Ruthie Momma

I recently purchased a Gaiam yoga mat from Target.  When I unrolled it at my prenatal yoga class, I was surprised to find it smelling like chemicals, particularly because Gaiam touts itself to be eco-friendly.  While being pregnant makes me especially sensitive to weird smells, I am someone who has always been sensitive to smell in general, particularly those of a chemical nature.  (Alas, my sense of smell does not come in handy in the kitchen.)  My classmates in graduate school used to refer to me as the canary in the lab; I always held acids as far away from me as possible even when others weren’t bothered by the smell of them.  I also was the first one to know when a hood wasn’t working properly.

Earlier last week, we had our kitchen updated, which resulted in a house that smelled like various adhesive products.  The chemicals that are used to adhere tile to the floor and granite countertops to the cabinets prompted a week long battle with nausea and difficulty sleeping. 

Due to the heat, the laborers were not able to open all windows to allow proper ventilation.  Even if all the windows had been opened (which I suggested they do) the air was stagnant due to the heat and humidity.  The ceiling fan was circulating on high, but the fumes were not going anywhere.

I shudder to think about the men who work with these products every day, men who generally do not have health insurance either.  And then there are their wives, many who are maids and inhale chemicals from cleaning products all day.  There is a Latino health crisis in this country just waiting to happen.

Once the contractor finished the kitchen update, my husband and I had to wash all the dishes to clean off the dust that had accumulated.  We cut and placed sheets of contact paper onto all the empty shelves, inhaling another round of glue-based fumes.  Luckily for us, we have a small kitchen and limited exposure to these products. 

I can’t help thinking, however, that the price may be — in the long run — too high to pay.  Sure, we updated our kitchen so we can sell our house in a year.  And potential buyers will undoubtedly fall in love with our new set up.  But what about the damage we are doing along the way?

This is the argument in which I always get trapped.  The idealist vs. realist attempt to duke it out: 

Side 1: No one will buy your house unless you update your kitchen, but you don’t have the money to make more environmentally conscious purchases.

Side 2: You are selfish for wanting to sell your house at a decent price while the people helping you are not able to afford health insurance or a house of their own.

And bad things happen to good people.  Usually unwitting people.  Innocent people.  It’s the luck of the draw.  I think the mistake is that we believe we are entitled to more.  When we are born, though, we are born into a cruel world, given gifts and curses regardless of socioeconomic class.

Meanwhile, a new law signed by President Obama will limit the amount of formaldehyde used in the manufacturing of wood.  The EPA is working on writing the rules for the new law, including how products will need to be labeled to show that they comply with the new formaldehyde regulation.  Potentially, it will be difficult to distinguish a low-formaldehyde product from a “green” product in which no formaldehyde was added.  [See the USA Today article for more information on this issue.]

Even so, the measure is comforting to me.  While the world may be a cruel place, people don’t have to be cruel when armed with knowledge.  That’s why we are human beings and not just animals.  Together, slowly but surely, we can make a difference, one that focuses on more than just the bottom line.

I have this weird love affair with the Ideal Mother.  You know, the one who bakes all her food from scratch with only organic ingredients.  The one who sews cute little outfits for her children and makes dainty crafts and quilts.  The one who practices yoga and channels the Earth Goddess in her spare time.  Not to mention writing books and keeping an updated blog with beautiful photos of her daily handiwork.  This is also the Mother who has at least three children, makes her own lotions and detergents so as not to introduce harmful chemicals to her wee ones. 

You know her, right?  She’s out there.  Somewhere.  I see her manifest on other women’s blogs: Angry Chicken, SimpleMom, and countless others that I’m only beginning to find.  I mean, I really want to be Her.  I want to embody Her.  Or, at the very least be exactly like the women who more closely resemble Her.  There’s evidence out there that the modern hippie woman exists and manages to be successful in the world.

It’s just that I can’t be Her.  I can’t even seem to find the patience or the time to let Her root in my life.  My kids are constantly whining or fighting with each other.  Even if I am home with them and we’re hanging out, it’s a continual ploy to play Princess or some other melodrama.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been married.  Or how many birthdays I’ve had.  By this point, I probably qualify for mention in the Book of Genesis.

If we do crafts, we are messy and chaotic.  I can’t possibly post those pictures!  Even if something comes out cute, my house is a cluttered mess.  It’s far too easy to tell what a Ragga Muffin Mother I really am.  The gig will be up for sure!  I mean, I can post the pictures, but nobody is going to pay much attention to them.  (Okay, aside from my friends and family.  And thank God for them or I’d really be miserable.  Hugs to you all for reading this.)

My dilemma is that nobody will ask me to write a book about all my fantastic crafty ideas or sell my creations when it’s so obvious that I can hardly stay focused on task long enough to bring my ideas to fruition.  To be honest, I just have the terrible habit of beginning something new and not finishing it.  My children just exacerbate that tendency.

So, why the love affair with Her?  Why do I insist on torturing myself?  Why not replace Her with the Goddess of Mediocre?  The Messy Mother?  Surely She has qualities I can admire.

I don’t know.  I hate giving up entirely, I guess.  Maybe somewhere, deep down, I still think there’s a chance for us.  I’m hopeless, I know.  Because sometimes I feel Her.  Sometimes She IS there. 

Is She just teasing me?  Torturing me?  That’s not like Her, is it?  Or maybe it is and the other women just aren’t talking about Her in that way.

Just me.  Right?  I just have to believe that these other women are imperfect, too, that they sometimes yell at their children, that they buy cheap cosmetics on a whim or because they were impulsive or distracted or frazzled by exhaustion and hunger.  That they throw away a few vegetable scraps in the trash rather than the compost because the walk over to the compost bin is just too far away this time.  That they give in when their children cry and whine for a product Made in China or Pakistan or wherever human rights are probably being violated today.  That sometimes getting them chicken nuggets from a McDonald’s is as good as it gets.  Even though they’ve seen the videos that show what goes into them and vowed they wouldn’t do it.

This is what plagues me.  It’s the slow deterioration of my ideals with reality, with my humanity.  It’s the desire for Her when all I’ve got is me.  I just don’t know how to bring Her into my life more.  I don’t know how to make more space for Her. 

I still believe there’s a chance, though.  For now, that’s good enough for me.

If corporations claim they are trying to  maximize profits for shareholders then we are to blame for 1) the banking crisis, 2) the Massey mine explosion in WV, and 3) the Gulf oil spill. 

That being said, people run corporations.  People make decisions.  Corporations do not.  People are putting money before safety, money before the environment, money before human health.

Furthermore, people are choosing to work in the coal mines and for the oil companies because the money is good.  And, if you say, the reason we mine for coal and drill for oil is because there is demand for it, that people do these things based on our demand for energy, then you clearly don’t know the power of the word no.

No one is forcing them to put profit before safety or to work in risky careers.  People can say no and we will find a way to adapt.  It is greed on all our parts that feeds this vicious cycle.

I find the current bitching by the inhabitants of the affected Gulf Coast — and almost every American — nearly intolerable.  They want it both ways.  They want to be able to fish if they are fisherman and drill if they are working in the oil industry and they don’t want to lose money doing it or assume risk in their endeavors.  They aren’t looking past their noses.  Each person is blaming the government, but I don’t think the government can be solely responsible for their woes.

With respect to the oil spill, the lack of oversight and regulation is clearly an issue.  The Minerals Management Service (MMS) obviously did not do its job, but I also don’t think they were given the power to do their job effectively due to the emphasis on deregulation.  Even if they had tried to fine BP, the oil company would’ve fought back against the fine using lawyers because fighting the citation is cheaper than fixing the problem.  The same happened with Massey.  It was cheaper for them to fight the citations than it was for them to upgrade their technology so they could operate more safely.

If we accept that we are greedy, that we are driven by base human desires and needs, then we will either have the ability to change our outcome.  We can take responsibility for our choices.  You assume risk in choosing profit over safety or a dangerous job over a lesser paying job.  If you don’t like the terms of that risk, do something about it.  Blaming others will not change anything.  Action will.  If enough people stand up and take action, change can happen. 

It requires you to work, though.  It requires you to have faith in something greater.  It requires that you to face fears.  That, I believe, is something humans are terrible at doing.  We are more comfortable with the same-o, same-o.  We’d rather just complain about it and point our fingers at how we were wronged, as if we came into this world with an inherent right to a silver platter and a staff of hundreds to serve us.  We don’t want to hear that this is our lot, that this is as good as it gets.  We’ve bought into the idea that we can always have more, that we have a right to more.  I’m pretty sure that when we came into this world that wasn’t part of the agreement, though.

I am a spoiled American.  Admitting that I am is the first step toward changing my life so that I can live in more peace and with greater purpose.  It will be hard to change my ways and my beliefs, to accept that I might never make it to that next economic level, but I believe that for my children’s sake and for the sake of future generations that I must start down this path, that I must curb my whining and blaming, that I must take responsibility for my actions and for my human existence.

That is the only way change will occur.  Truthfully, maybe the only change that will occur is my outlook.  And that’s okay.  That kind of change has to be enough, too.

For some reason known only to the cycles of the Moon and perhaps  the fashion gods I decided to wear 2″ Tommy Hilfiger heels to work the other day.  Big mistake.  My legs looked fantastic and my ass was high and flat.  So why was my fashion sense a mistake?

My list of reasons:

1) Ow.

2) Ow.

3) Ow.

4) Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

Is this some unique experience known only to me?  Why on earth do other women wear high heels on a regular basis?  I have some friends who only wear 3″ heels.  Am I alone in my pain?  Surely long legs and a nice-looking ass can’t overcome pain, can they?  I would love to hear your thoughts on this one, ladies.  I’m just baffled by the experience.   I mean, my shoes were HOT.  I was kickin’ it.  At least for the first half of the day when I could still walk.

I’m not sure, though, that my hot shoes were really appreciated by the others in my office, though.  And that has me wondering whether practical shoes ought to have more weight in the fashion world.  For one, I work with several older men.  You’d think they’d still be interested in a lady with a nice tush, but they were more interested (or should I say annoyed?) in the fact that my shoes made cloppity sounds on the tiled floors.

There’s no denying it: I’m a fast walker.  My grandmother was 4’8″ and could leave most folks in the dust.  I inherited her fast pace, though I am not quite as petite as she was.  So, as the day progressed I began to feel self-conscious about disrupting everyone’s train of thought as I sped my way noisily down the hall.

Maybe there are other valid reasons for wearing sensible shoes.  Maybe pain isn’t the only factor to consider.  Maybe practical shoes are not just nice for our feet but nice for our neighbors, too.

It’s just too bad they don’t make our legs look so long and lean …

Yesterday I started my first installment of Guerrilla Art in the Office, an idea I got after reading “The Art in the Office: How to Creatively Survive and Thrive Seven Days  a Week” by Summer Pierre.  Everyone should read this book.  Even non-artists.  Really.

Actually, I’ve been doing Guerrilla Art for most of my adult life;  I just thought I was the only one who did it.  When I moved to Santa Fe, NM, in my early 20′s I left little notes in bathroom stalls along I-40.  I referred to them as magical fairy notes.  People who found them probably thought I was nuts.  Which I am.   But in a good way, I hope.

Yesterday, I placed yellow sticky notes with inspirational messages in the stalls of the women’s bathroom and one over the coffeemaker at my office.  They read:

1) Yes.  You make a difference.

2) Keep up the Good Work.

3) This moment is more important than you think.
If nothing else, I get a kick out of seeing them every time I use the bathroom or make coffee.  No one has taken them down so I was happy to at least survived a day on the walls of a federal building.

Next up, mommy cartoons.