Conspicuous Consumption

I ran screaming from a mall this week. Count me as one who simply cannot cope with the environs. I have a sincere sense of being ripped off just being there. Everywhere a scam. Look out behind you! There is some ridiculous overly-expensive duplication of a near-duplication of a knock off you will pay full price for. I don't really have an eye for quality after so many years in thrift stores.

Remember, too, that we, of course, are blessed with one of each. So blimey the expense. I look ahead and feel it will do me in to navigate all the product that we say we need to get to the actual items we do need. I dunno, size 10 flip-flops for 9 dollars. Is that a good deal? Do I need that?

Bear in mind that this is the woman who will (God willing) wrap up a six month renovation of three bathrooms and a kitchen this coming week. Exactly, how much did that cost, eh?
I believe I spent a good part of Thursday playing Design, Inc. out looking for that perfect pendant light. Did you know that pendant lights cost between $60 and $800? My profound design fatigue had me settle on this striking beauty.

Yeah I know. White. Plainest plain white you ever did see. We might do some fingerpainting with it or something.


Times like these I do think I hate my life. The banal dilemmas. The petty wayfinding. Come please, poverty. Purify me. You will likely hear about it. Dumping the dual in dual income breeds a lot of home cooked chick peas, thick sweater wearing and turned down thermostats. I can't wait. Envision my fingers turning blue as I rinse every dish in cold water only. Will the righteousness warm the cockles of my heart? Or are we just cocksmokers?

ps. I do promise to someday post some pics of our lovely refreshed, chic dwelling. That is if i can ever finish my argument with the overfull startup disk on the machine at which I run my archive iPhoto.

Where's my bonus?

I find that at this particular moment very worst part of being a parent is, surprisingly, the lack of performance indicators.

The rudderless drone of activity my life represents is relentlessly taxing. I bristle at every demand from outsiders for me to do a little something more because to do so seems to imply in my internal dialogue their presumption that I am not busy.

Why can I not demonstrate the free timelessness of it all?
Will I prove my worth or success with potty training?
I have no credible measure of my ability to achieve nutritional goals?
When will I be sure my discipline and development expectations are in order?

Please someone, a performance review. It would nice for someone to care enough; but not too much.

I know it is not just me. I critique all those chronicled moments of babyhood. I recognize among bloggers the rudiments of a dissertation filled with welcome skepticism of the milestone of babyhood as a weapon that undermines the value of actual parenting. The burr of unrecognized performance indicators borne of a disdain for their pointless substitutes.

My hates list for the moment, said pointless substitutes:
Growth charts
Sleep theory books
Preschool, Public school, private school, home school
Nanny, v. Daycare v. At home parent
Minivans
Bus passes and/or bike seats and/or with versus bike trailers
Birth order
Arranging my life through email, usually more than 6 emails at a time
Bullying at the playground
Learning to talk
... do you know what I mean?

Maybe don't mind me? I am sick as a dog. My nanny a no show. I still have no kitchen. My van* is in the shop. The naps are freakishly challenging. The drywall with be sanded today -- what is the point in vacuuming.. hack wheeze.

Where's my bonus?

* In the spirit of reciprocity? soul-matedness? or enabling? I hit the van last week. Doesn't p-man feel a whole lot better?