Dream Home

My generation doesn't understand the idea of a dream home because they can easily afford one in their 20s. Houses today are cheaper if you build them, so most people choose to move to the suburbs and happily pick their tile color and carpet pile and relax in a brand new home. I don't begrudge them this. Sometimes, especially when our kitchen drawers stick, I envy this. Shiny new houses with nothing to restore, repaint, re-imagine or renovate.

Most of our friends live in homes like these and I feel like Belle in Beauty and the Beast as I twirl around their living rooms and race my fingers across the granite in their kitchens. Their drawers are on wheels and silently close. Their laundry rooms aren't in the garage but near the bedrooms and decorated with beadboard. The ceilings are 12 feet tall, the hardwood floors don't creak and the landscaping is picturesque, if not identical to the houses on either side. They aren't spending Saturdays going to Lowes for three prong adapters or caulking for the tub.

Our house is not by any definition a dream home. Perhaps some would call it a true starter home. Jim purchased it upon moving back from L.A., wanting an old home with character, and made the big, ugly, necessary updates like a new fence, roof and driveway. Since my arrival, I've made all the fun updates, like new paint, new artwork and renovating the kitchen and living room. To call our house charming is an understatement. Especially if charming means lots of imperfections and a tad on the small side. But it's built from a decade that used quality materials like the numerous exposed cedar beams, the hardwood floors, the crown moulding, the copper wiring and the stone fireplace. I prefer houses like this. And more than that, I like being surrounded by houses that look nothing like mine.

Recently, through a series of coercion tactics, I forced our neighbors to be friends with us. For years I watched them play with their kid in the backyard, saw them drive by on the way to work, and passed by their house every evening during our walks to the park. They were elusive and cool, tattoos and funky clothes, Obama signs in their yard, and they recycled (liquor bottles mostly). They had to be mine. My husband found this a waste of time. They seemed cool from afar, he agreed, but we had plenty of friends. And, from what I saw through our infrared goggles on Saturday nights, they did too.

But, sneaky, persistant, scrappy me, thought that our lives would be enriched by these hipsters and perhaps, just perhaps, we could enrich theirs in return. I tried fence flirting with them. When their dogs were out, I would let ours out and see if they would take the bait. Sometimes I would catch the husband by the fence, word vomit all over him, and slunk back into the house. I tried the laid back approach: nodding instead of waving as they drove by. Then I got creepy. I did a series of Google searches I'm not proud of to unearth their last names and then tracked them down on facebook. A few months later when the wife of the couple "liked" one of my status updates, I knew it was hook, line and sinker.

The time from her liking my update to now, has been about a year. She gave birth to their second daughter 10 weeks before I had Lowery. We spend many weekends together, email worthy YouTube clips to each other and their older daughter, who I once watched from afar, now gives me hugs and kisses. The wife and I talk at the fence with our babies on our hips at the end of a long day. The husbands go out for beer and comic books. The children play at our feet. For the amount of work it took to convince them to befriend us, the relationship has been comfortable and easy.

I say this not as means of patting myself on the back for forcing unwilling strangers to eat dinner with us. And not because I want you to fear that I will do the same to you; hunt you down like prey until you play dead and I bat your head around for fun. I say it because in my quest to make these strangers our friends, I was only partly aware of what I was truly doing. I thought they seemed interesting, funny maybe, and the geographical proximity certainly had appeal. Plus, it's hard to find liberals around these parts.

But what ended up transpiring was a surprisingly true friendship. Whether we get babysitters and go out for drinks, or round up our children in the backyard for fun in the sprinkler, we benefit the most from understanding each other's space in the world. We can bitch about our other neighbors' barking dogs, lament about parenting, complain about the political climate of our state or continually question why contractors in the 1950's did the things they did to our homes. I thought I just wanted new friends. But what we got was a reason to ignore the things we hate about our house. And, if we're lucky, we might be engaged with them in a game of real estate chicken.

We live in a time that forgets other times had value, and purpose and forethought. The lack of three prong outlets in the house was only because they didn't exist back then. But currently, it keeps us from having computers and electronics in every room. In fact, we only own one TV. The layout is not "open concept" which is the inexplicable Holy Grail of modern real estate, but we've learned that if you put up a baby gate between the hall and the living room, it creates the perfect contained place for our child to roam safely. The ceilings aren't high, which makes the house easier to cool. The bathrooms are small, making less to clean. And the price is right. For though we often wish for fancier doorknobs and prettier light fixtures, we will pay off this house in the next two years.

I had my first kiss with Jim in this house. Was proposed to on my birthday in this house. Conceived our first child in this house (don't over think this), went into labor in this house and will soon watch our child take her first steps in this house. So why do I care so much that we don't have natural stone countertops, or rolling drawers? Why do I care if there are fresh flowers on the kitchen table or the lawn is cut? Why do I care about pillows and picture frames and why do I truly want (yes I know) the carpet to match the drapes?

I guess I care because this house is the backdrop to a life unfolding.

It's not perfection. If it were, we'd have a claw foot tub with a pop up flat screen TV that only plays Will and Grace reruns. We'd have a large walk in shower with two shower heads (don't over think this). We'd have energy efficient windows, we'd have a wine fridge in the bedroom and the entire house--not just the oven--would be self cleaning. We complain that there's not enough book storage. That the laundry room is outside in the garage. That there are not enough bedrooms. That the bathroom is outdated and there's no butler's pantry. But then we stop and think: maybe we have too many books, too many clothes to launder, no one is actually staying over that often, the shower still gets us clean and we don't technically have a butler. To have perfection would imply that we picked or built a home to fit our lives. Right now, I like making our lives, or at least watching how our lives, fit into this home. This home, this beautifully flawed home, which is one block from a movie theatre, a mall, and a grocery store. Close to every major highway. Across the street from the campus I work at and attend school. Up the street from one of the top elementary schools in the district. A street away from a spacious park that my child loves, and right next door to our next door neighbors.



Somebody pinch me.

Mother's Day

Up until the birth of my daughter, I truly believed I was at an extreme advantage because I am a woman. I completely recognize the rights for which women before me fought, I understand we are still grossly underpaid in the workforce, and I believe pap smears are still a way to oppress women. But, for me, it seems as though being a woman is advantageous.

While I can't exactly point to specific examples, except one time I shamelessly flirted with an I.T. guy to get some software updates no one else had, in general, I've ridden the wave of the women before me who gave me the right to vote, reproductive rights, domestic violence protection, maternity leave, the Vagina Monologues and Midol.

So when Jim and I decided to try for a baby, I didn't think much about the threat to my role as an empowered woman. I am married to a very progressive and understanding man who I know would have rather carried the baby so as not to see me puke for 9 solid months. We had a plan in place so that I would be able to carry on with my degree and my professional life after the child was born, and I knew we'd share parenthood 50/50.

Then came the truth that we would need a bit of help making a baby. I had to do a series of transvaginal ultrasounds (you know they put a condom on the wand, right?), blood work, medication, hormone shots and lots and lots of peeing on sticks. Jim only had to do one fun activity, by himself, at home during lunch and carry the finished product into a lab on his way back to work. Our journey with fertility was short and painless relative to many of my friends who've gone the distance with things like this, but still. My lady parts are wonky and I need help, being a woman.

But I felt powerful during pregnancy. Robust, beautiful, strong. In childbirth I felt determined. And when she came out, all bright eyed and curious, I felt invincible.

But not since that moment have I felt anything but defensive. Attacked. Exahusted. And pissy.

No other role in my life has threatened my sence of female empowerment like motherhood. As a child I had the benefit of liberal parents and my mother is the epitome of empowered. As a student, women are the majority so I never felt at a disadvantage. As a professor, I know I can connect to my female students through empathy and engage my male students with humor. As a wife, I've become a partner with a man who wants me to have more degrees and make more money than him, god willing, and he almost never bitches when I forget to shave my legs.

But as mother? Jesus Christ.

I had no idea the level of animosity women have toward other women. This doesn't mean men aren't also a problem. When I hear of a man having an opinion about natural childbirth, I want to rip out an ovary and throw it at the son of a bitch. But women are truly women's worst enemy.

One time in the 6th grade, a classmate of mine came up to me during lunch, and, in front of a large group of people said, "Meg, you already wore that outfit this week."

That's motherhood. Another female telling you, you are doing it wrong. And you dress badly.

When did this breastfeeding, attachment parenting, sleep scheduling, co-sleeping, vaccination refusaling, baby-led weening, formula-feeding, baby-wearing, stay-at-homing, day-caring, private-schooling, natural-birthing, epiduraling, Time Magazining bullshit become the only f**king thing women can talk about?

Is this all we are as a gender? Mothers? Bitchy mothers? And if so, are we saying there's only one way to be a mother? And your way is wrong?

There are people out there that neglect their children. Beat them. Ignore them. Hate them. Put cigarettes out on their face. Lock them in closets. Kill them. Those are bad mothers. Not the mothers who at least love their children and try their best. But if we as mothers continue to think we have it all figured out, we are going to destroy our place in society as women.

We aren't fighting against men anymore. We are fighting against each other. And we are going to destroy our chances at being leaders in the world if all we do is tear each other down. Who gives a shit about equal pay when you are making the woman sitting next to you at the doctor's office feel badly for using a pacifier on her 5 year old? When we act like this, it speaks volumes about our function as a gender.

So stop it.

Besides my husband, my father and my brother, I'd like to get back to thinking men are the enemy. I'd like to hate men again for making more than I do, for not having periods, for looking good in bike helmets, for not having to sacrifice their jobs for their children, for not worrying about body image and for not having to fight for, really, anything at all.

So, women, make that happen.

Mother's Day shouldn't just be about honoring your mother who gave so much of herself to help you grow. But to back the f**k off all the other mother's out there you think you might be defeating. And get back to the good fight: against men.

Happy Mother's Day to you.
You are doing everything right.

Meg says...

Am I the only female on the planet who can never recall the date of her last period? And why is my ear, nose and throat doctor asking?

101

I just finished teaching my sixth class of American Politics and have been cogitating on all that has happened between me and my students (no, no, all appropriate, settle down). I've had students trust me with extremely personal information about their pasts. I've had students think I was offensive. I've been impressed. I've been frustrated. I've been liked a lot, I've been disliked a lot. I've done some truly inspired teaching, I've done some really ineffective teaching. I've been hugged. I've been challenged. I've been yelled at. And I've been quoted scripture more times than I can count. But mostly, I've become all the more aware of the political culture in our state and I've learned a great deal about how today's youth are politically socialized. Even though I sometimes cringe at what my students say, I'm humbled by their willingness to be honest with me and their classmates.  I want to take some time to reflect on my top 10 Most Memorable Moments. Come along, won't you?

10. In one of my first classes (I was 26 at the time) a young man (he was not yet 19) informed me on the first day that he believed a man's place was in business and a woman's place was in the home. Women did not belong in college, in the work force and certainly not in politics. He later asked me if I was planning on having children. When I said "probably," he said, "Well, you're pretty old, is it still possible?" If we had had a boy, I wanted to name the baby after him. Dipshit Morgan.

9. One semester I was surprised to find, on the first day of class, that one of my students was a former high school classmate of mine.

8. Early on, I assumed that if a student were accepted into a college, they were prepared. I quickly lost that assumption. But I continued to assume they were at least competent enough, or had the capacity, to succeed at the college level. Nope. I've flunked more students than I can count. But never did I assume that learning disabilities would be completely undiagnosed through an entire cycle in a public school system and two years into a college degree. 


One student struggled in my class, but not enough to make me suspicious. On the night of the midterm exam, I waited the entire 3.5 hours allotted (all the other students were done in an hour) while this student sat at the back of the class working on her test. As the time ran out I walked back to her desk to see that all that was written on her test was her name. She burst into tears. Not having any idea what to do next, I held her. Once she calmed down I offered to give her the test verbally on one condition: she had to be tested for dyslexia. She looked at me as though no one had ever said that word to her. Said that neither her parents, or any teacher she'd ever had, were concerned she had a disability.


I spoke with the appropriate people at the university, called a testing center, put her in contact with the right people and got her an appointment to be analyzed after finals.  She sent me a thank you note before the week of her assessment, but then I never heard from her again. My hope is that she was tested and is getting the help she needs and deserves. My fear is that she never went to the appointment and is still sitting at the back of a classroom crying.

7. During Mardi Gras week one semester--when I was quite pregnant--the college had a bartender making Mocktails for the students. I ordered a virgin Pina Colada. Into class I waddled carrying a large fruity drink with an umbrella in it. "Today we are going to talk about the politics of legalizing marijuana," I announced. One student pulled out his iPhone and took a picture of me. "Our professor is pregnant, drinking a cocktail and talking about weed," he said. "I have to send this to my mom."

6. One semester, on the final day of class, a student, who never spoke a word during the semester, came up and hugged me.

5. A young girl bounced into my class one semester full of life and chatty about religion. No matter what the issue, from taxes to abortion, her argument was "I'm Catholic." She artfully used her Catholicism to dodge and weave her way through the toughest of debates. She slammed down several of her classmates' stand on reproduction rights and spoke endlessly about the evils that occur when gay couples adopt babies. But the final week of class she came in wearing a large diamond on her left ring finger (so many of my freshman girls get engaged). She gushed about her fiance, the proposal and the number of kids they want. "There's just one problem," she said. "My fiance would have to convert if we want to get married in the church, and the process takes too long; we want to get married next month."

"So what will you do?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm just going to drop my religion. It's too rigid."

4. I caught a student cheating on a quiz the second week of class. He denied it. I had to do paperwork with the head of my department, state my case, show my evidence and follow the university's procedures. It was nerve-wracking and emotionally draining. The student also made sure to show me his anger for the rest of the semester. He would write the word "UNFAIR" in large letters across quizzes instead of answering any of the questions. During his presentation assignment, he stood silently in front of the class for 10 solid minutes and then sat down. And once, when I showed up to class a few minutes late, he pounded his fist on the desk and said "Damn! I was hoping you died in a crash." He didn't miss a single class the entire semester, except the night I happened to hand out the teacher evaluations to my students.

3. I've developed a nasty habit of sizing my students up on the first day of class. I can predict with near-perfect accuracy their political views, their marital status, their academic ability and their sense of humor. I mentally put them in boxes, whether good or bad, left or right, smart or not, and proceed with the following classes by carefully addressing the boxes and shifting them around to make for the best class experience for everyone. I know who I can kid, who is shy, who is mean-spirited and who is a waste of my effort. This semester I had a student who sat on the back row and the first day of class had on an NRA shirt. When a student wears something this politically specific on the first day of class, he's making a point. I put him in a box the minute he walked into the room. Over the semester I noticed that everything out of my mouth seemed to make him angry. He'd shake his head as I spoke, and sometimes just lay his head on his desk. Halfway through the semester I grew tired of it and took him out of his box.

"Got something to share?" I called on him. His face turned vibrantly red and he again shook his head and remained silent. But the box had been opened. Over the next few weeks he began to talk. He spoke endlessly about hoping to pass the open-carry law and how many guns he owned (both legally and illegally). Eventually, I could count on him to be the biggest voice in the class. One day, I drew a big line on the board and explained the political spectrum (far left, moderate and far right), and had every student come mark where they fell on it. He was my only student to put his "x" on the left of the spectrum. "But, you love your guns?!" I challenged.

"Sure, guns are my life. But if you make less than $100,000 and vote Republican, you're an idiot. I may love guns, but I'm no idiot."

2. I once had a (white) student turn to the (black) student beside her and ask if the term "porch monkey" was still offensive.

1. One student was extremely open about his hatred and disapproval of homosexuals. As a former soldier, he was fervently against Don't Ask Don't Tell being overturned. He said that he would personally be afraid of a gay man jumping him in the shower. I asked him if he truly believed he was that attractive. He said it didn't matter, that the gays couldn't control themselves; they would hump anything that moved. I asked him if he was like that with women. He said it was different. This continued most class periods. He was convinced that homosexuals were destroying the environment, religion, marriage, literacy, gas prices and primetime television. I have to live up to my promise of allowing the classroom to be a safe environment. But for weeks I challenged him. Many students agreed with his take and even defended him. Others seemed too scared to argue. I even wondered if I should back down myself because his angry tattoos across his enormous muscles made me curious about my safety if I pushed too far.

Toward the end of the semester I got him to laugh a few times. Got him to settle more easily during debates and even found him paying attention, even when the topic wasn't guy on guy. He wasn't my best student, but I could tell he was trying. I didn't hate him for his hate, but I had to work harder to be unbiased when addressing him in class and when grading his papers.

The last night of class, final exams, the students were given three essay questions. The final question was on the constitutionality of gay marriage. While he spent a great deal of ink reciting everything I'd heard him say all semester, his final sentence was this:

"I think the answer to the gay problem is to line them all up in a row and gas them. But I guess I don't see a Constitutional reason they shouldn't be allowed to marry."

And to think, I consider this progress.