Not Much Has Changed

People call these lists "Bucket Lists" now, but in 1996, the Washington Post ran a story about a list the author kept called "50 Things to Do Before I Die." I found mine today as I was cleaning. Given that I am known for my ADHD, I think it's important to note that there are only 35 things on the list. I can't imagine that anyone is interested in a bucket list other than their own, so I've broken this list into two blogs. Part II when I get around to it.

My sister from another mother, Sandy, was recently surprised...horrified...annoyed...to find that many people have lists like this and she does not. And now rather than sitting down and making a list, she's wearing it like a badge of honor. She's like that. So, I thought I'd rub her nose in my list. I'm like that.

1. Own my own home. This was three years before I bought my condo. Sometimes, when I'm stressed or homesick or whatever, I still dream about that place. It was absolutely perfect and all homes are measured against this yardstick.

I mean, it was perfect aside from the lesbians having noisy sex every stinkin' night and the guy across the hall smoking cigars that made the whole building smell. Oh, and there was that guy upstairs that my dog *hated,* which made me think that he was murdering women up there. My dog Ike didn't hate that guy across the hall, though. Well, until we started hanging out and he would come over at 6 a.m. to wake me for our run. Ike hated that. And you should have seen Ike the night our relationship, ahem, changed. But Ike was totally down with our wedding. Yeah, I married the guy who smoked those damn cigars. And he still does! They're horrible!

2. Become a total vegetarian. At some point, I scribbled "nevermind" next to this, but I've been revisiting it lately because my son is quickly becoming, well, fat. He has a terrible diet because I stopped trying three years ago. Once we're moved, I have to do better. And doing better might involve becoming vegetarian. But, good Lord, being a vegetarian is so labor intensive. I had a group of friends in the '90s who were vegans and they didn't have time to think about anything else. We'll see on this one.

3. Live and work in a foreign country. You know, I'm going to check this one off. Arizona has been a foreign country to me. This place...

4. Speak a foreign language fluently. I took French in high school and college and I really regret I didn't do better in these classes. Every year I buy some French grammar books and download some podcasts or audio books and go at this one again. Fluently, to me, means able to get through something more difficult than Paris Match. Someday, I'm going to read "Remembrance of Things Past" in French and watch a Catherine Deneuve movie without subtitles. I might be 102, but it's going to happen. I can feel it.

5. Get a graduate degree. I did that! I can hardly believe it!

6. Write a book. You know, I stopped earning my living from writing 10 years ago and I have never once looked back. The two times I have ever revisited a newsroom--via my dreams--I woke up and thanked God that I do not work in a newsroom. Being pithy on Facebook and Twitter is enough for me. Keeping a journal for Finn is enough. Writing a blog is something I resisted since blogs existed because it's more than enough. Which leads me to believe that I was never a writer. Yeah. I was just a kid going through a lot of shit who had no one to talk to so I wrote it down. And I learned the rules well enough to make a career out of it for 15 years. But I don't think it was ever part of my soul. While most pharmacists have writers, poets, or musicians struggling to get out, I sincerely believe I was a writer with a science nerd struggling to get out.

7. Work from home. I know myself now and I know this would never work. If I don't have a place to go and a task to get done, I will not move.

8. Get my original figure back (145 pounds). I laugh at my 29-year-old self when I see this. I'd give anything for my 29-year-old figure, much less the 20 year old figure I was referring to. I'd be happy with my 35-year-old figure (170 pounds). Sheesh. But when does this whole "I want to be thin again" obsession end? Will I still be 75 years old and worried about my waistline, or lack of it? Because, really, I gotta move on.

9. Learn to play piano. Yeah. Still want to do this.

10. Take ballroom dancing lessons. Check! John and I took lessons before our wedding. We had a fabulous choreographed routine set to "Ain't That a Kick in the Head" by Dean Martin. It's really a shame people don't go dancing like they used to. There's really nothing better than being held and holding your partner, listening to music, all dressed up, moving in concert...

11. Take ballet lessons. I have no idea what I was thinking. I was 29, that's all I can think.

12. Learn to paint watercolors. I have always been fascinated by people who can turn ink and paper into a window on the world or a representation of what's in their head. I want to be able to do that, (but not with words. Have I made that clear?).

13. Have a weeping willow tree in the front yard of my own home. See below.


14. Have a mimosa tree in the front yard of my own home. I had just moved out of the house owned by my boyfriend. These are just extension of my wish to have a place where I would make the rules and where I could not be asked to leave. But, having lived in a place where willows and mimosas won't grow, I might change these to "Will always live where there are trees and grass."

15. Create a flower garden. See above.

16. Create a vegetable garden. Ibid.

17. Teach small children or handicapped children. My 29-year-old self liked kids, but had no experience with children or the handicapped, and Lord was she stupid. I am not a teacher. I am a learner, but imparting my lessons to others...I don't think I'm capable. I'm taking this one off the list.

18. Have a library in my home. Check. Not only do I have a house full of books, the Kindle was invented in the meantime. I have a library in my purse. My God. What a wonderful world the 21st century is.

More to come...

Things have got to change.

I’m taking a break from cleaning. My God, I would rather do anything but clean. I’d mow the yard if we had one. 

The thing about cleaning is it’s just going to get messed up in a week or less. Now that I’m married and have a kid, it’s going to get messed up as soon as they walk in the room. And, I know, I bitch about my mom probably too much, but I just remember her getting so wound up and angry about cleaning. I swore I’d never do that. And the only solution for that is to not clean. Selah. I totally get why she was angry—she was the only one doing any of the work. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop doing the work because of her own expectations and, I guess, society’s expectations. 

I had some insight into expectations when we tiled our bathroom floors. John did it all in one weekend and I told my mother what a wonderful job he did. They really are beautiful, I said. “Now it’s up to you to keep them that way,” my mother said.

That’s become a punchline in our house. Good grief, it is not my job to keep those floors clean. It’s both our jobs. Just like it’s both our jobs to keep this house clean. But we both gave up when I got sick. But why John didn’t pick up the slack when our lives fell apart…well, I have not figured that out or forgiven, as I often mention.

Unlike my mother, I really have no problem not doing the work. Plus, because I’m so out of shape, I start sweating if I walk across the room, so if I start cleaning…forget it. I have not done routine housework for three years. And it shows. Arizona brings contributes its own special evil to the mix. I have never lived anywhere where I had to dust vertical surfaces. Or where inches of dust collect on things kept in closets or cabinets that are always closed.

The man from the moving company came last week to look at our stuff to do an estimate for the move. He was an older man who probably believes I’m supposed to keep house. I could tell he was appalled. He was very friendly getting out of his truck. By the time he left, he was barely acknowledging me. Whatevs, dude. Not my job. Not doin’ it by myself.

The cleanest room in the house is Finn’s room. He does get routine cleaning from me. He gets his sheets changed. I clean the tub for him. Finn deserves better than the dysfunctional people he’s got raising him. I just hope that getting out of here works the miracle that I hope it does. I hope getting back to a normal life, where I have a routine day, where we have a dual income, instead of an income and a constant drain, will help. If not, we’ll *all* go to therapy.

This is a case where things have got to change.

But all the therapy in the world is not going to make me like housework or do housework.

Really, this change thing is just getting on my nerves now.

So, John the Realtor came over yesterday to look at the house. We talk on the phone from time to time and we get a postcard from him every quarter, but I have not actually laid eyes on him since we bought the house in 2002.

Before he arrived, Finn asked, "What's a realtor? What does he look like? "

"A realtor is a guy who sells real estate. He's a guy who sells houses. He is tall and he has white hair and he wears glasses. His name is John, too. Just like dad."

"Is he old?"

"No, he's not old at all."


Back in 2002, John was a trim white-haired fellow who drove a snazzy car and wore snazzy summer suits. (Aren't summer suits are the bee's knees?) I never got the impression he was much impressed with me. Perhaps because he witnessed a big yelling fit in his conference room when my John, let's call him Sweetie, decided (as we were putting in our offer) that he did not really like the house we were about to put a bid on. A house I had already fallen in love with.

John the Realtor did arrange a meeting between me and his friend Dr. Tong, the dean of students of the University of Arizona College of Pharmacy. I don't think it helped me get in or anything, since I didn't get in the first time I applied, but it was a nice way to use your community connections.

I was surprised and horrified when John called that morning. When the company handling our relocation said it would take care of everything, I didn't realize that included contacting John. When we talked, I told him, flat out, our house has not been cleaned since I got sick--which is three going on four years. And that I really don't have the energy to clean. Or the will. And, yes, he could come over and have a look at what we've done, but he had to promise not to call Child Protective Services on us.

So, I got to work. Sweat was dripping off my chin and the dogs were hiding in the front bedroom, but  you couldn't even tell I'd done anything. And I had to stop in the middle to go get the boy because Finn gets out at noon all week so teachers can have parent conferences. 

At 3 p.m., there was a knock at the door and I opened it to find a slouching, skinny old man with a pot belly standing on my porch wearing a blue golf shirt and Sans-A-Belt pants. His eyes were hooded and he spoke very quietly. "Hello, Julia!"

John the Realtor had aged. And lost his style. He shuffled into the house. Now I really felt terrible about the house because I couldn't offer him a seat. Finn was dominating the couch and I worried that he couldn't make it into or out of one of our low easy chairs. And...wait, was he trembling? The heat here sometimes makes me quiver, but it wasn't that hot.

Because I'm Southern and not yet old enough to speak my mind, I did not say, "My God John. What the hell is the matter with you?" I said, "John! Thanks for coming!" And I started showing him the various improvements we'd made to the house--air conditioning, hardwood floors, tile in the bathrooms--and the various...non-improvements--chipped paint on the woodwork, a vent cover duct-taped to the wall, a DIY kitchen floor that is coming up.

Every step he took make me feel worse about the house. He seemed unable to step over or around the piles of laundry that the dogs use as beds. I wanted to take him by the elbow. Finally, we stopped the tour and chatted.

"I have Parkinson's now," he said. "That's why my voice gets quiet, and I can't walk very easily and sometimes I forget stuff."

Well, that beats the hell out of heart failure. He's still getting out every day working his tail off the way most realtors do. And, it's another example of change knocking me for loop.

The only constant is change.

So, I meant to start this blog when I started pharmacy school--to post hilariously about what it's like to be in the classroom with a bunch of 20-year-olds when you're 40. Those thoughts were hilarious, but I didn't have time to post them since I was keeping up with the baby, the dogs, the husband and the studying.

Then I was going to start it when I got sick and had to take off a year. That would have been a a bunch of navel-gazing about fear and death. Everyone has enough of that in their own heads, who needs mine added to the mix?

Lately, I thought I'd start a blog when got a job, all about being a working mom in her new career. But, of course, it's my life, and, like yours, it's not that easy. I have to pass the Naplex to get licensed to get a job. And my husband just got a job in Baltimore. So I'll be coordinating a move to the East Coast from Arizona. And trying to figure out when to take the Naplex. Oh, and trying to figure out where to move my mother. (She's 65, has MS and I don't like her. And, no, I'm not telling her I have a blog.) And, let's not forget I have to get that little boy into a good school. And find a house we can all agree on. And lose 50 pounds.

So, my name is Julia. I'll be your guide if you're interested in my thoughts about changing careers, dealing with an aging parent, keeping my marriage going, whether to keep the marriage going, living with chronic illness, making sure my six year old doesn't turn out to be a serial killer, getting a job with my new skill set, and whatever else comes up along the way.

This is my backstory: In my previous career, I was a writer and an editor, so I like to think I know how to communicate. I worked at newspapers, edited and wrote newsletters, blah, blah, blah. I took the Meyers-Briggs personality test that indicated pharmacy might be a fit. My husband was the only person who believed it was possible. (My mother just laughed.) Since I am the kid who was kicked out of high school chemistry, it did seem like a long-shot. It's funny what you can accomplish when you're not worried about your drunk dad sneaking into your bedroom and co-dependent mom making your life a living hell. I was able to get through the pre-reqs for pharmacy school, get into pharmacy school, and do well in pharmacy school.

Until disaster struck. In 2007, I got a cold and I didn't get better. I went to campus health, but the doc said it was asthma. Nevermind that I'd never been diagnosed with asthma before. Finally, when I ended up in the ER, I learned that I had heart failure. Most likely, the virus that gave me the cold went to my heart. And most people get better in six months, but I didn't. So I have a pacemaker and a great big old heart. My ejection fraction is 40 percent (normal is 50 to 60) so I don't think I'll drop dead anytime soon. My husband didn't handle my illness very well, which is a major problem in our marriage. I'm willing to work on it, but I have a lot of forgiving to do and you may have already noted that I'm not very good at that.

Before you think I'm a total Debbie Downer I have nothing but good things to say about my son. He's my greatest accomplishment. And I'm very fond of my dogs. But not today because one of them knocked over the garbage can in the kitchen.

Hm. I guess that sums it up. Let's see what changes.