A List is TOTALLY as Good as a Real Post

Things I've Been Doing That Have Distracted Me From Blogging (and, Occasionally, Showering):

• Working on...Something. That I can't tell you about yet, because it's for Someone. Someone who reads this blog. I've already said too much.
• Trying to find the time to participate in this puppety-performance art thing (oh, yes, you read that right) so that I can be Doing Something Creative for the first time in two years.
  
• Taking my first stab at making Indian food (thanks, Kitchen Witch!)
• Making mad lists of things that must be done before I travel to Chicago in October for my sister's wedding. Yep, Aunt Benevola's getting hitched, and I am flying with Tankbaby by myself (MOTH to join us later). Eep. So far I have: bought a dress and airline tickets. I have not yet: begun to hoard prescription pain meds to survive the flight. (Not for me, you understand, I would generously share with those around us.)
• Obsessively, raptly, constantly listening to this song, and really, this whole album. What's not like to love about British bluegrass? Gorgeous harmonies, foot-stomping bass lines, and cute boys in suspenders. Am swooning.
• Trying to process the swarm of thoughts and feelings I had when MOTH took me on my birthday date: going to see Rufus Wainwright in concert with the symphony. The first half of the concert was selections from his opera (His opera. That he wrote. In French, no less.), which is not my genre, despite the fact that more than one voice teacher has tried to steer me that way (I am a lyric soprano who wants to be a gutsy alto). But the second half, when he sang and the strings and the horns swelled in the background...ah. It made me want to stand up and sing along--frowned upon at the symphony, sadly. But it all made me think about music and how it's missing from my life these days and how most people in my life now don't even know that I sing. I was taking voice lessons for a while, but stopped when it got prohibitively expensive. I don't miss the lessons, per se, but I miss singing being a priority in my life. But even as all of these thoughts were bubbling up, I was also swept away by the gorgeousness of Wainwright's voice, along with developing a big ol crush on his sweet, flamboyant, self-effacing self (see also, this song, which is what he opened with, and I have been singing it for a week now). And then he sang songs for his mom, who passed away earlier this year, and I cried. And then he sang "Hallelujah." And I cried. Altogether, a really lovely, if emotionally overwhelming, evening. All hail MOTH, Best Birthday Gift Giver!
• Making gallons of homemade chicken noodle soup, the process of which nearly drives me to veganism every time.
  
• Consuming my weight in chocolate brownie frozen yogurt.
• Wondering why I don't need a belt suddenly.
• Getting really worked up over things like midterm elections and insurance deductibles, and realizing that I am officially a Grown-Up, and kind of a boring one at that.
  
• Obsessing over whether 35 is too old to put a purple streak in my hair.
• Getting really excited about my friend's pregnancy--the one that we thought might have been ending at the ER one night, and then the next day, but that your collective good voodoo saved and is now almost twelve weeks along! I'm also hoping to help her plan her shotgun wedding (the official theme), and just generally revel in the fact that sometimes Good Things happen.

And, perhaps most importantly:

• Teaching Tankbaby to make claw hands to request Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"

But enough about me. What have you been up to?

Not So MILF

On Monday (Labor Day), I will turn 35 years old.

Mostly, I'm fine with this. I have all the same insecurities about aging as anyone, but I also really like cake, presents, and attention, so I'm not one of those birthday haters. I don't get those people. It's not like denying your birthday actually slows down the aging process, so why not just run with it and have fun? My friend E is a proponent of the "birthday train," which is what you're riding the entire week surrounding your birthday. She's been known to wear a tiara at work while on the birthday train, and when her husband turned 40, she got him 40 (mostly small) presents. Her kids get cake for breakfast on their birthdays (with a side of scrambled eggs, for protein). I am totally in favor of all such things.

For me, age isn't a number, it's a small person in diapers. I don't feel old because I'm turning 35, I feel old because I'm someone's freaking mom. Well, "old" isn't the right word, because I don't actually feel old. I actually feel like I'm about twelve, and someone soon is going to realize that and take away Grown Up Stuff like my car and my water heater. But since having a baby, I'm definitely feeling pretty asexual. I just see my body these days as something different, utilitarian. Not in an all-bad way; I'm damn proud of what my body did during pregnancy and labor, and what it continues to do to nurture and feed my child. I think it's kinda awesome. And I'm not abandoning hope: I still shave my legs (um, sometimes) and wear makeup (ditto), and generally attempt to have my socks match each other, but I don't find myself primping the way I used to (and used to kind of enjoy, in a girly way).

Obviously, time and opportunity play large roles in this. Who can apply mascara while also standing with one leg blocking the vanity drawers, the other foot planted on the toilet, singing another round of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" while attempting to buy enough time to put in both contact lenses? Why bother with lipgloss for the impromptu trip to the zoo? Am I trying to impress the manatees? I work with kids and get messy, so my day to day wardrobe of Goodwill t-shirts and jeans is perfectly sensible. The difference is that, before Tankbaby, I would Go Out sometimes, and Going Out usually meant impractical shoes, sexxxy hair, putting my face on, the whole bit.

On the rare occasions that I Go Out these days, I do enjoy getting all tarted up. But it's different. There used to be this shallow ulterior motive of looking pretty so maybe someone else will think I'm pretty. Why? I dunno. I've been married to MOTH for eight years, dating for six before that. It's not like I was out there picking up guys. But I like to flirt. And I like those little zings of recognition when you catch someone attractive finding you attractive. Cheap thrills, to be sure, but enjoyable nonetheless. And while I physically look pretty much the same post-baby, I am different. I can dress up, put on the makeup, get all fancy, but I don't feel like I'm sexy right now. Sexy implies mystery and sparkle and edginess, and I'm blunt(ed) and tired and useful and focused on cutting to the chase, because the kid just went down for a nap and there's all this laundry to do...and if you don't feel sexy, you don't exude that energy, and...fizzle.

This is sounding more negative than I mean. I'm not feeling badly about myself, it's more like I'm having trouble seeing myself as belonging in more than one category. For the last two years, my body has been all about function, about serving another human, and it's hard to shift to see it also as a source of pleasure for myself. It's as if someone told you your perfectly lovely, sturdy dining room table also wants to know how your day went and give you a backrub.

I feel like I should probably do something about this. I know that when I stop breastfeeding, those wacky girl hormones will shift again and help reprogram my brain. I'm sure I could find no fewer than twelve magazine articles detailing how to Get My Groove On! or Refresh Myself!, possibly with a 20-Minute Makeover! But in the meantime, I'm just chugging along, really meaning to schedule that haircut before my sister's wedding, but mostly wondering if Tankers will still be nursing in October and should I get a dress that allows access to what Stewie Griffin calls the sweater cows?

Huh. This was not what I started out writing about, but there you go. And now it's late and I'm off to bed to--get this--possibly sleep uninterrupted (thank you, Dr. Jay, for your gentle nightweaning plan, that has led to four separate occasions of Tankbaby sleeping for 8+ hours in a row! I am out of ways to font-ly emphasize that tidbit, but don't let that fool you into underestimating the Goddamn miracle of which I speak). (Huh...is "Goddamn miracle" an oxymoron?) (Hee...I just typed "oxymormon" by mistake, and I just know there's a punch line to be had, but I can't find it.)