inthesaddle

[inthesaddle]

Is this still a medium or am I old?

Anyone else feel aimless? (I ask this as though one single person will see it/read it/respond/care?...but just go with me.)

I, per usual, am steeped in nostalgia. I just spent the better part of my night listening to Little Earthquakes by Tori Amos, followed by Ray of Light by Madonna. I’ve been watching old movies like Mystic Pizza and re-watching early seasons of Real Housewives of NY, doing it all from my bed, on my computer instead of the relatively new, nice, big TV downstairs. It’s as if I’m 20s Alison, alone in my apartment in New York, watching tapes of recorded-from-tv episodes of Friends and Sex and the City on my 12″ TV/VCR combo, purchased in 1996 when I went to college. It’s purposeful, in a way. I’m indulging. I’m going back to 20s Alison—even teenage Alison, watching TV at one in the morning when I couldn’t sleep, discovering Fiona Apple on MTV or laughing at first-season episodes of Saturday Night Live from before I was born. I have these comforts; music and media that touches a part of me that is stuffed away from the rest of myself. The part that felt the promise of the future. The part that had time to sit in that promise and that hope. Time to feel every bit of sadness, drama, anger, self-righteousness, self-loathing, ambition, heartbreak and, despite it all, optimism. There was so much time. It was safe. It was heavy, but it wasn’t real.

Or I just didn’t realize how real it could get.

I’ve wanted to write into this void many times over the last few years. Whenever I’ve attempted, I usually get caught up reading old posts; connecting with a part of my life from 15 years ago, for which I’m grateful there’s documentation. My early days of my marriage, my time before kids, my time with babies—really, my last time as only me. Again, there was time. Now it’s five minutes here and there...the rest tied up in tasks and life that is decidedly much less self-indulgent. There is no time to create anew. There is time to reread/relive/remember. Nostalgia is a drug for 40s Alison. It allows me to feel. And I feel so much.

I can’t quite articulate the emotions that bubble up when I listen to music or watch shows/movies that I connected to deeply—or even not that deeply. I don’t recall being super into Little Earthquakes, yet I can experience teenage Alison listening to it...feeling every bit of Me and a Gun despite not knowing any version of that kind of violence (even still, thank god). And tonight, after listening to that and Ray of Light, I dabbled in watching old Janet Jackson videos, namely for If. I had to see that iconic dance. I had to relive the wonder of watching Janet, gorgeous as ever, doing a dance I would pause and rewind and freeze frame and slow-mo for hours trying to learn. The nostalgia drug reminded me—I was a kid once. I was a kid who spent hoooooouuuuuuurrrrrrrs dancing. I was a teenager who took herself and the dances she choreographed way too seriously. I was not that good of a dancer, but goddamnit I believed I could be Janet.

I’m 44 now. I’m tired. I’m decidedly middle-aged. I was at Georgia’s dance recital today, watching my now eleven year old on stage. I sat next to a young mom, squealing in delight at her tiny daughter doing ballet in front of an audience. I was that young mom with her tiny daughter at her first recital eight years ago. Where did it go? Why don’t I remember enough of it? Why do I miss it so much?

How has it gotten so hard to keep time?

I want to write more music. I want to interview people I find interesting and find out where their time goes. I want to sit and do nothing. I want to do more. I want to do something that counts. I want to do something meaningful. I want to do things right and well. I want to make my family proud. I want to be present. I want to be anywhere but here. i want to be alone. I want to be with people. i want to be responsible for myself. I want a puppy. I want to teach my kids every possible life lesson.

I want. I want. I want.

Where to begin?

[inthesaddle]

Guys, this is Leo. Leo, this is my blog.

This little guy is almost 18 months old. He just started walking for real; he says “hass” when he’s trying to say “yes,” “guck” when trying to say “stuck,” “opoo” for “open,” and tons of other ridiculous things; he has a killer fucking smile; he is the most willful thing in the world; but he is also charming and sweet and cuddly and gives big open mouth kisses. 

His entree into this world was a dooz...more on that later. Just felt like posting and he deserved an introduction, so.

Here he is. Leo Harlan. My little lion.

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*blows figurative dust off blog*

I am anxious. Time is passing. The world is changing. I am horrified. I am frightened. I am kind of desperate...flailing...reaching out around me for something, anything, to steady me. Quiet my head. Quiet my heart. Music helps. The almost daily dance parties I have with Georgia wherein I introduce her to Lady Gaga and Cyndi Lauper and Madonna and Bey and other amazing women help. Laughing helps. Distraction helps. But night. It's quiet and my head and heart don't want to go along with that program. They're loudest when there's nothing else to calm them. And so, I should be sleeping as my eyes are aching and heavy; but instead, I write. Hello, everyone, from the depths of motherhood, existential crisis, anxiety, malnutrition and sleep-deprivation. I am here. I am just barely keeping my head above water. But I am. And I can see. And that's enough for now, I suppose.

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It’s a pink and purple world...

We are getting Georgia a bike for her birthday. We want to get one that Leo can eventually use, too. Fuck if I can find a non-genderized bicycle. We just want something cool in a solid color like red or silver or white or whatever, with no girl (hearts, rainbows, stars) or boy (fire, lightning bolts) decals. And I can’t find it. Oh wait, I can, and it’s awesome…it’s just $400.

So, to sum up. The affordable world is genderized. And it’s annoying.

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Never change

My nails are super long and strong cuz I'm still taking prenatal vitamins. They are totally at the point where I usually would rip each one off. I'm resisting. Because maturity. ...a day later... And nails have been ripped off because who am I kidding.

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I feel as though an update is in order...

Still in the burbs.

Still married to Jonny.

Still have Georgia. 

Still have Jessa.

Now have Leo (picture will come eventually). 

Leo is three months, and if you remember my birth story with G, you’ll appreciate that mine for my son is EVEN CRAZIER. To follow...eventually.

Was the music teacher at G’s preschool last year and will resume that job again next fall. 

Still trying to find a way to get my own music out there again.

Still working through my adulting issues...clearly (re: my last million posts).

More tired.

Older.

Calmer? Sometimes?

Still overreacting though. Some shit never changes.

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Okay, Adele...

I think I probably felt pretty nostalgic when I was 25. Oh for those good ol’ days of being.....18. Yeah. And yes, she has a kid and a husband (fiance? boyfriend?) and that instantly ages you and changes you and makes you think about life and then you get depressed and — ta-dah! — nostalgic...but...

Let’s see how nostalgic you are at 37. When you can’t even type the numbers 3 and 7 together without being like, the fuck? I’m 37?? When you seriously feel like just yesterday you were 25. When you realize you’re getting too old to change things, and that things didn’t turn out quite the way you thought they would.

And while we’re on that. Your life? Pretty amazing. Stop singing about yourself like you’re a sad sack who’s regretting her whole life. YOU’RE ADELE. You’re universally loved. You’re hilarious. You’re beyond talented. Safe to say you are on top of the world right now.

Also, YOU’RE 25!!!!

Wow, Adele’s album really hits a nerve doesn’t it?

And welcome back, Saddle.

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Ha.

I just read the post and the ones before it...there’s a common thread in all of my very sporadic musings on life. Adult life. Not meant for me, clearly. Funny how that’s what gets me to write each time. Not the joy of my daughter or the things I’m doing with my life these days. It’s my incompetence as an adult. Perhaps I need to see my therapist a little more often.

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Every so often...

I get in these modes like, I will never ever catch up. I am lazy and sad and I cherish my time at night to sit on my lazy, sad ass and watch bad television and do nothing. Well, knit, so at least there’s something productive. Sometimes. But there’s so. much. to. do. So much to do just in daily life, forget about the little details that everyone else seems to get so effortlessly. The pictures of my child are at least a year, if not more, old. And I barely have any of them around my house. If I was one of those moms, I would have a picture book for each year of her life. I would have finished her baby book! Her baby book, for crying out loud! I would decorate this house. I would do all the things I want to do to it. If I wasn’t so goddamned lazy. Because I am.

Every so often I get in these modes and I feel like a 36-year-old failure at adult life.

Also, hi! It’s been a while.

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Aaaaand. I'm 36.

Also, I'm hungry already. This does not bode well for fasting.

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Ruminations on turning 36

eh.

the nose really doesn’t ever stop growing, does it?

I feel like I’m 26…and not in a “I feel so young!” type of way…in a “what? I’m 36???? But I’m still a kid!!” kind of way.

a confession: this adulting thing? I’m kind of bad at it (see above bullet). And not in the ways I thought I’d be bad at it. In relatively superficial ways. Like, I have a house, right? I have NO IDEA how people keep their houses up. We will have lived here for two years as of Sunday and most rooms are pretty much the same that they were six months after we moved in; that is, fairly empty and transitioning. The projects I say I’m going to take on (painting our peeling front porch; painting the rooms we didn’t paint upon moving in; putting art/photographs on the walls; getting furniture; changing out the previous owner’s wicker mirrors in the bathrooms) take a backseat. I now understand how people’s houses very quickly look unkempt…if you don’t get on that shit right away, it’s really really hard to catch up. Yeah, I know I have a two and a half year old (that alone is, like, WHOA) and that makes my time not my own, but other people with small children seem to perfect their houses and buy seasonal flowers to keep outside their front door. I bought an urn of flowers; they died about two weeks in. And they’re still out there.

hearing Georgia say, “I wanna help celebrate, mama!” re: my birthday is the sweetest ever.

except have I mentioned my birthday is on Yom Kippur? Let me tell ya, that’s always never fun.

I sound like a negative nelly right now. And I guess I might just be.

36 is somehow harder than 35.

BUT…

I have an amazing husband who wants to celebrate me all weekend, a beautiful and hilarious daughter who wants to draw a picture of a cardinal (her request) in my honor and friends and family who love me. So. fasting and atoning and aging aside…it’s a pretty good birthday.

here’s to hope and a great year ahead.

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Conquering the fear.

I threw up today. I threw up for the first time in over ten years (the first conscious time, anyway...last time was in the middle of my c-section, in the throes of a panic attack). Those of you who have read this blog for a while know why this is a big deal for me. The emetophobe in me is passed out in the corner, but the rational me is super proud of myself for getting through it with minimal panic. I did it, you guys! I'm all growns up.

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Adulting.

I loved thunderstorms all through my life. Loved. Was comforted by them.

I don't love them anymore and I think I know why.

As a kid...or even as a young adult living in a rented apartment...it's fun! It sounds nice, the lights might go out and you can play with your siblings in flashlit forts and things like that. You don't have to worry about the fact that the power may go out and ugh will you have to throw out EVERYTHING in the fridge and you JUST went grocery shopping and your house might get water in the basement and is everything sufficiently off the floor down there and where are the flashlights anyway and wait we only have one flashlight and your kid and the dog might be scared and ugh the dog has to go out again and oh my god what if there's a tornado and if there is a tornado oh my god what the hell do we do and all the stuff that I, now an adult, think about whenever there are severe thunderstorms.

This wah-wah moment brought to you by Adult Saddle: Fearful Mother and Homeowner.

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Just when I thought I was free...

Jonny has re-upped the hootie and the blowfish earworm. This might be grounds for divorce.

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#yesallwomen

I've been living under a rock a bit these days and am only just now catching up on the news of the shootings at UCSB. Actually, it kind of says something sad to me that in my mind, when I heard the news at first, I was like, sigh...another shooting. Not that I purposely ignored it, just that it's so unfortunately not shocking anymore.

Now I'm reading all the articles about it and the understandable dialogue that has resulted about misogyny and the "madman" label that has been placed on Rodgers. And it all gets to me. Mental health issues aside, yes, there is another problem here. And yes, it needs to be discussed.

I have been harassed in so many different ways at every point of my young adult to adult life. Hell, I even recall being a child, with my family at a gas station, and the attendant pumping our gas looking in the passenger window and making obscene faces at me. A child. With my parents right there.

I've been catcalled and grabbed on the street by random men I didn't know; I've been drugged and almost taken advantage of; I've been talked down to and made to feel awful (not to mention scared) for not "giving in" by boys I liked and took home with me; I've been called a slut by other boys for having brought the above boys home with me; I've been asked about my sex life by a cab driver (so uncomfortably so, I got out of the cab way earlier than my destination); I've been sent inappropriate pictures by a work-related contact (to my work email, no less); I've been touched by an older, well-to-do man when my husband was looking the other way. From strangers to love interests to men who really should know better, one way or another, I've been made to feel uncomfortable more times than I can count. It's never not been a part of my life. Or any of our lives. Most, if not all of my friends have at least one story. Usually more than one.

And we endure the ridiculous jokes made about women and sex and we downplay the way we are devalued and the way we feel scared and nervous and uncomfortable on a daily basis. And it is wrong. And it is a discussion that should be brought up. And this horrific murder is a good catalyst to that discussion. Let it open the eyes of people who just don't get it. Men and women alike. Open your eyes and understand. There is an issue here...

There is something more than madness.

Talk about it. Learn from it.

Go.

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What happened?

Has anyone else watching Portlandia noticed that Fred and Carrie have gotten way too skinny??

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What I do.

After almost every single social interaction, be it with strangers or with the best of the bestest friends, I panic about whether I said or did something offensive, stupid, weird or annoying. Sometimes I have a specific example in mind, sometimes it's just open wonder. Either way, I obsess about it for longer than I care to admit.

That's some ish, you guys.