE SPIDER WEB hoping to get something to stick. I went outside to see what he was doing and told him to stop playing god. Who knows, maybe tomorrow morning there'll be a chipmunk carcass all caught up in the web and you'll feel foolish.

But by then it wasn’t about the spider anymore, it was about Eli and his sick obsession with the food chain and wanting it to happen in front of his eyes so badly that he's willing to help it along. If it had been a hunter in the back yard who had set a beautiful trap on the lawn that impressed Eli, he would probably help the guy out by throwing a deer at it.