Misheru

A trait that I think is essential to good writing is honesty. There is something about an honest work that is recognizable and makes that work — whatever the genre — amazing. Take Maya Angelou’s book, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. She admits to pulling a gun on a teenager in a gang that was bullying her son. Or another of my favorite authors — Anne LaMott, who wrote Traveling Mercies. If all psycho-christians were as honest and forthright as Anne and did not continually use “church-speak” and say things like, “George Bush prays every night so I trust him,” or take Ann Coulter seriously, then, well, I might actually listen to them.

But they don’t. People, in general, are not honest.

I say people, and that certainly includes me. (more…)

Recently Marti has introduced me to a new way of procrastinating: the McVideo game. This is a game where the player gets to learn how to succeed as a fast food restaurant. Players must raise cattle (preferably by clearcutting rainforests — it’s cheaper) add industrial waste, hormones and animal byproducts to fodder, buy off politicians and nutritionists, and market to kids and hippies. It’s actually very difficult to play — neither of us have made it much past about 12 years or so. We don’t compare to the 50 years of most fast food restaurants. This game, of course, is to illustrate how awful the industry is — mad cows must be shot, epidemics stopped, health inspectors paid off, etc. It should encourage me to stop eating red meat. (more…)

My name is Missy (Michelle, actually) and I currently live in Tucson, Arizona with my husband and two young children. I was dragged here to the desert by my lovely husband, Marti (yes, with an “i”) in the Spring of 2002, a few months after my son was born. I just turned 32 and am now officially “middle aged.” Like many wise women, I married a man younger than myself (by four years). He’s hot. I like him. He’s mine. *update: I just found out, women like me are called “Cougars.” How cool is that?*

I am originally from Idaho and grew up like many in my area — conservative, evangelical, right-wing Christian. I later attended a very, very conservative liberal arts college, a decision that caused me to drink a lot of beer and study English for a full four years. I also became a card-carrying Democrat there, something my family insists comes of letting women go off and go to those liberal schools, and I expect my family to forgive me any day now. Regardless, I managed to graduate, move to Japan and get a job there after school.

No, I did not speak Japanese. I was an English major. I spoke Kafka.

I went overseas to teach English. Since I had already had an overseas trip to London (and hated living in the city), I decided to request a rural location in Japan. After reaching Tokyo in a large jet, I spent a few days in an extremely expensive hotel (courtesy of the Japanese government) where everyone spoke English, and then flew to Kagoshima, in a much smaller jet. The first startling fact I noticed there was that almost no one spoke English and the menus were not translated. From Kagoshima, I met my supervisor and we both got into a much, much smaller twin-prop plane and flew to Yoron Island. I spent most of my flight trying not to stare at a huge, cancerous-looking mole on his arm, and missed the fact that we were headed into east of nowhere. However, I was distracted from The Mole when we descended to land in what looked like a sugarcane field. It was at this time I began to have an idea of what I had gotten myself into. Needless to say, nobody spoke English (except my supervisor with The Mole). Later, of course, I learned Japanese, and a little Yorongo as well (see Scott’s page below for a short Yorongo dictionary).

I could fill this blog with all the adventures I had on the island — deep sea fishing, snorkeling, diving (without a license), driving my motorcycle (with a license), finding human skeletons and drinking inordinate amounts of shochu, the preferred drink of islanders and alcoholics. I occasionally refer to a sunset or a child or something amazing that happened while I was there, but other than the name “Misheru,” which is the Japanese pronunciation of my given name “Michelle,” this blog is not about Japan. For a good website with wonderful pictures, see Scott’s website. He also has a band in Portland and apparently helped the Yoron Kariyushi Band go to LA to perform.

Regardless, after a marathon, some tropical skin disorders, a lot of shiatsu and two and a half years, I married a sweet little Marine corporal stationed on Okinawa. We met in the airport at Korea, coming back from a trip home.

I came home to Idaho to get married, like all good rednecks of course, but not in the fire hall — I wanted someplace fancy. We were married in a church, by a real live minister, and afterwards ate Subway sandwiches and Albertson’s wraps cut into neat little shapes, the height of fashionable eating in Ontario, Oregon. After the wedding and a short honeymoon in lovely McCall, Idaho (it really is a nice place), Marti and I packed nearly everything we owned (minus books) into my Ford Festiva, otherwise known as the smallest American-made car ever, and drove to Washington, D.C., where we were immediately attacked by rabid politicians wandering the streets unsupervised, otherwise known as Republicans. Later, we paid more than my current mortgage (on a house + guesthouse + fenced yard) for a 480 square foot apartment 8 miles (read: 45 minutes drive) from Washington, D.C. The apartment was advertised at 550 square feet, but later we discovered that included the balcony, or what we liked to call “the guest room.” We fit record numbers of relatives and Japanese visitors in that apartment over the next year.

I found a wonderful job at CSBA, a think-tank that advises the government on issues of terrorism and national security. It was a nice, peaceful job when I started in May, 2001. Four months later the first plane ripped through the World Trade Center and we sat momentarily stunned in front of the T.V. as the second plane crashed through. Since one of our analysts had predicted this type of terrorist attack some time previously, we were no longer a geeky, studious little non-profit but the cool kids on the block. I got to meet a lot of really cool military and intelligence people, all of whom never knew I existed, and I learned a lot about how Capitol Hill — and the government — works. Enough to know I should be more paranoid about writing about myself on the Internet, but oh well.

The next February I had Ben, a whopping 9 pound 14 ounce child (that’s 4.5 kilos) who outgrew his newborn clothing in about five minutes. I remember feeling desperate when he dropped to 8 pounds 12 ounces — I thought he was going to waste away (Marti still torments me about this). Marti finished his tour with the military and stayed home with Ben for a couple months while I worked and we tried to keep from starving to death on one income in Washington, D.C., a fact that caused us to take in a roommate to pay for our newer, cooler apartment that was 900 square feet and cost exactly twice the amount of our current mortgage. We tormented her with poopy diapers and discussions about breastfeeding until she returned to California, poor girl. Then, finding that we really were going to starve in D.C. unless we both worked, and that I should have signed up for childcare sometime during the Nixon era, we decided Marti should go ahead and take a job here in Arizona, land of cheaper housing and Hispanic relatives.

Hence, the desert, where we enjoy beautiful sunsets and unbearable summer heat.

We’ve been in Tucson since 2002 and I have held a variety of odd jobs — volunteer at the Desert Museum and for ALERT, wildlife field technician for the university, E-Journalism instructor (yes, I taught kids how to blog and no, I am in no way responsible for the My Space phenomena. No mea culpa), Library Associate (whatever that means) and my strangest job of all, mom to Benjamin and Maya (born slightly smaller at 8 pounds 10 ounces in May 2006).

I no longer drink heavily, get naked with strangers or do any other typical college-age stupidities, so I guess I am all grown up now. But I still like to talk about it sometimes. That’s not why I have this blog; I have this blog in an attempt to navigate the difficult world of both adulthood and parenting. Nudity makes better conversation (and better money, incidentally) but it doesn’t teach toilet training or pay the bills, so here I am.

Anyway, I hope you like the site. Come back and visit anytime, and if you’d like to subscribe to my feed — great! I have a special link up top, just for you.

Recently I went through a training course where I learned how to be, if possible, even nosier than I actually am. This means I discovered how and where to access public records and to see if anyone I know has ever been convicted of anything. Please imagine me writing these words with an evil, evil grin.

Of course, the first thing I did was look up myself, and, whew! my record is completely clear. The one perk of having a husband who is a computer guy. Just kidding. Really. We didn’t leave the body in the trunk. We buried it in the desert, like decent people, and do not plan to carry the head around in a suitcase anytime soon.

However, I noticed there are a lot of people with names similar to myself who, incidentally, also live in Arizona. So I decided to pick one and see what I came up with. Of course, the one I picked had been arrested for…prostitution. This made me laugh out loud.

Marti wonders how we managed to have such a nice Christmas.

Recently, I’ve started admitting something that I’ve tried to hide (unsuccessfully) for many years now.

I’m having a hard time growing up.

I like to think that just admitting that will help me to, you know, get up in the morning and go to the same place. Every. Day. And work. And come home. And not eat a sandwich over the sink, but actually make a real meal.

But probably not.

One of the things about having children is that it forces you to grow up. Well, at least it should force you to grow up. This doesn’t always work. Sometimes parents skip out or check out. Sometimes they end up fighting with their kids…like kids. But, I think that for most people, there is a realization that, essentially, the party is somehow over, and there is the tiny being that now depends on you and nobody but you. This is a horribly difficult thing.

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