Five Years Ago Today

Five Years Ago Today we got the news from the doctors that Alice was out of danger and we could take her home. After three weeks in St. Louis Children's hospital, countless tests, spinal taps, blood draws, pick lines, specialists, days and nights of not knowing what was wrong with our precious girl, fearing after we did know just what might be the long term consequences of her illness. After days and nights both alone and shared. I will never forget the rush of relief and fear at hearing that tomorrow, we could go home. Just in time for Christmas.
    There is a special kind of desolation that sets in, thinking about spending your daughters very first Christmas inside the hospital. Even a hospital like Children's, where Santa had already made his rounds and they graciously accommodated my many deliveries of Christmas gifts, and wrapping them. Where no one looked twice at me when I ordered sugar cookies with every meal, where the wall paper was brightly colored and the nurses were incredible, it's still a hospital. And a hospital is no place for a child at Christmas. And I experienced a peculiar elation mixed with guilt that we got to go home.

Four Years Ago Today things were bad. Her dad and I were still trying to make it work, but it was just a slow crawl into the romantic graveyard and we both knew it. But at Christmas, we came together, supported each other as we both relived that last year in our own way. As our now one year old lost her patience entirely with opening gifts. And I was so grateful for everything, the crowded room, the crying child and all of it. Because this year we weren't anywhere near a hospital and we had begun to have our fears put to rest that there would be any long term effects from her brush with mortality. And I felt a slow joy.

Three Years Ago Today things were getting better. Her dad and I were no longer together. But we were still a united pair. And while the Christmas music still grated on my nerves and our girl still had literally zero patience for all of her gifts, I was reminded again of how lucky we were to be celebrating a third Christmas with her. And I knew that he was too.

Two Years Ago Today her dad and I lived in separate houses. But on Christmas Eve I spent the night at his house because we never wanted to make her choose or travel between us on the holidays. Coming back into the house we once shared on that night was a singular experience. Like reentering a soundless room when you've spent a week immersed in music. I was nervous and angry and petulant. But I was excited too. Excited to once again be celebrating Christmas. To laugh at our girl when she threw her hands up in frustration and began to pitch a fit because there were just too many presents to open and she wanted nothing more than to play with her gifts that were already open. Even with all the angst and the pain I was feeling, I wouldn't have traded it for anything.

One Year Ago Today I was coming to terms with the idea of new woman in her life. Another mother figure that I was beyond unhappy about. And I was angry again upon entering a house that had once been my home, but was now the domain of another.  So far gone was the life that I has imagined and counted on. It would never exist. But still we wrapped gifts and laughed together, still her dad and I were friends. Parents and friends. We had a tie that would always be, and the best part of what we had once shared was sleeping soundly in her room down the hall, dreaming of Santa and wishing for her Jack blanket. Santa delivered that Jack blanket and she still lost her patience with the sheer amount of gifts that were for her. A number that will never diminish because she is the pinnacle of our lives, and we all feel it at Christmas, how close we came to losing her before we ever got to do this. So it's alright if she gets frustrated and impatient because she's here, with us, where she belongs.

Today we are well settled in our lives of two houses. We are still planning to celebrate Christmas as we always do, in the same house, with as many presents as we can stuff around her. With stories and songs and family and laughter and at least one horrible fight, because the stress always gets to us and I don't think we help it. But the important thing is, she is here. And every year when I look back at where we were, and what could have happened. When I realize again and feel the horror of that unknowing and oh so necessary hospital stay and all that it put us through. When I look at my daughter dancing with no ill effects from her CMV, I am both grateful and terrified, because I have her and I know the fear of losing her all too well. With all the things that have been and will continue to change as she grows and her dad and I pursue our lives I am comforted by one thing. No matter what happens at this time of year we will come together as a family to celebrate not just the holiday, but the continued existence of our incredible daughter.

Please Stop.

Dear Feminists/Gay Rights/ Diversity activists.

Enough already.  I am all for equality. I believe that woman should have the same pay rates and rights as men do. I believe that homosexuality should not be a reason to be denied services or marriage rights. I believe in embracing different cultures and making judgments based on a persons character rather than their dermis. So don't get me wrong. I'm all for what you are lobbying for. I get it. I do. Really.

But here is what I need from you. Stop messing with my movies/TV shows/Plays/Musicals/Comic Books ect.

Little Orphan Annie was written as a red headed white girl. In the great depression there were plenty of kids in poverty and kids in orphanages of every race, but that story was written about a little white girl. There is nothing wrong or offensive in that. The recent remake, with the time update and the racial changes and all of that....seriously, why? There was nothing wrong with the original script. Leave it alone.

Roadhouse is one of my favorite movies. Ghostbusters is right up there too. They do not need to be remade with women stars. Leave them alone. Rhonda Rousey is not going to make Roadhouse better. The all girl Ghostbusters cast is not going to be better than the original. So leave it be.

I have nothing against strong female leads. I have nothing against people of different races staring in movies. What I am against is the bastardization of the original source materials. If the role is written for a white male, cast a white male. If it is written for an Indian woman, cast an Indian woman, if it is written for a transgender male that is bisexual and adores chuck berry, then cast someone that suits that role! If an actor is not comfortable playing a transgender bisexual then they shouldn't be up for the role in the first place.

Case in Point: James Bond- this character is British white male. Therefore he should be played by a British white male (or if not British at least a white guy that can do the accent) He should not be Scots (Sorry Sean Connery, you're great and all, but I would not have cast you if you couldn't change your accent) he should not be Russian or American,  he should not be black or Indian or Asian ( Idris Elba is seriously talented, I would love to see him more leading roles, just not this one). He should be cast in same way that he was written.

There is an enormous amount of untapped, great new literature out there right now. Our culture is changing, embracing the diversity of our world (albeit slower than most people think it should be) so just let it change. You can't change the actuality of history, even if you rewrite the textbooks and remake all the movies, things still happened as they did. We still lived in the world we lived in and erasing that from entertainment, from books, from movies, is just trying to wipe it out. Not every movie has to be perfect, not every piece of entertainment has to be making a huge feminist statement.  And so much of our culture is beautiful art that shows how we were at the time the films were made, what we valued and what we celebrated.

So what I am saying, is just move forward. Open up the untapped fountain of female super heroes (seriously, there are so many, there is really no need to genderbend the guys) Turn books written with gay protagonists into blockbuster hits, write original TV with straight, gay, white, black, Asian, whatever people in it and move on.

Just leave what has been done alone. Seriously. Please. I'm begging you.

Sincerely,
Me.

A Terrifying Note

A Terrifying Note

        Elise woke abruptly, blinking and damp with sweat.  She shook herself awake and was startled to find her hair was dripping; it smacked her face loudly and left a mark of perspiration. She took a deep breath and let her eyes adjust to the comforting dark of her bedroom, something felt different, and she reached over to her bedside table and flipped on the lam. Her hand flew back to her throat as she let out a sharp gasp, eyes wide in her face as she took in her vanity table, which instead of sitting upright on the floor was now on top of her dresser at an angle, her makeup and hair accessories still perfectly in place. She closed her eyes, thinking she must still be dreaming.  The loud crash of her vanity falling over and all of its contents spilling out snapped her eyes back open and she screamed. The vanity settled itself back into it’s usually position, the mirror was foggy, like someone had breathed on it, and there was a perfect circle with a line through its center in the fog.  She sat frozen with fear and watched as the image faded with the fog. When it was gone, she let out a choked breath that rapidly became hysterical sobbing. She cried until she fell again to an exhausted sleep.

        She came to in the middle of the morning, and groaned. She had overslept, and she had a headache from the crying. She peered at her vanity, it looked like it should, and all of her make-up was back where it belonged. Slowly, she rose from her bed, relieved that her t-shirt fell away for her skin and did not cling wetly as she had feared it would. Taking a deep breath, she was reassured by the clean smell of the air, she went to look at her vanity. Everything was indeed back in its place, but all of her compacts were broken, every eye shadow was full of cracks, her lipsticks appeared to have melted out of their tubes. Hot tears welled in her brown eyes, it must have really happened. She ran from the room, and relieved her roiling stomach in the kitchen sink. Outside of her bedroom, things seemed calmer. She let the normalcy of her kitchen wash over her as the water ran her own mess down the drain.  She knew she would have to go back in there, her clothes were in that room, her cell phone was charging by her bed, and her bathroom was also back there. Fuck. She would put it off as long as she could and have some breakfast.

        As long as she could turned out to be about twenty minutes, she was cold, she had to pee and she needed to check in with her boss. She stood in the door frame, mentally chiding herself for being afraid to go in. She had had a freaky dream, nothing more.  She clenched her first and quick-stepped through the room, grabbing her cell phone from the table and the suit she had pulled out the night before from the closet hook, not looking at her vanity, she entered the bathroom and shut the door.  She arrived at work just after eleven in the morning, made her excuses and lost herself in the work, by the time she left for the day, she had forgotten all about the weird dream and the weird morning. A few after work drinks with friends turned into dancing until the bar closed, and when she returned home she sank into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

        The next morning was Saturday, and Elise had a date. She took her time getting ready, soaking in a long, hot bath laced with oils, before showering and washing out her strawberry blonde curls. She sat wrapped in robe and towel at her vanity and began to select her makeup. She noted that none of it was broken, and smiled to herself. She opened her favorite blush and froze; there was a perfect circle with a line across the center etched into the compacted powder. She shivered. Staring at the blush, the symbol seemed familiar to her, not just from her crazy dream the other night either. She decided on a different shade and threw the blush in her trash can. She was not going to get caught up in a stupid nightmare.

        They went to a jazz club downtown, Elise fell in love with the place instantly, it was a smoky, old school, piano bar kind of joint. The bartender was smooth and knowledgeable, the tables were comfortable and not too crowded, the food was incredible and the music! The music was out of this world, Roger danced with her and she found herself laughing and being pulled up on stage to sing with the band. She was terrible, but the crowd was gracious and she felt elated as she walked off stage. The Maître D handed her a copy of the sheet music for the song she had sang (Someone to Watch Over Me) and she saw a perfect circle with a line through the center, hanging out just belong the bottom line of the staff. Her skin flooded with goose flesh and she felt dizzy. She remembered the piano ringing out the note for her to start on, key of “c” they had said.  Dimly she registered a ringing in her ears, the C note; she recognized it, as the sound became louder and steadier inside her head.

        “Elise? Are you alright? You look like you’re going to be sick?” Rogers’s solicitations snapped her back to reality

        “I’m fine, Roger. Just, I think it’s time you took me home.” was all she said

        Back in her apartment, Elise was frozen in the hallway, hands pressed to her head as the ringing note pulsed, and getting louder to the point she thought she couldn’t bear it before it subsided and she remembered to breathe and then it grew again. She moaned, leaning on the wall for support. Her body trembled with each pulse of sound, and she whispered “Please.” over and over again, pleading with her head, with her apartment, with God, with the dead, with anything she could think of, whether she believed in it or not, to make the ringing stop. Finally, it subsided into a dull aching ring and she fell to her knees and crawled to her bed, burying her face in her pillow.

        Her dreams were intense, she moaned in pleasure and her body moved in response. A hand ran up her thigh, lightly touching, leaving her skin tingling with anticipation, hot breath grazed over the skin of her neck and she arched her back, sharp nails made teasing trails over spine and then dug in. Her eyes popped open and she felt like she was screaming, but she couldn’t hear herself. The ringing started again, and the sharp nails drove deeper into her skin, blood welled and ran out of the wounds, the fingers began to move apart, widening the punctures, impossibly wide. She thrashed against the bed, searching frantically for her attacker, but she saw no one. The blood was pooling underneath her now and she became aware that the stabbing had stopped. She gasped, and was relieved to hear the sound. It was a momentary reprieve, as the nails now dug into her stomach; she looked down at the nothing that was tearing her open. Her skin was being peeled back, layer by layer, and her voice was gone again. Her face was twisted in pain and terror, but she couldn’t stop watching.  She felt a sharp tug on her feet and her stare moved reflexively to look. She saw that her legs were twitching uncontrollably and her toes were being licked by a long red tongue. She could see the tongue, but not the face it belonged to.  She registered that there must be more than one thing attacking her, there was no way anything could have a face at her feet and hands at her stomach. She looked back to her middle and could see her intestines now, and her ribs. The thing was tapping on her ribs; she felt the dull thudding of it colliding with her bone and then a sharp pain as the rib snapped, falling away from her sternum, she screamed silently and the tears that had never stopped, redoubled in her pain. With each break she convulsed, and she wondered why she was still awake, why hadn’t she passed out or died already? She felt a mouth on her neck, kissing her up onto her jawline, the pleasure of the kisses shocked her, could she really be enjoying that while she was being ripped apart? The mouth covered her and she felt it sucking on her, pulling the air from her lungs until they burned, and her body rocked again, her final rib cracked away and her breasts deflated, a hand tugged them back up and her nipples hardened under the touch. She felt betrayed by her body as the pleasure centers activated, and her hips rocked, then the hands released her she felt her breasts flop down onto her lungs, deprived of the protection and support of her rib cage, the pain was beyond anything she had felt so far, dull but fierce and completely new. The things laid her gently back on the bed, into the congealing blood on the sheets, she felt three mouths kiss her, one on the mouth, on the thigh and the other on her vulva. And then they were gone, the ringing in her ears returned.  She saw briefly a flash of three faces, twisted and rotten, before she heard her radio click on and a perfect circle with a line through it was drawn on her ceiling, in her blood. As she took her final breaths and sank out of consciousness into death she heard the song on the radio

There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he, turns out to be, someone to watch over me….

Why I Didn't Go Rainbow

 Our country has taken a huge step in equality this week, (It could be argued as either forward or backward depending on you view history) and I fully support the change.  I also love the flood of support I have seen from the majority of people and I haven't been overly vocal. I feel like my friends, particularly my LGBT friends deserve to know why my response has been so reserved. The answer is I've never really thought it should be a big deal.  I've put a lot of thought in how to say this and what I've come up with is:

All discrimination should die quietly and without acknowledgement for its existence.

I firmly believe that statement.

In photography, before the digitalization, almost all pictures were developed from a negative. When that began to change, the change was celebrated, but no one threw a huge party celebrating the death of the negative. Instead it was relegated down to the place it needed to be, where it was still relevant while the positive change was focused on and improved.

That is how I feel it should be with social change as well. Now, the photography metaphor is not perfect, you can blow a lot of holes in it. I am aware. But the spirit of it works.

I look at the history of discrimination and I see these big rallies, these big protests, this huge media presence and I see where change has been made on the surface of society and in the law books but not in the actual roots of the people.  I can't help but wonder if maybe part of the reason it hasn't died is because we have so sensationalized the death of it. Why should anyone give up their bigotry when they can stand on an age old prejudice and get so much attention. Not all of it damning.

In my personal experience, the changes that stick, the ones that really happen are changes I have made without fanfare or announcements. I have quietly killed the negative parts of my life and moved on to a better and happier existence. And I suppose it could be wishful thinking that quiet change could take hold on a massive scale, but I've seen what can happen when friends, neighbors and families have open dialogue, intelligent discourse and compassionate exchanges. Real change happens communities pull tog ether this way.

Real change happens quietly.

Being quiet does not mean ignoring the problem. Just to be clear.

But celebrating the death of discrimination and other negative aspects of society with so much pomp and circumstance seems to me to be feeding the problem instead of actually solving it.

Think of it as good sportsmanship. If you need anything to make it more palatable for you. Or just ignore me, after all this is simply my opinion and my stance.

Just understand that my quiet celebration is a way for me to pay the highest respect to the change that I so desperately wanted. But it is fight that never should have happened, it should not have been necessary and the sooner we start treating it as the norm and making changes in our social circles, changes that do not require glaring announcements ect. the sooner we can have the norm that we should have had all along.

Why aren't you married?

Lately, I've been asked this question or a variation of it (why don't you have boyfriend, etc) with an alarming frequency. I'm assuming it's because I'm now 30 and therefore my STILL SINGLE neon sign has begun flashing. Because all women over 30 have those. Usually this question is met with an eye roll, or silence or an exasperated "because I am."

As tempting as it is to turn the tables on this question and be continually offended by it, and whine about it and give platitudes about "refusing to settle" and " I have just haven't met him yet" I decided to give the question some thought. And the answer I've come up with may be a little startling at first, but here it is.

Why aren't I married?
Because I'm looking for more than love.

Wait, what?

Yep. I am looking for more than love. To be honest, love is pretty low on the list, because love is a chemical reaction between two people. Love is wonderful. Don't get wrong, I want love. But there are things I want more out of a marriage.

Things like: Friendship. Compatibility. Trust. Great Conversation. Stability. Sexuality. Passion.

When you add all of those things together, they are the parts that make up love, right? No.
You can love people you don't even like. Oddly enough. You can love people that you have no desire to be with sexually.

And the truth is, I've been in love. I've been completely shattered by love, broken down and put in "my place" by love. Or to be more specific through people that I loved, people that claimed to love me but did not. I've experienced the highs of being in love before it all came crashing down and I get why that seems to be the motivator for most people, but when you get right down to it, falling in love is easy.

Marriage is not easy.
Friendship is not easy.
Maintaining a relationship for a long time with a person and keeping it going in a way the positively benefits your life and the life of the other person. That is work. Hard work. Grueling work (some days). Rewarding work. Worth the work.

So, since love is easy, I'm not looking for that. I'm looking for real. I'm looking for hard. I'm looking for all the things I listed above, because I deserve all of that, and so does the person I'm with.

Stepping into a volatile conversation

It’s Sexual Assault Awareness time. And yes, I’m going to jump down that rabbit hole with this post, so consider yourself warned.  There are a myriad of topics to discuss here, from male victims to “rape culture” ( I despise that phrase) but instead of pointing out all the symptoms, I’m just going to go straight to the root of the problem, which is that people see other people as property.  Take a second here to note that I said people, not men, not boys, not assholes, not rapists, not women, bitches, whores or girls: People.

I recently shared a post on my personal Facebook page; many of you have seen it:  a woman wrote a post entitled The Anatomy of Rage and I felt it very accurately described my frustration with the state of society today. Now this article is specifically regarding the way men treat women, so that is going to be the focus of this post. Please bear in mind as you read this:  I do not believe that men are the problem just because they are men, women are just as much a part of this problem as men. I firmly believe this to be true and will probably do a follow up post on that very subject sometime in the future.

So, the post I shared talked about the experiences of this woman as she has gone through different scenarios in her life and the inappropriate comments and touching she has endured at the hands of her male colleagues/friends/acquaintances and even strangers.  Reading her words I was struck by the similarity of my own experiences. I cannot even begin to tell you how many times a man has touched me without my consent or sent me sexual pictures or text messages or whispered in my ear. In college there was a guy that was constantly sneaking up behind me to smell my hair, other people took note of it happening, but no one did anything about it, and let me tell you, if you have never experienced that, it is creeptastic.

                Chances are these men that have invaded my personal space and violated my being are in actuality nice men who just don’t know any better. They think the behavior is ok because as a society we teach a basic lack of respect for other people. We portray people as property, as objects, as things to be desired and touched and bought.  And women have gone along with it, for centuries.  We have created our own problems by waiting so long to speak out, and then by being resentful when we are offered protection or help from a man.  It creates a double edged sword for any man trying to change the norm.  So, what gives ladies? How is a man supposed to make a positive change if we react negatively?  A man is not disrespecting you if he sees you are being hassled and he steps up to make sure you are alright, so don’t bite his head off. It’s not a statement that you can’t take care of yourself; it’s a human being providing support to another human being. Now, if that guy then starts hassling you himself, well, that’s a whole new problem, but the chances of that happening are pretty slim.

                Going back to the post I shared, I was for the most part, pleasantly surprised by the comments it received. Most people were just as appalled as I was, but predictably, there was one person who missed the point. I purposely did not respond to that person in detail, wanting to see how my friends, my male friends in particular would handle it.  I was disappointed that they didn’t step up at all.  It was pointed out to me that my friends know me and I generally stand up for myself and they may not want to be seen as stepping on my toes or disrespecting my post (a thing I appreciate) but that is not always the case and guy friends, I do not mind at all you speaking out, just for future reference.  What I did get though, were private messages from people explaining how incredulous they were at this one person’s comments. And that was cool, but, it was also unhelpful.  Bolstering the “victim” is wonderful, it lets them know they aren't alone, they are supported, they are valued, and rebuild confidence, all good. Except, now when the “victim” displays themselves confidently, the person that “victimized” them learns nothing, in fact they are positively reinforced for their behavior. It’s a strange thought to wrap your head around. I know.  So instead of just bolstering the victim, speak out to the assailant, educate, not attack. We can’t keep attacking people for acting in the way they have been taught to act.  Because talk about mixed signals.  Education is the key to prevention, so instead of “Hey you’re a pig and you deserve to die!” try having a reasonable conversation. Explain why what the person did was disrespectful, and don’t be a dick about it unless that becomes necessary. Because unfortunately, sometimes it is necessary to be a dick about it.

                You may be reading this and thinking, wow, this is confusing. That’s because it is. It’s a tough subject to tackle, it seems like it should be black and white. Except it’s not. It’s not black and white because we have been taught that people are objects to be admired and possessed. We have to change what we teach in order to affect change in the actions of society.  There is not a perfect solution for those of us caught in the middle of this mess. We can fight for reform to make things better for our kids, but the sad reality is that we have to deal with the ingrained education of the society we live in presently too.   And the present society is not a society for people; it is a society for masters and subjects.  We have to shift the focus back, away from sex and weight and money, and instead look at health and relationships and how to actually have a life.  We have to end the culture of extremism, because is it so incredibly damaging   and we have to stop expecting men to take all the blame for this. Education, not emasculation.  That is how we really make a change.

As I watch the world fall

              It's been awhile since I have updated this blog. A lot has changed in my life and in the world since I last spoke out this way, I can't tell you if I will update more regularly in the future, but I would like to think I will. Lately, I have been working on a book I have coming out next month. These last two days I have found myself staring at the manuscript, unable to type anything that works, and tonight I think I know why. It's not that I don't have anything to say, it's that what I need to say is something much bigger than the story I'm telling in that book.

          Today, twelve people were murdered in the name of a god. Twelve people. Over a joke. Because someone was offended by what they had to say. Because someone was convinced that their god would be so offended by the mere pen-strokes of a mortal man. Twelve people are now gone from this world. This is an indefensible act,  but still it happened, and there are people who will try to defend it. They will try to defend it and they will probably succeed. Why?

BECAUSE WE HAVE ALLOWED THIS TO BECOME THE NORM.

         You read that right. The people of the world have allowed themselves to becomes so concerned with what offends them, with what might offend someone else, with what is "wrong" with the world and the people in it that we will sit back and allow ourselves to be, murdered, to be brainwashed, to be "fixed". But I refuse to be one of those people anymore. I set myself apart from the world and the people that inhabit it today. I want no part of it. I want no part of you.

       Some of you will read that sentence and think that what follows will be a words praising the god of Christianity. You would think this because I have always believed it. I have always professed it. I have always given it credence. Those of you who have known me my entire life, I apologize to you. For I have mislead you in my need for acceptance, forgiveness and atonement, I have allowed myself and you to believe that I truly was a follower of this god. I am not. I have never truly been. I only recently allowed myself to consider this, but it is true. I do not believe in god.

       I do not believe in any god, religion, being, organization, government or person that preaches love but practices violence, aggression, submission, slavery or forced inequality. Period. And I am not sorry for that. I am also not looking to be saved or evangelized or reborn. So please, don't waste my time.

              That leaves the question of what do I believe in? The truth is I'm not sure. I'm not convinced there is a "higher power" out there beyond the universe itself.  I believe that the human mind is a powerful tool that we all waste. I believe that the more we forget about our past, the more we doom our future. I believe in hard work and timing and true love. I believe in the power of words and the power of the individual. I believe in myself.

           Some of you reading this will be a little saddened by my declaration. I am sorry to cause you pain. Some of you will be offended by my words. I will not apologize for that. One day I may write about all the things that are going on in this world that offend me. But really, no one cares about that. And why should they? Why should any of you care what offends me anymore than I should care about what offends you?

            What happened today is not only on the hands of the men who wielded the weapons. It is on the hands of everyone that taught them to do what they did. It falls on the heads of men and women who throughout history have committed similar acts in the names of gods or men and have been hailed for it as heroes. The blame falls on us all.

             Twelve people are dead. I cannot change what happened today, but I can teach my daughter to be better than the world is now. I can teach her to think for herself, to use her mind and not just her hands. I can do that.

               I can use my time to find the truth in things. I can seek solutions. I can look past the masks of the masses and find the people lost in the fray.

               So can you.