Eden M. Kennedy

mission accomplished, pal

Eden M. Kennedy is the co-author (with Alice Bradley) of the book Let's Panic About Babies! (St. Martin's Press, 2011).

A former college-radio DJ, Mrs. Kennedy has driven cross-country six times in a 1973 Volkswagen Bug and enjoys standing on her head.

Currently she works a straight job and is just about finished writing her first novel.

Get Your Heart On

The job interview went really well, thank you very much! I think my relative confidence going in was in large part due to the good comments everyone left and the efforts I took to be somewhat prepared. After that, it became a question of just connecting with the interviewer, who was so nice that it would have been hard not to. Which led me to realize how often I've neglected the importance of "chemistry" in so many jobs and, oh god, other aspects of my life, and just gone for what appeared to be the "best" thing, instead of confessing to what was best for me. Partly from not knowing myself very well, and certainly from not trusting myself. But I guess that should be between me and my therapist, if I ever go back, and let's face it, I probably should have never left.

And that is all you will ever hear about this particular job on this blog ever again, except for maybe "I got it" or "I didn't get it." Because we all know THAT'S THE RULE.

So last night Jack went off to see Kurt Elling and Jackson and I stayed home to watch Madagascar 2 (for the third and fourth times -- once in the theater when it came out, once when I bought it last week, once last night during dinner, and then the disc automatically started up and we started to watch it again because the whole opening airplane sequence hasn't come anywhere close to getting old yet) and address his box of "Pirates of the Caribbean" valentines for his class. Jackson's school has a strict valentines-for-everyone policy so that no child is left (emotionally) behind, which is good, but Jackson still found ways to send a clear message to his recipients which of them were more equal than the others. His best friend got the biggest card; he signed the cards for boys who were not his best friend with a single question mark ("It's all about mystery, mom, don't you get it?"); and certain (or maybe all the) girls (I wasn't hovering!) got red heart stickers on their cards. I did happen to notice that instead of using his name he signed one girl's card as being from "Cupid" and another girl's card from "Destiny."

Like the indifferent teenager he will one day soon become, he expertly stonewalled me on the whole destiny thing. And THEN he addressed his teacher's card using just her first name. "Uh, I think it would be more respectful if you used her full name," I said. "Oh, she doesn't care," he said, and then he made me help him tie her Jack Sparrow card to a heart-shaped tin of Ghirardelli chocolates.

It was all very matter of fact.

Anyway, à propos the distress of Valentine's Day in general, I thought I'd mention that a couple of months ago I began trying to put my finger on (if you'll pardon the expression) what made me feel loved. Then the New York Times published this big article on "what women want" and, you know, it was sort of interesting but in the end I'm not terribly illuminated by studies that prompt women to endure vaginal probes and pictures of dogs apes fucking.

No, before I'd even read the article I came to the conclusion that one of the ways I knew someone loved me was if they loved something about me that I loved about myself. You know, the feeling that someone "gets" you. It's terribly narcissistic but whatever, too bad. That's just the way I am, I guess.

And now it's Friday the 13th. And here's a link to a bunch of women eating chocolate.