The Musings of a Defiant Mother

koyaanisqatsi

2009-02-05T07:49:00.000-08:00

And so it has begun. The tantrums. The complete meltdowns upon having things not go her way which leaves her lying on the floor screaming like a banshee. The hesitance to use her words the majority of the time although she sure as hell says the word "NO" clear as day. Usually over and over, like "no no no no no nooooooo". The utter disregard for my repeated attempts to stop her from what she's doing. The intense eye contact and defiant eyes as I'm saying, "Monkey, do NOT do that" while she continues on her way. The "I want what I want and I want it now" attitude commonly referred to as "the terrible twos". (sigh) I knew it was coming. But you're never really prepared are you?

I should state up front that I do not believe in strict discipline. I also do not believe in withholding love and attention. I would never feel comfortable with shutting her in a room and allowing her to cry herself to calmness. To me, that seems that it would illicit the exact opposite reaction of what I'm going for which is for her to always feel loved, secure and able to express herself - even if they aren't warm and happy emotions. I realize this acting out is just part of her development and a lot of it stems from frustration that she is unable to express any other way.

Many people, I'm sure, would think "Okay, fine, then you'll raise a brat". I do not, however, believe in "giving in" to what she wants. I will not allow her to get her way but I will grab her and hold her tightly and express that I realize she is upset at the moment but I'm not going to let her go until she calms down. And I will get down to her level and make eye contact and attempt to soothe her. And even though it doesn't always work I don't walk away from the interaction feeling guilty or feeling that I didn't truly hear her or allow her to feel that she was heard.

And as I was struggling with this over the past few weeks I began thinking back to the our travels. I remember so clearly seeing women in Southeast Asia and in Africa with babies tied onto their backs who were walking along the side of the road and working in fields and standing in crowded buses and not once did I see a toddler have a tantrum. Nor did I see a toddler squirming to get down or doing anything except being mellow and watching the world for a passenger's point of view. I even commented to Mr. Egg from time to time - how are these kids so well-behaved??

I stumbled across this interesting article which really made a lot of sense to me. It was written from a sociological viewpoint about an indigenous tribe in South America. Basically the gist is that most cultures (i.e: not Western culture) are not child-centered. Meaning, although they do keep their children is close physical contact they do not spend much time giving their children direct attention. The children are allowed to go through life as passive observers until they begin to walk and then explore the world on their own. The parents will occasionally give them attention in the form or a hug or kiss or singing songs but for the most part the parent goes about his or her business while the child is simply along for the ride.

Now, I have always subscribed to the idea of wearing Monkey. Ever since she was born. Even now although she's nearly 2 I still wear her instead of using a stroller. So I thought, what's the difference here? I've worn her when I was doing dishes or starting on dinner or hiking through the forest or wandering the aisle of the co-op. But I realized that a lot of the day - I just don't have that much to do. Sure there is some stuff to do. But unlike most people all over the world I don't have to work from dawn until dusk to simply provide the basics. I, we as a society, have it pretty damn easy. So we have more down time. Idle time. Time in which our kids are wondering what to do with themselves because we're wondering what to do with ourselves.

So we busy ourselves and take them to parks and kids museums and gymnastics and this or that and try to cram so much into a day to feel "productive". When maybe the simple answer is that we're just out of balance. We have strayed so far from what nature intended that it's spilling over into areas such as our child's behavior and development. Maybe, although our way of life is decidedly easier, we are doing more harm than good for our kids. Obviously there are many positives to a more modern world. But do those positives outweigh the negatives? I'm not sure I agree with that. Thoughts?

woman like a man

2009-01-22T20:23:00.001-08:00

The first time I met her I admit I was intimidated. Although she had a sweet and welcoming smile and a surprisingly soft voice she had short spiked hair that was tri-colored and a face full of metal. She wore the same tan colored Carhartt overalls every day, the shoulder straps covered in political and band buttons, with a various nearly threadbare t-shirt underneath. She was an outspoken dyke vegan activist who was into whisky, poker and punk rock. We worked together at a drop-in center for homeless youth and as the months slid by we became friends and hung out often. Most of our time was spent playing drinking games at her kitchen table while we flirted openly. Even in front of my girlfriend at the time. Yeah, I'm an asshole.

There was always a tangible attraction to her even though she was not my usual "type". She was also very aggressive and open about her sexuality. Since her teen years she had been heavily involved in the SMBD movement in San Francisco. Her previous lover wrote a book about, and held workshops on, fisting. And Aliah was her "model". Aliah was involved with a group up here which held monthly sex parties in random warehouses. Although I nearly went once, it fell through. My girlfriend wasn't down with the idea. Well, actually, she agreed to go but wouldn't let me go by myself. And, honestly, that would prohibited me from playing so I said we weren't going. A fight ensued but in the end it was best.

Fast forward 5 years. When I moved back to Humboldt during my pregnancy with Monkey a friend and I went out to the beach for some driftwood collecting. We strolled along the beach for half a mile or so before finding a spot to set down our blanket. As we were talking about various friends we'd known since our days at the drop-in center she kept referring to Ali this, Ali that. "He" said this or "he" did that. After the fourth or so time I stopped her and said, "Wait. dude. Who are you talking about?". "ALI!", she said. Pause. A light seemed to click on in her head. "Oh yeah! You've been gone through all of this. Well, Aliah is now Ali. And a he. Well, he wanted to be "they" but too many people had trouble with that. So. "They" is what is preferred. But "he" is okay. just not "she"." I think I stared at her with my mouth hanging open slightly as I tried to process what she just spoke. Hey, I'm one of the most open-minded person when it comes to such things but I'll admit it threw even me. It took nearly a year before I could remember to not refer to Ali as "she". I even still slip up sometimes though never in front of him, thank goodness! I have another transgendered friend out here as well, the ex of another friend from back in the day. But I've known him as a "he" so it wasn't a difficult transition for me.

I mention this because as I was lying in bed last night I started thinking about sexuality and the restrictions so many people like to place on it. I, personally, don't really understand what it would be like to feel that I'm "in the wrong body" but it doesn't mean I can't attempt to imagine what it would be like. Luckily I live in an area that is extremely accepting of transgendered people but I think of youth growing up in small towns of righter-leaning viewpoints and it's no wonder so many kids end up killing their self.

One of the things I always loved about Thailand was the acceptance and inclusion of the "lady boys". They're everywhere. In big cities and small towns alike. And they are just accepted by Thai people. It's not even an issue. It just IS.

When I see a transgendered person I wonder about them. Their lives. Their family and friends. What their experience has been like and how much courage it took to live the way they feel more comfortable. I wonder how many people look at them in disgust and shock and obvious judgment and what it does to their souls. Have they just learned to ignore it or does it still hurt? Each and every look. I wonder if the smiles or nods counter the other stuff. Do they have a family to go home to every night? A partner to love them as they are?

What do you think when you cross paths with transgendered people?

manhole of memories

2009-01-08T07:42:00.000-08:00

"There are very few human beings who receive the truth,
complete and staggering, by instant illumination.
Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment,
on a small scale, by successive developments,
cellularly, like a laborious mosaic." - Anaïs Nin

4 years. 4 years I have carried his ghost around with me. 4 years he has invaded my head, my heart, my life, reaching around every corner and lingering in shadows. Even during periods when I felt his hold over me losing its power I could still feel him weighing heavily on the part of me that usually remains hidden and guarded. My inability to release the memories have infiltrated my relationship with my partner and in some ways even my relationship with my daughter. Because as it's affected my relationship with myself on so many levels it has bled over into other areas. Not only have I carried this around with me but, by association, Mr. Egg has as well. He has seen me struggle and was more supportive than most yet imagine how devastating it must be to witness the love of your life trying to move past the love and passion she had for her previous lover. I never fully got that. I was so immersed in my own pain and grieving that I never fully understood what that was doing to him. To us. Nor did I realize how much of this was suppressing my love for him or, more specifically, my ability to allow myself to feel it.

Sometimes epiphanies occur spontaneously. They come seemingly out of nowhere to rock your world into a new direction. But sometimes they are proceeded by years of searching...questioning...actively seeking the truth. I have wrestled with those several months I spent living with D in Manhattan. I have turned every word, glance and action inside out. Flipped them upside down. Over and over and over again. Answers came slowly. My ability to see the truth came even more slowly. Piecing it all together, little by little, I finally arrived at the end. It was sudden on the one hand, releasing something that has held parts of myself hostage for so long. Something that I thought I would never, could never, move beyond. But the more I look at it from a distance I see how this was certainly a long time coming.

In the late hours of yesterday evening I arrived at the end of a trail that ended long ago. I see how I allowed myself to trip through that forest long after I lost my way. I continued to wander deeper and deeper in. But in that wandering I learned a lot about myself. The way I love. The way I hide from love. The walls I erect and smash into time and again. And, not to take away from the heartbreak I experienced, but maybe a large part of me clung onto this "lost love" for so long as a way to avoid opening to my new love. My true love. The love that exists with the man I share my bed with every night and wake to every morning and fight with and talk with and stress with and laugh with and cry with. The father of my child who has seen me through my worst moments as well as some of my best.

And when I woke this morning, and sleepily shuffled down the hall towards the light of the bathroom I heard Mr. Egg brushing his teeth and knew instantly that Monkey was on her stool trying to stick her hand under the faucet as she giggled with glee, I felt lighter. And joyous. And as I stood in the dark hallway gazing into the bathroom at my family I felt tears in my eyes. It was almost as if I was seeing them for the first time and the love in my heart was overwhelming.

I will not say that I will never again feel a twinge when I think of D. Or that the heartbreak I experienced wasn't strong and real and life-altering. But the memories no longer reside with such fullness. They are filed away with the many other lessons I have had in this life which have left me a bit more battered and bruised. They exist side by side now, the various shapes fitting together to form the bigger picture. No more and no less.

imagine all the people

2009-01-06T11:51:00.000-08:00

Steven H------ Finds the acts of anti-semitism occurring in Europe disgusting. Did the memory of the Holocaust fade?

Mr.Egg: don't confuse anti-Zionism with anti-Semitism

Steven: Mr. Egg, stop reading about the suffering of Gaza and take a look at attacks on synagogues occurring in Europe.

Random guy I don't know: Mr. Egg, when the Dutch are chanting "Jews to the gas," it has nothing to do with Israel or Zionism. It is anti-Semitism. When the Belgians are firebombing Jewish homes in Antwerp, it is anti-Semitism. When Jewish graves, synagogues, and institutions are vandalized, it is anti-Semitism, not anti-Zionism. Israel is the *excuse* for European and Islamic anti-Semitism, not the *reason*.

Me: this is a really good article. I think though, that keeping things in perspective, Muslims face much higher levels of prejudice in this day and age. And in Europe especially, the anti-Islamic vibe is much stronger - most clearly in Holland and France. And even you, Steven, have made many comments that are blatantly anti-Islamic. So it's okay for you to be anti-Islamic but not for others to be anti-Semitic?

That is just the tip of the iceberg. My Facebook has been blowing up in comment sections and responses to statuses and generally everywhere since Israel launched their offensive against Hamas. It's reached the point where I am getting angry.

I have no patience left for Jews defending Israel simply out of some sort of sense of entitlement or being "chosen".

I have no patience left for fundamentalists who consistently choose to exclude themselves from society then turn around and bitch that said society treats them as outsiders.

I have no patience left for being labeled an anti-Semite just because I disagree with Israel's policies and have issues with the exclusionary attitude of most Orthodox Jews or even the many completely secular Jews I know who will defend with their last breath their "nation".

I am tired of having the Holocaust card played time and again in conversations that have nothing to do with the Holocaust (as the guy did above). Yes, it was horrible and sickening and no we never want it to happen again. But you're going to bring it up now, 60 years later, when we're discussing a flaming car which was driven into the gate of a synagogue causing no harm to anyone? How is that logical?

I realize this sort of mentality is not exclusive to the Jewish people but people all over the world, no matter the reasons for division it is pervasive and encapsulating.

I understand being proud of your culture and your ancestors and in no way do I mean to take away from that but at what point are people going to start coming together as simply human beings? When will we finally be able to strip away religion and nationality and ethnicity and sexuality and all the ways we choose to categorize ourselves; allowing us to cling to these cloistered groups which make us feel safe and comforted while providing haven for a separatist mentality rife with hostility, partiality and elitism?

I truly believe that is the next evolution for humankind, we either evolve into harmony with one another or we will kill ourselves dropping bombs and turning this planet into a war zone. We are on the precipice here and I don't know which way we will go. For every time I am beginning to feel hopeful there is something else equally abysmal.

harm here is harm there

2008-12-30T07:50:00.000-08:00

In the spring of 2006 Mr. Egg and I flew from South Africa to Israel. We were hassled and questioned like terrorists and had our luggage searched and nearly missed our flight. Why? Who knows. Maybe because Mr. Egg could pass for an Arab. Maybe because we looked like dirty hippies. Maybe because I blinked my eyes one too many times. I had heard that El Al's security was tighter than any other airline in the world but didn't quite get it until I experienced it firsthand. It was a rather hostile introduction to our arrival in Israel.

We spent a week in Tel Aviv with my former roommate from NYC, Liba. When we packed up and left our apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side Mr. Egg and I took off for Hong Kong and Liba left for Israel. She had spent a year there after high school and always longed to return. The plan was for her to get there, find a job, make some contacts and then return to the US and then make aliyah. As it turns out she never officially made the move, she's still there working in a bar and making her art and going back and forth between Tel Aviv and NYC in order to keep her status there legal.

Although I was excited to be in Israel, a land I had always wanted to see, I couldn't help but feel out of place given my views concerning the Israeli and Palestinian conflict. I tried to keep my thoughts to myself, not wanting to offend anyone. And, given my personality and passion about things I believe strongly in, it was only a matter of time until I could hold it in no longer.

One day when Liba and I were having dinner at this trendy little sandwich shop on Lilenblaum St. I could no longer keep silent about it. She made some offensive comment about Palestinians which broke the dam and it all came flooding out. I tried every reason I knew to be logical to show her why Israel was in the wrong;

The HUGE fact that Israel is illegally occupying Palestine and has been since 1967. Maybe that has something to do with why so many Palestinians consistently turn to violence. They feel it is their only option to fight the oppression.

How would you react if your home was demolished right before your eyes? and you were starving because funds have been stopped to your people because you voted in a way the Israelis did not agree with? and you held your child in your arms who was bleeding to death from getting caught in the crossfire and the ambulance that was trying to reach you to save his or her life was fired at and blocked from reaching you?

The Palestinians have been made second-class citizens in their own land and are living under oppression daily.

Israelis have annexed their land, built illegal settlements, build Israeli-only roads between the settlements and even are given priority to the natural resources in the areas, i.e.: water.

I asked Liba how she would feel if she was faced with that. She claimed she was, every day, simply by being Jewish. She knew oppression, her people had been oppressed since the beginning and they persevered. And now you think it's your turn to be the oppressors?, I countered.

I seem to have these same conversations over and over with the majority of my Jewish friends. Even those who aren't religious seem to have this intense support of Israel, no matter what the state's crimes are. I cannot wrap my head around the idea that it's a good idea for the US to provide aid to a nation that is in violation of the UN's Resolution 242 but also that the we are in violation of our own laws: The US Foreign Assistance Act (FAA) and the US Arms Export Control Act (AECA) strictly forbid the government from giving military assistance to any country that violates internationally recognized human rights. Or that by giving money and arms to Israel, who then turns around and sells billions of dollars worth of arms to India to fight Pakistan, the US is essentially funding two nations on the brink (or over the edge as the case may be in Israel and Palestine) of war.

What is the answer? I'm not sure what the answer is. A second state? Quite possibly. And it's also possible that there is nothing to be done and the violence will continue to escalate until there is a complete genocide on either side. But until Israel makes that first step of discontinuing their illegal occupation nothing else matters.

Until the Palestinians have their land and their rights back they will fight to the death for it. I would like to think everything could be achieved peacefully but to be honest, I'm not a pacifist and although I think peaceful means should be tried first if they don't work I understand the desire to grab a weapon and fight for what it yours. For your basic human rights. I realize it just perpetuates the cycle but what are you other options when you have tried everything?

from the rush back to the calm

2008-12-29T07:49:00.000-08:00

The night before we were to head down to the Bay Area Mr. Egg called his sister to confirm the time of our arrival. From where I sat in the living room the call from his end sounded like this:

Yo' sis, you ready? (pause) Yeah, we're not leaving until after I get off work so don't expect us until 10-11. (pause) How's the unpacking coming? (pause) Is J already at mom's? And Auntie? (pause) -I interject and say, Dude, remind her we're bringing the dog- Yup well we'll see you tomorrow, we're bringing our dog and our baby. (pause) Oh, uh, I thought this was already talked about. (pause) Yep, well we'll figure something out, bye.

Wtf, I ask? Turns out her husband said "no fucking way" to the dog coming. I assured him I had informed her of this over a month ago. But in the midst of their moving just before the holidays it was forgotten amongst the madness. And at that late point our options were what? Nada. So we spent the rest of the night scrambling and trying to find a cheapish hotel to stay and thought we were going to have to just blow it off and stay home. Plus and minuses to both going and staying. Mainly the staying option caused guilt for Mr. Egg as his mother was so excited to have all her children and grandchildren there for Christmas. Stress levels were running high. By the next morning his sister had emailed to say they'd work it out and 2 hours before we had planned to leave his BIL called to explain his side and that it would be cool and we should come down as planned. By the end of our first evening there? He loved our dog so much he was offering money if we would leave him there.

So the week played out as most family holidays do - plenty of food and LOTS of alcohol and not enough sleep and excited children and healthy sprinklings of bickering and reminiscing and frustration and contentment and everything in between. Monkey had her moments of sheer terrible toddlerdom as well as those in which she giggled and smiled and wrapped everyone around her finger. Overall it went better than expected and although at times tensions ran high we came away feeling glad we went (I think).

We also managed to sneak in some time with friends, though not as many as we would have liked. We departed from the family festivities Saturday afternoon and drove south to spend that night with friends. Monkey and M played and we all talked and talked and talked some more and ate food and drank beer and wine and stayed up talking some more once the girls were asleep. They gave up their bed for us and slept horribly because of it and when morning came we drank some coffee and I took away a box of their things they are trying to find homes for and we all hugged and said our goodbyes and best wishes and by the time we reached the end of their road I was in tears. Because though I am happy and excited for their beginning chapter I think the reality of it hit me and there is a mixture of joy for them and sadness a bit for me because although I know we will meet again when and where are unknown and it may be longer than I would like. But as I have traveled and moved and traveled and moved again and connected with people on deep levels I have learned that we weave in and out of each others stories as the timing fits and it's never really goodbye it's just see you around the Universe in the most unexpected places.

On our way back home that Sunday morning we stopped in Berkeley to visit friends Mr. Egg has known and loved for over 20 years. We had brunch on their back deck in the beautiful sunshine while Monkey and their son ran around the yard with the 4 dogs and played in their sand pit and fort and time was short, as it always is, and the couple of hours passed by much faster than we would have liked but it was time to hit the road for our long journey home.

And as we arrived home last night as dark was setting in and we unloaded the kid and the dog and the presents and dirty clothes we were exhausted and drained. And this morning it's back to our usual day to day stuff and with that it's time to change a poopy diaper.

Living just north of Who-ville

2008-12-21T08:23:00.000-08:00

"I know we're doing Christmas this year with your mom and family since last year we were with my mom in London for Monkey's first Christmas but what do you think about not celebrating Christmas anymore after this year?"

"Uh....What? I don't want to talk about it."

"Why, though?? It makes no sense. We are not Christians, we don't even believe in God, in fact. And we both despise the consumer aspect of it. Strip that all away and what do you have?"

"DUDE. I am NOT going to talk with you about this right now."

"I don't get it. What are we supposed to tell Monkey it's all about? Little baby Jesus? It's speculated he was born in the summertime anyway. And buying shit just for the purpose of buying shit? We can celebrate a holiday, why don't we just do Solstice. It's about the winter season and family and love and giving, etc. Christmas was just Solstice co-opted by the Christians as an attempt to convert all the Pagans!"

"C, puh-leeze! I told you I'm not going to talk about this!"

"Fine, dude. Night." (I stormed off the bed)

The next morning when I woke Mr. Egg was in the kitchen pouring boiling water into our French press. When he saw me stumble into the living room, sleepy eyed in my robe, he said, "Are you over it yet, grump?". I responded I was only trying to have a conversation with him about an aspect of our family's future and don't understand why he wouldn't have a conversation with me about it. "Because, dude, it's not something you talk about just days before Christmas. It's very un-Christmas-like. It's decidedly Grinch-like. You want to talk about this, fine, but we'll do it after Christmas."

It's not as though I didn't have wonderful childhood memories of Christmas. Every year, the day after Thanksgiving my mother trekked into the attic or basement and pulled out our boxes and boxes of decorations. The stereo pumped out Christmas carols nearly 24/7. We went to midnight Mass (we only went to church on the big holidays, mainly Christmas and Easter, at times Ash Wednesday). The air was filled with the smells of my mother's yearly baking frenzy. We decorated the tree as a family, always one of the biggest trees on the lot that left barely enough room to place the angel without scraping the ceiling. I believed in Santa until I was about 8 and although it was a crushing blow when I discovered the truth I had enjoyed the years of magic and mystery. A part of me will always hold a special place in my heart for the Christmas of my childhood.

But for me now as an adult? Christmas represents so much of what I want to leave behind. And even more I've become increasingly bitter about how pervasive Christmas is, for months beforehand now it winds its way into every aspect of every day and it's unavoidable. I met my friend at the bar the other night for a couple of drinks and as we were in the middle of a discussion about Christmas and how annoyed we are that it's constantly shoved down our throats a group of carolers wound they way through the bar, complete with reindeer ears and Christmas lights wrapped around their bodies, and they were loud and obnoxious and Sprout and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes, like, SEE!! It's the assumption by the majority of Americans that everyone celebrates Christmas. I'm not hating on those who love Christmas and want to celebrate, awesome, do it. But don't push it on me or my family and don't give me those awful looks like I'm depriving my daughter. I was in the market with Monkey the other day and this woman comes up when she witnesses Monkey throwing a tantrum (because I won't let her play with the delicate glasses on the shelf) and leans down to her level and says, "You should be a good girl or Santa won't bring you any presents!". I eyed her in disbelief and said, "We don't do Santa, especially not as a fear tactic". She looked at me like I was the worst mother in the world.

And in a couple of days we're driving down to the Bay Area for the week to spend the holiday with Mr. Egg's family. He has family flying in from as far away as Montreal and it will be the first time in years that his entire immediate family will be together for Christmas. I will bite my tongue and smile and eat the food and drink the alcohol and enjoy watching Monkey play with her cousins and try to keep my political and spiritual ideology to myself. But come next year? And the years after that? We will be celebrating the winter season in a new way.....if I can just get Mr. Egg on board with it :)

We both know it was a girl back in Bethlehem

2008-12-11T22:34:00.000-08:00

I swore I wasn't having any issues at all when Mr. Egg came home yesterday and said, "Dude, you're in total freak mode" as I flitted about our home cleaning crevices and pacing nervously. And today when we drove the 20 miles to our tiny joke of a county airport I played it cool. And dudes, I drove in my minivan (which I LOVE, but that is a post for another day) to pick her up and Monkey fell asleep en route and once I pulled into short term parking my dad offered to run in and check the arrival board. I offered to do it while he waited in the car with the sleeping child. As soon as I put the van in park I knew I wanted to go into the bar and have a beer. So I offered to go in, that was my logic although it wasn't shared.

I went into the airport and headed straight to the bar. I ordered a beer and downed it in less than 5 minutes. Luckily the bar was set up with windows overlooking the runway so I could see when the plane landed, it's such a small airport there are only a few flights a day. I saw a plane land and guzzled the rest of my beer and headed downstairs to the one arrival gate. I waited as the tiny jet set up their stairs and the people began to file off. My eyes were searching for an old, short, round lady but nobody was fitting that description. It turned out this was not the flight I was looking for, the one I was waiting for was arriving a few minutes later. My first thought? Dude, I could totally be having another beer right now. Less than 10 minutes later I see my grandmother. She is not walking towards the arrival gate but being pushed in a wheelchair. My heart drops a bit. It hasn't been that long since I've seen my Gram. Over two years, to be sure, the last time was when I was in my first trimester with Monkey. But to see her in a wheelchair? A shock. She was wheeled through and we made small talk as we waited for her luggage. We all piled into the van and headed home, picking up my step-father along the way and all had lunch at my house. My dads left to return to work and I spent the afternoon with my Gram.

Monkey stole her heart and climbed all over her and I did my best to entertain the both of them and refrain from getting too intimate or political with her. As the hours passed my tongue loosened. I began cooking dinner and opened a bottle of wine and then Mr. Egg came home which broke the ice a bit more.

It's complicated with my Gram. I always felt like a disappointment. I've always been unconventional and she's very mainstream. She's very conservative and Catholic. She was a nun, dudes. For a couple of years in her late teens. We are coming from such different places. She shops at Wal-Mart on a daily basis. She lives off of pharmaceuticals, carbonated sugar water and boxed meals filled with msg. She nearly hyper-ventilated when we told her there wasn't a Wal-Mart here. And when she made the comment, "Oh you must be behind the times up here" and we responded "No, it's a choice. They wanted to build here but the community successfully fought them out", she just couldn't wrap her head around it.

I made a beautiful, fresh meal made with mostly organic and local ingredients (four cheese polenta with a salad of red leaf lettuce with walnuts, feta, apples, dried cranberries and apple gouda sausage) and as I set the plate before her she said, "I'm definitely trying something new tonight". She enjoyed it and I loved that she expanded her palate and maybe it expanded her world a bit.

Mr. Egg bounced to bed early and we stayed up talking about family stuff and secrets and motherhood and birthing and varying lifestyles and religion and anything else you can think of. I listen quietly as she tells me of my cousins back home on the Gulf Coast and instead of the usual disdain I feel over things like a cousin who shot off the leg of his mother's fiance or the cousin and his wife who were both arrested for domestic violence while their daughter is dealing with neuroblastoma or my favorite aunt who was so traumatized by Katrina that she can't leave her home and is on more than a dozen medications which still leave her unable to function properly. All I thought in these moments of her relaying details, although most of the time I write them off with barely a shrug of my shoulders, is that regardless of how much I find their lives disdainful they are my family and I love them and a part of me will always miss the connection we all had in childhood.

I come from a large family. My father was one of 9 and my mother was one of 7. I have 26 first cousins. All of whom lived near me whilst growing up. We had large family gatherings during holidays and although I have no siblings a couple of my cousins fill that role. But since I branched out on my own and left Louisiana I rarely have much contact with any of my family left behind. To be honest, I often feel better than the majority of them. And when I have returned home to visit I know they have felt that although I have tried my best to hide my feelings of superiority. It's not because they live in trailers. It's not because they live off of food stamps. It has to do with that fact they most of them continually act in ways that bring to mind Jerry Springer guests. The white trash lifestyle has absolutely nothing to do with money. People who have all the money in the world can still act in ways that place them in the decidedly shallow end of the gene pool which seems to render them unable to function in a rational and evolved manner.

I actually managed to get my Gram to admit these faults, for the first time in my life. And as we spoke about mothering and the various aspects of how much it affects one's self and life I felt, for the first time in my life, a real connection with her. One that ventured far beyond anything I had felt for her before. The older I get the more I find our relationship deepening.

She spoke at length about her more-than-poor Cajun upbringing in the Louisiana swamp with 11 siblings and a drunken father who died when she was 5. She told me about sharing a bed with four of her sisters and how cold it was in the winter, that if they left a glass of water by their bed it would be frozen by the time they woke up because there was only one heater in the house and it was the stove on which they cooked in the kitchen. She persevered through days where there just wasn't enough food to eat and when she married my grandfather they had 9 kids and managed to do well for themselves. She lacked patience and wasn't the best mother, she admits that, but she did the best she could with the tools she had at the time. She also wasn't always the best grandmother, she's been harsh with me plenty of times and never hid her dislike for my mother.

But, through all of the bullshit and the family drama? She is the only grandmother I've known from my dad's side and she has a good heart. She loves us all and would do anything for us. If I ever turned up on her doorstep she would take me in without a second thought and hug me hard before cooking me up some food. She is here for the next week and I'm absorbing every moment I can. She is 77 and having some serious health problems. She recently got out of the hospital and is basically living with congestive heart failure. I realize this may be the last time I see her. And I know this is most likely the only time Monkey will meet her great-grandmother. So I will soak up this next week and make the most of every moment.

Since I've become a mother the idea of family seems to resonate on such a deeper level than before. And I want to honor that. Regardless of how much our politics differ, I am able to be honest with her, completely, and even if she doesn't agree she listens. And what more can I ask for?

Behind the voice of command

2008-12-03T08:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon Monkey scaled the bookshelf to retrieve a large jar of lavender buds which she proceeded to carry to the couch and dump over her head. She didn't stop there but spread it around with her little hands, in every crevice and nook. Where was I? I was doing dishes and oblivious to her stealth-like ability to climb and carry in absolute silence. As I rounded the corner around the bar which separates our kitchen from our living room I stopped. I stood there, mouth hanging open, for a good 15 seconds as she sat up straight and barely moved a muscle as she stared at me with wide eyes. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1....I screamed, "MONKEY!!! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, DUDE??" as I stormed over and lifted her from the couch and sat her in her chair on the floor. I began cleaning up the mess, hands shaking and she walked over and tried to watch what I was doing. I yelled at her again saying NO NO NO over and over. I didn't even know what to say other than that and eventually I said, "Not cool, dude, not cool!". I was very conscious not to use the word "bad" because it really disturbs me. Like when people say, "No! Bad girl!" - it reminds me of something you say to your dog or something, not your kid. Just because she does something I don't like doesn't make her, or even the action, "bad". It's just not a word I want to incorporate into my disciplining repertoire. She sat back in her chair quietly and waited until I was finished cleaning up to run over and dive into the sofa head first. She sat there and started giggling. I thought to myself, does she even get that I wasn't happy with what she just did? Or did she already accept it and move on and I should take a cue from that?

Thing is, as of late, I've really been examining my reactions to situations. I am a yeller. It's what I do. It's what I've always done. Whenever I lose it over whatever Monkey has done in that moment to warrant an explosion from me, it brings back memories of my childhood and my mother's tendency to yell and I realize I learned it from my parents but that's no excuse, really. I've been in therapy enough years in my life to know all about breaking cycles and choosing how you react to things. I've just become lazy over time and it doesn't help that I always feel rather high-strung and my temper is always simmering near boiling point. So when Monkey does things like the lavender incident or pours her milk all over Mr. Egg's rug he brought home from Turkey years ago and then lays on her belly and tries to suck it out of the carpet (I guess it tastes better that way??) or climbs onto the table to get the pen which she then tries to write on the wall with or she gets up from her training potty in the bathroom and runs into the bedroom and pees all over the bed - I lose my shit.

There is this nagging voice in my head that tells me there are some people with infinite patience who spend all their time baking muffins with their kids and never raise their voice or lock themselves in the bathroom for a few minutes to collect their thoughts. Or at least I'm led to believe, in this society of SuperMoms, that these individuals exist though I'm not sure where they are as I haven't met any. And if they claim to be I think they are liars. I know everyone loses their patience at one point or another and I'm not the only mother out there who yells at their child.

But I've begun to worry about how much yelling is too much yelling. Maybe it's any yelling at all? I don't want to continue this cycle which began with grandparents who knows how many generations ago. Or is it simply the natural human condition, to get angry and yell? I know I balance it with plenty of snuggles and kisses and assuring words and airplane rides and lots and lots of tickles. But in those moments? The ones where I lose control and yell at her and she looks up at me with those sad eyes and quivering lip I feel like the worst mother ever.

What are your thoughts about yelling and how do you cope with it?

wider lens

2008-11-30T12:36:00.000-08:00

After nearly 10 months and over a dozen persistent and nagging pleas I managed to convince her it was the right thing to do. She, along with J & M, finally made the journey nearly 300 miles up Highway 101 to visit us in our cozy little house tucked away behind the redwood curtain. They arrived Friday afternoon, complete with a big tub of toys/books/games for Monkey that M had outgrown, a pumpkin pie and a 10 gallon fish tank containing two fish. One of which has a penchant for not only swimming upside down but simply hanging out at the bottom of the tank belly up. Er. But they swear it isn't dying. At least anytime soon. It will obviously die eventually though. And hopefully it won't be tomorrow.

Overall, the couple of days they were here were filled with good food, lots of laughter, exchanging of thoughts and ideas, some beers and two adorable little girls who forged an equal adoration for one another and went nearly everywhere together. They ran up and down the hall, splashed each other in the bath, wandered the property, took turns throwing the dog his ball and hung all over each other. Photographic evidence of their extreme cuteness? :

Jen and I had a few stolen moments without children hanging on our limbs. In the other moments we connected with each other's girls and just sort of basked in the glow that is children playing and laughing. M is a sheer force of nature, those big wide eyes of hers and crazy thick golden hair. She laughs with her whole body and is the sweetest when being super snuggly and scrunching up her nose while making funny faces. She seemed attached to my hip at times until her affections switched to Mr. Egg who she had wrapped around her little finger. Monkey learned, for the first time, what it was like to share her parents and she was not too pleased about it. Mr. Egg and J hit it off, as they have before, talking about everything under the sun. I am always amazed at how similar they are in so many ways personality-wise. Though I suppose they have both traveled extensively to most of the same places and those experiences have shaped who they are today which could explain a lot of it. They also seem to retain every piece of information they have ever read and are both natural born teachers in the way they pass that information on to other people. It's very interesting listening to their conversations.

Saturday was such a beautiful day and we took advantage of the sunshine and 65 degree weather. We wandered old-growth redwoods forests, crisscrossed a frigid creek bed several times over at the bottom of a canyon covered in ferns which felt entirely prehistoric, came across a herd of elk and ended up at the beach during sunset as the fog rolled in, creating an ethereal and almost alien atmosphere.

As the darkness of night began to set in Jen and J offered to take us to eat at a mexican spot near our house before they got on the road for their long trek home. Once we were back in the car J asked M, "What was your favorite part today? The forest, crossing over the creek, the elk or the beach?" (pause) "The restaurant!", she yelled with a wide grin and equally wide eyes. We all laughed and continued driving across the bay towards the glittering lights of Eureka.

butterfly on her shoulder

2008-11-25T07:14:00.000-08:00

We met at a coffee shop in the French Quarter on a Sunday afternoon. She had found my (at the time) boyfriend's photography portfolio online and contacted him about her desire to enter the modeling world. She wanted to meet him in a public place to discuss ideas and feel him out. I think she felt better when he mentioned he'd bring his girlfriend along. From the instant I met her I felt a strong connection, we discussed travel and shaved heads in our respective pasts. She felt like someone I innately knew, there was a definite soul recognition.

When The Boy went to the bathroom she asked how I felt about him photographing nude women. I shrugged and said it was what it was. I mentioned that he had recently developed a thing for one of his models, which made it harder for me, but at the end of the day I tried to accept it was his art and at least he was home in bed with me every night. She didn't look too convinced. We all parted ways and she said she would call. And call she did. They set up a time for a shoot a couple of weeks later, I went along for the ride into the city although The Boy didn't want me with them because he said I would be a distraction. So I wandered the streets of the Quarter, waiting for them to finish. Then we drove down to City Park where they went off again in the Louisiana summertime heat and I sat on a bench writing in my journal. I began to get the feeling that something was off but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

When The Boy picked up his photos from that shoot we were both in awe. She, May, had something. Those photos were the best ones The Boy had ever taken. I saw it in his eyes, I knew immediately, he was falling for her. They set up another shoot, one at this old junk yard up near The Boy's father's land about 2-3 hours north of where we lived, on the Louisiana/Mississippi border. I asked if I could go along as well, I would take my camera and wander the yard and shoot my own photos of rusted old cars and overgrown grass. The Boy said no. We fought. He went. I cried.

And for the next year or more there were late nights when he came home after I was already in bed, hushed phone calls that ended abruptly when I entered the room, secretive emails that, when I found them, left me throwing my clothes into a bag as I threatened to walk out the door. Even when May left New Orleans and moved to NYC his obsession with her did not lessen. He went to visit her a few months later and while he was gone I decided it was over. There was much more to it, lie after lie on his part, but I channeled so much of it into hatred for May. I blamed her, compared myself to her and believed that I truly hated her with a passion. And yet I would have dreams of her, intense dreams, where we were lying in bed and exchanging whispered secrets. I dreamt that I pulled back a curtain to find her curled on red sheets, crying silently, unable to speak. There were dreams of flowery fields and us as small children, holding hands and laughing. Tire swings and summery afternoons. Confrontational dreams where I screamed that she was ruining my relationship and my life. I would awake from each dream startled yet feeling a draw and a closeness to her that defied the emotions I professed to have towards her, all of which I stated was negative.

She was everywhere I went in the modeling world. Every photographer I worked with, she had worked with. Every model I met, she knew too. We tripped along this same path, connections intertwining, yet never happening to be in the same place at the same time. I always seemed to be just a few steps behind her.

When I finally left The Boy and moved to NYC I had just missed May, she had moved on to Los Angeles. I emailed her one night, emboldened by a few too many beers, and let loose a torrent of emotion. I apologized for all the negative energy I'd directed her way and explained that maybe what hurt me most was that when I first met her I thought there was something between us. She almost immediately emailed me back and spoke at length about how much she had wanted to contact me during my time with The Boy and apologize for anything she did that would make me think she in any way encouraged The Boy's affection for her. I knew that nothing had ever happened between them physically but it did not lessen his feelings for her. I knew she had turned him down and broken his heart. Not that any of that helped me to feel any better at the time as I watched my boyfriend heartbroken over another woman who did not want him while I sat, night after night, in our bedroom attempting to will him to love me like he loved her. We found it interesting that he had kept us apart, kept us from becoming the friends we were destined to become. I think he simply wanted May to himself and knew that if she and I became close and I was always around it would be that much harder for him to play out whatever fantasy was going on in that fucked up head of his when they worked together.

Since I sent that email 4 years ago May has become one of my closest friends. We rarely see each other but it's not necessary. Even if we don't speak for months at a time we pick up right where we left off. There is a comfort and a familiarity that doesn't need assurance. She visited Mr. Egg and me in Louisiana after our RTW travels. We took the boat out on the Tchefuncte and swam in alligator infested waters and later that night Mr. Egg was cool enough not to mind our night long spooning session. There are not many of my friends that Mr. Egg has much affinity for. But May? He loves her...even if he has grown increasingly perturbed by her revolving door of lovers and grand plans. But I wonder how much it bothers him in her these same qualities that, underneath it all, scare him in me.

It's interesting to see where her life has led her. We started out in the same spot just a few short years ago and have had so many similar life experiences it was shocking. It's as though we were both wandering identical paths until they converged for a while and then abruptly split again and sent us shooting off in completely different directions. I shifted my energy to focus on motherhood and my family. She got signed to a major modeling agency and is traveling the world.

After spending the last few months in Greece she is back on US soil. She is packing up her place in L.A. and looking for a spot to land. She is coming up here to visit us at some point in the next couple of months but we're trying to talk her into making it a longer stay. She needs some place to call home in between shoots in Milan, Tokyo, Australia and South Africa. But I realize she is a gypsy by nature, rarely landing in one spot for longer than the blink of an eye. She also falls in and out of love suddenly with equal fierceness. She was a large inspiration for a short story I wrote a while back. But it's difficult to tell which parts are her and which are me as we have such similar qualities.

I remember sitting on a dock a couple of years ago overlooking the bayou as sweat dripped down our faces and the beer bottles in our hands. I told her I would never allow myself to fall in love with somebody like her. Like me. Our hearts are too wild. Ever-shifting. It is one of the biggest issues Mr. Egg has had with loving me over the years. I have a difficult time seeing it in myself but when I look at May? I see it and it scares the shit out of me. I watch her move from this place to that, fall in love and exclaim this is THE ONE and then move on just as surely and as quickly, daydream and change plans so often it leaves one's head spinning. I feel that although motherhood has grounded me in some regard those elements remain a part of me, no matter how much I hide them. But no matter how appealing her life may seem to me at times it also reassures me that I'm exactly where I want to be.

subdivision

2008-11-20T19:17:00.000-08:00

We have been searching far and wide for a second vehicle. It has been a definite struggle, for the past 18 months, to share one car. As it works out most days Monkey and I are home without transportation. It's not as if Mr. Egg and I haven't tried to procure another car, we have and we did. We drove up to Oregon about a year ago and purchased an '90 Jetta which took me back to my first car, Rhodey.

Ah, Rhodey. She was a white 1988 sporty little Jetta and she was a tricky one. I bought her from an older guy at a used car dealership outside of Providence, RI. I was barely 19, working two jobs and attempting to scrape by.

On my birthday I came into some money which was a settlement from my childhood involving a dog attacking my face. It's cool, you can barely see the scars now. So I received my payout on my 19th year and I was tired of walking the 2 miles to each job day after day in the snow plus my cousin and I were planning a roadtrip home to New Orleans for Mardi Gras - I needed a car.

I set out on my search all the while my ex-girlfriend (who, for some reason, wasn't quite getting out of the picture) yelled at me to take someone who knew something about cars with me. I ignored her, of course. I approached it with one thing in mind: did the car look good? I don't mean "good" as in fancy and fully loaded. I mean good as in no dents, no rust, no tears in the seats, etc. I didn't want or need fancy. Just something that worked and didn't look like a piece of shit. I checked out a couple of cars and then found her. She was a manual. She had power nothing. A crappy stereo with not even a tape deck and speakers that crackled. But she looked good to me and I was sold. I did wonder about reliability but was hooked when the old salesman guy who reminded me of my Gramps looked me straight in the eye and said, "This is a good car, right here. I would buy it for my own granddaughter". Yeah, I know. But I was young and naive and blah blah blah. I drove her home.

The next evening, on my way home from work, she stalled at a red light. In the turning lane. Of a busy intersection. In the sleety winter rain. A nice guy helped me push her to the side of the road and she started up fine about 20 minutes later. And so it went, for the next 3 years she was an on again off again vehicle that I sunk thousands into without ever managing to fix that initial problem. She started sometimes, but not always. But she got me cross country a few times and helped me during times of my life when I never got myself into situations that 24 hours and a car couldn't get me out of. She finally gave out and is sitting to this day in my ex's yard in Louisiana, amongst a graveyard of other vehicles, growing moss. It's the South, folks. In the country, no less. Auto body part graveyards are a common occurrence in people's yards.

You would think that after having had such an experience with a Jetta, such an experience that every mechanic I went to told me that VW's were just temperamental cars that tended to have electrical issues, I would have steered clear? Well, you would think. But I did not. We drove 7 hours straight, round trip, to buy this Jetta and the second day - I kid you not - it wouldn't start. The battle began and we tried for a few months and backed off. We have tried intermittently to get the car running again but gave up when it became clear it was nothing more than a money pit. The car has been sitting on the top of our hill for the better part of the last several months.

And a couple of weeks ago we found a great car. A great one. Again, up in Oregon. We left Monkey with my dad for the day and drove the 4 hours to Medford to pick up the RAV4 we'd been coveting for months. It had popped up on craigslist for the right price and we jumped on it. Needless to say it didn't work out, I won't get into the details because I'm still pissed off and bitter. I will say that the owner of that car has some bad fucking karma coming her way.

And now, with Mr. Egg's new work schedule, it's become near impossible to share the car. He's working in two different towns, half day in each, and it would not make any sense for me to drive him around all day, just so I could have the car. So we've been searching. Every day. The problem is the lack of vehicles up here and what they do have tends to be extremely overpriced, there just isn't the competition to keep things low. I will say that we only are looking to buy from private parties, dealerships make no sense to me. We're not looking for anything less than 10 years old and personally I think spending more than a few thousand dollars on a car is insane. I'm not knocking those who want newer, more reliable vehicles, it's just a different mindset.

Mr. Egg had his mom and step-father checking out cars down in the Bay Area, we discussed driving down for a weekend if the right vehicle presented itself. Mr. Egg's mom emailed him yesterday morning with this news: her neighbor was going to give us, yes give as in completely free, their '97 minivan with just over 100,000 miles. He tells me this over IM. I freeze. I reply, "ur joking?" He says he's not. My mind is racing. Oh. My. God. Is this happening? Seriously? A minivan? A minivan?! But it's a free vehicle! With not too many miles! Everything sort of slowed for a second as my head was spinning. I realize we need a second car and it's free and it's just a vehicle. But....I am not a minivan kind of person. Maybe that sounds ridiculous and stupid but it's true. It basically represents everything that I despise about the American way of life.

The gas mileage kinda sucks, granted it is not better on our current car - a 16 year old Volvo wagon. But beyond that there is a certain stigma that comes along with driving a minivan, the typical ride for a suburbanite shuttling kids to and from this activity or that. That is not who I am. I feel that I struggle enough with motherhood, in so far as how it changes me and consumes certain aspects of my existence, and to have to drive a minivan just compounds it in this tangible way for the world to see. As though it says, "Here I am, a MOM! A Mom who doesn't give a shit about the environment or anything other than my own comfort as I drive around eating McJunk and shopping at Wal-Mart..." So driving a minivan? This is a far cry from my 21 year old self with dreadlocks and patchwork fraying at the seams, washing my own clothes and dishes in a single bin with Dr. Bronner's while blasting society as a whole for living its unsustainable way.

I fully understand I'm not being very rational about this, it's simply my emotion ~~screaming~~ speaking. I asked Mr. Egg if he would mind driving the van, if it's just about having a reliable vehicle to get him to and from work and he doesn't have any sort of issues with it, why not? I can drive the Volvo and everyone is happy. He hasn't given any sort of definitive answer yet. First he agreed then changed his mind and now I'm leaving it alone. I think part of him wants me to drive it because he wants me to push past these issues I'm having, which to him seem "shallow". And on the surface, I get that. I realize how spoiled it is of me to even have the option of caring about the vehicle I drive. A car is a car, after all, and I should be happy to have one, period. Right?

So I'm attempting to pull my head out of my ass and just be freaking grateful that there is some kind soul who wants to give us a vehicle out of the goodness of their heart (which definitely threw me, how many people do things like that? not enough, that's for sure). And if it plays out that I do end up driving it I should be grateful that I have a safe and reliable car to drive my daughter around in so we can get out of the house and go run around the beach or the forest. It is just a car, after all. Right? Right.

To Friends, Family and the World

2008-11-19T07:20:00.000-08:00

My step-father wrote this a few days after the election. I found it moving and wanted to share it with all of you.

To My Friends, Family, and the World:

I am writing because, as a gay citizen in this time and place, I have no other choice. I have to do something to dispose of this feeling of tightness and loss that has been pressing down on my heart for these past few days. And I would like to harness the rawness of my feelings right now and shine a light on them for you so that, perhaps, you may come to understand me better and what it is that I stand for. To all of you who read this, I apologize in advance if my tone sometimes drifts into anger and sarcasm, but I have been hurt badly. I ask for your patience and your compassion.

First of all, I want to express my deepest gratitude to the electorate of Humboldt County, my home county, as well as to the 16 other counties (Santa Barbara, Monterey, Santa Cruz, Santa Clara, San Mateo, San Francisco, Alameda, Contra Costa, Marin, Sonoma, Napa, Yolo, Sonoma, Mendocino, Mono, and Alpine) that voted NO on Proposition 8. If you look at the election results on the Secretary of State’s website, you will see that 60.1% of the voters in Humboldt said no when they were asked to try and take away my so-called “inalienable” right to marry the person of my choice. And many, many people also voted no in the 41 other counties that have approved the measure. To all of you who took a stand for me and Steve and voted to block the passage of this most pernicious and destructive of all ballot initiatives, thank you so very much.

To the rest of the electorate, I suggest that while you feel that you may have won a victory, you have only been victorious in abusing your majority power at the expense of your fellow citizens, your friends, and your families. Your perceived victory is merely an illusion, hollow and morally bankrupt, and it will never endure as my love, which is pure and bright and wholly human, will endure. My human heart is too far beyond your reach; you will never succeed and are, in the end, powerless over me.

Of course, your actions are hurtful, and I would be a liar if I said that I was unaffected by your invidious arrogance. You have made it constantly and abundantly clear what you think of me throughout my life, and your most recent public attack is merely that same old hatred and contempt taken to a new, and breathtakingly unacceptable, level. When I realized that the electorate was willing to try to vote away my fundamental constitutional rights, I felt crushed and rejected as I have not felt since I was seventeen when I recoiled from the rejection of my own “loving” mother and father. They had been co-opted by the Catholic Church, which delights in irrationally labeling gay people as gravely immoral, and they had no tools with which to love their gay son; they had only the tools of rejection, sharpened by their love of a cruel god, which pierced me through again and again and again. Dead now, they never knew me, and, therefore, never accepted me. And in spite of them, I learned to love myself, since they would not, and possibly could not. But on election night, feeling suddenly sick, I ran into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Somewhere in there I saw the eyes of my father, and I began to weep for the sadness of it all. I am fifty-two years old.

All I ever wanted from my family and the world was to feel that I was wanted and loved, only to be emphatically shown over and over and over that I was neither. I have this metaphor in my head in which the country is a family; the passage of Proposition 8 was a rejection by my family of fellow citizens. All I have ever asked from civil society is that my humanness, that my status as a full and equal member of our civil society, be acknowledged. And it seems that most people are willing to pay the proposition that gay people are equal members of society lip service, because that’s what good Americans are supposed to stand for. But their actions constantly betray their true feelings, because what they really mean is that gay people are to be merely, and barely, tolerated, tolerated not cherished, and that gay people are completely undeserving of the dignity afforded to the families of our heterosexual counterparts. The truth of this is naked for all to see in the passage of Proposition 8. In fact, if you look into the rhetoric used in the campaign by its supporters, their disdain and disgust, and their monstrous callousness, arrogance, and ignorance are well displayed.

First, I must reassert my belief that the vote on Proposition 8 was illegal because it was unconstitutional on its face, and it is, therefore, invalid. I fully believe that the Supreme Court of this State will come down forcefully on the side of justice and equality as the Constitution requires it to do.

It has been suggested by supporters of Proposition 8 that, if gay people are upset about the election results, they should just put their own initiative before the people. This whole idea is arrogant and condescending, not to mention just plain wrong. You do NOT have to ask anyone for your constitutional rights; you are BORN with them. For all you Catholics and Mormons and other religious people who seem to be challenged by trying to understand constitutional rights, this means that our constitutional rights are kind of like Original Sin in the Catholic tradition: you are all born with it. However, unlike the fiction of original sin, you can’t just take a little holy water and wash other people’s inalienable constitutional rights away, no matter how badly you may want to try. The suggestion that we need to beg the electorate for our constitutional rights is offensive and un-American.

The Catholics and Mormons and other religious people shrieked that passage of Proposition 8 would require, oh the HORROR, that children be taught about homosexual love at school, and this scandalized the electorate.

They irrationally equate our love with the mechanics of sex in order to appeal to peoples’ basest instincts and their tendency to fear, distrust, and separate from themselves that which is different. But, I have to point out how highly offensive this line of “protect the children” reasoning is to me as a gay citizen. I’m sorry, but I know for a fact that there is nothing wrong with or even really very different about being gay, so why would it ever be a problem to teach in any school? What, exactly, is wrong about learning that gay people exist and form families just like all other human beings? How is that scandalous? Doesn’t it bother you at all when your children learn to call gay children faggots at school? Or is that something that you’ve been teaching them at home? It’s very clear that lots of kids are learning how to denigrate and revile their gay classmates, and they’re using highly colorful language to do so. They’re learning it somewhere. So, by your book, it’s okay to learn to call others hurtful names on school playgrounds, but to teach the truth in the classroom about the members of your family who happen to be gay is something that cannot possibly be permitted. I remind you that some of those children sitting in those classrooms will emerge as gay individuals. Do they not deserve the same amount of respect and dignity as any other child in any other classroom? Your statements and your actions seem to suggest that you also condone treating gay children as separate and unequal, just as you treat your adult gay peers.

The Catholics and the Mormons and the other religious communities rallied the devout to their cause using the absolute lie that if Proposition 8 was defeated that churches would be required to perform same-sex marriages, even if it violated their teachings. This could not be further from the truth. In fact, because of the First Amendment, an exception to the equal protection clause of the Federal Constitution has been carved out for churches. In other words, where liturgical issues are concerned, churches are free to discriminate against anyone and anything with absolute legal immunity. In fact, the passage of Proposition 8 has cut exactly the opposite way and prevented churches that consecrate same-sex marriages from doing so; you see, there is no agreement among the faithful when it comes to the issue of gay marriage, and Proposition 8 has effectively cut off religious freedom to a certain degree. But of course, you don’t need to worry about that, do you, because it doesn’t affect you big, mainstream churches that don’t see gay people as complete human beings, does it? And church people lying through their teeth to win a political campaign designed to strip a basic right away from gay people is just so brilliant; their flocks never bothered to question what they were told- why should they- church people don’t lie. Nevertheless, your words and deeds betray you.

Next, I have to express my shock over the refusal of African-Americans to acknowledge that my right to marry is a civil rights issue. Can their memory be that short that they do not remember a time when they were not allowed to marry the person of their choice? In case they forgot, it wasn’t all that long ago. And at the time, they were pretty much out there rioting and tearing apart the fabric of our civil society to such a degree that whites were genuinely afraid. And why? Because THEIR CIVIL RIGHTS were being violated. I still, however, believe in the equality of all humans, in spite of this disgusting display of prejudice. To my African-American friends, I would ask: How does it feel to wear the hat of the oppressor? Does it make you feel powerful to kick the gay boy out of your exclusive whites-only, uh sorry, heterosexuals-only marriage club?

But they only did it for Jesus. Praise the Lord!

So lastly, I rail against the religious community in general for its unprecedented role in attempting to strip away my inalienable rights. And here I suppose I should apologize to some of you who may read this and feel that I am attacking you unjustly: surely, not all religious people or denominations are bad. That is undoubtedly true. If you voted no on Proposition 8 against the urgings of your deacons, priests, ministers, and bishops, I applaud you and thank you from the bottom of my heart. And as I said above, I know of churches that celebrate gay marriages and that have been “blessing” same-sex unions here in California for many, many years, since well before gays were finally permitted to exercise their innate right to marry the person of their choice. I’m sorry if what I am about to say will offend you. But here I will not apologize for my tone, nor can I permit you to stand between me and them. I can’t let you keep giving them cover. I must stress that I used to be quite content to look the other way when it came to the irrationally religious, but no longer. When such irrationality attempts to hijack the political system and VOTE AWAY my inalienable rights, the threat is simply far too great to ignore. I must also stress that I have never been a religious man; I believe in science, and I do not believe in any gods or God. I do not confound my beliefs with faith: It is irrational to believe in any proposition without proof.

The Mormons gave Yes on 8 legs, and the Catholics provided them a face and mouth.

It is safe to say that if these two gangs of god’s henchmen had behaved in a moral fashion and stressed from their pulpits the American ideal of equality for all and the human ideal of compassion for all that Proposition 8 would never have had a chance in hell, if you’ll pardon the expression, of passing. But the Mormons and the Catholics did no such thing. Instead, they invidiously thrust themselves into the forefront of the fray. They thrust themselves into the home of every gay Californian in order to strip those couples and individuals, and only them, of their right to form a family and have their family accorded the same dignity and respect as the divinely perfect families of the divinely perfect Mormons and Catholics, and all the other and various sects and persuasions, all divinely sanctioned and perfect no matter how much they contradict each other, and each and every one of them, even the (heterosexual) child molesters and other sexual predators and criminals among them, all of them so good and so much better and so much more deserving than gay people to be called married. And these divinely inspired cultural warriors participated in a political campaign to strip citizens of inalienable constitutional rights that was built on lies and falsehoods.

Their essential argument is that some deity, a figure of biblical proportions to be sure, has written a perfect book in which the aforementioned perfect being has pronounced a death sentence upon homosexuals with a complimentary and eternal afterlife burning in the fires of hell thrown in for good measure. Alternatively, they argue, even if their god no longer wants homosexuals stoned to death on sight as he has been previously quoted as saying, he now demands, at the very minimum, that those militant homosexuals be kept away from the heterosexuals-only institution of marriage for all eternity.

The Christian sects and the Jews cannot even among themselves agree what their book means, so it means many different things to many different people; it’s riddled with contradictions, errors, revenge killings, straight sex, gay sex, and tales of witchcraft. It‘s so-called teachings are implemented in haphazard and contradictory ways by the various competing sects. And woe is more: there are other holy books, too, from places far from Israel, and at least one from the great State of New York (secret Mormon decoder rock included). There are SO many holy books, many of which make no mention whatsoever about a man called the Christ or the god of Abraham. And there is certainty that they cannot all be right. Based on the evidence that I’ve seen so far, my belief is that none of them are right. But that does not stop any of these followers of religion from passing judgment on their fellow human beings; and the one thing they say they all agree on in the public square is that gay people are unworthy of the dignity of marriage. But asked for proof, they run for cover and thump whichever version of the bible their sect authorizes them to read.

The truth is that the supporters of Proposition 8 could not look to science for reasons to validate their arguments, so they appealed to the irrational religious beliefs of the electorate and resorted to falsehoods and innuendo. They reinforced those appeals with misinformation and lies, and used their well-oiled networks for delivering marching orders to the faithful; and the faithful onward marched in lockstep, trampling my rights and the Constitution in the process.

Our Constitutional framework was crafted specifically to tame the tendency of the majority to trample upon the rights of minorities. At the time of the Founding, it was believed that the sheer geographical expanse of the union would serve to deter the “mischief of factions” because no group could coordinate and influence political action across the length and breadth of this nation, the country was simply too large. The technological revolutions of the past several decades, however, have severely eroded this important check on the pernicious power of factions to act in a unified manner across huge swaths of, and even across the entire, country. Californians opposed Proposition 8 by significant margins until the Utah Mormons began pumping in money and people, influencing the electorate to adopt a Utah-endorsed proposition to strip away the rights of Californians.

Proposition 8 is a perfect example of how certain religious factions are being used to subvert federalist safeguards against the tyranny of the majority. Here we have the huge and powerful Mormon faction of the State of Utah, some 60% of the state’s population, acting in unison to control the outcome of a California election. All based on their highly irrational religious dogma. This tactic is dangerous and does not bode well for the future of our cherished democratic principle of equality for all under the law. Besides, I don’t think the Mormons should be the go-to source for authority on marriage: their history with the institution of marriage, while colorful, is hardly exemplary, unless you’re into polygamy and marrying off child brides, according to some current events. I’m sure we Californians can find our own way without the wisdom of their elders; in fact, we were doing just fine without them.

You and I though, we must acknowledge that, although there are many religious traditions in the world, they simply can not all be right. Take Islam and Christianity as just one really obvious example: both cannot be correct. Nor can Hinduism or Buddhism be reconciled with Christianity. The only available proof regarding the accuracy of anyone’s religious beliefs includes the necessity of dying. That is simply not good enough. We should not be basing our public acts on the myth of scripture; we should be focused on science and on what is in the best interests of our citizens, all of us.

I am angry that churches have acted in an overt political campaign to take away my rights. Under the Bush administration, churches have been encouraged and emboldened to enter the public and political arenas in unprecedented and possibly illegal ways. This is all to our risk. They are challenging the very notion that there is or should be any separation at all between church and state. I have no problem with churches becoming political creatures to exercise their political muscle. But I believe that if churches want to act like persons and meddle in the political arena, their incomes should be taxed just like any other person’s income is, mine included. Then let them talk until they are blue in the face. I will be advocating for the rescission of tax-exemptions for churches from now on. I encourage you all to join Americans United for Separation of Church and State. The Mormon Church and the Catholic Church have really crossed the line this year in California. Paying taxes will free churches to be AS POLITICALLY ACTIVE AS THEY WANT without worry and will generate income for tax professionals, many of whom are gay! It’s good for us, and it’s good for them.

I also demand equal protection under the law, as guaranteed by the California Constitution. If I am unworthy to call my relationship with Steve a marriage, when it so very obviously is a marriage in every single aspect, complete with nearly fourteen years of history, well, if we’re not worthy to call ourselves married, no one is. And the law is on my side on this. In taking the name of marriage away from gay persons, you are not extending to us the equal protection of the law.

You may have actually succeeded in amending the definition of marriage in an illegal way, which could end in an unimagined result. You see, the equal protection clause of the Constitution is still there and has not, to my knowledge, EVER been revised. It requires all citizens likely situated to be treated equally under the law. You have been unable to articulate any rational basis for denying the institution of marriage to me. Therefore, if I can’t marry the person of my choice, no one else should be able to either; that’s the way our laws have always worked. It’s considered a check on the power of the majority, because whatever laws they enact, they must also obey.

What I’m saying is this: Be careful what you wish for! In deciding what to do now, the Court may very well reach the conclusion that the easiest solution to bring the Constitution back into balance and full effect, which must be done, is not to overturn Proposition 8, but simply to command that the state stop issuing marriage licenses and to issue only applications for registered domestic partnerships to all citizens regardless of race, religion, etc., etc., etc. That sounds like a fair outcome to me, and I would support it. Perhaps I should petition the court myself for just that outcome. How would you all feel about that?

P.S.

You know, now that I have been relieved of that pesky and troublesome burden of the right to be married, I want my money back. Yep, that marriage license and all set us back nearly a hundred bucks. But also, since I am no longer afforded my full set of constitutional rights for no other reason than because more of you say so than not, I think I’m entitled to a refund and reassessment of my state income taxes. Why should I be expected to pay the same as heterosexuals when I do not enjoy the same rights as heterosexuals? This strikes me as inherently unfair. I therefore propose to calculate the value of my marriage. I am prepared to testify in Court today and demonstrate that my marriage is priceless; therefore I owe NO TAXES.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Paul

Eureka, California

brotherly love

2008-11-17T21:43:00.000-08:00

It had been just over two years. The last time I saw him we sucked down martinis at some overly-trendy bar near his apartment in Hell's Kitchen. I had just come home from our round-the-world adventures and Mr. Egg was off at the U.S. Open. I'd spent the day with my girlfriend, wandering the Park and drinking out of a flask. I had no idea, of course, that at the time I was pregnant with Monkey. That news came a couple of weeks later once back home in Louisiana. I emailed him with the news and his reaction was a bit beyond shock, considering what I'd said that night bellying up to the bar.

He had seen me through one of the most intense and challenging points in my life, my time in NYC. He was one of my roommates after I moved out of D's place. He was also my friend. And my brother. My family. His parents welcomed me into their home Shabbos after Shabbos. His mother slipped me money to help me out with rent and his dad offered advice on schooling opportunities for me. They were older folks; they had my friend, Steven (who was not even 20), later in life. They were Hungarian/Czech and his father had experienced the Holocaust firsthand.

At a point in my life where I was seeking acceptance, they resonated to the core and buoyed my spirits. I sort of ignored the fact that his mother probably was so enamored with me because a) I was in the process of converting to Orthodox Judaism (which she was extremely devoted to) and b) she may have had some sort of fantasy that I would sway her son from his man-love. I also ignored his father's somewhat lecherous eye twinkles and suggestive comments. They felt like family, after all, and we all know family is weird, if anything.

I left town a few months later and my path never did lead me back there. My brother from another mother finally made his way out West to visit me last week, along with his new love. They stayed for a few days and we roamed the beaches and explored the redwoods. They played with my daughter and threw her laughing into the air. Monkey took a particular liking to Steven's boyfriend. She flirted unabashedly and sought him out first thing upon each waking. They made us a beautiful dinner on their last night here and we all ate too much, drank too much wine and were high on the sort of emotion that comes from lasting friendships that you know will endure.

Equality For All

2008-11-16T16:01:00.000-08:00

The immense relief and hope that washed over me the night of Nov.4th as I heard the words, "President-elect Barack Obama" was severely dampened by one thing: the passing of Proposition 8 here in California. I've prided myself on living here in the Golden State, proud to tell my Southern family members of our progressive ways and ideology. We are, after all, one of the greenest states and usually a pioneer in the way of progressive politics. The stereotypical image of the laid-back crunchy Californian who eats organically and talks about chi and chakras is not without substance. But my idealistic, that-would-never-pass-here-in-my-hippie-paradise-California world came crumbling around me after the election. The fact that here in Humboldt, my county of residence rejected Prop 8 by 60%? Not bad. Though not good. The fact that California as a whole embraced it by the majority? Not fucking cool. At all.

The opposition poured money into their campaign (most of which was from out-of-state) that was based on lies. Fear mongering of the worst sort, praying on people's worries of their children being taught gay marriage in school. Which, even if it was the case (which it is not), so what? Is it that horrible? To teach of love, compassion and tolerance? To teach that there are different way to live and love? That the gender of who you grow to love should matter? I seriously doubt that general acceptance of homosexuality would sway children one way or another. If the tendencies are already there, sure, they may feel more comfortable exploring that avenue, but again, sooo what?

But no, the majority of Californians chose to continue living in a state where children are taught from a young age what is and what it not accepted by our society. Which means all those children who know from a young age that they are "different", that they don't fit into the boxes of what society deems is "normal", they will continue to suffer and be ostracized. They will feel tormented and question daily why they can't just feel differently from the way they do. They will turn themselves inside out to fit in and in the most dire of situations they may even commit suicide. All because we, as a people, can't get past our judgment and religious dogma and own internal issues.

There are few things that piss me off more than when people compare allowing same-sex marriage to the obvious next step which is to allow people to marry animals. Um. Seriously, people? Seriously? The sort of ignorance that comes along with such outrageous logic is beyond my level of comprehension. All I can do it hope that they aren't breeding and spreading their hate to the next generation. But, of course, they probably are considering that ultra-religious people tend to have less concern over the effects on our planet of having 7, 8, 9, 10 kids and continue to multiply their ranks to raise up some sort of Army of God.

My father and his husband came of age during the late 60s/early 70s. When I hear them speak of their upbringings I hear such very different stories yet there are so many elements which overlap, mostly on an emotional level. My father grew up in New Orleans and, though he acknowledged his attraction to men, rejected the idea of living a homosexual life. He knew he wanted a family and could not fathom that goal was achievable by living a gay life. Not in that day and time. He met my mother and felt such a strong connection that he was convinced they were soul mates. He thought he could put aside the feelings he had known since he was a small child. With time it became clear he could not.

My step-father, on the other hand, knew about his sexuality and had no problem expressing who he was. He was shunned by his religious parents and at some point in this late 20s gave into society's pressures and married a woman. There were no children that came of that union and the marriage dissolved amicably and they remain good friends to this day.

It was more complicated with my mother and father, I was nearly 12 when they decided to split. I had difficulty with their divorce and my dad's coming out. My whole world was turned upside down and although somewhere deep down I must have known this about my father I was completely shocked by it on the surface. But by the time I was 15 I was in the midst of exploring my own attraction to girls and perhaps my father coming out gave me the confidence and ability to explore that without fear of judgment and retribution. I never really felt that I had to "come out", it was just a part of who I was. I have never made it an issue and, with a few exceptions, it has never been an issue.

I am extremely lucky to come from a family that even though they may not always agree with the choices I make in my life I always have their support and love. I feel it is unconditional. Even my bigoted uncles kept their comments to a minimum during the 6 years I stated I was strictly into women (though maybe not as much as I would have liked). They met my girlfriends over the years and were not just cordial but warm and welcoming. I'm sure they breathed a sigh of relief the day I began dating men at 21 and even more when I settled down with Mr. Egg and gave birth to Monkey. But even though I made that choice to be with a man it does not take away that part of who I am.

When I feel personally offended by the passing of Prop 8 it is not just because it's an affront to my father and step-father. It's not just because it's a complete violation of basic human rights. It's because it's also an attack on me. Although I am in a committed relationship with a man I could just as easily be involved with a woman. And I would deserve the right to marry whoever I choose to build a life and a family with. My rights should be no less than anyone else. When we start discriminating against people based upon their sexual orientation by taking away their basic civil rights what is next? Will we begin taking away rights based on race? Gender? Religion? The lines become extremely blurry and it's a slippery slope. Is that somewhere we really want to go?

My hope for you

2008-11-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

My dearest Monkey,

We, as a nation, stand at the threshold of what could be the most formative election in recent history. You won't remember this but you will hear us speak of it for years to come. I had been jaded and cynical and gave up on our country long ago. I had never allowed myself to believe that change is possible.

When Obama first popped onto my radar I railed against him, saying he is more of the same. He is, after all, a politician and part of a corrupt system. But as I have listened to him speak for the past couple of years I have chosen to go against every fiber of my body that has been steeped in disillusionment. I have, for the first time in my adult life, dared to hope that change is possible.

We are no longer a Christian nation. Not any more than we are a Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, Wiccan or even Atheist nation. We are neither a white nation, our citizens make up every color of the human spectrum. This is no longer about ethnicity or religion or even class. This is about people. Human beings. And what is best not only for us now but for future generations.

I have been moved to tears by a grassroots movement that is unlike one I have ever seen in my lifetime. So many people have opened their eyes and their hearts and connected over real issues and for the very first time in my life I am choosing to exercise my vote and my voice and put my faith in the possibilities. I have seen what is possible when people leave their self-imposed bubbles of seclusion and reach out to their neighbors. People who choose to work towards the greater good for all of us as a society opposed to the narrow mentality of "every one for their self". Those of us who are actively pursuing tangible ways to evolve, not only as a society more aware of our place on the world stage but as a people who have lost their way.

I admit that a part of me is uncomfortable putting so much faith in a "leader". I have witnessed nothing good that comes from having such trust in a political figure. But the time has come when there is no other option. If there is not a massive shift in the direction of this country tomorrow I do not believe change will come peacefully, and that is not the environment in which I want you to grow and discover the world around you.

All I can do is wait with baited breath and hope.

I hope for you to grow up in a society where our citizens realize the lightness with which they must tread on our Earth. That everything and everyone is connected.

I hope you will be surrounded by love and compassion and that hatred and intolerance will no longer be touted on the nightly news by people who feel their religion abdicates them from acting like decent human beings.

I hope for you to never remember the time when it was illegal for your Opa and Opa Due to marry. Or when hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children lost their lives over oil. Or when people, in the face of such astounding evidence, chose to ignore all the signs of climate change and continued to take, take, take until there was nearly nothing left to give.

Most of all I hope for you to see the greatness that is possible in this country and be an active part in the next generation that will continue to lead us forward, never backwards.

Recently I have been marinating so much in this quote from Arundhati Roy, "Either way, change will come. It could be bloody, or it could be beautiful. It depends on us."

That much is true. It is up to us. And you. And every one who comes after. Each generation choosing to do the right thing.

One of the beautiful things about this country is the power of American civil society. Our history books are filled with the struggles of individuals and the stories of how they rose up to change the situations they found to be intolerable. It is not up to others to save us or change our direction. It is up to us. 'We are the ones we've been waiting for'.

So on this election eve, as I sit watching you attempt to stack your blocks on your train set, I find myself with tears in my eyes and an overwhelming wave of hope that you will be proud to be an American. That is something I have struggled with for as long as I can remember. But I hope for you, baby girl, to grow up knowing the power of the people and how we were able to save this country from those who wish to further segregate us from the world. I hope you are not only proud of the country from which you come but consider yourself to be a citizen of the world and are able to grasp that though our borders may define who we are culturally they do not define us in terms of our humanity.

Love,
Mama

twilight at the pumpkin patch

2008-11-01T08:05:00.001-07:00

We went to the pumpkin patch the other evening with my friends from childbirth class. As the kids ran around it was hard to believe how quickly they're growing up. On my way home yesterday I passed a dreadlocked hippie guy dressed as Jesus holding a huge No on 8 sign on the corner in front of a church. It made my Halloween. Best thing I saw all day, hands down.

Reprieve

2008-10-26T08:56:00.000-07:00

-this post is worded quite carefully as to hopefully avoid the trolls since it is a very personal and sensitive subject-

The summer before I began 7th grade we moved from Richmond, VA to Los Angeles, CA. My parents’ thought was, given the dangers of the Los Angeles public school system the best option was for me to go to a Catholic K-8 school. I was not entirely stoked, being the 10 year old atheist that I was. I had a difficult time adjusting to that school, mostly on a social level. But the religious aspect reared its head often and with the exception of one friend I was ostracized often for having different views. The teacher and I butted heads as well. I remember so clearly the day our class assignment was to write to Congress, pleading with them to end a woman’s right to choose. I refused. My teacher asked why I would have a problem doing such a righteous thing. I said I was pro-choice and wanted the option to choose what happened inside my own body, thankyouverymuch. She reminded me, in front of the entire class, that I would receive a zero for the day if I chose to not do my assignment. I retaliated and shouted that she was close-minded and there was no way she could make me write that letter. It ended with me sulking in a corner while receiving the stank eye from the majority of my classmates.

Later that year when the elections rolled around I spent the entire night glued to the television set. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, in tears, because I was so afraid that Bush, Sr. would be re-elected. In my young mind the train of thought was: I wanted to be a doctor at the time (and yes, I realize those of you who know me and my feelings towards the medical establishment are having a good chuckle) and if I found myself pregnant at an inopportune time and Bush reversed Roe V. Wade my life and dreams would be over. Looking back I really question why those thoughts were in my head at such a young age. Of course, at the time, I had absolutely no idea the implications of what ending a pregnancy would be. There was no way I could have grasped that during that point of my life. Actually I don’t know that one is capable of grasping it until they make the decision and are forced to deal with the aftermath of guilt and questioning.

For the past week I have avoided dealing with the loss of this pregnancy (i.e.: baby) because then I would have to think of, and deal with, two previous pregnancy losses of my own choosing. Because the only way I got through those decisions was by thinking of it as simply a tiny piece of tissue. There was no emotional connection or thoughts of little wiggling toes. I would not allow myself to go there. And so now, for me to admit this was a baby, it would bring up so much other emotion that I just sweep it under the rug and forge ahead.

I have written of one of my decisions here before. The second happened right around the time I began blogging but I could not discuss it at the time. It is something I have never really dealt with because the guilt is so strong. In fact, in so many ways I feel this pregnancy loss is a direct result from that decision. As if the Universe is trying to teach me a lesson. I have found myself pregnant 4 times, none of them planned. So many women struggle with fertility issues and I feel the decisions I have made are a slap in the face to them. As if I so glibly discard what they work so hard to achieve.

I do not regret the decision I made in NYC with D. I have guilt but when I look at the situation I feel I really did make the right decision. And then I found myself pregnant with Monkey. And I was scared and she wasn’t planned but within minutes of seeing those two pink lines on the stick I felt excitement and threw out the crazy idea to Mr. Egg that “We should just do it. We should have this baby.” And we did and it was a beautiful thing and I could not imagine my life without her. Then, when she was 7 months old and we were in Rome on vacation I completely forgot that antibiotics rendered the pill useless and a month later I found myself crying in the bathroom as I tried to wrap my head around the idea of another baby. I had just, and I mean just, come out of post-partum depression and was finally beginning to embrace motherhood. I was terrified of what having another child so soon would do not only to Monkey but to my own fragile mental state. I was completely miserable with the idea of being pregnant and having another child but had the intense guilt of feeling that I had to go through with the pregnancy, no matter my issues, because Mr. Egg and I were together and already had a child and it was our mistake with birth control, etc.

Mr. Egg is pro-life, personally, but he is also pro-choice. As in, he doesn’t believe it is the best thing to do in most cases but would never deem that it’s anyone right or decision to choose what a woman does with her body. So in dealing with our situation, he was very vocal that he would support whatever decision I made but I knew his feelings on the matter and the decision was completely mine to make. This made it harder in many ways. I struggled and I was conflicted and spent the majority of a week crying. I had a lapse in the parking lot of the clinic and sat in the car unable to move. I called Mr. Egg with tears streaming down my face and said I just wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. He tried to talk me into coming home. He said I could always make another appointment if I changed my mind again. I hardened myself and brushed away the tears and walked through the doors of the clinic anyway. I did not shed another tear over it. The guilt and anger I directed my way remained and continues to this day.

This time around? My 4th pregnancy. We had just begun discussing a second child. We were planning to start trying in the spring, around Monkey’s second birthday. But somehow I completely miscounted and thought I was well away from ovulation and, as it turned out, I wasn’t. It was a surprise but a very happy surprise and we were excited and ready. And when the spotting first began I sat on the toilet and cried so hard I could barely breathe. I was so scared something was wrong. As it turned out, it was, but it would be another 3 weeks until I discovered that for certain. So each day I lived in fear of losing the baby and often thought that this was a lesson for me. To never again take my ability to procreate for granted.

And now? I’m beginning to allow myself to feel the loss. Not only this time but from before. I’m attempting to integrate the sorrow and the guilt. I can never change the decisions I have made in the past but I am beginning to view them in a different light.

This is our America

2008-10-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

To look on the bright side there is one good thing about me no longer being pregnant: I am going to need a drink (or two) on November 4th and now I can consume without guilt and fear of popping out a large-headed slow kid.

I am already having anxiety about this election and we still have 12 days until the voice of the American people is heard. I keep hearing people say, Ohhh Obama will TOTALLY win! Um. Uh huh. I recall saying the same thing about Gore and then Kerry. Because, really, who would have thought Bush would be elected even one time, much less twice (although I'm in the camp that he won neither time, I think "stole" is the right word).

To be completely honest, I have conflicting feelings about Obama. I want to believe in him. I want to feel that the goosebumps that cover my arms when I hear him speak are because I am listening to a great man who will change the face of American politics. I want change and I want to know that my vote will help elect the next President of the United States.

But I've been burned. I have sat back and watched as our government has participated in (even driven) atrocity after atrocity. I see our prisons overflowing and our schools in shambles. I have seen the number of people eating out of garbage cans and sleeping on the streets grow as the number of million dollar homes in gated subdivisions triples. I see, day after day, the average American living their completely unsustainable lifestyle with no thought or care for what it is doing not only to the environment but to people all over the world. I have lost hope and I have lost pride in this country. I've become jaded and cynical and no longer trust in the establishment as a whole. I would like to believe Barack's message of change. I would like to believe he is the man he claims to be. But I wonder how one can join a corrupt institution without becoming corrupt their self? And can one person really make much of a difference in such a tainted system?

So I wait with baited breath, letting this all unfold as it will. I feel America is at a crossroads and this election will determine if we finally choose humanity, compassion and evolution or war, greed and the ultimate path to destruction. The choice is up to us. And for the first time in my life I'm exercising that choice.

I am an American and I am voting for Barack Obama.

that one in the hat, that's me

2008-10-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure at what point in my life this began. Did I suddenly wake up one morning with this new coping method or maybe it was more along the lines of learned behavior? Although I am a bit hazy on the specifics I am crystal clear on the outcome. Because for as long as I can remember I have had trouble feeling my emotions. I should be more specific though. I'm great at feeling anger and rage. But anything else? I will ignore it until I'm dead inside. Numb, I know that one well.

I rarely allow myself to cry and when I do cry you better believe it's over something big. And chances are that crying will happen behind closed doors when I am alone. I allow Mr. Egg to see my cry on occasion but even with him I have major walls. To me, crying has always seemed a weakness. I am extremely uncomfortable when others cry around me and I keep that in mind when I feel the tears beginning to form. I will not allow myself the freedom to cry as I need to if anyone else is near. I pull back into myself until a later point. And usually there I remain. Locked away in some wasteland of half-felt emotion that, if I'm being honest, is probably one of the contributing factors to my occasional struggle with drug and alcohol use.

Even now, with everything that has happened in the past few days, I have yet to cry. There were a couple of minutes after I wrote my last post when Mr. Egg sat behind me on the couch and put his arms around me. I shook for a second and a few tears slipped from my eyes. I swallowed what was building inside and brushed it away. That is the closest I have come to feeling any grief. There have been moments, here and there, where I've felt it rising. The lump in my throat and burning wetness in my eyes but I push it back every single time. I am strictly dealing with the physical aspects of my current situation and consciously avoiding the emotional.

My stunted emotional capacity reaches beyond hardening myself against tremendous sorrow. I also stop myself from expressing things such as appreciation and heartfelt thanks. As I chilled on the couch last night, beginning to bounce back from the coma-like state I had been in for 48 hours due to the horribly toxic shot I received Saturday afternoon, I realized how much Mr. Egg had taken on over the weekend. Not only had he taken over everything I usually do but he still kept up with what he normally did AND he remained strong to take care of me and make sure I was comfortable. He even went out and as a surprise picked up a new book by one of my favorite authors that I wasn't even aware was on the shelves. So I sat on the couch, with the book in my lap, and thought I need to tell him thank you. I need to express how much I appreciate what he's taken on in the past few days and that I see it and realize it and am grateful. My mouth opened a couple of times but nothing came out. I literally could not get the words out. It felt uncomfortable to me. Hokey and touchy-feely. I closed my mouth and ignored my better instincts.

Two hours later we're both on the couch watching TV. He's exhausted and drained. I make an effort to show affection, another thing I'm horrible with. As I laid my head on his chest I finally sucked it up and ignored everything in my body that was screaming NO and said You know, I do know how much you've done in the past few days and I want you to know I appreciate it. I know this has been hard on you too and you have a lot on your plate. . I breathed a sigh of relief and should have stopped there. But I sat up quickly and said Did you know how difficult that was for me to say? I'm so fucked up, dude. I don't know how you can deal with me. That felt so unnatural, saying what I said. I had to literally fight with myself to get the words out. It felt too gooey. He said, Yeah and the funny thing is it wasn't. So. Chill.

I have been in therapy for the majority of my life. You would think I would have learned some better coping methods. I suppose I have learned them. I just don't implement them. And there were moments of tremendous breakthroughs and patterns seemed to be changing. But in times of distress it's always easier to slip back into what we know best. So I put on a brave front and act like everything is all good. And maybe if I say it enough I'll even begin to believe it. I'll just file this intensity away with all the others that I've bypassed over the years. One huge lump of anguish that will continue to fester and feed the flames of rage that lurk just beneath my surface. Or maybe this time I will actually allow myself to feel and will take one small step towards being a healthier person. I could go either way. But I'm pulling for the latter.

btw, thanks so much for all the comments on my last post. I really appreciate all the good thoughts and positive energy. It really was helpful.

those angels can't ever take my place

2008-10-18T03:55:00.000-07:00

Her accent was thick. Of Eastern European or Russian origins, I could not tell. I laid on the examining table with Monkey resting on the top of my thighs, wanting to check out everything that was going on. I felt the warmed ultrasound gel on my abdomen as Mr. Egg reached for my hand. I was feeling equal parts hope and dread. The spotting I had had off and on for the past 3 weeks had been worrisome to me. It was mostly brown but there were a few times I saw bright red. I was in and out of the clinic, sent away each time saying that it was "normal" for some women. My hCG levels were tested and everything looked okay. I kept telling myself not to worry. Yet...I never feel that I truly embraced the pregnancy. Mr. Egg would say Well, do you feel pregnant? I don't know, I'd say. I can't tell. With Monkey I had awful morning sickness, this time none. In previous pregnancies I had known immediately because my breasts were so tender, this time not so much. I felt tired and exhausted but I also have a very active toddler who seems to abhor sleeping past 6am. It was difficult to tell.

I stare at the monitor anxiously, my eyes searching out anything that resembles a tiny baby with a heartbeat. The technician is silent. Completely. She's typing letters onto the screen that mean nothing to me and I keep waiting for her to say, There's your baby. There is the heartbeat. After a few minutes she stops and says I need to do this vaginally. Could you step into the restroom and put on the gown that is in there please? I shot Mr. Egg a look and stepped into the attached bathroom. My hands were shaking as I took off my clothes. I came back into the room and laid down again. Monkey started fussing as Mr. Egg paced the room with her. The technician slid a pillow underneath me to raise my pelvis a bit. She asked me to insert the wand and began searching on the screen again. Monkey began to cry and wouldn't stop. Her arms kept reaching out to me so Mr. Egg brought her over to my left side where she laid her head on my chest and was quiet. I was straining to turn my head to the right to see over her curly head and to the screen that was showing no signs of anything. The technician asked, How was your pregnancy confirmed? Urine? Fuck. What kind of question is that?? Yes and blood test too, I said weakly. She removed the wand and said Okay I am going to show these results to somebody but I would like for you to get dressed and remain in the room please. Someone will be in shortly to speak with you. But do not leave the room, okay? Um, okay. Way to scare someone, dude. I knew something was wrong. Obviously. I got dressed and in a few minutes she was back and said You have an ectopic pregnancy- Mr. Egg interrupted her, A what? Ectopic, I answered. It means the embryo is gestating outside of my uterus, most likely in my fallopian tube. We have a call in to your OB, she continued. Do you know where the waiting room of the radiology department is in the old building? (I shook my head) I'll take you there.

A couple hours later I was back home after a stop at the clinic to meet with a doctor who was assigned to my case whom I had never met before. He had explained that luckily it was caught before anything ruptured and hopefully the damage to my tube would be minimal. Because I had not complained of any sharp pains or cramping he felt that a medical, as opposed to surgical, procedure was the option he would recommend at this point. He said I would be given a shot of methotrexate which would stop the growth of the embryo which should be absorbed back into my body. He went on to say that sometimes it caused women to bleed out or ruptured the fallopian tube anyway and surgery was still required. I would need to be monitored for 2 weeks and he wanted to make sure I lived close to a hospital and had a reliable car. I answered yes to both. I asked for numbers of whether or not I would end up requiring surgery anyway and he said my chances of everything being okay with just the shot would be 75/25. Okay, I can live with that. What is my other option? Being sliced open? yeah, I'll go with the shot.

Last night I was in a daze. Monkey stayed up later than usual and was in my arms most of the evening. I felt numb. It's my preferred coping method. I kept wondering why this had happened. From what I had researched it seemed that ectopic pregnancy is often caused by scarring in the tubes from PIDs associated with STDs or endometrioisis, neither of which I have ever had. I kept thinking, but this doesn't. just. happen. Does it? Apparently it does. Of course my mind wandered to the thought that this is some sort of karmic retribution for choosing to end a previous pregnancy. Thoughts like these are not helpful, I know, but they are there nonetheless. I suppose my silver lining in all of this was my concern for Monkey coping with the addition of a sibling at such a young age. Now we can wait longer, like we had originally planned, so that she's closer to 3 instead of 2 when the next one comes along. But thinking about getting pregnant again is not something I want to do right now. I need time. My body needs time to heal. As does my heart. I try not to think of the child that would have been. My son or daughter that I will never know. I keep telling myself those thoughts aren't helpful but I'm sure at some point I will need to face those feelings if I truly want to process this.

I woke up at 3am this morning. My first thought was This is real. Yesterday it felt like a dream. But now it feels real. I could not go back to sleep and now, here I sit at 4am, typing this. I'm exhausted, physically and emotionally. It's going to be another long day. The doctor is supposed to call around 9 this morning so we can arrange a place to meet so he can administer the shot. He was worried about me waiting out the weekend, seeing as how most tubal pregnancies rupture around the 8-9 week mark which is where I am now. So the house is quiet and dark. And Mr. Egg is standing in the kitchen, unable to sleep because he's worried about me being up on my own and alone. I will probably crawl back into bed soon and wrap my arms around my child. And be thankful that I have her because if this had been my first pregnancy I can only imagine what I would be feeling right now. At least I have her. No matter what else happens now or in the future.

the post in which I likely offend someone

2008-10-10T07:49:00.000-07:00

I had one of those moments. The kind where you step outside of yourself and are actually able to view yourself and your actions objectively. I was watching as my child melted down because she wanted to pull on the dog's tail and, in response, I was squeezing where her hand meets her wrist, attempting to loosen her grip on Kody's tail even though it didn't seem to bother him any. I saw Monkey's eyes meet mine and the defiance and fire behind them. I dropped her wrist and let her go. Mr. Egg said Don't let her do that, dude. I shrugged and said it had deteriorated into a power struggle and it was no longer about her desire to pull the dog's tail she just wanted to challenge me and see what I would do. And I backed down.

I didn't back down because I didn't want to cause waves or deal with her tantrum. I backed down because, at the end of the day, does it really matter if she pulls on the dog's tail? She sits on his head and climbs on his back and he lays there happily soaking up the attention. True, he could snap one day. It's unlikely but if it happens, it happens. I don't mean that to sound as though I don't care about her safety but that's a risk you take whenever you have animals around children, or anyone for that matter. They are fairly unpredictable creatures. I'm not going to hover and worry about all the things that could happen. He will let her know when she crosses the line and she'll learn much better from getting a nip on the hand that she will from me constantly telling her NO which she only hears as me attempting to control her. I try to keep her out of harm's way but I'm more of a "let her learn her own lessons" kind of mother.

And I realized how many other mothers would judge me for that. And that was my moment, where I saw myself through the eyes of other women. Even my father has commented that he believes Monkey needs some more boundaries and rules set for her. And although I can understand his point I often find rules unnecessary.

For example, I will definitely stop Monkey from climbing up onto the kitchen table where she can fall and crack her head open. I will stop her if I ever saw her being mean or bullying another child (which I have never even seen a glimmer of in her as she plays very well with others and has no problem sharing her toys, etc). I will stop her from playing with fire, knives, sharp sticks and other such objects. I will correct her behavior around other people's dog as I did at my friend's house recently when her dog did not take it as kindly as Kody when Monkey tried to sit on her head (and the dog subsequently snapped at Monkey).

But will I stop her from climbing onto the couch and up into the windowsill where she can get a better view of the trees? No. Will I stop her from running in circles around the room shrieking like a wild child and discovering the power of her voice? No. Will I stop her from running on our deck and through our garden barefoot even if she gets a splinter or two? No. Will I stop her from eating the raisin she found on the floor from who knows when? No.

Germs are good for her. They help build her immune system. And allowing her the space to explore her world without instilling fear of her surroundings will build her desire to learn more. And stepping back and letting her learn things for herself will build her confidence.

I feel that my role as her mother is to be here for her, to help guide her on the path she chooses for herself but not to take over the reigns and direct her this way or that just because I'm the adult and she's the child and it's just what you do. Of course there are times when I will direct her away from something if it's dangerous but in general I take a much more hands off approach.

Even at a young age I feel that children should be allowed much more freedom than they often are. Children who are made to sit quietly in a corner and do as they are told are, to me, children who have had their spirit broken. Maybe Monkey seems "unruly" to others but when I look at her I see a strong-willed free spirit who charges at the world with no fear. And I want to do everything in my power to encourage that.

Even Mr. Egg and I disagree on these matters, he tends to view children as malleable beings that we sculpt to our will. I see her as her own individual with her own desires and intentions and we need to mold to each other. Just because she is a child does not make her any less deserving of consideration in such things as when she wants to sleep and when she wants to eat. I have never had her on any sort of set schedule, I've trusted her to let me know what she needs when she needs it and she does. She's been fairly consistent in scheduling herself and I feel it has worked out well for us by allowing her to dictate these things instead of forcing my agenda upon her.

I've been growing increasingly uncomfortable with the way many people parent in that children are seen as objects that can be shifted this way or that, constantly having their curiosity squashed by parents unwilling to bend, denied the right to be taken seriously or are forced to fit themselves into their parent's world instead of the other way around.

I suppose this has been weighing heavily on my mind lately as I look at our society as a whole and attempt to get to the root of things. Why people are the way they are and how much of the manner in which our parents viewed us affected the way in which we view not only our own children but people in general.

I wonder if the way our government views people as commodities or expendable objects is in any way related to the way we as people have been raised to see each other. It's that balance of power and control that is out of whack from the time we enter this world until the day we leave it. We are controlled in so many ways and, in turn, too often turn around and try to control others or unnecessary things in an attempt to feel as though we have power over something. All that does is create a society in which freedom becomes nothing more than an abstract idea which is used as the selling point for everything and anything our government decides to push at us.

How many people really know the true sense of freedom? When they are tied down to mortgage payments and car payments and credit card debt that is constantly keeping them under the thumb of good ol' American greed and consumerism. They allow themselves to be brainwashed by the media and politicians to believe they have no choice. That they must mold themselves to fit into the unsustainable lifestyle of the American Dream. And the folks who reject the soul-crushing 9-5's that barely bring in enough money to allow the average American that big car and big house filled with expensive objects? The ones who just want a simple life and some land to grow their food and tread lightly? Well they are seen as "provincial" and "radical" and "Anti-American". When in reality we are the ones who truly know what freedom means.

But it all goes back to childhood. And the way we are initially raised to see the world and the dynamics we learn from our parents and our immediate environment. I'm growing increasingly aware of the need to understand exactly how important everything is in the bigger picture. For even when I don't think Monkey is watching, she is. And every move I make and word I speak is filed away somewhere in her memory bank and will continue to affect her for years to come. I know I make many mistakes and will continue to. It's part of mothering. But at least I'm striving towards more awareness. Even if I slip up time and again. We are all human, after all.

monochrome

2008-09-10T12:56:00.000-07:00

There is really nothing to say that hasn't already been said. In a state of limbo I remain. Patterns and cycles undulate all around me. I often find myself contained in a prison that is quite possibly my own creation.

I struggle on, attempting to find the beauty in the simplicity. The smallest and organic of moments. I try to balance the moments where I literally feel something clawing at my insides, striving to break free, with the rare and stolen minutes where I allow myself to feel the sun on my face or actually embrace the joy of my daughter wrapping her arms around my neck as she hugs me with all her might.

And so the days slip by and I continue endeavoring to not simply get through the days but to consciously revel in each one. The moments that lift me up as well as the moments that tear me down. I'm finding that I've reached a place where it's absolutely necessary to feel each and every emotion without fear.

I not only want to be a better mother, a better partner and a better friend but just simply a better person, as a whole.

And as this weighs more heavily on me with each breath I take I find the need for my energy to be harnessed and redirected in tangible ways, in the here and now and in the flesh.

I'm sharing these things with you all as my presence here will not be what it has been (or what it may be again in the future). But now I need to unplug for a while and give myself and my family more of my time. I know I expressed some of these things before and quite honestly I came back to this blogging world before I was quite ready. Although blogging in and of itself in relation to the act of writing has been helpful for me but the energy I have been putting into many of the high school aspects of sections of this community has been draining and unnecessary. If I was in a better place in general I might not so easily fall into some of these traps. But until that time comes I need to take a few steps back and focus on what is condusive to my personal growth.

I promise to check in with you now and again and I will continue to read your blogs when I can. I will continue to write and will most likely share some of these writings at some point in the future. I will also continue with my photography and will be posting to Flickr (although my account is set to private so if you want to view them send me an email and I'll add you as a friend).

Thank all of you for the support and words of encouragement. Regardless of some of the things which have turned me off concerning blogging as of late I'm trying to see the good in it all. And one of those things is that I've met some of you who have really enriched my life in so many ways.

matched souls

2008-09-07T23:30:00.000-07:00

written by my best friend in the world. This woman means more to me than words could possibly express. I spoke of her before here.

As usual time gets away from me and I get caught up in the goings on of my life here in Massachusetts, I am to write a blog post about my oldest kin-friend and soul sister, C. I found it funny how through the course of the days dealing I realized that I don't have the time I want for my friends. This is true when it comes to my dearest friend, C.

This assignment has proven this to me and was a little unsettling at times. You see, C is much like a sister to me in the ways sisters are. We have an unspoken language that is carried as far as the winds blow. Whether it be a hundred or a thousand miles away. We are living our separate lives and dipping down in to the pool here and there to share what we are doing or what we are feeling...or have felt..... We process there. As wonderful as a thing this is, to be able to "pick up" at any time, it seems quite strange and almost sad that we don't have every day to experience things together. The subtle details. We were two peas in a pod in high school. Exploring ourselves and the people around us.....looking for footholds. Searching for truths in the bloom of our adolescence. Funny now, looking back at it all....and the people we thought friends. C has been the one that has shined through...and stayed true to herself.

She is always expressive. I have always admired her "eye" for things. What she captures through her lense externally and internally. Her words are alive and fierce. A wild woman, who runs with the wolves. Since 1998 we haven't seen much of each other.... ten years have gone by now. There are some similarities to our stories. Some strange parallels and winks. We weave in and out of each other's stories so naturally. So simple and so complicated. I have most recently felt a loss, while thinking of how much time has gone by.....

We were always unstoppable when we got together. We balanced each other nicely. We have continued this through our distance. C is my rock. She is someone I can tell anything to......she is poetic and understanding.....she is fire. She'll tell you how she feels about something, whether you'd like to hear it or not. She is a woman of confident opinion and insight. She holds nothing back. She could move mountains with the power that she has inside. She is a volcano that is always at the brink of eruption. She has an intimate relationship with Pele. She is unpredictable and precious.

I miss her spirit.

I am missing her motherhood.....

It is time to extinguish the distance and cross this bridge of time gone by.
Now things seem to be shifting and I am being pulled to the West coast. Maybe our time has finally come, to be in the same place....to commune...to root down....to map out our dreams and support each other, as we do.

There is this song I've been hearing and it makes me think of C......
An amazing Californian folksinger (since passed away), Kate Wolf:

I've been walkin' in my sleep
Countin' troubles 'stead of countin' sheep
Where the years went I can't say
I just turned around and they've gone away

I've been siftin' through the layers
Of dusty books and faded papers
They tell a story I used to know
And it was one that happened so long ago

It's gone away in yesterday
Now I find myself on the mountainside
Where the rivers change direction
Across the Great Divide

Now, I heard the owl a-callin'
Softly as the night was fallin'
With a question and I replied
But he's gone across the borderline

The finest hour that I have seen
Is the one that comes between
The edge of night and the break of day
It's when the darkness rolls away

mothers and daughters

2008-09-05T00:10:00.000-07:00

Guest post by my mother who many of you have seen comment here as ExPatSW. Steph and I have been trying to coax her into the blogging world but to no avail. Maybe this will entice her more??

My mother (C's grandmother) was born in 1928 Alabama. Her family moved to New Orleans in 1929 and she lived there until her retirement in 1992. She passed away in 2005. Just think of the significant events the occurred during her lifetime! The Great Depression, World War II, the Korean Conflict, the Kennedy years, Civil Rights, the Vietnam Conflict, Roe v Wade, the moon landing, Women's Rights, Watergate, the Reagan years, the First Gulf War, the birth of the age of computers and the internet, the discovery of DNA and the birth of AIDS, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and the invasion of Iraq, as well as the birth of a new century, to name just a few. She was married for thirty years and raised seven children. She divorced at the age of 52 and at the age of 70 buried her eldest son, just before his 48th birthday. She saw all seven of her children married (a few of them more than once!) and had the joy of knowing 10 of her 11 grandchildren. She held her first great-grandchild before she died and spent her last few years living near her beloved North Carolina mountains.

She was an amazing woman, in many ways, but she was also one of the most unfulfilled women I have ever met. She spent her childhood trying to be the son her father wanted (not the one he got!) and married a man she was totally incompatible with because, in 1947, that's what women did; they got married and had babies. She was forced to work out of the home when her youngest was only 2 years old because our family couldn't survive on my father's earnings, a significant amount of which supported his drinking habit. She suffered from chronic depression throughout my childhood and adolescence that severely impacted her ability to emotionally engage with her children.

Towards the end of her life, the last decade or so, Mother entered her 'Happy Time'. She began to enjoy her children and grandchildren, take up hobbies that interested her, enjoy life, and for the first time in my life each day brought more smiles to her face than frowns. I wouldn't say that she was fulfilled but she was at least finding some happiness, no matter how short-lived it was.

I was born in 1956 in New Orleans. There have also been significant changes in the world in my lifetime, not the least of which is that women have many more choices than they did. However, growing up in the home that I did, in the time that I did, and in the culture that I did, my only goal in early life was to marry, have children, and provide them with the most loving, secure family life I possibly could. So, at age 21 I married a man who expressed the same desires and we started down the Yellow Brick Road to Emerald City. I made a couple of attempts at college but didn't stick with it because all I really wanted was to be a wife and mother. We were blessed with a wonderful daughter (when I was 24) and, although no other children came along, we were happy. Or thought we were, which is almost as good. Or convinced ourselves we were, which is not so good. Then, at the age of 37 I found myself divorced; no college degree, a limited ability to support myself, and a teenage daughter who was even more screwed up from the divorce than I was!

The next 7 years were a blur! Trying to cope with my feelings about the divorce, cope with C's problems, work, going to school to get a degree, and trying to figure out, in the midst of all of the insanity, what exactly I wanted out of life! Graduating, starting my social work career, fighting with C, letting C venture out into the world to start her own journey, caring for and losing both of my parents as well as my much loved oldest brother accounted for the next 5 years. I woke up one morning and realised that for the first time in my life I was not responsible for, or to, another living soul! I was 48 years old and the only thing that I had ever done soley for me was to get my degree! Within 6 months I sold off most of my belongings, found a job in London, borrowed some money, and moved! I've been here since February 2006 and don't plan to return to the States to live.

It took my mother almost 60 years before she started to find herself; it took me 48 years. It gratifies me immensely that C has found the courage to start down this path at a much younger age than either her mother or grandmother did. I love her and am very proud of her.

First Love (from Hazy's perspective)

2008-09-03T00:30:00.000-07:00

Written by Hazy whom I've written of before.

For those of you who pay close attention to defiantmuse's blog, you may recall mention of a youthful ring-pop proposal last month. Since C has asked me to write about something from our past together - I thought I'd give you my side of that particular story.

C and I were young when we first met - 16 and 18 respectively. I realised just how young the other day when I came across an old photo album of my first visit to Louisiana in 1998. Staring back at me from those pages were two stick-thin young things I barely recognised - and yet it all flooded back, reassuringly familiar images that conjured up the sights, sounds, smells and experiences of our first Easter together.

I remember every detail of those first few days - driving round in C's car staring in wonder at the moss dripping off old trees; the smells of Lake Ponchartrain mixing with the smoke from my menthol cigarettes as we drove over the Causeway; being slightly scared of C's mom who was so different from my own; and of course that magical first night filled with moonlight and our first kiss!!

We made a trip out from Louisiana to visit C's dad in California - evidently he was keen to meet the young British girl who had stolen his daughters heart. Three things stand out above all else from that trip for me.

One - on arrival at LAX airport we were picked up in her dads' old Tercel. He drove us out to the beautiful coast (was it Zuma?) where we sparked up a J and all got high and giggly together as we got to know each other. To me - a pretty shy, middle-class school girl from Loughborough, UK - this seemed the height of liberal sophistication and I remember thinking to myself "I didn't know parents could be soooooooooooo cool!". Sitting on those rocks at Zuma Beach and holding C's hand as we looked out over the Pacific Ocean will be one of those enduring memories for me.

Two - Of course a few days later, her dad's liberal parenting backfired slightly when they decided to throw a party to introduce us to all their friends. C and I decided to do a few tequila shots just before the party was due to start in the early evening and her dad racked them up for us. I'd never drunk tequila before in my life and after the initial shock of the first shot burning down my throat, C and I gradually picked up the pace. We must have done 10 shots in the space of about 30 minutes (or at least that's how my tequila-addled brain recalls it)! Flash forward to the excited guests arriving, all looking forward to meeting a grown-up C and her new young British girlfriend. Sadly, by this point, we had already passed out in the bedroom - our heads held precariously over buckets of drool as we tried desperately not to vomit. lol. My next memory of that night is waking up hours later after all the guests had left - we'd missed our own party! That was and will remain the only time in my life that tequila shall ever pass my lips...

Three - And now to that ring-pop! As the days passed, C and I grew closer and closer. This trip was our first actual face-to-face contact with each other - but somehow it felt as if we'd known each other for years. We were young and idealistic and we believed with all our hearts that we were destined to be together, that fate had brought us together, that we completed each other, that we would love each other forevermore. Of course, that last part is probably true in one way or another, but we were naive in our teenage understanding of the world and we believed that our love alone could conquer the 5000 miles that separated our daily realities. Nonetheless, at the time, our true love seemed boundless, all-powerful and we decided right there and then to spend the rest of our lives together. C was braver than I and she sealed the deal by getting down on bended-knee and proposing to me on Venice Beach one night - with a red rose and a cherry ring-pop! It was the cutest thing - and it's easy to snigger now, with the benefit of hindsight and 10 years of living behind us, but it was the truest proposal and I accepted it with a happy heart.

The next day, we returned to Louisiana and from there I made my way back to rainy England with that ring-pop. That commitment to each other was strong enough to see us through the next 5 years - on and off, backwards and forwards. Though it was seldom easy, I wouldn't change a thing about our past together - those experiences shaped who I am today.

Now we live separate lives - we've seen each other once in the last 5 years, we have both found other loves and sorrows in adulthood and lived life to the fullest since that first meeting 10 years ago. But first love endures. I know it always will.

off to The Old Dominion

2008-09-02T00:15:00.000-07:00

In a couple of days we will board a plane at the ungodly hour of 5:45am to begin our cross-country journey to spend a week with Steph & co. Monkey will play with her cousins and Mr. Egg, Steph, T and I will lounge around their pool with cold beers, cocktails and plenty of Chesapeake crabs. Mr. Egg and I will cook them tasty meals in an attempt to express our gratitude to Steph for using her miles to fly us out. Have I mentioned how much my wonderful cousin hooks me up?? Hmmmm?

And so my crib doesn't sit silent I've managed to sweet talk some of those nearest and dearest to me into sharing some stories. So stop by and show them some love too. I'll be back next week!

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

2008-08-30T13:40:00.000-07:00

She answered on the first ring, her voice tense and a bit shaky...."the phone hasn't stopped ringing. -No, pack it- (she says to someone in the background, I hear muffled voices responding). Sorry, C, it's stressful here. We didn't think this could happen again so soon....". And tears well up in my eyes and I am at a loss for words. We exchanged emergency contact numbers and she told me their evacuation plans which will be decided by tomorrow morning. So I sit and check the weather reports frequently, keeping an eye on the projected path.

My hometown, once again, is in the line of fire.

Images from the news 3 years ago flash in my mind until I'm near the breaking point. People screaming and crying, wading and swimming through toxic water, mothers with babies crying in terror. People on rooftops waving their hands and holding up bedsheets with the word "HELP" scrawled across it. It all becomes a blur of news reports and sound bytes and frantic phone calls to family and friends that wouldn't go through as I sat in my NYC apartment, completely helpless and an emotional mess.

Mr. Egg had returned to Louisiana from NYC the week before the storm and his cell phone wasn't working, nor could I reach my aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents. My oldest friend had refused to evacuate and her apartment was right near one of the levees that broke. She was believed to be dead for weeks. When she was finally airlifted out the story of her survival still brings tears to my eyes this day. My aunt and uncle's house was completely destroyed after sitting in water for weeks and had to be knocked down. They rebuilt. And now they are having to make evacuation plans almost exactly 3 years later in their brand new house that they just finished and were able to call "home". My grandparents, who lived on the Gulf Coast in Mississippi, had their house completely blown away by a tidal wave. Their entire town was destroyed. Not one thing was left standing. When my aunt and cousin, who had lived in the house with them, returned to survey the land they found some of their belongings blocks away that had been blown around by the wind. And they found the body of one of my grandparent's cats who they had left behind because the hotel they evacuated to would not allow pets.

Every year at this time Mr. Egg grows quiet and I can see him struggling with the memories. He was there through every bit of it. I was a thousand miles away. And yet we both have the same unresolved emotions. A mixture of not only survivor's guilt but a part of our soul being damaged. There is something about the spirit of New Orleans that gets inside of you and is a living, breathing piece. The nature of the city is that compelling.

I have avoided speaking of this until now because I just can't deal with the emotions that come up every time I hear or think of Katrina. And now with Gustav possibly bearing down on the city again everything is brought to the surface for me. I'm worried, once again, about the homes of my family members and also worry about the spirit of the city which was so drastically altered last time, I'm not sure it could survive another disaster such as this.

afterglow

2008-08-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." - Anaïs Nin

A couple of weeks ago when we were in Santa Cruz for the weekend visiting family we took a much needed day away for ourselves. We drove the 35 miles on a windy road through the mountains and arrived at Jen's just as the light began its transition from midday glare into the golden glow of afternoon. As we drove down the street looking at numbers (and pulling into the wrong driveway because Mr. Egg was being completely dyslexic) I saw a guy sitting on the porch reading a book. I said, that's it, that's J. I don't know how I knew but I knew. I'd never even seen his photo before. As we gathered up Monkey and our dog Kody from the car I see Jen with M, smiling and waving. We met in the middle of the yard with our girls on our hips and hugged hard and I thought damn this is going to be good.

We sat on a blanket and the kids ran around and Monkey stepped on the cheese plate more than once and we drank beer and wine and the dog was all over the place and Monkey and M were fighting over the tree swing and the guys were bonding and Jen and I were talking with ease and everything flowed as it should. Dinner was great, homemade pesto with pasta and grilled veggies from the farmer's market. We walked to the park and the girls climbed trees and ran around in the grass while Kody chased them and M was completely obsessed with holding his leash and walking him. More than once she was pulled so fast she was tripping over her own feet or she let go and we all went chasing after him, leash flying in the wind.

When we got back to the house there was more imbibing of alcohol and Mr. Egg had a tea party with M which enthralled Monkey to no end although she seemed more interested in taking the teacup tray and sending its contents flying to the floor. We all laughed and glowed and they felt like old friends. They spoke of their move to the jungle and we spoke of our similar intentions at some point in the near future. Mr. Egg grilled J about specifics and building plans and there was plenty said of composting toilets. I was happy just to sit on the couch next to Jen and be able to look over at her when she spoke. The woman is incredible. Plus she deals with my crazy and neurotic ass so she gets major props for that.

And what Jen said before is so true. It's almost as though we have a head start on the whole "getting to know each other" thing. I can reference posts I've written about my past and she knows instantly without me having to explain the whole story again. It's those sort of things that make it deeper and easier in many ways. She has more of a grasp on everything that makes up me.

I didn't want the night to end and if it had been up to me I'd have crashed on their floor and made them pancakes in the morning. It was almost like when you're a little kid and you go to a friend's house and you just wanna STAY but you can't and you say but I waaaaannnnnaaaa. Mr. Egg was the voice of reason and pointed out that we had a long drive home through the mountains in the dark. So the night came to a close and we were high off the goodness that comes from connecting with new friends. As we left we hugged hard and agreed to meet in Bolivia at some point for warm tortillas and cervezas.

unison

2008-08-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." - Rumi

The question of how I represent myself has recently been put under the microscope. Although it was an outside force that requested I look at it I now take on full responsibility for picking apart my actions and attempting to view them objectively. I look to other blogs and tally up how many proudly display their badges as wives, mothers, sisters, etc. when they describe themselves in the About Me sidebar of the page. When I chose the words for mine I chose them with much thought and consideration. For example; I debated if I should include mother before or after artist. That one is always tricky for me. What makes up a larger majority of me? Or is it even able to be broken down into such simplistic percentages?

I struggle with motherhood and how that has shaped the definition of who I am. I've fought against being lumped in with an entire section of society just because I chose to raise a child in this world. Although I welcome those who have similar experiences and share common ground I do not feel that a woman is my immediate sister just because we are both mothers. Yes, we know what it is to actually be able to say you would give your life for another and mean it. Yes, we know too well walking around in a sleep-deprived coma because their needs trump our own. Yes, we wipes noses and butts and tears falling from the corners of wide eyes and we know fully the joy of hearing your child's laughter no matter if it's the for the first time or the millionth time. But.....But.....So many other factors make up who we are and to say just because we both decided to breed does not mean we are connected any more than we are by just simply being human and alive on this planet.

I also refuse to be labeled a mommyblogger simply because I am a blogger and a mother. I had a debate recently with Mr. Egg about this. I asked if he were to blog would he be a "daddyblogger". His reply was that he would probably lumped in as a "tech blogger". So I question why he would be defined by what he does but I would be defined by whether or not I have a child, regardless of what my blog is about. I do write about my daughter and motherhood, yes. But I wouldn't say that is my focus. Not that there is anything wrong with that if it were but I have many other thoughts, ideas and stories to share besides those relating to mothering.

I refuse to be defined by any one thing, whether it's my relationship status, my decision to birth a child, my art or my politics. All of it combines together to make me who I am but not one specific thing encapsulates the essence of me.

But now I've begun looking at how I present myself and my life and what I speak of most often. Is it my sordid and often wild past? My shape shifting through the years which has led me down some unlikely paths? Is it my hopes and dreams for the future? The difficulties and simultaneous awe that arises from attempting to raise another human being when I am still sifting through it all myself? It is every single one of those things and so much more.

I don't often write about the things that I'm still processing. Many of the issues that are so deeply buried I fear I will be unearthing them for years to come. The patterns that seem to drag me under the darkest water which fighting against only intensifies my panic. I struggle with trying to define myself as an individual and as a byproduct of that my partner may feel unappreciated and neglected when I shun the typical interweaving that comes from two people who make a commitment to share their lives together.

Fact is, intimacy is not my strong point. I keep a firm distance and demand my space, that both physical as well as emotional. There are walls, many walls, erected from life's experiences reaching all the way back into my childhood. It is something I continue to work on, maybe at a pace that is not a fast as one would like, but progress is made nonetheless.

For me, it's extremely difficult merging into a partnership when I'm still in the process of discovering myself. I think some would argue that not only are we always in the process of discovering ourselves but in many ways it's easier to navigate through the difficulties of life if there is someone there besides you. Someone to support you during the rough patches and then bask in the beautiful moments that are always there to counterbalance the struggles. And while, in theory, that sounds like a grand plan the reality is that I feel any sort of dependence on another - especially of the emotional kind - is a weakness. And maybe the fact of that matter is that it's not a bad thing to compromise and know that you're in this mess with someone else. But I have a hard time putting stock in the permanence of anything because I have seen and continue to see too much around me crumble to trust it.

One of the hardest things to overcome is my fear of losing myself and my individuality. I suppose that maybe most of all I worry about interdependence quickly becoming co-dependence. How does one remain entangled in a partnership without losing their self to it?

down my rabbit hole

2008-08-23T12:51:00.000-07:00

I struggle with my tendency to isolate myself in my little world. This small cabin with almost as many windows as wall space. Where dark wood trims doorways and entire walls. Little baby feet pound the hardwood floors as Monkey streaks down the hallway naked except for a diaper, chasing the dog or the cat or both. I watch the tall pine trees sway in the wind from my over sized chair in the living room and watch the days, hours, minutes slip right on by. Most days I'm here, without a car, and the furthest away I venture is up the hill towards our run down barn. I pick blackberries almost as quickly as Monkey eats them, dripping juice all down her chest.

I often feel lost and a bit lonely. I'm not sure how exactly I end up here so many times. And while I realize there is so much beauty and love in my life there is this invisible wall that blocks it from permeating. I feel disconnected and that I'm not accomplishing much of substance. I don't even feel that I'm accomplishing much when it comes to raising my daughter, I'm too often impatient and simply trying to get through the day. The lighthearted playfulness that I feel should be overwhelming me at this stage of her development is instead replaced with annoyed despair. And then the guilt hits me so hard I can barely breathe and I hold her extra close to me in those moments and whisper, "I'm sorry" into the soft curls that frame her ears.

It's difficult to revel in mothering when my relationship with myself is so tenuous. I struggle on a daily basis with the point of it all and more often than not come up with nothing. I am not really the person I want to be and I'm not doing what I want to be doing. It's not a new struggle, it's just becoming more urgent with the passing of time.

I have been questioning why I hole up in my house day after day and spend more time writing or reading blogs or exchanging emails with other bloggers instead of calling up one of my local friends and talking in the flesh. Or why is it that most of the people I seem to have such an intense resonance with happen to live hundreds of miles away? Is it just that people tend to be more honest and open when it comes to the written word?

Why do I imagine this life filled with art and community and activism yet not do any of the things that will help me achieve such a lifestyle. I can grasp it in bits and pieces here and there but not with consistency. I have friends locally but we get together sporadically and with the exception of one individual here I can't recall ever feeling as much connection with most of them as I do with some of you in our email exchanges. Even my closest friends from real life that I connect with most deeply are not here. They're in Boston and Providence and Birmingham and Los Angeles and Manzanita and the middle of nowhere Colorado.

I guess I've been feeling a bit like I'm just floating in the wind, trying to get through each day and attempt to figure it all out. I don't really know what I'm doing or where I'm going but I have this ideal or fantasy of what I would like but I'm not sure if I'm being realistic with my expectations or not.

pimpin' out mah girls

2008-08-22T08:54:00.001-07:00

So Ms.Prufrock recently posted about blogs she was pimpin' because they were so freaking fantastic that everyone just HAD to know about them. Did I mention that mine is one of them? Yes, that's right. Did you know you were in the presence of greatness?

Now she was kind enough to pass along her fabulous pimp stick for others to use wisely. I'm not going to write about the blogs that most of you already read and KNOW are freaking fantastic. What I WILL do is introduce two brand new spanking blogs by a couple of people very special to me.

Hazy's Green Blog: Hazy writes about her life as a climate change activist working for Friends of the Earth as she travels all over Europe and lobbies MPs and every single day works toward changing the world. Her blog is inspiring and full of facts and practical information on what you can do to do your part in combating climate change.

head hand heart: J, Hazy's partner, also started a blog that is all about her research and activism in the midwifery field as she works on her PhD and advocates for women everywhere to birth in a safe and loving environment.

Both of these blogs really inspire me and not just because I know the two women behind the screen. They are both extremely passionate and beautiful women and I definitely recommend everyone stopping by and checking out what they have to say.

puzzle pieces

2008-08-20T21:20:00.000-07:00

I am a dirty mouth with feet.

I choose to open my eyes and play my part in the revolution.

I love my daughter with a fierceness I never could have imagined possible.

I firmly believe corporate globalization (along with religion) is destroying the world.

I think a life without music is not worth living.

I put myself out there with people too frequently and am often hurt because of it.

I have brushed my hair just a handful of times in the past 8 years.

I have a thing for raw fish.

I love sunny and breezy autumn days.

I have been extremely self-destructive at points in my life.

I have travelled to 20 countries on 4 continents.

I tend to be argumentative and stubborn.

I don't do well in crowds.

I don't bathe very often, I like my smell.

I have had 8 significant lovers, 4 women and 4 men.

I am passionately idealistic.

I have great difficulty letting go.

I find my soul stirred by redwoods, the sound of wooden wind chimes and images of freedom fighters.

I think most people worry about germs too much.

I love Christmas, although I don't believe in God or like what the holiday has become in the face of pervasive consumerism.

I don't think I'm a very good person to be in a committed relationship with.

I have lived in small towns and big cities.

I have a very nasty temper and tend to slam doors.

I pick my nose in public.

I am totally OCD when it comes to clutter and mess.

I tend to dismiss people if I find out they are creationists.

I have moved 22 times in my nearly 28 years.

I would go for something salty over something sweet 98% of the time.

I have intense mood swings.

I have pride in being from New Orleans. although....

I can't deny, as much as I would like to, that my Louisiana ancestors were slave owners.

I often question and feel insecure about my artistic abilities.

I would have to say, of all the places I have been up to now, South Africa is by far my favorite.

I have no patience for people's games and ego trips.

I have strong opinions and do not cope well when people disagree.

I don't cry in front of others and I'm uncomfortable when people cry in front of me.

I miss elusive things that I'm not sure I ever had in the first place.

I am very nostalgic and tend to often spend too much time in the past because of it.

I love the smells of nag champa, fresh lavender and pavement after rainfall.

I am descended from Sicilian, Polish, Cajun, Welsh, Scottish and French folk.

I detest drama and people who seem to thrive on it.

I find that it is honestly the small things in life that make me appreciate it all.

I am still sifting through my thoughts about blogging but I will be back with regularity soon-ish.

Parameters

2008-08-07T21:59:00.000-07:00

It's been one of those kind of weeks where nothing is simple and everything seems to become more complicated with every corner turned. I'm trying to stay above it all and focus on what I can control. I'm working on my portfolio and attempting to remove some chaos from my life on more levels than one.

I will not post again for a while and may be absent from your places as well. I have a lot going on and I want to enjoy this last bit of summer before the rainy, damp autumn sets in.

Tonight was a typical Humboldt end-of-summer evening. Everyone in hoodies while Mr. Egg stacked the half cord that will get us through part of the winter. The girls ran around the property and up the hill before being coaxed inside when the light began to fade from the sky. These photographs capture the beauty of this evening far better than my words and descriptions ever could:

Greener Grass

2008-08-05T08:21:00.000-07:00

The first time I smoked pot I was 12 years old. I was home visiting in Louisiana for the summer during our move from Richmond, VA to Los Angeles. My cousin (who was 5 years my senior) knew where our aunt kept her stash and helped herself to a dime bag’s worth and some rolling papers. That night when we got back to my grandparent’s house on the Gulf Coast we set up two boxed filled with stale old clothes and sat by the window set into the dormer of my cousin’s attic bedroom. She rolled the joints with the help of a dollar bill and I anxiously awaited what I believed would pretty cool. It would at least make me cool. In her eyes. In the eyes of my friends when I told them about it. Right? She lit the joint and took a couple of hits off it, holding in her breath each time. In between tokes she told me that I would get something called “the munchies” and motioned to the bag of salt and vinegar potato chips that lay on the floor next to our rapidly collapsing boxes. She passed me the joint and I inhaled deeply. I coughed. I silently cursed myself as my face turned red. I had pilfered my dad’s closet for the past year, searching systematically for the pot I knew he had. He’d let me in on that little secret one day on a bike ride through the fall leaves in our hilly Richmond suburb. I was 9. We’d begun D.A.R.E. at school that year. I was angry that he would choose to do something the police officer said would kill someone. Plus it was illegal. But it did clear up the mystery smell of my parent’s bathroom that had been a part of me for as long as I could remember. Later on in life I realized how much my parents had fought about it. My mother being decidedly against my father smoking with me in the house while my father refused to budge.

By the time I was a freshman in high school I was smoking on a daily basis. A joint on the way to the bus stop in the morning and then maybe one snuck in the bathroom in between classes. I’d smoke after school and then again before I went to bed. I learned early on that I had to close the vent in my bedroom otherwise the smell permeated the house and I was in for the inevitable grounding from my mother. My best friend and I spent many weekend nights just sitting in my room listening to music, smoking bowl after bowl and then raiding the kitchen. My bedroom was a smoker’s haven, complete with black light, strobe light and this weird ceramic lime green bowling ball with holes drilled all over, which allowed different colored light to reflect patterns on the wall. I had posters of Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Jim Morrison and Jerry Garcia covering the walls. Candles and incense always burning and psychedelic patterned cloth draping every surface space.My mother often referred to my bedroom as “the cave”. Mostly because everything was black, my bed frame and the bedding. The rug. The cloth covering the window. And instead of a regular light bulb in my overhead light I had a low wattage blue light which barely gave off enough light to see. My mother complained that she couldn’t find anything in my closet. My response? Why are you looking in my closet?

My smoking did not decrease during high school. Even after the whole "stealing a car and running away to another state" thing which landed me in the state psychiatric hospital for a two month stint. And not even when my mother threatened to have me sent to live in a group home. Granted, I was doing other drugs at this point as well but pot was my drug of choice and I really didn’t think it was that bad of a thing to be doing with my time.

Looking back on it I see many patterns. One being that until the time I started smoking pot I was an above average student who was always on the Honor Roll and I was involved in extracurricular activities. Once I began smoking I could barely even make it to school. I would much rather pretend to leave in the morning, loudly slamming the front door, before sneaking back up the stairs and into bed for my low-key day at home smoking and watching TV. I might have gone for a bike ride at some point if I had the motivation. But that was the extent of energy exerted.

Once I was out on my own at 18 I was still smoking daily. For the next few years I kept up the daily ritual of smoking in the evenings after a long day at work or my free pass to smoke all day whenever I had a day off, which was rare. When I was 20 and moved here to Humboldt I was stoked to find out what this area is known for. I had no idea when I chose this place to move to but I thought that it was quite a nice coincidence. I was rolling in the beautifully sculpted bright green buds with vibrant orange and purple hairs and the heaviest dusting of crystals I had ever seen. And all at half the cost of what I’d grown accustomed to paying on the East Coast. This is a pot smoker’s heaven, especially since the 215 law passed. It’s like a little piece of Amsterdam right here in America.

In my mid-20s my pot consumption dropped to the point where I wasn’t smoking at all. There was and are the rare times that I’ll smoke but for the most part I’m reminded of why I stopped smoking. I just don’t enjoy it anymore. I get more in my head than I already am and lose all ability to communicate with those around me. I get paranoid and although many claim it chills them out it stresses me out to the point of snapping. It’s as though everything is world is just weighing down on me and my brain is moving at full speed and I just want it to stop. That sounds like a good time, right?

But although I choose not to partake in the sticky icky very often I am a very strong supporter of legalization. It is capable of benefiting people and the planet and maybe if this fallacious War on Drugs ever decides to target the people that are really damaging society then the stigma will be forgotten. I have no qualms about my daughter knowing what it is and that her parents use it (one much more frequently than the other). I know a lot of people may disagree with me on this but it's my opinion. The only really negative thing that comes to mind when I think of marijuana use is lack of motivation. And that really depends on the individual. I know some stoners who really get a lot more done than my sober self. Mr. Egg is one of those people.

On my end I'll continue to do it occasionally and then question why I do it at all. I made the mistake of eating a very small ganja brownie over the weekend and I about lost my mind. I was high for 8 hours, most of which I was attempting to keep Monkey entertained as well as my neighbor’s daughter. I think I just put a movie on for them and paced around my kitchen while beginning to start things that two minutes in couldn’t remember what I was doing in the first place. I have a spoon in my hand. Yes. But for what? Was I going to eat something? Is it dirty? Was I washing it? What? What? I lick it. It takes like garlic. Why does it taste like garlic? Mr. Egg? Why does this spoon taste like garlic? Tzatziki. Oh. Hey do you think I should eat some more brownie? Um. No. Why? I dunno. I really want a brownie. Mmmm. Chocolate. Dude, why do you do this? You know it’s not a good idea. Yeah. You’re right. What about if I made a chocolate and cheese quesadilla? Uhhhh….Okay?

it takes a village

2008-08-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

We all met in childbirth class in the spring of '07. Our children were born within weeks of one another. These are 2 of the 4 mothers that I get together with frequently although not often enough. We attempt to set weekly gatherings but that rarely works out. It's more like monthly if even that. But every time we gather we are reminded so strongly of how it should always be. It's about mothering. And friendship. And community. This time around I invited them over with the guise of wanting to photograph their kids because I'm working on my portfolio. Which is true. But mostly I looked forward to their company. Yesterday was the first time we got together at my house. One of the mothers is extremely allergic to cats but it was such a beautiful day we stayed outside on the deck. We spoke, as women do, intimately and with ease. We covered everything ranging from sleep habits to concerns about childcare, past relationships, travel, composting toilets and pubic hair. We took turns interacting with each other's little ones and laughed as they all inevitably fought over the same toy, no many how many were scattered about the yard. We walked up to my barn and I shared with them the grand plan my neighbor and I have to clean it out and make a play space for the girls. We wandered around my garden as my friend T advised me on what I should get in the ground soon. We ate cucumbers, tzatziki, cheese, flatbread and smoked tofu. They spent all afternoon here and only left when Monkey crashed out close to dinnertime. We promised to do it again soon and maybe this time we will. But even if we don't and it's another couple of months until we sit around in that circle I'll look forward to it. Whenever it may be.

my summer romance

2008-07-31T07:50:00.000-07:00

He sat next to me on the first day of summer school. The class was geometry. The year was 1996. I was 15 years old. I’d known the boy with the short, messy bleached blond hair. The green eyes behind Buddy Holly style black framed glasses. We had gone to junior high together although all I knew of him was that he was cute and liked to torment girls in gym class by pulling their shorts down. He was often suspended. I wasn’t surprised to see him in summer school but then again I was there and didn’t consider myself a troublemaker. I was just bloody awful at math.

By the end of the first day I had found my partners in crime in Adler (the boy with the hair and the glasses) and his long-time friend, Mandy. They had known each other since childhood, their mothers were friends. I’d never seen Mandy around because although she lived on the Northshore she attended school in New Orleans at a Catholic all-girls school. And you know what they say about the Catholic girls? I should know because I was one of them. We’re the worst. We curse, we drink and we have lots of sex. Right? Right.

I remember that first week I found myself sitting with Adler under an old oak tree, our backs against the trunk, knees touching, huddling together to stay dry from the daily afternoon thunderstorm that happens every summer in Louisiana. I had told him in the parking lot of the high school earlier that day after school let out that I was into girls. He brought this up now and said it was cool because we could go to the lakefront and check out girls together. I agreed and said it was nice to have a guy friend who I didn’t have to worry about tension with. In that moment his emerald eyes completely pierced me as we locked eyes and he looked at me thoughtfully. Our moment was broken when Mandy yelled out asking where we were. We ran back to the screened-in porch getting completely soaked along the way.

A few days later we were at a party near the lake. Someone’s house. I was lying on the coach smoking a joint and Adler came in and sat on the back of the couch sideways and then slid down to lie next to me. I passed off what was left of the joint and he opened his hand to expose a rather large screw. He said, “Do you wanna screw?”. I thought it was so funny I snorted. I said, “Suuuure”, took the screw and slid it into my pocket. From then on it was just understood, we were together.

That summer we spent every single day together. After school we drove around in Mandy’s “handi-hoopty”, as we called it. It was a large mini-van with a wheelchair lift (her sister had cerebral palsy). The middle seat in the back was removed to accommodate the wheelchair so there was plenty of room for all of us to lay out when we parked it out in the woods to get high. Once the first half of summer school let out we drove to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to drop acid at the beach. Luckily my cousin lived a few blocks from there so I descended upon her when the sun, sand and sea got to be too much. I paced around her bedroom tripping balls while telling her about how I had the coolest boyfriend ever. He played bass in a band and was one of the cutest guys in town and all the girls wanted him and he was a rebel and he looked so damn sexy when he was smoking his Marlboro Reds. He even wrote me poetry. She eyed me warily and asked if I was sleeping with him. I said I was still a virgin. She rolled her eyes and said that wasn’t going to last long.

She was right. A couple of days later, at a party in a random stranger’s house, Adler and I decided to take the plunge. While tripping on acid. On a water bed. He was a virgin too (which was later confirmed by Mandy and his best friend). The experience? To say it was surreal does not do it justice. I do remember that it hurt. What does a 15 year old boy know about foreplay? What does a 15 year old girl know about the fact that she needs lubrication? He was sweet and gentle though and kept asking if I was okay. At one point someone walked in on us but then quickly closed the door. I just kept thinking to myself this is it! I’m finally having sex. And once it was over, which didn’t take that long, I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I wanted to see if I looked any different. Now, anyone who has done acid knows it’s never a good idea to look at yourself in the mirror while you’re tripping. You just don’t do it. But I did. Until my eyes started looking all evil and I saw the walls closing in on me and I had to quickly exit the room before the shower curtain started trying to kill me.

The night after we had slept together for the first time we were walking hand in hand to the lakefront for the 4th of July fireworks. He said he could feel our energy mixing in between our hands and that’s how he knew it was real. And no, we were not tripping. Or. Maybe we were. I don’t know. I just know that his explanation of everything at that moment made me feel safe and glad that he was the guy I had lost my virginity with.

Once we had sex once it was just what we did every time we saw each other. Later that week my mom dropped me off at his house for the afternoon. We were upstairs in his room listening to Sonic Youth and his little brother was lingering in his doorway. He got up and shoved his brother out of the room, shut the door and locked it. I knew what it meant. So I sat on his bed and starting taking my clothes off. It still hurt. Every time. His mom called up that the pizza was ready. A couple of hours later when my mom picked me up we weren't even around the block before I told her I was having sex with Adler. She immediately drove to the store where she told me to wait in the car. She came back out with a bag full of condoms and spermicidal lubricant. She told me to use them. End of conversation.

Every summer I spent at least a couple of weeks with my dad in Los Angeles. This summer was no different although the thought of leaving Adler for that long was killing me. He came along to the airport to say goodbye. Just as they were boarding my plane he removed the chain that he always wore around his wrist. He attached it to mine and said it was to remind me that he was the ball on the other end of that chain. I kissed him so hard, I didn’t care that my mom was standing just a few feet away. I was crying by the time I reached my seat. I just wanted the two weeks to pass as quickly as possible.

I was not greeted by Adler upon my return. It seems a week after I left he began spending time with this older girl who was into the same music as him and ran with the same crowd. He actually had the gall to tell my best friend in the second half of summer school that he had kissed this older girl and didn’t know what to do now. As if she wouldn’t tell me? Or I guess that was his point. He was too chicken shit to tell me so he made my best friend do the dirty work. I cried and cried and didn’t leave bed for days. I saw him and the girl around town constantly after that and every time it felt like I was kicked in my stomach. Every time he saw me he avoided eye contact. And on the times when I forced him to talk to me and look at me he looked pained. He knew how much he had hurt me. But the pressures of high school, you know. His friends liked this girl better than me. I listened to Alanis Morrisette for crying out loud. That was not cool according to his crowd. Plus this girl had a car. She also very closely resembled a rat but that is neither here not there.

It was after that experience when I decided I was strictly into women. I did not have another relationship with a guy until I was 21. And that first relationship when I was 21? The Boy I lived with? One night we were at the House of Blues at a Queens of the Stone Age show when I weaved my way through the crowd to the bar to order another whiskey and ginger. On my way a hand reaches out and grabs my arm. I turn around and stare blankly into the face of this dread-headed guy. He said my name eagerly. I said yes and continued to stare. I had no idea who he was. He said, It’s me! Adler! I about peed my pants. I cannot believe I didn’t recognize him. He did look a lot different, but still. We chatted for a few minutes but it was so loud we couldn’t hear anything and decided to move the conversation into the hallway outside of the bathrooms. I told him he was an asshole and that he’d broken my heart. He said he’d never forgotten me and always regretted what he had done. He said he always thought of me as “the one that got away”. He asked for my number. I said I had a boyfriend, who at that moment walked passed us on his way to take a leak. I stopped him and made introductions. Once The Boy was finished I said goodbye to Adler and walked away a happy woman. I know it’s awfully stunted but what a better way to get over rejection than to reject the person who rejected you?

And now. Now? Yesterday I had a friend request on MySpace. I opened the box and there it was. His name. Turns out he’s living just up the coast in Oregon. It’s funny how just one little thing like that can bring back all of these memories like it was yesterday.

freezing that frame

2008-07-30T08:07:00.000-07:00

like a rolling stone

2008-07-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about homelessness lately. I guess it’s hard to be friends with Jen and not have it take up residence somewhere in your head, no matter how far back you try to push it. And then there’s the beautiful (and aching) post that Sarah wrote today.

Every time I go down to the City, the staggering number of homeless people confronts me. But on a more day-to-day level I’m confronted with it here, in my own town. As I’ve said before, Humboldt County is a major stop along the “hippie trail” that winds its way from San Francisco all the way up to Seattle. We have a very large number of transients in the area and it’s one of the reasons our little city by the sea has yet to make it as a tourist destination for anything other than RVs driving through on their way to see the surrounding redwoods.

We have a thriving artist’s community and a historic Old Town filled with interesting shops and boutiques. We have festivals and incredible architecture and are luckily nestled in one of the most beautiful areas in this country. But….but….this city is, in many ways, going the route of many cities in America as of late; too much poverty and crime and not enough jobs and/or money to go around. Our gas and food prices are consistently one of the highest in the country. Although our housing prices are relatively low compared with the rest of California it’s a mockery considering what the median household wage is around here. The Baby Boomers are retiring in droves and selling their multi-million dollar homes in Southern California and moving up here to buy choice pieces of real estate at a fraction of the cost and are, in turn, driving up the prices so none of the locals can afford to live here any more.

Add to that the crumbling lumber industry on an economy built around that empire and you have a very depressed region financially combined with people who have worked hard their entire lives and still can’t make ends meet. It’s no wonder our other industry has grown by leaps and bounds in the past decade, it’s the only way most people can survive up here.

We also have the meth labs and the county jail and the abnormally disproportionate number of mentally ill residents and only a handful of decent social programs. So you can barely walk down one city block without crossing paths with someone who is struggling to find a decent meal and a dry place to sleep. I can think of a dozen busy intersections in town where at any given hour you will find someone standing with a dog and a sign. There is the stretch on Highway 101 that is referred to as our very own “Skid Row”. It is littered with run-down old motels that looked like they may have been nice about 60 years ago. Cop cars are often found in the area, as are dirty needles and empty whisky bottles.

I worked in the field when I lived here before; I’ve spoken of that time in my life. Although I’d like to say I’ve remained as passionately involved as I was with these issues I have to admit that I’m not. To make it even worse I’ve gone the path of cynicism. I find myself wondering how many people would get off the streets if they had the chance and when I see the guy standing on the corner I wonder how much money he’s making every day. Because I know from my experience in that scene that often they make enough to pay for their hotel rooms on the Row and for food, drinks, drugs, etc. Nothing very fancy. Just the basics. Plus they have access to the Food Bank and clean clothes from St. Vincent’s. Many conversations have left me under the impression that though they had a job and a home and stability at one point they wouldn’t want it again.

I find myself feeling guilty for giving up. Because maybe that's why a lot of people got there in the first place, from people giving up on them. I too easily dismiss it and say they have access to help yet they choose not to help themselves so why should I continue to care and make an effort. I realize there is so much more. More often than not there are mental health issues and drug and/or alcohol abuse and a sense of having given up on society and life in general. I get that. But I wonder how one can go about changing that? It’s the age-old saying of, “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.”. If the services are available and the homeless population knows about it and refuses it then where do you go from there?

Post-Feminism

2008-07-27T09:11:00.000-07:00

I have a guest post up today over at Chani's for Sacred Life Sunday.

Kindred

2008-07-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

We met freshman year of high school in 5th period Honors English. She sat in the desk behind me and quietly listened in on my (loud) conversations with my friends. She was shy and new to the school having transferred in over the winter break. One day I turned to her as I sat down and said, "Hey, did you do your homework??". She said she hadn't. I grinned and said, "Good. I don't want to be the only one who didn't do it. I hate that.".....

Over the next couple of weeks we talked more in class. We discovered we both had a gay parent (her mom, my dad). She told me tales of the years she lived on a commune and went to a Waldorf school. Her parents sounded like old hippies. I brought her into my group of friends, taking her under my wing in a way. At the time I deemed the people she was hanging out with "losers" but looking back on it they were nice people, just outcasts. Mostly the freaks and geeks. The people that I would now choose to hang out with. But back then? They weren't "cool" enough. She ditched them. My crew was wild. We smoked, we drank, we partied. Faerin was always the mom of the group though. She was the one yelling from the backseat as our friend drove down a windy road at night with the headlights off, swaying from lane to lane as she said, "We're in England....Now we're in America". Faerin screamed out, "The vehicle is NOT a toy!".

She saved my ass on more than a dozen occasions, once from being gang raped by a bunch of shady Mexican guys at a party where I'd had six too many. I don't know how or why she put up with my shit back then. At one point she pulled back and we stopped hanging out for a while. She said she couldn't watch me self-destruct anymore. It took a year or so for our relationship to get back on track.

The summer after graduation we took a road trip up to her mom's in Wisconsin and that is where I left her. For nearly the next decade we lived our lives on opposite ends of the country, both moving more times than we can count on both hands, and although a couple of times it seemed that our fate would bring us in the same general geographic region plans always changed and yet another several states separated us. We still spoke on the phone constantly and saw each other a few times on trips back home to Louisiana. And then, finally, when I lived in NYC she moved to Boston. We had 6 months and a few trips to visit each other to reconnect as best friends should. Face to face. Heart to heart.

She's strong and fierce and so talented I'm constantly astounded. There doesn't seem to be anything artistic that she doesn't excel at. She paints and sculpts and draws and writes and photographs and plays the mandolin and the guitar and the flute and she sings and she has the quirkiest (and totally awesome) sense of fashion. She makes puppets and figurines and is working on writing and illustrating a children's book. Her day job is working with deafblind children at a prestigious boarding school on the East Coast. She constantly pushes me to pursue my passions and is always capable of putting a smile on my face no matter how shitty I'm feeling. She lifts me up often. It's just her energy. It's contagious.

There's so much more to our history but it's complicated and I prefer to keep it close. It's hard to describe our love for one another though I will say it is very strong and unbreakable. It has caused waves in my relationship with Mr. Egg. And I'll admit that if the situation were reversed I would feel threatened.

She visited last summer when Monkey was 3 months old.

Her love for Monkey is huge and encapsulating. I know Monkey is blessed to have her in her life. Faerin is so incredibly good with children, especially when it comes to imaginative play. She made this amazing doll for Monkey that is very Where the Wild Things Are. And interestingly enough the main character of her book is a little girl with the same name as my girl and they share a very similar personality.

We only get to see each other once a year, if we're lucky. And though I was hoping to have her back here this summer she's heading down to Louisiana on her summer break to visit her sister who is very pregnant. I understand, of course, but I miss that girl so much sometimes it actually hurts.

Ah, what I wouldn't give to have her nearby for afternoon cups of tea and painting sessions. All-night chats and chocolate chip cookie dough eating and talks about everything under the sun. Road trips, braiding each others hair and pillow fights in our underwear. Haha. Yeah right, G.

FYI

2008-07-24T07:42:00.000-07:00

Jenny emailed me this morning worried about a comment she saw on a site by me. Thing is, I'd never even heard of the blog. I asked if there was another Defiantmuse or C------? She sent me the link and there it was. My name, my photo, link to my blog. And I definitely did not post that comment. Since the weekend I kept being signed out on Gmail which I thought was weird and I changed my password yesterday. So I guess some how my shit got hacked into or something so if anyone received comments that don't sound like me or has seen comments in places I don't usually comment - it's not me!

sometimes it's the small things

2008-07-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

Starting back in June I began watching my neighbor's daughter D in the afternoons during the week. Every day I pick her up from somewhere, one camp or another. On Tuesdays I pick her up from one place at noon and then bring her to jujitsu around 1 and pick her up when that is finished at 4 and keep her until her mother gets home around 5ish. The midday timing of all of this has definitely affected Monkey's nap schedule and most days she doesn't sleep much and is super cranky and wanting to go to sleep by 6pm and maybe that's why she wakes up before the sun comes up every day. But I digress.

Today I picked up D and, of course, she'd forgotten to bring her gi so we had to drive back across town to our house to pick it up. And then drive allllll the way to the north side of town to the creepy, new and sterile building that houses her jujitsu camp and gymnastics camp (which she does on Thursdays). So we get there a couple of minutes late and Monkey has just fallen asleep and I don't want to get her out of her car seat so I stand outside the car and watch D walk inside the door and I see this woman walking out of the building who looks at her with surprise and then looks around and locks eyes with me. The woman gives me a disapproving look. Whatever. I rolled my eyes and got back in the car and drove home.

At ten minutes to 4 I get Monkey and the dog loaded back into the car and we drive back across town. We arrive at 4 on the dot. We went in and, of course, they weren't finished. Every. Single. Week. They are always running late. It's annoying as fuck. I guess if she was my kid I might be more into sitting there for a while and watching but she's not and actually even if it was my kid it might be cute once or twice but then come on dudes, people have lives and shit to get on with just finish already!

So there's a weird little "viewing area", I guess, for the parents to sit and watch. There are 3 benches and some chairs. The parents are two types. There are the fathers I've seen in their suits who stand and jingle their keys as they try to pretend they're not glancing at their watch every minute or so. And there are the mothers, some with smaller children clasping onto their hips, arms or laps. The mothers pay attention and smile and laugh and nearly clap every time their child makes one single movement. I usually wander up and down the hallway and attempt to keep Monkey occupied so she doesn't run out onto the mat to greet D. As it is she squeals when she sees her and tries everything to wiggle out of my grasp and take off running. That kid of mine? She's strong. Really strong. And any sort of attempt on my end to restrain her in any manner brings on a tantrum of the most magnificent kind. I usually tend to try to avoid such situations if I can. But I'm stuck there, in that hallway and seating space, waiting for the sensei who obviously has his head stuck so far up his own ass I'm surprised he can breathe. Seriously. I've never seen someone so full of their self. It's repulsive.

I sat down with Monkey on my lap and bounced her up and down, hoping that would buy me another minute or two before she attempted to break free from my grasp. I hear the woman next to me clear her throat pointedly. I look up. It's the woman from the parking lot who gave me the disapproving look. I thought to myself Are you fucking kidding me? I have to deal with this sort of crap and I'm not even here for my kid. Really? Ugh! So this lady's mouth smiled at me. I say her mouth did because it was completely fake and I could tell that by the look in her eyes. She asked how old Monkey was and commented on her complexion. She asked which one was 'mine' although she knew damn well since she shot me the evil stank eye about 3 hours before. I thought for a second of telling her she wasn't "mine" but I decided not to and simply pointed to D. I admit I totally did it just to mess with this woman. I get it all the time when I'm out with the girls. I know what a lot of people think when they see me with this little Asian girl and my dark-skinned Monkey. And, as I thought, the woman's lips pursed and her eyebrows lifted. She said, (I'm not even kidding) "Different fathers?" as she looked from Monkey to D. I bit my lip and replied, "Yes. I have another one at home too. Different father for her too. I just seem to have trouble with men. That's why I have a girlfriend now. Women are much easier. Well....in their own way. You know what I mean?". She turned a bit red and stuttered a bit. She turned back to watch her son and didn't say another word to me. Okay. Mission accomplished.

So after 15 minutes they are finally done and D comes off the mat smiling and waving a little paper ticket. As we walk back to the car she says she wants to tell me something and as I'm buckling Monkey into her seat D is showing me that little scrap of paper which is actually "Jujitsu dollars". She asks if I know what they're for? I suggest they're to use in the jujitsu store that they have inside the building? She says no. I ask what they are for. She says, "Well if you get ten of them you can use them to buy a picture of the sensei". I stopped what I was doing. My eyes went all buggy as I screeched, "Whaaaat? You work hard to earn these so you can "buy" a photograph of your sensei?". I'm totally reeling on the inside. Does that seem fucked up at all? I had a strong reaction to it and I'm wondering if I'm the only one. So I catch myself because she's looking at me like she doesn't understand and I reign it in and say, "Well is that something you would like to have?". She says it is and she laughs. I close the door and walk around to the driver's side and am shaking my head.

At this point I was tired and I was cranky and Monkey had been a handful and D was jabbering on about this and that and everything was annoying me to the point of near meltdown and there's traffic on the road and that fucker ahead of me doesn't seem to know what a turning signal is and that person is driving way too slow and I totally assume it's an old lady and IT IS and then someone parked so far away from the curb that I had to stop and wait for the cars to pass in the opposite direction so I could use two inches of their lane to continue on my way and then it happens. Something small. So small. I stop at a 4-way stop sign and this other car and I arrive at just about the same time but she really got there a half-second before me and I motioned for her to go and as she passed me she turned to look at me and smiled and waved. That was all. A smile and a wave. And I felt a bit lighter. And I smiled back.

times like these

2008-07-22T07:13:00.000-07:00

On days when I'm feeling drained and vulnerable and thick in the fogginess of my head I try to spend the afternoon just wandering around the property. I can smell the eucalyptus and the earthiness of the redwoods and pines on our land. I follow the kids and the dog around and watch them play. I wander around our garden and notice the artichokes coming up. And then I stare for a while into our Yoni pond that has been drained for mosquito season before noticing our insanely overgrown Zen garden b/c all of us are too lazy to weed it. I watch Monkey racing to what I call "The Stairs of Death" every chance she gets. It gives me a heart attack every time but it's her favorite thing on our property other than the big hill that she's taken to running up every time she sneaks out of our gated front yard. I just bask in the kids being kids and the beauty of where we live and everything sort of stands still for a while and perspective seems clearer. The dramas or negativity of a crazed weekend seem so trivial and just like that it's gone from my radar. It's back to life. Back to the things that matter in the bigger picture.

Yang

2008-07-21T11:51:00.000-07:00

Part 2

I have to express the positive too or I’m doing a disservice to myself and to the moments over the weekend that did resonate. I attended a panel on Beautiful Blogging and Positive Posting which only reinforced why I’m doing what I’m doing. The women in that room were on the same page and at least a dozen times I found myself with chills. I felt that sense of community of other women who were tired of the hopelessness and were driven to create change, no matter how small, in their own corner of the blogosphere. I listened to women speak about how to unite this community of like-minded thinkers who are (as Chani would say) ‘looking for orchids in the desert’. I connected with a couple of these women after the panel and we exchanged cards and I revel that I have a couple of new blogs to read by people I feel are of the same tribe. Continuing to build community is essential for me to continue being a part of this. I spent so much time over the weekend questioning why I even blog and wondering if it was trivial or if any of it really mattered. That panel sort of renewed my faith in humanity and the ability of people to change the world one small step at a time.

There were moments where the connections and engagements with people I met seemed authentic but in the remembering the clarity becomes hazy. Some people were exactly who I expected them to be. Some people I’m not sure because we never got past “hello”, a big hug and a few words tossed back in forth amongst the craziness that surrounded us. As far as actual heartfelt communication? You know, the kind with direct eye contact and words that ring true? Those were few. But they were there. And I acknowledge that and thank the women who participated in those moments. You know who you are.

I was also deeply affected by the keynote speaker address the first evening. The intensity and rawness of some very personal posts these women had the guts to get up and read in front of a room of strangers. I cried twice during two very emotional readings and was once again reminded of why I choose to be a part of this. Because people share things that are beautiful and painful and honest and that takes courage and strength and connects all of us. It’s real and it’s true and it matters. If one person is touched or feels that they’re not alone then I’m able to feel that it’s worth it. That it does make a difference.

Yin

2008-07-21T10:07:00.000-07:00

Part 1. To be followed shortly by "Yang"

I would say that on the whole my BlogHer experience was not a positive one. The entire thing was a bit too much like high school but with even more undertones. Or maybe it’s not that the undertones are more, we have just lived enough life to be able to spot them now. In some regards many things don’t seem to change however many decades later. And that’s a sad statement about the masses. There are still the “popular girls” and the awkward “wallflowers” and then there are the subgroup of the "popular girls" - the “mean girls”. Of course at BlogHer the cliques abounded as well as the expected drama. There was the so-called “blogging royalty” with their star-struck “fans” that really made me feel uncomfortable. I don't know who is popular from the next person in the blogging world and these "big" bloggers that people spoke of with such reverence I'd never even heard of before. The first night a woman at a party asked me if I had a blog “idol” that I really was looking forward to meeting. I looked at her to see if she was joking. She wasn’t. My stomach sort of dropped a bit. I made a comment about people just being people and I didn’t like to put anyone up on a pedestal. People spent a lot of time kissing each other’s asses and dropping in-jokes. Plans were made for this or that and many people at some point felt excluded or rejected.

I will also add that the consumerism and blatant hawking of unnecessary goods left me reeling. I spent about 10 minutes in the sponsor area before I was on the verge of a meltdown. I will admit I did take two items, a stainless steel water bottle and a sheet of PBS Kids stickers for Monkey. But the stuff they were giving away was overwhelming. And the hoards of people descending upon the tables like vultures really turned me off. I didn’t take a SWAG bag at the one party I went to where it was available. At registration everyone was handed one but about 90% of what was in it I brought to the recycling room the next day. The cocktail party the last night at Macy’s freaked me the fuck out too. I’m not even going to get into why someone would spend $640 on the fugliest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen in my life. Or why someone would spend a thousands dollars on a small purse. And the way they moved us from floor to floor, giving us a certain period of time w/ the handbags then the shoes then the lingerie (um. Seriously. How stereotypical is that shit?) all the while plying us with alcohol so maybe we’ll get credit card happy and buy their crap?

U G H.

My eyes were also opened to the realities of placing expectations on people that you know only through words transmitted on a computer screen. It’s not to take away from the rawness and insight that form of communication brings but it may not always translate face to face. And that’s okay.

For me it was easier to spend time alone in my room or renew my love affair with the city of San Francisco. I took advantage of being downtown and revisited some old haunts. I wrote in my journal and I listed to good music and I sobbed for a couple of hours on my bed before calling my best friend and crying into her ear about the whole thing. I’ll admit part of me was frustrated that I’d spend this money on something that felt so disingenuous to me. My mind couldn’t help but think of all the things the money could have better been spent on. Or the time away from my child that could have been used to relax more. Or at least reclaim a bit of whatever it is that reminds me of the beauty in life. The emotional turmoil and ups and downs of those 4 days at the Westin left me feeling more drained than when I left.

BlogHer is....

2008-07-19T13:46:00.000-07:00

....too many things to describe fully.

I have spent more time than not sitting alone in my room or wandering the streets of San Francisco. I have careened my way through a vast majority of emotions, most finding their home somewhere in the "I don't know why I'm here" arena. I knew this would not be my scene. I knew this and yet I came anyway.

There have been the moments that have made this all worth it, meeting people I've connected with for the past several months face to face. Which is strange in itself but good too. For the most part that has been a positive experience. The majority of the people seem to be just as I thought they would be. I have made new connections with people that feel real. And that, as most of you know, is what matters to me most. Authenticity.

There has been a plethora of the bullshit that I expected but I'm not going to waste my time or energy going into details about it. It all is what it is and people are who they are. I cannot change those facts and all that I can do it accept it and move on. There are more positive places I can direct my energy instead of getting wrapped up in the gnarly dynamics that are apparently not often enough left in grade school.

I will say that I will not again attend a BlogHer conference. Once is enough. But I have to attempt to gleam the positive from this experience because I don't want to believe it was time and money wasted. And maybe it was. But it was a nice break from the day to day life of staying home with a toddler and I got to see my cousin at least. And I had the pleasure of meeting Nora....who if she lived in my town I would want to hang out with all the time. She and Gwen were my saving graces. Every time I started slipping into negative space or felt the need to retreat to my room hermit style I'd see one or both of them and I felt a bit more grounded. And my old friend, Regan. Ah, Regan. She got it too. Along with her friend Whitney. They were the anti-BlogHer bloggers that kept it real. Those ladies fucking rock.

More from home in the next couple of days once I've settled back in and processed this whole thing more.

And then I'll get back to your blogs too. I promise :)

check it

2008-07-16T16:06:00.000-07:00

word. finally. my portfolio? it's up.

www.defiantmuse.com

holy freakin' shitballs, Batman!

2008-07-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

To do list before BlogHer:

1. Pack Xanax
2. Shave legs (which haven't been shaved in so long that I'm actually going to have to use Mr. Egg's electric razor first just to get the length off so it doesn't clog up my blade. No joke. And why do I need to shave my legs when I don't shave my armpits? B/c I don't like the way hairy legs look in a skirt. Not cool, dude, not cool. I don't mind, however, hairy armpits and tank tops. Why? I don't know. It just IS.)
3. Pack more Xanax
4. Attempt to make sure our 16 year old car won't break down on the solo 300 mile drive down to SF
5. Try to remind myself that everyone else is probably just ~~as much of a freak~~ as nervous as I am so the nausea and sweaty palms really need to subside
6. Pack even more Xanax
7. Make a mental note not to flick Deb in her forehead when she says she wants to go shopping at Macy's instead of heading out to Guy Kawasaki's party
8. Unpack some Xanax and leave it behind so Mr. Egg doesn't lose his shit while alone with the newly tantruming child for 4 days
9. Email Mr. Egg's mom and ask if I can stop by her office in SF to pick up more Xanax on Friday

Not much longer left at all.
I'm totally freaking. Dudes. Fuck.
Have I mentioned I have serious social anxiety.
Like....for realz.

I'll see you and you and you and you and you and you in about 72 hrs.

And if I turn into some sort of Stan-like freak when I meet you, please excuse the vomit on your shoes.

Bet you can't wait now, eh?

A Saturday with The Sister's

2008-07-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've mentioned it before but my father has an alter ego....Sister Nida Salivation of The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, Abbey of the Big Red Wood.

Their second annual Picnic at the Pump Station took place Saturday at a park on the river. We all piled into our Volvo wagon (dog in tow) along with my neighbor, her daughter and an old friend of mine, J. We met my dads out there around 2ish. There was music, family activities, dancing, games and food. Good times.

I had taken Monkey over to my dad's early that morning to watch him getting ready so she wasn't freaked out by Opa looking all crazy clown-like. It didn't phase her a bit. She was more interested in climbing the bookshelves than watching him attach false eyelashes and paint glitter on his face.

First Love

2008-07-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

Near the end of my 16th year I was sitting at the computer when my IM dinged. I saw a message from someone named Nipperoo. I had no idea who that person was. I looked at the profile and saw she was from the UK and we had similar interests and taste in music. I tried to respond but for some reason AOL was acting up and the messages weren't going through. I emailed her and explained that I wasn't ignoring her but the IM system was having issues. She responded and said she'd try to catch me some other time.

A couple of weeks later I was at a girl's apartment that I had been casually dating. I had slept over after our night on the town in West Hollywood and as she showered the next morning I used her computer to check my email. I noticed that Nipperoo was online again and excitedly IM'd her. We ended up chatting for quite a while and I promised to email her again later.

Within days I felt that I'd met "my soul mate". Whatever that means to a 16 year old. We just clicked in so many ways and by the end of the week we were exchanging dozens of 4-5 page emails a day. Within a month we had already mailed off packages full of photos, mixed tapes and 20 page handwritten letters. By my 17th birthday, two months later, my mother had changed our phone plan so that I could call the UK for 10 cents/hr. Within 6 months I was on my way to the airport to meet her plane.

I brought my best friend along with me and another good friend. I brought a single red rose. I remember as I sat at the gate my heart was beating like crazy in my chest. I thought I was going to pass out. As the people slowly began to file off the plane my hands started shaking. And then I saw her. She was wearing a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and fitted black pants. As we embraced my entire body shook. We began the walk down to baggage claim, hand in hand, and I kept glancing over at her - unsure she was really there with me in the flesh.

That first night was magical. Everything about the entire night. We laid in my single bed just talking until the sun came up. I remember we rolled onto our stomachs and looked out the window that was at the head of my bed. We watched the morning dew catching the sunrise like millions of tiny prisms. The morning glow cast this ethereal effect onto the woods that laid just beyond my window. We were delirious from exhaustion and the culmination of 6 months of build up. We kissed that morning. A very gentle and modest kiss. It was completely electric.

From that point on we were together. It wasn't even a question. We weren't going to allow a little thing like 4600 miles to stop us. We spent summers, Christmas and Spring breaks together. Either wherever I happened to be residing in the States or where she was hanging her hat in England or France. We communicated daily, via phone or the Internet. We made plans for our future and our families met.

We were together for 4 years. In that time there was plenty of strife. We cheated on each other, we broke up, we got back together. She gave me an ultimatum about my drug abuse and I didn't choose to give up the drugs so we broke up again. But then managed to work it out. We each made plans to move to be with the other but it always fell through at the last minute. We wondered realistically how we were going to make it work while so many miles separated us. She loved me whole-hearted and I never truly appreciated it. I took her for granted. We also drove each other crazy. I thought she was condescending and pretentious and she thought I was a cold-hearted bitch. I think there was truth on both sides of that. I had issues of feeling less than because I had a 10th grade education and she was attending university where she got consistently high marks. She had grown up traveling the world. She spoke French. It was so many of the things that had attracted me to her in the first place but things I resented later on. We fought about that and a hundred other things.

But even in all of that murky crap there was the shiny innocence of first love. We shared so many firsts, including the night in a French Quarter B&B where I popped her cherry (omg, Hazy, you're going to kill me for sharing that but come on, it was pretty awesome). Edited by request of Hazy to mention: The time while smoking a bowl on a lifeguard stand on the Santa Monica beach well after dark I got down on one knee and proposed. With a RingPop. LOL.

We grew up together, essentially. Around my 21st birthday we parted ways. It was all done on good terms but it was horrible and painful and I could barely breathe. We agreed that we needed to go our own ways and see where life took us. Of course, at the time, we thought fate would bring us back together at some point. But as time passed we realized it wasn't in the cards for us.

We stayed in touch over the years as I left the lesbian life and moved back to Louisiana of all places to live with a guy who was into Nascar. And she was doing something much more inspirational as she lived in Africa for a year teaching sustainable farming and putting wells into small, remote villages. And then I was living in NYC and losing my mind to the whole Judaism trip and she was back in Africa for another year working for a woman's organization.

When Mr. Egg and I were in Israel on our trip the shit kind of hit the fan. We parted ways. It got ugly. I changed my ticket a few days later and flew to my mother's in London. He continued on to Egypt. By the time I reached England we were back in touch and trying to work things out. But his ticket to London wasn't for another couple of weeks so there wasn't much we could do. So while I was in the UK I called Hazy and she invited me to come spend a weekend with her in Oxford. It was the first time we'd seen each other since the night I put her on the Greyhound bus 5 years prior.

It was an intense weekend. We caught up. We listened to good music. We spoke about our lives, where they had led us. She is a most righteous babe. She is a climate change activist and works for Friends of the Earth. She grows her own food and actually walks the walk. We also spoke of our loves. I told her all about Mr. Egg and our journeys. She told me of her Irish girl and their love in all it's new splendor. And that night we slept in her tiny bed and I was amazed by how familiar it all was. I remembered her smell most of all. And the way her body curved to mine. It wasn't sexual, it was just...comforting. I felt good about the fact that all these years had passed yet I felt completely at ease with her and I knew then that we would have that bond for life.

Once Mr. Egg arrived in London we went back up to Oxford and spent a couple of weeks sleeping in Hazy's attic. We all went to the Summer Solstice celebration at Stonehenge. She really thought Mr. Egg was great and I was so stoked to have them get along.

Once we were back in the States and found out we were pregnant she was more excited than most of my friends. She and her partner even made a sock monkey for Monkey (unfortunately Merlin has been severely disfigured by our new dog but it's nothing that a little surgery can't correct). When we went to Europe last winter Hazy and her partner came down to London to stay at my mom's for a night. We all went for a walk in the park and enjoying the rare English sunshine. And next winter Monkey and I will again visit the UK and we will see them again.

It's good to have those relationships that withstand the test of time. It's grounding and it's sustaining. The fact that she knew me then? That's great. But the fact that she still knows me today? That's fucking incredible.

And so it begins

2008-07-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

It was bound to happen. Of course it was bound to happen. Did I think I would somehow manage to escape this stage that every. single. parent must find a way to cope with? No, I didn't. I just thought I'd have more time before this stage came. Monkey is only 14 months, for crying out loud. But it happened. Two days ago it happened. In the middle of the store. Her first public tantrum.

It was a quick in and out of the store so I didn't bother with strapping her in the Ergo. In hindsight that might have avoided the entire scenario. We had just picked up my neighbor's daughter D from her jujitsu camp and since we were on that side of town I stopped for a total of 3 items.

We went in and I went directly to what I needed, no messing about. On our way to collect the third item Monkey was kicking to get down so I set her down and off she went. We followed her for a few minutes, I let her lead the way. She was getting a kick out of running around free and threw her arms up in the air with glee and squealed. We laughed and commented how cute she was being.

I redirected her a couple of times in an attempt to steer her to the appropriate aisle. About two aisles away from our target she decided she wanted to go in the opposite direction. I gently tried to turn her around and said, "Baby, we need to go the other way. Come on.". She looked at me and jerked her arm out of my hand and took off at full speed. I called out, "Monkey! Come back here right now, little girl. Listen to Mama!". She turned her head slightly and looked at me out of the corner of her eye as she starting laughing and ran even further away. I walked over and scooped her up. As soon as her feet left the floor she threw her head back, went completely limp and started screaming at the top of her lungs.

I quickly walked down the aisle to collect my last item and she started wiggling. I dropped the things I had in my hand as I attempted to get a better grasp on her. D picked up the things off the floor and stared, mouth hanging open, at the scene. There I was in the middle of the aisle with Monkey hanging basically upside down and yelling because she was somehow managing to throw all her weight downwards so that I was about to drop her on her head. I set her down and looked into her eyes and asked her to please calm down. She sniffed some snot back up her nose and buried her face into my shoulder. I carried her to the check out and thought all was well.

As I approached the check out lanes I noticed that none of the express lines were open and the lines for the 3 lanes that were open had about 5-6 people each. People with baskets full. I only had 3 items. We stood there for a couple of minutes and I'm swaying back and forth and humming "Three Little Birds" to keep Monkey calm and then she starts getting restless. A new lane opened up and as I hear the guy calling for the next customer I turned around quickly and found the woman behind me in line rushing over to the check out. She has a shopping cart full. At this point Monkey is trying to squirm out of my grasp, kicking me to be put down and then the high pitched whining begins. D is standing there embarrassed and keeps inching away. I asked the woman if she minded if I went ahead of her since I only had 3 items and she looked me up and down. I saw her eyes take in my tribal head wrap, tattoos, hairy armpits, ratty jeans and un-manicured nails. She looked at Monkey and D. My dark skinned Latin girl and my neighbor's half-Japanese daughter. I could see the judgment in her eyes. Then she said, "Sorry, I'm in a rush". Alright, you fucking yuppie bitch. I'm sure you drive an SUV and practice ballet with your daughter every day. Yes, she was one of those types of women. Maybe if I had been more that kind of Mom she would have allowed me to step ahead of her. Or maybe she was just a selfish bitch. So I mutter "whatever" under my breath and shoot her the stank eye.

Monkey completely deteriorates at that point. She starts hitting me in my face and on my chest. Tears are running down her face which is bright red and everyone within a 30 foot radius is staring at us. At that moment another lane opens up and that lovely soul asks me, specifically, if I'm ready to check out. Oh. My. God. Yes. Thank. You. So I manage to pull out my wallet and swipe my card while my child is hanging upside down again and I have her in a football hold in my left arm. We leave the store and head out to the car and as we're pulling out of the parking lot I see that woman putting her (plastic) bags away. She's loading them into the back of her Hummer. Of course.

Te Amo

2008-07-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

Mr. Egg pondering life at a watering hole in Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary, Swaziland

Three years hardly seem like a very long time. To say, "We've been together for three years" cannot begin to encompass the depth of what has transpired during this time. If I were to break it down it makes sense that although the length of time is not so great the intensity of what these three years have entailed brings it to a level much more profound.

Year one consisted of getting to know each other intimately against the backdrop of 17 countries. Year two consisted mostly of navigating our way through an unexpected pregnancy and everything that included. And this last year, year number 3, we have grown, fought, evolved and waded through the waters of parenthood.

Each step has brought new challenges and forced issues we may have preferred to put off for indefinite periods of time but life hasn't allowed us that luxury. A lifetime's worth of baggage brought front and center and if we have any chance of surviving through it we have done what was needed to address it all as it flowed. If not for the sake of ourselves then for our daughter.

It's not always easy. But even through all the yelling, harsh words and slammed doors I gleam our passion. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating for relationships in which fighting is a theme. But we try to find the positive in it when it occurs and it definitely alerts us to our fervor for each other.

Luckily our ideals, which may clash from time to time, are much more similar than not. And somehow even throughout the lower points we manage to maintain the love even if it falters for a second or two there it is right back on track. Almost as quickly as the fighting begins it dissipates and we laugh. The ice is usually broken by Mr. Egg saying with a smile, "You ready to apologize yet?" to which I furrow my brow and ~~yell~~ say, "Me?? Apologize?? For what??" and we kiss and it's over.

I would never have imagined when we met 6 years ago that we would end up together. Or that we would have a child. I know he saw all of this much sooner than it took me to come around to the idea and I'm glad he stuck around and opened my eyes to the possibility. And so three years ago today, on the Jersey shore, he became my lover, my partner and my best friend. Our love grew organically and I see now that it could have been no other way.

Twelve Tunes for Tuesday (in which my very lesbian-oriented taste in music becomes obvious)

2008-07-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

I am obviously crazy

2008-07-06T09:24:00.000-07:00

A salt water flush is the most disgusting thing I have ever experienced. Yes, worse than eating that spider in Cambodia. Yes, worse than morning sickness in the first trimester. Disgusting, I tell you.

As I'm in the kitchen at 7:30am attempting to swallow down an entire quart of salt water after fasting for most of yesterday I feel it rising up in my throat before I even finish the first glass. By the time I've finished the quart I have thrown up 3 times, "Exorcist"-style....by which I mean crazy projectile. As I'm puking into the kitchen sink Mr. Egg is on the couch saying, "Is that coming out of your mouth?? That sounds nasty! [I retch again] Okay, I'll shut up now". Um. Thanks, dude. Thanks.

I stand in the kitchen about to cry because I'm not sure if I've just negated the torture I put myself through by throwing everything up. Because fuck if I'm going to repeat it. Not to worry, about 20 minutes later I'm running down the hall - tripping over Monkey, the dog and the cat - attempting to get to the toilet in time. Indeed did it flush me out. Oh. My. I'm not even sure if it's finished yet. I've had to rush to the toilet 3 times since sitting down to type this. TMI?

After the second trip to the toilet I went to get some ice water (which I barely drank before having to return once again to the porcelain throne) I felt awful. Truly awful. As if my entire body was toxic and I was lightheaded and nauseated and dying of thirst. I began complaining and Mr. Egg said, "Mmm. Well. You're not supposed to drink salt water, dude. That's stupid. You're basically poisoning yourself. Drinking salt water isn't something you're supposed to do voluntarily".

Yes. Point taken.

The Post in which I toot my own horn. Loudly.

2008-07-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

I agree with Jen. It's uncouth to carry on about such things. But. But....I'm going to do it anyway. Because I'm damn proud of myself. I've lost 15 lbs. in the past month. And it's not (just) about vanity. It's about health. I feel better, I have more energy and my moods are more consistent (stop laughing at that one, G). I haven't seriously deprived myself, just altered the levels of food intake and cut out all refined sugars and bad carbs during the week. During the weekend? I cave to cravings in moderation. A few drinks here or there. A handful of potato chips or some french fries. A few bites of ice cream? Sure. But I don't overdo it. And I realize if I give in to one thing I don't need to give in to them all and go overboard with it. And during the week I'm pretty good about sticking to fruits, veggies, meat and maybe some whole grain bread or pasta. It's amazing the change that has taken place in my body. I'm still in the process of detoxing all the crap out of my system and tomorrow I begin a cleanse. I'll be sure to fill you in on the lovely details of what drains from my colon. But I'll spare you photos of it, ok?

So today Monkey, Mr. Egg and I are going to enjoy a bbq on our front deck with my dads and some friends. We'll eat some food, talk some shit and set off firecrackers in the yard. And hopefully that will be a positive experience for Monkey. She didn't mind the crazy fireworks last year but then again she was only 7 weeks old. And me? I'll get my fill of ribs, sausages, corn on the cob and maybe some blueberry cobbler. And tomorrow? Bring on the raw foods and salt water flush.

In the folds of my memory

2008-07-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

2-28-05

I blink my eyes three times in the darkness.

One......

Two......

Three.....

Each time I blink reveals a tiny dream.

Close.
Grainy, sepia colored images of children running through a crowded
carnival. The carousel turns in slow motion with a little girl
atop the dark-maned horse. She is dressed in her best Sunday dress
waving and smiling her gap-toothed smile. View from the waist down,
feet shuffling, little girl lost in the crowd. Crying as she clutches
her teddy bear with one hand, dragging it behind her through the dirt.
Open.

Close.
Blue skies and clouds white as milk. An open field with a
single oak tree. Two women under the tree on a red and blue plaid
blanket. I am lying on my back, gazing up into the other woman's face.
Her face is illuminated, back lit by the sun through the leaves of the
branch overhead. My hand reaches up to brush a blond strand out of her
eyes as she leans down and lays her lips on mine. She smiles, her small
mouth set against a strong jaw. Warm brown eyes glinting in the golden
afternoon sun. Everything glows with the color of dusk.
Open.

Close.
There is a bright blue tarp covering half of the hardwood
floor. A solitary ladder stands in the corner, cocked at an angle.
Paint cans, rollers and brushes are strewn about the room. I stand in
the middle of this space wearing a grey t-shirt underneath overalls
and a red bandanna to keep my hair out of my eyes. The overalls are
stretched tight over my enormous belly. Kneeling in front of me is a
man who is whispering to and kissing my midsection. I have my left
hand on his head as I laugh and stroke his hair. He looks up at me and
grins. I gaze around the room before lifting my head to the ceiling
and close my eyes.
Open.

My eyes attempt to focus in the dim lighting of the bedroom. I pull
the sleeves of my shirt down to the tips of my fingers and ball my
fists. The window is still broken, allowing cold air to rush in
through the quarter inch crack that should have been sealed long
before winter came. It is mid-afternoon. Monday. Another day. Another
day in this room. Another day of reveling in the wreckage that is my
head. Another day of over analyzing and delving deeps into my folds.
Some may say it's unhealthy, others say this specific intensity brings
clarity. Is it a matter of saving myself from my head? I don't mind it
here, in fact I quite prefer it. So I'll venture to say, "No."

Fuck it. I can see the snow falling outside the window. It is not a
day to strap on my happy boots and trudge through snow and ice. It is
another day. Another day for reflection, another day for conception.
Tomorrow it all changes. Change is good, change is constant. Or so I
keep telling myself. Tomorrow I start my new job. Tomorrow I begin to
pack up what has been my life here in #4 and move it across the street.
Tomorrow I will know this is all reality. That life flows onward and
upward. Things must end for there to be a new beginning.

Wouldn't it be comforting if we could shut and bolt certain doors?
Allow certain memories to become enclosed by a layer of protective
covering. I'm only halfway serious, of course. I crave emotion and
every level which is included. I love living and experiencing the
spectrum of human emotion. But in times like these, times when I feel
on the edge, times when I feel that struggle inside of me to maintain
my grip on sanity, I want to shut it all off. Every last drop. That
aching in my chest spreading throughout me until I'm standing here,
swallowing hard, kicking and screaming against the uneasiness I feel
creeping in. My heart races every time I hear movement from across
the hall. The sound of the door opening and closing, shoes against the
floor, up and down the stairs. I don't want to see or even think of
him....some of the time. His presence anywhere near or inside of me is
sharp and painful.....less of the time. I don't want to feel anything
where he is concerned....most of the time.

I'm going to fight it as long as I can. But in moments of silence I
can feel it. This is heartbroken. That much is true. I always thought
he at least considered me. It seems I was mistaken. But fault lies
in life which flows like the rivers to the sea. Decisions and
positions convoluting into a macrame web of lessons to be learned. How
can one deny such a connection intensified in its own fog. Breaking
free from the haze gives another view from above. The distance to make
a correction, if in fact a correction is what is called for. All of
this makes sense most of the time. And although his departure has been
immanent from the beginning, I will not blame him when he goes.

I suppose with each new heartbreak our defenses become stronger. So
each one hurts that much less. I am thankful this is happening now,
before we became even more entangled. Now I find myself snipping each
pertinent wire I find. Erasing the connections and obscuring my
intentions. I thought I had found the way to my destination but I was
two minutes too late to the station, watching the train getting
smaller as it sped away. So I find myself studying the maps for a way
out, north/south/east or west doesn't matter. Just get me out of here.
To a place filled with crossroads in which to diverge. Intricate mazes
of winding roads and narrow side streets. Somewhere to launch myself
into the exploration of what is unknown.

And yet there she is......

She lingers in the folds of my memory. Haunting my waking life from
each night of dreams. Years have passed yet there she remains. Strong
in my mind like my attraction to the sun. Bright and fierce. Piercing
light through the shadows of this winter, she finds me. "Wherever you
go, I shall follow.", I whisper in her ear.

peanuts and glue

2008-06-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

My grandmother called me Peanut when I was a little girl. I remembered this the other day. I had forgotten that nickname which always made me feel warm inside when I heard it. She was the only one who ever called me that. For all I know she called all of my cousins that too but I don’t remember specifics. I just remember that it made me feel special.

I've been thinking of her often. I came across some photos of her when I was going through old pics on my dad's computer the other week. And then Steph mentioned missing her too. And yesterday I was watching Monkey play and my eyes filled with tears when I thought about my Grams and how much I wish she could have met my daughter. She would have enjoyed Monkey’s grit and fire. My Grams was like that herself. She grew up in the Deep South with a brother and a sister. My great-grandmother was a genteel Southern woman, very soft spoken and submissive and my Granddaddy was a stern fellow or so I hear. He died when I was an infant so I don’t remember him at all. But tales of his brutal flicks to elbows on the table at dinnertime are infamous in my family.

My Grams was witty. And she had a wicked dry sense of humor. I don’t know much about her younger life but I know she met my grandfather in her teens and I hear they drank their way across the honkytonks of Louisiana. They married and had seven children. My mother was the middle child. I often wonder why my grandmother had so many children. Especially with a man who proved himself to be a bit worthless and a severe alcoholic. The stories of my mother’s childhood are not pretty. They were poor. Dirt poor. They would leave houses in the middle of the night, leaving what little possessions they owned behind, because they couldn’t make rent. All of the kids started working at young ages to bring in money for the family. My grandmother worked multiple jobs. Their house was always a disaster and my mother was ashamed to bring people home. My uncles ran wild, dappling in serious bouts of pyromania (one time a certain uncle lit the couch on fire….while my Grams was napping on it) and later rampant drug use. How my Grams managed all of this I don’t know. How she got through each day is a mystery. We never spoke of such things.

My Grams was not what you would call “warm and fuzzy”. She was a hardened woman. She definitely did not wear her heart on her sleeve. One often wondered if there was a heart in there, somewhere. I never once saw her cry. I saw her angry. Plenty. At me. She was the only person I ever backed down from. When she yelled I paid attention. I never yelled back. I wanted to plenty of times. But I didn’t. Besides her lack of lavishing affections on her children and grandchildren she just was not a grandmotherly type, even in her manner of dress. She wore a uniform of jeans and t-shirts. The only time I ever saw her in dresses were for weddings or funerals. She built things. She fixed things. She had a toolbox. She was much more likely to be outside working in the shop than in the kitchen baking cookies. She lived with us the majority of my life. That formed a closeness I never had with any of my other grandparents.

When I was a toddler she helped my parents buy the house my dad grew up in from his father. It was in a residential area of New Orleans East. I remember the astro-turf in the carport and the massive dark oak coffee table we had in the middle of our living room. I remember the layout of the house and even some of the specific details. I remember that the door to my grandmother’s room was a Dutch split door. I remember sneaking into her room to play with the miniature furniture she would build and I would also pilfer a buttermint or two. The year I turned 8 we moved to Virginia and she moved in with one of her sons in North Carolina. She would visit for long periods in the summer and on some holidays. When we left Richmond to move to Los Angeles the summer I was 11 she joined us once again. From there on out she lived with us off and on. My parents divorced when I was nearly 13 and my mother and I returned to Louisiana. Grams would come for extended periods of time and when I left home at 17 she moved in with my mother for good. They moved from Louisiana to North Carolina a few years after I left home. My Grams remained living with my mother until her death in 2005.

Grams was a smoker. A heavy smoker. I remember her hacking cough even when I was a child. Sometimes when we were driving around, just the two of us, and she’d start off on one of her coughing fits I would get so scared she was going to die right then and there that I’d start to cry. She was diagnosed with emphysema when I was a teenager and yet smoked until the day she died. My mother tried to get her to stop but my Grams’s mind was made up. My mother made a ‘no smoking in the house’ rule, hoping to put my grandmother off going outside in the snow to smoke. So she would sneak cigarettes in her bathroom like a teenager. That was my Grams.

The last couple years of her life she deteriorated rapidly. The winter I lived in Manhattan I flew to my mom’s in North Carolina for a big family Christmas. Two of my uncles were in NC/SC and some family came up from New Orleans. I was glad to get out of NYC and the Hasidim Hell, I wanted to celebrate Christmas complete with carols and a tree dammit. Every year my Grams made a red velvet cake. It was tradition. That year she wasn’t up to it. I made it. She tried to make the gravy for the turkey and stopped halfway through to lie down. She slept most of the time I was there. I didn’t spend as much time with her during that trip as I would have liked. I didn’t realize it was the last time I would see her.

Two months later I had flown home to New Orleans for Mardi Gras for two weeks. It was a cathartic trip. On many levels. On my way back to NYC I had a layover in Atlanta. As I sat at the gate, waiting for my flight which had been delayed yet again, my phone rang. It was my mother. She told me my Grams had just died. Just died? I asked. Yes. Just. She had just found her 10 minutes ago. I was stunned. Stunned. We knew it was coming. It had been coming for years. But you’re never really prepared. All I knew is that I wanted to be there for my mother. I went to the desk and tried to see if I could change my ticket and be re-routed to Charlotte. I couldn’t afford the fee however. I flew back to NY where D didn’t meet me at the airport or even come home that night b/c he was doing some family thing in Brooklyn. Yes, he knew my Grams had just died. No, he didn’t care. The next few days I was a mess. His comments were rude and insensitive but I shouldn’t have been surprised. When I was arranging my travel down for my Gram’s funeral I asked him to come. He said no. I took a bus from Chinatown to D.C. and then caught a ride down to NC with my great-aunt and her son.

Everyone was there. Well. Almost everyone. My mom’s sister wasn’t there. But all of my uncles, their wives and my slew of cousins were there. The funeral itself was fairly low-key. My Grams hadn’t wanted a funeral at all. I don’t think they even called it a funeral. We stood in a circle and my cousin sang Amazing Grace. We all wiped the tears from our eyes and made jokes. And then we went back to my mother’s where the drinking began. My family drinks. A lot. A hell of a lot. Everyone was trashed. Everyone was loud. There was laughing and crying and yelling and even some falling down. A few of my younger cousins and I were all in a circle at one point, our heads together crying as we told funny stories about Grams. And then the bullshit, white trash drama (that is many members of my family) unfolded as we hear screaming and rush out onto the porch to see one of our cousins’ face down on the hood of a cop car. Um. Yeah. What the fuck? That was a sobering moment.

The evening ended with all of us sitting in the living room. My Uncle D spoke to everyone and his voice cracked as he started crying. All of my uncles were crying. It’s the only time in my life I’ve seen them cry. I sat on one side of my uncle and his son sat on the other. He had his arms around us. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. My Grams was the glue that held our dysfunctional family together. And now that she’s gone? It feels that everyone has sort of scattered to the wind. Most people don’t even talk to each other now. It feels as though the family has fractured and it will never be repaired. We were all supposed to meet in the mountains to disperse my grandmother’s ashes that following summer. It never happened. What’s left of her in physical form is sitting in somebody’s closet somewhere. There’s talk of everyone getting together the summer of ’09. I know it’s not likely that I will go. And I don’t feel that I need to. I’ve said my goodbye to her. It still aches sometimes. When I see someone who reminds me of her. Or when I watch Monkey and wish so badly it hurts that she could have known my Grams. I remember watching my Grams with Hollis. He was her first great-grandchild. Her eyes lit up when he was around. It seemed as though she got the nurturing thing down a bit better with each generation. She told me she loved me. Once. It was something she had never even said to my mother. I hold that dear. I know I held a special place in her heart. I was her Little Peanut, after all.

'snot

2008-06-29T20:17:00.000-07:00

Me (while reading the box of Benadryl that Mr. Egg picked up for me b/c I've been on my death bed for 3 days): Did you know that the cold is caused by a virus called 'rhinovirus'?
Mr. Egg: Uh. Yeah.
Me: Hm. Is it from rhinos?
Mr. Egg: (after a long pause and a pointed look) Dude. You know that's a total Jessica Simpson thing to say, right?
Me: (defensively) What? Why?
Mr. Egg: Come on.
Me: What? There is bird flu, right? And where does that come from? Huh? BIRDS! I'm using logic.
Mr. Egg: Right. The same logic that says because it says Chicken of the Sea on the can it must be chicken?
Me: Whatever.

Stop the Clash

2008-06-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

In all honesty.....

2008-06-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

I am not what one would call a "kid person".
There.
I've said it.

The secret is out.

I don't go all mushy over babies and the thought of being in a large group of children makes me want to pull my hair out. I do alright with kids one-on-one or in small groups most of the time. But when they whine and act like (gasp!) children? I have no patience. I have more patience with my own child than most (obviously) but even there I struggle. I have actually said, "Monkey why are you acting like such a baby??". Um. I dunno. Maybe because she is one? Just a thought.

And if Monkey turns out to be a girlie girl? Oh my, I'll be in for it. When kids want to play make-believe? Ehhh. I'm uncomfortable and want to run for the hills. I am not one to get down on the floor and play "let's pretend bake a cake/have a tea party/play dolls" or anything else of the sort. My friend's daughter who was recently over is very much a girly girl. She asked me to play dolls with her. I pretended that I was busy doing the dishes. Yes, I'm that asshole.

Luckily Monkey is a pretty rough and tumble little girl who shows no inclinations towards things of the very girly nature but she's only 13 months. Plenty of time left for her to develop a flair for all things pink and glittery. Especially if her Grammy has anything to say about it. She's just waiting for that child to start speaking and asserting her opinion in such regards to fill her mind with princesses and ponies.

Will it be the end of the world? No. But to be quite honest I have no idea how to play with little girls like that. I can climb trees and play in the dirt and mud with the best of them. I can catch frogs and slugs and other bugs without blinking. Want to be flown around the room like an airplane? Awesome. I'm down. But you want to play fairy princess and drink tea out of dainty cups and hold a conversation with a teddy bear? Um. I'm at a loss. I sit there, feeling like an idiot, and force what does not come naturally at all.

I realize I shouldn't place gender restrictions here, if I had a son who wanted to do these things I wouldn't be bothered. In fact I would probably embrace it for it's non-conformity. But gender issues aside, I just don't know how to interact with little girls who want to play house and host parties for their stuffed animals. I was that girl when I was younger so obviously it's in me somewhere. But I also loved to build forts and get dirty and catch frogs and snakes in my backyard. And that's the part that has remained.

So as the years go by I'll find out what kind of little girl Monkey is and what she's drawn to. Maybe it will be a bit of everything. I'll take her outside and show her the best way to climb the trees and maybe Mr. Egg will be the one to get down on the floor and have a tea party with her and Ms. Bunny. One can hope anyway. And if not? I'm sure I'll manage to find a way to slap a smile on my face and pick up the fucking teacup. But do I really have to ask if the damn bunny wants another sugar cube?

holy. shit.

2008-06-26T10:28:00.001-07:00

so last week sometime I'd seen the Flickr collage Q&A thing that flutter had on her blog and I went to Flickr to create my own. I never ended up posting it b/c I couldn't figure the damn thing out and then somehow lost it and was too frustrated to continue.

Anyway, on the question that asks where you went to high school I typed in the name of my school and the third photo that popped up was a picture of me (with my group of girlfriends) from the homecoming dance freshman year!! I had to do a double take. Was that me? Yes it was. It even had my name on it.

Turns out one of my friends from junior high and high school had posted some old school photos on her Flickr site. So I commented on it and she responded and I found her on MySpace as well. And guess where she's living? Sunnyvale! Sooo close, dudes!

It's very weird, this is the second person from high school in Louisiana in the past month that I've randomly reconnected with out here in Northern California. Small world indeed. :)

Tunes for Thursday

2008-06-26T00:00:00.000-07:00

Travel Tuesday

2008-06-24T07:32:00.000-07:00

February 24, 2006
Laos/Thailand

The morning we left Luang Prabang it was cold and drizzly. Our boat was at 8am so we had to wake up a bit earlier and had breakfast at a cafe on the river. As we were eating we'd noticed people beginning to line the street and we saw up the road a procession of about 50 or so monks in their orange robes walking towards us....it's something called "morning alms" where the people give rice and offerings to the monks. I was surprised by how young some of the monks were, a lot of them were under 12 I'd say. Usually each person would donate a small ball of sticky rice into these woven baskets the monks carried on their side, others gave plastic bags with water and other foods wrapped in banana leaves. Mr. Egg had seen this a few mornings in a row but this was the first time I was up and about to watch....

The slow boat down the Mekong was cold, windy and uncomfortable. They said it would take 7-8 hours which meant 10 in reality. The benches we had to sit on were narrow and hard, we were the last ones one and all the pads had been taken. Good times. The landscape was incredible though, massive jagged rocks rising from the river on both sides looking sharp enough to slice skin....beyond the rocks were weathered sand tiers leading up the banks to dense forest covering the mountains. Perched amidst the rocks at various points were fisherman with their nets dangling from bamboo poles which were stuck into crevices here and there. The landscape was unlike anything I have ever seen and definitely had an extra-terrestrial feel to it....

The boat docked in a tiny little port tucked away in the middle of nowhere, the town was called Pakbang. The town consisted of a main road less than 1km long and there were less than a dozen guesthouses. We found a spot up on the hill and the room was really crusty but better than most. There were no actual walls, they stopped a few feet before reaching the ceiling. The bathroom was so funky I didn't want to step foot in there, the toilet seat was missing and the smell was atrocious. "It's only one night" I kept repeating.

The next morning we said no to the slow boat and opted for the more expensive but much faster speedboat. They said it would take 3-4 hours and it did. But it was pretty terrifying. There were 6 of us and then the driver in the back. We sat in twos situated in our little spaces that were barely wide enough and our knees were up to our chins. We had life jackets at least but no helmets. There were only 2 on the boat and the Japanese couple in front of us got them. The speed was incredible and it felt we were just gliding across the surface of the water, every little ripple or current sent us flying up in the air a bit and then slamming back down onto the water. I know how easily those things can flip. Every time we hit a spot of rapids I clenched my fists and closed my eyes. However nerve-wracking it was though it was better than another entire day of hard benches on the slow boat. We got to the next port within a few hours and took a taxi boat across the river to the Thai border. From there we booked a minibus which took about 6-7 hours to drop us off in Chiang Mai.

Our guesthouse in Chiang Mai was really chill. The rooms were quite decent and really cheap. There were three chill-out areas in the guesthouse; a rooftop garden with hammocks and pads/cushions on the floor, a back garden with intricately carved solid wood furniture and tons of potted plants, and the front space where the restaurant was and a raised decks with cushions, small chairs and tables, a pool table and some plastic chairs and tables under umbrellas in the sun. It was always bustling with people and music. Lots of folks just hanging out, playing cards and swapping travel stories. We spent about a week and a half there. Chiang Mai is a really awesome city, I'd forgotten how progressive and diverse it is. Lots of veggie restaurants, yoga schools and dreadlocks. I went by the school where I studied massage 4 years ago and chatted with the instructor. It was strange wandering around these streets, visiting places that I was never sure I would see again.....

Our last night in the city we went on a romantic candlelit dinner cruise down the Ping River. The food was awesome, I had some chicken with ginger and sticky rice. I've become obsessed with sticky rice!! So good! And I've hated rice my whole life. Anyway, we had some wine and got into an intense discussion about religion/politics/state of the world. You know it's more than slightly unsettling how chaotic everything has become. And I suppose you can say everything is always chaotic but it seems to me that it's reached a sort of critical place....If you ask me, religion is destroying the world. Well, that and corporate globalization but don’t get me started on that! I'm reading all this stuff about Muslim protests over a cartoon (you know even after all the coverage of it I still have yet to find out exactly what the cartoon said)....It's scary. The fact is the number of people that are gladly willing to give their life for their cause is alarming. Plus the fact that I feel all of this religious friction is going to start World War III and we're all going down in some gnarly nuclear dispute....Thinking about all of this makes me think about having children, bringing them into this world...It's kind of hit or miss, maybe it's the next generation that had the ability to turn things around or maybe we're just bringing them into something that's already doomed.....been doomed since the beginning....People talk about "the beginning of the end" but hasn't it always been ending since the beginning? There is an Aboriginal tribe that is currently practicing celibacy, they have decided to have no more children because they believe this is truly the end. When I heard about that I got chills. I know the world needs to reach this point of a massive shift in consciousness. I guess I just get disheartened often about the reality of that happening....I hope....and I can do my part to be a part of that change. But how do you reach everyone? Especially those who choose to remain willfully ignorant? I don't know....

We are currently in Pai, a small mountain community up in the mountains of Northern Thailand, about a 100km from the Burmese border. I'd been here before, four yrs. ago, but it's grown a lot. It's still small and cozy but the growth is noticeable. The area reminds me a lot of Humboldt, the people and the vibe. Hippie paradise. Our first night we went out for some drinks and met this really interesting German couple who are travelling for a year and a half with their year old daughter. How righteous is that? I dig it. The woman had lived in Texas, of all places, for an exchange year in high school. Too bad that was her impression of the States. We stayed one night in this small A-frame bungalow outside of town, it was pretty chill and there was a bonfire and music jam that night. Another night we went into town to see "brokeback mountain" playing at this little art-house cafe that was having a benefit for the children's hospital. I dunno, it was a good movie I guess but I thought it was way overrated.

Currently we're staying in a tree house!!!! We came across it randomly on the road and went down to have a look. This is my dream house! I have always wanted to live in a tree house ever since I saw "Swiss Family Robinson" when I was a little girl. We're staying in the very top of the tree in a small room with windows on all four sides and two big tree trunks coming through the floor and up out the top of the room as well. There's a trap door and a rustic little ladder leading to the level below where there are two other rooms, a tiny bathroom and a small area with a rattan table and four chairs. From there are some more steps built into the trunk which curves twice before depositing you back on the ground. The grounds are filled with botanical gardens and meticulously landscaped lawns. It's so surreal and like a little oasis which I never want to leave. We woke up this morning with the sun and hopped on the motorbike to take a morning soak in the hot springs up the road. We drove past the site of my infamous motorbike accident a few years ago. I cringed remembering flying over the handlebars face first into the ground. Ouch.

Mr. Egg went off for a day of yoga and I hung out in the tree reading Tolstoy and soaking up the sun. It's our second night there (I don't wanna go!!) and we leave Pai in the morning....We'll catch a bus back to Chiang Mai then turn around and get the overnight bus to Bangkok. We get into Bangkok Monday morning and leave Wednesday evening for India....

We just ate at an Israeli place for dinner and as I'm sitting there eating my plate of falafel and hummous I hear the distance chants of the monks at the local monastery and at that moment I look up and see a picture of Jesus.....Umm.....WTF?.....

The end of a road long traveled

2008-06-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

My dads.

After 14 years they are finally able to be legally married. And today, as of 2pm, they will be. Monkey, my neighbor D and I will be in attendance at city hall this afternoon to join my dads in their wedding vows before heading down to the marina for a champagne and sushi picnic (although the kids will no doubt just want some pb&j).

Congratulations to them on finally gaining some ground in their quest to be treated simply as human beings with the same rights as everyone else.

Only in solitude do we find ourselves

2008-06-21T19:00:00.000-07:00

Defiantmuse © Brian Perkins 2005

four walls surround me
cracked and transparent
in their progressing state of ruination
they are inching inward
cramping the space in between the 90 degree angles
where my body lies curled into itself
seeking absolution from strained complacency
my eyes watch the sunlight move across the room
from the middle of the wall
to the space where my breath meets the dingy carpet
underneath me
nothing else is tangible in this moment except for my breath
displacing the particles of dust which float before me
ebbing and flowing in the orange glow of another day passing
this is what is absolute and genuine
not the thoughts twisting through my head
like vines through a fence
these preoccupying notions of unentered avenues and forfeited adventures
beckoning from the depths of a longing I attempt to place behind bolted doors
foresight of impending days compromised by deceptive diversion
what is truly authentic in the world of fervent emotion?
fleeting glimpses into moments of clarity washed away with each breath
disturbing the haphazard patterns of dust drifting through the air.

Old friends and Little Terrors

2008-06-20T08:43:00.000-07:00

Last weekend when I was at the Oyster Festival with my dads and Monkey I ran into an old friend from high school. As we were making the rounds of the Plaza we happened upon a booth that read: New Orleans Po-Boys. I noticed the banner was drawn by a famous Louisiana cartoonist and I commented that I was friends with his two sons. As I walked around behind the booth I saw one of them frying up the oysters. I approached him cautiously, it's been 10 years and I wasn't completely positive it was him. I called his name. He looked at me and smiled and said my name. We chatted for a while, catching up briefly on who lives where and for how long, etc. Turns out he's been out here for a few years after some time in Eugene right after high school. He asked about Monkey and said he had a little girl too. It actually turned out that I knew the mother of his child, she runs the Bikram yoga studio in town. I'd taken classes there when she first opened back in 2001 and then recently I went back for a class that almost killed me. We had even talked about our little girls before that session and she said maybe we could get them together to play sometime. Little did I know the connection there. It is such a small world sometimes.

So yesterday my friend came over with his daughter who is 4, nearly 5. The plan was to let the kids run around in the yard with the dog and then walk up to the Farmer's Market around lunchtime. We sat outside on the deck and ate carrots, fresh peas and cherries. The kids ran up and down the hill and my friend N and I caught up on the past decade. My neighbor had taken the day off of work so she and her daughter came over to join in on the fun.

(I'd mentioned my new neighbors before. I wasn't sure how we'd get along or what the dynamics would be. In short, our new neighbors that moved in are an even better fit than the previous neighbors. We hang out all the time. My neighbor C and I are a great match friend-wise and her daughter D, who is 6, absolutely adores Monkey and can't seem to get enough of her. I've also started watching her half-day 5 days a week for the summer which will turn to full-time by August.)

It was a beautiful sunny day so we pulled out the sprinkler and the kids ran around in their underwear, laughing and lips chattering. Monkey held her own with the big girls and followed them around everywhere. We sat back in chairs and talked about gardening, life abroad and parenting styles. I was definitely the most extreme and leftist in that regard. As I watched the two older girls play with their Barbies I began ranting as I saw Monkey pounce on them with glee. Argh.

After too much sun the kids grew bored and wanted to come inside to watch a movie. I busted out "The Dark Crystal" which they were thrilled with. Classic, dude. One of my all-time favorites when I was a child. I took Monkey into the bedroom to change her diaper and as soon as I laid her on the changing table she instantly fell asleep. She was just so wore out. I put her on the bed and she napped for a couple of hours.

The afternoon continued on. The girls took an hour long bath and we could barely get them out. Their hands and feet looked a hundred years old by the time they finally emerged. Around 6ish we ordered some pizzas and got to work on weeding out the garden. It was SUCH a mess. It took the 3 of us about 45 minutes to get the majority of the weeding done. Sweet little D helped at the end of it but my friend's daughter was having none of it. She wanted to watch another movie and threw a complete tantrum, full with screaming tears and stomping feet. It was not the first of the day. When D stated she should help with the weeding so we could all be done faster she yelled, "I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL OF YOU!".

Whoa. dude. Whoa.

D's face fell and she whispered, "She just said she hates me". I know, sweet girl, we heard her. My friend didn't react to it very much. His daughter stomped off and went and sat in the car and started blowing the horn. Mr. Egg (who had just returned home) was not pleased. He spent the entire evening in the back room because he said he could tell my friend was "a douche" from spending 5 minutes with him and he thought his daughter was an evil terror. I'd have to agree she was spoiled rotten and out on control.

Thing is, it had been good to see my friend. It was interesting picking his brain about many subjects of which he's knowledgeable, growing food/building houses/setting up solar systems/digging wells, etc. He's definitely not the boy I remember from high school who was consumed with skating and a bit of an asshole. In fact, he tormented my best friend who to this day holds a grudge. Mr. Egg kept reminding me of that as I hung out with N. I would like to think someone can change over 10 years. Granted I'm just starting to figure out the man he's become but I definitely didn't get the douchebag vibe from him. I did, however, have serious issues with his daughter's behavior. I also don't want her to influence Monkey's behavior who is at an age where she's extremely impressionable about that sort of thing.

So now my friend was excited to have reconnected and wants to hang out a lot more. And you can never tell someone their kid is a nightmare. But not only do I not enjoy being around her but I don't want her around Monkey. I'm completely open to any advice/suggestions/stories. :)

Through the years

2008-06-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

I was digging through all the old photos on my dad's computer the other night and it was quite the trip down memory lane. We all go through some very awkward periods, don't we?

p.s. I don't mean to be brushing y'all off with photos. I just have a lot of adjustments going on this week and not much time for substance. More on all of that soon.

Lo and behold: a journey from 1980 to the present.

Travel Tuesday

2008-06-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

Our first family trip to Europe. December '07- January '08:

The Cliffs of Moher:

Driving on the opposite side? Piece of cake:

First pub with Nanna. Galway, Ireland:

First cruisings:

Auguri! Rome, Italy:

Mr. Prosecco. Just before midnight:

New Years' Eve. Piazza del Popolo:

Pantheon:

Have to have it?

2008-06-16T09:49:00.000-07:00

I am not anti-TV. I am not even anti-TV for Monkey. I am, however, selective about what I allow her to watch. PBS Kids? Okay. I’ll even deal with the fact that they now have a few advertisers but the “commercials” are so scaled down you wouldn’t even know what they were for except for the appearance at the end of those bright yellow arches we all know so well. I’ll admit that I cringe every time I see them and am tempted to switch off the television for the few minutes in between DragonTales and Sesame Street just so Monkey isn’t imprinted with those damn arches in her subconscious. But I try to let it go and realize she’s imprinted with the Earth’s Best logo as well but for reasons that aren’t exactly logical that doesn’t bother me as much. Regardless of the company, branding is branding. Period. At the natural food store I sometimes buy her cereal bars with Elmo on the box. Is it okay because it’s healthy and organic and Sesame Street isn’t all that bad? No. It’s still cross-marketing. I realize my inconsistency in this regard.

So, to recap: PBS Kids? Okay.
Nickelodeon or Disney? Hellz to tha No.

My issue with those channels and their programming is not necessarily the content (although the majority of the content is oh-so cringe-inducing) but what comes in between. The incessant hawking of crap, crap and more crap to our kids. The commercials that fry the brain and leave the kid yelling, “But I waaaant thaaat! I have to have it!!”. The cross-marketing, the branding, the insipid attempts to turn even our toddlers into brainless consumers. It makes my skin crawl and I’ve been known to release spittle from the corners of my mouth when I get on a roll talking about it. I realize that in my zealousness I may end up pushing Monkey more towards it. If she is anything like me, she’s going to have a rebellious streak to be reckoned with. I detest the hugely popular kid-oriented blockbusters that will no doubt spawn dolls, coloring books, clothes, cereal, snacks and the biggest of the them all: the toys in kid's meals at fast food restaurants. Oh. Boy.

I keep hearing the same ideas pulled out time and time again. Family or friends telling me that you just can’t shield them from it, etc. I beg to differ. I think that if she is shielded from it, especially in such formative years, then later on when she’s bombarded with it (as I accept she eventually will be whether she’s 5, 15 or 50) she’ll have a much better foundation from which to view it skeptically. I often look to my best friend who was raised by very counter-culture parents (they even spent a few years on a commune). She and her sister weren’t allowed to watch TV, consume mindlessly or eat processed foods. As they grew up the reins were slackened a bit but both my best friend and her sister remained true to their roots. They strayed here and there over various things but always had a mindful way in which they approached and viewed the world. I remember thinking sometimes that my friend was an alien almost. But I was raised in such a different manner. I was the prototypical American kid. I cut my teeth on pop culture and the American diet. Although my parents restricted my sugar intake the first several years by high school I was living off of fast food and sugary cereal. How I remained stick thin? I have no idea. Maybe it was the bouts of anorexia and bulimia that accompanied my teenage years. Another product of being submerged in our culture? Most definitely.

I realize that parenting is about choices. And choosing your battles. But I find I have a difficult time separating what is and isn’t worth it and what is and isn’t so important. To me, it’s all worth it. And it’s all important.

Emptiness has its solace.....Part II

2008-06-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Read Part I here.

The morning of my appointment I was dreaming of a little boy with big brown eyes and curly hair. He sat on the kitchen counter and told me his name was Ishmael. He looked so sad as he asked, "Mama, why don't you want me?". The alarm sounded and I awoke crying. We laid in bed as I told D about my dream. He said that thinking of what the child would be like wouldn't help anyone. We were late and blew off the 8 block walk to the 6 train. We grabbed a cab and headed down FDR Drive.

We arrived at the clinic in the Village nearly on time. We had to be buzzed in and go through two locked doors. I was immediately overwhelmed when we pushed open the final door and walked into a room crammed with people. There was hardly anywhere left to sit. I walked up to the counter and gave them my name and signed in. D stood by my side and as I was filling out paperwork he whispered in my ear, “Let’s get out of here. We’ll go to South America and raise Ishmael”. My heart stopped and I looked up at him with hope. “Really?” I said. But as I looked into his face and saw his smile falter a bit I knew he didn’t mean it. We found two seats together and sat down without much left to say. They called my name and he squeezed my hand as I shakily stood up and walked away.

I was led into another room filled with young girls and told that I would be called shortly to the window. I sat in the uncomfortable dark gray plastic chair and zoned. They called my name twice, it barely registered the first time I heard it. They asked if I was paying cash and I realized I didn’t even have the money on me. D was paying for it and I had to go back out into the lobby to ask him for it. As I walked back through the door I lost it. I grabbed D’s arm and pulled him outside with me. I remember leaning up against the brick, jagged breath and tears flowing. I kept saying over and over “Are we doing the right thing??”. He stopped me and said to look at him. I did. He was so calm. He said that we didn’t know what was the right thing, that either choice could be wrong or right. But came down to what I wanted to do and he would support whatever decision I made though I needed to realize exactly how difficult life would be if we had the child. I quelled whatever was rising up inside of me and brushed away my tears. I resolved to just do this and not allow my emotions to get the better of me.

The appointment itself was rather unremarkable. They gave me a pill to take orally and sent me home with instructions on how to administer the vaginal pills at home in 24-48 hours. They explained that the second set of pills would cause my uterus to contract and expel its contents. All of the wording was very matter-of-fact and completely sterile. As I walked through the halls of the clinic I was shocked by just how many women were in there. Girls ranging from very young to middle aged. There were makeshift rooms off the sides of the hallways that had a dozen women in each, sitting on cold plastic chairs with hospital gowns barely covering them and bare socks on their feet. They looked in varying stages of pain and depression. I asked what the deal was and the nurse told me that was the “recovery rooms” for patients who have had the vacuum aspiration. My skin was crawling and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

That night D and I went out to dinner. I ate a portabella mushroom and goat cheese quesadilla and drank Negra Modelo with lime. I tried to act as if everything was completely normal. D ordered us shots of tequila and commented on how tough I was as he laughed. As if my being tough in that way was a good thing.

The next day he was working early, he ran a consultation business from home and his office was across the hall. I stayed in our bedroom and wrote in my journal. I took a short walk to the Park around lunchtime and came back to take the second round of pills around 3pm. They said it would take a couple of hours to kick in but warned me to have extra duty pads on hand as well as a heating pad. They said the cramps would be pretty painful. As I was gearing up I didn’t see D as I came and went even though the front door was right next to his office.

He came out an hour or so after I'd taken the pills to clean the apartment. He explained that his mother was in town for the weekend and she was coming by the apartment in a couple of hours to pick him up for dinner with her and some of his siblings. He had mentioned it a few days before but I had assumed there was no way he would actually go. Would he do that? Would he leave me lying in his bed, bleeding out our child, to go have dinner with the woman who called on a daily basis screaming at him that he’s destroying his life by being with me? Turns out he could. And he would.

As the cramps kicked in I heard the doorbell ring. I heard his mother being introduced to his housemates and their girlfriends and the couple other friends who were over. There were always a lot of people in our apartment. It was a party house. I lay in bed trying to read a book and ignore the pain that was setting in. I couldn’t concentrate on a single word. I reread the first sentence twenty times. I heard D and his mother coming back up the stairs and stop just outside the bedroom door. She asked, “And this is your room?”. He laughed and said, “Yeah, C is in there. You want to meet her?”. My stomach dropped. I was lying there in my underwear and grabbed my sweater. And then I heard her say in a very clenched voice, “No, I do not, D. I will never meet her. I want to leave now.”.

And as I listened to the sound of footsteps getting further and further away I felt something break inside of me and as the tears rushed out so did the blood. I sat up quickly, hysterical because I was losing so much blood I thought something had to be wrong. And as I sat and then stood the blood came out even faster. And then I felt clots. Very large clots. And that was the point when I collapsed to my knees and screamed. A friend came in and ran over to me. I was sitting in a pool of blood on the bed screaming, “What have I done?? What have I done??”. She held me and stroked my hair as I cried and dripped snot all over her shoulder. I mumbled about D going out to dinner and leaving me alone and I was so sorry for her to have to deal with this. She helped me to the bathroom and told me to wash up. She went down to the corner store and bought me more pads and made me some tea as soon as she got back. She sat with me the whole time D was gone. I didn’t know her that well at the time but she had been in my shoes so she at least understood. D came home later that night and wasn’t very apologetic about not having been there. He stated that family came first and he did what he had to. He also dropped the bomb that the next day he would be going to Brooklyn for Shabbat with his family.

You would think that all of this would have woken me up. You would think I would see these Red Flags From Hell and run as far away as I could. But I didn’t. I stayed. I continued living with him for another 5 months and allowed myself to be used by him for another few months after that. Although I don’t regret the decision I made not to have the child, knowing what I know now, I still carry it with me. Wherever I go.

Emptiness has its solace.....Part I

2008-06-12T06:57:00.000-07:00

My eyes opened suddenly and I knew what I had to do. I climbed out of bed and slid on my jeans and sweater, quietly as not to wake D. I went upstairs to my old apartment and knocked on the door. K opened the door groggily, she was not a morning person and it was around 9am. I asked if she could go down to Duane Reade with me to buy a pregnancy test. With wide eyes she agreed.

We walked the short half block and I explained how my period was just a couple of days late but that the night before D and I were walking home from dinner and my cell phone rang. It was my best friend. We spoke for a few minutes and then out of the blue she asked me if I was pregnant. I was shocked, because I hadn’t mentioned anything about being late, and asked why she would ask me that question. She said she just had a feeling about it. I was unsettled because she has a history of “knowing” things.

We arrived in front of the store and I went in and bought the First Response because it was on sale and I was broke. As we climbed the flight of stairs to her apartment she said she and her boyfriend hadn’t been so careful lately and she’d take the second test. A show of support? We crammed into the tiny bathroom and took turns peeing on sticks. As we set them down on the counter a very clear pink line suddenly started to appear on mine. My heart was racing and my hands started shaking as I asked, “Why is there no line on yours?? Why is there a line on mine??”.

I sat on the edge of the tub with my head in my hands. I think I even started laughing hysterically because I didn’t know how else to release what was building inside of me. She wrapped her arms around me and tried to soothe me. Words went in one ear and right out the other. After what seemed like an eternity (but was just over an hour) I decided to stumble back downstairs to talk with D.

He was in the shower when I walked in so I sat in a chair in his office and stared at the computer screen. I kept going over what I was going to say but I could barely put two words together. I kept thinking, “this is what it’s like to find out you’re pregnant. I’m pregnant. There is a being growing inside of me. Why did I never think it would feel like this?”. About 15 minutes later he strolled in and kissed me on top of my head. I looked up at him and he immediately asked me what was wrong. I felt like I was going to throw up. I opened my mouth but nothing came. I started crying instead. He pulled me up into his arms and held me. He kept saying, “shhh, just tell me”. He knew. I think he just wanted to hear it out loud. I finally managed to whisper the words “I’m pregnant”. We sat down in the chairs and just looked at one another. I said I needed a drink. He told me to grab my coat.

We walked down to Central Park and sat out on the patio of the Boathouse. We ordered 2 Maker’s Mark on the rocks, 2 Heinekens and lit up some cigarettes. I realized the irony in what we were doing whilst having our “oh fuck, what are we going to do” conversation. We sat there before noon drinking our whisky and beer and trying to wrap our heads around the facts. We each stated our thoughts. I didn’t feel ready to have a child. There was so much I wanted to do before becoming a mother. I did want to have children with him but we hadn’t been together very long. He stated that he didn’t feel ready either and that he felt things were supposed to happen in a certain order. Marriage comes first and then kids. But he said he would support whatever I wanted to do. I decided to think on it for a couple of days and then call the clinic.

During the next couple of days I got a lot of feedback from my friend K. I think it was rather personal for her because she herself had been put up for adoption. She kept pushing me saying I should have the child, that D and I were going to get married anyway and sometimes things don’t happen the way we would expect but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t work out. I wanted to believe her. Part of me did. But another part was also selfish and was worried about becoming a mother at 23 and getting “stuck”. There was so much of the world I wanted to see and my modeling career was just starting to look very promising and what would having a child so quickly do to my relationship with D? Would he resent me? Factor in his family and the whole Jewish aspect and it was a recipe for disaster. I think there may have been a few hours where I had decided to move back to California and live with my father and raise the baby on my own. But that was just a dream I had that didn’t hold up very well in reality. When it came down to it I made the call to the clinic downtown.

They didn’t have an opening for 2 weeks. D was really uncomfortable with waiting that long mainly because I think it freaked him out that I’d have that much time to change my mind. We busied ourselves exploring the city and didn’t talk about it too much. We even went down to D.C. for a weekend to stay with Steph and T. My mother met us there for the weekend as well. Hollis had just been born, he was maybe a couple of months old. I remember vividly sitting on the couch in the living room and I was holding the little guy until he started screaming and I freaked out. Babies made me so uncomfortable. D took Hollis and he quieted down. I sat there on the edge of the couch watching D with this newborn laying on his chest and I had to leave the room. I went downstairs to the guest room where I sobbed into a pillow. Steph didn’t know I was pregnant at the time, or if she did I hadn’t told her. My mom may have though. D came to find me a little while later and managed to calm me down.

The next couple of weeks passed in a whirlwind. The night before my appointment D took me to this nice Italian bistro in our neighborhood. He told me over candlelight that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him and that he had moved to NYC to meet me. He also said that we would make it through anything and I believed him.

To be continued.....

The Mommy Myth

2008-06-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

I remember vividly the last months of my pregnancy when I would daydream about the days to come. I imagined myself sitting in a rocking chair with the soft glow of spring filtering through the window as I nursed my baby and sang soft lullabies. Moments wrapped in serenity which brought to mind leaves rustling and the sound of wind. I could almost taste the joys of first discoveries and feel the belly laughs would leave me breathless. I imagined intensity of epic proportions as I gazed into the eyes of this being that had been growing inside of me for 40 weeks. I thought of weekends at the Farmer’s Market with our little bambina sitting on her father’s shoulders and we searched for the perfect peach. The three of us lying in bed lazily in the morning as we had tickle fights and laughed until our sides ached. Sunday morning pancakes shaped into the letters of her initials as my parents did with me when I was little.

And then she was born.

The reality: You want to lose your mind. You’re thrust into this overwhelming situation and no matter how much support you have it’s terrifying. Especially if you have a baby that is a bit colicky. You question yourself constantly and that never lets up. You may even have the urge sometimes to throw your child across the room. You would never do it, of course, but you can understand how some people cross that line and it happens. You often dream of having your life back the way it was and fantasize about escape plans. You may even occasionally lock yourself in the bathroom to weep. You want just five minutes alone and will morph into a complete and utter bitch if it’s not available to you. You yell. And sometimes you scream. And your ass is wider and your stomach will never look the way it did. You spend the first year mostly in sweat pants and other loose-fitting clothes to camouflage your altered body. You leak milk at the drop of a hat and have suddenly found yourself with boob sweat, which had never happened before, but then again your boobs didn’t used to hang down to your bellybutton. Sex is the furthest thing from your mind and when it’s suggested you actually laugh.

There are the moments, the moments you dreamed of. They are random and few. But you open your every pore to let them in and nestle into your bones. You savor each delicious second and remind yourself to recall these times when everything else leaves you wanting to wonder if it was all worth it.

Of course it’s easy to idealize motherhood. How can we not when we’re constantly pummeled with images of the Super Perfect Mom. Everything is a joy, even waking up in the middle of the night with a screaming baby when she’s losing her mind from sleep deprivation. Making all of the baby food from scratch? Of course! And all organic, of course! Working 40 hours a week on top of that? Sure! And she’ll still manage to find the time for her yoga or pilates to keep her trim figure and keep up with the latest styles in fashion and always have perfect hair and make-up.

Kelly Ripa: Bite me, dude. You perpetuate the stereotypes that women in the real world (meaning women who do not have on staff a nanny, a personal trainer, a stylist, a nutritionist and a chauffeur) could never live up to. And stop smiling so wide, lady. You really can’t be that happy All The Time. Even with the help of Prozac. You’re totally acting all Stepford and it’s creepy. And btw, if I have to see your bullshit commercial one more time I’m going to throw up in my mouth a little bit.

Travel Tuesday

2008-06-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

40 km north of Rome lies a medieval village perched atop an almost wedged shaped piece of tan colored volcanic rock. Navigating the S-shaped passageways Venice comes to mind. The village was condemned and set to be demolished until the 1960s when hippies, bohemians and artists began flocking to the village in droves to squat in the abandoned dwellings and soak up the supposed mythical energy which emanates from the volcanic rock upon which the town rests. Now nearly every shop you pass is an art gallery of some sort. The new locals lobbied the government and successfully managed to convince them to rescind the death sentence for the village.

Welcome to Calcata, Italy.

Coming to terms

2008-06-09T12:12:00.000-07:00

What do you do?

It’s a question that has usually made me cringe. Although there were odd jobs here and there that I actually enjoyed doing, I have never had any sort of career path. I’ve done what I needed to do to pay the bills or whatever else happened to fall into my lap. In addition to the several coffee shop jobs I’ve had I‘ve also been a bartender, a stable hand and general grounds keeper, a personal assistant for a general contractor, a smoothie girl at a wraps joint, a senior citizen caretaker, a nanny for an autistic child, a waitress, a model, a youth counselor for homeless/runaway youth, a filer and data entry girl, a masseuse, a counter girl at an ice cream parlor and an innkeeper’s assistant for an upscale B&B. And that is only in the past 10 years.

See any sort of uniting theme there? No. Not so much.

And now when people ask? “Stay-at-home mom”. Yup. That’s me.

Thing is, it’s not that I’m embarrassed by it or anything. What I get embarrassed about is when people ask me what I did before Monkey came along and I don’t have anything to say other than that I did a lot of things. I moved around a lot. I did odd jobs. I bounced from one thing to another. I wandered and I explored and I worked when I had to but even then I was usually pretty lucky about having everything work out the way I wanted it to.

I never followed the rules of how you’re “supposed” to live life. I dropped out of high school junior year and attended one year of university although I don’t have a single credit to show for it. Both semesters I stopped going halfway through and never even took my final exams. Yes, I just stopped going, I didn’t even officially drop out. Because that’s how I am. I never finish anything and I’m usually completely irresponsible about the way I go about discontinuing things.

Since I was around 12 I was completely obsessed with wanting to be an anthropologist. I fancied myself being the next Dian Fossey or Jane Goodall. When I started college I met with the only anthropology professor there and picked her brain about what she did and how she went about getting there. I quickly learned though that I am not a school person. And maybe that’s a cop out. But it just didn’t suit. I thought I could find another path to lead me where I wanted to be. I rolled up to the local primatology center in the town I lived in to see if they had any sort of positions available even if it was just cleaning up ape shit. I had no idea the kind of testing they did there and would never have stepped foot in there if I had known. The receptionist took one look at my shaved head and tattoos and called security. Apparently they’d had trouble with animal rights activists letting the chimpanzees loose. Time passed and my dream fizzled as I realized the need to go back to school. Although I couldn’t imagine a career that would be more fulfilling I just couldn’t seem to swallow jumping through the hoops of traditional education.

So it was an easy decision for me to want to stay home with Monkey. It’s not as though I had some career I was passionate about or really enjoyed doing. And I’d have a hard time reconciling putting my child in daycare so I can work at a coffee shop. And although idealistically I feel staying home with my child/ren is important I wonder if, in reality, it’s the best thing for me personally. I have a very difficult time with patience and resentment. When I’m with her all the time it’s hard to not slip into the negative when I’ve already told her for the 20th time to stop pulling the books off the shelf and stop pouring the dog food out of the bowl and it’s only 9am. So when Mr. Egg has left for work before we even wake and comes home after she’s in bed (which often takes over an hour because she fights, fights, fights sleep) and wonders why I’m in such a foul mood I just stare at him with daggers. I resent that he’s out there in the world interacting with other people, free of child. He comes back with reminding me that I do hang out with friends sometimes during the week and I say Yes, other mom friends, we get together for play dates. Not the same thing.

On the weekends when Mr. Egg is home I try to head into the back room to get my space. Of course Monkey comes crashing into the back room. After she’s done this a few times and I keep redirecting her elsewhere I end up shutting the door and her reaction is to stand just outside and cry and scream at the top of her lungs. I get annoyed and tell her to go to her Papa but he’s often busy doing things as well and I feel guilty as hell about how she must perceive it all. In my eyes I just want a break from her. In Mr. Egg’s eyes he’s trying to get things done that he doesn’t have time for during the week. In Monkey’s eyes she must feel that neither of her parents want her around. Just the other day there was an incident that really hit it home how she must be feeling and I literally could feel my heart break a bit. I don’t want my baby girl to feel that I would rather be anywhere but here but that seems to be a bit of a theme since she was born. I often wonder if that dynamic is why she’s so clingy and needy with me. She senses I want to get away and it makes her cling that much more.

I know all mothers feel this way to some extent. And I know some are better equipped than others for doing the whole stay-at-home mom thing. I often am in awe of Emily because she has not one but TWO kids, a third on the way, and a husband who works all the time. Yet she seems to be able to keep her cool and come out the other side a fantastic mom. I’m sure it’s not all great all the time but I wonder how she isn’t feeling bitter like I often find myself feeling. Again, I guess it could just be personality.

I realize it’s a matter of needing to have something in my life that I’m passionate about. And although I love spending time with Monkey I am not passionate about being a stay at home mom. And this is coming into play more as we’re talking about having another baby and Mr. Egg is concerned (rightfully so) about my state of mind. He’s pushing me to find something that I’m passionate about doing and pursue it. I’ve been talking for the past year about a photography business that I’ve been too much of a slacker to get off the ground. It’s something that I do feel strongly about and I know that it fits most of the criteria of what I’m looking for. I just worry about turning to art into work and losing my passion for it. Plus I always have that insecurity about how many other people are better than I am so why should I even try. I know, how gross.

And maybe once I have something else going on I’ll have the ability to be more present with Monkey. Or maybe I’ll just never be the kind of mom I thought I would be. It’s funny how we have these ideas of how we see ourselves as mothers and in reality I wonder how often it matches up?

eye + doorknob =

2008-06-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

Dude! What happened to your eye??
I ran into the doorknob.
You what?
I ran into the doorknob.
(awkward silence as they wonder if Mr. Egg actually hit me)

But no. I just really am that clutzy.

Underneath it all

2008-06-06T06:50:00.000-07:00

I received an email a few days ago from a photographer I used to work with. He was going to be in the Bay Area and was wondering if I wanted to come down and meet him for a shoot. Obviously it's been a while since we'd been in touch. He had no idea that I had a child or that I'd stopped modeling. I expressed that in no way, shape or form would he want to photograph me without my clothes on anymore. That is most definitely a thing of the past.

I have a section of wall in my hallway that's adorned with a few modeling shots of myself as well as some travel photos I have taken. They're arranged in a haphazard way which flows but has no particular order to it. Every time I pass these photos I'm confronted with the way my body used to look just a couple of years ago. I try not to feel bad that my body has changed, after all that's how nature works. Yet a part of me can't help but want to cry. Because it's not just the pregnancy or getting older or whatnot. I'm lazy and could easily have my body closer to the way it was simply by eating better and exercising. But I don't. And so I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and don't spend much time in front of mirrors.

After a lifetime of struggling with poor body image it was very liberating to pose nude and feel comfortable. Although I did some fashion shoots the bulk of my work was fine art nudes. I made decent money which eventually helped finance my move to NYC. Beyond the monetary benefits I was expressing myself in a way in front of the camera which enabled me to release some creative energy. Although I did shoot some images with cheesy photographers that I would rather never see the light of day (hey, a girl has to pay the bills) I did a lot of work for free. Those shoots were with photographers that I truly respected and felt privileged to work with. We had fun during the sessions and took turns attempting to bring different ideas to life. It was mutually beneficial, helping both portfolios. I'm proud of the work I did during the years I modeled. I collaborated with some amazing photographers and helped to create some beautiful images. And even if I never pose nude again I have an amazing portfolio, a magazine spread and even a few photography books to remind myself that I did it at one point in my life.

The new addition

2008-06-05T00:30:00.000-07:00

Funny how timing works sometimes.
As of 3pm this afternoon:

The thing about cats and dogs

2008-06-04T06:58:00.000-07:00

After Mr. Egg and I returned from our round the world trip we landed in Louisiana for a few months.

My best friend's little sister was working at the brewpub in Abita Springs. She had found a litter of kittens near the dumpster who seemed to have lost their mother. They were only a couple of weeks old, their eyes weren't even open. She took them home and nursed them back to health. Their eyes were infected and swollen, they were starving and their coats were matted. The runt of the litter was this furry black ball with the most adorable little yelp. I fell in love instantly.

Mr. Egg is not a cat person. He never has been. He and his ex-wife had two dogs that she retained after the divorce. Trying to convince him to let me take on this little runt was not an easy task. I tried my best to persuade him and when that failed I flat out begged and pleaded. See, I have always been a cat person. Growing up I always had dogs (and cats and snakes and turtles and hermit crabs and an assortment of rodents) but since I've been an adult I've stuck with cats. They're easier and not so needy. They pretty much take care of themselves. Dogs are just way too much work and responsibility, imho.

I finally managed to convince Mr. Egg of our dire need for a cat. I brought O (aka Little Man) home and proceeded to pour all of my love into that tiny little critter. He went everywhere with me and he even began nursing on my neck. He'd lost his mama so young he clung on to me as if I were her. I couldn't get enough of the little furball.

A month after we got him I found out I was pregnant.

I came out to CA early on in my first trimester and Mr. Egg joined me a couple of months later. He brought O with him in the car on a very long drive pulling a U-Haul. Little Man didn't seem to mind the separation, he bonded to me again as if I'd never left. The months passed and he remained in my lap more often than not, even when my belly had gotten so big there was barely any lap left. He'd startle when the baby would kick a foot out in his direction but he would settle right back down. I wondered how he would fare once the baby came.

And then Monkey was born.....and I had no love, time or energy left to give the Little Man. He became even more of a pain in the ass then he already could be at times. Whether it was wanting in and out 50 times a day or waiting until the baby was just about to fall asleep before tearing around the house like wild man, knocking down everything in his path. More often than not he just got his ass tossed outside and lap time was definitely a thing of the past.

And now O is about to turn 2.

He's lost most of his annoying kitten habits and seems to be chilling out a bit. In the past month or so I've begun to show him a bit more attention. Now that Monkey is older it's easier. But I still feel guilty often because I know he doesn't get as much attention as he would like. I also feel bad because I begged and pleaded for him and now Mr. Egg is stuck taking care of him most of the time. When O is being a particularly huge pain the ass and I yell at him Mr. Egg is right there to remind me You're the one that wanted him, dude.

And now....now Mr. Egg wants a dog. Although the idea of a puppy sounds great the reality will be that I'll be stuck taking care of my energetic and quite needy toddler AND house training a puppy. No freakin' way, dude. I've stated that if he wants to get a dog it needs to be a bit older, house trained and good with kids and cats. A tall order maybe. But there are plenty of pounds around here and he should be able to find one that fits the criteria. I am also concerned because we travel so much and are talking about leaving the country in the near future and I'm already not sure what to do about O, much less a dog. Mr. Egg says "The dog will be part of our family. He'll go with us.". Maybe easier said than done.

So it may be any day now that Mr. Egg comes home with a new addition to our family. I just hope that the dog follows through on the one huge positive I keep hearing: I will no longer have to clean my floors after Monkey is finished eating (ha, like I actually do it now anyway!).

Travel Tuesday

2008-06-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

January 2, 2006

After a completely hellacious journey from Bangkok into Cambodia we arrived the night of the 30th. We took a bus from Bangkok to the border, dealt with customs and then hopped on this rickety old bus for the 5-6 hr. trip into Siem Reap (home to Angkor Wat)....The road was in horrible condition, dusty and full of potholes. And I'm from New Orleans....but I've never seen a road so bad. Or rather, felt one so bad. My body was aching by the time we got off. Our guest house in town is pretty sweet though, a/c-hot water-soft beds, etc.

On the way out here we met this Canadian woman, T, who we've been chilling with. On New Year's Eve we went to Angkor What?, a bar on Pub Street. Nearing midnight everyone piled out of the bars and into the street and the bar workers were throwing buckets of water and spraying hoses on everyone. There was a dj blasting some sort of techno with bass that you could feel rattling your bones. Kids were being tossed up in the air and carried around on random traveler's shoulders. Not a bad way to ring in the new year. We made plans with T to hire 3 driver/guides to take us around the next day to the temples and spots of interest in the area. The next morning 6am came very early and as we laid in bed with headaches so gnarly we were barely able to lift our heads from our pillows we hoped she'd forgotten about the plans. She didn't. There she was banging on the door. I must say now that I'm glad she did. We've been having such an amazing time although there have been many moments on the back of the motorbike when my life has flashed before my eyes. But it's been so much more of a real local experience than if we'd gone on our own to see the temples. Our guides are really great, full of information about what we're seeing and also explaining about life in Cambodia in general. One of our guides, Tiger, is a total riot with the foulest mouth I've ever heard. We've had some interesting political discussions. He hates the American government. Big surprise. But he's pretty skeptical of his own government as well. He always says, "Cambodia is fucking corrupt!". It's like his motto...Good to know.

Cambodia is absolutely beautiful. I can not even put into words how breathtaking the ruins are....I have found myself with tears in my eyes often. The skies here are incredible as well. The clouds, the way the light reflects off them....We woke up this morning at 4:30 to watch the sunrise over Angkor Wat.

The people here are friendly with beautiful smiles and kindness in their eyes. Despite what I had heard beforehand I have not seen too many victims of landmines. Some, yes, but not as many as I expected. The poverty level is very difficult to handle though. The begging, the hawking....The incessant ,"Lady, you buy?" from the swarms of children every step you take.....It breaks my heart....What do you do? I don't want to encourage them but I don't want to be rude and ignore them either. If you say anything they keep following you.....I try to just smile and shake my head no but it never works either....

Yesterday Tiger & Co. took us way out of town to this spot on the lake where the locals hang. It was really very chill and a nice way to unwind after the long-ass day we'd had hiking around the temples. The sun here is really intense. I got some great shots of some kids playing in the lake with what looked like the remnants of an old Styrofoam cooler. People always talk about how bad it is in America, pollution and garbage, etc. Let me tell you - SE Asia is AWFUL about this shit. Plastic bottles everywhere, piled into mountains of trash awaiting a place to simply dump it. The diesel fumes from the loads of motorbikes is brutal on the lungs. And then there are kids, playing in a lake with pieces of Styrofoam. Does nobody believe in education about these sort of things here? No recycling system here? What the fuck?

Yeah, so I mentioned I'd been taking on some of my fears, trying to do something every few days which scares me....So yesterday we ate fried tarantulas!

And you know what? It was actually pretty tasty. The legs were good, salty and crunchy. Bit like chicken. The body itself was a bit dodgy, there was some funky white stuff and I asked Tiger what it was....He said it was the eggs....I handed the rest to him.

Fiber?

2008-06-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

No. These books haven't been attacked by a dog.

Just my child.

A triangle has 3 sides

2008-05-30T06:31:00.000-07:00

Many of you have asked about this. So here's the story. In all its unconventional glory.

The summer after I'd turned 21 I was sitting at the local tap room where my friend bar tended and was knocking back some beers. She introduced me to a friend of hers, Mr. Egg. I thought he was an interesting fellow with long hair and an English style driving cap. We instantly bonded over politics and travel stories. I explained I had just moved back to Louisiana from Humboldt County, CA and he excitedly explained he was from the Bay Area and his wife had lived up in Humboldt for a while. I remember being surprised he had a wife, he seemed so young. I had no idea he was 13 years older than me, he could have easily passed for around my age. He said his wife traveled a lot for work and it might be a while before I met her.

A few months later I was at the bar with my boyfriend at the time and ran into Mr. Egg and his wife, M. He introduced us and we chatted as best we could with a very loud live band playing. They invited us to a party they were going to be having in a couple of weeks. After we left I gushed to my boyfriend about how beautiful and sweet I thought M was. He rolled his eyes and said he knew where this was going. Thoughts of M continued to invade my brain until I was smack in the middle of the most intense and silly schoolgirl crush. I couldn't wait to be around her and when I was I actually giggled. Dudes. I giggled. I flirted with her openly and unabashedly. Mr. Egg found it amusing as he said with a grin, "You're not going to try to seduce my wife are you?". Um. Wellll.....

A few months later Mr. Egg went on a two month excursion to India and Nepal. I spent a lot of time with M while he was gone. We'd eat dinner, drink wine, watch movies and talk about everything under the moon. I was shocked when she revealed she was 11 years older than Mr. Egg. So that meant she was 24 years older than myself. She was my mom's age. Actually a few months older than my mom. I know that seems kind of creepy, right? But she didn't seem that much older. And she definitely didn't look that much older. At least she didn't at the time but there's that whole rose-colored glasses theory.

I did my best to get into her pants to no avail. Mr. Egg came home from his trip and the three of us began hanging out a lot. I had broken up with my boyfriend and moved in with them for the summer. We had a lot of fun, the three of us. We went to the annual Strawberry Festival and danced barefoot while drinking daiquiris. We ate good meals together and got all philosophical over wine. We even took a road-trip to Kentucky to pick up M's new convertible Jaguar with an insane stop at Graceland along the way.

The dynamics were clear, I was into M. Mr. Egg was into me. And M. Well. She was obviously in love with Mr. Egg but definitely wasn't turning my advances down after a certain point. I'm not sure if she was into me because of her own desires or because she thought Mr. Egg was into her being into me. Either way, I didn't care. We ended up hooking up a couple of times, both times with the knowledge of Mr. Egg. He was fairly vocal about his attraction to me but I wasn't really feeling it. I brushed him off time and again. And then I moved to NYC, leaving it all behind.

During my relationship with D, Mr. Egg and M came to visit for Thanksgiving. They spent the day with us in our apartment and it was awkward as hell. D was not into my past with them and consequently I ended up blowing them and their 2nd row symphony tickets off the next day. D said he wasn't comfortable with me having such an intimate relationship with another man. Even though nothing had ever happened physically with Mr. Egg he felt our connection and didn't like it. He wasn't bothered by the physical relationship I'd had with M which led to Mr. Egg calling him a sexist misogynist.

Over the years I'd heard from Mr. Egg and M both separately the ways in which they had grown apart and were no longer very happy. I listened to both sides of the story and to be quite honest I more often than not sided with M. Mr. Egg and I had always had a volatile relationship and fought passionately even as friends. M says it's because I brought the passion and fire to the table that he needed and that I had the ability to call him on his shit and stand my own which not many people can do with him. He's very intense. But then again, so am I.

It wasn't much of a surprise when I got the email from Mr. Egg explaining that he and M were getting a divorce. I communicated with M about it all as well and she began pushing the idea of me and Mr. Egg. He'd always made his feelings for me clear and had begun to push them again since D and I had parted ways and he and M decided to go their separate ways as well. I was completely resistant. For so many reasons. I wasn't sure we were right together and most of all I knew I was still so broken from everything that had happened with D I didn't want to jump into something else. And Mr. Egg was talking about marriage and kids and that freaked me the fuck out and I wanted to run as far away as I could from it all.

I eventually came around and as Mr. Egg visited me in NYC a couple of times our relationship evolved. He was with me in NY when my lease was up and we traveled back down to Louisiana to stay with M for a couple of weeks before embarking on our round the world trip. I was with them in the office the day they signed their divorce papers. Their lawyer's office was right next to the bar and we all went next door for some drinks afterwards. We always got strange looks. It was a small town. People talked.

During our trip we flew M out to meet us in Amsterdam for her 50th birthday. We got a nice hotel outside of town and stayed for 4 days. And after Mr. Egg and I returned from our trip we landed in Louisiana for about 3 months. When I found out I was pregnant M was the first person I told, other than Mr. Egg of course. She was truly excited for us. She has been out to visit us once, last summer after Monkey was born, and is planning another trip out this way before the end of the year.

Most people don't really get our dynamics. And at times I myself have scratched my head a bit. All I know is that it works. And we all love each other. And it's open, honest and healthy communication.

The road of excess

2008-05-29T00:30:00.002-07:00

I was standing in front of my freezer, bottle of rum in one hand and empty water bottle in the other. I was concentrating with much difficulty on pouring the rum into the plastic bottle before she came in with what was bound to be yet another lecture. I heard her footsteps on the stairs that led up to the kitchen. I fumbled trying to put the cap back on the rum and stash it away before she saw what I was doing but when she walked in there I stood with rum in hand.

C, what are you doing??
Nothing! I'm just making a drink for the train ride.
uh huh. because you didn't already have about half a dozen drinks??
Duuude, why are you always on my back about this shit? What's the big deal? I'm not even that drunk.
You can barely walk straight.
(I slam the bottle down on the counter) Fine! I'll leave it. Happy??
Do what you want. I just think the fact that you're making a drink for an hour long train ride may open your eyes to the fact that you have a drinking problem.
Ah, here we go again...thanks for the concern, "Mom".

She was not my mother. And I was not a sneaky teenager. I was 24 years old and she was my girlfriend. She was not the first partner to have issues with my drinking. She was just the first to really call me on it. She didn't drink much, she never had. When we first met I was a wild and crazy teenaged pothead who definitely liked to party and she was a 20 year old straight edged musician. Not so surprisingly, it didn't work out so well.

When we crossed paths again 5 years later she had begun drinking every once in a while and I liked to think I had toned it down a bit. I thought maybe we'd find some common ground. Apparently not.

But that was my life in NYC, I was tending bar in the East Village and I drank. A lot. My roommate worked at the same bar. My closest friend worked at a nearby bar. We all partied hard and would drink during work and then drink more after work.

A typical day consisted of waking up around 2pm, grabbing a bite and heading into work. I'd work until 3am doing shots and drinking beer out of coffee cups so my boss wouldn't notice and then hit up another after hours bar with some friends. Around 5am we'd stop at a diner for some eggs and french fries and then hit up the bodega for more beers to drink on someones stoop before rolling home around 8-9am at which point I would crash hard and then wake up at 2pm and start the whole day over.

I wasn't particularly happy at the point in my life. I was going through a lot. Or, more accurately, trying to avoid going through a lot. I've been in that place many times throughout the years. Alcohol is always what I fall back on. When I'm stressed, when I'm sad, when I'm bored and even when I'm happy because it's fun and why not?

My maternal grandfather was an alcoholic. My mother and her siblings were raised mostly by my grandmother who was working several jobs at once trying to keep food on the table for her 7 kids because my grandfather did nothing but drink. Many of my mother's siblings now have drinking problems. I've seen the destruction of what alcoholism can do to people's lives. My mother has always cautioned me about my drinking.

I think I use alcohol in unhealthy ways at certain points in my life but I don't believe I'm an "alcoholic". I've gone to many AA/NA meetings (forced as a teenager in exchange for my release from rehab) and I've always sat there feeling that it just didn't ring true for me. I know, I know. So many times have I heard the phrases "denial" and "transference". But I've had enough therapy over the years to know when I'm trying to cop out of something. And I'm not. I own it when I fuck up. I just don't see the need in trying to use alcoholism as a crutch. And that is exactly what is has always felt like to me.

Granted, there are people who are physically addicted to it. I am not one of them. I can stop drinking at any time and have gone through long stretches where I only drink socially or not at all (like when I was pregnant and for the first couple of months after). There are also the stretches of heavy drinking and subsequent promiscuity. But I tend to realize at some point, maybe later than I should, that if I deal with the problem at hand the drinking lessens.

I've noticed my drinking has increased over the past few months and I'm realizing the need to dial it back a notch or two. It's one thing to have a few beers over the weekend, it's quite another to drink every. single. night.

Everyone has their "something". Whether it's alcohol, drugs, sex, food, exercise, TV or, hell, even blogging. They are the things people use to relax and take the edge off of the daily grind. Granted some crutches are healthier than others. So maybe I should put the bottle of wine down and go do some yoga. As long as it's not Bikram. That shit kicks my ass.