A Life Unheard

I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. Partially because a great plague has befallen our family, and it truly sucks. I’m a bit of a hyper, always on the go sort of person, and this illness has stopped me in my tracks, and it’s made Azita a big old grumpy puss. I’m not used to this because she’s almost always happy and cheerful.  Luckily this bug seems to be on its way out. But my general malaise remains firmly planted. This morning on my way in to work, as I sat there dreading the rest of my day (a regular occurrence as of late), I realized why.

I live a life unheard.

I walk through my days piping up when I think I have something to contribute to a conversation, and no one hears me. I go to work 5 days a week and have discussions in my area of expertise, and I leave the conversation realizing that no one listened to anything I had to say. My thoughts on the subject had no bearing on any outcomes. So I spend my days implementing other peoples’ ideas, and it’s frustrating. It’s frustrating because I went to school for a really long time. Too long. And in 8 years of my decade of higher education I studied the same thing to death, and then I found a job in the same field and worked in a career doing these things. And 13 years later none of that matters. I’m doing mindless work, and I don’t have a mind that likes to sit still.

Then I go home and things aren’t much better.

Let me preface what’s to come with a statement that I think I have a great husband. He does laundry and dishes, and he even scrubs the bathroom floor. With bleach, just how I like it. But he doesn’t listen to me.

Maybe it’s because he’s a man. We have a conversation, and when I’m talking I can see in his face that he’s thinking about something else. More than likely he’s thinking about the next thing he wants to talk about, because inevitably he interrupts me to express his opinion. And he never remembers anything I tell him, like “don’t forget we have x, y and z this Saturday” or “the doctor said we need to do a, b and c at Azita’s checkup.” He always insists I never tell him these things. Anyone in my family can tell you that I have a freakishly impeccable memory. I can remember conversations I heard when I was 4 years old nearly word for word. I can remember exactly what I wore to the first day of school in kindergarten. I can remember the exact cash register in the exact Giant near my childhood home where my sister bit me when I was 7 and drew blood because she wanted to sit on the bag tray at the end of the register’s conveyor belt. I’m just saying, I have a good memory, and if I remember that I said something, I said it.

My husband never remembers anything I say, because he never listens to it in the first place.

I expect a little of this in life. I know that what I have to say is not always interesting. We can’t always be on all the time. I also know people are sometimes preoccupied with other things. I myself am guilty of not listening quite a lot for this very reason. We are all busy and harried at times. Sometimes I can hardly hear a conversation because my mind is racing and mulling over the million things that need to get done. But when someone talks to me, usually I’m listening AND hearing.

I was raised in a home where children were seen and not heard. As an adult, though, I’m used to being heard.  I mean, in a work setting, I frequently know what I’m talking about. And in a personal setting, well, I think I’m usually nice and pretty damn funny. I’ve been known to entertain a room with my wacky stories, and I think I have an interesting opinion about some things.

I guess I don’t know how I got in this situation. It’s pretty damn lonely life never being heard, and the worst part is that I sometimes think I’ve resigned myself to this being the way life is. But I’m not ready (and I hope I never will) to walk through life like J. Alfred Prufrock. I may be a loner at heart, but I need some engagement to keep me going.

So, today I RSVPed “Yes” for a working mamas playdate. I’m going to make some working mama friends, and we’re going to play in a ball pit with our babies and hopefully talk. And I’m looking forward to it and feeling better about things already, because there’s nothing like taking action in the present to turn life around.

A Room of One’s Own

In the 20s Virginia Woolf wrote about the doors closed to women. “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write,” she said. I couldn’t agree more. Times haven’t really changed. I would say that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to live — really live and breathe and thrive — but it is so rare that women get this. Maybe this is just my experience in life, but I think many women are in the same boat. When you get married, all of your stuff, all of your life becomes joint property. Yet should said marriage dissolve, your former spouse will do everything in their power to take all of that and more away. And let’s face it, not many women have the financial power or the aggression to stop that from happening.

When I joined households with my husband, I came into the venture with very little stuff of my own. What I did have was largely disposable in that I didn’t really care about it. Things come and go, but there are a few things that can never be replaced. That is the yardstick by which I measure everything I have — or at least whether or not I will keep it for ever and ever. This philosophy in life comes in handy when you are not only a person who doesn’t like to live with clutter but also a person with pretty bad dust and mold allergies. Pictures, the few little knick-knacks made for me by my grandmother, a couple things given to me by my parents or sisters that represent moments in my life I’d like to remember whether for good or bad — these are all I really need to keep, and they can basically all fit in a couple file boxes.

My husband is very different from me. When I moved in with him he cleared a drawer and a wall in his apartment for me. I was actually quite happy and pleased with this at the time.  I made my stuff fit as best as I could, but the fact was I was squeezed into a corner of his apartment, and in retrospect I think I was probably squeezed into a corner of his life as well. I am not a believer in giving up oneself for another person, but I am a big believer in growing and changing with another person — i.e., compromise — with the understanding that there are some things that are personal and sacred and not to be touched. I guess I didn’t know that 90% of my husband’s life fell into that category.

Since then this has been our struggle. I am not a rich person, and neither is my husband. It is highly doubtful we will ever live in a place that accommodates everything we would both like to have. And we have a daughter now, and I hope to have another child one day soon. At night when I can’t sleep I sometimes think about this and wonder how we will fit everything and still have space to breathe and move a little. And by “we” I guess I really mean me.

When I was in school studying graphic design I was enthralled by the Swiss designers, specifically by their brilliant use of white space. All of my work teemed with white space. I like my life to be the same way. Roger dreams of a home with floor to ceiling shelves on every wall, with every shelf filled with treasures. Clearly we have a dilemma, and I don’t know how to solve it.

This isn’t to say that Roger hasn’t purged a lot of stuff from his life. He has. He has gotten rid of a lot. And I appreciate that effort towards making me happy. But the fact remains that we may never be in a spot where I will really have more than a corner of my own, and some days, like today, that is a hard pill to swallow.

Paring Down the House

Living in the D.C. area means that housing is expensive and complicated. If you buy something closer to the city it’s more expensive, but if you work in the city you also spend a lot less time commuting. At times that can actually even be cheaper when you take commuting costs into account. Roger and I decided a while ago to live closer to the city. When you spend as much time working as we do, you just don’t want to add several hours of commuting to the mix. As a result, we live in a two-bedroom condo. It’s definitely a lot bigger than friends’ apartments I’ve stayed at in New York, but our home is pretty modest by most people’s standards.

Now that we are a family of three people and two cats, our modest home is becoming a little more, well, little. This morning alone I bumped into Roger, our cat Maggie, Azita’s Pack n’ Play, the closet door, a chair and an ottoman. That’s all within the span of one hour.

For years now, we have had storage outside of our home. At one point we had 3 storage units. Excessive, I know, but Roger and I joined our lives right on the cusp of our 30s. Both of us had lived on our own for about a decade by that point, so as you can imagine we had accumulated lots of stuff — from CDs and DVDs to couches and desks.

Right about here is where I should probably mention one of the core differences between Roger and myself. I am a big fan of Spring cleaning. I love to go through everything I know and clean, sort and toss. I give bags and bags of stuff to charity regularly. I am attached to few things. Roger, on the other hand, is a hoarder. He collects things and stows them and stacks them. When I moved in with him, he had this closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and believe me when I tell you that every inch of those shelves was piled high with stuff. There were 3 broken televisions, boxes and boxes of newspapers and magazines, piles of receipts, clothes he hadn’t worn since he was 8 years old. I can’t even begin to recount the sheer enormity of amount of stuff he (and now we) owned.

When we moved to D.C., Roger just couldn’t get rid of any of that stuff. I donated half of my possessions, but Roger rented another storage unit. By the time I was pregnant, our storage units were stuffed to the gills, and we were paying more than I care to admit to store crap we didn’t need and didn’t use. Still, Roger wanted to keep it all.

I’m not sure what has changed. Maybe Roger will chime in with a post of his own to explain it, but at some point this year Roger has caught the purging bug from me. One Saturday morning we woke up, and he suggested we go get rid of stuff in the storage unit. Next thing you know, we have no storage units, and we’re getting rid of stuff from our apartment. Our home is looking bigger and bigger by the day, and the best part of it is that Azita has more and more space to roam and explore.

We do have plans to get into a bigger place when we can swing it, but for now we’re sticking it out in our little home. And, it feels good. Not just because I prefer a more pared-down existence, but also because we are finally in-synch on this one aspect of our lives. If we keep this up, we may be the same person in 50 years. To tell you the truth, I really wouldn’t mind it.

Sick daze

I’m horrible at being sick. I’m like an old smelly dog. I walk slowly, I growl a lot at anyone who comes close, I like to be in the corner alone and far away from people — even those who only want to take care of me.
This worked out perfectly for me in my darker days — also known as bachelorhood. No one was around. No one tried to “comfort” me or “help” me or “bring” me food, and that was OK by me. No one got growled at and no one got bitten.

Then I met Zahra and the whole thing went to hell. She wanted to take care of me and for some strange-to-me reason, I didn’t mind it so much. I occasionally growled at her. I certainly barked at her enough to warrant many a punch in the face. But I let down some of my guard and allowed her to, dare I say it, care for me.

Flash forward seven or so years and I look at my daughter. She’s sick today. She has been for almost three days now. I know she’s in pain. But she’s a fighter. I know because she laughs before it hurts and then she cries a little before laughing again. But the cries break your heart. I find myself holding her close and crying a little to see if my tears won’t take some of her pain away.

Then I wonder if she will let me take care of her when she is sick — and is old enough to bark at me.

Score 1 for Zahra

Roger and I have an ongoing argument. It’s a lighthearted argument, but still, it’s one that will likely never be resolved. I finally had to turn to Let Me Google That For You to back up my argument:

http://www.google.com/search?btnG=1&pws=0&q=men+big+babies

Note that there are over 100 million results.

I rest my case.

In Search of a Tin Foil Hat

I’m a paranoid person. I mean really paranoid. Let’s say I say hello to a coworker and the coworker doesn’t respond. Most people would think “Oh, {insert person’s name here} didn’t hear me.” That would be the logical thing to think and probably the most likely explanation for said event. I know this, because I am generally a very logical person. In spite of this, my thought process in this situation would go something like this:

Hmmm. Why didn’t person A respond to my hello? Maybe person A is mad at me? What did I do to make person A mad at me? Or maybe person A just never liked me and was only being civil to me because person A needed me to complete task 1. Is it because I’m obnoxious? Oh wait, I bet it’s because I said I didn’t like that fruit flavored gum 3 weeks ago when person A offered me a piece. Or maybe I smell bad? Oh no. Please tell me I don’t smell like a sewer. Who can I ask if I smell like a sewer and get the truth but not totally embarrass myself? Oh wait, I know what it is. I’m totally getting fired this afternoon and my boss must have told person A that I’m getting fired, and now person A is trying to ignore me to avoid an awkward situation. Oh crap. How much money do I have in savings? How long will that cover the mortgage if I can’t find another job for a while? Is my resume up-to-date? I’m going to update my resume right now and start emailing people tonight to see if they know of any open positions. What should I tell people when they ask me in the interview about why I left my last position? I can’t say I was fired, right? Can I? I need to find out from someone how to answer that question. What if I don’t have money to buy Azita food or diapers? I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m such a failure. I have no job and my baby is starving and pooping all over the floor.

Seriously. All of that and usually more (that’s the abridged version) is a typical response I might have to a simple human interaction. WTF, people? This is not natural. I know it. I’m about a quarter of a step away from needing a tin foil hat. I blame my mom for this behavior. She is the one who told my sister and me that no one was really our friend or really liked us, people are always trying to take advantage of us, and books are our only friends. I kid you not. Books are our only friends. How’s that for childhood crazy?

Luckily I’m pretty handy with tin foil. And, Roger’s pretty good at talking me down from just about any ledge. Also, thanks to Roger, I now have a Kindle. That means I can carry hundreds of friends around with me no matter where I go. Take that, Verizon network.

To Be or Not to Be a Hughlett

When Roger and I got married six and a half years ago, there was no question that I wasn’t going to change my name. A Safavian I was born, and a Safavian I will die.

My last name just feels like such a huge part of my identity. It is my tie to my father, the person I loved most for much of my life.

It is a tie to my history. The Safavians are the offspring, many generations removed of the Safavids, the ruling dynasty of Iran several centuries ago. I don’t lay claim to the accomplishments or failures of my ancestors, but it’s nice to feel like I have some roots laid down in documented history.

In addition to all of the above, my last name is a tie to the customs of my heritage. Iranians don’t change their names when they get married. In fact, the custom of a woman adopting her husband’s family name is a very Western thing. It is also a very sexist thing. Look it up on Wikipedia (and yes, before you say it, I know Wikipedia is in no way an authoritative source on anything, but humor me for a bit). I quote:

It can be construed as meaning the woman’s father and then husband had control over her, and it means that lines of male descent (patrilinearity) are seen as primary—that a child has no inherited name tying him or her to female ancestors (matrilinearity). Moreover, it means that women have no surnames of their own, but only “place-markers” indicating their relationship to men.

I have nothing more to that criticism other than to say that it sums up the final nail in the coffin of the idea that I would adopt the Hughlett surname when I wed Roger.

Not that Roger actually pressured or even ever brought up the idea. Roger knows me better than that, and I like to think that he loves me precisely for being that person. And, certainly no one in my family really questioned whether or not I would change my name either. Not even Roger’s parents made a big deal out of this.

His extended family is another story. Now, I’m not saying that they make a big deal or even any deal out of this non-issue. I’m just saying that every holiday season, Roger and I take on the big project of sending holiday cards to just about everyone in our large list of family and friends. That’s a lot of cards, but we do it because 1) we have a mutual, freakish love of good stationary, and 2) we both think it’s nice to spread a little holiday cheer. Every year, as we take on this task, we address every card with “Safavian / Hughlett” in the return address. It is pretty clear that we are not “The Hughletts”, but “The Safavian” and “The Hughlett.” Then we buy the coolest holiday-themed stamps we can find, send these cards off, and wait for our favorite part…

our ongoing little contest to see which one of us guesses correctly how many cards people will send us in return addressed to “Mr. & Mrs. Hughlett.” We laugh at it, and the following statement really is mostly jest, but some people really will use any vehicle, even a holiday card, to keep a woman down. And to that I say, Rrrrraaaaar!

Cheater Cheater Pumpkin Eater

I’m going to qualify this post with a statement that I do not watch or read Fox news. However, a friend tweeted this, and I just couldn’t resist posting about it. Now, I wonder if I can make Roger stand on the street corner with an “I always misplace my wife’s stuff” sign?

Long time, no write

So we had the best of intentions to blog. It was all about us sharing our unique little take on the world. Coming at life together but from very different places. Alas, that was more than a year ago. How times have changed. Our backgrounds — one from small town midwest, one from big-city East Coast — had their asses wiped clean Jan. 7, 2009.

On that cold winter day in Arlington County, just up the road from our condo, Azita Safavian Hughlett was born… I’ll let Zahra share anything about that for the world to read. And I’ll share a bit more of it as time goes by.

Now, I think it’s good to set the stage: Two parents in love with a beautiful princess of a daughter who will likely grow up to ask me: How the hell did you and maman meet? Well, Azi, we met the day of the Gay Pride Parade in Baltimore. Your maman didn’t think I existed. It’s a long and wonderful story and now you are a big part of it.

Roger