Birth Mother's Day

I gave you the moon and stars, and now I want some back.
Photo from Acanthus Jewelry Instagram.

At seven months pregnant with my second future kid, fourth pregnancy, I’m telling you it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets to be a daddy and doesn’t have to waddle with butt pain. He doesn’t have to give up eating raw fish, all tuna, and unpasteurized cheese. He doesn't have to go the doctor's office for monthly check-ups and the lab for countless blood draws and urine collections. It’s not fair that he can have that gin Bloody Mary I want, and the IPA I want, and the stout, and the glass of wine to help digest the Italian food, and the second glass of wine. It’s not fair that he can still squat and sneeze at the same time without peeing his pants. It’s not fair that once he does get that second kid, the icing on the cake of our family, the fulfillment of our deepest wish, he doesn’t have to experience the searing pain of a breastfeed latch. He doesn’t have to keep it to one beer. He doesn’t have to lose 20 pounds, maybe 30, maybe 40. He doesn’t have to be held hostage with every meal from my tender boobs. He doesn’t need to pump in airports and have TSA fondle his ice packs. 

You might be thinking, you don’t have to breastfeed. You don’t have to lose the weight. You can eat a little bit of chunk light tuna and have a few sips of wine. To which I say, just fuck off.

What could make this better is getting a Birth Mother’s Day. If you’ve birthed your kid, you should get the day after their birthday as a bonus Mother’s Day. The Mother’s Day we already celebrate is canceled out by Father’s Day, yet the father did far far far far less to bring this kid into the world. (Please swap “other mother” for “father” if that suits you.) Therefore, birth mamas deserve extra. I’ll have three total Mother Days per year. Let's make four the max per mom because I'm reasonable.

This is very comfortable.

We deserve these extra days in appreciation of carrying that kid in our body for 40 weeks, abstaining from so much, GETTING THE KID OUT, and then abstaining some more while attempting to heal with insufficient sleep. The kids don’t need to do anything special for us on Birth Mother’s Day (although they should on the standard Mother's Day because that's an appreciation of the ins and outs of mothering). We wanted those damn kids, no matter how hard the pregnancy became. The father though? This is his time to shine. He’s a daddy thanks to this effort, this insane sacrifice, and this is his yearly chance to say thank you for it. To remind me how I awed you that day. To tell me how lucky you are to have had ME carry and birth your kid. To tell me how honored you feel to experience the swelling pride and happiness of fatherhood, thanks to ME, your god damn goddess. Small gift required.

You might be thinking, but don’t you already have something extra special from being the mom? You have a greater bond with your kid! They probably even love you a teensy bit more. To which I say, show me the necklace.

Book bothered

Sometimes I read a book that makes me yearn for a book club.

I need to talk about Educated, by Tara Westover. I bought this for my mom last Christmas based on the rave reviews everywhere. My mom isn’t a gung-ho reader but I thought the semi-familiar subject matter (Difficult father? Check. Escape from a confining small town? Check.) and easy writing style might spark some interest. She read it, and then begged me to read it, as all good books should provoke one to beg. And now I beg you – have you read it? Can we talk? If so, please continue. If not, I warn you of spoilers and triggers galore ahead.

Books recently read and a couple on deck

We need to do something about Shawn. It sits horribly wrong with me that I, we, millions of us, have born witness to a man’s unchecked abuse. RIGHT NOW he is hurting his wife, or a niece. He is humiliating her, breaking her bones, scarring her psyche, making her fear for her life or for her next walk up the driveway. To think what his kids are witnessing. 

What what what can we do? We tell ourselves we can do nothing. We have no evidence that holds up. Heck, even the author, one of Shawn’s victims, crumbles with uncertainty. (Is she a survivor now? Has that term supplanted victim for her? It seems too soon to tell, education and all.)

How will we feel when he kills a woman? I’ll tell you. We’ll feel like we should have done something.

Imagine if this was sexual abuse instead of physical. We’d feel a bit more compelled to do something, no? But here comes the same excuse – we have no evidence!  However, like rape, domestic violence is a crime, even in Idaho. Oh the pain of knowing this is happening today, not just among the Westovers of Idaho but to so many others.

Maybe it’s epigenetic trauma that makes this material haunt me so closely. Maybe it’s the way it was conveyed. Whatever it is, I applaud Tara for getting it out there. I also want to shout at her so many times, SAY SOMETHING! STAND UP FOR YOURSELF! STAND UP FOR HER! But this memoir teaches us to check our know-it-all privilege. It helps us to understand brainwashing, which is a challenging task for someone whose father gave her a “Question Authority” bumper sticker when she was eleven. Ultimately, I will recommend this book to others but with trigger warnings (which I somehow did not receive). 

Tara, I’ll stand by your side if you want to take down Shawn somehow. I’ll be your backup. I’ll be your witness. Will he kill me? Not if I leave Idaho fast enough. I don’t think he has it in him to leave his zone of unchallenged terror. Cowards rarely do.

Here we stand

Here I welcome myself back from a blogging hiatus. Poof! Eve is back.

But it wasn't poof at all. For the last several months I've been reading and practicing The Zen of Listening. On top of this I'm trying to be mindful of the first agreement, to be impeccable with my word.

Words to live by

Speaking has been hard. I gotta say, that election did me in like no other experience in my life has. Maybe I could've handled Trump winning if Congress leaned blue, but that didn't happen. I had a nauseous and rage-filled, very scared few months there. And I'm a fucking white, non-poor citizen (AKA as lucky as it gets around here, except for being female). My empathy sensors have stayed on overdrive.

So I've listened. And I hear you. I hear the left and I hear the right. I've asked questions. I've asked more questions. I've read the talking points on both sides and listened to the commentary. I've bended my brain to understand how the election happened and why Trump supporters still support him, heck, why GOP supporters still support the GOP. (It's obvious Trump and the GOP are not one in the same.)

I've learned, I suppose, that condescension is not the way to change minds. Neither is appealing to logic or facts, sadly. I'm told appealing to emotion is the way to go.

And then I got sad, and so, so tired. Adults should seek the truth independently, without prompting, no? Questioning, always questioning.. Whose best interests are traditions and laws serving?

I'm told critical thinking is a luxury of the elite. No. It's a personal, moral responsibility.

So, so tired.

My comfort animal

We've all read the articles on why Clinton lost to Trump. I have a simpler take. It starts and ends with religion-led misogyny. I went to Catholic school so grant me this:  In Genesis, God gets really pissed at Eve for introducing the apple to Adam. Really fucking pissed. He gets pissed at Adam too, but Eve bears the brunt. To Eve he basically says, bringing a child into the world will now totally suck for you, and (so many ways to put this) your husband will dominate you. You are exclusively his. In general, women are inferior to men.

I believe misogyny is why Hillary Clinton lost to Donald Trump. If the votes are to be believed, a lot of people voted for Donald Trump and a lot of people didn't vote for anyone. These people are not the same. But many of them would claim to believe in God, and a Christian God at that.

I hear some of you saying - God had to punish Eve! She did tempt Adam!! Adam was first and is stronger so he should be in charge anyway.

Can you hear it? The voice might be very very very small, but I can hear it. If you listen you may even hear it too.

I hear others saying it's more complicated than one bible verse. You're right. Misogyny itself is plenty complicated.

Let's continue with a religion and policy example...

A lot of people go to church. Anyone who goes to a church that doesn't ordain women to the highest spiritual office, or goes to one that ignores or condones God's misogyny, is being conditioned to reject Hillary Clinton. It can be so extremely subtle at times.

I applaud those of you who practice misogynist religions and still voted for Hillary Clinton. For whatever reason, you have not fully allowed Genesis 3:16 into your heart of hearts.

I also applaud pro-lifers who vote for pro-choice candidates. You probably realize that other things matter too AND pro-choice policies reduce abortion rates. For a lot of people though, especially Catholics and Evangelicals, the buck stops here. Pro-life, the label, is all that matters because Murder. Zero nuance. It doesn't matter that the total number of babies who are murdered (your words) will DROP when there is education and birth control because you're locked in on total abolition.

Fuck you, critical thinking! Fuck you, taking a step back and thinking of the bigger picture! I won. You lost. Suck it up, like I did with that black prick in office. WHAT A MESS HE MADE.

It's not cool to reject learning.

On abortion and religion...

Republicans try every year to reduce abortion rights in their states. Most of the time this does nothing but waste money. (Now that I think about it more, it also sows lasting division.) I know the GOP is subconsciously trying to bring about the second coming of Christ and therefore needs a lot of shit to go down. I get that now. Are unwanted babies supposed to assist that? Maybe an unwanted baby will be Jesus this time? What if new Jesus is a migrant and when he comes, he's turned away by the wall?

Republican women - please start speaking up for what most of us want. Choice. It's the kinder way.

Thinking outside your personal interests is fun. We must use our imaginations to see the restrictions on others. and instead of saying, suffer, whore! we must say, how can I help you? 

One final thing about religion, now...

How many churchgoers in the United States realize that if their church authority speaks politically from the pulpit, which is common, it is illegal? It's an affront to the separation of church and state, and yet it passively rolls over millions of people every weekend, wafting in the air.

Some welcome it. They huff that shit.

Back to the 2016 election...

The cacophony of blame for Hillary's loss has gone to so many factions: the FBI, Russia, white women, white men, white people in general, the DNC, Democrats, the media, the candidate herself, President Obama, black people, Hispanic people, third party candidates, non-voters, Bernie Sanders, Facebook,... who's missing?

But that all dissects the blame too finely.

Hillary lost because of the deep-seated misogyny held by a slew of men and women. Nasty women (Hilary and other pro-choice women kicking butt) are just so damn easy to smear. Trump masterfully, unfortunately, won. He may have even tampered with the electoral process. We shall see.

But here we stand.

Traumatized.

Muted

The following post was written soon after the 2016 primaries.

The other day I looked down and noticed I was wearing gray jeans, a gray hoodie, and flat gray nail polish. I was muted. At the same time I was flipping through bookmarked websites on my desktop. One of the articles was about the election and what abhorrent thing someone did or was thought to have done. I don't know, it all runs together. I do remember that I had so much rage inside, yet I made absolutely no noise. I was mute. Where does the anger go?

Another hair turns gray.

Deep space

My muteness calls on me to understand how to effectively debate. I've grown too accustomed and tolerant of people not listening, to thick skulls and autopilot responses. Sad I can't find some hidden latch that unlocks critical thinking, I've stopped trying. I can't find hope.

But for now...

Let's learn to listen. Search for the facts. Attack the arguments you hear in your head. Do they hold up? Test and test and test again.

Then we can debate.

Oh what shall we debate?!

I'd like to debate why Bernie Sanders and a "Nordic approach" are /are not what this country needs. Here's some reading. Suppose I'm on the side of the author. What am I missing? Try debating that Bernie is wrong for us. I remain unconvinced. Now read this and debate the merits of Donald Trump for president over Hillary Clinton. I want to say YOU CAN'T, but instead I'll say, I'm listening. I think we're being punked, but I am listening.

As a lady does

AKA miscarriage

I was nine and a half weeks pregnant when my miscarriage began. It was Mother’s Day. I was about to settle into a new episode of Game of Thrones, cocktail on ice for my man ready and waiting. But first, a quick pee. I wiped (as a lady does) and saw a faint pink color. Awash in dread, I knew.

As I watched Game of Thrones, trying desperately to be distracted, my mind kept thinking about a dream I had the night before. I dreamt I miscarried. In the dream I looked down into my underwear and they were RED. As red as red gets. Would that faint pink color evolve into this red one? Was I just temporarily spotting? The next day I had a flight to Chicago for work. Would I be miscarrying on my flight? Would I even be able to take my flight? The show went on. My mind raced. I should really re-watch that episode.

Still only spotting, I decided I was fine to travel, especially to the land of my former home and, very importantly, doctor still within my insurance network (how pitiful we Americans have to think about that). I read short stories on the flight to take my mind off myself. Why did all the characters have to be moms? I chose an aisle seat in case I needed to run to the bathroom, but I didn’t dare get up. I had been resisting the urge to pee all day because peeing meant wiping and seeing more pink, more brown, and possibly, red.

I get off the plane at Midway and rush to a toilet. I squint as I pull down my pants and peer at my pad. Please don’t be red! Please don’t be red! Apparently I had grown rather attached to the idea of this future baby. My pad was white. Thank you, Jesus! I then sat down on the toilet, did my business (as a lady does), looked down and noticed a thick, uninterrupted stream of blood pouring from my vagina into the toilet.

Mother-effing-fucker. I enter that private hell where you are walking around looking fit as a fiddle but on the inside, well, mother-effing-fucker.

Something tells me to eat meat. I’d been eating mostly vegetarian fare and I had this feeling that I was about to lose a lot of blood. I know that animal protein is some of the easiest to absorb iron we can get, so on the way to get the rental car, I procure a meatball sub. I finally get into the car and once I’m on the familiar highway, I begin to cry the first of my tears for this non-baby. I’m heading to the main scene of my miscarriage, a La Quinta Inn.

Let’s do this.

I sit down on the floor of my room and eat a few bites of the sub before I throw it away. Even my life is too short for that shit. I call the other half of the DNA I’m eager to protect but it takes me forever to talk. I’m now crying again and half mute. He knows I’m there so he waits. I’m finally able to tell him that things are not good and I’m actively miscarrying for sure. I tell him I’m experiencing low and deep periodic contractions (and I had been on the whole plane ride), and small blood clots keep passing. The pain comes in waves and is intensifying. It’s happening.

He’s not surprised. He’s done some research. He’s learned what those low cramps mean.

It’s now late into the night and I’d like to go to bed and just ignore this small problem, but I can’t. It hurts too much. My doctor once told me that if I filled three pads in an hour (while pregnant) to go to an Emergency room. Most of my blood is going directly into the toilet, making keeping track difficult. Also, how would I get to the ER? I could drive myself, I think. I could call a taxi, but that’s sad. I could call an ambulance, but that’s mortifying. I could call a friend, but they are sleeping. Reality check time - human females have been doing this for millions of years. Sure, some died, but most lived. I can do this by myself. I’m miscarrying, not having a baby! I’m about to deliver a lentil or a kidney bean or some other tiny shape and miscarriage pain is normal for this late in the first trimester. How hard can it be?

Around 3:30 am the contractions ratchet up to 11 and nothing makes them feel any better. Not sitting, not laying, not walking, nothing. It was a pain I'd never experienced before, never needed to experience before. The moments in between the contractions feel strangely blissful by comparison. Having seen plenty of red by now and getting accustomed to this pain level, I decide to take myself to the ER. I really don’t want to go because I like being in the dark, writhing on the carpeted floor, away from strangers, near a toilet all my own, and talking to my partner at will. But I decide to go because I don’t want to regret not going. It’s close-by on a well-known route and the roads are empty. I pack my bag.

Hello, stingray.

I’m about to put on my shoes but decide to sit on the toilet one last time to ride out a contraction (as a lady does), and into the toilet plops something heavy. I reach down into the pink water and fish out what looks like a dark red stingray, about four inches wide. It’s flappy and has structure, like a very soft, silky ear. I lay it on a used pad (I’ve collected several bright red pads by this point) and am poking it when a hot flash hits me. I get off the toilet, lie on the ground, and sweat hard for about 30 seconds. I experience an intense wave of nausea and then it’s gone. I feel pretty great (relativity is a heck of a thing). The contractions continue but they aren’t as intense as they were before the stingray. I take pictures of it and send them to my partner. He does some digging and convinces us that I’ve passed the sac. But where’s the bean? Where’s my never-formed baby? Will that come out later? Did it die long ago while it was smaller? Is it that tiny whitish thing in the sac? I lose the ability to care. The contractions are milder now and allow me two hours of sleep. Emergency room be damned.

In the morning the contractions are still rolling through me and blood is still rolling out, but I’m light years better than I was hours before. I get ready for work and at 8 am sharp I call the office of my former OB/GYN. Before the call I debate heavily how to explain myself. Uh, I’m a former patient who moved to California but I’m in town right now and I’m actively miscarrying and I’d like to see a doctor or at least talk to an advice nurse. I say something along these lines and get transferred to a triage line where I’m to leave a detailed message, so I say it all over again, this time with my name and birth date and call back number.

At work I’m strangely relieved to be alive and well and in less pain than I was before passing the stingray. I look people in the eye. I actively participate in the meeting. What a dirty little secret I have. I worry the entire time that I’m bleeding through my pad (would it have killed me to wear black pants instead of gray?) but working feels good.

Around 10 am the triage nurse calls and I tell her my story. She responds with something I was not expecting – sympathy. I guess I didn’t expect a medical professional to ever express concern for my emotional well-being. I was expecting a level of sympathy that topped out at, “this happens all the time so don’t feel bad,” (i.e. you aren’t special so get over this). Disoriented, I accept a lunchtime walk-in appointment.

I see a colleague of my former doctor. She performs a vaginal ultrasound that shows there is still a lot of debris (not like, baby fingers, more like blood clots) still needing to exit my uterus. At this stage in a pregnancy they almost always suggest a D&C procedure, which is a shorthand way of saying they shop-vac your uterus. I ask if this can wait three days when I’ll be back in CA, but she says no. I am not to get back on a plane until this is resolved. My surgery is scheduled for later that night.

I’m surprised to learn I need to be put under for the surgery. Aren’t D&C’s what they do for abortions? Do abortion patients go all the way under? This bugs me because it means I can’t drive myself. I have to burden someone or take taxis to and from the hospital (my phone and I are not feeling Uber and Lyft). I call my friend who lives nearby and is on maternity leave. She was the first or second friend I made when I moved to Illinois eight years ago. In fact, she’s the same friend who took me to the ER when I slipped on ice and sustained a bad concussion. Once again, I call her for something unpleasant. Being amazing, she scoops me up and takes me to the hospital later that night.

We’ll skip over the part where I go back to work before the surgery. I know I did that. It’s simply unremarkable.

After checking in for surgery I beg my friend to leave the hospital and do her own thing for the next 4-5 hours until I’m discharged. She obliges and I’m left to a team of entirely female nurses, admins, and doctors. Everyone is so nice and expresses kind condolences. I feel as if I’m supposed to look more shattered. I’m not happy, but I’m not sad either. I’m determined to get through this, get back to work tomorrow, get home, and try again. I must get through this to eventually have a baby. Yes, determined is the word.

Except for the joy of badly placed IV attempts, the procedure goes off as planned. Oh how strange it is to come up from anesthesia. Not having eaten or had water in over 8 hours, I eagerly suck down foil-lidded apple juice. I’m told I need to rest for about an hour and that I can watch TV. Fixer Upper will forever be tainted. I ask to leave.

Long ago I was a hospital “volunteen” (less derogatory name for candy striper, same uniform). One of my jobs, during my out-patient care rotation, was to wheel discharged patients outside for their rides home. No patient was allowed to walk those 200 feet. Embarrassingly, this is now me. My friend picks me up and instead of delivering me to my hotel, where I want to go, she takes me to her home. After going under, as with having a concussion, people are supposed to check in on you as you sleep. I say this is unnecessary as I’m the lowest risk imaginable, but I oblige. She’s in the driver’s seat, after all, and has this no-nonsense look about her. It was never my decision.

At her house I learn my surgeon called her after the D&C to tell her everything went well but that I really should not work tomorrow. My friend kept my partner updated and even got her husband to buy me fresh fruit and soup. I could kiss her! Physically I feel fine but in my head I’m loopy from the drugs and near elated that the main event is over. I no longer need to question if I’m going to miscarry. Sure, I wanted my partner to be there and sure, I didn’t want any of that to happen, but having the miscarriage over with was such a huge relief, the weight of the loss seemed small. And was it a loss? It was a loss of precious time, sure, but not the loss of a viable embryo. This was never going to be my child. Not even close. It was nine and a half weeks of sore boobs and not drinking. A tricked body. It was the loss of a single, giant hope, but not the death of hope. 

The next day I sneakily drive myself to work (I felt fine!!!) and do my job. It’s a sit-down job that day and once again I’m grateful to be distracted. The following day I feel the aftershock of the surgery and the anesthesia and it makes me sorely wish I rested the day before. Live and learn, they say. On the flight home I check my luggage because I’m not to lift heavy things – a move I deeply regretted as I waited thirty minutes at the baggage carousel. Definitely still learning.

Two months removed from this miscarriage, what I reflect on most is the power of friendship. There I was without my partner, without my sisters or mother, but with a friend. She cared for me like she would her own sister and I’m brought to tears every time I think about it. She enabled that experience to be less than totally terrible. Her loving actions cemented in me the importance of friendship, and reminded me that we can make friends at any stage of life. She and I became friends in our late 20’s. We never went to school together, or were in the same club. We were neighbors who, over years, kept casually hanging out because we liked it. And when I needed someone and felt like she was the only or best option, she came through. Twice! I hope to never call her for a ride to the hospital again.

So, sans the medical bills, there you have it. Pain, a stingray, unexpected sympathy, determination that shielded sadness, and friendship that turned into sisterhood – that's my miscarriage story. Please feel free to add your story to the comments. Words, releasing them or reading them, can sometimes help.

Little voices

Here’s a riddle for you:

What sedates you, makes you feel accomplished, and is so addictive that it can absolutely ravish you with self-hatred?

Think about it…

Answer: Streaming TV shows for hours on end. I know of this. Currently, for me, it’s all about Gilmore Girls. My virgin run. We’ll talk about the show later, but for now let’s discuss self-loathing.

Streaming is new to me, and it makes me realize that I like having barriers to bad behavior. At work we’d call these “engineering controls." Kinda like in 2005 when my mom accidentally purchased the complete (Chinese) DVD set of Sex and the City for me. There were three episodes per disc and you needed to navigate the Chinese subtitles off before every episode. Remember back when things were more annoying? Those were the days.

Now?

The Gilmore girls stream by in a dizzying flash. I find a particular mortification, like the collective cringing of all my bodily cells, every time the beloved voice of Carole King booms in for the opening theme song. “If you’re out on the road…” Shhhh, Carole! Can my neighbors hear you? Have they heard you every 43 minutes for the last 3 hours? On scales of 1 to 10, how pathetic am I and how pathetic do I appear? I hope they know it’s my first time, and I’m not, like, a freak who watches all the corny TV shows. I’m allowed my virgin GG run, damn it!

Why am I so angry? Who am I really yelling at here?

Myself, of course.

I see two reasons. For one, I clearly need to stop giving a shit what anyone thinks. Punks, you should be so lucky to hear the affirming hug of Carole King’s pipes every 43 minutes for the last 3 hours. But more importantly, two, I need to develop self-control.

Control of oneself. How do you add it when you lack it? I have it for other things, all kinds of things. You should see me around a dessert table! But for certain things, like fighting inertia in a stream spiral, I need more.

A little voice whispers, “Everyone’s enjoying streaming… it’s normal and okay to zone out like this.” But another voice, sounding like the know-better sneers of harder-working ancestors, suggests my problem is rooted in being too kind to myself already. That voice says my behavior is wrong, and by extension, I'm weak. I hear it wouldn’t be wrong for hard-working people, in moderation. But me? I don’t deserve it.

And they’re right! Look at me. I can’t even stretch while streaming! Or organize something.

“You’re wasting,” they say.

Go away, little voices! I’m learning something here! This is a part of who I have to be, apparently.

God, I hope so. (New mantra:  I'm okay this way.) (Voice shouts:  You're kidding yourself!)

To its credit, streaming TV shows has brought me to new places. One of those places just happens to be a valley of self-loathing where every three episodes I’m forced to admit YES, yes, I am still watching Gilmore Girls. What of it? Are you judging me, Netflix? Join the club!

One good thing about Donald Trump and other ramblings

I’ve been taking a break from weekly blogging because, well, I can’t get my act together and formalize my thoughts. Perhaps it's computer avoidance. Perhaps I’m just setting higher standards for myself. Most definitely I’m lazy.

But damn if there isn’t a ton to talk about, eh? Can you believe this GOP field of “presidential candidates”? I mean.

The political shit show does wear me down. I weep that my country can contain, foster, protect and reward such stupidity. I wail that it's dangerous to call out said stupidity. I try to be compassionate and tolerant but lies are lies, wrong is wrong, and physics is real. 

The one thing that brings me solace about having Donald Trump in the ring for president of the United States is that when I run for president circa 2040 I will absolutely appear qualified.

In other news, I’m really furious with the Duggar men and fundie assholes around the world who subjugate women to men in the name of anything. Like those fuckers in ISIS. I’m mad as hell at child abusers, and am simply stunned by the amount of child abuse that goes on in the world. Since the dawn of time this shit has happened, and now we have the twisted luxury of learning about much of it. How do people cope with horrifying knowledge?

I've been quiet because these aren’t really topics for Dots.

You know what is?

This:

Samantha-fucking-Jones. Wearer of not one but TWO brooches in this here power suit (above).  A cat on top and a bird on the bottom. You go, Samantha Jones.

One thing Sam and I always had in common was the love of saying, "Fuck Off". I also share her thing for brooches, but my teeny collection rarely sees the light of day. Note to self - wear your brooches!

Check out this dog brooch from season six:

Bravo, Samantha Jones.

Shine on.

P.S. Pins are so hot right now. Exhibit 1. Exhibit 2.

Purchase panic of the relatively anxious

Plus three boards of drink menu over to the right

I try to be an even-keeled person. I try to think before I speak. I try to listen. I try to observe widely. I try to make informed decisions.

Until I'm at a register.

I can't tell you how many times I've had tiny panic attacks just confronted with ordering coffee. It goes like this. I'm in a short line at a coffee shop. Maybe one person in front of me, one person behind. I'm new to this coffee shop and today, I also want a small breakfast. I don't have time to thoroughly scan the menu, deciding what is best for me from this particular establishment. My eyes glaze over as I skim the bagel menu. Open-face California bagel? Yes, I'll take that. I like California after all. Can't be bad. And I need a latte! No time to see if they have different sizes, I order a large. A large surely has two shots in it, and that's all that matters. I pay, tip, and step aside. The person behind me is on his phone, arrogantly ignoring the silent plea from the employee at the register to get the fuck on with it. I rushed for this asshole?

I sit down to wait for my bagel and latte and use this time to actually read the menu. There are the drinks. They do have medium! Why didn't I just ask? My overly-milky latte comes and there's no one to blame but myself. Reading the bagel menu I see I might have liked the veggie melt bagel. I note this for next time, when my tunnel-vision is sure to return. The California bagel is good though. I consider myself one for two.

------

I resist getting a bicycle because I know I'll hate the experience in the shop. Sadly I'm not "just looking" today. I need a bike! This one over here looks good. It's $200. I practically throw my money at the register. JUST TAKE MY MONEY AND GIVE ME THE BIKE. Do I want a lock? Well yeah. Do you want to know the best way to use the lock? Of course, but please take my money, look, here's my money, just take it, and GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE. Leaving the shop I'm reminded I also need lights. Yeah sure, I'll get them later, no problem... later... (a dumb move because lights were RIGHT THERE and this is a mom and pop shop that gives you good deals on things when you buy a friggin bike!).

I think this is all bred from being overly concerned about not wasting other peoples' time, being seen as dim, or being seen as inconsiderate. I want to be the ideal customer. I want to know what I want, order it adeptly, receive it without confusion, go about my business, and let the shop go about theirs.

But when I don't know what I want, I want to have the patience to figure it out. Step aside, read the fucking menu, kindly smile and say I'm not ready if I'm not, and then, efficiently conduct business. Instead of purchasing panic, bring on some purchasing peace.

Now I'm curious if this is a normal experience for everyone, or just for the relatively anxious.

Hello, my name is Eve, and I'm relatively anxious.

Homey hooks

As a kid I'd read this story about a bear who wore overalls. Was it Corduroy? No, I don't think so. This was a more independent animal. Did Corduroy have a sequel? I think the bear lived in a tree, like Pooh. But this wasn't Pooh.

Basically I have no idea what I'm talking about. In fact, this could have been a dream I concocted after blending many children's stories. Was he even a bear? Or a he?

What I remember most, and all that really matters, was that he hung up his clothes on hooks in his bedroom. He only had one outfit, which I'm not even sure were overalls now. It could have been a rain jacket. Or trousers. Whatever it was I never stopped to consider that after he did this, he was naked. Not once. Little me was fixated on the hooks. Hating to put away my own clothes, I dreamt of having hooks all over my bedroom. A hook for this. A hook for that. No more drawers or hangers. Just hooks for everything. It made complete sense to me at the time. 

For my last apartment I bought dozens of 3M hooks and plastered them all over the place. My hook dreams were coming true. In my bedroom they were to be used for "in process" clothes. You know, the ones you wore once or twice but they aren't dirty or smelly yet, like jeans and hoodies and work button-ups. Putting them back with the clean clothes always seemed off. Piling them on a chair is unsightly (and the waste of a chair). What is one to do?

Hooks to the rescue!

I always see Anthropologie getting nods for hooks and knobs and such. They do have a beautiful (rather expensive) collection.

Etsy has some handmade and lots of vintage/refurbished hooks to choose from.
birch / green / wire loops / colorful / moose and trees / gear

In my current bedroom, on all the walls that allow it, I plan on adding hooks. Heck, I plan on hookin-up my whole apartment! I've learned to keep the hooks (for in-process clothing) about 4 feet off the ground (higher if you have longer legs) so that arresting art can go above them and distract from the blobs of fabric. Hanging clothing at eye-level is not très chic. I have some pine panels that I can paint and then affix onto those a few sturdy metal hooks (like the wire loop hooks above). I like this idea because the pine panels can be screwed into the studs, wherever they may be, very easily. Also, my dirty-ish clothes will be a little more off the wall, less prone to sullying the underlying paint.

I sure do hope no one is keeping track of the DIYs I talk about rather than do. You know the phrase - put your money where your mouth is? I am strongly feeling a new phrase - put your hands where your mouth is. Wait, could that mean shut my mouth? Ok then!

Slipping

There's this phenomenon happening in my life right now that I have begun to summarize as 'slipping'. It starts with not yet scheduling your 6-month teeth-cleaning almost a year from your last one, and morphs until you cannot frikkin believe you have been putting-off living your best life and merely wading through the days.

You might say that one pillar of my belief system is The Four Agreements. One of the agreements is to always do your best, rain or shine - just knowing that your best is multidimensional and fluctuates from time to time.

I have not been doing my best lately. I used to be more on top of things. Wasn't I? Why am I not doing yoga? Unbelievable! Why didn't I make myself lunches for work last night? Did I just stare at a wall for 30 minutes? Where did the time go! What have I been doing?

Not my best. Not my worst....

I've decided I need to reframe what doing my best means in various contexts. I will be breaking down big tasks, like performing the duties of my paying job, into things I can get behind doing - such as creative thinking, scientific thinking, effective communication, and education.

Onward to defining what I aim to do, and doing my best in each moment. One tiny moment at a time...

Ode to Southwest

Photo taken on Mother's day. Not-so-subtle, see!

Recently I had the luxury of flying Southwest on both Mother's day and Memorial day. Weeks before Mother's day I was on another Southwest flight and saw this not-so-subtle advertisement for free drinks on these upcoming holidays. I was psyched!

I was also nervous. When the flight attendants did their spiel, they didn't change it for the holidays. They pretended drinks were still all $5. They reminded us that they don't take cash. I began to sweat.

Each time my flight attendant gets to me and asks for my drink order, I order a Bloody Mary with gin (also known as a Red Snapper, a Ruddy Mary, or as one bitchy male bartender once told me and I can't confirm, a British Mary). She/he silently nods, takes down my order, and carries on. No asking for my coupon or my credit card. Just... acceptance. And delivery.

I felt like shouting from the wingtips, DON'T BE FOOLED, EVERYONE - THE DRINKS ARE FREE!!!!

You can't fool me, Southwest.

As I flew on Delta recently and the flight attendants were snooty and disengaged, and as I wait for this flight on Frontier which charges extra for coffee, carry-on luggage, and cc's of oxygen, I miss you my sweet, sweet Southwest.

What a waste

Let's talk movies. I squeeze in about one theater movie per year, and spend the rest of the year scraping the Netflix barrel for oldies but goodies, like Best Foreign Picture winners from 2006. I'm classy, you see. But this year I did manage to watch a critically acclaimed movie that was buzzed about this same year. The movie, Boyhood:

Read that jacket cover. I have one thing to say about this here critically acclaimed film. 

HE HAD A FUCKING SISTER. Yeah sure it was the director's daughter, so maybe it wouldn't be seen as fair to focus on her as much as the "boy". But hot damn, what a missed opportunity! All those years of footage for a male director to jerk off on his male younger self, when all this perfectly great girlhood, fuck, childhood material lays in waste. 

Are young girls not interestingly shaped by divorced parents and alcoholic step-dads as well? Surely they are.

Yes, this movie passed the Bechdel Test, and yes, the supporting female characters were strong (and strongly played). But come on, Richard Linklater. Get out of yourself. The women in your life aren't just your supporting cast. They have their own stories. I know what you're thinking. I'm just one man. I raised the money and poured my heart into this, not you. I did what interested me. It didn't hurt that it interested the people who funded it. 

Surely you can do better than that.

This kind of movie, taken together with all the buzz about it and the jacket cover (all of which ignores that this boy shared screentime almost equally with a girl, his fictional sister) does something so secretly and pervasively to the people who watch it. Men who watch this movie will rarely come to my rant on their own. Women might, and probably do, but maybe don't all realize how toxic this male-view can be when accumulated over time.

I guess that's why I'm here. To ruin your viewing enjoyment and your day. 

Anyone seen any good movies lately?

P.S. Here's a related, much more articulate article on the subject. Highly recommended reading.

Eff you, granny-named scum stores

Let's pop into this Betty's Bistro for a coffee.

There it is. At the end of this ugly strip mall. The one with Honey Fluff Donuts and whoever Enny is.

Gambling. Motherfucker.

Dotty's looks quaint. I wonder what's inside.

Oh.

Of course. They even own the wall.

I was too cowardly to go inside these establishments and suss them out for myself. Maybe they are quaint and perfectly lovely.

But I do know something I believe to be true.

Video gaming is bad for your health. 

At least I'd bet.

Feel-good failings

We all have our ways of coping with the blues. Eating, drinking, shopping, sleeping, smoking,.. to each her own. I have a small set of movies/TV shows that I put on when I'm feeling sub par. I'm not alone in this, for sure. Even my guy friends, when under pressure, might admit that their 48th viewing of Return of the Jedi might coincide with feeling down and out.

My shows of choice are not static. For a while I relied on When Harry Met Sally and Sex and the City episodes. I've worn them out. I'm done with them for now, therapeutically speaking. (OK, that's kind of a lie because I did enlist seasons 4 and 5 of SATC quite recently.) The same happened with Singles, Wonderboys, The Wedding Singer, American Beauty, and others. Tragically overplayed. No longer uplifting. Temporarily.... tainted.

My current therapist of choice is Julie and Julia. Maybe because it's about a struggling blogger. Maybe it's all the food and cooking, the A-list cast, or the perfect sets. For whatever reasons, I reach for it when my head needs the calm. I don't sit down and watch every scene, listen to every word. Instead it's just there. Like a friend.

Julie's NYC apartment - not too unlike my own in style.

Julia's kitchen in France.

But you know what? 

It's not working anymore. Now, instead of regrouping while it's on, I just fret. Every scene goes too quickly. The Cobb salad scene, the sister's wedding scene, the canceling of dinner due to rain scene, they just keep coming! And they all point to the inevitable. The END! And with the end, you know what? Your problems. Your life. It's all right there in the credits. 

And nothing has replaced it. Julie and Julia seems last in the line of this medicine. I tried Game of Thrones reruns, but the anxiety doesn't abate. 

So I guess it's time there is no feel-good movie or TV show. Will something different help? Maybe it's a homemade, freezer-freeing soup experiment. Maybe it's a nod to clean the tub. Perhaps every reach for a well-worn DVD should be met with a 3 mile walk. Or a phone call to a friend. Or two hours in a novel.

I feel like a kid, holding her blankie, expecting the swift arrival of comfort and then... nothing. So I put the blankie in the closet, look around, and think, now what? Now how?

Modern Family reruns in the interim.

Tales from the crib

My copy of The Four Agreements is missing, and has been for over a year now. Rats! It contains a part that I have been wanting to reread regarding the "you" before "domestication". 

I think of this whenever blogging parents describe the notable behavior and characteristics of their children under four years of age. Skylar/Tate/Benny/Hank is more pensive/imaginative/quick to laugh/hard to soothe/curious/affectionate than his brother was at this age. Dexter/Penny/Ana/Louis has an extra fondness for animals/dirt/games/other people/music it seems.

I love these statements. Record these proclivities. Just write them down somewhere because you might forget.

Case in point. My mom had 4 kids in a short time. I was number 2. When I ask her what I was like between 0-4 years old, what really was unique to me, she can't remember. You were good. Pressing her further I learned that I would prefer to hold my pee than go pee.

I am naturally a rather lazy person - physically, not mentally. And oh isn't that a book in itself...

Early polka dot adopter

Reflecting on slightly older years of childhood, when domestication had surely already taken hold, I can come up with lots of adjectives that might describe young me. But that person was trying to fit into (and stand out of) highly formative situations. Who was it who truly didn't give a fuck?

So write that shit down, parents. Don't harp on what's written, just note it. 

Some day your rather analytical child may want to know.

Look up

Try this - look up. Take it all in. Take deep breaths and feel your hamstrings stretch. Swing your arms. Look around.

Notice anything new?

Trip on a curb and release your phone into the gutter. Oops. You are free. Perhaps lost. Quite possibly taken for dead or mugged.

You will live. Your friends were never worried.

Notice the air on your fingertips. Contrast this to the feel of plastic. Take the 360 degree view.

Notice anything beautiful?

Take pictures with your mind's eye. We trust you see interesting things - no need to prove it.

Look up. Check in with your senses. Watch where you are going, lest I bulldoze you for fun.

Oops.

Think I'm an idiot?

The other day, minding my business while a friend used the washroom at a Barnes and Nobles, I spied a toy that made me angry. SHOCKER, I know, yours truly gets angry with inanimate toys.

Bear with me...

Do you see it?

Let me show you what I see.

This toy is essentially Honey I Shrunk the Legos. With your bony and arthritic or fat, sausage-like fingers you can assemble itsy bitsy Lego pieces... sorry... nanoblock pieces, into things that no one cares about. But the rip-off nature isn't the real problem. Heck, maybe Lego ripped off something else to become the Lego we know and love. No, what gets me is the "nano". 

Nano is a range in a scale of measure, and so is micro. Not to be overly pedantic, but if these blocks were nano in the meter size scale (and clearly that's the angle here), we wouldn't be able to build anything with them with our fingers. But the appropriation of "nano" to sell a toy doesn't really bother me either. It's the tag line - nanoblocks are "micro-sized building blocks". 

Hawhatnow?

Just. No.

Something that's nano is a fraction of what is micro. Sure, things can be described in a bunch of different length scales, but this is like saying a pint is also a 5 gallon keg. It's like saying a church house is also a cathedral. It's treating us like we're idiots by throwing sciencey (mathy) buzzwords at us in the hopes we find it cool to play with something that should be called, "tiny things you will lose all over the house," or "petroleum by-products made in China for your toddler to choke on," or "672 new crevices your dust can go".

And when I think of all the marketing meetings that they must have had over this, subconsciously thinking that basic math was something no one else cares about either. Or they thought we'd never notice.

Well I'm onto you, toy marketers. This idiot is gonna go dust off her Legos.

Releasing toxins (my ass)

You're in your yoga class, or the like, and have been instructed to do a twist.

Inhale, grow taller through your spine. Exhale, twist a little deeper.

9 times out of 10, you'll then be told you are releasing toxins with that twist. Well how handy fucking dandy. Feels good AND releasing toxins. Thank the yoga gods!

This "releasing toxins" line bugs me on a scientific level. First of all, can you give me a reference? I've looked for one and can't find any. EVERYONE says it, and no one provides a reference.

Second of all, where are the toxins supposed to go?

The best I can tell, it is logically accepted (hoped) that you are squeezing the liver, which purges it of stale blood, and then fresh blood rushes in afterwards (the "squeeze and soak" philosophy). The liver is responsible for filtering blood, detoxifying chemicals, and metabolizing drugs (REFERENCE). Also, when the liver has broken down harmful substances, they are excreted into the bile or blood. WHEN IT'S READY. What if the twisting, which is doing all that "releasing", rushes the liver. What if the processing isn't done - then the blood that's being treated in the liver is squeezed out and un-broken-down harmful substances are excreted into the body at large. AT LARGE. Ever think of that, yoga teacher? Did ya?

I want teachers to stop saying that X is happening when X is just what everyone else says because it sounds good. Have us twist because it feels great. Remind us that we are stimulating our internal organs. Remind us how to breath and elongate. And okay fine, you can also ask me to "breathe into it". Despite knowing full well that air goes into the lungs, that malarkey actually seems to work.

Did you find everything you were looking for today?

No, I didn't. You don't even sell sesame seeds here. I think maybe you used to. Doesn't matter. Please DO NOT call over the shift manager. I know what he'll say. But maybe ask that slouch behind you to go look in the back for organic bananas. Snap snap. You're out of organic bananas in the front. Did you really want me to tell you that? I feel bad for the people in this line now. These unlucky bastards are standing behind an honest woman. Do you really want to hear you sell no decent pepperoni. Do you?

...

No, I didn't. Your anchovy selection kinda sucks. If I can't buy an eight dollar jar of good anchovies here, then where the hell am I supposed to go in Illinois? This isn't your problem, really. It's my problem. But since you asked, you're out of the sourdough rounds you have advertised as being on sale. So that was a bust. Not that they are very sour anyway. Ever. And I also couldn't find pet grass today. You've been out for a while now. No no no please don't ask him about the shipment. It's really alright.

But instead:

I lie straight through my fucking teeth.

The thing is...

No. That's not "the" thing. Perhaps you mean, "A thing is...". You have a thing? You propose a thing? You suggest a thing? Fine. We all have a thing to put out there. Tell me your thing.

But force me to hear "the" thing? No. Please don't. You're not the expert on all the possible things. If you have a good grasp of the English language - which I understand is a rare thing - you cannot assert the thing. Things are always multifaceted. The reason your team lost, the reason their relationship is on the rocks, the reason Casa Margarita is better than Burrito Land, the reason people text instead of call - there are many, many things.

And now, to use my second least favorite phrase in any language - "You should" refrain from asserting "the" thing among many.