The Work vs. Stay Home Debate, Summed Up in a Half-Ass Poem

Staying home can suck.
There's more dishes than anyone ever tells you.  

But the smiles are so rewarding.

There's no dishes at work.

And a job well done gives you satisfaction and a paycheck.

But oh, the guilt.

Either way, in the end, it will be o.k.

 

Peep-e-lehs

It's amazing what a difference a few years can make.  A few years ago, still dealing with the shock of motherhood without training, I wrote a post about avoiding large groups of women like the plague for fear of being exposed as a fraud, and wondering how one learns what a real woman/mother is supposed to know?

Flash forward 3 and 1/2 years and it is these very same groups of women that quite possibly may save me.  Guess I got over the estrogen fear.

What happened?

Well, mini grew up.  And started school.  And there were classes and birthday parties and playdates.  Somehow, we were lucky enough to end up in a place where we actually like the moms.   And then, things started getting hard.  Really hard.  The kind of phase you're supposed to look back on those times and pat yourself on the back for the resilience you have in making it through to the other side.  I'm still waiting for that part.  But I haven't waited for, is much-needed support from my girlfriends.

Rather than mocking my cluelessness when it comes to so many things, these peep-e-lehs have asked me for food advice, bending over backwards to figure out how to feed mini at their place.  They've watched her when needed, they tell me what classes and activities we should consider.  They have taken mini and I into their home on weekends, snow days, holidays, even traveled with us on vacation.  Without fail, someone checks in daily.  They read my writing, and drag me to plays, ballets, movies, dinners, drinks, even shopping when I didn't want to go (can you imagine!?).  They make the manicure appointments, they lend me books, they listen and they make me laugh.  And they've (gasp!) trusted me with their own children.

Wait, what was that last part?!

That's right.  We seem to have passed the motherhood hazing ritual that is the 5-and-under phase, so I guess one doesn't need to know every 1950s thing to be a good mother.  I still can't do any of those "female" things I wrote about years ago, but I'm a damn good baker as long as you have 6 free hours and are willing to clean up a huge mess.  And while I'm still not fully versed in the etiquette involved in making playdates I'm trying. 

So this one is a thank you to my girlfriends who have embraced me as part of a larger community that is motherhood in general.  Thank you for your support, your patience, for laughing at my jokes, for your funny and touching and educational updates, and for teaching me that even though things might not always be easy we will always be okay.

Proof That We Are Wise Beyond Our....Oh, Wait...

If you're wondering who this is, keep a'readin

Hello peeps.

Today we have some exciting news to share: Theresa at A Mountain Momma has featured yours truly as a guest blogger on today's Wednesday's Words of Wisdom!  Link below...

Wake me up When September Ends

We won't give away any more other than to hint that if you're a mother, particularly a working mother, we'll hope you can relate and offer some thoughts and comments of your own as we all know no mother is perfect and it's not always easy. 

Please go visit and check it out, even if it's only to satisfy your curiosity to see how a sane woman could willingly connect Poker Chick and "wisdom" in the same thought.

While you're there check out her other posts, she's quite entertaining and worth reading.  No, really, that wasn't sarcasm.  For reals.

Writer's Block

Poker Chick has nothing to write about.

She's suffering from an attack of inspiration, energy, confidence, whatever. Everything she considers writing about lately seems pitiful and she's left with no ideas.

She could write about the "breaking news alert" she received that we've been in a recession since 2007. She could do a whole blog about how f*cked up it is that the authorities couldn't figure that one out before we'd already passed the mark for longest one on record since who knows when - and pontificate about what consititutes "Breaking news".

She could talk about the plight of the working mom, and ask for help deciding between a business trip and parent-teacher conferences, not to mention how to deal with snarky and judgemental stay-at-home moms who make things unnecessarily harder (not all of them, just a select precious bunch).

She could talk about complete exhaustion, the kind that happens when you're running a fever, your husband's been out of town for four days, and the mini is up coughing at night so much so that you and the pediatrician decide you must give her an inhaler for the first time.

She could lament about what to do with two weeks off in December, stay at home, go to Vegas, go to LA, do something else, etc, etc. The problems of a New York Ad Girl, indeed.

She could b*tch about the ridiculous expense, chaos and politics that is planning a winter birthday party in New York.

She could whine about the realization that despite many years and good medicine, farm animals still render her nose, eyes and mouth useless in an instant.

She could vent about the food thing, and how exhausting it is to always decline cake, call for pizza ingredients, say no to birthday parties with make your own food, want to scream when the mini is left out of social ocassions/food just because a parent didn't take a minute to be more inclusive. She could tell you about the mini's sad plea at a birthday party ("now can I have my cupcake"?) that is so loud it stops everyone in the room in their tracks and you have to endure horrible looks of pity.

She could talk about the fact that it was a "good" weekend when we only had two time-outs each day and how especially proud she was of mini who not only did a mitzvah by helping her sort and organize books at the synagogue, but also called to her classmate when she came in "Hi, E! Come and play with me and my new friends" (code: kids she just met). The same week, mini had asked Poker Chick to actually stop giving her so much mac and cheese so that there would be enough left to share with her friends. Today she also petted an iguana (technically some kind of "dragon" species) a second time to show a scared classmate that it was friendly and gentle. She could look at these moments and begin to think that maybe she is actually doing something right after all.

Yes, Poker Chick could tell you all this. But none of this will be interesting to you peeps.

So for now, we'll just whine. Being sick sucks, it's freezing outside, and PC is exhausted. Yes, we know. Call a f*cking "waambulance". Will do. In the meantime, can you peeps think of what the hell else you might actually want to read?

Reason Number 57 Not To Frump It Up

Despite her high-fashion fancies, Poker Chick is a dress-down kind of chick. Jeans are the operating word here. And she still wears cutoffs and tees in the summer. You might call her style "sloppy chic", as UK likes to say.

As such, she often has to fight the urge to get lazy. Actually put makeup on for work. Wear the occasional skirt. And dress up the ripped jeans as she did yesterday with a jacket and accessories. And boy is she glad she did.

A lunch meeting turned up a random person she had gone to high school with. Now, this wasn't someone she knew well. Didn't even remember the name. But still. Could you imagine? Would you want this person going back to their friends (who might be people she once knew) and say things like "hey! Remember that girl Poker Chick? I saw her after many years. And guess what? Woof - woof!"

We don't think so, peeps.

So when she can, she'll make the extra effort not to be a slob. You just never know.

We're just saying.

It's gonna be a bad, bad, non-shiny day

There are some days where as soon as they start you know they're not headed anyplace good. Certain things happen and you just get that feeling where you know the sooner you can get through the day, the better. You know where we're going with this.

Today was one of those days.

It started with a shaving cut. Not a regular one either. Like, you're in the shower, then the door opens and you get distracted, and the next thing you know the weapon you're holding in your hand just cut out a nice chunk of skin on your leg. Men out there might be rolling your eyes. But when you cut your face, you don't have to rinse off soap and shampoo into the wound. Try doing that without screaming. I dare you.

30 minutes later the bleeding finally stopped long enough to get a bandage on it. The rest of the morning was somewhat routine, until the am commute. I rode the bus to use the time to return a phone call to another mommy. Ordinarily, this would make for a good day. I was actually returning a call. Organizing. Things were good.

So leave it to the old lady in the seat in front of her to turn around and say in a nasty tone "You know, that's so annoying.".

Are you f*cking kidding me? It's not like I'm talking about my big score last night or anything. I'm a working mother. This is the only time I have. Buzz off, lady.

Somehow, without giving it a second thought, I replied immediately (and loudly enough for the whole bus to hear), "Too bad. I'm not here to entertain you."

Oh no she di'int.

Oh yeah she did. Who cared? I was pissed and the bitch deserved it. Still, it meant I walked into work having already had a lousy morning.

Back to back meetings later (with a 2pm break for a PB&J sandwich that took an hour to eat as she could only take bites here and there during conference calls) and the rest of the day predictably sucked. And here I am at 9:12 pm taking a break from work to eat dinner before working again. Except I can't eat my dinner because despite ordering a HAMburger the stupid peeps brought me a CHEESEburger. Do they sound like the same thing? No. But here I sit, waiting for them to half cook a new one, spit in it, and run it on over over the course of an hour or so.

Dear g-d, please let this be as bad as it gets today.

Crap. Turns out it does, in fact, get worse.

Bed.....soon. Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

Femininity

This one is something we've been working on and have wanted to post for a while. We're testing out some writing here. If you're commenting, be kind. If you're lurking, please no snarky faces. No eyerolls either! Hopefully this will generate some good discussion about motherhood and what defines us as women. Any men out there should feel free to add their own perspective as well.

Those who know Poker Chick IRL probably use just a handful of adjectives to describe her: Intelligent. Pretty. Sharp. Bitchy. Funny. Clumsy. You know, all the things that make her endearing to loved ones. Now take a moment and think about some adjectives that are absent from this list: Warm. Maternal. Feminine.

Now, Poker Chick has always been all right with this. After all, so what? Who cares if she can't manufacture a case of the fuzzy wuzzies at any given corny moment. She is a businesswoman. She'll trade the house for the boardroom any day. In fact, the whole idea of being responsible for a house is so bizarre she's swapped that notion for a small apartment where one phone call brings dinner. She skipped sororities in college because fraternities seemed like a heck of a lot more fun and she wasn't allowed in those. She'd much rather be at a bachelor party than a shower. And she is, of course, at home playing poker with "the boys". She's always been "one of the guys". And she'd always been able to avoid large gatherings of women so she could continue to enjoy this lie, this pretend world she built around herself where she can do what she's good at and outsource the rest.

But you know how most men "outsource" the stuff Poker Chick sucks at? They get wives. Now, we suppose that's not impossible. Poker Chick has often been known to comment "I need a wife". She even has a friend hand-picked for the role, though for some reason this woman seems genuinely uninterested (I mean, what gives, right?)

Why are wives so desirable? They help make a house a home, which seems to be some kind of necessary step towards the next holy grail of femininity: mothering. Mothers are widely regarded in society. In fact, as Poker Chick wrote this, she was watching the movie Primary Colors, where they all declare "G-d Bless the Mommas!". This rousing statement met with loud approval and it is indeed a common thought. Books talk about mommies who make everything better. When teachers need to resolve an issue, they call the mommy. Children's worlds are surrounded with "mommy" references. It's clear what a mother is supposed to be.

The feminist movement has come and gone, and despite female CEOs in droves these days everyone has neglected to address one irrefutable point: women are biological childbearers. Men can technically do everything else but women still have to go through 9 months of pregnancy, several weeks of recovery, and [for many] months of leaky, saggy lactating boobs. Going through 5 different dress sizes in the course of a year is just one consequence of this fact; one that means women will always fall behind in the workplace at least a little if they desire to bear children. And let's face it, as much as men are doing these days, as long as we women get to pull the "if I'm giving birth to this thing then it's my call!" card, we are the primary child-rearers, whether it's fair or not. It's biology. And who is Poker Chick to argue with biology?

The problem with biology is that it is not fool-proof. Typically, the universe prepares women for life by giving them mothers, aunts, sisters, cousins. Women surrounding them throughout childhood to passively educate them about what it means to be feminine. Not just the big things, but the little things one needs to know. How to brush your hair. How to iron a shirt. How to cook a roast. How to wear a scarf. Poker Chick is convinced that the combined knowledge is filled in some hidden encyclopedia called "how to be a woman." She fantasizes about a secret hazing ritual where you mix the perfect martini and then the encyclopedia is handed to you by the next-of-kin woman. Most people get this encyclopedia. There are many different versions, but everyone has the one that works for them. Surely, tomorrow, she will wake up and have some form of the book magically appear by now.

Nope. Poker Chick, it would appear, got royally screwed by the universe. Her mother was pretty much out of commission at an early age. She had no sisters. No aunts, female cousins or grandmothers close by. Not surprisingly, most of her friends weren't female either. Hers was (for the most part) an alpha-male family with women relegated to the role of wife or ex-wife. So the only way to survive and get any respect was to become one of the men. So Poker Chick learned business skills. How to negotiate deals. Use foul language (decidedly 'un-feminine'!) How to "raise a stink" when someone tries to take advantage of you and your money. And, of course, how to play poker!

You know where this is going.

Yep, biology bit her in the @ss. Enter motherhood and the whole facade was exposed. She was clueless. In the past, she had been able to avoid large gatherings of women; she felt uncomfortable with so much estrogen in one room. But with a newborn, she was forced to confront her insecurity. The reality was that she needed these large groups of women. She didn't have a clue and the poor screaming kid in her arms demanded their knowledge. But it felt like she had failed entry-level womanhood and was now in a PhD program. She was clearly out of her league. And of course, as luck would have it, she was given a daughter to somehow teach.

The older the mini gets, the more she realizes she missed from not having a role model in girl flavor. She thought she didn't need those xx genes, but suddenly every maternal encounter is an opportunity for someone to point out her fraud. Every time the MIL gently "offers" to do something domestic, say wash the mini's clothes, it's a subtle suggestion that Poker Chick should not be raising the child herself. She is not qualified. She does not know how it's done. She doesn't know how to be a woman.

What reminds her that she really is a woman? Besides hormone-driven emotional outbursts? For Poker Chick, it's stupid little things. A big powder brush. Sitting there putting makeup slowly brushing some big powder brush around your face feels female. High heels. Those are feminine. Painted toenails. Real women clearly always must have colored feet tips. Eight different kinds of wrinkle cream in her medicine cabinet. That's right, count 'em. Eight. And she can tell you the difference between each and every one. That'll make you a girlie girl. But it's not all looks, is it? (though keeping up appearances is certainly a big part of the facade). No, Poker Chick learned a few non-superficial lady tricks too. Buying the perfect present for someone. That feels feminine. Nursing. Nursing was awesome. Not only is it undoubtedly female, it's not something every woman can do. And Poker Chick rocked it. So as long as she kept nursing, she was entitled to that female title. But that's where it seems to end. Plenty of people see cooking and cleaning as "women's work" and therefore feminine. But Poker Chick sucks at that. Women know things. How to sew a button. How to take out stains. How to tie a tie. Poker Chick knows none of these things. No one taught her. Does that make her un-feminine? And if not, what does?

What makes you feel "feminine"?

Excuse Me Please, My Grace is Gone

While some of you know Poker Chick better than others, you're all no doubt familiar with her clumsiness (hey, it's endearing!) Lately she's been at her finest. Here's a banner example. It's written in the first person for a change.


Thursday: I go to an early appointment before work. Being the lazy-ass that I am, I of course don't set my alarm much earlier than usual, which means no time to blow dry the hair. I'm also arrogant and stubborn, so I assume this will not be an issue: I'll get a taxi right away. Now a reasonably intelligent person would have perhaps thought that it might be harder than usual to get a cab a day after a snowstorm; not to mention one where it's so cold all the ice has frozen. But we're not talking about a normal person. We're talking about Poker Chick (that would be me). Can you guess what happens next?

Real hard, right? Yeah. So I can't get a cab to save my life. After 15 minutes of trying and several blocks of walking I concede defeat and wait for the bus. My ears are so cold, they literally hurt. Like burning hurt. I've got no hat of course. Hey, know what happens to wet hair in the cold with no hat? It freezes. It froze into the scrunched-up curls I had tried to achieve. Eventually, it thawed at work, but still had that "frozen" look all day. Fortunately, I was able to not break it while it was still frozen. (I learned that lesson the hard way after several repeat ice storms my freshman year of college.)

When I finally made it to my appointment, 40 minutes and two bus transfers later, I'd practically missed it. So I went to work. After defrosting, I decided I was ready to look like a normal person again. I put makeup on (yep, that step got skipped in favor of extra sleep as well) and took my jacket off and my snow boots off so I could put on the nice black boots that went with my awesome new-ish black dress. Now, it was at this point that I finally breathed a sigh of relief. I was dressed. The hair was almost dry. I had my "Poker Face" on (ha! I kill me!) As I grabbed my soft boots I felt re-energized and ready to start my day. That was when I went to put one on and realized I had been schlepping the wrong boots with me all morning.

This left me with three options:

1. Walk barefoot in the office all day
2. Wear snowboots with the dress all day or
   
3. Wear 5-year old out-of-style ankle boots with a knee length dress

Um, no. None of the above please (though for the record if forced to choose I'd pick option #1 without question).

But I wasn't forced to choose and couldn't accept defeat again. So there went my relief and on came the snowboots and jacket. I'd decided to cab it and run home and back to get the right shoes. I was all the way at the lobby when I realized I had one dollar in my wallet. Sigh.

So up I went again. At this point, I was so determined to not look like I wasn't put together, I decided I had to get those shoes no matter what. In desparation, I borrowed money from Lauren. Yes, the eager hard-working woman who used to be on my team. She's barely two years out of college and makes so little dough, she can't even afford internet access at home. But I borrowed money from her anyway. This is how low I've sunk in the name of vanity.

I'm pleased to report it worked out eventually. By 11 o'clock that morning I was a decent-looking, non-snow boot wearing, working woman again.
And my debt has been repaid (in fact I think Lauren may owe me money now....)

Sadly, such is a typical day in Poker Chick's life. Those who aren't satisfied might want to hear the one a week earlier when I spilled soy sauce all over my carpet. Immediately after, I dragged my brother on a dare to get carpet cleaner downstairs at Rite Aid, even though I was in my pyjamas. If you want to hear more of this klutzy story (or choose from hundreds of others!) feel free to find me off-line. I can tell them with much more dramatic effect in person anyway.