In a rut and afraid to die

When I was young I wanted to be a teacher.  I’d put all my stuffed animals in a circle and I’d take roll call to make sure no one was absent.  Orange Dog, Pink Bunny, Ted E. White, they were all present.  I developed lesson plans, which consisted mostly of recess, lunch, and art classes, but then as I got older, I realized I didn’t like children.  My becoming a teacher was in no ones best interest and a career inspiring future generations quickly fizzled.  Instead I became a cop.  

I became a cop because I didn’t need a college education, although now, a college education is preferred and incentives are given for having a degree, and I didn’t need any specific skills that are required for many other jobs.  I also needed a job that had health insurance and some sort of stability.  My being laid-off all the time wasn’t gonna pay my rent.  

And now almost twenty-five years later, I’m still a cop and I hate it.  

I am stuck in a rut and I don’t know how to drag myself out of it.  I don’t recall ever having dreams as a child, other than becoming a teacher.  There were things that I loved to do, like drawing, reading, being outdoors, and playing sports, but never did I think I could earn money doing my hobbies. 

I guess I always thought adulthood was getting a blah-blah job to support oneself and being responsible, which meant paying bills and going to work everyday.  Being happy was a bonus, but not a requirement.  I suppose watching my father in the evenings after his coming home from work and seeing the dynamics of my parent’s marriage was the basis for this opinion, but it is a belief that has stuck with me throughout my life.  My parents supported me in whatever I did, but I don’t recall them ever encouraging me to dream beyond my means.  I lived day by day by day, not once thinking about my future.  

And now almost forty-eight years later, my future is here and I hate it.

It wasn’t until 2004 when I met my husband that I started to gain confidence and to think beyond each day. It was he who encouraged me to dream and move beyond who I was at that moment.  

By then I had been a cop for almost thirteen years and knew of nothing else.  It had become my comfort zone.  Quitting my job wasn’t an option, because I still didn’t have a degree, and in my opinion, no real marketable skills.  Plus, I was making good money and I didn’t want to go back to earning minimum wage while I “found myself”. Being a responsible adult kept me bound to my job, because how else was I to pay our bills?  

My mother had stopped working when I was sixteen years old.  We were a one income family and I saw the difficulties they had because of that.  I also saw how my mother relied on my father for everything, because he was the “bread winner” of the family.  I promised myself I would not be like them in that regard.  I had grown to be independent in that I would make my own money and rely on no man to take care of me. My husband and I were partners, a team, and I was perfectly capable of contributing to our household income.  I was not going to be a stay-at-home wife, which meant I would stay at the job I hated. 

I continued working, but began pursuing my interests in my spare time.  My passion for photography and writing exploded and I often spent my days wandering the city with both camera, and husband, in tow taking pictures, and many an hour at the computer writing short stories and blogging.   

With my husband came new interests, like hiking and NASCAR, and over the years we’ve developed interests together, like traveling and motorcycles.  Our two incomes helped us to be able to take vacations and travel (usually to National Parks where I’d take lots of pictures), and helped us live comfortably.

I am in a rut, because although I now have the confidence and drive to follow my passions, I still have bills to pay and that job that I’ve had such a love/hate relationship with still pays really well.  

I am three short years away from retirement, but my mind is already dreaming to the time when I can travel, write, and take photos full time and perhaps earn some money while doing it.  However, I am impatient and want that time to be now.  I don’t want to wait, because I have a tremendous fear that when I am able to finally retire, I won’t be able to do the things I want to do, because I’ll be dead. 

When I was young, age was never a factor.  I’d live forever and there will always be time.  Time to work, time to play, time to do everything.  Now that I am older, I find that time is fickle, time is misleading, time is selfish and time will kill me as it has already killed some of my friends.  

I don’t want to be part of that statistic of people who retire and die within the first year.  Or who never got the chance to retire, but died while toiling away at a job they didn’t like.  I am afraid to die and that drives me to quit my job today, so that I may do the things that I should have done years ago, but never had the courage to do until now.

However, the responsible adult in me tells me otherwise and keeps asking, “Who will pay our bills?”  So, come tomorrow morning, I will be back at my job, wishing I was anywhere else and hoping time will be understanding and give me one more chance to live life the way I should have.

A Letter to My Cat

Dear Kitten, 

I thought about you today and I cried, and then I smiled, and then I cried again.  Yesterday was the same and tomorrow will be no different.  Perhaps in another week or two, or maybe a month, I can go a day without shedding tears, but right now it feels as if I never will.

You weren't even a year old when you wandered into our yard.  I never knew where you had come from, but assumed you were like the other cats that stopped by for food and water.  I figured after a day or two you'd be gone and another stray would follow in your paw prints looking for a handout. 

You were a little, undernourished thing, with a crooked foot that hadn't healed properly and you always seemed to be smiling.  When I held you for the first time, your bones were so squishy, I thought I would crush you.  I fed you and gave you a blanket to sleep on, but never expected you to stick around.

I continued to feed you and fluff your blanket, but you always remained just a stray until a few months later when one of my indoor cats passed away.  

We buried her in the backyard, which you had now staked out as your own.  You would run and play and leap over her grave marking.  

Soon, it seemed, you had taken on her personality.  Somehow, with your soft kitty kisses and comforting meows, you had made her passing more bearable.  I continued to feed you and fluff your blanket and you grew healthy, but now we called you Cierra and I cared for you.

Five years later, my precious Poka passed away.  I was devastated.  She had been only 5 weeks old when I adopted her and had lived a full 18 years.  She had been my life; had been there as I struggled to find myself.  I cried and cried and didn't think my heart would heal, but soon, it seemed, you had taken on her personality.  

Somehow, with your soft kitty kisses, snuggles, and adorable cuteness, you made her passing more bearable.  I continued to feed you, but now you slept in bed with me and I loved you with all my heart.

Nearly eleven years after coming into my life, after becoming my everything, you are now gone.  Gone away to play with Afoohey and Poka on the Rainbow Bridge. My heart hurts like it has never hurt before.  My tears are endless, but I am thankful you are no longer in pain.  Thankful you are whole again and can be without worry.  Thankful you chose our yard to remain, thankful you let me love you and thankful you loved me just as much in return.

Some people say cats are solitary, independent animals, but you were never like that.  From the moment you came into our lives, you craved our attention and thrived as part of our family. 

I will always cherish the mornings in the 'mommy chair' where you spent time getting 'mommy kisses' and scratches before I went to work and how cranky you became when Daddy's lap wasn't available for you to curl up in and as soon as he did sit down, you were in it and quickly falling asleep.  

I will cherish the times you'd race down the hallway skidding along the hardwood floor and then turn around and do it all over again, and how you'd sleep against me and I would wrap my arm protectively around you (and then in the morning, my arm would be numb because neither of us had moved), and when I'd come home from work and say, "mommy's home!" you'd come running to greet me with your bum foot flailing out sideways, which always made me laugh.  

I will always cherish how I would find you sound asleep (so cute!) in the sun spot on the living room floor and put off vacuuming because I didn't want to wake you and how you liked to help fold laundry so all our clothes were always covered in cat hair and how when I'd come home in a bad mood, just the sight of you would make my 'heart happy' and I'd be good again.

I thought about you today and I cried, and then I smiled, and then I cried again.  Yesterday was the same and tomorrow will be no different.  My heart is empty and as I look at your pictures and remember your kitty smile, I wonder now, who will make your passing more bearable?

- Mommy loves you

RIP Cierra (April 2004 - January 2015)

"Don't cry because it's over, Smile because it happened." - Ted Geisel (Dr. Seuss)

Mastering the Art of Idle Chit Chat

I have yet to master the art of chit chat.  You know, the kind of chatter that strangers do when brought together in a common area, like at the grocery store or on a bus.

I notice how easily it comes to some people, especially when we are all crammed together on the trolley on our way to our day jobs.  With just the slightest bit of prompting, people will chatter to strangers about everything under the sun.  Sometimes their chatter will last my entire ride, which is about 40 minutes.

How did all that chatter come so easily for them?  How do they know what to say? Do they practice at home in front of the mirror?  Do they refer to cue cards with banal sayings scrawled across them that they keep in their purses for just such an occasion?

I've been in situations where I've been forced to chat with a stranger.  I never initiate it, but am often called upon to think of a response to a strangers insipid comment about the weather or price of eggs.

Just this morning while riding the trolley, an older man commented on my t-shirt.  It was a t-shirt I bought during a recent trip to Rocky Mountain National Park.  He asked if I'd ever been there.  My first reaction was to be a smart-ass and give some flippant response, but instead I simply said, "Yes."  He then stared at me as if expecting a longer answer, so I lamely added, "It's beautiful there."

He followed up with a story about his parents having a ranch near Estes Park and that he still has a home there, but lives in San Diego part time because of the nice weather.  We were sitting across the aisle from one another so it made chit chatting difficult, but he continued to talk.  I had no idea what to say, so I nodded a few times while he prattled on.  When he paused to take a breath, I said something along the lines of "that's nice" and turned to look out the window.

That was rather rude on my part, but I didn't know what else to say.  It was at that moment I realized partaking in idle chit chat with complete strangers is difficult for me for several reasons.

The first being I am a private person.  I have no desire to share pertinent information about my life with people I have just met and within earshot of people whom I've never met.  Sometimes when I've been forced to chit chat, I will make shit up like a fake name or talk about my kids (I don't have kids), or be a college student, albeit an older college student, majoring in basket weaving.  Basically I lie, but the other person never has a clue.

My husband and I had a fabulous time on our road trip through Rocky Mountain National Park, but there was no reason why I should share details with this strange man.  I didn't need to talk for the sake of talking and most likely he probably wasn't that interested in my vacation.  He just wanted the opportunity to talk about himself and he did just that.

Secondly, I have trust issues.  Sometimes I am even reluctant to share things with those who I am actually friends with and/or related to, so why would I want to put my business on blast in a trolley crowded with strangers?

And lastly, I avoid chit chatting with strangers because I simply do not care about people or what they have to say.  That reveals a lot about my character and attitude and it's not very flattering, but it is the truth.  It's not narcissism.  It's more of a lack of empathy towards and connection with my fellow man and/or woman.

I'm not on the trolley or at the grocery store to mingle and make new friends.  I am there for a specific reason.  I want to get from Point A to Point B with as little disruption as possible and when strangers want to waste my time with idle chit chat, well, I find that a major disruption.  It's hard being me and any kind of interference, regardless of how small or mundane, can turn my day into a major catastrophe.

I also relish silence.  I like to hear the wind, the birds, the music playing in my head.  When someone wants to blab on and on on about their most adorable child who plays soccer, baseball, football, or where they live, or work, or where their most adorable child goes to school, it interferes with what's already going on in my head, which is a lot.  I never stop thinking.

After writing this, I started thinking (go figure!) that isn't my blogging a form of idle chit chat?  I share private information about my life with people that I don't even have the courtesy of sitting across from on the trolley.  It's blind Internet chit chatter.

It seems selfish, but my blogging is entirely one-sided.  I share with my readers, but they don't get to share with me.  Maybe I have mastered the art of idle chit chat after all.  Isn't that what chit chat is all about?  One person talks and the other person listens or in this case, reads?

I suppose in the end it doesn't matter, because either way I will refer to to Why I Don't Chit Chat Reason #3.  I simply don't care what people have to say and I would rather listen to the voices in my head, because frankly, I find them much more interesting than the strange man across from me on the trolley.

Happy! and Still Working for The Department

I was reading over my blog and noticed I had mentioned in several of my entries that I was planning on retiring in March 2012, but haven't followed up with any kind of update.  At that time I hated my job  and was very stressed and miserable.  My husband and I decided it would be best for everyone if I retired.

I had begun making plans for my retirement.  I obtained a security guard card and had an interview scheduled with the San Diego Zoo for a security guard position.  We were getting our finances in order and things were looking good.

It was a Friday night.  I had gone to work with the intention of getting together the paperwork I needed to set my retirement.  I logged into my work email and there was a message from Personnel.  After 7-1/2 long years, my transfer to Court Services had finally come through!

Personnel: Are you still interested? 
Me: Hell yeah!  

And that is where I am today.  Happy and content sitting in a court room at the downtown Court House.  I am on a 'normal' schedule, working days with weekends and holidays off.  It's been six months since I transferred from the jails to the Court House, but my husband noticed my attitude change immediately.  Gone were the mood swings, the anger, the bitterness, and the head and stomach aches.  Not only was I happy, but now I was healthy.

However, I still have a bit of work to do on my people skills.  I've spent the last 20-years working with inmates, so I'm a bit harsh (?) and cynical when speaking to the average citizen.  I'm not as compassionate as I suppose I should be, but I'm sure that will come with time.

I am happy and with happiness change comes a lot easier.

Another beautiful sunset in San Diego, CA.

The Lost Art of Sending Christmas Cards

When I was a child during Christmas time the wall in our living room was covered with dozens of Christmas cards. As kids we always knew Christmas was just around the corner when that first card came in the mail. Usually they started arriving shortly after Thanksgiving and by the end of December, my mother had quite a collection. They were from relatives, neighbors, friends, and co-workers of my parents. Even from the mailman and newspaper boy!

I moved into my own apartment when I was twenty-two years old. Every year I bought a load of Christmas cards and sent them to just about everyone I knew. I never sent the same design two years in a row, so I always had several boxes on hand. I’d hit up the after Christmas sales and buy more boxes for the following year. Christmas cards were everywhere. I also had one of those cloth Christmas trees tacked to the back of my front door. It filled quickly with big cards, little cards, cards covered in glitter (that usually got all over the floor when I opened the envelope), pop-up cards, and even a few of those photo cards of families wearing matching snowmen sweaters.

Fast forward to 2011. We are less than a week away from Christmas and I have only one card sitting on my TV stand. It is from my parents. Up until about three years ago I continued to send out dozens of Christmas cards. However, it reached a point when I would send out a handful of cards and I would get maybe one or two in return. It’s not that I send cards to get cards, but it’s nice to see that red or green envelope sticking out of the mailbox. I always got that little twinge in my tummy before I turned the envelope over. Who is it from? It was a nice surprise, because it meant someone was thinking about me and acknowledging my efforts to send them a card, but now that gesture goes unnoticed.

Rarely does anyone make the time and effort to hand-write a bunch of cards, address the envelopes, stick on a stamp, and take them to the post office. Now, I get the ubiquitous “Merry Christmas” message on my Facebook page or an e-card in my email that’s been forwarded to a hundred people. Sending Christmas cards has become a lost art. And with that Christmas has become incredibly impersonal.

I wasn’t planning on sending out any Christmas cards this year, but then I thought, “why not?” I still have plenty of cards in my desk drawer. Maybe if someone sees that little colored envelope in their mail it might just put a smile on their face. I know I’ll be smiling as I drop all those envelopes into the mailbox and I’ll feel better knowing I made the effort to make Christmas personal again.

I Love You the Best

It has been two weeks since my best friend passed away. She was only 18 years old, but that’s forever in kitty years. I do not expect those who do not like animals or have never had animals to understand the pain I feel. Poka was not just a cat, but a companion and friend. Whenever I felt sad, all I needed was to hug her, to feel her furry face against mine, to hear her purrs of contentment. Now she is gone and it feels as if my heart has been ripped from my chest. I have been told that I will heal in time, but it does not seem likely. My heart hurts. The hole created by her passing is too deep.

Poka, whose full name was Heyoka, came into my life when she was just five weeks old. She had the biggest blue eyes and a little rat tail. She was beautiful. I named her Heyoka after reading Hanta Yo by Ruth Beebe Hill. Heyoka is the Lakota concept of a jester, satirist, or sacred clown. It is a name that often needed an explanation and always to be spelled. It probably wasn’t the best choice, but it sounded good at the time. Over the years, she’s taken on a number of different names: Poka, Pokey, Smokey, Boo, Poody or whatever little rhyming name I thought of.

Last year she had a stroke and temporarily lost mobility in her hind legs. I contemplated putting her down then, but she still had some sensation and movement. Within a couple of days she was trying to walk again. She never fully regained her balance and had problems running and jumping, but walked well enough to get around and didn’t seem to be in any pain. And then she had another stroke, but this time it was worse.

I work night shift and came home on a Friday morning. I knew something was wrong as soon as I opened the front door. Normally, Poka is either on her cat tree or standing just behind the front door waiting for me. I could never just open the door, but had to crack it a bit and make sure Pokey was out of the way. As she got older, her cat-like reflects weren’t very cat-like anymore and invariably she’d get knocked over by the door. This time, however, she wasn’t there. I found her at the base of her kitty stairs in my bedroom. I got the kitty stairs after her last stroke to help her get up and down off the bed. She loved to sleep on my chest, so I put the stairs right near the headboard. Several times during the night I would awake to find her sitting on the top stair watching me sleep. Her face would be inches from mine.

For some unknown reason she had stopped meowing. It was more of a whispered mew; kind of sounded like she had laryngitis. I’d hear her making that little whispered mew and reach out to touch her. After a few moments of touches, she’d wander off, only to return a few minutes later for more touches. It was as if she were seeking reassurance that I was still there. It also reassured me that she was okay and the softness of her fur was soothing.

So when I found her lying at the base of her kitty stairs unable to move, my heart shattered. Her stroke happened in the living room and there was evidence she had lost control of her bowels/bladder. She dragged herself down the hallway and to my side of the bed. I believe she had been looking for me and I wasn’t home. I will never forgive myself for not being there when she needed me the most. She must have lain on the floor for several long hours, before I came home. She was cold and I’m sure hungry and thirsty, but when I called to her she answered me in that little whispered mew and looked up at me with those big eyes.

I rushed her to the vet, but knew the prognosis wasn’t good. That night I made the most difficult decision of my life, but it was the right one. My little Pokey couldn’t walk. I was selfish and wanted to keep her alive, but her quality of life had deteriorated and it wasn’t fair to her. It sounds kind of funny, I suppose, but I wanted her to pass away with her dignity intact. I wanted her to still have an awareness of who I was.

I spent an hour with her, holding her, telling her over and over how much I loved her, and singing those silly rhyming songs that made me sound like the crazy cat woman. I was not embarrassed by my devotion and love for her and wept openly. I cradled Poka’s tiny head and continued to whisper to her long after the doctor had injected the happy serum and ultimately the drug which stopped her precious heart.

Although Heyoka is physically gone from my life, she has not left my mind or my heart. I will always have my memories. I still talk to her and sometimes when I am caught in between sleep and consciousness I think I can hear her toenails clicking on the wooden floor and hear that whispered mew I found so endearing. And that gives me comfort and peace, because someday she’ll be in my arms again and together we’ll cross over the Rainbow Bridge. In the meantime, I hope she knows that I miss her very much and always loved her the best.

Reasons for Me

Sometimes I wonder why we exist. What purpose are we serving by being alive? Is there some grand plan for us that none of us knows about? I am not a staunch believer in God, but I sometimes pray for my family and friends. Sometimes for myself; asking God for patience, courage and strength to get me through difficult situations. I go to church with my in-laws a few times a year, but I don’t own a Bible and occasionally I use the Lord’s name in vain.

I started thinking about why we, as humans, exist after a co-worker told me a story about her daughter. Donna’s daughter, Kelly, is 19-years-old now and seemingly ‘cured,’ but growing up Kelly had horrible food allergies. On more than one occasion Donna had to perform CPR on her daughter to get her breathing again after she had eaten an orange or some other food that sent her into anaphylactic shock. She told me that recently Kelly started eating small portions of the foods that had previously been deadly to her with no harmful aftereffects. Donna believes that as her daughter matured and her body changed, the food allergies simply went away. Because of the hardships Kelly endured and her near death experiences, I believe she was put on this Earth for a purpose. But what?

I wondered about Donna and Kelly’s existence. Does Donna exist because her daughter exists? Without Donna, there would be no Kelly. Does Donna exist to help Kelly realize her potential? To help Kelly fulfill her destiny? Do we exist solely for the benefit of one another? If so, how is my life connected to that of a complete stranger?

I watch the inmates I am responsible for and wonder what their purposes in life are. They steal, cheat, lie, and cause harm to other people in many different ways and on varying levels. Their actions negatively affect their families, friends, strangers, and their community as a whole. Many refuse to take responsibility for their actions and blame everyone around them for their mishaps. In my opinion, those that continue to be selfish and hurt other people are worthless, are a drain on society, and have no business breathing the same air as I do. Yet, the door to the jail is a revolving one and my job security is never threatened. I wonder why these kinds of people exist when they contribute nothing positive to the community.

Which leads me to ask why do I exist? Do I exist because inmates exist? Do I exist to help balance out the numbers of good and bad? I am almost 40-years old and really have done nothing of any consequence in my life. I am a responsible, law-abiding citizen, but mostly I work, eat, and sleep. I pay taxes, but don’t belong to any charity groups that help children in need or build houses for the poverty-stricken. I never give money to the bell ringing Santa Claus outside of Wal-Mart at Christmas time and rarely do I buy cookies from Girl Scouts. I drive an eight-year-old SUV that burns through fuel and causes green-house gas emissions.

So why am I on this planet taking up valuable space? What am I destined to do in life that is so special? So many more questions than answers, but I suppose only in time will those answers be revealed. In the meantime, I could probably start using my time more wisely. I can volunteer and support a cause that I am passionate about (animals) and in the process maybe my destiny will come to fruition and I will finally understand the reasons for me.

Book Signing Like a Rock Star

We gathered together like a herd of sheep in a pen too small to contain us. Shoulder to shoulder we swayed and fidgeted as one. The air crackled with electricity; a tingle ran down my spine; my underarms grew damp; our nervous chatter was hushed. I wished I had applied a little lipstick. We had all come to see, to meet one man.

“I see him,” someone said.

Our heads bobbled to the left, to the right, back and forth as if we were performing some kind of bizarre ritual. The source of our excitement was close. We felt him; we smelled him. He was here, somewhere among us, blending in with the crowd.

“I don’t see him,” someone sighed with disappointment. Collectively we sighed.

I pulled up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, wishing instead I had worn a cute little tank top to show off some too pale skin. I glanced at my watch. It was time. He should be here. He was.

“I see him!” someone screamed. Collectively we screamed.

As one we surged towards the bespectacled, balding man dressed in a black t-shirt and flip flops. All three-hundred of us crowded close, but fell just short of mobbing him. We jockeyed for position; all of us wanting to touch him, to take his picture, to hear him speak, and later to tell our friends that we had been one of the lucky few, okay one of the lucky three hundred, he had actually talked to.

You’d think Paul McCartney, the Pope, or even Miley Cyrus, had sauntered through the double-doors of Barnes and Noble, but it was only Sam. Only Sam? No, not ‘Only Sam,’ but Sam “The Cooking Guy!” Step back and recognize!

***

I clutched Sam’s book, Just a Bunch of Recipes, to my chest and practiced what I would say when it was my turn to have him sign my book….

Hi Sam. You’re so great! My husband and I are big fans!
Hi Sam. I’m going to a BBQ this weekend. What do you suggest I make?
Hi Sam, you’re so cute! Hee hee hee

Twenty minutes later I still hadn’t decided what I would say, but I had time. I pulled my yellow card from my pocket, #167. He hadn’t yet reached #20. I had a long ways to go, but towards the front of the store there was a commotion. Barnes and Noble had just sold the last of Sam’s books! People grumbled, a woman cried, I thought a fist fight might ensue. Many of those people had already been issued numbers, but had no book to sign and this was after all, a book signing. Their loss, however, was my gain. A man handed me his yellow card as he went out the door. #143! I giggled crazily with anticipation.

***

The line moved slower than a snail taking a nap. Actually, it didn’t really move at all, it just seemed like it did with people bouncing from one foot to the other to keep their legs from falling asleep. Absolutely everyone wanted their picture taken with Sam, to hug him (at least the women did), to tell him how good his recipes were, and to tell him how great he was. I was no exception, but I would have to wait my turn.

Finally, the moment I'd been waiting for. It was 10 p.m. and I’d been standing in line for a good 3-hours. I went over everything in my head. I decided I would tell Sam what big fans my husband and I were and ask him what I should make for the BBQ. He flashed his lovely smile and as I gazed into his twinkling eyes all cognizant thought flew from my head. I couldn’t speak. I merely held up my camera and the man in line behind me took a picture of us, then I thrust my book at Sam to sign. At last I found my voice. “You look tired,” I said. Good going Rae! Basically I told the man he looked like shit, but I got my cookbook signed and all was good in the world again.

I'm Neither an Outcast Nor a Mother

I don’t have children nor do I want any. I have absolutely no maternal instincts unless it’s to shelter an orphaned kitten. I have no regrets and don’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything. I never realized, however, just how segregated from society my choice has made me until I attended a coworker’s barbecue. Some quick introductions were made when my fiancé and I arrived, but for the most part we were left on our own to mingle. I work with most of the men that were there, but I didn’t know any of the women except for one.

Situations like this make me very uncomfortable. I hate having to make small talk with strangers and intended to stay close to my fiancé. He, along with all the other men however, quickly migrated to the garage leaving the woman folk to socialize in the living room. I was in a dilemma. Should I venture into male territory and cause a ripple in the testosterone level or suck it up and hang with the ladies? I decided to stick with the girls and plopped down on the sofa to chit chat with complete strangers.

The one woman I knew, Melissa, had her three-week old infant with her. I acknowledged he was a cutie-pie, which he was, and made the obligatory goo-goo gee-gee noises and poked his little belly, but beyond that what else was there to say? Apparently there was plenty. After a few minutes my urge for a very strong drink became unbearable and I thought my head would explode. Gross things were being discussed in such detail that I almost vomited. Twice. A conversation about Sue’s water breaking and how she thought she had just wet her pants lasted nearly ten-minutes. Then Melissa plopped out her boob and started nursing, although she had the graciousness to cover herself with a blanket once the baby was in position, but still…Yuck! A discussion about the benefits of breast feeding soon followed.

I had no idea what these women were talking about since I have never experienced anything remotely associated with pregnancy, child birth, or child rearing. At first I tried to be involved, adding a ‘wow’ or ‘really?’ in all the right places, but it was awkward. I even thought about telling the story of how I fell off the porch when I was a toddler and caved in my forehead, but changed my mind. It didn’t seem like it would be appreciated among this group of strangers. There was absolutely nothing I could add to the conversation. I tried hard, but when the topic turned to diaper changing and all the crap (literally) that comes out of babies, my mind began to reel. I couldn’t stay focused enough to contribute an ‘ah’ or even an ‘ew'.

There must be another woman who I could talk to that didn’t have children, but as I looked around I realized I was the only one. There was no escape. Kids were everywhere – cuddled in their mother’s laps, sucking on a boob, crawling on the floor, running around in the backyard. I had nothing in common with these women and felt like such an outsider. The mothers sensed my distress and further isolated me by not including me in their conversation of all-things-children.

If I had had kids I would have easily bonded with these women. I too could be laughing about sleep deprivation, debating the use of disposable diapers versus cloth, complaining how quickly kids outgrow clothes bought just a couple months prior, and experiencing all the joy children bring to the world, but I couldn’t and it made me angry. Angry, because these women made me feel like a pariah, because I had purposely chosen not to add to the already overpopulated planet. And then I felt sad. Not for me, but for those seated around me. After listening to them prattle on and on about their children, I realized they had absolutely no lives of their own.

They couldn’t discuss the latest movie, because they hadn’t been to a movie in years unless it had talking penguins. No one traveled, because it was too much to carry around car seats, strollers, diaper bags, and everything else that accompanied a small child. They didn’t have time to watch sports or television in general, because they were too busy shuttling their kids back and forth to school, dentist appointments, dance class, etc. and when they were able to watch television it was Barney, Blues Clues, Sesame Street or some other children’s program. Their hobbies were their children’s hobbies: soccer, Little League, ballet, swimming. Their world revolved around their children. I wondered what would be left of them once their children were grown and moved away. They could be soccer moms for only so long.

Finally I excused myself and no one seemed to notice, because they were busy raving about ‘onesies’ and how you ‘can never have too many’. I went into the garage in search of my fiancé and found a space where I felt more at ease. Even though I was the only woman in a group of men, I didn’t feel like such an outcast. Here I could talk about current events, sports, work, and about life in general. It was great because not once did we discuss the bodily fluids that randomly spew from small children.