Diary of a SubUrban Housewife

Snooze Button

OK, so my husband travels a lot for his job. Frankly, like anything else, you get used to whatever you have, so I'm used to the fact that he's mostly gone ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

Zoe and I get into a rhythm in his absence. I juggle some things. I have good people who surround me and help me out in a pinch. Chuck and I talk every night on the phone and about 80 times a day. We've added IM'ing into the mix. We manage.

But the thing is, I have a sort of internal alarm for when he's supposed to return. And when it goes off I'm done. He needs to be home. Yes, I miss him when he's gone but don't make a big drama out of it. What would be the point? But when it's time, enough is enough, and he needs to be home.

Well, my internal alarm went off today and my husband will not be here to turn it off. He's stuck in Dallas. I am 2500 miles away from Dallas and my husband. And I'm really sad and lonely and miss him.

I guess I'll have to hit the snooze button until tomorrrow.

Super Powers?

Well, it's 1:00 on a work night and I'm no more tired then I was at my bedtime, a good two hours ago.

For a change, though, tonight, I actually got in bed at my bedtime. Then I thrashed around for two hours so I figured I was better off getting out of bed and smoking some cigarettes and surfing, then waking my husband and being miserable.

So there's the sleep thing. Or the not sleeping thing.

Then there's the food thing.

I haven't mentioned that. But fact is, I don't feel much like eating. Or I get hungry and then eat a few bites and I'm sick of whatever it is before I'm full, so I just stop.

Tonight's dinner was a rare exception, but that's pretty much how it's been for the last few weeks.

Now don't start thinking: classic depression signs.

Cuz here's the thing. I'm not depressed. I actually feel great. I feel better then I have in a really long time. I'm not exhausted during the day (except that I can't wake up in the morning, but so what else is new?). I have energy. I'm happy. I feel good about myself I feel sexy and womanly.

But apparently these are superpowers because I no longer require food or sleep.

It's a Puzzlement

Overheard in the elevator in my office today, a young man and woman talking:
HIM: You know it's like those Chinese Finger Puzzles. Whenever someone sees one they think it will be fun and just want to put their fingers in and they just end up tug tug tugging.
HER: Yeah, you're right.
HIM: Just like relationships. Everyone thinks they want to be in one.
HER: Yeah, then you get in one and all you want to do is tug tug tug until you get out.

Wjierd

When we used to go out to dinner and had to leave a name Chuck always left the name Zero. I guess it amused him to hear the host/ess annouce, "Zero, party of 3, your table is ready." But then, Chuck is often easily amused.

Well, at one point, the whole Zero thing digressed, as things do around here. Zero was funny (I guess) but we started coming up with funnier options. We settled on Wjierd (the J is silent). It took some time for us to decide where that silent J would reside in the name, beginning, middle, end... and I guess we settled on the above spelling. So now when we give our name down, we say Wjierd, with a silent J. It always results in a very puzzled look from the host/ess and delights us no end.

Thing is the silent J is apparently not all that uncommon. My friend Anna who is Swedish has a silent J in her name. Sjodahl (pronounced Sherdahl, go figure, those Swedes are wacky folks).

So anyway, I'm in a meeting with a couple of potential new vendors this afternoon: Bud and Moe (I've changed their names for privacy). I take a look at Bud's business card and ask him to please say his last name (which is spelled Njboke). He says to me--serious as a heart attack (read this phonetically) Enboke, the J is silent.

Had my boss and a VP not been in this meeting I would have immediately excused myself to call my husband. But alas, I had to curtail that urge (and you know, I really hate that).

I dashed out of the meeting to call my husband Cjhuck and then get his freakin voicemail. VOICEMAIL. I'm ejxploding and get his fucking voicemail. But I left him a mjessage and he called me back. Because he got it. The only other person on the entire planet to get it. And he did.

Tjhat's jjust ojne rjeason wjhy I ljove hjim.

On What Planet?

I want to know who decided that cargo pants would be a good fashion statement for the general public?

For your basic Navy SEAL or Army dude it's maybe OK. I mean, they have military stuff to carry around, right? And I mean, let's face it, unless it's dress blues, the whole olive drab tucked into those boots is a big fashion don't anyway.

But for your average Joe? I'm here to tell you, there are very few (and I mean very few) people who can pull of pockets plastered to their hips. Why anyone would want to add inches there is beyond my realm of understanding in the first place. But to then do it and think you look fabulous?

Think again.

Meat Facial

My sister picked me up to go to lunch today. We decided to go to Little Tokyo, which is about a five minute drive from my office.

We are off our formerly favorite sushi place because it's been downgraded to a B rating and I don't care who you are or how cast-iron your intestinal tract; eating sushi at a restaurant that has a B rating is just plain old stupid.

Then there's the conveyor belt sushi place. They specialize in rolls, and it's quite yummy, but last time I went there all the rolls disintegrated, leaving me and my lunch companion covered in sticky rice. So conveyor belt sushi is off the list for now too.

So, we decided on Shabu Shabu. There's a place my sister has been raving about. It seemed like a good idea to try it.

For those of you in perhaps Iowa, where there might not be Shabu Shabu, the deal is that you get a plate of thinly slice raw meat and a plate of raw veggies. In front of you is a steaming pot of boiling broth. Then you put your raw food in the hot broth and *poof* it's cooked and you eat it.

I think I forgot to mention that it's about 98 degrees in Downtown Los Angeles today. I think I also forgot to mention that the Shabu Shabu place is not air conditioned.

So there we sit, in a restaurant packed with people. Hot people. Non-air-conditioned people. Steaming hot bowls of broth surrounding us. It was absolutely delicious but perhaps a poor seasonal choice. We both felt like we'd had facials, meat facials, by the time we left.

I think in the future I will limit my Shabu Shabu eating to winter.

Fresh Ink

Here it is, #4. It's on my foot. I haven't decided whether or not to have it shaded in yet. I need to live with it for a few weeks. You can always add color, but you can't take it away. Dano, the guy who did Chuck's tattoo did mine. He is now the "Official Tattooer of the Atkins Family".

It's gonna look very sexy in some high heel shoes.

(Click on the image to enlarge it)

And Another Thing

Now that I know how to upload pictures, here's one of me with my cute new hair. Gone is the buyers remorse. I'm all about my hair now. I mean, three minutes from shower to cute. What's not to love?

(Click on the image to get the full fabulousness that is me.)

Not This Time

I have a problem getting to work on time. I've had this problem my whole life. Even if I get up on time (or early), I still somehow manage to get to work about 15 minutes late. I have the best of intentions every single day, but still, it's 15 minutes. The thing is, in the rest of my life I'm on time for things.

But for work, not so much.

Except in the summer. Because Zoe goes to camp at the Y that is down the block from my office. And because she has to be at camp by 9:00 sharp or I have to park the car and walk her in, and it's a far-ish walk. If I get her there by 9 I can sign her in pretty much "curbside" and then just drive up the street to the office.

So I've been on time, if not early, for weeks now.

But my boss, who's a bit of a jerk, has issues with the fact that I'm late. But I think he should get over it since he usually doesn't come in til about 10, and I've been at work at least 45 minutes by then. (Let's not discuss the fact that he goes to the gym for three hours at lunch -- which would be inconceivable to you if you ever saw him -- but that's another story.)

But periodically he shows up at 9 ish (more like 9:10) just to see if I'm late.

Well, as I said, lately I've been perfectly on time so I don't have to do the "walk into camp thing".

So this morning I'm at work by about 8:50, which is so early I may have to leave an hour early.

By about 8:53 I'm all settled in and doing my thing.

At about 9:10 I leave my office to go down the hall as jerky boss walks in.

I greeted him with a big "Good Morning," and an air of "well I've been here for hours, how nice of you to show up" and went on my merry way. I'm sure he was just hoping I wasn't there so he could remind me to be on time.

Not today jerky boy. Try again tomorrow.

Open Up...Go Boom

One of the many hats I wear at the office is of Floor Warden. This entails supervising about two dozen co-workers to assist in fire drills and emergency situations, and training staff on emergency procedures. I'm really good at this. I have attended a lot of different trainings and I am your "Go To Girl" in an emergency.

Following September 11th, training was stepped up (as you can well imagine). FBI, Secret Service, LAPD, Bomb Squad, Haz Mat teams all came and gave talks. What to look for. Whom to call. How to react. Keep yourself and your staff safe. You know the drill.

The week following September 11, my building had no fewer than five bomb threats. With each one I have my "team" search the floors and evacuate my staff to one of two safe spots. We then wait for an "all clear" from the building. It's a complex thing because in fact they never actually give the "all clear" because with more than five million square feet, it is virutally impossible to search the entire building. Each tenant is pretty much reponsible for policing their own area. So you have to use your best judgment.

The rule of thumb though is that staff is permitted to go home after the second bomb threat of the day. I will suggest it's a wonder we don't get more bomb threats.

All that said, come this morning. It's been a shitty morning since the get-go. I crashed the computer that runs my office security system. This resulted in no non-exempt employees having access to the office because their key cards didn't work. On the heels of this were no fewer than eight reports of HUGE cockroaches in the 9th floor ladies restroom. Following was a report that all the toilets in the 8th floor ladies restroom were clogged. OK ladies, go across the street to McDonald's to pee please until I can sort this out.

Fabulous day so far, no?

Well, then I go to collect my mail. Next to my mailbox is a box. It's a rectangular box. The address label is hand written (in sort of creepy handwriting). There is no return address. The box is taped shut with about 50 feet of clear tape and masking tape. And the box is quite heavy for its size. For any of you who know anything about letterbombs, this is a classic.

As the quintissential "Go To In An Emergency Girl" I remain calm. I put a note on the box for it not to be touched. I note the UPS tracking number. I call my boss. Hmmmmm. I go to UPS online and find that it was shipped from Baldwin Hills on Friday. I did not order anything. I have not purchased anything on E-Bay. It's getting weirder by the minute. My boss calls UPS. He explains the predicament. They assure him that it is against their policy to accept packages without an return address. And no, they cannot tell us who shipped the package.

I had to smoke. I'd been dealing with this for about two hours now. As far as I'm concerned there's a letterbomb addressed to me sitting in my mailroom. Monday with a fucking vengance.

Finally, about another hour later I get a call from my file cabinet vendor. It was some file bars that go with the file cabinets I just ordered. Hoookaaaay.

Thing is, had it been a letterbomb and had it exploded, I'm sure the fucking cockroaches in the ladies restroom would have survived!

Choosing Me

Being a wife, mother, career person, and individual means I have to make a lot of choices. Often the career person gets left in the dust. Most of the time I make choices that put the whole "mother" thing first.

I schedule my time off work around my daughter's needs, actual or intrinsic. With Chuck out of town a lot, it's generally left to me to cover miscellaneous "pupil free days", then there are sick days. There are also field trips, class parties, and stuff like that--the things I choose to participate in.

In the past I have put my career second to the needs of my daughter. It's been OK. It's been my choice.

But now I'm ready to start making other choices.

We have just leased an additional floor in my building, and we're looking for new space in my Orange County office. These are the favorite parts of my job--site selection, space planning and construction. It it different from the humdrum stuff like cockroaches and letter bombs that my job is usually made up of.

And we're at the outset of it all. And Zoe has a week between the end of camp and the start of school. Normally I would take that week off. Or Chuck and I would split the detail. But alas, Chuck will be out of town.

And for the first time I have chosen to put my job first.

I have a site visit in Orange County and space planning meetings. There will be architects, designers, and initial contractor interviews (though I already know who I want to use).

This was a very hard decision for me.

Zoe is going into the 3rd grade. And frankly, it's not like I'm abandoning her. I'll still be off her first day of school, and maybe her second. But there will be no pre-school lounging. But I feel good about my choice. I'm excited about work for a change. I know this is a really big career-making project.

If it's the wrong choice, it'll just be another few years on the therapy couch for my daughter.

Sleep Update

2:00 a.m. Not even close to tired. Gonna try bed again. What the hell. At least it's cozy in there.

Senseless

Like nearly every other big office in this world, in my office everyone has internet access. It's mighty handy. I check my stock portfolio, read journals, and do some miscellaneous surfing. It's just a little entertainment to fill slower moments. Not that I have hours a day to surf mind you, but as part of my morning routine, along with my morning coffee, I check my office e-mail, check my home e-mail, read a few journals, check my stocks, and then get on with my business.

Then as the day progresses I might check back to some journals who didn't update in the a.m., keep an eye on my $$$, and whatever else (read shop here).

All that came to a grinding halt yesterday afternoon.

My company uses Websense to limit office internet access. Used to be you would get the evil "this content is filtered" message if you tried to play games, gamble, or look at porn. With the "this content is filtered" message it would give you the category that it falls under: gaming, gambling, sex, etc. I don't have issues with these things being filtered in the workplace. (Because frankly, when looking at porn I prefer to be at home anyway.)

But apparently someone has been very busy these last couple of days because when I went to check my stock portfolio yesterday afternoon and found that it was filtered because it applies to financial data and services.

Beth and Shelley are rated as entertainment and therefore unavailable (ladies, you should be so very proud).

And Jill isn't allowed because apparently she's all about sex (go you!).

Yesterday Maggie was filtered because of sex too, but today I could get in there, so she's neither entertaining or sexy anymore, sorry honey.

And today I discover there's a new little wrinkle. With the exception of Jill (you little sex kitten) you can now go to these sites but you have to go through an additional step and it's considered "quota time" of which you have 60 minutes a day, used in 10 minute increments.

This just bites so I'm using precious work time to update my blog.

And don't feel bad Maggie, apparently I'm neither sexy or entertaining because I can still get into my journal.

Slapped Senseless

Well, as you know, I was not too pleased with the Internet Police.

I had a little "chat" with one of the guys in the IT department shortly after I posted my entry. What's up with this????? I'm fairly certain my displeasure was showing.

Apparently we've always had different levels of access but through some boo boo in IT (I know, how fucking madcap is that), all staff ended up with uber-restricted access.

"Oops, so sorry, I'll take care of it right away," was what I was told, but I remained dubious.

I'm pleased to say I am once again free to wander the wooly wilds of the world wide web, unchecked!

In The Pink

I am genetically predisposed to having colored hair. It runs deep on both sides of my family.

So it should have come as no big surprise to my mother when I started changing my hair color at the tender age of 12. Sun-In. Yeah. Me too. But I was lucky, my hair turned a lovely golden blonde, not the brassy orange of Sun-In lore.

By 16 my stepmother was trotting me off to the salon for "streaks" as they were called in the 70's. Either foil or that dreaded cap, the one they use the crochet hook with to pull the hairs through the tiny little holes.

I've had color done in the salon. I've colored my own myself. My sister, mother, and best friend have helped me. I've colored my sister's. My mother's. My best friend's. Henna, black, blonde, red, highlights, lowlights. You name it, I've done it to someone or had it done to me.

Now I only have my hair done professionally because now it's by necessity, rather than choice that I color my hair. And frankly, I have the disposable income to pay someone to take care of it for me.

But that's not the case when you're seven, as my daughter is.

I think it was two years ago when we decided pink streaks would be a good choice for her. So Zoe and I purchased hot pink dye and gave her hot pink streaks. They looked cute and faded after a while. I guess Chuck was fine with it. It wasn't like we consulted him or anything.

Then last summer when I was getting a "weave" (streaks for the new millenium), I had the hairdresser put some in Zoe's hair. It looked darling. Chuck had a bit of a fit over it. I guess he wasn't as fine with the blonde as with the pink. Oh well.

All summer Zoe has been bugging me to streak her hair again--blonde. I keep meaning to do it while Chuck is out of town, but frankly, we've never quite gotten around to it.

Today is Freaky Friday at camp. Zoe came home last night asking for me to color her hair. Hot pink. She knew we still had the hair dye. I said maybe. Then we went out for sushi where I discovered the cure for my sleeplessness--excessive consumption of saki (I slept 10 hours last night!). When we came home from dinner I was a bit tipsy and in no condition to color anyone's hair. Chuck then informed me that he was going to color Zoe's hair for her. I found all the supplies necessary and left them alone.

Now my daughter has hot pink hair. She's also got a hot pink back, forehead, butt, cheeks, and neck, but that's a story for another time.

Weird Husband Thing

A thing I've discovered about my husband: if vegetables or salad are put on the table in a communal bowl he will not take any, and therefore will not eat any; however, if vegetables or salad are served to him on his plate, he will eat them.

A New Regular Feature

Now, entry 1 in what will likely become a regular feature. You'll get to know a little more about me...maybe. Thanks to Unconscious Mutterings.

Bay:: Shrimp
Boarding school:: Zoe in 7th grade
Riddle:: me this Joker
Hunger:: pang
Allergy:: sinus
Sponsored:: by
Spin:: doctor
Interest:: free checking
Scrabble:: triple word score
Mold:: spores

Slap Me

I have this overwhelming urge to get my belly button pierced. Like tonight. Like on my way home from work. Like I'd go now if I could leave the office.

I'm Madcap I Tell You

Well, I did it.

Click on the pic to see the fabulous new belly ring even bigger.

Oh, and btw: I'm *much* tanner then I look in this picture.

Fashion Don't #436

My bosses stepfather-in-law recently passed away. And apparently one of the things he bequeathed to my boss, his stepson-in-law, were his dress shirts. Lovely Hong Kong tailor custom-made, monogrammed shirts. My boss wore one of them to work today.

The thing is, the monogram is on the right breast pocket. The initials monogrammed on the shirt are not even remotely those of my boss.

Tacky, tacky, tacky.

Belly Button Update

Well, it's been just short of 96 hours since I had a man stick a 14 gauge needle through my stomach so I could adorn it with little sparkly things.

So far, so good. Night one was a bit dicey. I didn't even want the bedclothes touching my tummy. Night two was much better. And night three, even better still.

It's a bit achey and I don't want anthing but the loosest of cotton tops touching it, but no sign of infection. I am comforted to know that at least right now my stomach is not going to fall off (although come to think of it, that might not be so bad).

On the plus side (of which there are many plusses, quite frankly) I've come to embrace my poochy tummy.

I've had a poochy tummy my whole life. In size six pants, still had poochy tummy. Before I had a baby I had a poochy tummy. One baby and an extra 45 pounds of pregnancy weight gain (that is now gone, thank you very much) did nothing to improve the poochy tummyniess of it all.

But now I have a cute little ring in my belly button, right over the little poochy bit, and you know what? It's really cute.

Getting Lucky

I will say that when it comes to playing games I'm very competitive. I'm competitive but very good. So much so that there are members of my family who refuse to play backgammon, cribbage, or Scrabble with me anymore.

I'm also good at games of chance. I'm still ahead lifetime over Las Vegas, and much to the chagrin of my husband, don't really feel the need to go back there and ruin my record.

I'm particularly good at picking the ponies. I've had this skill since I was a teenager. I would go to the racetrack with my stepmother and her friend. I'd get a $20 budget and invariably leave the track with totals in the hundreds (OK, you can't make a mint on $2.00 bets). My methods are extremely scientific--it involves considering the colors the jockey is wearing, how the horse looks, and the position of Mars.

So yesterday I pop into my friend Cindy's office. Her husband, Pete, called while I was in there. Come to find out Pete is at Del Mar with a bunch of his friends. Jokingly I told her to tell Pete to put $5.00 on the number three horse in the next race.

Pete starts hemming and hawing that he's not going to because if it loses he'll never see his $5.00. I promise I'll give him the $5.00 if I lose.

I came in this morning to find the following e-mail:

From: Cindy
Sent: Thursday, August 28, 2003 5:10 PM
To: Beth Reinstein Atkins
Cc:
Subject: You won
Importance: High

$5 paid $14. Pete has $9 for you!!!

Go me!

She gave me the actual $9.00 Pete got from the racetrack.

I think I'll go buy some lottery tickets this afternoon.

I'm So Mean Sometimes

So I was online playing dominoes earlier this evening. I've never actually played dominoes but there always seem to be a lot of people playing, so I thought I'd check it out.

So I sit down at a table with someone who had "man" in his name. OK, I'm game. This person asked how old I was. (I can guess where he's going with this, but I'm up for some fun and feeling a bit mean.) I told him 27. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Then asked if I was a man or woman. My answer (still feeling feisty here): all woman. Then this person proceeds to tell me he's 14. Shit, I could have a 14 year old kid. He asks where I am....I think fast. I check my profile to see if I've actually said, which I haven't. Las Vegas I tell him.

I then proceeded to tell him that I was a showgirl. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I told him the only reason I was home and not working tonight was that I had fallen down and have a broken ankle.

I asked him if he knew what a showgirl was and he said no (but that's a crock of shit if ever I've heard one) so I told him a dance in a revue in Las Vegas and wear lots of sequins and feathers. Cuz they do, don't they?

Then this poor boy who had surely cum in his pants a dozen times by now asks me if I take my clothes off. I assured him that I wasn't a stripper but that I don't really wear a lot of clothes to start out with.

"Oh," he said. He left shortly thereafter (I'm sure to clean his trousers up).

So you know I'm gonna fall down and break my ankle tomorrow, right?

Monster of My Own Making

Growing up my family went out to dinner a lot. It still surprises me to find out that this is not the norm.

We went to Chinatown nearly every Sunday night to eat at this hole in the wall restaurant called King Wu. It was down a very long, very steep flight of stairs, the type of place unique to New York's Chinatown, though I've been to similarly located restaurants in London--basement places.

We went to this seafood place called Lundy Brothers in Sheepshead Bay all the time. It was at Lundy's that I developed a taste for lobsters and steamed clams. I'm sure my dad is thrilled that I have had a varied pallette since a very young age.

As a teenager in LA, one of our regular stops was Little Tokyo. I always dreaded Japanese food night. I never developed a taste for sushi. Sure, I could get tempura, but everyone around me was eating raw stuff and I thought it was yucky.

In my mid-twenties a boyfriend and I went for sushi. I figured it was worth a go to try it again. We sat at the sushi bar at some funky Westside place. We got absolutely tanked on saki and Sapporo's and I realized I'd developed a taste for raw fish. That taste lasted about two weeks. We went to the same restaurant two weeks later. We sat at the same seats at the sushi bar and I started to slowly re-order the same kinds of things I'd had two weeks later. But this time--yuck.

So that was it for me with sushi for about 15 years.

About four years ago, as an anniversary gift to my husband I agreed to go to sushi with him. My husband, Mr. Meat and Potatoes, loved sushi. I would eat California rolls, and unagi (eel, which is cooked) and see if there was some tempura on the menu. I'd manage. It was for him.

But then I tried a couple of more items and found that once again I'd developed a taste for sushi. And this time without getting completely shitfaced, so I thought it might be for real. We went to sushi again a week or two later and the taste for it stayed with me.

Now I'm all about sushi.

We've been taking Zoe for sushi since she was a baby. We order her miso soup, edamame, sticky rice, and maybe some California rolls. She's been happy with this fare for quite some time. Besides, I didn't really figure it was such a faboo idea to be giving a small child raw fish. It's a parasite thing, ya know.

Well, last Thursday, Zoe and I went out for sushi with my dad. We went to our new favorite sushi place. I ordered Zoe her usual California roll, and her new fave, a Philadelphia roll, which is cream cheese wrapped in nori, with raw salmon around it. I'm a Jew. Raw salmon is lox without the smoking, so I wasn't having issues with this.

My dad ordered a spicy tuna crunch. This is a salad with chunks of raw tuna, chopped tomatoes, and smelt eggs, in a sort of spicy saucy concoction, with pieces of fried wontons sprinkled over it. It's Oh-My-God delicious. Zoe wanted a taste. (You just have to love a kid who is willing to try just about any food on the planet, at least once.) She loved it. She ate a good portion of it. She then ate some of my dad's tuna sashimi.

I guess the ban on raw fish is over.

When faced with what to have for dinner we found ourselves choosing between Cuban and sushi. Fifteen minutes later we were seated at the sushi bar.

Zoe ordered her usual California roll. I ordered the spicy tuna crunch thing which Zoe insisted was for sharing, and then she proceeded to eat half of and then order herself some tuna sushi, which the chef made for her without wasabi.

My kid is all about sushi.

She's a monster of my own damn making.