Never sign up for anything

I signed up to canvass for Measure E, the Alameda parcel tax to keep their fine, high-scoring public schools alive.

Do you know anything about canvassing? It is a slice of actual hell right here on earth. Here's what it looks like:

Ding dong. Barking dog. Irritated noises from inside. Slow shuffling. The door cracks. "Hello?" someone says, warily.

"Hi!" I say, trying to suppress my desire to run or vomit or run while vomiting. "I'm Meghan, your neighbor from down the street, and this is my son, Henry [I bring Henry on the mistaken assumption that it may keep people from cursing at me]. I'm volunteering for Measure E, and I'm just trying to find out whether you've heard about Measure E, and if so, if you're planning on supporting it." I smile, hopefully.

There are three possible scenarios that follow:

1. Person is not the homeowner, is possibly a son or nephew or friend of a resident teen, appears to have just woken up at 3 pm, and would likely test positive for more than one illicit substance. He (almost invariably a he) is not a voter, does not care, and takes a flyer which no one will ever see again.

2. Person is a supporter of Measure E! He or she shares stories of canvassing for parcel taxes over the years, wishes me luck.

3. Person is opposed to Measure E, to illegal immigrants, and/or to the Obama administration, and would like to take this opportunity to vent 50 years of fury over being last picked at wall ball on me and my 4-year-old, as I say "thank you" and back slowly down the stairs.

There are 62 individual households on my list. I have contacted 10. That was more than a week ago. Since then I have avoided all contact with neighbors. My faith in humanity is diminished.

I hate Alameda.

***On bringing Henry: He was quiet for the first three houses. Then he would stand a few feet away from me on the porch and loudly ask questions like, "Does a skeleton live here?" "Why is this porch so dark?" and "What smells?"***

I also signed up for a writing class. It's called "Finding Your Writer's Voice," from the Writing Salon in Berkeley. On the plus side, the teacher is very nice and employs the Amherst Method, which involves the radical notion that creativity and talent are more productively fostered when people are told the strengths of their writing instead of what sucks about it. On the minus side, everyone in the class is so much better than I am that I again expend a great deal of energy fighting the run-vomit urge.

Also, there's one guy whose "supportive" comments are always something like this: "I liked how that sentence about dead grandmothers was completely incomprehensible." Asswipe.

Husky Baby

Welcome to my blog!

Crap. I had this idea that a blog would be a fine activity for me and that maybe my struggles with motherhood/marriage/depression might be relevant to someone other than myself.

In my head I had these brilliant topics lined up. I am really, really pithy in my head. I'm freakin' Anne Lamott.

And now I sit down and I am reminded that my life is excrutiatingly boring. That, and I have only a very tentative idea of what a blog is.

So, you know, welcome and my apologies.

Here's me on a wild Friday night: On my ass, on the couch, trying hard to focus on writing instead of researching Aspberger's Syndrome because my 2-year-old son, Henry, has an obsession with auto insignias.

Henry's asleep. Simon, my husband and sometime nemesis, won't be back from his business trip until past midnight. It would be silent if not for the clothes drier that's almost always going.

This morning I had the horrible realization that my son may be fat. Not just chubby, but actually overweight. The light first flickered one when I slipped the 24-month T-shirt over his 22-month head, and it barely fit over his belly. Then, as he ran around with his buddies at baby gym, it occurred to me that he looks like a linebacker. As I mulled this over, I mentioned to my friend Susie that Henry stepped on my mom's scale the other day and it read 31 pounds, and Susie said, "Oh my God!"

Sure enough, I typed in his weight and height into a BMI calculator and it says he's overweight.

This is probably not a big deal in the scheme of things, but I have no job besides this, and so I take it as a failure on my part. I always thought fat kids just ate crap and watched too much TV. Henry eats berries and yogurt for breakfast! He eats raisins instead of candy! He spends half the day running laps around our house or our yard or the park.

The worst part is I wrote a column about childhood obesity back before I had kids and it was all know-it-all-y. It's so easy to give advice when it's purely on a theoretical basis.