I have said before that this usually means an existential crisis.

Ah, existential crises are for other people now, I’m afraid.  I just don’t have the time.  Or the energy.  In fact, I have not written because our house is in quite the opposite of an existential crisis.  It is full of life.  No, actually, it is full of LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE!  It is bursting to the brims with LIFE!  If you try to ignore the LIFE here, it reaches out and smacks you around a little bit, it is so vibrant. 

TheologyBaby made her way into the world a day before she was due, proving that she and I are indeed intrinsically linked, as I complete pretty much everything the day before it’s due.  Why should gestation be any different?  And one day, when I am organized again and I post over at TheologyMama, I will tell the tale of TheoBaby’s entrance into the world.  A long story short:  I didn’t think I was in labor, so my husband and I walked over to the hospital to check.  (No, really.  Secretly I walked because in case I was in labor, I wanted to be able to say I walked to the hospital to give birth.  Because, dude, how bad ass is that?) Turns out I was!  I kept trying to talk them into letting me go home, but the baby wasn’t responding to non stress tests.  A conversation between me and the nurse:

Nurse:  “Here, drink this sugary drink to get her moving.”

Me:  “Uh, yeah.  Gonna take more than apple juice to get her to wake up.”

Nurse:  “No, this does the trick.  Unless you eat a lot of sugar, tee hee!”

Me:  “Let me put it this way--you know that gestational diabetes drink?  The one that makes most people throw up because it’s so sweet?  Yeah, I slammed that bad boy back and kind of wanted more.”

Nurse:  ?

Needless to say, TheologyBaby was all, “Yeah?  Apple Juice?  Sister please, not worth my tiny fetal . . .zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

Then I proceeded with my unmedicated childbirth.  Because I attended a good 50 hours of woman spirit rising hypnobirthing classes and, so help me, I was going to use them because insurance only reimbursed me for 90 dollars of them.  Apparently only one percent of women who give birth where I did actually choose to go unmedicated, because everyone there kept saying how I was this warrior goddess for doing it.  The epidural guy walked in while I was pushing and asked that I sign a consent form.  I heard Peter say, “Uh, she doesn’t want one.” He was confused, thinking he had really screwed up, because he heard that I was giving birth and he hadn’t gotten that form signed.  So I guess he figured better late than never?  I will never know.

Then I returned to work two weeks after giving birth not out of badassness, but because I did not want to lose the roof over my head.  This is not something I would recommend, friends.  It leads one to go through one’s work life with a sort of raw honesty that doesn’t really please people.  Raw honesty that does not translate well into memos OR emails.  Go figure.

And finally I am returning to dissertation writing because theology is more interesting when written by a person who does not sleep and is covered in another person’s excrement.  I write keeping in mind the Apostle Paul, as I have learned to be content no matter what the circumst . . . WHAT IS THAT STAIN ON MY COUCH?

Yup.  I’ll be writing moral wisdom for the ages.  Hopefully some of that will end up here as well. Many thanks to those 8 people a day who come here despite my hiatus.  I write for you.  And for Travis, who drops by for new entries via RSS or something similar. 

So it is.  It’s been a month.  No existential crises again, either.  Just plain old work and plain old being the size of a bus and unable to accomplish as many things in a day as I am used to being able to accomplish.

However, I have once again moved from middle management back to lower level ignored employee.  People ask me if I would want to stay a director, rather than, say, a person who directly documents feces in the shower.  “Never!” I will always declare.  I only have occasional feces to deal with; directors face it daily.

In other news, I have happily been ignoring my dissertation for months.  Any day now, I anticipate getting back to that.  I think if I am awake all night with an infant, my theology will be far more interesting to read.

Being nine months pregnant is interesting for a variety of reasons.  But the one I’ve found oddest is that lately strangers come up and talk to me with alarming frequency.  Some try to touch me, and I was warned about that, but others just seem to want to chat.  About anything.  Maybe I am the least threatening creature there is?  I am, in fact, two people, so talking to me is like talking to a crowd?  Where I am gathered, surely is the presence of the Holy Spirit?  Who knows.  The most recent incident of this was today on the train.  A man looks me up and down.

“Yeah.  So, you one of those Gloucester 17?”

“Pardon?”

“Ya’all are having a baby, right?  Are you in high school?”

I was so taken aback my internal filter went all wonky.

“Uh, dude, I’m 30.”

The guy blinked.  “Those girls need to be put on birth control.  The school should give it to every girl.  I bet your mama just hopes you graduate.” He clucked his tongue.  The T pulled into a station, the door swished open, and he stepped out.” Through the window, he pointed at me and shook his head.

Truthfully, he’s right.  My mother does hope I graduate.  She is constantly inserting into conversation bits like, “Well, I know you have to go work on that paper!” Or, “Surely you have more than a chapter now, right?” Somehow though, I don’t think this is to what the gentlemen was referring.

So it is.  What happened to just offering me your seat?

I came home and looked up the Gloucester 17.  I had seen something about it on some message board, had been shocked, but hadn’t thought much more of it.  Apparently 17 girls at a local high school made a pact to get pregnant.  And now many are speculating how birth control in the schools would solve this issue.  I don’t see how this could be true, though.  As birth control would require people to not want to have babies and thus use it.  And, if this were in the fact the case, shouldn’t medical professionals handle this sort of thing?  Or parents?

And to think I’ll soon be having a daughter.  In a world where teenagers make pacts to get pregnant.  This is what will keep me up at night and keep the theology interesting, people.  Not the infant screaming. 

“‘Once there was a man, walking along the shore side.  A storm had washed hundreds of starfish on to the beach overnight.  The man bent down, picked one up and flung it far out into the ocean.  He repeated this several more times.

A woman walked up beside him.  “What are you doing?” She asked.  “You’re throwing these things out one at a time.  Surely you don’t think you’re making a difference.”

The man smiled and threw another starfish into the water.  “Made a difference to that one.”

The woman, annoyed by the man’s smug self-satisfied little smirk, rolled her eyes.  “They’re not whales, you idiot.  They’re frickin’ starfish.  They’re not going to dehydrate on a saturated sand bar.  Just wait for the tide to come in and they’ll all go out together.  Actually, you probably caused those few you self-righteously hurled into the sea to be eaten by sharks.  Way to be inefficient and pernicious.” The woman walked away, shaking her head in disgust.’

I tell this story today, friends, in the hopes that we all realize less is more.  We should not be the fool on the beach.  We should always think, “Gee, maybe the starfish know what they’re doing.  I should really think long and hard about whether my assistance is useful.” Motivational anecdotes are often thinly-veiled insipid self congratulation.  Don’t form organizational strategy around them.  Thank you.”

I think the speech would go over really well.  If you would like to book me for your next engagement, feel free to email me.  Ask for my discounted rate on my particularly moving presentation “Wednesdays with Adrienne.”

The enormity of the clutter is exacerbated by the ambient clutter that up until now has kept the gravitational pull steady in our apartment.  Boxes of books and papers and things that really ought to be put away orbit around our space, saying cheery hellos to the new clutter, welcoming it warmly.

Recently, however, my resident rodent friends have decided they really like the boxes.  Since all of the students who helpfully left peanut butter and Cheerios on their floors all year have left, the mice have nowhere interesting to go but to my home.  This, again, didn’t bother me so much before except these particular new mice are brazen city dwellers who view me as a predator less and less every day.  Last night one figured out how to climb my coat (that was hanging on a chair) to get eye level with Peter.

“Hey!” He shouted.

“Fool.” Said the mouse.  The others in the box of papers chortled and began talking rather loudly about how the giant creature-man was starting to get uppity. 

Peter and I talked about the situation this morning.  Clearly, we need another bookshelf (because 14 just aren’t enough for the living room).  And a dresser for the progeny’s many clothes.  And a door sweep to keep out the mice.  And, some shelves and other storage solutions.  Actually, while we’re at it, I need groceries because the cafeteria closed and we have no food. 

So I went out to the store today and got the most logical item on the list:  A Nintendo Wii. 

“What?” You ask.  “Wait, that wasn’t on the list!  Shouldn’t you be putting the needs of your unborn ch . . .”

Oh hush.  You and your “logic.”

There is no need for concern, though.  My priorities are firmly established and my responsibilities clear.  Dissertation writing, cleaning, and the millennia-old art, nay, sanctity of motherly preparation is foremost on my mind. 

Which is why I also got an extra numchuck for Wii boxing and have sketched out how I want my avatar representation to look.

And added “Wii Rock Band” to the baby registry.

I figure, who needs a clean, mouse-free house?  Who needs organization?  Who needs another advanced degree?  No one, really.  But who needs to R-O-C-K? 

Indeed. 

I just act accordingly, for the good of my family.

Let’s say you work someplace where all information is managed by one system.  All relevant files and notes and such each have their own “module” within the the system.  There was one person trained to know how to use all of the modules.  This person left and no one replaced her.  Then there were a bunch of people who could use individual modules, but then they left, and now there are modules that no one knows how to use.  At all.  Not a soul.

Now let’s say you are in a job which requires the information in your own module.  There’s no one to train you on it because there’s no one who knows how to use it.  There might be someone in the world who knows and can train you, and you are given three choices about meeting this person: 

A) Learn how to use the module, but you’ll be the only one trained.
B) Do not learn how to use the module because you’ll be on leave in a month and if you learn how to do it, it is unlikely your place of employment will train someone else because technically someone on the payroll (you) knows how to use the module and one day you will return and you can help the new person (that is, the person who will be your new boss).
C) Plot the imminent demise of all technology, thinking records were really best left to be edged in bark by stylus anyway.  Carry out crazy scheme.  Bring down society as we know it.

The benefits to choice C are obvious.  Those of choice A include the productivity could come from the next few weeks.  Choice B would give the new boss a fighting chance, a chance denied to you.  But you’d be left in information purgatory.

What would you do?

You know, if I were to write this into a choose your own adventure story, it would be really lame.  And boring.  And it would never get printed because I wouldn’t be able to access the “adventure” module, since I am in the “choose” department.

And don’t even get me started on the people who manage the “your own” infrastructure.  They’re drunk by noon. 

“Today I went to work.  And then I came home.”

It would be really dull.

The thing is, work is not dull.  But as I have learned from the many before me, it is unwise to blog about work unless your boss knows and sanctions such a thing and you haven’t, like myself, signed numerous confidentiality agreements that prohibit you from telling the really interesting bits.  Bits that involve state troopers.  Bits that would summarize my day in saying “And then I started screaming and didn’t stop.”

This “wanting to scream” thing is particularly true today.  And I didn’t have the time or energy to roller-brush my hair dry, so it is wild and big, not unlike the mane of a lioness.  And I’m dressed all in black.  So I’m tramping around campus, an ever-enlarging onyx she-creature stifiling the primal noises that are but an inch from surfacing.

Behold, I am Mid-level College Administrator. Fear me.

In other news, Josh Groban has a new CD out.  And I did not buy it.  Hear me out on this.  First, this “new” CD has songs on it that were all previously released some place else.  And they sound better on the other CDs.  I’ve heard the man live and I know he can sound amazing in person; I don’t think he needs to have production cover up flaws in his voice.  However, live recordings rarely do their artists any favors--why do I need new music with screaming in the background?  And the new CD comes with a DVD of a concert set I saw in person (third row!).  Why should I spend money on that?  The Internet pre-order edition has different cover art and, like, two extra songs I also already own. 

Despite all of this, last night I was on Itunes and I listened to the ever-so-slightly different version of “Weeping” and I almost relented and bought the album.  Because Groban does that to me.  Because his curls coil, Medusa like, around my heart and bind me inextricably to the Warner Brothers marketing machine.  “I will change the world with you, Josh Groban!” I cry.  And George Bush did just send me that economic stimulus check . . .

But no, for once, I was strong.  I urge you to resist this CD and DVD set too, unless you actually watch concert DVDs more than once and you will never see him in person. 

But maybe I’ll listen to the other 6 recordings I have of him. It will at least muffle the screams. 

“If you feel like you’ve been a bit overwhelmed or stressed out lately, just try to bring a positive attitude to everything you do today. If you can just manage to do this, you’ll see how much it ends up affecting not only you but everyone else around you right now. The right approach could really help you impress others and could contribute a great deal to your long-term success.

Just be aware that a variety of professional concerns could really end up requiring an awful lot of your time and attention today. But don’t let yourself worry about it too much because the payoff for your efforts should eventually prove to be more than worth your while.”

Well, thank you oracle.  I imagine you are speaking of when today I was telling a friend that I was expecting a call from the outside vendor who was to provide summer storage for our students.  And the friend almost choked on his panini and shouted, “OH JEEZ, NOT *insert the full name of the man from whom I was, in fact, expecting a call.*

“Uh, yes?  How did you know?” Perhaps he, like you, oracle, could see my future.

“Do you remember that debacle a few years ago when *insert name of many Boston area schools* stored stuff for the summer, only to have it lost or mishandled and then eventually had to send their own movers to actually go find the stuff at some warehouse someplace?

“Yes?”

“That’s this guy’s company!  He changes the name of it every year because schools won’t do business with him!  He’s crazy!  He’s terrible!  He’s . . .”

“He’s the only option I have with two weeks until move out.”

*Silence.*

But now, oracle, I won’t let myself worry too much about this, because I know the payoff for my efforts will eventually prove to be more than worth my while.  Thank goodness for divination.  I had almost started to lose it there.  But the stars spelled out, in large, friendly letters, “Don’t Panic.”

And obviously, this indicates an accurate guide. 

“Ohhhhhh no.  My kid is going to ‘roommate relationship camp’ all throughout her youth, and taking Saturday classes on mediation and negotiation.”

“Yeah, but what if she has a crazy roommate?”

“Whatever. Unless there are bodies in the closet, I’m not calling the school.  Even then I’ll have to make sure they were ritually sacraficed.  Then, THEN, I’ll consider it.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“That’s because you are in Student Activities.”

“Wow.”

Gone are these days.  Today I managed to waddle down the street, convinced Peter to buy me a ridiculously overpriced Fenway Park hot dog, and then was so tired when we to the grocery store that I almost threw myself on the ground and wept when Peter didn’t think we should by the 25 dollar a gallon ice cream.

“But it’s the kind I WANT,” I wailed. 

The third trimester is starting with a bang, friends.

It has not been helped by this whole “holding down a full time job” thing.  Or, I should say, it is not helped in holding down a job where so much hate is directed towards me.  I am hated for hiring practices.  I am hated for housing lottery.  I am hated for the weather in Fiji and, I’m pretty sure, sunspots disrupting television coverage of a cricket match in some far flung fjord in the East.

The hate, it is tiring.  And I’m trying to make all parties happy, but apparently that this just can’t be.  So much so, in fact, that I received the following email the other day.

“Dear Adrienne, I am a resident on your floor and I need a room change now.  My room is hot, dark, and barely leaves any room for me to stretch my legs.  I am forced to share it with a nervous, loud woman who constantly wakes me up for her own amusement.  I can’t get a decent stretch of sleep and I think she is stealing my food.  Please do something immediately.”

I didn’t recognize the email address, so I wrote back, “I’m very sorry that you are having such trouble.  Would you consider a mediation?  In what room do you live?”

The reply came.  “There is no reasoning with my roommate.  I depend on her to let me be and then she drinks soda and everything gets even crazier.  I live on the first floor in 113.”

“That’s impossible,” I immediately wrote back.  “I live in 113.”

Then I received a swift kick to the ribs and a jarring head-butt to the bladder.

“Oh.” I thought.  “My bad.”

So I sat down with my unborn child and we made a deal.  She can have a room change to much bigger accommodations as soon as she can breathe, unassisted, on her own.  I agreed to stop pumping her full of sugar and poking her until she moves, and she agreed that she would continue to do whatever the heck she felt like.  I’m not sure it’s the best arrangement, but like I always say, it’s about what works. 

I’m pretty impressed at my school’s wireless connectivity though.  And I guess I deserve this for eating that laptop too. 

In the future, I don’t think I’m going to look for employment as Head of the Department Where You are Most Hated.  I hope to upgrade to Middle Management Employee in the Department that is Usually Ignored.

It will be better for all involved. 

“So, you know about sacraments, right?” My long-suffering mentor asked.

“Oh sure.  All seven of them!”

“Uh . . .”

“Ha ha, just kidding.  I know Methodists only have two.  Oh, well, three if you count bapticonfucharist.”

“Adrienne . . .”

“No, really, just kidding.  HA!  Is this thing on?  But seriously folks . . .”

Honestly, how can they not want ALL THIS?

Speaking of “all this,” I am beginning the long, arduous process of moving my belongings out of my childhood home to my dorm apartment.  Among the items I retrieved this trip was a “dossier” my father compiled of pretty much everything I’ve ever produced in my life until about age 21.  I will have to put my early writings here because truly they are Pulitzer material.  However, along with literary gold is photo documentation of what I like to call my “unfortunate period.” Or, alternatively, “my youth.” I look at these pictures with a mixture of amusement and a burning desire to put my face in my hands and scream.  My favorite one, shown below, comes from my 8th grade “diploma,” a certificate given to me because I had made it to the ninth grade and didn’t have to take time off to have a baby.  My favorite part about it is the embossed words, “The Look of Success” above my eighth grade pose from picture day.

I would like to point out my large red glasses, a look that I thought truly flattered me.  Also good to note is the look on my face, one that confidently screams, “I AM a winner.”