Go East, Pioneer!

Why is it that I am always moving the warmest month of the year?  When I moved back to Utah and into an apartment with a boyfriend, it was over the 4th of July.  I again chose that lovely weekend when I moved into my house two years ago.  This year, I'm packing up over the Days of '47 weekend.  Oh yes, it is the annual State holiday of handcarts and bonnets.  As I sit among my cardboard jungle, the TV is on with the parade in the background.

People camp out for days just to reserve a good spot on the parade route.  I just heard our governor say something about how this parade celebrates our diversity and spirit.  Diversity?  Everyone looks white to me.  There are tons of missionaries on the floats and floats made by the Mormons at their local ward or stake center (aka their church).  The floats look swallowed whole by the large wide streets that Brigham Young created so that the wagons could do a U turn without a problem.  Spirit?  The Church headquarters actually gives money to the stake centers for costs of creating the floats in the religious themes and then "calls" their followers to make the floats.  Only in Utah.  Ah, side thought:  how did the tradition of teenage girls twirling recreations of rifles in a marching band get started? 

I'm also on call this morning.  I couldn't get anyone to take the shift.  I joked that we would have an onslaught of handcart traumas.  Probably more heat exhaustion or fireworks injuries, but that will be later in the evening.  Perhaps I might land a teen girl getting hit in the head by one of those wooden rifles as well with a twirl gone bad.

Sorting out what to take to Indy and what to keep in storage in Utah has been a process.  Whenever I have doubt I think of my fiancé and his tendency to hang on to everything.  It makes it a very easy decision to get rid of things.  However when I think of the spatial disparity, I get nervous.  I have a lot more boxes going vs. staying.  Hard to think how this is all going to play out when I get there with the back room still filled with his stuff.As I watch the floats sponsored by a religious conglomerate, recreations of handcarts, local high school marching bands, themes of Jell-O, covered wagons, large families created in the name of God, hardships by the pioneers, bees, crickets, sweets (yes, we love our sugar here), and glitter covered statues of Jesus, I can't help but think I'll actually miss the State.  As quirky as it is, it is still home.

Nordies

Monday afternoon after work, mom and I decided to hit the Nordstrom sale.  It was a good opportunity to hit the fall fashions for the mother of the bride.  We made our trek out to Fashion Place and headed for the petite department.  After looking at dresses that resembled moo-moos and luau inspired wear a sales associate approached us and did indeed confirm that there was nothing of the mother of the bride caliber in that dept but to head downstairs to savvy.  So we did.  These clothes are made for tall skinny people, but with the hopes of a tailor, we attempted to choose outfits.  A black skirt here, a little dress there, some taffeta and frilly sweaters.  Our selections were all over the place as the typical mother of the bride wear just doesn't fit my mom.

When you think mother of the bride, I begin to envision Diane Keaton in the movie all polished in a champagne colored suit.  My mom typically wears golf shirts, shorts and flip flops.  Most of the color schemes are red and black.  Black is the typical color for her dress up wear.  She looks good in black.  However, a funeral and a wedding should be two separate events...unless you are mourning the loss of someone figuratively. 

The outfits went from bad to worse.  Pants that swallowed her whole and ran two feet beyond her toes on the floor, sweaters that knitting patterns resembled spider webs, and "short" skirts that hit her mid calf.  The best outfit (aka the funniest) was the aqua taffeta outfit.  A spaghetti strap tank, long skirt and a jacket.  The skirt hit her right about her rib cage, the tank was too long and exposed way too much and the jacket arms enveloped her hands.  Not to mention seeing my mom in aqua was hilarious.  We were both laughing so hard we were crying and others in the dressing room began to ask us what was so funny.

Ann Taylor was equally age inappropriate.  Bohemian mother of the bride just wasn't fitting in.  Where the hell was that champagne suit?  We did find a chocolate brown pants suit that looked stunning and put it on hold at another store.  We hoped there was something in her closet that would work.  Not so much.  Even though the 80's are apparently back (see Nordstrom anniversary sale catalogue complete with leg warmers, off the shoulder sweaters, and skinny jeans that tuck into boots), the black suit dress with the big lapels and gold broach from 1989 just didn't cut it.  However I digress.

After shopping for mom we decided to shop for "fundamentals" for my wedding gown.  As we headed in to Vickie's S, I could already tell I wasn't impressed.  The sales girl seemed confused by what we needed and kept remeasuring me over and over again.  I tried on size after size.  Corsets, strapless, convertible straps, etc.  Finally they brought me what looked like a tube top with boning.  I couldn't get it past my calves when mom and I again burst into giggles.  We were done with this gig.  As I was leaving the dressing room, the sales clerk seemed disappointed as she truly was in for the challenge.  But I finally told her, "I just think that the girls are going to go free."  She gasped, turned red, and started to laugh.  The customer behind her didn't know what to do.  I don't think anyone has ever said that to her.

We actually ventured back to Nordstrom.  Found the ideal "foundation asset."  I just needed to try it on.  As we stood in line for a dressing room I saw way more than I was bargaining for.  I completely forgot Mormons wear their undergarments outside of their temple garments.  Its truly amazing they have so many kids with that ugly of a look going on.  It doesn't exactly say, "come hither."

In one dressing room there was a lady about 70 years old.  She looked a bit butch with her short spiked hair, no make up, and sagging but large body.  The sales girl was a bit cheeky.  She closed the door and the following conversation ensued:

"You are a triple D."

"I am not."

"Ok, you can call it a F if you'd like.  Now, it seems that you are wearing your under wire a bit low.  It should be right under here."

"Whoa! That doesn't feel right!"

"Yes, well, welcome to the world of support."

At that point in time I just had to walk away because I was laughing so hard.  Ah, Nordstrom:  customer service at its finest.

Smooth, yeah that's me

Yesterday I completed round two of interviews for a management job here in Indy.  The first was on Monday morning.  I arrived early.  The office itself was 1970's mental health...you know, the really feel good uplifting ambiance of olive green painted metal furniture and dark wood paneling.  Remember, its mental health.  I don't know if its a function of the lack of funding in the area or just more assurance that if we keep our clients depressed, there is job security. 

The office manager who was my one and only contact was friendly and began with the Miss so and so in addressing me.  It was a flashback to the South.  She brought me to a conference room where another woman, with an employee badge and folders was waiting.  I introduced myself and she identified herself as one of the clinical coordinators.  She was in her late 40's with a really frizzy platinum blond perm and a seer sucker suit.  The assistant came back with goodies she had stopped off getting at the grocery to make the "conversational style" interview feel informal.  She also brought me coffee. 

As the clinic person and I sat there, she explained we were waiting for others and so I offered her my resume.  She took it, looked it over and began to ask me questions. What was I doing now?  Why this job?  Why Indy?  I fired some back at her.  What was she in charge of?  How is the program doing?  What about past audits?  That's when two other individuals came in with official folders, sat down, and introduced themselves.  They were the ones conducting the interviews.

What the?  Who was this permed Madonna wannabe looking like she was going on a sailing adventure?  She was my COMPETITION as an internal candidate!  As the administrative director began to diagram the organizational structure, I interrupted laughing (how else was I supposed to play this one off) and apologized that I mistook the imposer (not the word I used) as part of the panel.  I can't believe I handed her my resume.  Really smooth.  Moreover, I can't believe she took it.  Poser.

As the interview progressed I realized that if I were to get this job, I would be her boss.  Oh holy cow.   Conversational style, my ass.  And I thought my current company was intimidating making people interview in front of panels...this one took the cake by interviewing you with your competition.  I thought I did really well with my answers.  I did a lot of research and prep work days before.  Apparently so did my competition.  It got rather embarrassing after a while when she would answer first, I would go second and then she would rebuttal her first answer.  When it was reversed and I would answer first I just left it at that.  The interview lasted an hour and a half.  There weren't any behavior questions or written questions.  More like, "Let's pretend we were philosophic strategic planners.  What would you say the trends might be in mental health in 10 years?  Go."

I must of passed, because the administrative assistant called me that afternoon with a, "Ooh, they loved you girl.  Miss so and so, you will love working for my boss!"  I got invited back to a second interview for Thursday.  It was lunch with the CEO and other administrative director who was technically on a FMLA with surgery but was coming in specifically for the interview.

The CEO reminded me of my very first administrative director.  A rather round woman who used her size to express her confidence.  Kind heart, sharp mind.  The other director looked like one of the renal doctors at the hospital.  This woman was a true get to the point woman.  There were no polite exchanges before she launched in to direct questions about my knowledge of SAMSHA, name my biggest blunder, what would my boss/employees say about me, what are my strengths/weaknesses, what is my vision.   All the CEO asked me was, what would it take to get you here.  Mind you, they had lunch, my plate sat full while I talked the whole time.  The cool thing was we went to a bistro that was run by clients in their mental health program.  It was busy, yummy food, and a hip place to be.  The employees knew the directors and truly took pride in what they did.

By the end of the interview I pretty much thought I had it.  They kept referring to things as my staff and then went on to comment about the internal candidate who just didn't have the vision but had the most potential of the clinical supervisors and if I saw it fit to mentor her and promote her in the future, that would be my choice.  I think its safe to say I have it.  She ended the interview discussing benefits and said HR would be in touch for other issues, hoped that with all the other opportunities that they could secure me.

One would have thought I felt relieved.  I felt joyous.  But I also felt panicked.  My fiance just thought there was a deadline on that back room to be cleared out.  Try moving that up two months.

Pink and Blue

Funny how we associate colors with gender identity.  No right minded parent would paint a little boy's room pink.  (Although we did have a rush of pink casts last summer for the 8-12 aged boys in the ortho dept of the hospital.)  Gender identity is a big deal.

My fiance recently pointed out that when you visit the gender studies section of the local Barnes and Noble, most books are feminist theory based.  Rarely do you find a male pov unless of course its male bashing.  If you have been following my "what I'm reading" profile, you may have noticed quite a few feminist authors.  I've been picking up Margaret Atwood (famous for The Handmaids Tale), Bitch:  In Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel,  and The Bitch in the House by Cathy Hanauer.  I've been craving other womens' pov about marriage, independence, men, sex, finances, and power.  Turns out I wasn't the only one craving this type of knowledge.

I ventured to Indiana on the red eye this past weekend for job interviews this week.  (Thats a complete separate entry to come)  My fiance, who never gets enough sleep, is working terrible ward months, and should be studying for step 3 medical boards, made a recent purchase entitled, Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man by Sam Keen.  I couldn't help but smile.  No wonder we've been declaring war on every little decision lately.  Both of us have been empowering our own sense of individuality and identity through our respective gender studies so no longer is the fight about the invitations really about the invitations.  Oh no, it is so much bigger than that. 

Everything becomes a battle about the sense of "me" in the "we."  Questions arise if our styles will mesh, blend, and somehow become one while still retaining our inner cores.  Yesterday I spent the day in the condo going mad.  Normally I take pride in doing the small domestic stuff that is nurturing for my guy, stuff that he really doesn't have time to do.  I do laundry, polish off the hard water stains in the shower, dust, etc..  The first time I did this was exactly one year ago and he almost broke into joyous tears when he got home.  That was extremely rewarding.  I did it again in March. 

Like I said, I went mad yesterday.  My impulse was to embark in the cleaning ritual and organization, but I found myself getting pissed.  Did he even make an effort to straighten things before I got here?  Was it now an expectation that I clean?  Was he entrapping me back to the house like an unliberated female?  Was I expected to be the superwoman the feminist revolution created by being a high powered executive and the homemaker?  Hell, no!

Now I began to pace.  When he visited me in April did he offer to do any of the male tasks to make my life easier while I was at work like mow the lawn?  Nope.  He sketched, journaled, went to visit his parents.  Selfish bastard.  In fact, when I asked for a few hours by myself that week in April I spent it doing things like mowing the lawn while he watched the sunset with a beer.  Now I was really pissed.  Was I expected to take care of everything?  How in the hell did he become this overbearing guy?  (Note all the projection going on.) 

I turned back to my therapist roots.  Mom.  His mother is to blame.  That woman was the superwoman putting herself through graduate school as a single mom to two kiddos.  This must have formulated his being and view of what a woman should be.  He once told me that his mother made him begin to pump the gas when he was 8 years old.  Was it instilling responsibility or molding him to be the man of her house.  (Note I didn't say "the" house, but "her" house.)  Was part of the pain him psychologically removing himself as the pseudo head of the household in his family of origin and transferring it to our sense of family? 

Every friend I've talked with has pain with their MIL (aka Mother in Law).  Every guy has been a mama's boy.  They say that you want to find a guy who treats his mother like gold, because that is how they will treat you.  However, that transfer of love, loyalty, and identity is painful and it takes a very long time.  Every friend has sworn that they will never ever be like their MIL with their sons and when it comes time for marriage, they will easily let their sons go.  Famous last words, right?  Perhaps we do marry our respective parents. 

Ok, back to the story of yesterday.  So I did realize I was on the edge.  By 3:00 I was raging.  I did an hour of yoga to center myself, but that failed.  As I wandered the small condo I realized that my fiance had not cleared out space for me.  The closets were full, the back room still full of boxes, alcohol, a space to dry laundry, a CO2 tank for his brew master hobby, and various odd purchases like muppet finger puppets from Christmas 2004 for "gifts."  He knows I'm moving here.  What the hell?!?  The message was clear:  he hasn't made room for ME in his life/space/etc and is resistant to it. 

The words of my MIL from a lunch back in May echoed, "Oh no," she said as I told her about the back room, "You will move back there to that room of boxes because he doesn't throw anything out."  At the time I poo pooed it and assured her it would be cleared and ready for me.  The words, "I told you so," began to echo.  I called my girlfriend in SF to calm me down.  She normalized the whole thing and told me I had to calm down before he got home.

When my fiance arrived at 5:30 he met a not so rageful female, but an upset one none the less.  While he was happy to be home and see me, I was edgy.  Within about 10 minutes I explained why I was upset and he began to rub his eyes (a stressful response he normally has).  He was doing just fine listening to me go on and on, some tears, and my cry for action. 

I pointed out that if I got the job I've been interviewing for, I could move as early as August.  He said he would have the back room for me, but no progress had been made but a few boxes, I pointed out.  He weighed the safety of this next statement and then took the risk, "You know, worst thing is you get back here and we just put your stuff in with my stuff to sort out later."  Later?!?  I walked away in anger trying to be calm.  Later?!?  To which I then replied, "If that happens, I will envoke the right to purge."  The red flashing button was pushed for both of us and he reacted.  My calm mild mannered guy exploded for one small moment and then returned to his quiet self, although still hostile.  I broke first and apologized.  Not necessarily for the message, but the timing.

We weren't fighting about some stupid cubic feet.  We were fighting about our stuff, its right to be in a place and stake our claim.  We may as well have been peeing in the back room marking our territory.  Nope, we were fighting about how our stuff represents who each of us are as individuals.  I didn't have the right to throw any of him away just as I was worried he wasn't making any room for me. 

Today I'm back in the condo while he is on call.  We came to the agreement that I could take my action oriented self and begin to breakdown empty boxes and organize the space, but I couldn't throw anything away.  I respect that.  I see moving as a great opportunity to purge things and keep things that are truly important.  For instance, the love letters I have hung onto for years seemed to be so easy to throw away last weekend, but I had to do it on my terms and with my timing.  I suppose the same thing goes for him and his sense of incorporation and purging of things/symbols of who he is and who he wants to be.