Starbucks
12oz Soy Mocha
Croissant
Can I do a 20 minute blog? Sure! Micro-blog! I feel like I have described all this before, but I cannot recall ever blogging about it, so here we go...
I only learned the term "mani-pedi" fairly recently, because I am not much of a girly-girly (nor a metro-sexual, for that matter). I've never had a manicure, nor a pedicure. But I do get what I have come to call "mini-panis" (though, I'm not overly fond of the spelling - looks too much like... ya know...). A mini-pani is like a junior panic attack.
It's not a full-blown panic attack, with the hyperventilating and the crying and that feeling like your chest is going to seize up like an overheated engine, unable to allow you to take in a full life-giving breath. A mini-pani is the precursor to the big thing. It's the agitated state where breath is getting tight, shallow, and I start getting manic. I start clicking link after link to distract myself from the full-on freak-out floating just to the surface. If I stop playing Tetris or Sudoku till the 2 or 3 in the morning, then I might have to look at that Thing, the Trigger that is going to set off the hysteria associated with dealing with it. Or, I guess, not dealing with it.
Like ants. God, I hate ants. For whatever reason, ants are my trauma-trigger. I don't want to diminish those dealing with severe PTSD, but all the anxiety bound up in my childhood poverty is launched forth at the sight of an ant trail. The other day, we had an explosion of ant scouts in the apartment (seemingly, related to a recent thunderstorm), and I started manically scrubbing the kitchen, well past midnight, trying to head them off. But they kept coming. In the bathroom, too. There were ants in the diaper drawer.
That was the point where the full-on panic attack broke loose.
But up until that point, while I was still in battle-mode, I was battling, too, the shaking agitation of barely holding it together. And sometimes I do hold it together, and things calm down. I can uncurl, uncoil the beast. It takes a while. It takes a conscious effort and all those good techniques years of (intermittent) therapy and introspection have taught me. But it can be done.
So, if you are dealing with anxiety, yourself, or especially if you are helping someone who is dealing with it, understand this as the moment of divergence. Watch yourself, or your loved one, for the signs - the agitation, the change in breathing, the wide or fixed eyes. Know this as the moment to initiate whatever techniques work, whether it's disengaging or fully confronting whatever the fear is. And the fear is often something hidden well behind whatever is actually taking place at present.
Dealing with anxiety is a two-fold process. First, is trying to practice the larger picture stuff that brings down your anxiety base-line, like eating well, sleeping enough, and getting your exercise and meditation - your burn-off, and your cool-down. The second is knowing what to do in the moment. And, of course, trying to unravel or address underlying causes of the anxiety. But in the moment, don't be afraid of the feelings, themselves, when they arise. Go with it - do what needs to be done for the moment.
And most importantly, remember that the moment will end, and you will feel something else again.
Time's up!
No edits. I'm out.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Monday, August 18, 2014
We're all made of alphabet soup.
Home, again, Home, again.
Peppermint Chamomile Tea
Yeasty Popcorn
I'm blogging early this week because I suspect I may not get my Out Day this weekend. Appointments, sick kiddos, that kind of thing going on... Plus, I need to write tonight, and this is more productive - for all mankind - than getting sucked into Facebook.
And when I say, "I need to write," I mean it. It calms my brain. I usually have a journal at the ready, but that has fallen off lately and is too frequently interrupted during the day to be effective. I feel the difference when I don't get to write. I need it. I have written without light, without a pen, using fingers upon the bedsheets, or even upon the air.
That's just how my mind works, one of its quirks... Maybe there's a label for it. Depression, anxiety, I know, but maybe a little OCD, too. I know I have what they call a "ruminating" mind. As in, I think too much, about everything, all the time. But is there a more specific diagnosis to be made? And how many people qualify for some term of medical distinction?
There's a hazard in finding the term that describes you. As much as it can be comforting to validate your feelings of being abnormal, it can also become your identity. It can limit your view of yourself, your expectations for yourself, and hinder your personal progress. And it can do the same when others know you by your diagnosis. Oh, that's Phil, who's autistic...
When you think about it, that's kind of like saying, Oh, that's Phil, who is thumbs... We all have thumbs, generally speaking. We all have brains. We don't need to put the characteristics of each feature in front of our interactions with the person.
On the other hand, there is something to be said for having a diagnosis, for knowing the lay of the land. Whenever you interact with anyone, you can't know exactly what you're going to get, but you can have certain reasonable expectations. But with someone with a mental illness, you could get something drastically unexpected. So, there's value in being able to calibrate your expectations accordingly, if you are given the opportunity.
And that's our biggest challenge with our son, Henry. We don't have a diagnosis for his quirks, which leaves us wandering almost blind in dark territory. To outsiders, he usually looks like a perfectly normal (and especially adorable) 4 year-old. Even his outbursts likely strike most people as typical 4 year-old tantrums. Often, when I try to explain his behavior, people don't take me too seriously: "Sounds like a toddler to me!"
But Henry is not quite right.
We were almost lucky that he had speech delays because it got us in the system early. By the time of his 2-year check-up, he only used about a dozen words, though he should have had about 50 by then. That got us a referral for an evaluation through the school system, and Henry started meeting with an early intervention teacher.
From the first day, when she showed him how to sign the word "more," his language started taking off. Not only did he master the signed words quickly, but his spoken words increased. He progressed so much that by his next evaluation, he didn't quite qualify for more services. But his teacher advocated for him, saying she felt like he needed a little more help. She knew something was still a little off. We had spoken about autism and she said she didn't think that was it, but he was still pretty young. As she put it, there were indicators, but there were counter-indicators.
Henry is very smart. He picked up his alphabet and his numbers way earlier than most kids. He likes patterns, for things to be a certain way - but only so much. He gets obsessive about things - oh dear god, the doors! Music and sounds are particularly appealing, we discovered. He can become super-focused on something, or listen to the same song, or even the same sound, for extended periods of time. Hours, if we let him. But he can be affectionate and compassionate and will make eye-contact, unlike most autistic kids.
But how he interacts is... a little off. He still does "parallel play" where he's playing around other kids but doesn't really play with them. He interacts better with Oliver, but it's usually Oliver who's directing play. The other day, a little girl from the apartment complex looked Henry square in the eye and asked, "Do you want to play with us?" Henry didn't answer her. He wandered away like no one was there.
[Intermission: It's midnight... Oliver woke up... he coughed, he chatted, he had some juice, he threw up the juice, he asked for a cup of fruit... now he's curled up on the edge of the little bed waiting for Mommy to get off the computer. This is why I don't blog from home.]
What has become most obviously "off," though, is Henry's lack of questions. As Oliver, who will be 3 in less than three months, has become more verbose (he has always been way ahead of other kids his age), it has become apparent what Henry is not doing. It came home for me when, as my husband went banging and cursing around the kitchen, Oliver asked me, "Is Daddy okay? Does Daddy have a boo-boo?" Henry doesn't do that. He will ask if he needs permission for something - "Can I have the MobiGo?" - but I can't think of him ever asking exploratory questions like, "Where are we going?" or "Why does it do that?"
But our biggest problem is dealing with Henry's emotions. Oliver will protest and pitch a fit for something he wants. Henry gets hysterical. Seriously, he looks like he's having a panic attack sometimes. And often, he's freaking out over something like wanting me to help him with a puzzle he can already do by himself. If I say that I have to do dishes right now, he will pull me toward the puzzle table and repeat, "No! You have to match!" - not with a headstrong toddler look, but with a look of great anxiety. The day before he put the puzzle together, start to finish, by himself. But once he gets it in his mind that I need to help him, he can't move forward until I do. Sometimes all I need to do is match two pieces and then he will take over and finish the rest on his own. But if he's in that particular mindset, and I insist on my "no," he may likely scream and cry, or become violent and hit his brother - and he will not let it go. He will shut down, unable to move on with the puzzle on his own, or unable to move on to some other toy.
And most disturbingly, in his nervousness, he hurts himself. He chews his nails (I heard the audible 'snap' tonight, when he thought he saw a fly in his bed), and he will even give himself little cuts by pinching his skin with what's left of his nails. All over his body, but especially on his fingers, there are little red sores from him doing this.
So what's wrong with him? Autism Spectrum? Anxiety disorder? ADHD? OCD? There's a whole alphabet soup floating around him. We just want to know what we're dealing with.
We may not be responsible for the topography of Henry's mind - he was born with that. But the way we deal with Henry, the way we interact - whether we yell, or encourage, or soothe, and show him how to manage his strong emotions - helps to cultivate the landscape of his mind. We are carving out roads, planting trees and far too few flowers, laying the foundations for what his mind will become. This is true with any person, but some minds will always require special care and attention.
[Two days later: Out Day. Mix Bakeshop. 16oz Soy Chai.]
So...
Like I said before, while it's nice to have a diagnosis to illuminate the detour signs, the warnings - "There be dragons here!" - in the end, we have to let people chart their own course and be whoever they are going to be. No diagnosis can decide who they are unless they - and we - let it. After all, no "normal" person is exactly like any other "normal" person, so why would we expect someone with an alphabet soup brain to be exactly like anyone else, even someone with the same letters floating in their bowl? And is there such a thing as a "normal" person, anyway? I think we've all got some flavor of alphabet soup swirling around upstairs.
For my money, given his love of music and repetition, I think Henry's letters are going to end up being DJ.
Maybe DJ Spews-a-lot.... ;)
Peppermint Chamomile Tea
Yeasty Popcorn
I'm blogging early this week because I suspect I may not get my Out Day this weekend. Appointments, sick kiddos, that kind of thing going on... Plus, I need to write tonight, and this is more productive - for all mankind - than getting sucked into Facebook.
And when I say, "I need to write," I mean it. It calms my brain. I usually have a journal at the ready, but that has fallen off lately and is too frequently interrupted during the day to be effective. I feel the difference when I don't get to write. I need it. I have written without light, without a pen, using fingers upon the bedsheets, or even upon the air.
That's just how my mind works, one of its quirks... Maybe there's a label for it. Depression, anxiety, I know, but maybe a little OCD, too. I know I have what they call a "ruminating" mind. As in, I think too much, about everything, all the time. But is there a more specific diagnosis to be made? And how many people qualify for some term of medical distinction?
There's a hazard in finding the term that describes you. As much as it can be comforting to validate your feelings of being abnormal, it can also become your identity. It can limit your view of yourself, your expectations for yourself, and hinder your personal progress. And it can do the same when others know you by your diagnosis. Oh, that's Phil, who's autistic...
When you think about it, that's kind of like saying, Oh, that's Phil, who is thumbs... We all have thumbs, generally speaking. We all have brains. We don't need to put the characteristics of each feature in front of our interactions with the person.
On the other hand, there is something to be said for having a diagnosis, for knowing the lay of the land. Whenever you interact with anyone, you can't know exactly what you're going to get, but you can have certain reasonable expectations. But with someone with a mental illness, you could get something drastically unexpected. So, there's value in being able to calibrate your expectations accordingly, if you are given the opportunity.
And that's our biggest challenge with our son, Henry. We don't have a diagnosis for his quirks, which leaves us wandering almost blind in dark territory. To outsiders, he usually looks like a perfectly normal (and especially adorable) 4 year-old. Even his outbursts likely strike most people as typical 4 year-old tantrums. Often, when I try to explain his behavior, people don't take me too seriously: "Sounds like a toddler to me!"
But Henry is not quite right.
We were almost lucky that he had speech delays because it got us in the system early. By the time of his 2-year check-up, he only used about a dozen words, though he should have had about 50 by then. That got us a referral for an evaluation through the school system, and Henry started meeting with an early intervention teacher.
From the first day, when she showed him how to sign the word "more," his language started taking off. Not only did he master the signed words quickly, but his spoken words increased. He progressed so much that by his next evaluation, he didn't quite qualify for more services. But his teacher advocated for him, saying she felt like he needed a little more help. She knew something was still a little off. We had spoken about autism and she said she didn't think that was it, but he was still pretty young. As she put it, there were indicators, but there were counter-indicators.
Henry is very smart. He picked up his alphabet and his numbers way earlier than most kids. He likes patterns, for things to be a certain way - but only so much. He gets obsessive about things - oh dear god, the doors! Music and sounds are particularly appealing, we discovered. He can become super-focused on something, or listen to the same song, or even the same sound, for extended periods of time. Hours, if we let him. But he can be affectionate and compassionate and will make eye-contact, unlike most autistic kids.
But how he interacts is... a little off. He still does "parallel play" where he's playing around other kids but doesn't really play with them. He interacts better with Oliver, but it's usually Oliver who's directing play. The other day, a little girl from the apartment complex looked Henry square in the eye and asked, "Do you want to play with us?" Henry didn't answer her. He wandered away like no one was there.
[Intermission: It's midnight... Oliver woke up... he coughed, he chatted, he had some juice, he threw up the juice, he asked for a cup of fruit... now he's curled up on the edge of the little bed waiting for Mommy to get off the computer. This is why I don't blog from home.]
What has become most obviously "off," though, is Henry's lack of questions. As Oliver, who will be 3 in less than three months, has become more verbose (he has always been way ahead of other kids his age), it has become apparent what Henry is not doing. It came home for me when, as my husband went banging and cursing around the kitchen, Oliver asked me, "Is Daddy okay? Does Daddy have a boo-boo?" Henry doesn't do that. He will ask if he needs permission for something - "Can I have the MobiGo?" - but I can't think of him ever asking exploratory questions like, "Where are we going?" or "Why does it do that?"
But our biggest problem is dealing with Henry's emotions. Oliver will protest and pitch a fit for something he wants. Henry gets hysterical. Seriously, he looks like he's having a panic attack sometimes. And often, he's freaking out over something like wanting me to help him with a puzzle he can already do by himself. If I say that I have to do dishes right now, he will pull me toward the puzzle table and repeat, "No! You have to match!" - not with a headstrong toddler look, but with a look of great anxiety. The day before he put the puzzle together, start to finish, by himself. But once he gets it in his mind that I need to help him, he can't move forward until I do. Sometimes all I need to do is match two pieces and then he will take over and finish the rest on his own. But if he's in that particular mindset, and I insist on my "no," he may likely scream and cry, or become violent and hit his brother - and he will not let it go. He will shut down, unable to move on with the puzzle on his own, or unable to move on to some other toy.
And most disturbingly, in his nervousness, he hurts himself. He chews his nails (I heard the audible 'snap' tonight, when he thought he saw a fly in his bed), and he will even give himself little cuts by pinching his skin with what's left of his nails. All over his body, but especially on his fingers, there are little red sores from him doing this.
So what's wrong with him? Autism Spectrum? Anxiety disorder? ADHD? OCD? There's a whole alphabet soup floating around him. We just want to know what we're dealing with.
We may not be responsible for the topography of Henry's mind - he was born with that. But the way we deal with Henry, the way we interact - whether we yell, or encourage, or soothe, and show him how to manage his strong emotions - helps to cultivate the landscape of his mind. We are carving out roads, planting trees and far too few flowers, laying the foundations for what his mind will become. This is true with any person, but some minds will always require special care and attention.
[Two days later: Out Day. Mix Bakeshop. 16oz Soy Chai.]
So...
Like I said before, while it's nice to have a diagnosis to illuminate the detour signs, the warnings - "There be dragons here!" - in the end, we have to let people chart their own course and be whoever they are going to be. No diagnosis can decide who they are unless they - and we - let it. After all, no "normal" person is exactly like any other "normal" person, so why would we expect someone with an alphabet soup brain to be exactly like anyone else, even someone with the same letters floating in their bowl? And is there such a thing as a "normal" person, anyway? I think we've all got some flavor of alphabet soup swirling around upstairs.
For my money, given his love of music and repetition, I think Henry's letters are going to end up being DJ.
Maybe DJ Spews-a-lot.... ;)
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Remember that what you're doing is absurd
Home
Sans coffee
In honor of a dear old friend becoming a new parent (of twins!) this week, I thought I would compile some of the unsolicited parenting advice I threw at him, plus some other stuff I remembered afterward.
1. "Neh" is the hungry cry. There are other cries that all newborns share - the tired cry, the gassy cry - but that was the most useful one for me. Go to YouTube for examples.
2. ShamWow, my firends. ShamWow.
3. If someone's parenting advice feels wrong, it probably is. For you, anyway.
4. While it is true that every pregnancy/newborn is different, knowing that doesn't really help you when you're new to all this. Just ask at what temperature/symptom/frequency-or-consistency-of-poop do you call the doctor.
5. Write it down. Your memory will be bad even when it's working, so jot down anything and everything somewhere handy.
6. WebMD will be your greatest frenemy.
7. Have no ambition beyond sleep-eat-poop. If you think you can get something done, you almost certainly won't, and this will only depress you. Give up on trying for as long as you need to.
8. You are not ready for this level of tired. You might think you know sleep dep - I sure do! But you really don't understand the dangerous level of fatigue you will be slogging through for the next several weeks to months. After my second child, I actually went to the dollar store and bought a pair of readers because I thought my eyesight was starting to go. I was just that tired.
9. Walk away when you need to. Sometimes you will never understand why the baby is crying - or why you're crying - and the best thing to do is put the child somewhere safe while you go outside and contemplate your mailbox.
10. Remember that what you're doing is absurd. We live in a bizarre society where we are not immersed in extended family and lifelong friends, living with us or within shouting distance. In a more "primitive" situation, we would never be parenting alone. There would be a host of loved ones stepping in to help you raise the child. They would be there to watch the child, entertain it, while you got some extra sleep or had a bath or deigned to pick up something. We would never be left for half the day or more alone with a little person who needed so very much. Even having two parents with only one working is biologically ridiculous to accomplish the task at hand. So keep that in mind, and look to ways to diffuse the stress throughout the day. Make a phone tree of friends and family to call every day, throughout the day, just to help you laugh. It really is medicine to the mind and body. And, hopefully, they will stop by sometimes, too, to bring you coffee and do the dishes.
One more special note about breastfeeding. All the recent medical information available nowadays is vindicating those dirty, savage hippies who thought "breast is best." Turns out, it really is. Babies who've been breastfed have better health outcomes, physically and mentally, throughout their lives. It's beneficial for the mother, too, physically and mentally. (It did wonders for dropping my dress size, too - bonus!). In America, the recommendation is to breastfeed for at least one year - this is why WIC will provide vouchers for breastfeeding moms through the child's first year. And the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two years of breastfeeding, if possible. Advocates encourage even longer, if you can. (We're not talking Game of Thrones longer - but to a couple of years old seems to be just fine).
That being said, if a mom chooses not to breastfeed, we need to support her just as much as we need to support moms who decide to breastfeed. There are a number of reasons a woman might choose not to or be unable to breastfeed, and no one should judge or shame her because of that. Plus, formula has come a long way and is a better substitute than it was 50 or 60 years ago, when breastfeeding was stigmatized. Part of the push behind the breastfeeding movement today is to overcome that old stigma, as well as the continuing sexualization of breasts to the point where moms are prevented from nursing in public, or - more distressingly - women feel uncomfortable nursing their newborns. When women are made to feel like doing the most natural and important things for themselves and their baby is wrong - that's a big, damn problem.
So, this is why we need to be culturally accepting of a mother's choice, and personally helpful wherever we can. Just making mom a sandwich, keeping her hydrated, rubbing her back, can make a world of difference. We can also do a lot socially. Oregon is one of the more progressive states when it comes to supporting moms, including protecting public nursing, having employers provide breaks for a working breastfeeding mom to pump, as well as a sanitary and private location to do it. No, bathrooms are not acceptable.
And let's just take a moment to love on the dads. Dads can share all the tasks and emotions that moms get, though the execution of some things might have to be modified.
And let's also give some love and respect to all those who don't have kids, and maybe won't. You are loved, too, and there's no need to feel left out if you want to come in. There's a place for everyone in a child's or parent's life.
Okay, there are books and books of advice out there, and my brain still has not recovered from the sleep dep even though my youngest is almost three. But I will leave you all with one last thought...
11. Come graduation, they won't remember any of this.
Oh, look at that!
The boys just got home and Henry just threw up... on a ShamWow. Laundry time!
(Did I mention...? 12. Something's always wet.)
Sans coffee
In honor of a dear old friend becoming a new parent (of twins!) this week, I thought I would compile some of the unsolicited parenting advice I threw at him, plus some other stuff I remembered afterward.
1. "Neh" is the hungry cry. There are other cries that all newborns share - the tired cry, the gassy cry - but that was the most useful one for me. Go to YouTube for examples.
2. ShamWow, my firends. ShamWow.
3. If someone's parenting advice feels wrong, it probably is. For you, anyway.
4. While it is true that every pregnancy/newborn is different, knowing that doesn't really help you when you're new to all this. Just ask at what temperature/symptom/frequency-or-consistency-of-poop do you call the doctor.
5. Write it down. Your memory will be bad even when it's working, so jot down anything and everything somewhere handy.
6. WebMD will be your greatest frenemy.
7. Have no ambition beyond sleep-eat-poop. If you think you can get something done, you almost certainly won't, and this will only depress you. Give up on trying for as long as you need to.
8. You are not ready for this level of tired. You might think you know sleep dep - I sure do! But you really don't understand the dangerous level of fatigue you will be slogging through for the next several weeks to months. After my second child, I actually went to the dollar store and bought a pair of readers because I thought my eyesight was starting to go. I was just that tired.
9. Walk away when you need to. Sometimes you will never understand why the baby is crying - or why you're crying - and the best thing to do is put the child somewhere safe while you go outside and contemplate your mailbox.
10. Remember that what you're doing is absurd. We live in a bizarre society where we are not immersed in extended family and lifelong friends, living with us or within shouting distance. In a more "primitive" situation, we would never be parenting alone. There would be a host of loved ones stepping in to help you raise the child. They would be there to watch the child, entertain it, while you got some extra sleep or had a bath or deigned to pick up something. We would never be left for half the day or more alone with a little person who needed so very much. Even having two parents with only one working is biologically ridiculous to accomplish the task at hand. So keep that in mind, and look to ways to diffuse the stress throughout the day. Make a phone tree of friends and family to call every day, throughout the day, just to help you laugh. It really is medicine to the mind and body. And, hopefully, they will stop by sometimes, too, to bring you coffee and do the dishes.
One more special note about breastfeeding. All the recent medical information available nowadays is vindicating those dirty, savage hippies who thought "breast is best." Turns out, it really is. Babies who've been breastfed have better health outcomes, physically and mentally, throughout their lives. It's beneficial for the mother, too, physically and mentally. (It did wonders for dropping my dress size, too - bonus!). In America, the recommendation is to breastfeed for at least one year - this is why WIC will provide vouchers for breastfeeding moms through the child's first year. And the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two years of breastfeeding, if possible. Advocates encourage even longer, if you can. (We're not talking Game of Thrones longer - but to a couple of years old seems to be just fine).
That being said, if a mom chooses not to breastfeed, we need to support her just as much as we need to support moms who decide to breastfeed. There are a number of reasons a woman might choose not to or be unable to breastfeed, and no one should judge or shame her because of that. Plus, formula has come a long way and is a better substitute than it was 50 or 60 years ago, when breastfeeding was stigmatized. Part of the push behind the breastfeeding movement today is to overcome that old stigma, as well as the continuing sexualization of breasts to the point where moms are prevented from nursing in public, or - more distressingly - women feel uncomfortable nursing their newborns. When women are made to feel like doing the most natural and important things for themselves and their baby is wrong - that's a big, damn problem.
So, this is why we need to be culturally accepting of a mother's choice, and personally helpful wherever we can. Just making mom a sandwich, keeping her hydrated, rubbing her back, can make a world of difference. We can also do a lot socially. Oregon is one of the more progressive states when it comes to supporting moms, including protecting public nursing, having employers provide breaks for a working breastfeeding mom to pump, as well as a sanitary and private location to do it. No, bathrooms are not acceptable.
And let's just take a moment to love on the dads. Dads can share all the tasks and emotions that moms get, though the execution of some things might have to be modified.
And let's also give some love and respect to all those who don't have kids, and maybe won't. You are loved, too, and there's no need to feel left out if you want to come in. There's a place for everyone in a child's or parent's life.
Okay, there are books and books of advice out there, and my brain still has not recovered from the sleep dep even though my youngest is almost three. But I will leave you all with one last thought...
11. Come graduation, they won't remember any of this.
Oh, look at that!
The boys just got home and Henry just threw up... on a ShamWow. Laundry time!
(Did I mention...? 12. Something's always wet.)
Monday, August 4, 2014
The Ballad of Buttonwillow
Mix Bakeshop
Soy Cappuccino
Anise Shortbread
Bittersweet Chocolate Chip Cookie
It's storytime with Chandra!
Someone asked about a reference I made a little while ago to Buttonwillow, and why I always stop there when I drive up or down I-5. So cast your minds back 17 years ago (yikes!) to June of 1997... Graduation night...
For graduation, my mother gave me a AAA membership, which came with four free tows and four free tire changes. This was a wise gift since my car - my first, my baby, my freedom - was a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. It was house paint green and primer grey, with the red and white of previous paint jobs showing through in places. It was perfectly complete with duct tape and bondo, a driver side window that was permanently cracked open about an inch - no more, no less - and an oil leak. In fact, when I had first driven it up to my friend's house, all of my male friends had converged around it, and before I had said a word, they asked, "Okay, other than the oil leak, what's wrong with it?" They warned me to run the heater to pull the hot air from the engine (intensely uncomfortable advice for summertime in southern California) so it wouldn't overheat, and they forbade me from driving more than 100 miles because "something" would happen.
My car had a 9-ball topper for a gear shift, and it was officially named Robespierre, because I had originally called it Turtle, and that's kind of long story why those two names are connected and involves an animated Judy Garland movie. To everyone else, it was known as RoadTrip. Roady, for short.
Back to graduation...
I had a pathetically quiet grad night. I had been named my class's valedictorian, which was a total surprise to me. They announced my future plans to go to Cabrillo College to study math and become an actuary. (This was before I understood that an actuary is basically a person who figures out the likelihood of your demise for insurance companies. That was not the way it had been described to me at the time.). And I looked stunning that night under my cap and gown, and that's saying something. I was finally getting happy with my body, now that my adult curves had come in and things had balanced out. But I spent my night alone at Denny's, after I had said good-bye to family and a few friends. Writing. And anxious to leave town.
But I had to wait four more days till my childhood best friend, T (I shall call her), had graduated from her high school. As I said before, my friends advised me to never travel more than a hundred miles at a time, so they simply refused to let me travel the four hundred miles from the ass-end of the Inland Empire (no one called it the I.E., in my day) up north to Santa Cruz, alone. So, hours after T's graduation, we threw some stuff in my car, made several last minute additions and adjustments, and headed north to freedom.
At 18, my biggest fear was getting stuck. Getting stuck in that godsforsaken desert of southern California, getting stuck in poverty, getting stuck somewhere in some situation without the ability to rescue myself. I was desperate to escape. All I wanted was to move home - to cool weather and redwoods and the taste of saltwater in the air - and to go to school. If I could just get through school, get my degree, then I would not be doomed to be poor forever.
It was the middle of the night, creeping up the Grapevine Pass in the same lane as the semis, blasting the "Great, Great Road Tape" on my little portable tape player, trying to out-howl the wind coming through my perpetually open window. We decided to press on past Gorman since we had gotten such a late start. We would stop in Buttonwillow, as my older brother had advised. He had some superstition about stopping there after certain roadtrip misadventures of his own.
We descended the Pass, still in the dead of night, into California's great Central Valley. We skipped the first town, Metler. We were only 30 miles from Buttonwillow, and the slow climb had set our time back even further.
Fifteen miles out from Buttonwillow, I blew a tire.
In the dark of night, along one of the most heavily traveled interstates in America, T and I walked to an emergency phone and called AAA. Thank you, Mom. AAA sent a tow truck. My spare was not only flat, but the frame was smashed. We got towed back to Metler. The sun was hinting at its arrival. I watched giant oil jacks undulate against the perfect shade of blue sky.
When we got to the garage, the driver pulled out his one and only tire that would fit my car. T pointed out that it was cracked all over. The driver gave us the tire for free and told us to get a new one as soon as we got to the next town. T and I gassed up the car, got some nibbles, and got back on the 5.
We talked it over - I had almost no money to make this trip. I had been working as a math tutor and as a "boothie" at the local Renaissance Faire, so I had scrounged together just enough for gas and food, round trip. We decided to take it easy and try to make it on the bad tire. And having just gassed up in Metler, we drove past Buttonwillow without stopping. That was my brother's superstition, anyway.
A mile past Buttonwillow we blew the sketchy tire.
Second free tow used. Second free tire change used. This tire was good, though, and set me back $65. I think it was the second check I had ever written. We dined at the Denny's in Buttonwillow, and got back on the now morning-bright road.
Less than two miles past Buttonwillow, I noticed I was having trouble passing cars. Since I knew the next major town was 60 miles north (Coalinga, land of the cow internment camp), I took the next overpass and headed back to Buttonwillow. The owner of the garage was on his lunch, but he graciously took my car for a quick test drive.
"Yep! Your transmission's going."
T and I drove into town and called my brother. Before I can say anything, he asks, "How far'd you get?"
"Buttonwillow."
"Okay, be there in three hours."
I parked Roady at a gas station with a note promising my imminent return. Then T and I checked into a cheap hotel room to wait out the next few hours. While T was in the shower, I called a friend, who asked which room I was in. "Isn't that the one where the murder happened?"
T and I got dressed up and played cards. Three hours later, we wedged our stuff and ourselves into my brother's pick-up and headed back to evil, vile, fucking SoCal.
The next day, when I should have been in Santa Cruz getting registered and advancing my life, I was instead back home with my then sister-in-law and my niece, in full mope. We were listening to the radio. They called out the license plate of someone sporting the radio station's bumper sticker. Some lucky person had won tickets to see Blues Traveler. Woo-hoo, for you.
Mope.
But after an hour, they still had not called, so the station offered up the tickets to caller number 10. Why not? I called.
I won.
I don't win. Whenever something is winnable, I do the opposite. But I won. I didn't care that the concert was in August during my first week of school 400 miles away and that I didn't have a car that was likely to get out of Buttonwillow, let alone make another 800 mile round trip. I won something.
So, come August, I cut my classes, borrowed my aunt's car, picked-up my sister, and (after a nap) we headed to the Greek Theater to see Blues Traveler. Joan Osbourne was the opening act. She was awesome. And in the time between the opener and the headliner, my sister and I chatted with the guys in the row in front of us.
They, too, had won tickets. Or, rather, the big guy with the long hair who looked strikingly like Silent Bob had won tickets on a different radio station. He hadn't been caller 10, though. The radio hosts had been taking callers to see who could come up with the worst pick-up line that might actually work on a woman. His winning line: "You're so beautiful, I'd drink a tub of your bathwater."
But Walker always won, I was to find out.
Blues Traveler came on and were beyond awesome. I remember at one point, Bruce Willis showed up to play with them. They blew out the speakers. John Popper told a wonderful, cringe-worthy joke (which I will not repeat here) while the roadies fixed the equipment. But the highlight, the profound, life-changing turning point, came during the song "Hook."
I had made a point of memorizing all the words, including the fast-talking (would you call it "rap"?) part, so I was still singing along as half the crowd had dropped out. Walker turned around, slack-jawed. "You know all the words?"
I smiled and kept singing.
"Oh my god - marry me."
"Where's my ring?"
He pulled the one off his thumb and I tried it on. Way too big, of course. He assured me he would get me another. And long story short (too late!) he did.
By the end of my first quarter in college, as things fell apart in Santa Cruz, I moved back to fucking southern California. My fiancé and I lived with his parents, and we both went to school - he was an English major trying to be a writer, and I had shifted to a math/physics major. This would only be temporary, though, until we could get back to Santa Cruz for the fall.
Right.
As with so much of my life, temporary became permanent, and things fell apart in all sorts of ways. But nothing in my life is how it would have been had I not met him. The people I know now, my old Borders family from Cali and Connecticut, were people I met directly or indirectly because of him. And strangely enough, he is now a scientist - I see him on the History Channel every once in a while - and I am the writer. Trying to be anyway.
If I have learned anything in life, it is that you have to have a clear path of what you want and a clear plan of how you intend to get there. You cannot let your life just occur from situation to situation. But what I have also learned, is to let the Universe knock you around. If you are wandering too far afield, even if it's straight at what you think you want, things tend to shift you towards where you need to be going. Don't fight it - roll with it. Ride the tide, like the surfers off the Lighthouse Point.
And always, always stop and pay homage in Buttonwillow.
No time to edit - I am totally getting a parking ticket today. Have a good week, and bust out your old mix tapes!
Soy Cappuccino
Anise Shortbread
Bittersweet Chocolate Chip Cookie
It's storytime with Chandra!
Someone asked about a reference I made a little while ago to Buttonwillow, and why I always stop there when I drive up or down I-5. So cast your minds back 17 years ago (yikes!) to June of 1997... Graduation night...
For graduation, my mother gave me a AAA membership, which came with four free tows and four free tire changes. This was a wise gift since my car - my first, my baby, my freedom - was a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. It was house paint green and primer grey, with the red and white of previous paint jobs showing through in places. It was perfectly complete with duct tape and bondo, a driver side window that was permanently cracked open about an inch - no more, no less - and an oil leak. In fact, when I had first driven it up to my friend's house, all of my male friends had converged around it, and before I had said a word, they asked, "Okay, other than the oil leak, what's wrong with it?" They warned me to run the heater to pull the hot air from the engine (intensely uncomfortable advice for summertime in southern California) so it wouldn't overheat, and they forbade me from driving more than 100 miles because "something" would happen.
My car had a 9-ball topper for a gear shift, and it was officially named Robespierre, because I had originally called it Turtle, and that's kind of long story why those two names are connected and involves an animated Judy Garland movie. To everyone else, it was known as RoadTrip. Roady, for short.
Back to graduation...
I had a pathetically quiet grad night. I had been named my class's valedictorian, which was a total surprise to me. They announced my future plans to go to Cabrillo College to study math and become an actuary. (This was before I understood that an actuary is basically a person who figures out the likelihood of your demise for insurance companies. That was not the way it had been described to me at the time.). And I looked stunning that night under my cap and gown, and that's saying something. I was finally getting happy with my body, now that my adult curves had come in and things had balanced out. But I spent my night alone at Denny's, after I had said good-bye to family and a few friends. Writing. And anxious to leave town.
But I had to wait four more days till my childhood best friend, T (I shall call her), had graduated from her high school. As I said before, my friends advised me to never travel more than a hundred miles at a time, so they simply refused to let me travel the four hundred miles from the ass-end of the Inland Empire (no one called it the I.E., in my day) up north to Santa Cruz, alone. So, hours after T's graduation, we threw some stuff in my car, made several last minute additions and adjustments, and headed north to freedom.
At 18, my biggest fear was getting stuck. Getting stuck in that godsforsaken desert of southern California, getting stuck in poverty, getting stuck somewhere in some situation without the ability to rescue myself. I was desperate to escape. All I wanted was to move home - to cool weather and redwoods and the taste of saltwater in the air - and to go to school. If I could just get through school, get my degree, then I would not be doomed to be poor forever.
It was the middle of the night, creeping up the Grapevine Pass in the same lane as the semis, blasting the "Great, Great Road Tape" on my little portable tape player, trying to out-howl the wind coming through my perpetually open window. We decided to press on past Gorman since we had gotten such a late start. We would stop in Buttonwillow, as my older brother had advised. He had some superstition about stopping there after certain roadtrip misadventures of his own.
We descended the Pass, still in the dead of night, into California's great Central Valley. We skipped the first town, Metler. We were only 30 miles from Buttonwillow, and the slow climb had set our time back even further.
Fifteen miles out from Buttonwillow, I blew a tire.
In the dark of night, along one of the most heavily traveled interstates in America, T and I walked to an emergency phone and called AAA. Thank you, Mom. AAA sent a tow truck. My spare was not only flat, but the frame was smashed. We got towed back to Metler. The sun was hinting at its arrival. I watched giant oil jacks undulate against the perfect shade of blue sky.
When we got to the garage, the driver pulled out his one and only tire that would fit my car. T pointed out that it was cracked all over. The driver gave us the tire for free and told us to get a new one as soon as we got to the next town. T and I gassed up the car, got some nibbles, and got back on the 5.
We talked it over - I had almost no money to make this trip. I had been working as a math tutor and as a "boothie" at the local Renaissance Faire, so I had scrounged together just enough for gas and food, round trip. We decided to take it easy and try to make it on the bad tire. And having just gassed up in Metler, we drove past Buttonwillow without stopping. That was my brother's superstition, anyway.
A mile past Buttonwillow we blew the sketchy tire.
Second free tow used. Second free tire change used. This tire was good, though, and set me back $65. I think it was the second check I had ever written. We dined at the Denny's in Buttonwillow, and got back on the now morning-bright road.
Less than two miles past Buttonwillow, I noticed I was having trouble passing cars. Since I knew the next major town was 60 miles north (Coalinga, land of the cow internment camp), I took the next overpass and headed back to Buttonwillow. The owner of the garage was on his lunch, but he graciously took my car for a quick test drive.
"Yep! Your transmission's going."
T and I drove into town and called my brother. Before I can say anything, he asks, "How far'd you get?"
"Buttonwillow."
"Okay, be there in three hours."
I parked Roady at a gas station with a note promising my imminent return. Then T and I checked into a cheap hotel room to wait out the next few hours. While T was in the shower, I called a friend, who asked which room I was in. "Isn't that the one where the murder happened?"
T and I got dressed up and played cards. Three hours later, we wedged our stuff and ourselves into my brother's pick-up and headed back to evil, vile, fucking SoCal.
The next day, when I should have been in Santa Cruz getting registered and advancing my life, I was instead back home with my then sister-in-law and my niece, in full mope. We were listening to the radio. They called out the license plate of someone sporting the radio station's bumper sticker. Some lucky person had won tickets to see Blues Traveler. Woo-hoo, for you.
Mope.
But after an hour, they still had not called, so the station offered up the tickets to caller number 10. Why not? I called.
I won.
I don't win. Whenever something is winnable, I do the opposite. But I won. I didn't care that the concert was in August during my first week of school 400 miles away and that I didn't have a car that was likely to get out of Buttonwillow, let alone make another 800 mile round trip. I won something.
So, come August, I cut my classes, borrowed my aunt's car, picked-up my sister, and (after a nap) we headed to the Greek Theater to see Blues Traveler. Joan Osbourne was the opening act. She was awesome. And in the time between the opener and the headliner, my sister and I chatted with the guys in the row in front of us.
They, too, had won tickets. Or, rather, the big guy with the long hair who looked strikingly like Silent Bob had won tickets on a different radio station. He hadn't been caller 10, though. The radio hosts had been taking callers to see who could come up with the worst pick-up line that might actually work on a woman. His winning line: "You're so beautiful, I'd drink a tub of your bathwater."
But Walker always won, I was to find out.
Blues Traveler came on and were beyond awesome. I remember at one point, Bruce Willis showed up to play with them. They blew out the speakers. John Popper told a wonderful, cringe-worthy joke (which I will not repeat here) while the roadies fixed the equipment. But the highlight, the profound, life-changing turning point, came during the song "Hook."
I had made a point of memorizing all the words, including the fast-talking (would you call it "rap"?) part, so I was still singing along as half the crowd had dropped out. Walker turned around, slack-jawed. "You know all the words?"
I smiled and kept singing.
"Oh my god - marry me."
"Where's my ring?"
He pulled the one off his thumb and I tried it on. Way too big, of course. He assured me he would get me another. And long story short (too late!) he did.
By the end of my first quarter in college, as things fell apart in Santa Cruz, I moved back to fucking southern California. My fiancé and I lived with his parents, and we both went to school - he was an English major trying to be a writer, and I had shifted to a math/physics major. This would only be temporary, though, until we could get back to Santa Cruz for the fall.
Right.
As with so much of my life, temporary became permanent, and things fell apart in all sorts of ways. But nothing in my life is how it would have been had I not met him. The people I know now, my old Borders family from Cali and Connecticut, were people I met directly or indirectly because of him. And strangely enough, he is now a scientist - I see him on the History Channel every once in a while - and I am the writer. Trying to be anyway.
If I have learned anything in life, it is that you have to have a clear path of what you want and a clear plan of how you intend to get there. You cannot let your life just occur from situation to situation. But what I have also learned, is to let the Universe knock you around. If you are wandering too far afield, even if it's straight at what you think you want, things tend to shift you towards where you need to be going. Don't fight it - roll with it. Ride the tide, like the surfers off the Lighthouse Point.
And always, always stop and pay homage in Buttonwillow.
No time to edit - I am totally getting a parking ticket today. Have a good week, and bust out your old mix tapes!
Sunday, July 27, 2014
I have the right to my own pee, thankyouverymuch
Downtown Grounds
12oz Soy Vanilla Latte
Coffeecake Muffin
If you're one of those people who say that people who receive food stamps or other public assistance should have to pee in cup first, you're wrong. If you say, "Well, I had to pee in a cup for my job - why shouldn't they have to pee for their check?" I say, none of us should be peeing for a check. This is an artificial problem with an unconstitutional solution.
In the Bill of Rights we are explicitly protected from unreasonable search and seizure, to be secure in our person and property. I consider my pee to be both part of my "person" and, once expelled, still my "property." That is why I believe it is explicitly forbidden for the government to demand the right to search it unreasonably. So, the question then is, is it reasonable?
No!
I have a right to be presumed innocent, not to be profiled. The government needs to demonstrate a reasonable belief that I will fail that search, that I have used some kind of illegal drug. There is no data that has ever been presented to demonstrate such a great overuse of drugs among people seeking government assistance that it is necessary to screen for it. In fact, in places where this has been implemented, the statistics have shown dramatically less drug use of any kind compared to the greater population. And that does not appear to be a deterrent effect as the numbers seeking assistance did not significantly drop. The only thing it did produce was a net loss to the states due to the cost of the testing.
And what is the remedial solution for the people who fail the test? Does the state then press charges, remove the children, force the person to enroll in a drug treatment course? To my knowledge, none of that. The sole purpose is to excuse the rest of us from having to give those morally inferior people any help. This topic is not discussed with the tone of those concerned that just giving money to addicts is not really going to help them or the rest of us sacrificing our hard-earned money. This topic is thrown around with hot-blooded contempt at this fictional class of degenerate moochers and scam-artists.
Even if you think that it's not that big of a deal to just pee in a cup and maybe cull a few scammers if we can, then you are not appreciating the real importance of this matter. It is not just that complying with this mandatory drug-testing would be ceding another constitutional protection, it is also accepting as valid the irrational prejudice against people in financial distress. It is shaming innocents. It is another form, if not another facet, of racism.
I am not guilty, and I should not have to be treated as a lesser person, a lesser citizen, just because other people believe that I am.
The only time anyone could be reasonably compelled to pee in a cup to prove they are not under the influence of some intoxicant or other, is if the real concern for public safety is so great that it should outweigh the individual's right to their person and their privacy. If there is a reasonable concern in your occupation that allowing anyone in that job to conduct their work while impaired would result in the harm of others, then yes, I think you could make case for testing as part of their job. Some kind of test to reasonably assure the rest of us that the person is fit to perform their duties, even if that doesn't require a specimen - you can make a case for it. But no citizen should be required to forgo their constitutional rights even in a private employment arrangement. These rights are there for a reason, and that reason doesn't cease to exist when the people involved stop being members of governmental bodies.
Don't let anyone try to turn you against your fellow human beings to keep you distracted for their own purposes. Creating this myth of the immoral poor keeps the slightly-better-offs busy condemning their neighbors, investing so much energy in self-righteous hostility, instead of scrutinizing the greater economic structure. If the so-called middle class are feeling economic strain, it's not because there is a mass movement to exploit the social safety net. Their financial strain stems from an economic structure that produces massive amounts of people in need of the safety net.
And the truth is that the net is so underfunded that it cannot adequately assist all the people who need it. It is not really all that exploitable - I know. I've been in the lines, I've filled out the forms - there is not enough help to go around. We are grateful for all the help we've received - that's the only reason we dared to have two kids instead of just one. But we are in a lot more debt this year than in previous years specifically due to the carried-over loss from sequester cuts to food stamp programs. The money has since been restored, but the legacy of those cuts is carried over at a 20+% interest rate. And really, why should a working family have to receive food stamps to get by, anyway?
Okay, coffee shop is closing. Leaving it there. No edits. Peace and love, my friends.
12oz Soy Vanilla Latte
Coffeecake Muffin
If you're one of those people who say that people who receive food stamps or other public assistance should have to pee in cup first, you're wrong. If you say, "Well, I had to pee in a cup for my job - why shouldn't they have to pee for their check?" I say, none of us should be peeing for a check. This is an artificial problem with an unconstitutional solution.
In the Bill of Rights we are explicitly protected from unreasonable search and seizure, to be secure in our person and property. I consider my pee to be both part of my "person" and, once expelled, still my "property." That is why I believe it is explicitly forbidden for the government to demand the right to search it unreasonably. So, the question then is, is it reasonable?
No!
I have a right to be presumed innocent, not to be profiled. The government needs to demonstrate a reasonable belief that I will fail that search, that I have used some kind of illegal drug. There is no data that has ever been presented to demonstrate such a great overuse of drugs among people seeking government assistance that it is necessary to screen for it. In fact, in places where this has been implemented, the statistics have shown dramatically less drug use of any kind compared to the greater population. And that does not appear to be a deterrent effect as the numbers seeking assistance did not significantly drop. The only thing it did produce was a net loss to the states due to the cost of the testing.
And what is the remedial solution for the people who fail the test? Does the state then press charges, remove the children, force the person to enroll in a drug treatment course? To my knowledge, none of that. The sole purpose is to excuse the rest of us from having to give those morally inferior people any help. This topic is not discussed with the tone of those concerned that just giving money to addicts is not really going to help them or the rest of us sacrificing our hard-earned money. This topic is thrown around with hot-blooded contempt at this fictional class of degenerate moochers and scam-artists.
Even if you think that it's not that big of a deal to just pee in a cup and maybe cull a few scammers if we can, then you are not appreciating the real importance of this matter. It is not just that complying with this mandatory drug-testing would be ceding another constitutional protection, it is also accepting as valid the irrational prejudice against people in financial distress. It is shaming innocents. It is another form, if not another facet, of racism.
I am not guilty, and I should not have to be treated as a lesser person, a lesser citizen, just because other people believe that I am.
The only time anyone could be reasonably compelled to pee in a cup to prove they are not under the influence of some intoxicant or other, is if the real concern for public safety is so great that it should outweigh the individual's right to their person and their privacy. If there is a reasonable concern in your occupation that allowing anyone in that job to conduct their work while impaired would result in the harm of others, then yes, I think you could make case for testing as part of their job. Some kind of test to reasonably assure the rest of us that the person is fit to perform their duties, even if that doesn't require a specimen - you can make a case for it. But no citizen should be required to forgo their constitutional rights even in a private employment arrangement. These rights are there for a reason, and that reason doesn't cease to exist when the people involved stop being members of governmental bodies.
Don't let anyone try to turn you against your fellow human beings to keep you distracted for their own purposes. Creating this myth of the immoral poor keeps the slightly-better-offs busy condemning their neighbors, investing so much energy in self-righteous hostility, instead of scrutinizing the greater economic structure. If the so-called middle class are feeling economic strain, it's not because there is a mass movement to exploit the social safety net. Their financial strain stems from an economic structure that produces massive amounts of people in need of the safety net.
And the truth is that the net is so underfunded that it cannot adequately assist all the people who need it. It is not really all that exploitable - I know. I've been in the lines, I've filled out the forms - there is not enough help to go around. We are grateful for all the help we've received - that's the only reason we dared to have two kids instead of just one. But we are in a lot more debt this year than in previous years specifically due to the carried-over loss from sequester cuts to food stamp programs. The money has since been restored, but the legacy of those cuts is carried over at a 20+% interest rate. And really, why should a working family have to receive food stamps to get by, anyway?
Okay, coffee shop is closing. Leaving it there. No edits. Peace and love, my friends.
Monday, July 21, 2014
No, YOUR opinions on body hair are completely bizarre and stupid.
Mix Bakeshop
12ozDecaf Americano
Boy, nothing kills the mood like finding out your partner finds something about you completely disgusting...
And here's the t.m.i. warning for my squeamish friends and family. Proceed or turn back now. It is in your hands.
So, I was in the shower the other day and I popped my head out to ask my husband if he would care if let my pits go for a few more days since the skin has been a bit irritated lately. His reply gag was almost not comical. Apparently, he's one of those guys that thinks any body hair below the eyebrows is gross on women.
I already knew that he was surprised to initially discover where I did and didn't preserve my natural hair growth. And I knew that he was aware of my ever-so-slight fem-stache (does that make me a hipster?), so I made sure to actually don makeup for the sake of our wedding photos. However, I didn't realize that it was not just new to him among the females he has dated, but that it was actually repellent to him.
This left me with a dilemma in the shower because on the one hand, screw you guy, it's normal for female human animals to have hair under their pits and there are innumerable pictures findable on the internet of beautiful women with hairy pits, albeit mostly from other countries who think we are completely weird about body hair, which we are. On the other hand, wow do I feel fucking unattractive, thanks, hon.
A while ago, I posted a mini-blog (on my old myspace blog) that read approximately:
I have decided to stop shaving my legs. It's a hassle, it's winter, and they never come out much in the summer anyway. Am I worried about repelling guys? Nah. The next guy to get down my pants will have already accepted backfat, stretchmarks, and a low self-opinion - I don't think hairy legs are going to be the deal-breaker.
Guess I was right.
Finding an unshaven woman unattractive is weird and dumb when you think about it. As is finding an uncircumcised penis unattractive. That is unfair to the man possessing that penis because, really, all penises are unattractive. What if men in this country wanted women to start getting female circumcision? What we are already expected to do is bad enough - high heels that deform your feet over time, push-up bras and Spanx and plastic surgery. Imagine parents looking at their infant daughters saying stupid stuff like, "I just don't want men to look at her and be grossed out... let's carve up her cooch, honey!"
I am reminded that I ended a blog with a rhetorical topic question: "Dress tape - your boobs' best friend, or sticky shackles of the Patriarchy?" The answer is both. I am using some right now because, if I weren't, I would have to continually scoop my boobs off to the sides since this bra is so low-cut that the girls will, naturally, slide down the path of least resistance, resulting in what I like to call, "front-butt." Without dress tape holding them back, we'd all be suffering from permanent nip-dysplasia. If bra designers - or the fashion industry at large - knew or cared anything about real boobs, they would never design crap like this.
Any-hoo. Back to the shower.
So, I decided to shave the pits (maybe I'll try growing my pit hair out in the winter), but I left my legs snaggly. I've also been giving my husband crap ever since this (he does graciously allow for female arm hair), but he has also made it perfectly clear that body hair does not get in the way of him loving me, or finding me attractive. So, while it bothers me that it bothers him, I'm standing my ground more or less, and hopefully, in time, he'll get over it.
No edits - good-night!
12ozDecaf Americano
Boy, nothing kills the mood like finding out your partner finds something about you completely disgusting...
And here's the t.m.i. warning for my squeamish friends and family. Proceed or turn back now. It is in your hands.
So, I was in the shower the other day and I popped my head out to ask my husband if he would care if let my pits go for a few more days since the skin has been a bit irritated lately. His reply gag was almost not comical. Apparently, he's one of those guys that thinks any body hair below the eyebrows is gross on women.
I already knew that he was surprised to initially discover where I did and didn't preserve my natural hair growth. And I knew that he was aware of my ever-so-slight fem-stache (does that make me a hipster?), so I made sure to actually don makeup for the sake of our wedding photos. However, I didn't realize that it was not just new to him among the females he has dated, but that it was actually repellent to him.
This left me with a dilemma in the shower because on the one hand, screw you guy, it's normal for female human animals to have hair under their pits and there are innumerable pictures findable on the internet of beautiful women with hairy pits, albeit mostly from other countries who think we are completely weird about body hair, which we are. On the other hand, wow do I feel fucking unattractive, thanks, hon.
A while ago, I posted a mini-blog (on my old myspace blog) that read approximately:
I have decided to stop shaving my legs. It's a hassle, it's winter, and they never come out much in the summer anyway. Am I worried about repelling guys? Nah. The next guy to get down my pants will have already accepted backfat, stretchmarks, and a low self-opinion - I don't think hairy legs are going to be the deal-breaker.
Guess I was right.
Finding an unshaven woman unattractive is weird and dumb when you think about it. As is finding an uncircumcised penis unattractive. That is unfair to the man possessing that penis because, really, all penises are unattractive. What if men in this country wanted women to start getting female circumcision? What we are already expected to do is bad enough - high heels that deform your feet over time, push-up bras and Spanx and plastic surgery. Imagine parents looking at their infant daughters saying stupid stuff like, "I just don't want men to look at her and be grossed out... let's carve up her cooch, honey!"
I am reminded that I ended a blog with a rhetorical topic question: "Dress tape - your boobs' best friend, or sticky shackles of the Patriarchy?" The answer is both. I am using some right now because, if I weren't, I would have to continually scoop my boobs off to the sides since this bra is so low-cut that the girls will, naturally, slide down the path of least resistance, resulting in what I like to call, "front-butt." Without dress tape holding them back, we'd all be suffering from permanent nip-dysplasia. If bra designers - or the fashion industry at large - knew or cared anything about real boobs, they would never design crap like this.
Any-hoo. Back to the shower.
So, I decided to shave the pits (maybe I'll try growing my pit hair out in the winter), but I left my legs snaggly. I've also been giving my husband crap ever since this (he does graciously allow for female arm hair), but he has also made it perfectly clear that body hair does not get in the way of him loving me, or finding me attractive. So, while it bothers me that it bothers him, I'm standing my ground more or less, and hopefully, in time, he'll get over it.
No edits - good-night!
Sunday, July 6, 2014
The Unprotected Sex
Mix Bake Shop
Americano
Anise Shortbread
I don't know where to start. I have found myself shouting and/or writing the word "motherfucker" frequently following the Supreme Court's ruling on the Hobby Lobby case. The anthropomorphic personification of a business arrangement has been granted primacy over my body, my sexuality, and my religious beliefs. The most sexist, slut-shaming-ist corners of a single religion have been given preference over all other interpretations of a loving and tolerant deity - or a loving and tolerant society, for that matter. Pseudoscience has been legitimized by the same method as getting Tinkerbell fly: clap your hands and say, "I do believe that a zygote is a person even before a woman is pregnant!"
Motherfuckers.
This is one of the most ridiculous interpretations of the law that I've seen in my lifetime. First, just because it is "precedent" for corporations to be considered people, doesn't mean the interpretation was ever valid in the first place. That interpretation can, and should, be struck down at any time. But even the liberal justices seem disinclined to rock that boat, so it's going to have to take an act of Congress - the most inactive body of government - to explicitly undo corporate personhood.
Second, no person has the right to deny their employee their due compensation, nor to direct them in what they can or cannot do with their wages. Not for any reason. You can't say, "I'm not giving Phil his paycheck because he smokes and drinks and I have a deep moral opposition to those behaviors - you can't make me pay for it!" You don't get to decide. It's not your money anymore. If Phil put in his time and did the work, then he is now entitled to his compensation, whatever form it takes. Withholding it would be illegal. Unless, apparently, Phil is a Philomena.
Next, by what logic does this particular belief get its special exception? Logically, how does this differ? Because this person behind the corporate person thinks that contraception is a form of abortion? So what? First, that's not accurate. There are numerous articles out there circulating that explain the real science behind all these forms of contraception. Second, abortion is a legal right and should be protected, though it is continually infringed or outright assaulted.
If we all agreed that the abortion of a fetus was murder, then it would not be legal. But we don't. Hence, it is still nominally legal for a woman to decide what happens in and to her own body. To be clear, I don't believe that a fetus is devoid of personhood, but I do not believe that it is of equivalent personhood to that of a born child. And I certainly don't believe that whatever rights it has are superior to those of the mother carrying it. I believe that we need special "grey laws" that try to address the interests of the potential person and the undeniably real person carrying it.
And a woman is more than just a baby incubator. That developing fetus that will one day, if all goes well, become a child is altered continually by the conditions of the mother's condition. And vice versa. The mother's diet, physical activity, her worries, affect the developing fetus, and the very act of carrying the child alters the woman in profound ways. Her chemistry, her mental health, her physicality all change in unknown and dramatic ways. And who best to say whether or not those changes or conditions should be continued for the mother and the one-day-maybe child?
Certainly not the abstract legally-incarnated bogeyman withholding her paycheck.
Here's a little insight for you sexist bosses who want to pretend that depriving a woman of her healthcare will prevent you from being complicit in her "consequence free sex" life. If she can't prevent her unintended pregnancy from happening through not-actually-abortive contraception, she's going to use the money you give her in her paycheck to pay for the real, actual abortion a few weeks later. Which is costlier in every possible way...
And I'm just gonna leave this little link here to one of my earlier blogs, wherein I totally demolish any opposition to the idea of contraception: To the new pope...
As was noted by Justice Ginsberg and others, the Pill and other contraceptive devices are frequently used for other medical purposes (right here, guys!). The not-able-to-get-pregnant feature is a side-effect the woman and her healthcare provider have to take into consideration when deciding whether or not to utilize it. What about other medical treatments that cause temporary or permanent infertility? Should we allow those treatments to be denied as well, even if we could cure somebody's cancer?
The day after this decision came down we immediately saw, not just the hypothetical ways in which this ruling would enable "non-favored" (non-Christian) religious beliefs being imposed on workers by for-profit corporations, but the new actual legal challenges by employers trying to deny workers various rights because of "sincerely held beliefs." Specifically, they're goin' after the gays.
And why is it that sincere religious beliefs are imbued with a variety of protections, but my sincere beliefs founded on reason and empathy get bupkis? How many people just go along with what they were told to believe when they were little? Somebody hundreds or thousands of years ago came up with a story full of dos and don'ts and somebody else just said, "Okay," and, ta-da! - you're exempt. I put years of thoughtful consideration into the guiding principles of my life and it's, "Pay your taxes and burn in hell, hippy!"
Again, motherfuckers.
(Yes, I know many devout people do reflect upon the tenants of their faith. I'm just saying there are millions mailing it in and still getting preferential treatment.)
I have the right to believe and do as I choose, so long as it does not infringe upon the rights of others. The burden of being an American is protecting the rights of those you disagree with. It doesn't matter to my employer what I choose to read or watch or listen to, just as long as I'm polite to the customers. It doesn't matter whether or not I eat a vegan diet and go hiking, or if I love bacon and barely leave the house, so long as I can lift box A and put it on shelf B. My employer doesn't get to dock my pay if I get drunk one weekend, make out with some random lesbian at a party, and show up on Monday with a new neck tattoo, so long as I show up and do my job - in a turtleneck.
As other great thinkers have said:
If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight
It's none of your business
And she wanna be a freak and sell it on the weekend
It's none of your business
Now you shouldn't even get into who I'm givin' skins to
It's none of your business
So don't try to change my mind, I'll tell you one more time
It's none of your business
But, alas, sex is not a protected right in this country.
Sexism, however, has just been thrown a box of Trojans and a bottle of Viagra.
Americano
Anise Shortbread
I don't know where to start. I have found myself shouting and/or writing the word "motherfucker" frequently following the Supreme Court's ruling on the Hobby Lobby case. The anthropomorphic personification of a business arrangement has been granted primacy over my body, my sexuality, and my religious beliefs. The most sexist, slut-shaming-ist corners of a single religion have been given preference over all other interpretations of a loving and tolerant deity - or a loving and tolerant society, for that matter. Pseudoscience has been legitimized by the same method as getting Tinkerbell fly: clap your hands and say, "I do believe that a zygote is a person even before a woman is pregnant!"
Motherfuckers.
This is one of the most ridiculous interpretations of the law that I've seen in my lifetime. First, just because it is "precedent" for corporations to be considered people, doesn't mean the interpretation was ever valid in the first place. That interpretation can, and should, be struck down at any time. But even the liberal justices seem disinclined to rock that boat, so it's going to have to take an act of Congress - the most inactive body of government - to explicitly undo corporate personhood.
Second, no person has the right to deny their employee their due compensation, nor to direct them in what they can or cannot do with their wages. Not for any reason. You can't say, "I'm not giving Phil his paycheck because he smokes and drinks and I have a deep moral opposition to those behaviors - you can't make me pay for it!" You don't get to decide. It's not your money anymore. If Phil put in his time and did the work, then he is now entitled to his compensation, whatever form it takes. Withholding it would be illegal. Unless, apparently, Phil is a Philomena.
Next, by what logic does this particular belief get its special exception? Logically, how does this differ? Because this person behind the corporate person thinks that contraception is a form of abortion? So what? First, that's not accurate. There are numerous articles out there circulating that explain the real science behind all these forms of contraception. Second, abortion is a legal right and should be protected, though it is continually infringed or outright assaulted.
If we all agreed that the abortion of a fetus was murder, then it would not be legal. But we don't. Hence, it is still nominally legal for a woman to decide what happens in and to her own body. To be clear, I don't believe that a fetus is devoid of personhood, but I do not believe that it is of equivalent personhood to that of a born child. And I certainly don't believe that whatever rights it has are superior to those of the mother carrying it. I believe that we need special "grey laws" that try to address the interests of the potential person and the undeniably real person carrying it.
And a woman is more than just a baby incubator. That developing fetus that will one day, if all goes well, become a child is altered continually by the conditions of the mother's condition. And vice versa. The mother's diet, physical activity, her worries, affect the developing fetus, and the very act of carrying the child alters the woman in profound ways. Her chemistry, her mental health, her physicality all change in unknown and dramatic ways. And who best to say whether or not those changes or conditions should be continued for the mother and the one-day-maybe child?
Certainly not the abstract legally-incarnated bogeyman withholding her paycheck.
Here's a little insight for you sexist bosses who want to pretend that depriving a woman of her healthcare will prevent you from being complicit in her "consequence free sex" life. If she can't prevent her unintended pregnancy from happening through not-actually-abortive contraception, she's going to use the money you give her in her paycheck to pay for the real, actual abortion a few weeks later. Which is costlier in every possible way...
And I'm just gonna leave this little link here to one of my earlier blogs, wherein I totally demolish any opposition to the idea of contraception: To the new pope...
As was noted by Justice Ginsberg and others, the Pill and other contraceptive devices are frequently used for other medical purposes (right here, guys!). The not-able-to-get-pregnant feature is a side-effect the woman and her healthcare provider have to take into consideration when deciding whether or not to utilize it. What about other medical treatments that cause temporary or permanent infertility? Should we allow those treatments to be denied as well, even if we could cure somebody's cancer?
The day after this decision came down we immediately saw, not just the hypothetical ways in which this ruling would enable "non-favored" (non-Christian) religious beliefs being imposed on workers by for-profit corporations, but the new actual legal challenges by employers trying to deny workers various rights because of "sincerely held beliefs." Specifically, they're goin' after the gays.
And why is it that sincere religious beliefs are imbued with a variety of protections, but my sincere beliefs founded on reason and empathy get bupkis? How many people just go along with what they were told to believe when they were little? Somebody hundreds or thousands of years ago came up with a story full of dos and don'ts and somebody else just said, "Okay," and, ta-da! - you're exempt. I put years of thoughtful consideration into the guiding principles of my life and it's, "Pay your taxes and burn in hell, hippy!"
Again, motherfuckers.
(Yes, I know many devout people do reflect upon the tenants of their faith. I'm just saying there are millions mailing it in and still getting preferential treatment.)
I have the right to believe and do as I choose, so long as it does not infringe upon the rights of others. The burden of being an American is protecting the rights of those you disagree with. It doesn't matter to my employer what I choose to read or watch or listen to, just as long as I'm polite to the customers. It doesn't matter whether or not I eat a vegan diet and go hiking, or if I love bacon and barely leave the house, so long as I can lift box A and put it on shelf B. My employer doesn't get to dock my pay if I get drunk one weekend, make out with some random lesbian at a party, and show up on Monday with a new neck tattoo, so long as I show up and do my job - in a turtleneck.
As other great thinkers have said:
If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight
It's none of your business
And she wanna be a freak and sell it on the weekend
It's none of your business
Now you shouldn't even get into who I'm givin' skins to
It's none of your business
So don't try to change my mind, I'll tell you one more time
It's none of your business
But, alas, sex is not a protected right in this country.
Sexism, however, has just been thrown a box of Trojans and a bottle of Viagra.
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