Feeling better

I am tres excited (excited enough to use French adverbs even though I don’t know, or don’t particularly care to know, French; I see myself as far more Spanish at heart). I do believe Philadelphia is on the cusp of reclaiming itself as a cultural and undeniably historical beacon in this crazy-ass nation. Yes, it is small. Indeed, it’s dirty. Crime rate? High as hell and mmmhmm, the locals are, well, local (no personal offense, I just love me my Chicagoans) but I am hoping they embrace my bubble butt and big ol’ brains with open arms. These lips can kiss like nobody else and I am ready to give their cheesesteaks and proper pizzas (have I ever mentioned how much I hate Chicago deep dish?) a big ol’ smooch. Huz is going to switch gears a bit and who knows, if he does he may just survive until 45 or so without succumbing to a stress-related illness. Besides, one of my mothers-in-law is there, the one with whom I’ve got tons in common. She’s an artist and an educator and she was many other cool things before it was cool to be those things. Besides, to steal a sentiment from a crappy movie: when she hugs me, she really hugs me. She is over the moon at the prospect of our move. And, AND! My most beautimous and kind sister-in-law and her fella will be there shortly with their new baby girl. How great will that be?

I am going to learn to accept help (help!) without viewing it as a weakness (screw roaring like a lion all the time) and I am going to learn to not gag at the word family (family!) and I am going to crash though this bourgeoisie cycle we’ve found ourselves in. Gilded Cage, I’ve had about enough of you.

I won’t be writing here as often as I make mental and logistical preparations. There is a stupid amount to do. I may taper off (then again, who knows, maybe not) but I am writing elsewhere (hullo, book with no ending or beginning) and elsewhere-elsewhere under another alias (’sup jeanius?)

It will be a good change, a necessary change, but I am going to cry my face right off my skull when we finally go.

xoxo,

B.

My nana

The Garfield Conservatory, a gorgeous park here in Chicago, is currently home to a display of artwork by Niki de Saint Phalle. Here’s a slideshow.

Her women, called nanas (which I hear roughly translates to “chicks”) are very large, curved, and exultant. Her sculptures invite people to crawl into the bodies, to rub their many-textured skins, to settle in the womb of them  for a while and climb out grinning. She weren’t skeered.

I created my own nana using paper a few years back; I’ve carried her with me everywhere I’ve lived. She is not as cheerful and bright as Niki’s, but she is my nana. She was knocked down, but she has regrouped and is getting up.

We also have a fantastic globe installation happening on the lakefront. I do so lurve this town.

Bite me, Crafty Mamas

I have decided to break up with the Crafty Mamas* meetup.

You know me, peeps. I aim for solidarity first, no matter how loopy the broad(s). But dammit, it’s not me, it’s them. Maybe they’re just in a selfish phase right now. Maybe I just love myself enough to let go. Be free, buttahfly *holding one ear and bending knees as I try to reach that painful Mariah high note*

Heh, for real, I am just not cool enough to be a part of that moms’ meetup. I don’t want to be. I love my inconsistencies and hypocrosies and imperfect perfection. I don’t need to bike my recycleables to the nearest green center in 100 degree heat or give birth using a stick clenched between my teeth as my only pain relief to feel cool. I feel cool already. That statement alone is a declaration of my geekdom, but you know what? I’m alright with that.

I tried to learn from you broads, I really tried. I just couldn’t drink the Kool-Aid. Fret not. You’re better off without the likes of me undermining your unarticulated but evident mission to convert one and all to your definition of what is right and good. I, too, am better off without you. Nobody can make one feel inferior without one’s permission, and you simply don’t have my permission.

P.S. Ina May should be read and pondered, not worshipped. Not everyone is so lucky in their body cooperating during pregnancy and labor. If I “had only had a midwife who believed in me”, my baby would be dead. I’ll take, wait, fuck that, I’ll celebrate the medication, induction procedures, and emergency surgery that made up our birth experience. It may not have happened the way I wanted, but all of it ultimately meant the survival of me and the light of my life. Thanks for your opinion, though. I plan to wipe myself with it after my next bowel movement.

P.P.S. That “sahm” group you were being derisive about is actually a great group of broads who don’t have a bad word to say about anybody.

P.P.P.S. I still maintain that mothers groups, whether formal or informal, in-person or virtual, are essential social supports worth pursuing and working within to keep them cooperative and vibrant. Oh no, they caaaaaaan’t take that awaaaaaaay from meeeeee!

*This name is (like) one they gave themselves. I am not labeling and dividing. You know I hate that. The actual group name has been changed to protect the non-suckaheads in it.

Relationship haikus

Gah, I am so sad and pissed off today and I can’t seem to shake it. That is something I noticed during pregnancy and it hasn’t subsided yet; when I get upset it takes FOREVER to get rid of the oppressive feelings of sadness/anger/etc. I am talking about days of moroseness that can happen without much provocation. What gives? Blah.

I don’t like it when Bean has to experience my mopey face so I am trying to make myself laugh. Sooooo, not to diss whomever created the very elegant concept of haiku (should I know who that is? I’m too blech to even use the google) but dammit it’s handy. You see, I have this habit of obsessing over things, hanging on to things, like I-should-have-said-this-and-you-should-have-done-that kinds of things that will make a person go crazy if she indulges in them, which I do…so I’ve come up with a solution: relationship haikus. Handy little ways to express oneself , rip some closure out of thin air, then get the fuck outta dodge.

Here’s my start:

M. (5-7-5 form)

Not bad at first, but
If this is love I prefer gangrene
Two years through beer goggles

aaaaaaaaaand dismount! I highly recommend this approach, and lots of other things, too, in lieu of anything resembling formal therapy. Unless of course you need formal therapy. In that case, have at it. Not that you need my permission. I’m just saying I support you.

Sex, etc.

“Sex Ed, Honestly”

Amen.

It’s amazing that one website could have positively influenced my life so much had it been around when I was a teenager. I am glad it exists today. I will be directing Bean toward it, if it still exists in some form, in 12 years or so. I plan on speaking with him (and having Huz do so as well) a couple of years before that. Better to give him information about sex a little too soon than a little too late.

P.S. About Charles

Don’t you be thinking that I am writing nostalgic love letters to him. I love Huz deeply and fully and only. Charles used to be one of my very best friends.

That is, until he got married.

Actually, it happened before that. He stopped talking with me as soon as he started dating his now-wife, except in little covert ways here and there. It was very depressing. Later, although I had always planned on him being in my wedding, and actually an integral a part of my wedding, he never planned on inviting me to his. Fucked up, no? We’ve got history, dammit! Good history! Great history! Meandering and sweet and formative history! But no matter. His woman had a jealousy problem or some such thing. Adorable. Needless to say, that didn’t leave much room for a female best friend, especially a no less than three…best friend. How did she know that about me? She used to sleep with Huz.

Oh! The drama!

Personally, I find it hilarious that of all the people in the world Charles and I could have fallen in love with and married, we pick two that used to regularly have coffee together (I’m not being cute, she really did pick him up in a coffee house; she’s got a good eye, that one). They also happened to screw each other’s brains out. Me, jealous? Pshaw. That’s just good comedy. Or at least a Goth version of Melrose Place. Besides, I liked her well enough when she was in Huz’s life. The feeling just wasn’t mutual.

Didn’t I say I was not going to write about my relationships here? Ah, well. Chalk that up with my “I’m trying to not to curse” rule.

I am feeling so strange/Dear Charles (mash-up)

I am feeling so strange. Bean needs a crib. He is almost 9 months old and we are getting him a crib for the first time. Why? Because apparently, he doesn’t need to co-sleep anymore.

Bean successfully crawled for the first time the other day, and suddenly he is sleeping through the night, unassisted, in his pack and play. Up until now, he was in the bassinet by our bed, then at 5 months, the pack and play for the first part of the night and the rest with me on the futon in his room starting at 11pm or so. All this time, whether he slept alone or co-slept, he was up between 4-10 times in a 10 hour period. Suddenly, he sleeps. These past four nights, he has not woken to be held, to have me shhhhhh and pat him, to make me bring him to bed so he can beat the crap out of me and nurse in his sleep all night long.

I am relieved, yet alarmed. I know there are so many more “Mom, I’m fine, I’ve got it” moments to come. I am shocked by the suddenness of this one.

So now he needs a crib, one with a proper mattress. A crib so he can more safely sleep, alone, all night, in his own room. I’m speechless. I thought we would co-sleep for years. I lovingly griped about it and was secretly pleased to be so required for his security, even though I sometimes felt I was having the life sucked out of me.

Wow. A crib.

Let’s do a letter.

Dear Charles,

Do you remember me, your imaginary friend, the one with the bad sinuses and a strong dislike of people and mushy Chinese food? We’re old by now, at least you are anyway.  I’m not really sure who we are to each other anymore, but I think it may have something to do with remorse, and maybe one of those parallel worlds you created while turning in circles.

So are you stuck inside a Florida nightmare or did you blow your head off, too? Me? The Navajos are still being taught by New Jerseyites, so I’ve decided to tune on and turn out. I’m gonna shave my head and shove daisies up my nose, dance to the be-bop-kabbalah of Kerouac’s vision and worship Buddha’s brother while I ponder dripping water in its wordless serenity. Blam, blup, slam, plink. Yep, here I am, in all my paranoid glory, and I remember when I felt that because of you, my life didn’t really depend on me. As long as I was with you tragedies passed and I didn’t mind.

Just don’t forget me on your tour of the century; we’ll hide in the dressing room eating e-z cheese and saltines…and if I’m dead (a homeboy said) I’ll still get to you.

P.S. Sometimes I really miss your motorcycle.

Things I wish I’d majored in

Ahoy.

I do not I regret majoring in special education and educational technology. I am very proud of those professions and excited about continuing work in both arenas. I just wish I had taken more time to enjoy college, instead of working like a loon during all of the waking hours (and plenty after that) when not in school, and being so focused on “getting through” classes. I also wish I hadn’t let my working class upbringing color my choice of classes to such a deep, blue-collared hue. I considered so many topics of study to be “impractical” if they weren’t directly related to employment immediately after graduation (or sooner). I also wish that I wasn’t encouraged to just “get through” math and science courses in high school; it sounds insane to me now, but I had no idea I could go to school for something so fucking fabulous as mechanical engineering.

So I now bring you a short and incomplete list of things I wish I’d majored in, or at least taken classes in, during my academic career:

Mechanical engineering
Women’s studies
Art history
Filmmaking
Romance languages and literature
Developmental psychology
Philosophy and theology
Microeconomics with study in Africa

There are about 1000 topics in addition to these, but these are the MAJOR majors. I know there’s still time, what with the average life expectancy of an American, non-smoking female being somewhere around 78.8 years. After Huz and I pay off our existing student loans (in 46.2 years or so) I absolutely do plan to pursue more graduate work, because as a wise froglette once said, why not me?

Okay so I have to tell you something

You know how I am all, hey, I was a high-end stripper (yes there is a difference), no less than three no more than five, I’m a milf, yadda yadda yadda? Well I need you to know something. That is all hard won. I am neurotic as hell when it comes to sex.

Do you want to know what my “sex talk” consisted of? My mother told me, “If you have sex before you’re 18, it’s like they are pissing in you, because that is all they are doing, they are pissing in you.” I kid you not. Needless to say, I was pregnant at age 16 (I am not blaming her, I am just giving proof that a little bit of knowledge is dangerous, and also saying that I do not recommend the catholic-approved rhythm method). I miscarried. Hard. Except that I didn’t know I was pregnant until I miscarried, and nobody believed me when I said I saw her (him?) go down the drain in the shower, so they all (doctors) insisted I was never pregnant in the first place, and as a result I was misdiagnosed as having advanced stds by one tragically misguided physician’s assistant as a way to explain all the pain I was in, but of course this was before she actually TESTED me for these diseases, and repeatedly subjected me to the most excruciating internal exams imaginable, all leading up to the fateful ultrasound which was finally ordered only after all the std and other unnecessary tests showed negative except the hcg level, and after me screaming that I was pregnant while being mauled internally by this physician’s assistant, some Alison person (henceforth known as Satan) whom I hope dies a painful death. 

Lo and behold, there was an empty amniotic sac.

So the 16 year old kid wasn’t crazy after all. I had been pregnant and was in the process of miscarrying. I was given the choice to go on bedrest although it wasn’t a viable pregnancy, and basically wait for the rest to pass, or get a dnc. I chose the latter. The physical pain took months to subside, the psychic pain never did.

Anyway, my point is, I did not mean to make you feel like I have sooooo got my act together sexually. I don’t. I am still figuring it out to this day. Just know that I mean every word I say. You are the hotness. And so am I.

Damn this was a hard one to write. Too heavy for a Sunday.
 

No less than three

Allow me to explain no-less-than-three-no-more-than-five rule, which was briefly mentioned in my prior post. I realized that it may have struck you as, well, a wtf item. First, let me say that I am not the creator of this wisdom. No, the person who bestowed it upon me in a time of crisis was none other than the coolest mom I have ever met, Jamie, who has a son with an autism spectrum disorder that I was fortunate enough to work with and as a result, hang with her for a time.

One day I was freaking out over being torn between two loves, namely, Jim and Ben *le sigh* (I wasn’t brave enough to devote myself to crushing on chicks yet). Jamie listened to me as I listed the virtues and demerits of each one over a cup of way too weak coffee. When I was done, she coolly said, “I just do not know what you are freaking out about.”

Here’s me: I don’t know who I want more! I like them both! I hate them both! *teeth gnashing, heavy sighing, and the like*

Here’s Jamie: Yeah, that is the problem, there are two of them.

Me: Um, yeah, I know, that is the problem.

Her: Yep. You need at least three.

Me: ???????

Her: When I was your age, it was always no less than three, no more than five. If you have less than three, it’s no good. Two end up tearing you apart and fighting over each other, and one, well one is just no good, period. That is for when you are older. On the other hand, if you have more than five, you never have any time to yourself, and you must have some time to yourself.

Me: Like I should sleep with all of them?

Her: No! I mean, you can if you want to but that would be a lot of work. No, you can pick one or two to sleep with, but really you are just looking for different qualities to enjoy that you could never find all in one person, and it also keeps you from getting too heavy and freaking out about any of them. I’m telling you, when I was your age, it was no less than three, no more than five.

Best. Advice. For a twenty-something woman. Ever.

Interchangeably, over the next 4 years, there was:

An inflated yet decent and broke writer; a huge Mexican who loved to go to punk shows with me, look menacing, and drive my mother crazy. There was a more talented and even broker musician fella who had skills that should’ve required him to wear a warning label. There was that wealthy musician. There was a gorgeous yet vapid surfer guy, to well, you know, look at and “have coffee” with.  There was the great dancer, possibly a closet homosexual, who loved to dress up and go to the most fun places we could find on a whim, and also loved to go shopping with me. There was the childhood friend/ex-con (God rest his soul). There was my truest but platonic-at-the-time love, the one whom I called my best friend, although we went on the most romantic dates evah (and still do). There were others here and there, you know, to keep the numbers right, but these are the ones I remember best.

Because I wasn’t analyzing them, none of their faults mattered, and none of mine did either. I could just enjoy them for who they were, as they were, because I was not inspecting them against a checklist of wants/needs/etc. They all knew I had what I called my suitors, aka harem, and although it caused some miffed responses when I was indisposed, they all accepted it as well as men can. If anything, it seemed to spur them on. Have I mentioned that I am no great beauty? I’m not. And although I only slept with (such a funny little phrase) the occasional fella in my gaggle over the years, I had poetry and songs written for me, I was flown here and there for visits, and I had one hell of a good time. Every women should come home from an annoying day at work to the pleasure of listening to a ridiculous number of messages asking what she is doing on a Friday night. Every woman should have the pleasure of answering the messages she feels like returning with her tongue only slightly in cheek, saying, ”I am not sure, I may do xyz, unless you have something better to offer me.” Good for the blood. Keeps it pumping. And nothing keeps the pressure off the two of you trying to have a “great” time and impress one another with witticisms and whatnot like the sentence, “Sure I’ll go get something to eat with you, but I can only stay out until 10, I have plans after that.”

Of course, this approach is not for everyone, but if you are unattached, it should be. I highly recommend it.