Elf Baby

It's a commonly known fact that I really, really love the holidays. Since I am a semi-Christian raised white American, we can probably narrow that down to say that I actually really love Christmas. I say the holidays because it's politically correct and also because it encompasses (in my opinion) every single day between Halloween and New Years. My mother likes to tell people I am "part elf" or that I was switched with an elf baby at birth (I know this is false, because I doubt any elves have ever reached 5'6" and 170 lbs, plus I look an awful lot like her, and it's impossible that a woman who holds a "Christmas crying contest" with her friends every year to see who will shed the first holiday tears of frustration could have been born at the North Pole). 

Below, a photo of me on my first Christmas - evidence that I was always this excited about it:

           

I, on the other hand, begin plotting my homemade Christmas gifts starting in September, and send out the first "Christmas list" email of the season to my siblings and parents sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving. They've grown increasingly cheerful as the years go on, as if extra holiday cheer in their inboxes will stop my family from rolling their eyes at the fact that I still demand Christmas lists. Incidentally, I also write a letter to Santa Claus every Christmas Eve and leave him cookies - in contrast to my cheerfulness, Santa's letters seem to have grown ever more sarcastic.

It might shock you to know that holidays were not all homegrown perfection for me as a kid. Christmas was always anxiously anticipated, but as a child of divorced parents, the holidays always involved the uncomfortable lead-up conversations about where my sister and I should be and when, who was going to "get" us for Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and the actual day. If memory serves, it seems my mother usually won this battle, with us waking up at 6 am for stockings, breakfast with Grandma, and the tree. Sometime in the early afternoon, we were packed into the car and driven to my father's house for Christmas: round 2.

My former stepmother was nothing if not a materialist. When we arrived at Dad's, there would be presents absolutely spilling out of the living room. It really makes me wish we had more pictures saved, because I am not sure anyone would believe me if I told them. However, the torture came first: a fancy meal was usually planned with family members or friends, hosted in the formal dining room with adjoining pocket doors to the living room. We helped with cooking and serving and clean up with the room full of packages staring at us. I will never forget the year that my stepmother hosted a dinner party on Christmas - we didn't begin opening gifts until 8 pm and were still at it at 1:00, when we decided we would rather sleep and finish in the morning than stay awake for one more second, presents or not. 

My over-abundance of Christmas cheer really kicked itself into high gear when I was in high school. My sister, due to circumstances involving the aforementioned materialist, was temporarily estranged from my mother, and Mom's holiday spirit really lacked for several years. At 14, while home alone during school vacation, I climbed a ladder in our front yard and hung lights in my stepfather's maple trees and also on the front porch roof. While happy with the decoration, my parents were not exactly thrilled about me climbing a ladder at the house alone. The same year, I collected family and friend's addresses and began sending my own Christmas cards, something I have now done as a single person for 16 years. I am always the one to remind the family to get a tree. Once (during this same time period), we still had no tree (two days before Christmas!), so my stepfather and I cut one from behind the house. To fill it out, I drilled holes in the trunk and glued discarded branches into the bare spots. 

As an adult, I have moved around quite a bit. Every place I have been, I have encountered new friends who live far from their families, have Christmas horror stories in their past, or who subscribe to the Charlie Brown doctrine of "commercialism has ruined the holiday". Get out of my way, Grinches- I will make sure you have a Merry Christmas! No one can be miserable with me around, throwing up lights at my places of work, assaulting everyone with carols and shoving homemade cookies down their throats. It's December 3rd and I have already watched every Christmas movie I own. Twice. If my cell phone rings this month, it plays Elton John's "Step Into Christmas" at top volume (which has now happened several times in crowded retail establishments - and once in the public library. Oops.). 

As I sit here in my apartment, admiring my fresh-cut tree and twinkling holiday lights, I honestly cannot think of a reason to be miserable- except that my cards aren't addressed, I have barely started my shopping, I have Christmas pajamas to sew, and I have only made ONE variety of cookies so far...

You Can't Have All of Me

When I was eight years old, my father and stepmother moved from their home on a rural ski-mountain access road to a Victorian in the middle of our 2,000-resident town. Because of the availability of sidewalks and proximity of children my age, they decided to buy me a bicycle. 

We went to a big box store, one with a sporting goods department with rows of bikes for all ages. I was shocked to discover that you could get a bicycle with a radio built right onto it. The "Street Rocker" was definitely the coolest bike in the store. As we shopped for other things, I pleaded my case for the bike with the radio. They gave in. I was about to be the most envied kid in town.

When we returned to the bike aisle, I walked straight up to the one I wanted. It was a heck of a machine, black with neon green detailing and a matching green seat. As I was picturing myself cruising down the sidewalk to the park or the pharmacy on this little lightning bolt, my stepmother stopped me. She told me I could have the bike with the radio, but if I got it, I would have to get the girl's model. 

Right next to the incredibly cool black bike was a pepto-bismol monstrosity. The entire frame was cotton candy pink with lilac and banana-yellow details. The radio was bright pink, situated between the handlebars, both of which were adorned with matching purple and yellow streamers. It was the ugliest thing I had ever even imagined owning in my eight years of life. It had purple music notes on it. 

I argued, I begged, but eventually my desire for a bicycle that played music won me over and we left the store with the pink one. 

I was thrilled to have a two-wheeler, especially one that played music, but God, did I hate that color scheme. From the day I acquired the bike, I only rode it on streets where I knew no one. I don't think I ever once took it to the store. On the few occasions that I was sent down the street to meet my friend Charles, I would ditch it in the bushes on the town common and borrow a spare one that he had, claiming my bike was at home. (Only a few years later, this theme would show up again, when I would rush to school early to change my outfit, from the pink polos and penny loafers my stepmother insisted on, to the jeans and tshirts I kept stashed in my locker). 

I spent the entirety of my pre-teen years trying to avoid any visible signs of femininity. I didn't want my friends to make fun of my pink bike, or pink clothes, or pubescent figure (my clothes got gradually looser throughout junior high). Under "tomboy" in your Miriam-Webster, you would surely find my 5th grade school photo, complete with awkward 90's haircut and clothes from the boys section of JCPenney.

Quite recently, I took a new job at a late night bar. This particular establishment has about twenty five other bartenders, all of them female. I am the only one with a pixie cut. Although I have yet to meet them all, I may also be the only one who does not bartend with at least some amount of visible cleavage. Some wear heels. We are women, we serve drinks until 2 am. This is the uniform of people who bartend past midnight. 

Within my first two weeks, I had been aggressively approached by two homosexual women, one of whom responded to my very polite answer of "thanks, but I actually like guys" with a high-volume declaration of "what?! But you look like a lesbian!" Another night, while having a beer at the same establishment, I made a comment about a man to a coworker behind the bar. "You guys!" she shouted, gathering the other three girls on-shift around her, "she likes dudes! Did you know she likes dudes?"

So I put it on. I dug through the black hole of tshirts and jeans that is my closet and found my headbands, jewelry collection, and a few skirts. I went shopping. I dropped $157 at Target on two new pairs of jeans and four black shirts for work that fit in a more "feminine" way than most of my clothes. I do full-face makeup 2-3 nights a week before work (complete with eye shadow! Seriously, before this job, I don't think I had worn eye shadow since the last time I was in a wedding). I smile pretty and my jewelry flashes and my legs are freshly shaved, and now I spend only half the night listening to male and female customers tell me that people would probably stop questioning my sexuality if I would just grow my hair out. 

And I draw the line. I may have spent most of my childhood trying to avoid being a girly-girl only to do a near complete switch for a part-time job at age 30, but you, stereotyping world, you can't have all of me. I will take myself on a one-woman tomboy crusade for the rest of my life to prove that you don't have to have flowing locks, a wonder-bra chest and uncomfortable shoes to be characterized as feminine. It's probably going to be a long battle. I may also be single forever.

But I pour one hell of a draft beer with my two unmanicured hands. 

Beloved Hard-core Badass

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about death. No, this is not a hey-I-live-in-Colorado, legal-marijuana-fueled monologue about life and death and what it all means! Actually, it has been on my mind partly because my grandfather, my last living grandparent, passed away a few weeks ago, and partly because on the very day after it happened, I started my new job and had to weed-whack around every grave in a local cemetery. 

That first time was kind of hard- I was thinking about my grandfather, and reading the headstones and wondering about the lives of all of these people buried there. The graves for one-day old babies that were laid to rest seven years ago yet still have fresh flowers set out each week. Or the woman whose grave is marked with just a fading wooden cross, "Ambrocia" written on it in sloppy, white painted letters. And the two men, presumably brothers, who have matching headstones engraved with pickup trucks and ATVs. A lot of people live a very long time in the mountains of Colorado- there are several 95+ lifespans in that cemetery. And a lot of people don't- like the few women buried there who were born in the 1970's and passed away before the new millennium, whose headstones say things like "always beautiful" and "we will love you forever". 

After working at this job for a few weeks and trimming around the same graves each Thursday, I started to notice something else. Male and female graves are very, very different. While there are endless numbers of "beloved wife and mother" graves, adorned with hearts, flowers, the not-infrequent holy cross, and the disturbing trend of a full-color glamour shot decoupaged onto the headstone (creepy), the ways that men are remembered after they pass are often far more interesting. 

There's one for a guy who died at age 56, engraved with intricately drawn golf clubs, a winning poker hand, and the Denver Bronco's logo (basically, they could have saved a lot of time and money by just writing "Big Drinker" on the headstone). There is a grave marked only with a crossed pair of vintage yellow skis, driven into the ground. One plot has a stone with a scene of horses and a farm that says "beloved father, husband, and rancher". There are too many to count with guns, deer, rivers and mountains. 

Why is it that men are remembered for their interests, hobbies, and occupations, and women are only memorialized by their relationships to other people? Men can be buried with a lasting monument to their love of the land, four-wheel drive vehicles, or even gambling, but women are almost always praised post-humously for their ability to successfully marry and procreate. 

Don't get me wrong, I would be delighted if anyone referred to me as "beloved", in life or death. More often terms like "crazy", "sarcastic" or "loud" come to mind. Being described as beloved would be a great honor, if an unlikely one. But is a loving wife, mother, or sister really the most descriptive thing a woman can be remembered as after she dies? 

I want my headstone to say "Caitlin Kennett, beloved hard-core badass" or "Enthusiastic Serial Hobbyist". Why not? Etchings of flowers and hearts show us nothing of the people that these women were. And this is Colorado, for gods sake. Not one female grave with an etching of a mountain, a bicycle, skis or a horse. I find it difficult to believe that everyone buried in this cemetery lived and breathed to care for their husbands and kids and nothing else. We should really start making cemeteries more progressive, people. Think of how fun it would be for some stranger to come upon your grave 70 years later and read something like "great mom, even better table dancer".

And when I pass, if you must decoupage my photo onto my grave, make sure it's this one: 

It's a Man's World

As someone who moves around a lot, I find myself constantly being "new" in my occupation. There are more versions of my resume saved to my ipad than selfies. I keep my cover letter short and non specific, so I can change the date and recipient at a moments notice and ship it out. I have enough uniform shirts from former jobs that I could make a queen-sized quilt for my bed. 

So when I started my current position, as a seasonal parks worker for a local municipality, I knew what to expect. I've heard a lot of it before. During my interview, my now-supervisor asked me what I would do in a specific situation: if you are mowing and come upon a picnic table, soccer goal, or some other relatively heavy, park-dwelling object, what would you do? 

"Probably wait till another coworker came along to help me move it," I told him. "I'm very serious about not lifting more weight than I am capable of moving on my own. I don't want to get hurt."

This was, of course, the right answer, but he then went on to say that he by no means was implying that I was weak (avoid sexual discrimination, check), and in fact added: "You look pretty strong."

I know, I should take that as a compliment, or I should assume he had inferred from my resume packed with extensive landscaping experience that I am able to handle myself, but all I heard was "well, one can clearly see you're no twig". You're right, boss man, I am not petite or skinny, and I hope the whole department knows how lucky they are for that. I have worked with petite girls who wanted to landscape before. You know what happens to them? They quit. 

On my first day, we arrived with our crew of six at a park that needed to be mowed. I hopped out of the truck, lifted a trimmer off the rack, filled it with 2-stroke mixed gasoline, and turned to see my supervisor waiting for me. "So, have you ever used a trimmer before?"

Side-note to all department heads everywhere: it is really important (and a huge time saver) to share the resumes and relevant work experience of new employees with their crew supervisors. It is doubly important if your new employee is a girl in a male-dominated field. By taking the time to mention to my new supervisor that I have been landscaping for eight years, we could have avoided several unnecessary and frankly embarassing moments (for me and my supervisor) over the last two weeks, in which he tried to train me on every piece of mowing equipment, all of which I had previously used.

I certainly am not singling out these particular coworkers as being clueless. This happens at every job I have had. In 2012, I had a supervisor refuse to believe me that I knew how to operate a zero turn lawnmower. I humored him, as I have many, and let him show me how the controls worked. Why not? Nothing to gain by showing off. Plus, eight years of this line of work has taught me a teensy-weensy thing or two about the average male ego. 

And there's also the interpersonal personnel (say that five times fast) challenges to being the new Girl. For the first couple of days, no one will speak to me. Most men in the landscaping/maintenance field have never had a female direct coworker and (as I found out from a supervisor at another job, where my presence was discussed at a meeting on my first day, along with proper warnings and precautions) have been drilled on the wide array of statements and actions that constitute sexual harassment. Here's what I have learned: basically, it's anything. Acknowledge that I am of a different gender in any way, and I can sue the pants off you (but not literally, because that would also be sexual harassment). 

It has taken me years, but I have devised the proper way to ease the tension almost immediately: swear. Cuss like a drunken sailor, preferably one who just found out the beer is all gone. Once the males have determined that it is acceptable to use any color of language in front of me, they relax. Next, I make a joke at someone's expense. This is my favorite part, because I will never get a laugh out of a crowd as huge as the one I get when a group of new acquaintances realizes that yes, the girl is funny. It's a combination of general amusement and overwhelming relief: oh thank god, our work lives are not ruined, we will not be fired for letting a foul word escape our lips, we do not have to stop speaking when she enters the room. This will be okay.

At my first job working with all men, in 2007, it took me almost an entire summer to reach a place where my male coworkers didn't look at me like I was some sort of wily foreign insect with superhuman, job-snatching powers. 8 years later, I can assimilate in a day. Now, if I could just get them to believe that I know what a leafblower is...

The Wild West, week one

For those of you that know me personally, it will come as no surprise that I have moved, yet again. For those that do not know me, well, I change my mind a lot. I am rarely miserable with a location, job, or situation. Rather, a strong desire to "check it out" or "see what it's like" in a new place has driven me to relocate regularly. Since 2012, I have lived in Oneonta (New York), Portland (Maine), Mt.Vision (New York), Gainesville (Florida), Brunswick (Maine), and now, Colorado. 

The pull towards Colorado was not a new one, it was just one I could finally manage. Having recently decided to work towards a career with the National Forests or National. Park Service, west of the East coast is really the place to be. And at 30, I am financially independent enough and emotionally strong enough to move 2,300 miles away from my comfort zone. So, I did. I started looking, found a job with a start date of three weeks from the afternoon of my interview, met a roommate via craigslist (so far, he's not a serial killer), gave my landlord notice, listed online (and sold) most of my furniture, quit my job and drove to Colorado. The entire process took 23 days. 

On day 17, around 7 pm, minutes after my last piece of furniture went out the door (a couch, purchased less than a year ago at $200, sold to a happy middle-aged couple for $75) and I prepared for the following day (my last day of work at my current job), I received an email from my future boss. She was "sorry" to have to do this, but her business was having a few "things" going on, and she would not be able to hire me after all. 

I flipped. I freaked out. I cried, threw my phone, punched the air mattress (because I had no couch, bed, or other furniture to hit), called my mom, cried some more, took a walk (as much to calm myself - as a friend who had never heard me "lose it" before suggested- as to pick up the Chinese food I had ordered before I got the email), and sat down to apply for every job available in my future town. This entire process took about an hour. 

The same friend who suggested I take a walk also constantly refers to me as "relentless". My mother points out that when I want something, I seem to simply force it to happen. I arrived in Colorado the following Friday afternoon, interviewed for a position on Saturday, and was working by 6:45 on Monday morning. For two whole days, I planted flowers and pulled weeds and squatted more in 20 hours of work than I ever have in my life. I couldn't breathe (the shock of high altitude), got sunburned wearing SPF 50, and was so sore that it hurt to sit. The term "unprepared" comes to mind. 

By the end of day two, my original employer had come calling. Things were picking up, she needed more help, when could I start? Against the better judgment of literally everyone I mentioned this to, I took the job and started the following day. 

If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, and it swims in the pond with little fluffy babies following it, it's probably a flaky, declining company with poor management and a drinking problem. If you're really lucky, maybe it comes with a creepy middle aged boss who leers at you on day one and makes inappropriate comments about your physique to other employees. If you're even luckier, maybe the owner is a liar. 

To save you all the gory details, I will simply say it didn't work out. However, on my last day working there, I received a phone call. A neighboring municipality was just now hiring for the seasonal parks and trails maintenance job that I had (forgotten that I) applied for. Why yes, I would love to interview. 

I start next week. 

The moral of this story is not that you should always listen to your friends and family's advice (although, maybe you should). It is also not to tell you that you should stick with a job you don't really like, because the next one could be worse (although there's probably a pretty good lesson in there, too). 

The real purpose of this tale is that everything can be worked out with a little time and some diligence. So next time I feel like crying and throwing my phone, maybe a deep breath instead. Things will work out. After all, they always have. 

Be enough for yourself (a single girl soapbox piece)

I read an article yesterday on one of those daily young-women-blog sites (the actual site shall remain nameless), which touted itself as proving that the smarter women are, the more likely they are to remain single. How clever, I thought, as I clicked on the link on my Facebook news feed. Someone has written an article about something I have known for a while! 

The article was not suggesting that women are smart because they stay single (oh, damn). Instead, it was a rather long series of paragraphs of thinly-veiled man-bashing. Men are intimidated by your genius, men are programmed to want to be the intellectually dominant one, men see your independent thinking as a threat to getting what they want from you. As I finished the article, which was interesting at times (once you saw through the snarky comments about the modern man), I found myself perplexed. If all these women who are described in this article are really so smart, independent, and career-driven, why should it be impossible for them to "feel bliss" (a direct quote, suggesting that "bliss" can only exist once one has found a life partner)?

The answer is: this is a web blog for women who are looking for validation for their single-hood. They want an "expert" (this article cited a "study" of 121 British participants- what a number!) to explain why they don't have a husband. I am not above this. I read this site, and others like it, in moments of loneliness or confusion or when an interesting title pops up on my news feed. I also send the links to my sister (who will tell you she is damn sick of it) and my best friend (who is happily married and who always indulges me by confirming that yes, these pieces really could have been written about me).

But how about this, girls- let's stop searching for a reason that we are alone. Can we stop obsessing over why no man has chosen us and start wondering why we haven't chosen them? Even better, why don't you stop worrying about it altogether? 

Ok, ok. Easy for me to say. If you've read my earlier posts, you're probably well aware that no biological clock is ticking for me, that I won't feel like I am failing if I reach my mid-30's, childless and husband-less. But what if we realized for a moment that life is not a dead-end street if you aren't married, or long-term coupled? What if we stopped using the word alone to describe women without a romantic relationship? 

I'm not alone (well, I am at the moment, cross-legged on my unmade bed in my messy box of an apartment, typing away and chewing a fingernail, in my sweatpants, barefoot - and after that description, thanking God that there is no one else here), even though I am single. I have friends who I talk to daily, some that I see even almost weekly. I have at least ten people I can turn to in moments of hardship, or moments of triumph, who will genuinely care about what is going on with me. I have a wonderful family (including two sisters who are probably some of the best of the friends described above), entertaining and supportive coworkers, and an old, chain-smoking, building superintendent across the hall who will open my apartment door for me at any time of day or night if I get locked out (and who I know would come check for my lifeless body before it even started to smell). Also, I am an extrovert, which means I am never truly alone- I had a five minute conversation about muffins just this morning with a retiree at the bakery. I have an ongoing rapport with the gas station attendants near work. The Amato's counter girl knows my name, occupation and sandwich order. I am not alone!

I have ambitions, ranging from as small as reducing my clothing collection to what will fit in a suitcase, hiking a few mountains this summer, and losing 15 pounds, to as large as changing careers, moving out West, and writing a book. None of these require another human, and in fact some of them could (potentially) be more complicated if I was in a relationship. 

So as much as this blog is not supposed to be an instruction manual, I shall make one suggestion: single women, liberate yourselves! What would you do if you decided you could do it alone? How would you change your life, your habits, your wardrobe or social life, if you accepted that a lifelong partner might not be in the cards for you? Would you stop hunting for the perfect husband/father material (and start shopping for sperm donors)? Buy a house on your own? Move somewhere? Travel?  Start your own business? Get more education?

As I've said, I'm an extrovert. I know there are a lot of experiences that are enhanced by doing them with others. However, in my 30 years of life, I have found it is far easier to find some friends to share your ambitions and interests than to find a man (and then hope you can engage him in the things you are already enthusiastic about). 

The other beautiful thing about accepting that you might not find The One is the ability to be casual and calm. To meet a guy and think "hey, he might be fun to have some adventures with", rather than "does he make enough money for me to take time off when we have a baby?" will surely open you up to more friendship (and hey, maybe even romantic) opportunities. Maybe even the old "it will come along as soon as you stop looking" theory. Who knows? 

I am not rejecting relationships, let me be clear. My close friends who have read this post to this point are probably rolling their eyes right now and saying either "gosh, she's gotten cynical, must be all those failed relationships" or "she's full of crap, she was talking about finding a good guy just yesterday". Relationships are awesome, if they are good ones. I get crushes on guys I meet, I still fall for people. I still hope that there's someone out there who will "wow" me, and we will ride off into the (adventure-filled) sunset. I test out how my first name sounds paired with their last name. I muse about the type of wedding dress I'd like. I'm a girl. 

In closing, single people, I implore you. Stop planning your life around how you will meet your lifelong partner. Don't hold back on other ambitions because you're waiting for someone to share them with you. Make your own happiness, destiny, or whatever other inspirational word should be inserted here. What would you do if you were liberated from the confines of thinking you need another person to be whole? 

Be enough for yourself!

Not me, not now

...not ever.

No, I don't want to be a mother, now or "someday". Yes, I'm sure. No, I don't think I will change my mind. 

This is something I am constantly having to explain to my peers, my family, and even men I date.

Accompanying statements: No, I don't hate children. Yes, I know that I love to sew and bake. No, I doubt that I will change my tune if I meet the "right" guy and he wants kids. Thank you for reminding me that I am still young. I don't know who will take care of me when I am old and feeble. I have truly heard it all. Someone even once asked me how I knew I didn't want kids if I didn't have any yet. Yes, seriously.

My mother has made sweeping statements about my lack of a nurturing nature, based on two failed attempts at parenting felines. Don't worry, the cats didn't die - they just went to live with people who were more willing to have an obligation to sustain the life of another living being (one of those people is my mom). I will point out here, however, that at the time of both of my brief stints with pet ownership, I was working 2-3 jobs, averaging between 50 and 65 hours a week...Mom. 

Friends with children have occasionally been surprised when I have suggested we get together and begged them to bring the kids. Fact: I love children. They are hilarious, unpredictable, often irrational little humans (not unlike myself, which may be why we relate so well). They have tons of energy and insatiable appetites for sugar, also like me, and usually they adore me. At least after they are about 12 months old, when I stop looking at them like they are a crying, pooping, terrifying, non-verbal carton of eggs that could be cracked or smashed with even the slightest misstep. 

Some of the most preposterous arguments have been just that - arguments. Why anyone would think it is their responsibility (or even their right) to singlehandedly assist in promoting the repopulation of the earth is beyond me, but argue the point, they do.  

"What if... You meet a guy and fall completely in love with him and he's perfect in every way, but he wants kids?"

First of all, I will never fall completely in love with someone who is perfect in every way. Bor-ing. And, technically, fictional. 

Second, I would never consider falling "completely in love" with anyone who's major life plans didn't at least somewhat jive with mine. Sure, I have dated men who stated that they definitely wanted kids. I simply continued to calmly state that I did not. Surprise, these relationships eventually fell apart.

Third, what decade is this? Most people who have made this argument to me are quite close to my age. I fear for the future if women (and men) still believe that a woman should change her mind about the biggest decision of her life simply to appease her mate (and now, I shall step down off my feminist soap box).

I've been called selfish. Not wanting children must mean I am self-absorbed, right? If you are one of the people who have thought this, I ask you: is it not selfish to recklessly overpopulate a planet that will surely run short of necessary resources some day? (And now, I shall step down off my environmentalist soap box).

By some standards, I am still young. My coworker and his wife are about to have a baby (her first) at ages 35 and 38, respectively. Women well into their fourth decade are having healthy offspring everyday. My own mother was born to a woman at the "advanced age" of 40 (and that was 56 years ago!). I feel younger than maybe any 30 year old ever has. I live in a studio apartment. I drink cheap beer. I watch teen movies, drive a compact car, and love Taylor Swift. I eat boxed mac and cheese. 

But I'm not 15. I am not a child making grand, untested statements about how she wants (or doesn't want) to spend her life. To tell me I am still young, young enough to change my mind or young enough to not know what I want, is unfair. I have had 12 years of legal adulthood to work on that, have known for that entire time that I wasn't planning to be a mother.

Admittedly, this has gotten easier as I have aged to nearly-30. Fewer people have told me I will change my mind, or tried to argue with me the reasons why I would be a great parent, now replacing the disbelief and lectures are quizzical looks and the constant inquiry: why? Why wouldn't you want to have children? 

I used to have a ton of reasons, one to fit every social situation. "I just don't want to be responsible for how another person turns out", and "I don't make enough money and likely never will", "I am not settled enough", "I don't see myself getting married any time soon, har har har". All of the above are complete bullshit excuses, by the way. 

The wonderful thing about being nearly 30 and being very sure of your most important life decision is that it has now become incredibly easy to tell people that it is none of their damn business. 

Blue Collar Kid

I attended a private New England prep school.  I have a four-year bachelors degree from a private college in upstate New York, a reasonably high IQ and a decent understanding of analytical thought. However, I have always been in a profession categorized as "blue collar". 

Blue collar is defined by dictionary.com as "of or relating to wage-earning workers who wear work clothes or other specialized clothing on the job, as mechanics, longshoremen and miners."

Wikipedia says "a working class person who performs manual labor." The second definition is probably far more accurate for this day and age, and certainly more relevant to me, as I don't think I have ever met any miners and, admittedly, am not quite sure exactly what a longshoreman does. 

At about age 8, my then-stepmother began to really push for my sister and I to "pull our weight", as she put it.  We only visited her and my father every other weekend, but she apparently believed it was still important to instill a "good work ethic" in her pre-teen stepchildren. She started small, by teaching us how to dust (lots of practice on the hundreds of antique trinkets and surfaces in their three-story Victorian home), and moved on gradually to instructing us in the proper way to scour a bathroom and a kitchen.  By the time I was eleven (and living with them every other week), my sister and I spent between 4 and 8 hours, every other Saturday, cleaning the house from top to bottom. My stepmother provided all the plastic gloves, paper towels, small trash bags, cleaners and swiffer sheets we needed, but no physical assistance- cleaning was our "chore". 

For many years, my stepmother had fought hard against my tomboyish tendencies.  She bought me girls clothes, floral bedspreads, shiny shoes. Her refrain of "no boy is ever going to like you if you dress like them" echoes in my head to this day (but is usually yanked out, thrown against the wall and stomped on by my Independent Nature, which is much bigger, stronger, and more awesome). 

When I was old enough to work independently, however, my tomboyish behavior was suddenly a great asset to my stepmother.  On summer vacations, there were seven whole days to spend each week at their home,  and she came up with other projects. There was basic work in their real estate office (photo copies, stapling, filing, answering phones). 

I still remember the first time that she announced that my sister would be helping them in the office that summer, while I would be doing outdoor tasks. "Annie's white collar and you're blue collar!" she announced happily, laughing quite hard at how her little joke was actually working to her advantage.  For the rest of the summer, I spent every other week weeding gardens, painting numerous pieces of wicker furniture a fresh coat of oil-based white, planting flowers, and edging sod to build new beds.  

I imagine most 12 year old girls would have been miserable at this fate. However, I enjoyed being outside and the opportunity to be allowed to be dirty (and wear boys clothes!). It never occurred to me until later that my stepmother was really trying to cut me down, to remind me that my sister was smarter, more poised, and more deserving of a higher station than me. (In actuality, the woman was so intolerable to be around that spending 6-10 hours a day outside and away from her was like a vacation in itself).

Some of the best days happened when I ran out of paint, or paint thinner, or good brushes.  I was allowed to walk to the hardware store, about half a mile from the house, to buy whatever I needed on my father's charge account. Blissful freedom! And I got to go in my painting clothes, which I was sure made me look like the most bad-ass middle schooler in town ("yeah, that's right, I work!"). I always made sure I had change in my pocket to buy single-serve candy at the drugstore I passed on my way, looking up and down the street and dashing in to buy it in under one minute, then eating it as fast as possible on the way to the hardware store and (regrettably) throwing the wrappers on the ground so my stepmother wouldn't find them in my pockets or in the garbage. 

The only problem was this: half a mile is a very long way for a 12 year old to travel carrying two (or three) gallons of paint, or a couple jugs of mineral spirits.  I would arrive home, the tips of my fingers purple from the metal paint can handles, and the refrain was always the same: "what took you so long?". (The grocery store was the exact same distance, and she often sent my sister and I with a specific list, the two of us hauling two huge armloads of bags each, only to be sent back moments later because our stepmother forgot to tell us one item she needed). 

I certainly resent this (now-deceased) woman to this day for the things she tried to do to me.  She constantly told me I worked slow, questioned what I was really doing with my time when I was supposed to be cleaning, implied that I was not sharp enough or quick enough for office work, deemed me incapable of following simple directions and announced that I was better suited to manual labor. I will not say she was right, because I know I am quite capable of any number of "white collar" professions, although they have rarely interested me. 

She didn't win. Her attempts to cut me down only gave me a chance to learn what I love to do.  At twelve years old, I learned the simple pleasure of a job with instant results- personal gratification for a job well done is instantaneous, the progress is visible, the physical soreness is real. Seventeen years later, manual labor is what I do, and it is what I have learned to be very good at.  

Yep, I am blue collar.  At the risk of sounding immature: In your face.