I'm Outta Here...

Glad to report that my days are numbered. At work, that is. I've officially given notice, and boy has the stress level gone down. A LOT.

I love the fact that my team leader, who is one of the main reasons I'm going (don't get me started), hasn't even acknowledged that I've given notice. At least the head of my department has sent me an email saying I'll be missed. The team leader just goes right on talking to me about things that will be deployed/happening long after I'm gone. In a meeting the other day, he started talking about how he's really excited about a new development we'll be able to use in testing our products, and how it applies specifically to my colleague and to me. Deployment estimate: August. My last day: 30th of June.

Not to mention a host of other things that have done nothing except confirm for me that this decision is the right one for me right now. My mental health is sure to bounce back. The teeth grinding has already lessened. I don't feel as worn out as I have in the past. I no longer dread Mondays. And I have a positive view of my future (which is certainly something that I haven't felt professionally for a long time).

I've still got 26 days left, which is a long time (or it SEEMS a long time). But I'm not making any plans to do more than what I need to do. I have finished going to the extreme for this company. I've finished with going beyond the call of duty. I have 13 years' worth of experience, know-how, understanding of how it all works. I know things that could only be known by someone like me because of how long I've been around, and because I listen to what people say, and I know who to ask about things, and how to ask for help from people who would tell other people to just get in line. (As an aside, I think people are willing to do things for me when I ask them because I treat them like people. There are many around here who treat their co-workers like production-line flunkies. I'd like to remind a few people around here that just because you happen to have been promoted to 'manager', it doesn't necessarily mean that you know bugger all about how to manage people, or how to lead a team. I can tell you unabashedly: you don't know squat).

I'm going to do what I must do, and that's all. I'm going to record things that are part of my job description, but when it comes to divulging all my secrets about who to talk to, and how, in order to smooth the way and sort things out, forget it.

One of my strengths is being a facilitator. I'm great at getting people to work together. And what I've come to realize is that, around here, that's not desirable.

I'd also like to quote from my most recent appraisal, from a comment from my team leader: "I see the need for [her] to progress, and her enthusiasm to gain extra experience with which to make the case for further progression when appropriate roles arise that she can apply for." I've added the emphasis here. Two and a half years in the same position, without a pay rise, nor a promotion. What is the point of working your arse off to get a great appraisal, or to ask for help with learning and development, when there isn't a chance in Hell that you're going to be promoted? OOooh. You mean I'll be ALLOWED to APPLY for a job to move up in my department, but I'd still potentially be shunted aside, just in case there's someone from outside the organization? What about that old fashioned gem -- promotion on merit? Remember that one?

He 'sees my enthusiasm to gain extra experience'. Gee. That's nice that he SEES it. But he's never done a thing to work with it, or provide any opportunities to help me move forward. And when it's been queried, he just bounces it back to my line manager, saying 'oh that's a management issue -- not something for me'.

I'm gone. Long gone. Even though I've got 26 days left. I'm well and truly gone. And I'm taking my information, my know-how, my experience, and my secret ways with me. So have a good time after I've gone, trying to figure out how it all works.

Oh. And I'll be watching the salary and career progression of my replacement with interest. I reckon that if there's a promotion, or a pay rise, before two and a half years are out, you'll be hearing from me. And one or two of my professional friends. You know - those people with the letters QC after their names?

The Dress-up Box

Today was World Book Day, for those of you who missed it. Although if you live anywhere near a primary/elementary school, you'd have to be pretty well blinkered to not see the hoards of Harrys, and Hermiones, and Oompa-Loompas, and Horrid Henrys, and Ghostbusters, and so on...

I'm glad it's all about reading, and encouraging the kids to delve more into what's out there. I'm a big fan of books. I like them. I hope you like them. You should get some more. I need more, too.

But let's be honest, here. It's really about the dressing up.

A few years ago, the eldest wanted to be Pippi Longstocking. So I took apart a dress I'd worn as a bridesmaid, popped some patches on, and got out some of my old knee socks. Presto! But I will say that the crowning achievement there was the brown pipe cleaners in the plaits, to encourage the iconic sticky-outy hair look.

Last year she was Captain Hook. I'd be cheating you if I didn't mention that the CH costume was lovingly made by my godmother, who is a phenomenal seamstress, especially when it comes to kids' costumes. (I'm sorry to say I just can't find a picture of this one right now. When I do, I'll edit it in!)

This year, it's all about Harry Potter. And I'm proud that she wanted to be Hermione. Hermione is a pretty great character, and a super great role model for kids in general (brainy saves the day, generally speaking...), but also for girls. Hermione never comes across as manipulative, or as a girls-like-pink cliche. Sure, she's a complete swot and can be utterly annoying as a KIA, but she's all right. The greatest part about it is that she's also never caught wearing some god-awful outfit where her skirt is up to minge base, her navel is showing, and her teen-aged ta-tas are on display. NEVER. She's a nerdy girl, but a cool, intelligent, and ballsy tough chick to boot. 

So I got my Costume Designer head on, and found a black graduation robe and a Gryffindor badge online, bought from M&S a white school blouse (2 for 8 quid, mind), a grey cardie, and the crowning glory (hooray for eBay) was a time-turner necklace (I refer you to Prisoner of Azkaban). Then we appropriated dad's white and red diagonally striped tie, and I coloured in the white stripes with a goldenrod coloured marking pen.

[Aside: how cute do little kids look in ties? Cute, right? Awww.]

So with all the kit, plus her Harry Potter branded magic wand she got from her grandma at Xmas, we went to town. I took in the arms on the graduation robe. I did the tie colouring thing. I ironed on the Gryffindor badge. We found a grey school skirt, clean grey tights, and she put on the white blouse. Dad helped with the tie. And directly after her ablutions last night we plaited her hair into four plaits for her to sleep in. 

 











The result? My Very Own Hermione.
Alohamora!

Perspective

It's been a weird week or so. I've finally made my decision about Mr Mean Man (thanks, Julie!), and all that he embodies, so that's good. My plan is in place, and as soon as I'm at liberty to talk about it, believe me, I will. But suffice it to say, it's certainly lightened the load for me.

The other thing that happened is that I learned some distressing news a week ago tonight. The mother of one of my 7-year-old's classmates died last week. Melanoma. She was diagnosed last summer, and BANG. She leaves behind a daughter who's 5, a son who's 7, and a really terrific guy who's now, according to multiple sources, having a really bad time of it all.

And she was my age.

I didn't know her. I met her only twice. She seemed really nice. So I'm not writing this to tell you how much I'm mourning my friend, or to talk about what a great person she was; I don't really know. I presume as much, but I don't know.

What I'm writing about tonight is perspective.

Mr Mean Man has been getting my goat far too long. And I've been racking my brain to figure out what I can do to impress him/the others/whomever it is I think I need to impress, to get ahead. And I've realized that it really doesn't matter.

I have spent so much of my life being identified by what I do every day to earn my money. I don't know why. It could be because of the industry I was in when I cut my business teeth, and all the bullshit that surrounds everything that goes on there. I could be the people who I claimed as my mentors while I was in that crowd. It could be a combo. It could be none of the above.

But I've realized that my kids are 4, and 7. And right now, they'll still hold my hand when we're walking along. And they want me to kiss them goodnight, and read them stories, and they want to do things with me and go places with me. And in a few short years, they won't want to do those things with me any longer. Especially the holding hands bit. That might just be what breaks my heart, when it happens. And it will happen.

So after hearing last week's news over a cup of late night decaf with a friend at her kitchen table, my perspective has changed. My decaf friend asked me about how I'd feel if tomorrow were my last day on earth -- would I be so upset about not spending more time slogging my guts out for people who don't even know my name, or people who talk to me as if I'm dirt? Or would I rather be lying there, and remembering all the lovely things I did with my kids, and my husband, and my family, and my friends?

I choose the latter, folks. And it's a conscious decision to do it. It doesn't matter what I do from 9-5, really, as long as it's something I like. And it's something that likes me back.

I look at the faces of my kids. I see pictures of them from just 6 months ago, and I see the changes in their eyes, and faces, and smiles. I see their slightly rounder, slightly more babyish cheeks stare at me from the picture frame, and when I look round to who they are today, I see girls, not toddlers. I see personality, and curiosity, and temper, and independence, and fury, and humour. And I've only got a little while to be within their circles, until I'm banished because that's what we did to our parents, and what our children will do to us.

Last week, what did that lovely young mother think as she waited for her end to happen to her? Was she prepared to leave her children behind? Did she regret any choices she'd made, because she'd thought she'd have years and years to spend? I don't know. I never will know.

But I'm not going to regret a thing. Thoreau also said 'Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.'

OK, Henry. I'm listening now.

Why Do They Have One, and We Haven't?

Ok. So first of all, I'm a loser. Who had any idea that the little local cinema was going to sell out tonight, when we planned a date night to go see the new movie about Stephen Hawking?

Oh. You all knew that I should have booked tickets online two weeks ago? Oh.

Anyway, there we were, out and about, the sitter at home with the kids, and we had no where to go. So we had a think and decided (wait for it...) to go to the pub.

But we decided to go to a pub we'd never been to before. One in a village a good 20 minute drive from where we live. Let's call the pub 'The Chequers'. 

It's amazing. 

It's comfy, and welcoming, but elegant. It's got a good area for proper settling in by the fire, but it's got a bar, and a dartboard, and snacks. And none of the comfy chairs around the fireplace match, and most of them are a touch threadbare. But it's also a restaurant, and the place is well turned out, but not over the top. Chairs and tables in the dining area are large, dark wood pieces, and the chairs have seats upholstered in green leather, with the brass studs going round the edges. 

But what makes it great is that it's all a bit eclectic, and shabby, but without being a dump. Sure, it's got trendy lightbulbs in the hanging lights, but it's got a leg of cured, acorn-fed ham sitting on the bar, waiting for your order (and they serve it sliced oh so thinly, on a plate, with blanched almonds). And it has hunter green wainscoting, but it's got a tiny Victorian stuffed alligator on the bar, holding books of matches. MATCHES! No one does matches anymore. I love matches.

Taxidermy? Yep. They've got it, and I love it. This place has a deer's head mounted behind the bar -- it's Clive. But it's good, and it works. They've got huge glass jars of snacks behind the bar on the glass shelf - the aforementioned almonds, but also caper berries, wasabi dried broad beans, chilli peanuts. And a popcorn machine. And the selection on tap was pretty great (I have my sources).

Sunday nights they do their steak night (there's only one chef on Sundays - the rest get the day off). For 16 quid, you get a bib lettuce and bleu salad, flat iron steak, chips, and a cheese board. For an extra 7, you can have one of each of an excellent selection of oysters (St Austell natives, pearl, etc.)

These two guys were having a late dinner, and came over from the bar to a table nearby when their food arrived. It smelled pretty good, and we commented. They (one in his early 50s, one in his early 70s) didn't miss a beat, and handed round the chips. And they were good. They ordered merlot (larges), which came with glasses, and each had their own tiny carafe. 

Upstairs, the private dining room can be reserved with no extra charge. It seats about 20 or so, and it's a proper private room, with double doors that close, and bookshelves filled with books, and candles, and other tchotchkes. Dark green walls, leather-covered chairs, and the table set and the candles burning, ready for a party to sit, and eat, and enjoy.

SO -- in a nutshell: fabulous, slightly tatty, taxidermy, good snacks, good booze, steak, classy, and totally nice, but not overbearing staff. Excellent, right?

Then why can't they do that in my town?

The big thing these days in my town is that the people who own one of the oldest pubs in town want to convert it into three houses, and sell up. And people are outraged. Because the owners have said 'it's not a viable business'.  But I wonder how hard you're trying, really, when you're closed a lot (how can you offer B&B rooms but be closed on a Monday?), you don't cater to people with kids and dogs, the food isn't great, and you're not exactly the friendliest people around. I've walked in the door there as a party guest, and been given a shoulder cold enough to cause frostbite, let alone going in for a drink, just for the heck of it.

Clearly, things can be viable - it has been before - and it's been a pub for hundreds of years - so YES - viable! It just seems that either they don't really care, or they're shit at it. I'm inclined to think it's a bit of both. And I never have been able to understand people who go into the 'people' business, when they obviously aren't particularly fond of people.

There's another pub in town, and that's been recently taken over by a nice couple. They're nice. And they try so hard. And that's part of it. They're so all-fired determined that you're going to have a great time at their pub, they're going to beat it out of you. As a pub landlord, is it really best practice to suggest to a group of 40-something dads who've come in for a pint at 8pm on a Thursday that they 'line up some Jäger shots'? And the fake flowers. Ugh. And the fact that there's a fire only in one fireplace. And that none of the tables look like they want someone to come sit at them. 

I know. I'm complaining. But it's something my husband and I talk about all the time. What would WE do, if we were running a pub (or a B&B, or...)? Because you've all been there, when you've gone someplace, and it's been 'meh' when it could've been 'WOW!' So what's missing?

Is it an innate sense of aesthetic? Is it that some people don't know how to do classy? Is it differing standards of comfort? Is it a cash thing? Is it a lack of desire to provide something for your customers that goes just a smidgeon beyond satisfactory? WHAT?

About that 'not a viable business' pub. Let me tell you one thing...if you deck your place out with furniture that someone might want to sit on (for more than five minutes), if you welcome people in with a smile on your face, if you do a few good things on your menu instead of a cornucopia of mediocre choices, and you make it a place where people want to stay, instead of a place where they can't wait to finish and go, it might change things a bit. 

I'm not a pub landlord. I'll never be one. But I'm a customer, and I know what I've seen that works, and what doesn't. 'The Chequers' works. The pub in my town could work, too. But only if someone chooses to put into it what they want to get out of it.

When I Grow Up...

I've been doing a lot of thinking today about role models.

I think the thing that really struck me today is that, for the most part, the role models that girls grow up with are ingénues. And they come in all sort sorts of categories, created by various groups of people or individuals, etc. So you've got your Disney crowd (Ariel, Snow White, Cinderella, Elsa, Aurora, blah blah). Then you've got the crowd I hung out with -- Jane Eyre, LIzzie Bennett, Dorothea Brooke -- that type of heroine. And they're all presented with their problem that they have to overcome: I'm poor. My stepmother hates me. I'm a fish. I turn things into ice. I'm an orphan. I've fallen in love with my husband's hot young cousin -- the typical stuff, right?

But if you think about it (caveat: Elsa's not really included here - see ***), all their stories pretty much end when they've hooked up with a guy. Generally speaking, their stories end at the altar: 'Reader, I married him'. And while you get a teeny tiny glimpse of good ole Jane as mother, it stops pretty much after her adored Rochester sees the bairn with his own two (unblind) eyes. YAY! The underdog triumphs again.

Then there's the other end of the spectrum - the haggy, croney part. Generally speaking, these women are the exact opposite of the fresh, young things from above. These are the women that are solitary, slightly weird, a bit scary, and either live in the woods in a hut that runs around on chicken legs, bake children into pies, or get burned/drowned as witches. Neat. I can't wait. (Another caveat: Miss Marple comes out all right in the end, but she's a maverick here).

But what I started thinking about is that we all grow up with these kinds of role models. About how it's all about being young, beautiful, feisty, adventurous enough, and we're geared up to find our way, and hope we bag Prince Charming/Mr Darcy along the way. And sometimes the crone shows up, too, but usually it's as the Fairy Godmother, or the Evil Witch, one of which gets us to the ball on time, and the other tries to prevent us from getting PC or Mr D (Lady Catherine loses out here, but she still fits the role).

So there we go - out in the world, armed with these perceptions. And we let ourselves be cast, as willing or not-so-willing participants, wearing whatever costume we're provided with, and the curtain goes up.

And biology kicks in. We get our plumage dusted off and shined up. We parade around, and strut, and beckon. Because somewhere, underneath of all the crazy, fun madness that you get up to when you're young (and beautiful, and slender, and single) are your genes, telling you that it's time to find someone so that you can make sure your genes get passed on before your ovaries shrivel up and turn into dried fava beans. 

So that's what you do. You follow Lizzie Bennett's lead - you dance at the Netherfield Ball, you say 'no thanks' to Mr Collins (let's not even think about passing on genes with him), you finally get rid of the schmuck, and you bag Mr Darcy (TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!!!). 

And you marry him. And as the carriage rolls away to Derbyshire to your palatial estate where you're going to live happily ever after...the instruction manual stops.

Where are the role models for those years in between the ingénue and the crone? Where are the books that talk about what it is to be a matron? A mother? After you've passed on your genes, and you have put aside all the plumage and the frippery and the mating dance -- what then?

[LITERARY ASIDE: Don't forget here that matron doesn't mean fat, red-cheeked, and dowdy. It means a 'married woman or a widow, especially a mother, of dignity, mature age, and established social position.' So being called matronly doesn't suck, really, if the person knows what they're talking about.]

Because all that leads up to the altar, and to child bearing, which results in the fulfilment of your biological destiny, right? (*Please note here that I'm WELL aware that there are plenty of women who have chosen not to have children. But I think there's something behind the baked-in sexual urges of youth that are driven by a primordial urge to make sure your genes make it to the next generation. IMHO, of course).

I know what you're thinking. Scarlett O'Hara. She did it. She married Charles, had Wade. Then she married Frank Kennedy, and had Ella. Then Rhett, and had Bonnie. But if you look at Scarlett, she never makes that transition, does she? She's still always trying to be her 16-year-old self, with the tiny waist, surrounded by all the single gentlemen attending the Twelve Oaks barbecue. She never really transitions out of the ingénue phase until the very end of the book, when tragedy strikes so close to home that she finally has to grow up. But again, we're left hanging - this time, not at the altar, but watching her as she makes her plans for tomorrow, to get Rhett back (i.e. put the plumage on, shake her tail feather, do the mating dance to bring him back).

But I want to know what you think. Where are our matronly trailblazers and mavericks?

We can't rely on characters like Mrs Bennett, with her ribbons, nerves, and discussions of lace. Or Mrs van Hopper - with her bossy, brutish behaviour.

I always have wanted to grow up to be Mrs Fezziwig. Remember her? She's the wife of Ebenezer Scrooge's boss -- the one who throws the terrific Christmas parties for all the employees. We only see her as a glimpse of Scrooge's past, but from what I've seen, I think I like her. She's 'worthy to be [her husband's] partner in every sense of the term'. And Fezziwig himself is a bit old-fashioned, a bit foppish, but about as happy of a man as you'll ever know.

And if that's all I have to go on right now, I'll use it. But I'm going to keep looking.

***Elsa doesn't end up with anyone. She's the Ice Queen, revisited. Clever girl. She gets to be who she really is, without all the hindrance of propriety, society, and family breathing down her neck. If that's a spinster, it comes highly recommended.

A Wise Geezer Once Said...

'It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.'

Anyone know what great brain said the above?

Yep. Albus Dumbledore. A truly excellent man. Shame about the 'not being a real person' bit.

JK Rowling gives a lot of good advice via ole Albus. Sure, they're great stories with great characters, but she sneaks these bits of wisdom in without us really noticing until later. And I like that.

But I think it's worth giving that quote from Albus a chew every once in a while, just to make sure it's front of mind. And believe me, it's so easy for a whole load of the daily shite to get in the way, and block out the important things.

The choices our parents make for us when we're too young to know better are one of main things that determine if we're fuck-ups in our lives, or end up decent people. And if your parents make half-decent choices for you, and teach you how to do the same, then you're in pretty good shape. At least until you go off into the world where you can do what you damned well please without them harping at you about stuff from dawn to dusk.

My parents did a pretty good job, especially considering that they were practically CHILDREN when they became parents. And they each had their issues, which, alongside all the good stuff they taught me and my brother (i.e. Don't litter. Don't be a jerk. Clean up after yourself. Don't hit. Tell the truth. Apologize. Say please and thank you. Be nice, etc.), we also absorbed. And it's really an eye-opener of a day when you suddenly realize that you do stuff, or act a certain way, or think about things in a particular light, because you subconsciously learned how to mimic your parents along with all the shit they inherited from their parents.

But I think I need to start taking a good look at the choices I make, rather than question my abilities. And that means abilities across the board - as a parent, a spouse, an employee, etc. I'm VERY able and I do what I do well (most of the time). But it's the choices that are under fire here.

I have a really short fuse when it comes to my youngest. She's amazing -- smart, funny, cute. But boy is she a pain in the arse. And she's a typical four-year-old kid. Her attention span is great if she's doing something she likes; not so great if she's uninterested in the activity at hand. She faffs around with eating her meals. You've got to ask her to put her jacket on about seven times before you can walk out the door (this is especially effective when I'm trying to get her to school and me to the train on time every morning). So I shout. LOUDLY. And I hate it.

But it occurred to me tonight that I'm establishing the dynamic of our future relationship here. She acts out, I shout, she cries, I get stressed out, and we all end up feeling rotten. And none of it changes the fact that it still took 15 minutes for her to take her socks off.

So -- choices, not abilities. I need to choose to change how I interact with my kids. With my husband. Friends, mom, brother, sister-in-law, job. I've never been a good chooser. I've gotten a few choices right (hiya, Boss). But generally speaking, up until about ten years ago, I've been a bit of an ass when it comes to making good choices. I think my mom and dad tried to help me when I was younger, but I also know that they had their own issues and lives and thoughts to sort out.

I'm also very aware that I'm genetically programmed to make shitty choices. I've unlearned a lot of this behaviour (thanks, Valerie Brucker -- I miss you). And I know my nuclear family has done some good unlearning, too. See? It's never too late to think about choices.

I have a lot of abilities - I can do a TON of stuff. But it's the choices that I've made across almost my whole life, in conjunction with my abilities, that have come up a bit flat. It's almost as if by the time you reach your 40s, you've got a good enough idea about how it all works to actually be ready to be out there in the world. You Get It. It Makes Sense. You've Got A Grip On Things.

The sad part is, there's no do-overs. Not a one. The best you get is a clean slate.

It's not about a mid-life crisis (I had mine at about 28 years old, I reckon). It's about understanding how to make choices that turn you into the person that you want to be -- now, tomorrow, next week. And hopefully, those choices will allow a bit of retro-fitting, so you can try to see your former self as the person you wanted to be, too.

My husband and I were just talking about sticker charts - you know the ones? Where your kid gets a sticker if they [fill in the blank] for a whole day/week. When they get a week's worth of stickers, they get a [fill in the blank with treat/item/event]. So we were talking about creating a sticker chart for the youngest, to see if we can get her to try to not be so utterly bonkers.

I think the person who needs the sticker chart is me.

Kish mier en toochis...

After some quick conversation with the husband last night, and some serious thinking about what's been going on in my life recently, I've made the decision to make some decisions.

I don't have too much longer to go before I can put them in writing, but suffice it to say that it's going to be good.

It's going to mean there's going to be a lot less stress in my life, and a lot more joy (no, I'm not separating from my husband). Ha ha. See what I did there? I made a hilarious 'spouse' joke.

But it's actually the spouse who said 'you should listen to this great Freakonomics podcast - I think it'll do you some good.' And you know what? It did.

It got me thinking that what I spend my days doing has to be something that I not only LIKE doing, but that lets me use the expertise and the experience I have on a daily basis. Currently, what I'm doing could be done by a robot (see previous post on this subject), or they could save themselves a ton of cash and just get some newbie, wet-behind-the-ears recent graduate or temp to make screenshots of websites, and put up pictures on the noticeboard, or make sure that everyone gets the monthly email about passwords.

Yep. This is my job. After 25 years in business, this is the majority of my work. Sure. I have projects to work on. But I'm so busy doing administration and clean-up, that I can't find the time to actually perform any of the tasks that are supposed to show why I need to do more and be more. But I spend an inordinate amount of time putting data from one excel spreadsheet into another, and sorting it (over, and over, and OVER again) because someone somewhere (who has no idea of what I do, or how I do it) has made a decision that may see like a good idea, but doesn't bear any resemblance to reality.

Oh yes. I also love being told off by a newly hired colleague how to do my job, and why how we've always done something clearly isn't how we should still do it. Please note: I've been at my place of employment since 2002, with an 18 month break between 2005-6. So clearly I wouldn't have any experience with change, or have been through any restructures, or new 'business implementations' engineered by profit-seeking (and utter out of touch with reality) bean counters and uber-Geschäftsleute who got their MBAs and love to talk about globalization, but haven't been in the trenches in years.

I'm just done. I'm done with the stress that makes me grind my teeth at night so badly that I get headaches. I'm done with the place that raises my cortisol levels to such an extent that I get the shpilkas just walking in the front door of the place. And to run with the Yiddish here, I'm also over the schmegeggy who's made me cry twice (when I swore it would never happen). I'm an ADULT, for God's sake!

So watch this space, nu? It's all going to be great.

A Woman's Castle...

We have a bad habit of wanting to move. I think it's the challenge of finding a total dump, buying it for cheap, and then doing it up the way we want.

I've been online tonight looking at houses we can't afford, and having a splendid time. There are a lot of houses out there that I'd like to live in. But I think that I'd like to live in them for a few months, and then after a while, I might start to feel a bit lonely. Does anyone really need 3,500 square feet to live in (I know you're going to tell me 'yes, they do!', but I'm not sure I buy it).

That being said, some of the greatest houses I've seen and been in are houses where it wouldn't hurt to have either an intercom system that worked throughout the house, so that you could page people when tea was ready, or when you were looking for someone ('Boss - I am in the kitchen - report to me, please!'). Either that, or you'd have to have a scooter.

The house that we saw at Grey's Court last weekend was that sort of house. Terrific staircase up from the ground floor where the stairs were so plentiful that you actually went up the stairs, and reached the back of the house before the stairs turned, and then took you back almost to the front of the house again. Super great. The kind of stairs you want to come down for your prom, or your wedding, or when you're having a spectacular house party. Tres glamorous, of course.

But where we are now isn't glamour. It's big enough for what we need right now. Granted, we have way too much stuff. The kids have too many toys, and no matter how many times I suggest a cull, the suggestion is met with more than a bit of resistance. And I have too much crap, too. I love to collect things. I've got a great collection of blue and white creamers. I'm just waiting for a house where I can display them. I also have a lot of other things that I've collected.

My McCoy pottery collection is partially on display, and partially in storage at my mom's house. I've got some great art that's, again, at my mom's house. Although some of it is in our loft here. I've got knick-knacks galore. Books. Old tin toys that you wind up to watch something happen. Memorabilia. Biscuit tins. The list goes on.

It's like water. Crap seeks its own level. The moment we buy a new, larger house (one day), the level of crap will just expand until it fills the space available to it. Another good example is my crafting area (which I did purge earlier this year). The amount of yarn, fabric, do-dads, bits, pieces, notions, and parts of things that I kept in case I ever might need something like them -- it's incredible.

But I do use it. Slowly. I crocheted the eldest her name in brightly coloured yarn bunting a few years back. I just recently for Xmas gave the youngest a crocheted name bunting, too. I'm prepared to organize all the granny squares I've crocheted into a real, live blanket. I just need to sit, and organize it, and number the squares. I've got another blanket on the go - for the beach. I've got about halfway through my second quilt, so that needs doing.  I just need a week off of regular life to finish my crafting projects.

I guess it's just that for some reason I have this idea that if we moved to a larger house, we'd have more space, and I wouldn't feel like it's such a chore to craft. I can't get stuff out to do, and set it up, and then go back to it for a half hour at a time when I can. Instead I have to take things out, and set up in the kitchen, which takes a while, and then do what I want to do for a finite amount of time, and then I have to dismantle it all and put it all away. So more often than not I feel like it's just best to not get it all out.

May be in the spring. Maybe then, for some reason, it won't feel like such a chore.

But I'm going to keep looking at the houses that are for sale out there. You never know. We might find a place we like enough to venture forth, taking all our crap with us.

Vinyasa

I go to yoga class every Wednesday night. My teacher is a super woman named Sara. I'm so glad I have her as a teacher.

She's funny, has great hair, good ink, and never teaches a class the same way twice. It's pretty great.

There have been times when we've done partner yoga (not my fave, but it helps put you face to face with your space issues), and then classes that have been all about balances, or hip stretches, or abs. I swear to you we once did (once the warm up was over) an entire class of pigeons. If you've done yoga, you'll know what I'm talking about.

To crib a statement my grandma used to say all the time about food, 'there are asanas that we like, and there are asanas we are learning to like.' I'm learning to like pigeons. I know they're good for me, but they're uncomfortable as hell, and about as intense of an asana as you get. However, as someone who carries a very large percentage of stress and tension in her hips, the more pigeons I get in a class, the better, really.

Tonight was a great class. Lots of vinyasa (dynamic flow) going on - it gets the blood going, and really helps me to turn my head off. I'm grateful for the time I have every Wednesday night to go.

Because part of what I'm attempting these days is to increase my mindfulness, I think the yoga really does help. I've got a few other things I'm doing (trying to focus on what I'm doing at the moment, trying to see things as they're unfolding in front of me, trying to spend time with my kids and really listen to what they're saying and to really play with them, etc.), but of lot of my mindfulness education is learning to let go.

That's the most difficult thing of all.

I'm a major control freak about a lot of stuff. I can't stand a messy house. It drives me nuts when my husband never puts his stuff away. He's constantly leaving his wallet somewhere in the house instead of always putting it in the same place, or he'll wander round trying to find his car keys, instead of putting them on the key hook. And it's like fingernails on a chalkboard when I go into my kids' rooms and find four days' worth of dirty clothes lying around (I know. It's just going to get worse.).

But where I used never to be able to go to bed without doing the dishes, now (sometimes) I can. And I've gotten a lot better about just scooping up all the junk that gets left round the house and dumping into the little green basket at the bottom of the stairs, instead of putting all their shit away for them. Now if there's something that's missing, I try to say 'Have you checked the green basket?'

So the yoga thing helps with that. It's pretty good exercise - strengthening, limbering, that sort of stuff. But a lot of it is for my mind too.

So Namaste and all that. We had a pretty good class tonight with a good extended relaxation bit at the end. I'm off to bed.

It's All About the Bread, Man, Part 2

So tonight is going to be short. But I had to write this down.

The experimenting with the bread making continues apace.

Tonight we (my eldest kid and I) decided to use some flour that we got last year (don't worry, it's been in the freezer so it's fine) from The Town Mill in Lyme Regis.

We go every year for a week's holiday, and last year we went to see the mill in action. It's pretty amazing stuff. You can go in and listen to a volunteer talk about the history of the place, and hear about all the different parts of the mill, what they do, and how it all works. The wheel itself is pretty amazing, and when they open that gate and let the water in, and the wheel starts turning, the noise is incredible. Even for kids who weren't very old at the time (6 and 3), they were pretty astounded.

The eldest asked 'what makes it go?', and when I told her it was just the water, she said 'I like that - no pollution.' Smart kid.

So they can't sell the flour they grind (for Health and Safety reasons -- aargh), but if you give a donation, you can take a bag home with you. So we did. We watched them pour the wheat into the shoot, and watched the damsel rod regulate the cascade of wheat kernels onto the millstone. Then we went downstairs and watched the miller collect the flour into a brown bag, label it, tape it shut, and that was it.

So fast forward to tonight. Tonight it was suggested that I get the Lyme flour out of the freezer, and use it for tonight's loaf of bread. So we used the same recipe as before, but instead of four cups white flour, we did 2 of each kind of flour. Then I let the bread machine go through a cycle of kneading, stopped the machine, and then started it from the beginning for a second knead cycle. I also decided to put the warm water, sugar, and yeast into the pan first and let it sit for about 5-6 minutes before I put the flour in, to let the yeast ramp up a bit.

After the Third Rise

First rise in the bread machine. Second rise after the punchdown is in the warmed bowl (in the low oven) greased with olive oil. You put the punched down dough in the bowl and turn it so that it's all coated with the oil. Then into the over for a 30 minute second rise. After 30 mins, you get the second punchdown, and then shape it on your baking tray where you've got a dusting of white flour. Another 15 mins rise in the warm oven, and then out to make a few slashes on the top while the oven's preheating properly for the bake (200C/425F). Then bake for 30 mins. Here it is before baking.

(Just between us, it just seems important to let you know that I know I'm starting to obsess about this bread thing. I can't help it. I have struggled for years to bake my own bread. Now that it's working, I feel like I've achieved something major here. I realize it's not string theory, or the double helix, but it's a serious personal milestone that I've reached, and I'm unashamed about shouting about it).

I've also emailed The Town Mill to tell them they should open up a part of their website to allow people to upload photos of the bread they've baked using flour from the mill. I know. It's just getting nerdier and nerdier.

After the Bake

Satisfied Customer

So I'm feeling pretty good about this bread thing. Really good. I actually just did a little jig in the kitchen. And the husband came downstairs, in the middle of his ablutions, just to have a little nibble off the end of the bread. We cut it open and you could see the steam coming out. Oh! And I forgot. I put some of those herbes de Provence in again (eldest voted for herbs, instead of sunflower seeds again). So it should be a good combo - the whole wheat flour with the herbs.

And we all know that the family is pretty much the toughest customer there is. So now it's really a question of if the kids will eat it. I'll bet they will.

And I have to say that I'm actually rather excited to take a sandwich to work tomorrow, using this bread. Ham and cheese with Branston pickle, mayo, and some wild rocket thrown in for good measure. It's so middle class, it's sickening. But I don't care.

I DID IT!!!!

The Grind

So I've posted before about the headaches I get. I call them monsters. And they really are. Horrible things, and I can sort of tell that they're coming. I'm one of those lucky people who tend to get them monthly. However, I can get them any time, so it's not like I can take prophylactic measures, as if I'm a werewolf, and I just need penning up every time there's a full moon.

I've been to the GP to try to figure this out. The suggestion is that I should take ibuprofen two days before my 'cycle' starts (sounds like I'm getting ready to go out on my Triumph Thunderbird for a spin) to head off the headache. But I can't. Because regularity hasn't been something I associate with myself recently.

There's a possibility that it's related to 'hormonal fluctuation', to use GP-speak, and so the topic of hormone replacement of one kind or another was brought up. Regulate the hormones, and then I'll know when it's coming, and can medicate in advance.

Except I can't. Because I'm too old (no COCs for those over 40), and because COCs are a major no-no for anyone who gets migraines.

Did you know that migraineurs (well, officially I'm a migraineuse) have a slightly higher risk of stroke that people who don't get 'em? And if you get aura with 'em, the risk is even higher? I know. It just gets better and better (thanks WHO, for that info).

Anyway - I can't regulate, so I can't anticipate.  And if I can't anticipate, I can't medicate.

I feel like I'm in an INXS video.

So I've been prescribed meds to take when the headaches hit. And believe me, they hit. For people who don't get migraines, there's just no explaining the pain. I have had two caesarean sections. I'd rather have more of those than a migraine.

It's almost impossible to function in the middle of a migraine, and yet just because I have them doesn't mean that I can bunk off work, stop being a mom, not cook dinner, stop doing laundry -- stop my life. There are still a zillion things that need doing and having a migraine hasn't got bugger all to do with not doing all those things.

So I've asked about pain meds, hormone therapy, I've kept a food diary, stopped drinking booze, limited my caffeine, sworn off pungent cheeses -- you name it. And still they come.

Then my jaw started hurting a couple weeks ago. Properly hurting. But I'd had a four-day headache, and a bit of earache to go along with it. Was pretty sure that it was just the preamble to winter illness. But I went to the dentist, thinking I hadn't been in a while, and maybe I had a cavity.

And the dentist, after a quick X-ray (no cavities), asked a few questions about what it felt like, and then came out with TMJ as a possible reason for the jaw ache.

Have you ever seen one of those films where the protagonist realizes something, and there's this great cinematic blur of the images whipping through the mind of the main character as they put all the puzzle pieces together to eventually end up exactly where they are Right Now, where the Solution To The Issue That's Been Plaguing Them is Suddenly Revealed?

That was me.

When I was 11, I had braces. And headgear. And so while I have straight teeth and no overbite now, what I have is a horrible clicking jaw (the husband said the sound of it was practically a deal breaker). And then in 2010 when I was pregnant and at my dentist appointment, I was told that the dentist could see microscopic cracks in my teeth, which indicated that I was grinding my teeth at night. So I was made a tooth guard to wear at night, which I brought home from the dentist and promptly forgot about after the second child was born.

But my mom found something out - she's found a whole bunch of info about how bruxism is related to headache. A Whole Bunch. And bruxism is related to anxiety and stress. Very Related. (NB: Thanks, gaggle of GPs, who've NEVER suggested this throughout my 8 year quest to figure out why I get headaches - much obliged).

The headaches started in 2006, when I worked for a company that I hated so badly I came home and cried every night. Stress? Yep. Did I have anxiety issues in 2007 after my first kid was born? Sure did. Am I a worrywort (2003-present)? You betcha. 

So I dug around in the closet, found the tooth guard, and I've been wearing it based on the recommendation of the dentist (and my mom) who said if I've got it, I should be wearing it. And to go for a good fortnight to see if I notice any difference. And that she reckons the sore jaw, the earache, and the grinding are all related.

Maybe these headaches, while still clearly linked to Diana, may abate a bit by my wearing my bit of kit when I sleep. So far I'm two nights in, 12 to go.

We'll see what happens.

British Weather

Ladybird Fairy Door

Now that I'm officially British, having naturalized in 2012, I feel as though I'm sanctioned to discuss the weather with the frequency and exuberance with which the native British do.

If it's raining, I complain. If it's sunny, I talk about what a treat it is to have sun, and how we'd better take advantage about it while we have it. If it's cold and frosty, I make sure to enter into a conversation about how the trains are sure to be delayed. If it's hot, I'm guaranteed to interject into a conversation about how the Brits just can't cope with heat.

Today's the same kind of situation. It's beautiful outside; cold, crisp, blue skies with high clouds. And because it's a Sunday we do our utmost to find some sort of outdoor activity where the kids can run around (and get tired) and where we can find something interesting to look at, all topped off by the requisite pit-stop at the café for coffee and cake.

Last autumn, as an early xmas gift, my mom generously gave us a family membership to the  National Trust. The backstory here is that when my mom visits us every year for an extended period of time, one of the things she and I do is go off on a two-day trip on our own to visit some places. These usually include castles, country houses, and most usually, some sort of destination that ends up being a Pride and Prejudice pilgrimage (the GOOD one, mind, not the crap one). Last year we went to Sudbury Hall (Pemberly interior), Haddon Hall (Humperdinck's castle from The Princess Bride), and Hardwick Hall (just bloody amazing).  So now our job is to make sure that we go visit as many NT properties as we can, in order to make sure we get our money's worth. And the thing that's great about having the pass is that we can take the kids, and it doesn't matter if we stay three hours, or 45 minutes. We don't have to stay in order to make sure that we get back what we've paid on the day pass; we can come and go as we please, and not feel under pressure to stay if the kids have gone bat-shit crazy because it's late/they're hungry/etc.

So today we decided to take them to Grey's Court, near Henley. House tours happening, gardens open, tea room available. What's not to like?

Grey's Maze

It was a great place for the kids. They get a map at the entrance showing where they should look for 'fairy doors' - little wooden doors that have been put into place in trees, rosebushes, grottos, and on walls, each with a different motif. They're sweet, and you can tell that someone put a lot of time and effort into creating the fairy doors. The ladybird fairy door was right by the maze and the snowdrops. Watching the kids run round the maze as the sun went down behind the medieval castle wall was pretty great (despite the temperature dropping to near-freezing temperatures by the time the property was closing).

Turns out the house was gifted to the NT in 1969, and there's a lot throughout the house from the late 60s and early 70s, which is a refreshing change from a lot of other NT properties that are furnished with Tudor, Jacobean, and other 'period' furniture that most people just can't relate to. Grey's Court is a house you can relate to - bars of soap in the bathroom, crummy mid-80s TVs in bedrooms, regular quilts on the beds, and in the kitchen, early 70s set of pyrex dishes and patterned cookware sit side by side with copper bottomed pans from the early 1800s. 

The only complaints were the tea room and the tour guide. 

For two adult and one child's jacket potato with fillings, a half a cheese sandwich, two packets of crisps, two juice boxes, and two sodas we paid 27 quid. It seems to me that the NT could relax a little bit on the very pricey tearoom costs, especially as potatoes are 30p each, and you can buy a block of cheddar that'll feed 40 people for a fiver. Is this massive markup really necessary? Lower your prices, folks, and you may find more people eat at your tearoom, instead of packing their own picnic.

Secondly, the tour guide was a very well-meaning woman. The issue was that she constantly repeated herself, and hardly was able to talk about the property in a way that was engaging. There were at least 8 kids in our tour group, and she did very little to engage them. She also kept having to stop her story, go back a few steps, correct the story, and then continue on. By the time we'd reached the third room in the house tour, I had almost no idea who she was talking about, and why. I wish I'd bought a guide book.

However, the good news is that the NT family membership comes through again. It'd have cost us 30 quid to go in today. Since we received the membership, we would have racked up a cost of 22 pounds (Snowshill Manor), 29 quid (Hidcote gardens), and today's entrance fee to total 81 quid. Considering the yearly family membership cost is 98 quid, we've probably only got to go to one more property, and we're even. (If you include my entrance fee to Hardwick Hall back in September (14 quid), we're only 3 pounds out. 

So thanks to my mom for such a cool gift. I can only imagine that as the seasons change, and it gets warmer, we'll use the pass more and more.

It's All About the Bread, Man...

I'm really getting into the manual arts (see previous post about building the wood storage thingy).

I've been on this crusade for the last few years or so to bake decent bread. I know a few people who consistently bake great bread.

One of 'em is a guy who keeps chickens, cooks from scratch, grows his on veg on his allotment, etc., so it's not a surprise that his bread is great. He's pretty much rustic when it comes to knowing how to do that shit.

The other guy is the former singer in a punk band (therefore, NOT rustic) who not only brews his own beer, but also uses the same yeast that he uses for his beer brewing to make his bread. It's pretty amazing to drink the beer and have a slice of the corresponding bread. 

So here I am, year after year, faced with the glory that these two bread-baking geniuses consistently turn out of their ovens, while my bread turns out like a doorstop.

So I started investigating. Knead time. HOW you knead. Type of yeast. Number of times you let it rise. WHERE you let it rise. Order of ingredients. Temperature of water. It went on forever. I asked my mom about how her mom made bread (which she did EVERY Monday without fail, in copious amounts). Turns out my grandma had one huge bowl, and after kneading, would put the bowl on top of the heating pad, and set it to low, and let the bread rise there. So I'm considering investing in a cheap and cheerful heating pad.

But I also had a great suggestion from someone I know who also tries for bread success. She asked if I had a bread machine (which I do), and if I made my bread in the bread machine (I have - see above comment about doorstop, which applies to both machine and hand-made bread). The suggestion was that I let the machine do the kneading, but only that. Once the kneading and the first rise are completed by the machine, I do the rest.

So I tried it. I followed the recipe in the bread machine book. 1.25 cups of water, 4 cups unbleached white flour, 1.5 tsp sugar, 1.5 tsp salt, and yeast (1 packet). I also tossed in a handful of my herbes de Provence, which I buy a large bag of every year when we take our mini-break to visit friends in Valensole. (Please note that the recipe above doesn't have any E numbers, palm oil, stabilisers, or other garbage in it that bread isn't supposed to have. Your bread isn't supposed to stay 'fresh' for 10 days. Yuck.).

The machine did its job. Then I took over.

I also tried the trick for the second rise of turning my oven on low and letting it heat up for a good 15 mins before the first rise was completed. After the first rise, I took the dough out, punched it down, and put it in the opened, still-warm oven, to go through the second rise.

Then I baked it - 25-30 mins at 200C/425F.

And it worked.

Not only was it edible, but it was GOOD. Properly good bread.

I did it again tonight, but tonight I added sunflower seeds instead.











I'm so pleased about this. This means that officially I can bake bread. 

Watch out, geniuses. Your days of lording your MENSA-calibre bread skills over me are about to end.

Coping Mechanism

I'm starting to think that I'm just not cut out for staying in my job much longer. It's not the job, actually. I really like being involved with what I do. What's starting to wear me down is that there is almost nothing left that has to do with people, or job satisfaction, or with making me want to do a good job.

I could be a robot. I'm so tired of words being bandied around that haven't got a thing to do with people. It's words like 'workflow', 'protocol', 'process', 'infrastructure', and garbage like that. I used to be a part of a team that worked together on something, and we had to work together on this something once a month to continually produce new stuff to display on our something. And we DID work together.

We discovered problems. We hashed them out. We argued about stuff in weekly meetings. But ultimately, we all worked TOGETHER to put a plan in place to make things work. Now, a few people have moved round within teams (which happens), and suddenly, some of the new team members are more interested in tittle-tattling to their managers than they are talking to the rest of the team, and trying to work with the team in order to sort stuff out.

Gone are the days when we'd all approach a dodgy situation, and everyone would pipe up with an opinion, good or rubbish. And we all depended on each other's experience and savvy. And then we'd figure stuff out, and everything would fall into place. It would work. It was on time. We were successful. And we loved doing it.

Now, the only things that seem to happen is that people can only say why they CAN'T do something; why something CAN'T be accomplished; why something CAN'T be pulled back into a schedule and launched on time.

I'm so tired of it. I'm tired of people giving excuses as to why things can't be done. A year ago, we were delivering twice what we're delivering now. And granted, maybe people went a bit off piste with things occasionally. I understand that it can be dangerous when that's the norm. But CLEARLY what's happened is that all these processes and workflows and protocols and other corporate bollocks that gets spouted daily haven't made things better. Or more streamlined. Or faster/cheaper/nicer.

All they've done is ruin what was working well. The team isn't a team any longer. It's fragmenting. And what we're supposed to deliver is fragmenting as well. To borrow a phrase from someone I admire, we've adopted the 'labour economics of the call centre' right into our open plan office. Pretty soon it'll be about adhering to a script, as part of the 'workflow' we're adopting in order to create the 'infrastructure' that will guarantee the 'resource' we need in order to define the 'scalability' of the 'deliverables'.

Someone asked me yesterday if I were asked did I still want to work on this project, what would I say? And I answered 'no'. I said I wouldn't work on it if I didn't have to. Because suddenly it's not about us all working together to provide 'excellence'. What's been going on hasn't got bugger all to do with excellence. All I'm hearing is no, can't, won't, isn't. And ultimately, it's now no longer about people working together, using their brains and ingenuity and cleverness and experience, to do something really cool and great.

Now it's about being robots.

Doing the Build

I woke up this morning feeling absolutely wretched.

I get headaches. Big, bad migraines. I hate 'em. And I have meds for them, and sometimes they work, and sometimes they don't. This morning was a don't.

So I got up with the rest of the family, did the ponytails and sorted out the toothbrushes. Then when they all left to go to school, I took a shower, and then went back to bed and slept until 11am. Which was great, because by the time I got up, the headache was mostly gone. Like Westley, in The Princess Bride is 'mostly dead', which means he's a little bit alive. So the headache was still a little bit alive, too.

But by about 1pm I was OK. So I decided to do a couple of things that have been collecting. I recycled the old batteries, took the small, broken electrical things to the SBET collection facility (see you, Obnoxious Laughing Santa thing - it's been real), did the charity shop drop, went to the ironmonger, and then home again. Which is when I decided to finish the wood storage.

My husband has been telling me for about three months that he wasn't going to buy any firewood for our house until we had a place to store the firewood. We DID have a place to store it last year, which was just piled crazily against the house about as far away from the back door as you can get and still be on a paved surface. Sort of a long way to go when it's pelting down rain and you're in slippers. But he wanted a REAL place to store the firewood. And when he investigated about how much it'd cost to buy one (150 quid or so), I just said in a casual way, 'Honey, I'll just build you one'. Of course, this was one of those times where he was actually listening to what I said, so he said 'Great idea!'.  Figures.

When I was at the ironmongers, I bought some self-tapping screws (IS there any other kind to use, really?), and some nails (oooh - it's like pick and mix, but for building supplies!). I got a few other things, too, but that's for later.

Armed with a hammer, a chisel, my electric drill (clever me I charged the battery up last week), and my electric saw, I took apart two pallets, and with the bits from those, and various pieces of scrap wood we've been hoarding from a building project last summer, I made him a wood storage. It's pretty great, if I may say so. I think I want to say so because it's made from reclaimed wood, and I like that. It also sort of looks a little bit like something you'd see in R.A. Miller's back garden -- it's not perfect, and it's very rustic, but that's why it looks so cool; at least why I think it looks cool.

So I think that being outside in the cold (2 degrees C today) and doing something physical, but not formally exercise, helped get rid of the headache. It's a bit meditative, actually. There's an end result that I'm hoping to gain, yes, but it's also a task that has to be done in a completely mindful way - there's no room for thinking about something else when you're busy using an electric saw. It's the same frame of mind I can get into when I'm following a really involved crochet pattern - you can't think of something else, or you end up with a completely wonky piece of unidentifiable yarn thing.

So I did a bit of letting my mind wander (in an 'I'm very much paying attention to the electric saw' kind of way) and did a bit of mulling about The Carrot thing. It's still very much front of mind. But I find that I'm able to think about The Carrot when I've got some peace and quiet. It's a drag that the peace and quiet was precipitated by a monster of a headache, but I guess I'll take what I can get.

I've still got some serious thinking to do. Certainly nothing is going to be discovered in a day, or a week. But just going outside, and working with my hands, and starting with a large pile of odds and ends and leftovers, and ending up with a wood storage thing and a much smaller pile, was good. The coldness of the day, and the quietness that was so quiet that I could hear the echo of the hammer hitting the nails, was a good place to be in for that couple of hours.

The Carrot

I'm stuck in the middle of things, I think.

A very wise person I know told me that my problem is that I don't have a carrot. We all need a carrot. And after doing some thinking, I've realized that this person is correct; I have no carrot.

There's got to always be something that's going to be the motivator, the enticer, the THING that keeps you moving forward.

And yes. I know that I have a lot of things in my life that are keeping me moving forward. I love my family, I love what we do together, and what we are together. That's not really the sort of carrot I mean. The family, and who we are together, and what I am as a part of this family, is a wonderful thing, and I'm thankful for my family every day. (For the record, they also drive me bloody crazy, and I could spend an entire week telling you about all the things that they do that I wish they wouldn't. So please don't think that I'm saying 'I'm thankful' and divorcing myself from reality here).

But I think that what I've noticed, after a bit of introspection, is that there IS no carrot.

In earlier years and times, there were plenty of carrots, in various incarnations, shapes, types. It was a job, or a guy, or a location, or it was finishing my BA after being a dropout for a decade, or completing my MA despite my dad dying in the middle of the program, or planning the wedding, or being pregnant, or doing up the house, or whatever.

And now, when I've looked around, I'm not in higher education, I'm not planning on popping out any more kids, the house is pretty much done, we've been married almost nine years, and the job is pretty much just some place I go every day for 7 hours, and they pay me.

So what's the carrot? You see? I haven't got one. And boy, it's a noticeable absence, suddenly, when I've finally noticed it.

Sure. I dabble in small things: crochet, bread baking (may have finally cracked this one), knitting, Pilates, yoga, etc. But there's no big thing to pique my interest, get me ramped up, make me talk incessantly about a topic the way you do when you've Suddenly Discovered Something. I get up, I go to work, I come home, some nights I exercise, most nights as a team we put the kids to bed, and then we sort of sit around. Occasionally he'll go to the pub. And I'm fine with that. Better for him to go out instead of sit at home while I crochet, or read another vintage murder mystery by Margery Allingham. It's not his fault I'm bored with who I've become.

But I've got to become unbored. If I live to be 90, say, then I'm at the 50% mark right now, and closing. I've got a good amount of time left here, and it's probably a pretty good idea for me to figure out what the hell it is that I want to do, and what I want to learn/become/figure out/create. He deserves something better than the lack-luster, hobo-chic person that I've become.

Vegetables are supposed to be good for you. I need a carrot.