Attrition

by Mothership on April 23, 2012

Was it something I said?

This week, writing class was down to five of us. The lawyers came, unwilling to miss a potential bunfight, I suppose.  The construction worker who had done his BA in creative writing was there, the tech writer, a young woman who is a full time student, and, of course, me. Mary, Christian Fiction lady had sent a message saying she had childcare problems, but the remainder of the class had simply not shown up. I wondered aloud if it was due to the nice weather, unusually hot for this time of year in San Francisco, but the tech writer volunteered that, in his experience, the rate of attrition in adult education was very high, and we could expect that at least half the class would disappear by the end, although they did not all usually go so quickly.

I was interested to hear this. Not only that this was a common phenomenon, but that he had taken so many classes and, in fact, was a serial taker-of-adult-education classes and freely admitted that these were in lieu of a social life. This declaration left me momentarily speechless so I busied myself opening a packet of biscuits ( I had volunteered to bring the snack this week) and I quickly thrust them under his nose, urging him to take one so that I didn’t have to deal with the unbearable emotional weight of this statement.

I enjoyed this week’s class almost as much as last week, although it was less gratifying in terms of opportunities to show off. I was struggling slightly with a headache as Husband and I had thrown a dinner party the night before. We don’t do this nearly often enough. It had been part of my grand vision of life in SF that I would be forever holding fabulous parties with scintillating company, but it turned out that actually we didn’t quite get around to doing that. In fact many weekends were spent asking the other what plans he/she had made, and then, as we had each failed to make any, we somewhat resentfully did nothing in particular. Now, however, with the summer and the end of our lease swiftly approaching, I feel anxious about my (potential) home-based social life closing down again so I arranged to invite people over without exactly consulting Husband. I feel this style of social arrangement works best. In theory he is open to having people over, and actually likes it when they are here, but if you try to organise something with him, he always wants to put it off into an unspecified point in the future in case it might clash with some work that he ought to be doing (which is actually all the time and permanently late) so nothing ever happens. I’ve decided to override that, with the caveat that he is welcome not to attend the party, and the understanding that he’s really not going to do much in the way of the cooking even if he sort of means to. He is, however, very good about cleaning up afterwards and is a welcoming and convivial host. We were nine to dinner in all, including a single man and woman who had each contacted us separately asking if we knew someone to set them up with. I don’t often have single friends for whom I might have a suitable match so this was rather thrilling for everyone and gave Husband the opportunity to write a seating plan in order to throw the potential lovebirds together. Husband loves anything that can be worked out with a diagram, preferring it vastly to a conversation involving what people might actually be feeling at any given time. He dislikes too many variables in an experiment,  and emotional content, being non-rational and generally unquantifiable is far too messy for him to become involved with. I often wonder, given that, why he married me, of all people.   At any rate, the single people seemed to get along very nicely, the dinner was a great success, people ate and drank with gusto, the wine, laughter and conversation flowed, and it was well after midnight when they all gradually peeled off and went home. In England you’re probably thinking

“After midnight? So what?”

But here in sleepy California, that is the nocturnal equivalent of 3am or later since we all go to bed at 9.30 and get up at 6 to do exercises or have-a-nice-days.

I did sleep in until the almost unheard of hour of 8.30 but then had to minister to the hungry children and attend to the important task of  reading the New York Times, in which I was delighted to note the designer Alice Temperly had name-checked my lovely friend Liberty London Girl (I wonder if she’s seen that?).

I printed out my class homework, which I then carefully left at home (I restrained myself from telling the teacher that the dog had eaten it), and went off to class with my champagne headache. We learned about the difference between flat and rounded characters this week. I felt that I was probably one of the former myself, given my rare hangover, but I think I understood the lesson and shall attempt to put it into action for next week’s class. If I keep on going, perhaps by the end of the course it will be just me and the teacher left.

 

 

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Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

by Mothership on April 16, 2012

I went to a writing class this Sunday. In my eternal quest to get past chapter one of my book (hurrah!) I have decided to enlist professional help and decided that the pressure of a group of real, live, breathing people plus a teacher would be good for morale, plus I could get some tips on actual plot, which seems to be the sticking point *cough*.

I had to drive to Berkeley, which was an adventure in and of itself because I am not very fond of heights or driving over big bridges. I mean, I can manage getting across the Thames without incident, even on a double decker, but the Bay Bridge is an entirely different animal – it goes on for bloody EVER – and I spend the whole time worrying about earthquakes and falling beams which is not very helpful or productive so I was rather flustered by the time I arrived.

The room filled up slowly. There were about ten of us. Four women, six men, a few lawyers, some marketing people, a tech writer, an older man who had done his undergraduate studies in creative writing and subsequently spent thirty five years on a construction site. The lady who sat next to me, a sweetly smiling, plump woman in her early thirties, told me she ‘didn’t work’ because she had two children aged 1 and 2 (??!!) and her husband was a pastor so she helped him in his parish. She has ambitions to write Christian fiction which is a genre I had never heard of but I am certain has a huge market here in the US. The teacher asked us to pair off, spend a few minutes getting to know one another and then introduce our partner to the class by way of getting to know one another. It’s fascinating to hear what other people have taken in and choose to present about you to the room. I was with my Christian lady, Mary, and she chose, out of all the things I told her about my life, my work, and background, to tell the others that I was

” .. a mom, has a mommy blog and she likes music”.

This is all true, of course, but is not how I would necessarily have described myself. No matter. I’m fairly private as a person, and if anything I prefer to keep myself to myself ( not like those creepy neighbours who turn out to be axe murderers, though). I was content to listen to my classmates’ accounts instead.  I did notice, however, a certain dynamic start to emerge during the class. The lawyers and marketing execs were very vocal, although not necessarily terribly insightful, and quite often, if Mary, Christian fiction lady spoke up, which she did rather timidly and quietly, while the teacher paid her due attention, the others gave off a slight but discernable waft of contempt. I began to sense it coming towards me, especially after one of them asked me, somewhat condescendingly,  if I was going to write a story for or about children, seeing as that’s what I spent all my time doing.

That pissed me off.

Just because I have kids, and might spend a lot of time with them (and actually, these days I don’t but that’s beside the point), it doesn’t mean that I don’t have any other interests, that I can only write about people under 10, or that I have the intellect and experience of an 8 year old myself. I have actually got a brain (somewhere, sure I saw it at the bottom of my handbag underneath a bag of crackers), and I have actually LIVED SOME LIFE, YOU LITTLE PIPSQUEAK, PROBABLY BEFORE YOU’D HAD YOUR FIRST SHAG.

No, I’m perfectly calm. I’m just looking for my pills, hang on. Also underneath the crackers, near my brain..

I smiled politely and said I wasn’t really sure. I was a bit stuck on plot, but found it easy to write, so time would tell, blah blah. By this point the questioner had already stopped listening to me, moved on to doubtless more interesting and talented, serious artistes, and I had hatched a plan for his painful, slow death. I would invite Christian fiction lady, Mary. I thought she’d enjoy it – it was quite biblical in its way.

The teacher set us an exercise. We had two sheets of paper. On one, we’d write down the name of a place, one that was easy for all to recognise, and then write ‘positive’ or ‘negative’. on the next sheet of paper we would write down an emotion.  Then we had to pass one piece of paper to the left, the other to the right so we were left with an emotion and a place w/connotation that we had not originated ourselves. Then we had 10 mins to write down a list descriptive details on each sheet of paper, but no emotional content.  After that, he gave us another 10 minutes to write as much as we could – a paragraph or so- based on our descriptors, bringing them to life, but we couldn’t say where the place was, or what our emotion was. We just had to convey it through the detail. I believe this is a fairly standard exercise in creative writing, the ‘show, don’t tell’ approach.  When the time was up, he asked for a volunteer to read. Surprisingly, the lawyers and marketers came over shy. So I stepped up.  Here is what read to them:

I sat there staring at him, trying to cover myself with the damp, fetid sheet that had once been white. He was still holding the worn polyester comforter, now ripped beyond repair. Dropping it, he tapped an unfiltered cigarette from the crumpled pack he always kept in his top shirt pocket. It was not the same brand as the other two, ground into stubs in the overflowing ashtray on the ringed and chipped bedside table. Taking a deep drag, he blew a thin, hard stream of smoke towards the ceiling, temporarily displacing a circus of flies patrolling the naked fluorescent bulb. He picked up one of the empty bottles from the stained, brown carpet and looked straight at me. My skin prickled and my tongue instantly went dry. I pulled my feet in towards my knees and blinked a few times, trying to make myself smaller, less noticeable. He put his head to the side, yellow teeth smiling nastily, a black space where the gold one had been sold for a fix. I could smell my own sweat mixed with yesterday’s beer, stale smoke and the faint odor of vomit that never left the floor. I thought I heard a woman crying, it might have been me.

There was a satisfying silence afterwards and a pleasurable flicker of what could be construed as either fear or distaste on the faces of one or two of my classmates. I looked at Christian fictionlady Mary. She beamed at me with open warmth.

Good job! she whispered. I loved it!

I’m now extremely intrigued to find out more about Christian fiction.

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Gaultier

by Mothership on April 13, 2012

Seven has been on holiday this week. For the first half she was off skiing with her dad and brother which was quite delightful for me as I stayed at home, but on Thursday and Friday she and I spent the days together which was very pleasant for the most part, bar a couple of quite spectacular teenage tantrums (erm, thought I’d be spared this for at least a few years, but apparently not).

Yesterday we went to the De Young Museum to see the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibition which was rather wonderful. I was not sure what Seven would make of this – she is somewhat resistant to gallery visits on the grounds that it is boring to go and just look at things if you can’t actually play with them or, better yet, buy them and take them home (I see her point), but I did manage to pique her interest with the story of how I came to acquire my very own Gaultier dress back in the naughty nineties and after that she agreed to accompany me.

Back in those days I was at the height of my singing career and was dating a boy from NYC who worked as a music exec. We had quite a torrid romance, meeting in various cities around the world when our schedules allowed, and now I look back on it, it all seems rather predictable and obvious that as the artist in the relationship I was completely caught up in the drama and romance of what was actually quite an improbable and impractical relationship, whereas he, being a) a bloke and, b) a music biz tosser,  was much more interested in the status and the bling of it. Anyway, he was the type of person to hang out in the absolute most coolest bars and hang with the hippest people on the planet (how else would he have met my good self, of course?)  and it was on such an occasion in New York that he met Jean Paul Gaultier in some  hotel bar and got chatting with him, and in the course of that told him about me. Apparently, they got on so well, and JPG was so taken with whatever my lover had said about me,  my career, my bod, whatever, that he went off and came back with a dress sample for me which I have to this day. I wore it once or twice but only on private occasions, as it is, ahem, completely see-through, and even though I did at that time have the bod to rock it, I could never quite bring myself to go out in public showing my knickers and bra to the world at large.
Still, I was impressed. I took my lover’s acquisition of this dress, fool that I was, of a sign of devotion, of love, of an indication of promise that never really came through.

We broke up some time later for reasons that weren’t very concrete but were fairly obvious nonetheless.

Seven loved the exhibition, she wandered around critiquing the clothes, saying which she would wear, which she thought were ‘too weird’, laughed openly at footage of Madonna walking down the catwalk with a dog in a baby carriage and asked loudly

“Is that Lady Gaga’s mom?”

causing great mirth all around.

I had a lovely time with my little girl and thought wistfully of the time back in the 90’s,when JPG, his favourite models, and I were all in our heyday. It seems quite a long time ago now, the glamour so distant and hard to fathom

Years later I met that guy again. There was no sign of the boy he had been in the smooth and not entirely likeable man he had become. He claimed to have forgotten all about the dress.

I wondered to myself if he really had  met JPG or if he’d gone out and bought the dress and then made up the story later. Then I realised that either way, in this case, it really was the thought that counted.

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Mini break

by Mothership on April 9, 2012

They’ve gone!

As soon as the door clicked shut on their retreating forms I switched on the trinity of the kettle, the heating, and  every available light downstairs, which has a strange sort of religious synergy if you are inclined to think about it a worshipful way. I then kicked off my shoes, unzipped my uncomfortably tight dress and collapsed on to the sofa with the New York Times and the childrens’ Easter Eggs.

Three entire days to do exactly as I please. The thought makes me positively swoon with ecstasy. I’ve cancelled all my appointments, decided to put any extra work on hold and I’m going to devote the whole time to creative pursuits and spontaneous naps.  Bliss!

Do you know, I can’t actually remember the last time I allowed myself to do this. I’m always rushing around doing things, making plans, taking action and trying not to sit still, or else I’m listening to stories and thinking “I MUST write that down!” and then I don’t. Because I forget or I make a cup of tea and then its gone.

Yesterday we had a family over in the morning and the mother told me a little about her childhood in rural Arizona in a town of fewer than 8000 people. So different from my life, and yet human experience brings us all so close, doesn’t it?  It reminded me of a friend of mine who I don’t see anymore. Someone who changed the way I looked at life forever but the sad likelihood is that I will never see her again.

I started to write about her yesterday and then I couldn’t stop. It was like that fable where whatever you start doing at midnight you’ll be destined to do until the break of day and I found that the more I remembered of what she said, the more I recalled of what she didn’t actually say but I understood to be there. Hers was a dark, sad tale, full of abuse and betrayal, but also full of fierce determination, defiance and dark humour. This last was somewhat odd as she is the only person I have ever known who is actually worse at telling jokes than I am, I’m giggling just recalling her try to tell you a joke, realising she’d forgotten the punchline then saying, crossly,

Wait! This is just some dumb fucking joke! I can’t believe I can’t remember how it goes. Right. Get me a piece of paper, I’m going to work it out SCIENTIFICALLY and then I’ll tell you properly.  Hey! What the FUCK are you laughing at?!

By which point I’d be doubled over, practically weeping with laughter at her furious expression and bony fingers clutching a pen, stabbing at bullet points with her perfectly manicured nails. She wore bright red lipstick and jet black eyeliner. Her clothes were breath-squeezingly tight and would have looked obscene on anyone with a less astounding body.  She was brazen and broken, had incredible sweetness but was also utterly ruthless. She’d tell you stories of her life that you would find hard to believe if you didn’t know how chaotic and extraordinary her daily existence actually was, and as I witnessed quite a few of these episodes I found it all too easy to believe her. But in recollection, it’s what she omitted but I heard anyway that tugs at my heart the most.

She was a pain in the ass, but I miss her. Sort of.

Do you have people like that? Ones you don’t exactly wish were in your life now, but you miss them anyway?

 

 

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Sleepysnoozynightynight

by Mothership on April 2, 2012

Poor Seven, like her mother before her, has a self-defeating tendency to jump on the hamster wheel of despair just as she’s warmly tucked into her cosy bed and supposed to be falling asleep.

Instead, she stays awake until well after 10 o’clock, feeling vaguely anxious about circumstances beyond her control, intermittently coming downstairs to complain about imaginary ailments or terrifying dreams she has had, despite not having slept yet. I must confess that while I often feel really sorry for her, I also get massively irritated by the constant interruptions into my precious grownup time when I am trying to read a book or distract her father from his interminable equations by dancing around in frilly underwear. (Oh, and lest any of you feel a pang of envy at my exotic love life, please be assured this hardly ever works as I frequently prove to be less alluring than the theoretical energy reduction limit of metallic base elements).

I had been vaguely promising that I would search for a self-hypnosis cd I used to have that might help her sleep, but we kept on forgetting and she’d only remind me, reproachfully, when I couldn’t actually do anything about it like in the middle of a traffic jam or when I was on an important business call. Months slipped by with her going to bed later and later and getting more and more anxious until on Saturday night, when she had worked herself up into a near-rage of worry at 9pm after an evening out, I decided to take decisive action and turned to the trusty computer while her dad attempted to calm her into her pyjamas and brush her teeth.

I spent about ten minutes researching my subject – honestly, there’s not a lot out there that isn’t massively irritating – but I did come across several recommendations for the music and stories of Lori Lite, and, more essentially, you could download her work from iTunes which was about the longest delivery time I could stomach. I chose to overlook the pukey photo of a floating child in the lotus position and forgave her the psychic waft of incense that drifted my way as the tracks ticked through my computer to the iPod. I hoped that this would be the balm on Seven’s psyche that would enable her to drift happily to the Land of Nod, and allow me to the The Paris Wife if not The Joy of Sex.

I took all tv and videos off the device so she wouldn’t be tempted to watch Word Girl or similar, and brought it to her upstairs along with her headphones. She snuggled happily into her pillow, started listening to the gentle voice and plinky-plonky spa music, and about 10 minutes later she was out cold.

WIN!

Next morning she said she’d LOVED the stories, wanted to listen again. So she did. And she slept like a log.

So, Lori Lite, you are not paying me for this, I don’t know you at all, but you are a new hero in our household. I may be tempted to buy one of your grownup recordings for myself, actually.

If you’d like to buy some of her work for yourself or for your children, you can look her up on iTunes or check out her website Stress Free Kids. 

 

Sleep well!

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Dear Coach,

by Mothership on March 13, 2012

Well, Coach, something must be happening because every single day this week I have a work related something or other  to do which is a big change from a month ago. It’s not that there is a lot – some things might only take half an hour – and I still find ample time to arse about on the internet looking at amusing photographs of people’s dogs or perusing sweet little houses that I can’t afford to buy and worrying that even if I could, the imminent floating of FaceBook and subsequent flood of twelve year old millionaires will wipe out the available inventory and fill my neighbourhood with smug, grammar-insensitive hipsters who will turn me into an even more curmudgeonly old lady than I already am. But at least I have some things to do which make feel slightly more important than folding laundry.

A project for my nearly-dead business with Husband has wandered by the inbox, and by sheer good fortune a different kind of scientist is needed. To this end I have subcontracted someone else and avoided making my children fatherless whilst still earning a crust.

I am meeting a woman about creating sound for an educational game on Thursday. Music! Tiny music!

More on apps. (this is The Bay Area, after all!) An opportunity has arisen to create an app for farmers with a very clever and accomplished lady. Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about farming and not much more about apps. apart from being outrageously good at Words With Friends. However, this person believes, somewhat erroneously, that I have brilliant marketing skillz, can write a cracking business plan and have what it takes to persuade Venture Capitalists to fund this idea (did she mean my push-up bra?). I’m supposed to be brushing up on the 4-slide VC pitch (eh?)  and getting us ready to change the world of agriculture through a smartphone revolution!

Lock up your combine harvesters! Here we come!  


I’m very flattered by her confidence in me. She is a hard hitter in her world and she has read my C.V. (the honest one where I didn’t fib too much though I might have left out a few slightly embarrassing episodes) so she must think I bring something of value to this venture  -pretty sure she has a push-up bra herself, you know.

I’ve also done the homework you set me, Coach.  You told me to talk to a professional writer or two about their life and career. I didn’t want to do this. It felt squirmy and internish.  I heard the distant double chime of pride and insecurity like some clipboard-holding bailiff at the door of my consciousness and naturally I wanted to pretend I wasn’t at home.

But. I also didn’t want to return to you having failed to do my assignment. I got enough F’s in school.

So I sucked it up and emailed the least threatening writer I know to ask her about her life and career.

When I say least threatening, I mean that she was:

a) The easiest to approach because I have done writing work for her and she likes what I do

b) Not posh, famous, self-important, incredibly wealthy, the author of a bestselling novel/play/poetry series so I wouldn’t have to lie down and feel inadequate afterwards.

What she was, though – and this I didn’t anticipate at all – was completely and totally inspiring!

Jane is in her sixties. She lives in Michigan. A smiling, warm-faced woman whose demeanour radiates wholesome good-will and cheer. she is chatty and personable,  generous with her time and story. She is Head of Communications for an industry association that is very, well, industrial and makes you think of factories, mining, working men’s clubs etc. . I was interested in hearing how she had leveraged her writing skills into a well paid management-level job that she can do from home in roughly in the hours that she chooses. She told me this story, but she also gave me so much more.

Jane’s father died when she was less than one year old leaving the family destitute. Her childhood was marked by poverty but her mother always impressed upon her the importance of education as a means of escape.  Jane studied hard, hoping to go to college. However one month after she graduated from high school her mother also died, so the pressing need to feed and house herself took precedence over university. She trained as a secretary and married young, not quite knowing where she was going but feeling like she had more to offer for many years. At forty she had an epiphany and changed her life. She divorced, remarried, went back to university and subsequently started a new career in public relations. She had a couple of full time PR jobs but decided corporate life wasn’t for her and by chance she ran across the people she works for now in a freelance capacity. She said, laughingly, that she had a friend who designs those kind of tests which tell you what kind of job you should do and hers always come out ‘writer’ or ‘engineer’ and that this job is perfect because it’s pretty technical in nature but creative in execution.

“I was the kind of kid who was always taking toasters apart” she said.

OMG. I LOVE HER!   I was ALSO the kind of kid who took toasters apart! I’m still the kind of person who takes things apart and fixes them myself (yes, our landlords love me in turn for all the repair fees I’ve saved them).

She went on to say that she loves the fact that she can travel for this job to some interesting places but it’s not too much travel – every few months, not every month, and she can combine it with her personal passions. For instance she was recently in Calcutta for work and was able to go and help at an orphanage there run by a friend of hers and bring over funds that she had raised specifically for this cause.

Wow. Impressed.

She mentioned that she has to be very careful with her time management because she has a health problem that is an auto-immune disease which means she is liable to illness a lot of the time so she must make sure that she gets all her work done and that she also makes time for the things that are really important to her. These things are: Exercise, which is critical to maintaining her health, and Bible study, which is critical to her spiritual well-being.  To achieve this she gets up at 5.30 every morning even though she is not, she says, a morning person.

She has a high level full-time job, a husband, six grandchildren, a health issue to manage, she gets up at the crack of dawn to exercise and nurture her spirituality and she fundraises for orphans and kids in need.

Yet she seemed to think that she was the most incredibly ordinary person. It wasn’t exactly that she was discounting anything that she had done. It was that she was naturally, beautifully and genuinely humble.

Talking to her made me realise that I didn’t really want her job, or her career trajectory. I wanted her humility. Her generosity. Her warmth of spirit. Her authenticity.

I’m beginning to wonder if the career is really the cargo. Maybe it’s the vessel. Maybe the cargo is comprised of values that we share with others in some sort of tangible form. Humility, grace, beauty, kindness, love, healing etc.

This is a very interesting thought but unless I develop it further is unlikely to assist me with filling in job applications unless God is specifically looking to recruit slightly decrepit and confused mortals as 2nd class angels who will identify as having some good qualities as listed above yet feel no compunction about the sins of omission.

I look forward to your take on this one, Coach.

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Heavy Cargo

by Mothership on February 24, 2012

I went to see a career coach yesterday.

Regular readers (don’t laugh, I know I’ve only posted twice in the last 8 months) are by now familiar with my various plots and schemes to step back into the working world and may even be aware that we specifically left Stepford so that I could have a crack at starting a business in San Francisco.  It was successful in some ways (we got clients, we did work that pleased them) but not in others (I found the jobs boring and difficult, wanted to assassinate my business partner – awkward, I am married to him – and I frequently found myself in some sort of high school time warp, staring out the window thinking

If the bell doesn’t go soon I will be forced to garrotte myself with a set square

So we can say, perhaps, that while my bold new venture was not a bad idea in and of itself, it wasn’t going to work for me.

I felt a bit of a loser after this realisation hit. What the bloody hell was I DOING?  WHY had things not turned out fabulously? How come I couldn’t just bloody get my act together like normal people? I helpfully found some more unpleasant things to accuse myself of and once I’d made sure that I really felt guilty about my failings I spent some productive time sitting in my bed feeling acutely sorry for myself, vaguely resentful towards anyone who was happy with their lot, and eating copious amounts of chocolate.  Finally, Husband suggested I seek professional help which at first I took to mean “check yourself into the funny farm”(oddly appealing!) but it turned out he had in mind a career coach and even offered generously to pay for it. (If you are reading this, Husband, I graciously accept and have charged his fee to the joint account.)

I was skeptical at first. My last interaction with a career counsellor was at school aged 17 and went something  like this:

“So, MTFF, what do you think you might like to do when you leave here?”

“I am moving to London and I am going to be a pop star. Probably be in the charts by Christmas”

“Ha ha. Righty-ho. You teenagers all think you’re going to be on Top of the Pops, but let’s be a bit more realistic, shall we?”

“Easter, then.”

“Be serious, girl. What about college? Or maybe a typing course? Very handy!”

“I AM MOVING TO LONDON AND I AM GOING TO BE A POP STAR.  Why are we even discussing this?”

“Young lady, your foolish determination is NOT going to help you get on in this world, let me tell you!”

“I’m GOING TO DO IT and YOU can’t STOP ME!”

(MTFF flounces out with the arrogance of youth and a deep desire for a Camel Light. Ah, the ’80s..)

My takeaway: I was absolutely right (ok timing was about 10 years off *cough*), career counselor was a wazzock and knew nothing.

I was not entirely sure that this California Career Coach was going to be any better, but what was different this time is that I have no idea what I want to do next, I possess the anxiety of middle age, and my get-up-and-go has got-up-and-gone-off somewhere without me.

So perhaps not much to lose? Maybe he’d suggest a typing course and all my problems would be solved.

The career coach was younger than I expected. By this I mean he was younger than me (outrageous!) and quietly confident.  He explained that we would be working together on a process of my self-discovery and that finding an inner understanding of what I love and what I have to contribute would form the basis of where I would find meaningful work. I liked the sound of that although I also felt, in my British way, slightly embarrassed by the whole thing. Then he read me this poem.


Cargo  by Greg Kimura

You enter life a ship laden with meaning, purpose and gifts

sent to be delivered to a hungry world.

And as much as the world needs your cargo,

you need to give it away.

Everything depends on this.

But world forgets its needs,

and you forget your mission,

and the ancestral maps used to guide you

have become faded scrawls on the parchment of dead Pharaohs.

The cargo weighs you heavy the longer it is held

and spoilage becomes a risk.

The ship sputters from port to port and at each you ask:

“Is this the way?”

But the way cannot be found without knowing the cargo,

and the cargo cannot be known without recognizing there is a way,

and it is simply this:

You have gifts.

The world needs your gifts.

You must deliver them.

The world may not know it is starving,

but the hungry know,

and they will find you

when you discover your cargo

and start to give it away.

 I promptly burst into tears. I HATE crying in front of people, appearing vulnerable.   However, Coach just sat there sympathetically and pointed to the box of tissues beside the sofa which I can only assume are needed by more people than just me.  He asked me what had come up for me while he was reading the poem and – the oddest thing – I thought first of this blog, so neglected for many months. Then I thought of music and words, of stories and poetry,  art and dancing,  travel and being in the African bush.

For the first time in a while I felt a flicker of authentic hope about myself, about my own path, my own light, rather than the endless practical arrangements that I am constantly making in order to make space for a life that never materialises because I am always arranging for its possibility rather than living it.   Coach said that the first few weeks are about exploring and remembering who I am and what my dreams are so that I can follow them once more.

“It seems to me” he said ” That if you managed to manifest your dreams when you were younger then there is no reason you can’t do it again. You just have to identify them. That is going to be the easy and fun part. The rest is just detail and follow through”

I think what he meant was,

“Not-so-young lady, your foolish determination is going to get you exactly where you want to go in this world”

 

The trick is to discover my cargo. What is yours?
 

 

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Fried Fruit Restaurant

by Mothership on January 5, 2012

Four has opened a restaurant.

It is in my kitchen and it is called ‘The Fried Fruit Restaurant’

You can order anything you like as long as it’s fruit (including, as he is very quick to point out in a loud stage whisper, a TOMATO) and as long as it’s, wait for it.. fried

He doesn’t actually use a pan to fry his fruit, it’s all miraculously done in the oven with the interior light switch as the sole source of power. I think the unconventional fry-method is partly because he can’t reach the top of the stove without a chair but mostly because he’s very he’s very attached to my grubby British flag oven mitts which he calls the ‘You-know-Jack-glove’ (slightly creepy name, but as he’s a preschooler I let it pass).

Every evening after supper the family is invited to dine at Fried Fruit and I am commandeered to be the waiter. I am forced to wear a wilted tea towel across my arm, approach the table with a delicate combination of arrogance and obsequiousness and ask my husband, who finds it difficult to play childish games without buffoonery (and this is a deadly serious game), and seven year old daughter, who is old enough to feel superior and scornful of Fried Fruit, but young enough to want everyone to acknowledge her newfound status as not-one-of-the-babies, what they would like to order.

They are awkward customers.

It’s not made any easier on me by Four, who hovers directly behind me whispering the script and the evening’s menu while the diners are alternately overly jocular or drawlingly sarcastic.

Me: Welcome to Fried Fruit. My name is MTFF and I will be your waiter this evening.

Four (whispers loudly): Tell them I’m the chef!! Tell them!!

Me: Four is your celebrated chef who will prepare any fruit of your choice and fry it in the amazing, um, fabulous OVEN!

Four: Tell them they have to have FRIED FRUIT! By me! I’m the chef!

Me: I just did. What are the specials?

Four: The specials are…. FRIED FRUIT!

Me: Sir, may I tempt you with a delicious mixed plate of Fried Fruit?

Husband: I’ll have schnaxelberries, please

Four( falls on floor wailing): NO! NO! It has to be REAL PRETEND FRIED FRUIT!

Me: We don’t have those, Sir. How about a nice apple?

Husband: Surely you have schnaxelberries?

Four: He’s not PLAYING PROPERLY. Fried FRUIT! For REAL!

Seven: He isn’t even going to switch the oven on. Why do we have to do this?

Me: Shh! Be nice! Mademoiselle. May I interest you in a strawberry, fried?

Seven: No. Yuck.

Me: What about your favourite, passion fruit with pear? Fried?

Seven: No. I’m not playing

Four: But I’m the chef! I’m the chef! She’s mean! Wahhhhhhhh! Nobody’s coming to Fried Fruit.

Me: I would love a fried apple! With banana, please!

Four (bitterly): You can’t, you’re only a waiter.

Me: But I could be a customer now.

Four: No. You can’t. You’re not allowed anymore. The restaurant is closed.

Me: But, I thought..

At this point all three of them leave the room and only You-know-Jack and I are left to put away the imaginary dishes until the following night when Fried Fruit opens again.

Please email for reservations. I have many.

 

 

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When the going gets tough..

by Mothership on November 6, 2011

..the tough go shopping.

Husband would not approve of this motto – he is dedicating his life to trying to get us all to save the planet by consuming less  – but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and in my case I feel perversely compelled to make as large a carbon footprint as possible by flying across the world to indulge in my shopping habit.

Ever since I started popping over to London on my own for a week’s escape a couple of years back, I’ve found it rather hard to stop doing that at least once or twice per year. There are many places in the world to visit, of course, and I would like to see more of them but there is nothing quite like coming back to the city of my birth without the cares and responsibilities of everyday life.  I think that one of the things that I like best about these trips is that I am beholden to no-one and I can get up or go to bed exactly when I choose , seem whomever I want without the clock ticking on me and simply wander around thinking about things without the background mental chatter of “Is there anything in the house for supper” or “Does Seven have a clean uniform and does Four understand that he has to stay later at preschool to play T-ball today or will he be crying after lunch because I’m not there to fetch him by naptime?”.  I can sign out of motherhood and wifedom and be completely myself for seven glorious days, by which time I’m ready to come homeand be nice to my family again (I get a bit shrill and batey if I don’t get away from them every now and them).

So, London, here I come. Prepare your shops, assemble your merchandise, stock the kitchens of your restaurants and, most importantly, put on the kettle.

See you in December.


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Grave Thoughts

by Mothership on November 4, 2011

“Just when I thought I had everything sorted, it all fell apart and I had to start again.”

This would be not only an accurate descriptor of my life thus far, but might also be a rather fabulous epitaph, giving rise to all sorts of metaphysical speculation amongst those visiting my grave (or not).

Meanwhile, back in the land of the (purportedly) living, I am forced once more to examine my plans and recalibrate, adjusting course, changing direction. I also work hard at not screaming “FUUUUUUUCCCCK!” in open panic in front of the children while Husband scuttles down to his office pretending that has nothing to do with this, really, and lalalalalalala he can’t hear me dumtedumtetum.

So.

Here we are.

The good things I have achieved in San Francisco:

Getting my children (finally) into acceptable schools. This was harder than A.P.Calculus.

Finding doctors, dentists, hairdressers, blah blah.

Getting the first client for our business

Made lots of interesting friends

Been out to the theater, comedy, got tickets for music and dance coming up.

Been to Galleries and Museums

Gone Shopping in non-suburban stores

Joyously spent money (I’m actually quite good at this wherever so I’m not sure it’s location-relevant)

 

 The less than good things that have happened.

Failed to deliver work to first client on time

Realised that the work was quite hard and a bit boring and I couldn’t do it all myself

Felt panicked that I was not in control of the people doing the other parts and forgot that I was not actually in charge of keeping the entire world revolving by scampering around my mental hamster wheel at 3am.

Understood that my big new business plan was destined to fail due to inbuilt flaws hitherto unseen because I am a blinkered idiot.

Went into slough of despond as a result of previous points.

Got older (this would happen anywhere, I know, but seemed worse because of the above)

Gained 5lbs and got flabby UGH! UGH! HATE!

Discovered that Husband brought annoying tendencies with him from Stepford despite being instructed to leave them behind.

Conceded, reluctantly, that I might also have some habits that I needed to break in order to move on and up and into my new, shiny plan for growth and rehabilitation.

 

What I am going to do now.

After I finish eating the childrens’ Halloween candy I am going to quietly and determinedly get rid of that 5lbs.

I joined a ‘Boot Camp’ to combat the flab with Husband. I know I will go to this religiously, not least because I will feel morally superior when I can get up at 6am and he will still be lying there groaning, unable to do it and then I’ll be able to come bouncing in smugly an hour later. Irresistible.

Force myself to take classes and courses in brushing up my technical skills so I can make myself relevant again as a composer and engineer. I always feel squirmy about doing this kind of thing as I don’t like classes and am shy in groups but one has to be brave, right?

Ask for help when I need it (not good at this. Very bad at this)

Go for lots of walks

Remember that even when I feel REALLY shitty, it passes relatively quickly.

Take joy in my children.  This one is easy.

For instance, the other day Seven and I were discussing God, Jesus and Mary (the new Catholic school, you see). She didn’t really have much of a grip on how it all happened so I tried to give her a quick sketch of the immaculate conception/virgin birth, God is the father, Mary is the mother, Jesus is the son thing.  She looked puzzled and then asked about Joseph. Where did he come in? I said he was Mary’s husband and she pointed out that husbands were the daddies and wives were the mothers. I said yeeeess, but in this case it was God. She said:

“Are you serious? How did they make a baby when there were no PENISES involved?”

I sense that this is not the last time we’ll get to giggle in church.

 

 

 

 

 

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