Wednesday, November 28, 2012

What we lost in the fire...

A few weeks ago, right around the second week of the month, I had this grand plan to write a blog in honor of Thanksgiving. You know, something slightly cheesy but heartfelt about the people in my life that I think about and am thankful for. Like the elderly woman who worked at the daycare my daughter attended, who made her beautiful dresses and did her hair, like she was one of her own. Or to my first editor who made me cry but also taught me to be a writing Jedi.

That's how the blog was going to go. But then, on Saturday, November 10, while I was snapping risque photos of burlesque performers and the kids were at home with my gentleman friend (most likely full on corn dogs), there was a raging fire just down the road. It only took an hour for the flames to engulf the entire house and everything in it, every piece of clothing, every precious painting, every bed, everything. Not so long ago, I lived in that house. That was the house that me and my then-husband decided to raise our children in. That was the house where we struggled as a young family, made strides, took steps back, and ultimately, it was the house that I fled, taking very few of my things, so that the kids wouldn't feel the sting of the imminent divorce. Everything, their whole childhood, right down to the little figurines lining my daughter's bedroom walls, burned up in an instant.

My ex called me from the road, he had been visiting his father in New Hampshire, when he learned that his (our, the kids') house was a giant bonfire on a quiet road.

"The house is on fire," he screamed. "Our house is on fire."

We only chatted for a moment and thanked god that the kids were with me that weekend, in our little rental in farm country. There was no sleep to be had that night, wondering how we were going to tell the kids that the house had burned. How their toys were just melted plastic and ash. How their winter coats, the new ones, were blackened and stank of smoke and flame.

That was a Saturday night. On Sunday, as luck would have it, we had planned a small birthday party for my son (at the rental). That morning, looking at the kids' faces, I felt so guilty not telling them the news. But me and their father agreed that, best to tell them after the party. We didn't want to ruin their day. As if...

I went to the house before the party, under the guise that I needed to go to the store and get balloons. I could smell the smoke and char from the road as I parked the car. The police were there, fire men, my ex-husband, his girl friend. But I didn't really see any of them when I got out the car. All I saw, all I saw, and it will haunt me truly forever, was the charred remains of my daughter's bed in the driveway. Tossed, flaming, out of the second floor window. A whole had been cut in the side of the house where her bedroom was, and that was as black as the bed. All of the windows were broken and glass crunched under my shoes. Everything, everything was gone. Of course, I had the mother moment, I went there in my head. What if the kids had been there? It made me sick inside, to think that the story, through one turn of events or another, could have been quite a different one, one that no one would be able to write.

We told the kids after the party. Anna cried, Lucian said nothing. It wasn't until we took them to the house, a week later, when Anna's room had been cleared from the driveway, that the reality set in, for all of us. We knew, between the sobs and the thankful praises, that we were looking at a coffin. The coffin of our lives, laid bare and burned to dust.

Now, all that remains is a burned out shell of the house. The baby pictures, the foot print cards, the locks of hair, the videos of their innocent first steps, the oil paintings I did of Anna's first ballet lesson, the wedding albums, the amazing school art projects, the custom-sewn dresses from Anna's sister in Africa, all are gone with the house. Buried in a violent pile of ash and peeling paint.

It's been a few weeks now, the house will be rebuilt, my ex has found an apartment that the kids will call "home" for at least half the time. But the air is heavy here. Still. Nightmares plague me every time I try to sleep. Anna cries anew whenever she realizes that yet another treasured thing is lost. Lucian kicks the dirt a lot and shows little interest in the trampoline. At one point, at dinner, Anna spoke out of nowhere.

"Oh no, Ma, my flower girl dress from your wedding..." Her voice trails off.
"It's OK, baby," I say, trying to keep my composure. "It's OK, because we still have the flower girl."

When I am old, and the children are grown, there will be no albums to look back on to remind me of their faces when they were young. There will be no videos to show my grandchildren of their devilish parents and their first steps.

I keep those memories that much closer now, filling in details so that I won't forget a single thing. It's a bittersweet inventory.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Some day...

I don't care how humble you are, when someone compliments your kid it is a blessing, and an affirmation that you (and I) might be doing something right in a world that is seemingly filled with wrong. Yesterday, I picked Anna, my tween, up from an after-school art class. Actually, by the way the girls are talking, it's an art therapy/scrapbooking class (which, thank God, I don't have to teach). The girls were upstairs getting their soccer gear on, because yes, soccer season is still in full swing and, yes, practices and games continue to rule my life like a colicky baby rules a mother's nights. So they were upstairs donning their stinky-ass shin guards and cleats (which will be summarily burned after the season is over) and us moms were downstairs chit-chatting with the art teacher.

I was looking at Anna's creation, a photo negative of her (the 'fro looked amazing, btw) with giant white wings spreading like milk behind her back. Against the black background of the negative, they were fantastical. Just so noble, and so fitting, here was my angel, my true angel. Not a Precious Moments figurine, mind you. No blonde head encircled by a halo. No white robe and big blue eyes and tiny little wings. Nope, that little Aryan angel was nowhere to be found in Anna's rendition. If anything, the portrait/collage was a little sinister, made more so by the one word she had scrawled above her head using a silver pen: Unleashed.

Unleashed, indeed. She has been unleashing for the past decade! I have watched, with amusement and some concern, this astonishingly beautiful girl transform from a stubborn, ragingly independent toddler (her catch phrase was always "by myself!")to a hyper-intelligent, moody third-grader to what we have a now; a tall, athletic powerhouse with an amazing smile and too much going on in her head. The art teacher has noticed.

"I just have to tell you, your daughter is an amazing person," she said. I wanted to say "I know" but thought that might be taken the wrong way. So, I said simply, "Thank you."

"I'm serious," she continued. "She is so intuitive. It's a little scary. She knows people before they know themselves. And she is so kind to her friends. It's like she knows they need the kindness more than her."

I thankfully did not actually cry at this last line. I just looked down at her monumental angel collage and wondered when had I turned into such a f***ing sap. I thanked her for saying so and pretended to be interested in a glue stick on the table while I spoke. Eye contact would mean tears.

"It's so hard, you know," I said. "You have this perfect person, you raise her up in a bubble basically, trying to instill good values and kindness and confidence. And she's perfect, at least to me. And then, you send her out into the world and you just don't know how it's gonna go. Somebody goes and f***ks up your perfect person and I just wonder if she'll still come home with a smile on her face and the world at her fingers."

Clearly, Anna has bigger plans than mine. A smile on her face, nah-ah, this girl's got wings. I sometimes see clear into the horizon of her future and she is so strong and so inspiring and so goddman funny! At least, at least she has my humor (or some form of it). That was made clear in the car, after art, when the conversation was dominated by fart jokes and giggles. The angel fell to earth thanks to a little bathroom humor.

I did notice something, though, before we left the teacher's very spiritual home. On the way to the car, the art teacher's son, a handsome kid with an honest face, about 18, came running out of the house with a small green sweatshirt in his hand.

"Wait, somebody left this," he said. The sweatshirt was Anna's. She ran to the meet him in the middle of the yard, saying,"Oh, that mine. Thanks!" Flashed him a smile and grabbed the sweatshirt.

I swear to God, she looked like a woman then. The boy, at least to my eyes, seemed struck and stood on the lawn watching her run back to the car. I was looking at him looking at her.

Angel, indeed. Killer angel. At least for that moment, he didn't have a chance. None of us do, not with her.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Captain of an empty ship

I put the 'gone fishin' sign up on Thursday afternoon and headed north with "the boys" to Lake Ontario. My goal, of course, was simple. To catch fish. Salmon, to be exact, and whatever else the lake would provide. Secondary to this main goal was to have fun, relax and enjoy guy time with the rest of the crew. From the get-go, everyone seemed at ease with the fact that a girl had infiltrated the ranks of the male bonding collaborative. After all, I have developed a reputation for being VERY serious about fishing (and able to hold my own, even against 25-pound stripers in the deep Atlantic) and for being low maintenance. I will eat with my fingers, wear the same jeans for weeks, pick my teeth with a matchbook and smile the whole time, especially if there is water and a boat involved. I have even been known to chew tobacco in desperate situations. And I use my mirrors to back up vehicles. The badge is pretty solid, at least in my mind.

So, we drive four hours (almost straight through) to the Lake, and arrive at the Captain's house, where we will crash at night for the two days of our fishing trip. The captain is an old fella', nearly 75, with 60 years of fishing under his belt. He is grisled, a little forgetful, but clearly patched over with wisdom. We are not in his house more than 7 minutes (I counted) when he tries to entertain the group with a racial joke.

"A black man walks into the welfare office..." he starts. I can feel myself shrivelling and don't stick around to hear the rest of the joke. I am outside, unpacking when one of our crew, let's call him Big J, steps outside to get his suitcase.

"Don't mind him, Nic, he doesn't even realize he's saying it."

Thanks for the advice. Just curious why I am the one that needed the talking to?

Anyway, I was a porcupine by the time we got on the boat the next morning. What I didn't realize was that the joke was not the end of the Captain's short rope. He went over the basics of the reels and the different weights and downriggers and pointed to a particularly sturdy rod with a disc or "dipsy" attached to it. He looked at me pointed.

"Now, that's a dipsy rod. You can't fish from that one because you're small. That's for the big men."

I honestly thought he was kidding. That was, until he started talking about this girl he'd met, some 30 years younger than him, who he was smitten with. Totally smitten, like a 17-year-old boy, not a seasoned ex-fighter pilot and ship captain.

"Tell you what, I'm gonna be with that girl. She's my idol, boys, she really is."

We all nodded, feeling a little awkward over his dewy, far-off face.

"Imagine if she were here now, just imagine. Pancakes and eggs for breakfast every morning, no joke. Wouldn't that be something? Wouldn't that be something, boys?"

That's when I knew that he wasn't kidding about the "dipsy" and that I was in for a fight. When my line was up with a nice-sized lake trout on it, I pulled and reeled and pulled and reeled like he instructed me. It was a steady pace, made tough by the wind, the heat, the fish and my burning bicep. But the fish was comin' in nice and when I had about 20 feet of line left, apparently I wasn't reeling it in fast enough for the Captain because he jumped down on deck, put one hand over mine that was on the reel and started pulling the line in. I became a marionette trapped between a madman and a pole. The moment he ripped the pole back, the trout spit the hook with a triumphant "pooffft" and my line was weightless, fishless. I was hopping mad.

"What the hell," I said, half-joking, "I was doing just fine."

"Did you see the size of that trout," he said. "You let out too much slack on the line. That's why you lost him."

What the ....?! I lost him?

"With all due respect, sir, this ain't my first rodeo with a fish."

I sat down and fumed. The next time I was up, another trout hooked the dipsy line and I was on it, reeling, my arm burning. And before Captain could "come to my aid" I growled.

"I got it. Step off," and pulled the beauty in. The gents I was with, the ones who know me, wouldn't have dared come near me, let alone touch me while I was pulling one in. I had the whole rest of the day on the boat (with my period, no less. Yes, that's right, I managed to bleed and fish and not whine) I thought about those pancakes and eggs.

"He's f***ing delusional," I whispered to myself.

Day 2 with the Captain came in windy and cool. There was a storm brewing on that Lake. Big J was up. The fish spit the hook. Captain said "Take another turn." The next hit, again a spit hook. "Try again" the Captain yelled. Three turns, Big J got three turns to snag a fish.

By this time the Lake was rocking and the rain was blowing sideways. My gentleman friend was up, and he snagged a good-sized salmon. My turn was next. I could feel my hands tingling in anticipation. They were jumping and I was ready, crossing my fingers that I'd get something.

I was ready.

While the Captain screamed in my gentleman friend's ear, a second line got hit. It was my turn! Woo-hoo! I jumped from my perch on the little chair and went for the line. Out of nowhere, the Captain screamed.

"No, no, somebody bigger get that one. Not her!"

Reluctantly, and I mean with fear and hesitation, one of our crew of 4 snagged the line and started reeling it in. Before you could blink, in under 7 minutes, we had two 25-lb salmon on deck. Big, fat beauties, slick and silver and noble. The Captain put his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't worry, Nicky, you'll get your turn."

F*** you, old man.

Needless to say, I didn't get my turn. The 60 mph wind did us in and we putted to shore practically sideways. My friend who was "forced" to take my turn spent a good part of that ride back telling the Captain that I caught the biggest striper, a good 25-lbs at least, on our last trip. And that yes, I had even reeled in two bluefish, that's right, two, on the same goddamn hook. All with giant ocean reels, all by myself, no man required.

It's been a long time since I've come up against this kind of ridiculous sexism. A looong time. And I am burning still. With rage, indignation, you name it, I got it. I don't need you to hold the goddamn door for me, although that's just a common courtesy. I don't need you to hold me or coax me while I'm reeling in a fish. I don't need you to chop wood, start the woodstove, earn a paycheck or paint the bathroom. What I do need, and this is something that I am clearly going to have to take on my own, by force, is for you to step the f*ck off my uterus and let me do my thing. There is no room for chivalry in fishing. Only equality.

But you need me to make your pancakes and eggs. Good luck with breakfast, Captain.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

To my ego, with love

Ahh, Woody Allen. You pervert, you. And yet, despite your pedophilic, incestuous personal life, you make me think.

Sometimes, I don't want to think, Woody. Ever think of that? Sometimes I just want to watch a film and be done with it. But, it's my own fault for choosing you last night. And I draggeda friend into the fray with me.

So, there I was, watching "To Rome, With Love." And there is this character, Monica. She's petite, kind of chaotic-looking in jeans a loose shirt tucked into the front of her jeans, messy bun, about mid-20s. She's an aspiring actress, she has complex disastrous relationships with men...etc.

And I couldn't stand her. Not for a second. She was the kind of woman who knew just enough about everything to sound like she was smart. She would roll off lines from poems (not whole poems, mind you, but lines), she knew all of the "famous" names of architects, artists, writers, philosophers, and she could fake passion about these people and topics in order to impress whomever was around her. It was painful to watch (very well done by the actress, I have to say). It grated on my nerves. She had that whole college freshman "cool" that, although it is a right of passage for most people, just irritates the shit out of the "veterans" who have seen what's on the other side of the Yeats ode and the Chekov play.

I am sure, that if my grandmother were writing a blog right now, she would be writing this very thing about the mid-30s set. So, grain of salt.

What pricked my skin the most about Monica is that I tried that hard for awhile. Really, really hard to be the intellectual rebel. The one who knew the greats, the one with the Che poster, the one who "studied" the Greek tragedies and who refused to wear high heels and who wanted so badly for people to be impressed by my "native wisdom." It was laughable, really. And it didn't help that I had this much older, philosopher boyfriend. He used to take me to parties and dinners hosted by college presidents and wealthy professors. I pretended to know all of the art on the walls, I wore linen, I spoke easy with the wives, all of whom were older than my own mother.

And then, I had a weak moment. Or, I should say, a real moment. Out on the back patio of a gorgeous brownstone, on a beautiful spring day, while wearing capris and espadrilles and pretending to sip chardonnay, I accidentally let the demon out.

Professor Big Man (name changed, obviously) was intellectualizing his experience as a crack addict, swear to god, almost nostalgic as he relayed stories of leaving his 5 million dollar Cambridge brownstone and making a run to Springfield to get his fix. I think he liked the look of shock on everyone's face. He waved his wine like a magic wand and leaned back in his chair.

"Yes, but I'm here," he said. "I kicked it. And I'm so much happier."

I stared at him. Hard stare. The dog stare that I had been trying to hide for the last three years of my Ivy league education.

"Just like that, eh?" I piped up. "Just like that," I waved my glass. "You make it sound so easy. Just had an epiphany, read some Machiavelli, and poof, addiction gone?"

The patio got really, really silent.

"Well, Nichole, it seems you know a little bit about the subject." He smiled through his teeth. I saw my status deflating from wanna be grad student to f***ing punk.

"Well,"I said, feeling my face go crimson, "I'm sure you don't want to tell everyone about the sleepless nights in rehab. You know, the ones where you're puking on the floor, crying for your momma every five minutes. Wishing you were dead but not having the energy to actually do the job. And god forbid anyone should see you on a Wednesday night, crawling down the stairs of a church basement to a meeting filled with junkies and winos. I mean, 'cause clearly you don't belong there."

He stared at me, open-mouthed.
"Clearly," he said.

"Yeah, good times," I said, waving my wine glass. "And it kills me that I can't have a sip of this right now, because I know it's good shit, but I'm still a little green around the gills. My sponsor would kill me."

I set the glass down on the white tableclothe and stood up.

"I need a cigarette."

I sat on the front steps of that beautiful mansion and puffed away. Miserable. I wasn't fooling anybody, not even myself. Eventually, the front door opened and Prof. Big Man sat down next to me. We were an odd pair, a tall, skinny undergrad and a short, 50-something black man. Both slumped over a little, staring at nothing.

"Can I bum a smoke?"

I already had the pack out. He put the filter to his lips and I lit the end.

"It's a shitty life sometimes," he said.

"Yup. But you've got a nice house."

He laughed, and stood up, flicking his cigarette into the street.

"I'm going to make some coffee. Want some?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Last I heard."

The coffee was delicious. You can always count on an ex-junkie to make good strong coffee, that's a bit of knowledge you're not gonna find in the Phaedrus.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Of mice and mermen

Rarely do I sit. Even as a writer (like full-time, meager bread and butter writer), my ability to sit still for long periods of time evades me. It is backlash from all of those 3-hour seminars in college. Put the hungover kid with adult ADHD in an ancient history class, conducted solely in Mandarin, yeah that's a good idea. Good thinking on my part, too.

So, for me to sit, to actually sit down and be engaged is rare. Books are the lone exception. Books and Legos. Now, imagine my reaction to television...

So, there I was, sitting on the couch, completely engrossed in a documentary on the Discovery Channel. I mean completely engrossed. Like, don't get up to pee, get popcorn, eat, drink, smoke--that kind of engrossed. No, it wasn't about the meth trade or dangerous-ass gold mining under the ice in the Bering Sea (people will do anything for a buck, I swear to God).

Mermaids, people. I was watching a show about mermaids. Not the folklore of mermaids, or the symbolism, or mermaid depictions throughout the centuries (although there was a lot of that stuff, too) but about the ACTUAL supposed discovery of a mermaid corpse along the coast of South Africa. And sightings on the Washington Coast. A team of scientists and their discovery and the subsequent confiscation of all of the samples and specimens and evidence (by the government, of course). All that research and hope --gone. A big conspiracy, really. According to the "film" or whatever you want to call it, the government is blasting the shit out of sea life using sonar blasts that riddle holes through every creature within a certain radius. And the theory, according to these scientists, is that the sonar blasts are being directed specifically at these humanoid sea creatures in order to kill them. All of them.

I know what you're thinking. I know. It's ridiculous. You will now boycott this blog because the author has clearly lost her f***ing mind. Or you will continue reading for the sheer joy of tracing my descent into madness via the internet. Or, you might be thinking really hard right now about mermaids.

When I was a kid, back when, as my brother would say, "Shit was different," I dreamed of being...a marine biologist. Swear to god. I read a few Madeline L'Engle books and learned to hold my breath for a long time and swim as fast as I could and studied up on dolphins and whales and squids. I even remember having the thought that, as NASA was sending shuttle after shuttle into the unknown, that the real undiscovered country was in the sea.

"What morons," I thought to myself. "They're gonna miss everything."

The mermaid thing has got me thinking. Hard. What if it's true? What if they are there, what's left of them, deep in the sea, knowing to hide from their land family because, well, apparently we'll kill them. I mean, look what happened to the Native Americans, and to Black Africans and to Jews and gypsies and gays and lesbians and women and poor people...Can you imagine having a f***ing tail and webbed fingers?! I shudder to think. And yet, it makes me so sad to realize that there are creatures, amazing creatures out there that to see them would be a spiritual experience beyond all knowing.

And yet, I hope no one ever spots them. Ever. History speaks for itself. And fear reigns over history. I have seen enough inexplicable things in my lifetime to know that anything...I mean anything...is possible. Just read the Bible if you doubt me on this one. Risen from the dead? Belly of a whale? Parting of the sea? Mermaids aren't far off the mark.

But if you see one, don't tell a soul. Definitely take a picture with your iPhone. Keep it, and maybe tell your grandkids while you're dying. But not a moment before.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

What I need to know...

I just got an e-Blast from Oprah a few days ago. Yes, I do get the magazine every month. For the record, it was a gift subscription and I like reading the book reviews. I would not ever, in my friggin' life, however, pay $845 for chandelier earrings, which have somehow made it into the "Steals and Deals" section of the mag. Unless they mean I'd have to steal the cash to buy the fashion and than cop a deal with the po-po after I got arrested for armed robbery.

So, yes, the book reviews are great. And I did discover some great cajun recipes and a story about a 50-something trapeze artist who likes going to the farmer's market. That was cool.

Back to the e-blast. The piece that caught my eye was entitled "8 Life Skills Every Person on the Planet Needs to Learn." That's a big claim. On the planet? Like every man, woman and child, even those living in poverty-stricken, war-torn nations? OKaaay. I read on, expecting the list to at least include how to find/make clean drinking water, how to perform CPR, how to grow sustainable food, how to not get hit by a hail of gunfire when travelling to Syria, how to quietly kill your abusive husband/boyfriend...anyway, you get the point. You can imagine my complete disgust and disappointment when I read life skill #1: "The ability to listen to what you least want to hear."

I don't know about the rest of y'all but I hear shit every day that I really don't want to hear. For instance, how much these presidential campaigns are costing, how women the world over are being ravaged in one way or the other, how drought is killing farmers. And on a more personal note, which is what I think this rule means, yeah, I listen to what I least want to hear from my kids. "Ma, your arms are jiggly in the back." Or "I'm almost as tall as you," Or, my personal favorite, "You look like hell in the morning." Do I cry? No. Do I scream and yell and deny? No. Just quietly sip my coffee and wait for the little fly to flit away and tell me something I don't already know.

I think #3 on the list was supposed to be a cute little foodie quip. Sadly, "the ability to cook one thing with cheese" isn't, in my book, an abiliity, let alone an essential one to get you through friggin' life. Can you imagine being a young woman in Afghanistan reading this swill, hoping to find something of value? Cheese?! Where? We don't even have schools or shoes at this point! As for me, who lives in rural America, cheese is a staple. I have never struggled with how to use cheese. EVER. Get a grip. Now, if you can make cheese, I'd be impressed.

Oh my god, the list goes on. Something about the "power whisper," and some vaguery about listening to one's inner voice. I listen to it all right, and I usually tell it to "shut the hell up! Can't you see I'm trying to write?!" It was all so cheesy, so shallow, so, well, it'd be perfect for Pinterest.

There is one skill listed that I agree with. "The abilility to whistle with your fingers." The author's justification for this is simply because "it's sexy." Um, yeah, honey. It's really sexy when you've just screamed your head off through the window trying to get the kids to come in for dinner then break out the whistle. Or when you've tried everything short of heroin to try and get the attention of a room full of teenagers. Nope, this whistle is a necessary part of life. It is a warning, a call for help, a powerful tool for negotiation. Everybody on the planet should know how to whistle with their fingers. And laugh at themselves. And stage a protest. And physically defend themselves against violation. And roll a cigarette. And figure out due North. And sharpen a knife. And treat an infection and a broken heart. And to take help and give help.

And to swim. Everybody should know how to swim.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

'Til the photographer does us part

While I have not become completely addicted to Pinterest, it does give me a certain amount of joy looking at unique cactii, delicious meals and other strange, one-of-a-kind delights. I am not the crafty sort, so seeing what other people do with, say, painted pebbles and wine corks is pretty inspiring. Basically, it's girl porn. It also saves me a lot of money because I can get my fix just looking at the pictures of food and beautiful dresses and torquoise platform heels and call it a day.

I still want a huge cactus garden on my porch, but that's gonna be awhile. Maybe when I finally make the move to Taos, and my house is surrounded by a sea of sand and scrub brush. For me, paradise. My mother doesn't understand the whole dry, hot, landlocked thing.

"I would move to the ocean," she said. "Right on the beach."

"I like the ocean, too," I said. "But it's not scrappy enough. Nobody builds an adobe on the ocean. And what sense would a cow skull make hanging above the door on a seaside cottage, or on a skiff?"

More quizzical looks.

While I am waiting to find my desert house and live my independent Georgia O'Keefian life, complete with leathered skin, motorcycles and white, button up shirts, I will continue to drool over Pinterest images.

Yesterday, I ventured outside of my usual categories of Travel, Gardening, and Food and peeked at the "Wedding and Events" category. I can't say that it was a big mistake, but it 'got me to thinking.' The pictures were gorgeous, everything from elaborate, drapey cakes to soft light boudoir shots of the bride under her veil. Herringbone braids and big tropical flowers in the bride's hair. Slate gray bridesmaid's dresses, over the top cream-colored, gilded shoes for the bride, beach weddings, snazzy adorable invitations...you get my drift. It all looked so fun and pretty and happy. But what struck me the most, were the pictures of the actual "proposal." That seems to be a trend right now. The groom-to-be hires a professional photographer to be there when he proposes to the unsuspecting bride (maybe). Wanting to capture the moment, I guess?

It's all so staged, even from the first humble moments of the proposal, it seems to me that the current trend in marriage is not focused on the marriage itself, but on the "big day." And, of course, the amazing photography. Let's capture this moment together while we picnic in Central Park (smooch, smooch). Look how happy we are on this rooftop when he proposes. Look at my ring, look how much he loves me. Look, look, look...

The camera eventually gets put away, the pictures are stuffed into albums and posted on Facebook by the hundreds. And then what? It's over? Not quite. Then you actually have a marriage on your hands that is as real as the sun rising and setting. Is that one photo albumn of contrived memories gonna carry you through the sleepless nights of parenthood? Is that image of you two on the picnic blanket gonna keep you from leaving in a fury of broken dishes when you have your 1000th knock down, drag out in the kitchen at 2 a.m.? How about the ring? How much ground do you think that will cover when you find a pair of margarita glasses in the sink and you've been away for two weeks...

Where is the photographer then? Oh, right, you don't want to capture those moments.

Shouldn't the focus be more on the marriage itself. Not planning, necessarily for the day, but for the rest of your lives? Perhaps the camera should start flashing when the crappy car dies on the highway and you discover that your "man" doesn't know how to change a tire, or when you both wake up with a stomach flu and still have to make breakfast for the kids.

I have a lot of memories of being married. Many of them good, many of them bad. I choose not to sort through all the mental photographs and frame the ones that are pretty and burn the others. That's not how marriage works. A picture is worth a thousand words, only if you get the shot.

Sifting through the years, I don't need a photo to remind me of how he proposed. It was before 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning in August. I was hovering by the coffee maker and he said, out of the blue, "I think we should get married." I nodded my head and pulled the cream out of the fridge. "Sure," I said. "Sounds like a plan. Let me tell my mother."

Monday, July 2, 2012

Fifty Shades of Crap

My literary tastes are, not surprisingly, dark as the winter sky. I'm a "No Country for Old Men" kinda girl who loves violent, underbelly stuff. You know, real Annie Proulx material. I write that way (in my fiction life) and think that way, and have lived that way in many circumstances.

So, when I was basically coerced by a friend into letting me borrow her unmarred copy of "Fifty Shades of Gray" I was practically giddy to crack that baby open. You can stop shaking your head in Puritan disgust, you know you wanna read it, too. It is touted as a dark novel, an erotic novel, exploring the secret world of Doms and Subs in urban Seattle. A struggling college grad meets Mr. Filthy-f*cking-rich with a dark side. Like leather bed, chains and riding crops dark side. I was sold.

I was sold until I started, about 3 pages in, hating the protagonist. Meet 21-year-old Anastasia Steele, who narrates the entire story in the first person. Which I don't generally like or use in my fiction.

OK, fine, I'll get over it...or will I. Miss Steele is a total chump. I glower at her weakling character. She trips over everything, literally, she bites her lip like a 5-year-old child, she stutters, she doesn't exercise or eat much, she doesn't know a good wine from a bad beer, the list is exhausting. I tried to relate to her, you know, you gotta get close to your characters right?

Yeah, right. This snivelling little sh*t is ridiculous. And you know what's more ridiculous, apparently she is the perfect woman. At least according to the New York Times bestseller list. Wanna know why?

She's a virgin. That's right. Miss Steele has never been tapped, or kissed, or felt up, or anything like that. A supposed bookworm swimming in a sea of sadists. It's grating on the nerves. What is this, a middle-school slumber party? And yet Mr. Gray thinks she's perfect for the "claiming" so to speak, and claim he does.

Did I mention she's never had an orgasm? Yeah, not one. But, miraculously, with every sexual encounter she has with Mr. Gray, she is "shattered" by her body's response.

I almost stopped reading when the old "blood on the sheets" scene came up. You know, due to her purity. Give me a goddamn break.

This is not a real woman. Not even close. She possesses no control, no confidence, and no brain. Her vulnerability borders on hilarious. My son has more street smarts than her.

Oh, but when it comes to giving "oral pleasure" to Mr. Gray, she is a freakin' pro, first time out.

Sure she is.

Where are the real heroines who earn their own cash and don't need their rich boyfriends to buy them iMacs, Audis and Blackberries (swear to god)? I can remember back to my college days. If a guy came at me with a riding crop he'd either be dead or handcuffed to a bed wearing my underwear! And if some snotty dipshit tried to educate me on the merits of a good wine, I'd take him down to my basement and show him what a real vintage was made of.

So much for standing on your own two feet. She bats her eyelashes, has slumber-party conversations with her best friend and apparently isn't bothered that some sick-o insists on having a private doctor screen her for sexual diseases before they "commence" their S&M party, at his leisure, of course.

Why am I still reading the novel? NO. But, I do wanna know why and how this man became so messed up. And then I want him to staple her thoughts shut and end the "little-girl-lost" crap with a taser.

And if you are a man who dreams of debasing a virgin as your penultimate sexual goal, then you better steer clear of girls like me. I could have you for breakfast.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Unrestricted use

You know that whole "out of the mouths of babes" philosophy? Yeah, well, we've been having a lot of those moments lately. I mean A LOT. I can't even keep up with the ethereal yet earthly sentences which seem to pour out of the mouths of these babes. Clearly, a syndicated show is in order, but it would have to air on HBO, no doubt. Just this morning, my son informed me of one of the many new skills he has acquired since not being in school for two weeks. Apparently, this frees up time to work on his oddness and general recklessness. Oh, and death-defying tricks on the trampoline, which have brought me to the brink of cardiac arrest. Especially the other day when he, armed with his foam Thor hammer, executed a perfect backflip only to be launched off of said trampoline and nearly into his sister's lap as she lay reading peacefully on the hammock. The yell was stuck in my throat as I watched him shake his floppy bangs and jump back on the giant dinnerplate of death.

So, there he was, bright an early, lounging on the couch waiting for me to appear from the upstairs lair of my sleep.

"Hey, Mom. How's it going?"

"Let's cut the small talk," I grumbled. "How long have you been awake? I thought you said you were sleeping in this morning."

"I tried. I made to 5:47. Then I just had to face the day. Did you know that I can make my nipples turn purple?"

It was a good goddamn thing I didn't have a mouthful of coffee. It would have been all over the couch.

"And, how, my son, do you do that?" I dreaded the answer.

"Pretty basic. Squeeze them really hard."

"I see. And do you do this trick with any other body parts? The whole purple thing?" The vision of my future grandchildren hovered in the distance.

"No. Wait, what other parts?"

"Nevermind. Cream of Wheat or oatmeal this morning?"

That, my friends, is just a slice of the reality pie that we eat every day around here.

The other day, when the boy asked (in the car) if he could start using cologne, his wicked older sister turned her head and gaped. I watched it all infold in the rearview mirror.

"What, why do you want to wear cologne? You barely remember to wear boxers!"

"Because I stink. And besides, deodorant gives you cancer."

I wonder what else they have said to eachother. What other strange and enlightening quips have I missed over the years? Do I even want to know. Anna just recently confessed that she used to piss all over the kitchen floor (at age 3) because she was mad that I had another baby.

"Oh, I was just upset," she said. "You know, jealous. Must've been an attention thing."

"Could you, maybe, have found another, more positive way to get my attention. I really didn't enjoy cleaning up your shit. Literally."

"I probably could've," she said, glancing nonchalantly at her gnawed off fingernails. "But it just wasn't my style."

And so urinating was her style? It wasn't my "style" to keep calm and mop that business up almost every day while slaving over a colicky infant. Or to do the whole "wholesome mommy" thing and really investigate her feelings and try to heal this supposed trauma of having a brother.

"Don't worry, I haven't done that in years," she said. "I'm totally over it now."

"Anna, if you pissed on the floor now, I would take you to the police station. Or the hospital. It depends."

"Just take me to Nana's house. She doesn't mind a little pee."

Wow. Yup, definitely a little show here somewhere.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Hanging plants

I just finished reading "Bastard Out of Carolina." If you are a sensitive, "Woman's Day" kind of person, I wouldn't delve into this novel. If you like grit in your teeth, hair and heart, this is a book for you.

This is where the spoiler alert would go, but I ain't giving up the ghost. Suffice it to say, this novel touches on all things dear to my little black heart; broken men, strong women, poverty, young motherhood, peach moonshine and survival. That last bit gets right to the core of the matter.

How have we made it this far? I am in constant awe that I am 35. Awe and dread, because I thought for sure that I wasn't long for this mortal coil. In fact, 30 was supposed to be the magic age. I could feel the shadow looming by the time I was 27 years old. Life, then, was not good. I was sick of being poor, sick of moving from house to house, sick of being sick, sick of feeling guilty about my non-conventional parenting style. Sick of drinking and burying.

The woods were thick and I was so, so lost.

Sounds like a bad opening scene to a Nicholas Sparks novel (gag, cough, puke), but it's true. The tidal wave of life was drowning me, filling my nostrils with salt and grit. To think that humor and Maker's Mark were the taproots of my existence...sad stuff really.

And family, my god, family. The main character in the novel, a 12-year-old girl goes by the name of Bone, must have been taken out of the Dupont family scrapbook or something. I saw everyone in Bone, including myself. There was my daughter, an unofficial bastard, strutting around in her Converse, not knowing, never caring about the big empty hole on her birth certificate. There was my grandmother, snapping the ends off of peas, alternately weeping and humming listening to Carter family classics on the radio. And there I was, and there was my mother, physically numb to harm, living a tough life with a recklessness that many would deem dangerous. Everybody's washcloth, nobody's love.

Like I said, gritty stuff.

I will never know what happened to Bone, the novel ends pretty abruptly (and, of course, violently). But I can guess. Oh, I can guess. If all goes relatively well, she will be weeding the hell out of her garden one day and suddenly realize that she is worth something. A lot of something. She might even crack open a beer on her back steps and shake her head in disbelief and pride that the children are fed, the garden is yielding and that love is just the gravy on the grits.

It's a hellish road, but you have to start somewhere. You might even have to kick the crap out of that 12-year-old living inside you that keeps telling you that you are all that you will ever be.

Horseshit.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Innards

Let me preface this post by saying that I was just looking at potential bathing suits/bikinis online. While the colors and styles are inspired by old Havana, the model looks like she could use a bucket of fried chicken and trip to Dairy Queen, you know, maybe grow some hips, boobs, something. It was hard to take her seriously when I am assuming her shoes weigh more than she does. Havana my ass.

Anywho, I promised my best girl pal that I would write about the experience we had yesterday. And I want to do it now, while the whole thing is still fresh in my mind.

It all began with a trip to the mall. I hate malls. I mean truly despise them. In fact, I think that at the front entrance to every mall, there should be a kiosk where you can buy anti-depressants and nip bottles of Wild Turkey. That's for starters. Maybe some Imitrex, too, for the inevitable migraine you will get.

But, I love her, and she, I don't think, doesn't know how much I hate malls (well maybe now she does). We were on a mission to get her a decent suit for a job interview. Sounds pretty simple, right? I mean, it's a suit. Pants, jacket, shoes to match, you're done.

Not quite, Nichole. Not quite. You see, like almost every other woman I know, my friend has a unique figure. She calls herself a pear. I tell her she has more curves than 40 miles of bad road. And let's just say that it's hard to put a pear in a matchbox. Our first stop was at Lane Bryant, a supposed "plus size" store. Although, I have no idea what that even means. Plus what? Plus the 85 lbs a runway model weighs?

A trip to the dressing room revealed that the blazers were gonna work great. A second trip indicated that pants were going to be a problem.

"We can just try Macy's" we both agreed nonchalantly. Yeah, sure. Way, way back in a neglected corner of the store, that wasn't well-lit and smelled weird, the "women's 14-24" section loomed lonely. A thorough combing over of the pants options revealed a)that most of the pants were elastic waist "mom" pants with no style at all b) the only color options were brown, navy and black and c) you have to be at least 6 feet tall in order to wear plus sizes.

It was a depressing adventure.

"I want you to blog about this," she said. "This right here, this is how it has been for me. Welcome to my hell." I could feel her confidence fading. On the car ride to the mall, we were both piss and vinegar. Sarcastic, laughing, optimistic--talking about our, ahem, conquests, our accomplishments, the awesome dinners we did and didn't make.

All over a f*cking pair of pants.

Later, after a few crappy mojitos and mediocre margaritas, the car ride home (most of which we travelled in neutral due to a "fuel level misunderstanding") provided me with a confessional opportunity.

"Ya know, I think this has less to do with what's on the outside than what's on the inside," I said. "I put on a good show for the most part, but sometimes, girl, I feel like an ugly-ass seventh grader, a freak trapped in a woman's body. God, we're good at messing ourselves up."

"We're experts," she said, lighting her third cigarette. "I think everybody is like that. Inside themselves, I mean. Some of them can hide it really well."

"Or, they're just too cocky to even know where that mess is."

"Yeah, well, once you find it, you gotta clean it up, and that's no fun."

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

It probably isn't a mystery to anyone that most coporate-type environments are run like African villages. At least, that's been my experience over the years. The women in the office hustle around all day getting sh*t done and the higher ups, mostly men, sit under the proverbial tree drinking palm wine until they cannot stand up. The whole time waving their arms around, yelling out an order or two, talking politics and gambling. Never, of course, offering up praise or, in most cases, help.

It's a sad metaphor, but so far, I have yet to see it any differently.

Many of us worker bees, in addition to the heavy workload, also have babies (figurative or literal) strapped to our backs, and when we return to our respective villages from a long day "in the fields" we are expected to prepare meals, issue tasks, scrub the children clean, address the dwindling sexual needs of the dominant male, and then, with not an ounce of energy left in us, fall into a dead sleep, only to do the whole thing over again the next day.

Sounds like fun, right?

This would, by the way, be a good time to give a shout out to the non-corporate gents who abstain from the palm wine and make it a point to shoulder at least half of the burden of life and work with the women. You are the rock upon which your children can comfortably lean. Here, here!

I recently resigned from the dysfunctional village. It wasn't for lack of love or lack of work ethic, but there comes a point when the sun blares too hot, the day is too long and the children are too neglected.

Yes, I am speaking in metaphorical code here, but it has a nice ring to it!

Or, there comes a day, when you are driving home from a long, long day at work, and the men under the tree decide that, in addition to your workload, they will throw coconuts at you and see if you can deflect them before they hit you square in the head. That is the a-ha moment.

At least, that was my a-ha moment. There is something wrong with popping two extra strength Tylenol, four Bayers, a Zantac pill and three Kava Kava every day just to make it through the morning. Washing it all down with a coffee you barely have time to drink and then somehow, being productive amidst insult, injury and flourescent lights.

Again, a bit metaphorical. My a-ha moment really took hold when I noticed the gray tinge to my colleagues' faces, and when I realized that I was training my future boss.

I guess I just can't swallow that much sh*t pie. It doesn't go so well with the breakfast cocktail of pain relievers and mood stabilizers. I generally like pie, but not that kind.

Ironically, I loved my role in the village. I ignored the men laying under trees and learned so much from the other worker bees and the amazing people just outside of the hive.

It's off to a new village, I suppose. Hopefully the chief is sober and the trees aren't for loitering.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Have I not commanded you...?

My daughter seems to have a problem with my, ahem, straightforward nature. When I drive, she usually sits in the front seat with her jaw dangling in horror at my unplanned foray into violent cussing. Of course, her mouth could be wide open because she is sassing me or she is laughing and unable to breath. That has happened, too.
"MOM! Seriously? Can you even hear yourself? You just called that guy a f*ckhead!"
"I'm sorry, really. I just, I mean, did you see what he did?! I've got kids in the car for chrissake's!"
"Um, yeah, ya do. And we can hear everything you say."

Suddenly my son pipes up from his book (which is currently the 'Wit and Wisdom of Ben Franklin,' swear to god).
"Who's a duck bed? What's that?"
I smile smugly at Anna. "See. He doesn't hear everything. I know what I'm doing."
"Whatever."

Last night I took my pre-teen fiest-fest to a flamenco show. She was looking very grown-up and very French, I might add, in a striped dress and her "special occasion" lip gloss. In fact, the only element that led me to believe that she was under the age of 15 was, god love her, a tri-colored pair of custom Converse sneakers the likes of which might be found on a Sesame Street set, or the streets of Paris.
We ate dinner, laughed at her clumsiness (that day she knocked the cap to the shaving cream into the toilet as it was flushing. A mess we have still to figure out), and decided that yes, it was OK if she got her hair straightened this summer. I cringe, but the girl has a point.
"I want to see what it is actually like to have long, flowing hair," she said between bites of a fish sandwich.
"It's totally overrated, babe."
"Yeah, sure. That's why every actress, even the black ones, have long hair right?"

Astute little thing.

The show was amazing. When I told Anna it would probably be about two hours long, she sighed and looked doubtful.
"I can't sit that long. Genetics, you know."

She was right, she couldn't sit that long. The girl was on her feet clapping and stomping and yelling 'Ole!' after every sweaty, passionate number. She loved the dresses, she loved the music, and then, of course, there were the shoes.

"I feel like this is something I could do," she said. "I mean, I could actually stomp around in those shoes and not fall. Not like in ballet. Remember ballet?" She giggled and so did I.

"Not everybody is a ballerina, honey." The unfinished thought, of course, was that not everyone is 9 feet tall with an Afro and a genetic code for clumsiness that some would describe as disastrous. Pure and simple. I've seen this child in action. It isn't pretty, and I'm not sure it's something she will grow out of.

On the dark ride home, her voice broke through the crickets and my car's plane-like engine. No, btw, it is not a diesel. Sadly, it makes that noise on its own.

"I'm so afraid we're going to get into a car accident. I mean, it could just happen, and we could die."
"It could just happen, and if it does, then most likely there was nothing we could do to prevent it. But I'm a safe driver and the odds are in our favor."
"But it could happen."
"Anna, a lot of things could happen. And they do happen. But you can't live in fear all the time. It will ruin your life."
"Yeah, a lot of people have been saying that to me."
"And they're right."
"It doesn't seem like you have any fear. I mean, you say whatever's on your mind. And you don't seem to be afraid to do anything."
"What's the point," I said. "If I had fear, I would never have had the experiences I've had. And I would sure as hell never have had you."
"Do you know people who live in fear?"
"Of course I do. And they're miserable. They've never left this town to do anything. Never travelled, never took risks."
She named off a few people who she thought had fear. People I love, people in my own family.
"Yeah," she said. "There doesn't seem to be any spark left in them."

None whatsoever. I didn't tell her that my fear, my real fear, is turning into that. Being so bogged down with what-ifs and supposed obligations and frustrated silence, that my spark dies like a summer day.

The conversation faded off, she asked me what places I've been, when I've had the most fear. I was honest. But kept the swearing to a minimum.

"Were you afraid when you had me?" she asked, finally.
"Anna, it was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. Having a baby alone. But look at us now."

"Yup," she said, slumping down in the seat a little. "Look at us now."

Friday, April 6, 2012

Lineage

I'm not a big weeper. Not because I am holding back the urge to shed salt water from my face, but because, I think, that there is a certain numbness that washes over me that beats out the tears. It is the sad result of living in a world where the good is so good and the horrible is so horrible that they seem to cancel eachother out.

Notice I didn't say balance.

Anyway, this blog is not about whether I cry a lot or a little, that bit was for effect. So that you know that if something brings me to weep, it's either too sad, too gorgeous or too enraging to put words to. I tell my kids that I express myself through fluids. Lucian doesn't get it. Anna thinks it's gross.

Two nights ago, I made the mistake of browsing through my CNN app right before I (tried) to nod off to sleep. The usual suspects: health care, the Trayvon Martin mess, the 2012 election, etc. But there was a new one in the mix, one that maybe a few of us missed because of the many dog and pony shows happening on other stages across the world. This one was subtle, but it sliced right into the core of the place in me that carries a sureness of my situation in the world. You could call it my identity, but that's too sparse. It's the place that I feel most assured of who I am, what I am doing and that, for the most part, things are good.

Things are not good, folks. Not anymore. I've been popping Zantac like Pez for the last few days. The low-lying nicotine problem has blown up like the goddamn smallpox (although, I am hiking a lot more, too, go figure) and my restless leg syndrome is back in full force.

So, what did I see? Well, the headline read: Mississippi tightens abortion restrictions.

I knew right then and there that I should've waited until the morning to read it. But, of course, I am a news gal and this is my vice. In sum, the good state of Mississippi has but one abortion clinic (yes, only one for the whole state) which may be shut down, due to tighter legislation regulations requiring obgyn's to have "admitting privileges." Who the hell knows what that means. Anyway, the governor of the state is practically gleeful that the clinic may have to close its doors. Last year he tried to get it to shut down by introducing, I shit you not, a Personhood Amendment stating that "life begins at conception." Of course, that got thrown right the hell out. The good governor said that in closing the clinic, he is protecting the women and children of his state. What a benevolent protector, wow, great guy.

I don't need your protection, Mr. Governor. I need protection FROM people like you. Looking back in history, ancient and modern, it seems that no man has taken it upon himself to protect women. In fact, according to my calculations, woman and children have been ravaged and destroyed by men and their deeds since the dawn of humankind. It is a mass genocide that it allowed to continue in every corner of the globe. When you think of child abusers, rapists, human traffickers and "lawmakers," most of them are men, and many of them go out of their way to feed their perversions, washing their hands on women and children. What protection? And what is this 'personhood' shit?! What about the 'personhood' of the women who already exist? Where is our amendment stating that we have rights and that we may enact those rights at any time? Who is banging the gavel for women these days?

That's right, nobody. Not even our venerated president (it kills me to say this, btw) who remains silent and watches on as, state by state, women's rights (the same women who hold up this economy, who raise millions of children alone every single day and night) are obliterated in the flame of Puritan politics. Where are you, man? You have two daughters, and this is the greatest tragedy this country has ever seen. It is a drawn out funeral and the bodies are being stacked like twigs in the mass grave of freedom.

A few weeks ago I had lunch with a group of Native American artists who will be exhibiting in our local museum this summer. At the end of the lunch, I chatted with a woman who is a beadwork artist. She is extraordinary, truly. We got on the subject of ceremony in her tribe, and how the men brutalize themselves through near starvation and exhaustion in order to become closer to the "Spirit" or God, or whatever you want to call it.

"The only way to do so is to truly humble yourself," she said.

"What about the women," I asked. "Do they do the same thing?"

She shook her head. "Some of them fast for a little bit, and do the dances. But we don't really need to do much to get closer to God," she said. "The men know that. We bleed every month, we carry children in our bodies, we birth children, we work, we suffer a lot more just for being women. They know that. We have a direct bloodline to the sky."

I've been thinking about that conversation since that day. About the ways in which women are humbled every single day; hard work, child-rearing, periods, poverty, abuse, abandonment, war, politics, loss. Women are brought low, very low, very often. And yet it seems that there are many who would have us lower, who are gripping at our ankles to keep us from our personhood. If I catch you at my daughter's ankles, I will cut off your hands.

Don't mess with God's messengers, we know how to bleed. And eventually we will figure out how to use these wings of ours.



Thursday, March 8, 2012

Not a vessel

It is hard to imagine that on a beautiful morning like this in which the birds are wildly excited, the sun is bright and the mud is thick, that there is a war being waged in this country, the likes of which I have never seen. Here it is, 2012, and quite suddenly, it seems that the G.O.P. has taken it upon itself to use women's health, issues and bodies as trampling ground for a conservative agenda. Just look at the headlines. Every day, it's another Planned Parenthood closed, or another service taken away, or another human being insulted and ridiculed for having a uterus and a voice.

I've had it.

More than half of the voters in this country are women. Women are now the backbone of this economy, the mothers (and fathers!) of millions of children, the mentors to young minds, the steel beams that hold this fragile nation up. I'm serious. Just take a look at the Census if you doubt the role of women in this country and the world. And yet, and yet, funding by the millions is being taken away state by state--funding for breast cancer treatment, ovarian cancer screening, childcare, sick leave, contraception, reproductive health--you name it, it's dissolving under the banner of "God" and "morality." How is leaving more than half of your citizens out in the cold considered morally upright? We are, in essence, no better than the Taliban if this sh*t continues at the rate it's going now. By the time the next election comes, Title X, equal pay, and adequate health care will be completely off the table. Then what?

As if the daily struggle isn't hard enough. I am a woman, I work hard every day, I raise two children, so I can only speak from my own experience, but let me tell you, this ain't no cake walk. Sometimes I can barely contain my rage knowing that still, to this day, with all of my education, my experience and my expenses, a man makes more money than I do, simply for having a penis. Why? Why, when more than 13 million women in this country are raising kids by themselves and responsible for MUCH MORE than their single, male counterparts, are they still making less? It is a muddy pit and there doesn't seem to be enough shovels to get out.

And all of this legislation, and fighting over birth control and contraception is, in my eyes, a veil over a much deeper problem. For some reason, this culture still hates females. Not sure why. We all have mothers and sisters and daughters and we love and respect them in our daily lives. But the culture itself, it seems, does not. I've been on this tirade before, and sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but you would not be here, we would not be here, if it weren't for the power of the women around us. No way, no how. And yet, we are sluts, bitches, prostitutes, drama queens, idiots...AND, women clearly don't know what to do with their bodies, clearly.

I have always been in silent awe (not good awe) of the way that the abortion issue is treated. Even the terms "pro-life" and "pro-choice" are totally ridiculous. What the hell is "pro-life" supposed to mean? I love life, I would never murder someone, the thought that life ends is too sad to endure sometimes. I am totally pro-life. Live it, struggle through it, help others, you bet! I am not pro-control of what people do with their bodies and their lives in order to get through a very tough time. Why aren't pro-lifers standing outside the urlologist's office protesting vasectomies and prostate screening? BECAUSE that's a man's territory. That's why. He's making a responsible decision to stop populating the earth by getting snipped. What's the f*cking difference. Sperm are live, eggs are live--fertilized or unfertilized, the argument doesn't stick.

And as for "pro-choice." What do people think, that making the decision to have an abortion is easy? Are you kidding me? It's not like picking out what color shirt you're gonna wear that morning!!! Yes, there is some choice involved, but it is a choice that comes as a result of simply being a female. Oh shit, I'm pregnant, now I have to make a "choice." More like a gut-wrenching, sleep deprived decision that, either way, will haunt you for the rest of your life. Always.

I am not a vessel for the government, neither is my daughter or my son for that matter. Take your nasty hands off my body, our bodies, and focus on something else, like poverty, or jobs, or this crumbling nightmare of an education system, or hell, equal pay for women. I don't care what "party" you belong to, we all owe it to the women in our lives to stop this hate train before the next pile of coal is loaded into the engine. How would any of us feel, because it's coming, if our daughters, due to this legislation, died of breast cancer because screening was denied? Or if we watched them struggle through the rest of their lives because of a pregnancy that could have been avoided had they been on the pill?

We have to think more locally than this, people. These ARE people we love who will suffer and suffer greatly. All for some strange, elusive ideology that was never right in the first place.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Bum "Rush"

I'm gonna start with, what we call in the news industry, a hard lede. Straight up, if Rush Limpbaugh had said n*gger in any context that fat Bible-belt-don't-even-fit-him bastard (yes, this whole thing is getting personal, game on) would have been fired that day. At least, that's what the rational optimist in me says would happen. But as things stand in this misogynistic culture, it takes a friggin' mattress company to take a stand and pull their advertising from the ultraconservative dick farm he calls a "radio show." My ass. For Chrissake's, Don Imus (remember him, another mouth on fire) called Limbaugh a "fat, gutless, pill-popping loser" in an interview on The Morning. This is the one and only thing that Imus and I will ever agree on, for the record.

So, the pill-popping loser--wait a minute, pill-popping doesn't even hit the tip of that fat ass iceberg. Pill-popping is one thing, but as I recall there is a difference between a loser and a friggin' criminal. Anyone remember that big arrest for FRAUD when the big boy lied to doctors in order to get more monkeys (i.e. Vicoden) to throw up there on his flabby back? What's most disturbing to me is that Limbaugh couldn't even convince a doctor that he needed pain meds. Do you know how easy it is to get opioids in this country, legally? The doctors hand out those scripts like a Pez dispenser shoots candy. Sh*t, my 8-year-old son has only to cough once or twice and suddenly he's got a milk-jug bottle of Codeine with his name on it.

So, Rush is dumb, we know this. What's the big deal that he called Sandra a "slut" and a "prostitute"? There are two camps here, one is the outrage camp, the other is the "just ignore him, he's not a real human being anyway" camp that I so want to be a part of, but I can't. Ignore him?! I wish. But the thing is, people actually listen to this guy and believe the rolling pile of sh*t that comes out of his mouth. He's got the trademark red-faced, gin-inspired anger of a tele-evangelist and a marital track record almost as bad as Henry VIII. But people still listen to the guy, including his latest wife, Kathryn Rogers, who is, btw, a year older than me.

I wonder what she has to say about all this...seeings how she wears the financial pants in that f*cked up family. I can just imagine her and that oversized chipmunk lying in bed (gag,cough), it is dark, they've had a fight about his "Fluke" comments and she leans over to him and whispers "who's the real prostitute?" That guy is a money-whore, but why she married him is beyond me. It's gonna suck for her when his employer stops paying for his daily Cialis prescription.

I know of several radio stations that have pulled his show right off the air. Smart thinking since more than half of this country is comprised of women--bankers, business owners, mothers, and yes, even prostitutes. The backlash from this, I'm hoping, is gonna be a lot longer than that pathetic 4-hour erection he might have thanks to the grand mercy of his health insurance. Maybe he has a point, I don't want to pay for that flaccid conservative to ever be able to get anything up in the air again.


Monday, February 27, 2012

Green flag booty

We've been kind of excited around here (at least Anna and I have been excited) about this year's Daytona 500. What woman wouldn't be? There's a girl in a bright green car and we want her to win, maybe show the boys how it's done. Admittedly, NASCAR is a tough sport for most feminists to contend with, but I will take what I can get. A few years ago, I was not above using Eight Belles, the big filly at the Kentucky Derby, as my sports mascot. That is, until she broke both front ankles and had to be put down on the track right after coming in second...
Anyway, back to the chick with the race car. So, Danica Patrick. She's competitive, serious, charitable, drug-free--Everything you could want in an athlete. Anna wanted to see pictures/footage of Danica's previous races so we used trusty Google to get some info.

Big mistake. Big, disappointing mistake.

The first six photos were of her in her racing suit, bright green. And her car, also bright green, and sponsored by Go Daddy.

The next 500 pics displayed a young woman in a string bikini barely covering her ass. Her poses were typical; chest out, legs splayed, skin oiled like a new saddle. Think Playboy without the nipples. Anna looked at me, then looked at the photos, then looked at me.

"Where the hell are all her clothes?!" she asked, shaking her head.
"Good question. Maybe they burned up in the qualifiers."

I didn't want to believe it. In the hopes that it was all just media crap and Photoshop gone wild, I took a stroll to Danica's official website.

Another big freakin' mistake.

Her site looked and read more like a singles ad than an official sports figure. There she was, all 100 pounds of her (that little tidbit was the second number displayed in her profile, the first is her height, which is apparently 5"2') decked out in black leather shorts and a bling-bling black tank top. According to the "Danica File" as it is so named, her off-track "credentials" are as equally impressive as her "on-track" resume. These credentials include "gracing" the cover of Sports Illustrated (Swimsuit Edition 2008, of course), SHAPE and ESPN, the Magazine. She has also "starred" in two Go Daddy commercials. One in which she is clad in lingerie as a dream and the other in which she and Jillian Michaels (supposedly America's toughest trainer) are applying body paint to a naked model (like live woman, we're talking here). At the end of the commercial the "artists" step back and realize that for all their hard work, they "missed a spot."

After my traumatic navigation through Danica's official site, I had to, for comparison's sake, visit Dale Jr.'s page. Of course, he was not wearing a bikini. In fact, I didn't see much skin on little Earnie. Most of his pics were of his car, or him suited up and at a press conference. There was a cute one of the dog, too.

No skin, no sex, no objects, just an all-around nice guy with some pretty impressive racing stats.

And yesterday, during the pre-race hubbub, all three announcers referred to Danica Patrick, professional racer, as "sweetheart."

It is now noon on Monday, the race is slated for 7:00 p.m. tonight on FOX (shiver, I know, FOX, ugh). I still want Danica to win, but the wind is almost gone from my sails. I can only imagine the flesh-eating, objectifying commercial offers she will get (and most likely take) if she is the first to meet the checkered flag.

Apparently, the race is still on, and we are still way behind.





Thursday, February 23, 2012

Stupid girrrrrls

My 11-year-old daughter announced last week that she had a boyfriend. Or, that "Skippy asked me out."

"What'd you say?" I asked, silently crossing my fingers behind my back.

"Um, yes. I like him."

I bowed my head in resigned silence while quickly scanning my memory bank as to what pistol on the market was the most silent yet most accurate.

"So, what does that mean, exactly? What, do you hold hands in the hall now? Or mope around at recess like an Emo couple?"

"It means we eat lunch together more often. I already laid down the ground rules, Mom, relax."

The ground rules? She hasn't even gone through puberty yet and she's already talking about the f***ing ground rules.

"What are those? The 'ground rules'?"

"No physical contact of any kind, basically that's it."

Now that's what I am talkin' about! I guess I won't have to hire a sniper after all. She could just be paying me lip service, but knowing what I know of this impudent child, she doesn't do lip service well. It kills her to be fake. Her eye starts to twitch and she can't keep her right brow from shooting up in jaded disgust. I think she would, like her mother, rather eat sh*t than kiss somebody's ass. No matter what the personal gain.

But still, she has a boyfriend. Or a lunch buddy or whatever you want to call them before their genitals drop and they get a driver's license, job and apartment. And boyfriends tend to carry the "stupid girl" disease so rampant in today's society. I know Anna is at risk for this terrible disease because she announced to my mother and I that Skippy is a "bad boy" and that's what she prefers.

"Papa was a bad boy," my mom chimed in. "He had a brown leather jacket and a motorcycle and I thought that was so cool. Your mom likes bad boys, too."

I almost punched her. This was a "do as I say, not as I do moment" and she blew it. UP.


So, what is a stupid girl, exactly?

Before I go any further, by the way, I will admit that I carry this disease. It has, thankfully, gone into remission for the time being, but it lurks, and I can feel its rise every so often.

A stupid girl, for starters, cannot stand to wake up alone. She is the one who dreams of the knight in shining armor and will bring the armor suit around with her, trying to force the breast plate over puffed out chests; cram the helmet on a big head or watch a small head swim in it; she will even go so far as to build a king's pedestal (or a white horse, whatever works) and throw a giant heap of shit up there in the hopes of crowning it at some point with a ceremony. This ceremony often comes in the shape of an overpriced, crinoline and frosting coated party, also known as a wedding.
Once the king and queen are crowned, there is an awful void of reality which stupid girl must fill if she is to keep the gnawing feeling from tearing her guts apart. Then comes baby, 'cause that'll fix everything, right?

Other stupid girl species include the girl who makes bracelets out of man beads, adding one bead at a time, no matter how despicable (or how wonderful). The beads are notches really, in a tight-fitting, f*cked up belt that only looks good when you're drunk or self-loathing.
Now don't be fooled, stupid girl may have an excellent education, a good job, the experience of years, nice family, you name it. But in the end, she cannot be alone in her intelligence. She cannot laugh at herself. She hates the way her stomach creases when she sits down at the dinner table, as if this is somehow a measure of her value as a human. She clings to the odd belief that happiness comes from Real Simple magazine and that true love does conquer all.


Horseshit.

Here's what this stupid girl learned from being stupid:


1) Never, ever f*ck anyone because you feel sorry for him (or her).
2) Earn your own cash. Whether it's selling kitchen supplies, landscaping, high-power corporate swinging, tarot readings, whatever, just make sure you can make your own way. This world is changing, better prep your daughters for that now.
3) Natural birth and breastfeeding your kid for 5 years do not make you a better mother or more of a woman.
4) Big, strong thighs get you places.
5) Laughter is the best medicine, don't take yourself so goddamn seriously.
6) Feeling embarassed about your period is useless, it's gonna happen. So is menopause. And childbirth. Nothin' you can do but bleed, sweat, bleed and sweat some more.
7) Speak up, 'cause nobody else is going to speak for you.
8) "The Obvious" usually carries a sledgehammer, it does not like to be ignored.
9) Whatever you say while your kids are in the car, they will surely repeat at school.
10) Gas is a part of life.
11) Heartache is worth a good cry, not criticism. Very unprofessional.
12) Size does matter.


I know I will be eating my words at some point. That's what smart stupid girls do. Fortunately, I know who to invite to share the meal with.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

With all these years...

A few nights ago, I attended a dinner for women professionals in the area. It was a mixed bag crowd, to say the least. I thought I had dressed appropriately for the occasion, my geometric knit dress from a local consignment shop, knee high black boots, a scarf, you know, young but not too young. But when I walked into the room I found that I might have over done the brightness factor. Two steps into the room, I thought to myself, "I need to buy a suit." Three steps into the room, "and a wide belt, and black heels."

It went on from there. The awkward factor was pretty high, I didn't know anyone, or hardly anyone, having been holed up in my writer's cave these last few years, and before that the teacher's chasm. My social graces were, ahem, rough. A few women had the courtesy to laugh at my off-color remarks about kids and sneaking cigarettes at night while they slept. I tried, just not in the right way. Maybe if I had a blazer on things would've been easier???

The dinner was an awards ceremony for two young women who were making a difference in the community. Beginning heavy-hitters so-to-speak. When I told my mother about the event, she asked "why don't you apply for next year's award?" I looked up the application process and called her.

"I don't think I will make the cut next year. It says 21 to 35."

"What, well, maybe if they have it before your 36th birthday?"

Maybe, but that seemed like cheating.

As the young women were giving their speeches, I was suddenly snapped back to a moment in time, a few years ago, when I was sitting in a very posh office in the middle of summer, sweating profusely while two men grilled me in an interview. It was light, at first, I tried to put my best foot forward, rattling off my credentials and smiling a big smile despite the fact that I had just busted my nose two days prior and was praying to God that the make-up wouldn't run down my neck onto my shirt. Or worse yet, the expensive couch.

That's when the BIG question came. The one that knocked the wind out of me (the angry wind).

"So, you're what, 30? Can you tell me what you've been doing with your time. I mean, this is your first editorial job right? Why so late?"

I wish he hadn't asked me that.

My first inclination was to stand up, give him the finger (him whose wife was probably at home taking care of baby while he sat in the grand tower of his office wallowing in his presumed success). I did not leave, just sat there stunned for a moment, then out with the terse reply.

"Eating bonbons, mostly. Oh, and raising two kids, that takes up quite a bit of time, you know (wink, wink). Teaching teenagers how to be human beings, putting myself through graduate school, writing, editing, oh and occasionally watching a movie and going for hikes. Managing a household, you know, that sort of thing."

More laughing. Then I was outta there. I think I hadn't even left the building before I lit a cigarette and stormed my way to the car.

What have I been doing?! With all my time?! Dude, I haven't taken an uninterrupted crap in like 6 years. I've had bouts of insomnia and poverty you can't even think of in your worst nightmare. Two heart attacks, three tumors, at least 15 short stories and 900 poems about death and love, burlesque classes, soccer practice, all-nighters grading papers, making three meals a day, praying my car doesn't die, therapy, chaotic family feuds, helping people time and again with resumes, applications and debt, cleaning up puke, administering advice, discipline and love, trying to prepare my delicate children for a tough world, organizing anniversary parties, chasing fire calls in the middle of the night, investigating the possible meth trade in Berkshire County...

What've I been doing?

The real question is, what've you been doing, Scooter? What've you been doing up in that tower of yours? Rolling in at 10 a.m., leaving at 2 p.m. for a lunch with wifey (or sneaking out in a pair of ridiculous sunglasseses, like I didn't notice where you were off to, Jesus, man!)?

Moral of the story, who knows. Maybe it's a "put yourself in someone else's shoes thing." Or, it could just be as simple as keep your damn mouth shut if you don't relish the idea of getting blasted with a verbal firehose 'cause you're too stupid to know what's what in this world.

On a funnier note, the State of Massachusetts just sent me a "Notice of Intent to Assess" because they are suspicious of my $400 refund. How much did Mitt Romney make last year? And he paid in 15%. And you have time, my beloved state, to wonder if my $400 refund (out of the gross 20k I made last year, swear to God) is valid? I may laugh myself into another heart attack...