Greek Tragedyhi

if you want to gather honey, don't kick over the beehive

This actually isn't a post about child rearing or dolphin training. It's not even a post about parenting philosophies, whether or not to spank your child, or if you should exercise a time-out in an attempt to help your child learn right from wrong (I'd do it if only to call it "The Naughty Spot"). It's a long post about communication, complaints, and criticism. It's a post about my marriage. 

POSITIVE REINFORCEMENT
I'm a big proponent of positive communication and reinforcement. If I could, I'd always be equipped with gold stars and exclamation points! I loved, almost as much as Cheez Doodles, when my parents drew a graph on a large piece of white tag paper, affixing it to our refrigerator door. A certain number of stars beside my name awarded me a trip to Toys 'R' Us. Stars were earned for helping around the house, for getting 100% on spelling tests, and for being nice to my sister. These were things my parents expected me to do, and I didn't feel they were bribing me to do them. I felt as if they were honoring and acknowledging that I was doing them consistently. I cared more about the stars than I did about the trip down the Barbie aisle. The stars weren't the easiest to come by, but when I did receive one, I'd sometimes walk down to the kitchen in my slippers and flip on the lights just to look at them lined up in their little boxes beside my name. I felt so proud, and I couldn't wait to wake up and make my bed. It wasn't just so I'd earn a star. I liked and became greedy for that feeling. I loved feeling proud and seeing my accomplishments.

MY PARENTING PHILOSOPHY ON DEALING WITH FEUDING SIBLINGS
So when Phil and I got into a discussion about how to handle toy spats between Lucas and Abigail, I explained that praising either of them when we saw they were sharing was the way I'd hope to handle it. Sure, if Abigail yanks something out of his sweet little paws, I'll frown or pout, maybe say, "That wasn't nice, Abigail. I don't blame you for feeling angry, Lucas!" but that's the extent of it. Unless she's ready to bite him, I try not to get involved, especially since I'm their parent, and I don't want either to think I pick sides or always come to the rescue of one over the other. They're kids. They'll work it out. And when either of them shares with me or with the other, I make a point of praising and applauding them. "What a great job you just did sharing. How polite of you." Then I try to show them the behavior I hope they'll repeat; I lead by example. "I'd like to share something with you now." Then I waft it toward them.

BRACING MYSELF FOR PHIL'S RESPONSE
"But it's not fair!" Phil argued, citing examples of bullies. He wanted to chase after Abigail and rip the toy from her hands, returning it to Lucas. I disagreed, and I couldn't help but worry what was coming next. The same way that Abigail has learned to cover her head when it looks as if Lucas is about to throw his sippy cup, I've learned to brace myself for disagreements that begin casually enough but escalate into rants about how indicative this one instance is, how it stands for so much more than just this one time, how it's a pattern, how much I do wrong.

PHIL'S RESPONSE
And then it came. "Stephanie, you're a smart person, but the things you say are just so... I know you don't want to hear this, but I just can't help it.. so stupid!!! Well, they are! You haven't said one thing that makes sense! Do you realize how stupid you sound? If Abigail yanked a toy out of the hands of a stranger, you'd return it wouldn't you? Of course you would! Not only would you return it, but you'd apologize! It's not fair to Lucas, and you're really punishing him by letting her get away with that. I've never heard anything so dumb!"

MY RESPONSE TO HIS RESPONSE
I refused to talk to him, even though I wanted to say there's a difference between taking what doesn't belong to you from a stranger and playing with your sibling. I also wanted to slip in that just because I wouldn't punish Abigail didn't mean that if Lucas were upset (which he wasn't in this particular case) I wouldn't acknowledge his feelings. But I didn't say this. I shut down. Then I powered up my computer and Googled. I emailed Phil advice from parenting web sites. Then I got to hear how opinions are like assholes.

WHAT DO I DO?
Our disagreeing isn't what bothers me--though life would be a lot easier, not necessarily interesting, but easier if we agreed--it's that he's setting an example. Not only is he setting an example for our children of how women should be treated, but he's setting me up to set my own example for them, and I have no idea how I'm supposed to react. We're sitting in front of them, and we're arguing. And I want it to stop, so I stop talking. Is that the message I should send to my kids? Or should I stand up for myself? I don't know what to do. When he says things like that, I don't feel a sense of pride or confidence, and I realize that complaining about what I think he's doing wrong will only put him on the defensive. It's doing exactly what I don't want him to do. Asking, "Why can't he instead of criticizing me just focus on what I do right? Why can't he set an example for our children by behaving the way he hopes they'll one day behave? Why can't he praise the good and ignore the bad, at least most of the time, or even some of the time?" only serves to highlight that even I'm incapable of doing the very thing I'm asking him to do.

MODERN LOVERS TAKE POINTERS FROM SHAMU
I know that people do it, though, that they can live in a world of claps and rewards, where grievances are brushed aside and triumphs are celebrated. I remember reading the Modern Love column back in 2006 about the woman who learned how to deal with her husband by applying what she'd learned about training animals.

"The central lesson I learned from exotic animal trainers is that I should reward behavior I like and ignore behavior I don't. After all, you don't get a sea lion to balance a ball on the end of its nose by nagging. The same goes for the American husband." --Excerpted from NYTimes, Modern Love, June 25, 2006

MY PHILOSOPHY ON CRITICISM AND WHAT I HOPE TO TEACH MY CHILDREN
Great. Sounds like a plan since I strongly believe that criticism, when it's not constructive or said in the spirit of genuinely hoping to encourage and invigorate, doesn't inspire greatness. It's why I never want to be that mother. I want to embolden my children to speak up for themselves, for them to know there are consequences to their behavior, but most importantly, to know that they're capable. I want to raise children who believe in their abilities to problem-solve, who are confident enough to trust themselves and who recognize that they have the skills to accomplish things on their own. I want them to know it's okay to ask for help and advice and opinions, and it's up to them to make decisions. And if they don't make the right ones, they'll learn something anyway. That it's far more impressive, and really speaks about our own confidence, when we're able to compliment and praise, rather than criticize and condemn.

PHIL'S RESPONSE TO MY REQUEST
"Well, I never want to have to lie," he said in response to my requesting that he be a bit gentler. "And what you're asking, really, is for me to sugarcoat things. I'm not going to get into a cheering session so you can feel good about things that don't matter. If I think something sucks, I'm going to tell you. And if you say stupid idiotic things, I'm going to tell you that they're stupid. I can't just sit here and not say it, or pander to you, telling you how it's a start, but have you thought about it this way? Or when you write something that sucks and you ask for my opinion tell you, 'wow, I totally get where you're going with that, but were you also planning on writing about this? Or have you considered that?' Don't you realize that when people talk that way, starting with some positive just so they can really get to the negative, they're treating you like an imbecile? What they wish they could do is skip all the filler positive and tell you the truth: 'that's dumb and this sucks.' And I refuse to talk to you like you're a three-year-old."

MY RESPONSE TO HIS RESPONSE: HOW TO DISENGAGE
Once he says it, I can't help it; I want to grab his mouth and twist it shut, like a little white button shoved into a very small opening. Then I want to scream, then cry, then highlight passages from How To Win Friends And Influence People. I feel angry and depressed and want to point to evidence. I want to show him that he's wrong, that you don't have to talk to people like that for them to hear you. And I know when I say it, he'll say that I won't listen to him any other way. He's tried that, he'll argue.  I tell him that he's too hard on me, that when he says these things to me, I don't feel encouraged. It makes me want to shut down. "Again, I'm not your cheering section," he says. And the irony of course is that I've never known anyone who's given me more support. And I tell him as much.

WHEN IT'S SAID TO EVERYONE BUT THE PERSON WHO NEEDS TO HEAR IT MOST
"Phil, I know you rave to other people about me, that you go on and on with how proud you are of me, how talented you think I am, but when it's just us, you don't say those things. Maybe it's because you think I know it, think I can take it, think I don't need the encouragement, but I do. Telling me, 'this writing is just terrible writing and seriously, I can't say it any nicer... it just sucks' doesn't exactly energize me. It makes me want to quit, not to do it better. And I value what you have to say. I don't always agree with you, but when you point things out I at least think about them. I just wish you could still bring these things up but without raging and yelling and putting me down."

YOU DON'T WANT TO FIX THIS. YOU WANT TO BE RIGHT.
And again, he says, "You're just so infuriating! And you don't even get how what you're saying makes no sense at all. I'm not going to lie. And don't lie to me. You really don't want to hear the truth." Then I do, in fact, go highlight Dale Carnegie passages, right there on my little white computer screen, in my little world of pity. I don't know what to do next.

"... that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, people don't criticize themselves for anything, no matter how wrong it may be. Criticism is futile because it puts a person on the defensive and usually makes him strive to justify himself. Criticism is dangerous, because it wounds a person’s precious pride, hurts his sense of importance, and arouses resentment."

"B.F. Skinner, the world-famous psychologist, proved through his experiments that an animal rewarded for good behavior will learn much more rapidly and retain what it learns far more effectively than an animal punished for bad behavior. Later studies have shown that the same applies to humans. By criticizing, we do not make lasting changes and often incur resentment."

"…The resentment that criticism engenders can demoralize employees, family members and friends, and still not correct the situation that has been condemned.”

"... Let's try to figure out why they do what they do. That's a lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism; and it breeds sympathy, tolerance and kindness. ..."

"... Honest appreciation got results where criticism and ridicule failed. Hurting people not only does not change them, it is never called for. ..."

"... Abilities wither under criticism; they blossom under encouragement. ..."

In all my "why"s, in my implied use of "always," even including any of this here without giving him a chance to defend himself, that can't inspire improvement. And I'm not really trying to understand why he talks to me that way because I don't want to understand it. I don't want to hear that he's frustrated, so he's allowed. I want it to stop, and praising and thanking and appreciating all the times he's patient doesn't prevent him from lashing out. Man, I have no idea how Dale Carnegie went about breaking up with his gardener, never mind communicating with a spouse. 

IT'S NOT GOING TO CLEAN ITSELF. SOMETIMES YOU CAN'T IGNORE A MOLD.
Ignoring the negatives and focusing more on positive reinforcement isn't going to hurt when it comes to dealing with unwashed dishes, but I believe it's less about ignoring and more about addressing grievances in a constructive way (voicing complaints about a specific behavior) rather than behaving destructively (criticizing, judging, attacking). In other words, "name it, don't blame it." Point out the specific behavior. Don't assign blame and make a blanket statement. I've also heard this referred to as "labeling is disabling." Label the behavior, not the person.

WRONG: You're so lazy.
RIGHT: Instead of sitting on the couch, can you please get up and help me?

WRONG: You're so irresponsible. You're always late.
RIGHT: When you show up late, it's irresponsible and it makes me feel disrespected.

WRONG: Stop acting like such a fucking baby.
RIGHT: When you whine, you make it hard for me to listen to you.

complaint |kəmˈplānt|
noun
a statement that a situation is unsatisfactory or unacceptable : I intend to make an official complaint | there were complaints that the building was an eyesore.
• a reason for dissatisfaction : I have no complaints about the hotel.
• the expression of dissatisfaction : a letter of complaint | he hasn't any cause for complaint.
• Law: the plaintiff's reasons for proceeding in a civil action.

criticism |ˈkritəˌsizəm|
noun
the expression of disapproval of someone or something based on perceived faults or mistakes : he received a lot of criticism | he ignored the criticisms of his friends.

HOW TO FIGHT FAIR-ISH: AN ARGUMENT FROM LAST NIGHT
"I don't like that you said you were going to be five minutes, Stephanie, that you just had to take some notes from your meeting, but then you took longer than that. And you went from taking notes to actually writing! Actually working on a sentence! A sentence that you had the nerve to ask my opinion about! I was left to do all the heavy lifting around here, from feeding the kids to getting them ready for bed, to then putting away the food. And I had an email to send out, too, and you knew that, and you interrupted me asking about my doctor's appointment! All you think about is yourself! You are so selfish!"

IT BEGAN IN COMPLAINTS
These started out as fair complaints, even if they did, indeed, put me in a position of wanting to defend myself. "Yes, it took longer than I'd thought, but I actually did help you put them to bed, remember? And when we were upstairs I made a point of thanking you for helping out. The only reason I didn't put away the food is because I didn't know if you'd even eaten. I feel if I had put the food away, I'd end up hearing, 'You're so selfish! Just because you've eaten doesn't mean that I have!'' I can't win no matter what I do. I mean, I ask you about your doctor's appointment, and you tell me I'm selfish. How can I--" and then I think the word "win" but I don't say it, knowing this isn't supposed to be a game of right and wrong. And yet I can't help but defending myself.

PREDICTING THE FUTURE
It's hard not to jump to that place of "knowing" what would have happened had you said or done something else when you know the other person and your habits of communicating so well. You can have an entire argument, playing both sides of it, with yourself. I can do this. I do this. This is the role I play, the defensive defeated voice that has begun to see everything as an attack, and I'm tired of feeling like shit about myself because of it. I'm tired of feeling like anything I do is wrong, and that feeling spills over into our conversations when he does, in fact, have a legitimate complaint. It's not fair. At least I'm willing to admit that I'm not perfect, that I fuck up, that I have things to work on. That I should stop assuming that anything I do will be wrong. It's just soooo hard to feel otherwise when that's consistently the case. It's as if he brings things up not because he wants them resolved but because he needs something else. He needs validation or more praise. I feel alone in admitting this, and what's worse, I'll prove my point by jumping to conclusions again: he'll respond by telling me, "they're just words."

AND IT ENDED IN SARCASM AND PERSONAL ATTACKS
When things elevated to, "You're a selfish person because you always think about yourself first. Want a list of all the ways you think about you? We'll be here all night" it was no longer constructive. It became a personal attack and a judgment. I was left feeling like I'd never do anything right. I never want to be that mother, that partner, that wife. I want to be the person who focuses on the good or can at least stick to complaints without escalating them to criticisms. Given the fact that I penned a memoir titled Moose, I can't believe I'm about to write this, but I wish Phil would just treat me like Shamu.

the fabric of elaborate lives

I wish I lived in a house decorated to coordinate with my shoes. I’ve glanced at a few home magazines where they’ve positioned the owner, barefoot, thrown back on a nail head love seat, a vase of peonies on a well-appointed desk, under which, just so, sit a virtually untouched pair of fanciful shoes that somehow complete the look. “Lived in,” the designer would say of such personal touches—no, “It really humanizes the space.” As if really, without such details, we’d be left to imagine it was a hovel for storing grain or sheltering cattle.

I love mingling fabrics—a swatch of this and that. I would, if I had enough variety, organize my wardrobe by room instead of season. “Yes, these are my Wainscot clothes. Oh, that over there? Well, those are my Dexter side table pants; notice the taper?” For a date, I’ll squeeze into my powder room puff sleeves, but sometimes a girl just wants to dress like a den. Ironic that I’ve spent so much of my time dressed like a formal living room, when all I really wanted was a family room.  I’m currently a nursery that’s transitioning into an office. It’s an empty-nest look, really, except this nest is full.

Had I been interviewed for such a glossy home zine I’d boast, “I really drew my inspiration from a scarf,” as if doing so made me superior in some inferior way. “My grandmother’s scarf,” I’d elaborate. Many people are charmed by mere mention of “antique” or “vintage.” That, or they love the idea of sentimental objects, that things are there for a reason, and bonus if they stir an emotional reaction or bring a sense of history.  Sometimes it’s far too manufactured and intellectualized. Sometimes, you just wanted to add something because it felt right, or conversely, even though it serves no practical purpose and doesn’t coordinate with a room’s “mood,” you’re not giving it up. “I just like it.”  It’s hard to argue with that, and yet… I can’t help feeling as if I like and gravitate toward things that someone else tells me to like (via marketing, advertising, trends, or because “she has it, and she has good taste”). I’m a sucker for impractical touches, for white nail head sofas and rooms no one with pets or offspring can afford, no matter the price. Like shoes, some fabrics look fantastic, but they’re a bitch to wear.

pencil pushups

I didn't realize until I inspected an itty bitty eyedropper of Tylenol, squinting for the dosage information, that my eyesight is getting soggy. Where the world used to be crisp and HD, it's now more of a muddied watercolor on a too small screen. And it's no longer just distances giving me trouble. Instead of bringing the medicine bottle nearer, I had to look at it from a distance.

"I'm only thirty-two. This doesn't happen to people until forty." I needed an eye doctor lickity-split. Dear doctor, it has been two years since my last examination. Please don't tell me I'm going blind in a hurry.

"Your eyes are lazy," the doctor said.
"Yeah, well, I'm sure they caught it from my arms."
"You're not losing your eyesight; it's just that when you're in front of a computer all the time as you are, your eyes become accostomed to only focusing at that particular distance."
"I see." Even though, as we both knew, I didn't.
"You need to do eye exercises."
THAT'S JUST WHAT I NEED: YET ANOTHER EXERCISE ABOUT WHICH I CAN FEEL GUILTY FOR NOT DOING.
"I want you to do pencil pushups."

Lucky for her, I'd already filled up on a hearty plate of bitch toast, with spiteful syrup, and a dab of dastardly for breakfast. There was little room for my fiendish remarks. Still, she couldn't be serious.

"It's where you take a pencil with high contrast writing on it, like black on white--" Thanks for clearing that up, lady. "And you hold it close to your face, forcing your eyes to make the words come into focus... No you're really not a candidate for laser surgery at this time because your prescription from three years ago is very different from the one I'm giving you today. Your eyes are, uh, changing too much for laser surgery." I'm totally going blind, and you don't have the gnads to say it.

So today, I'm checking email, and I notice that Martha Stewart is getting a tad risque, and I don't mean wearing black and navy together. Her latest bulk email is titled, "Lemon Tassels." Edible pasties? Martha? Really? I can't NOT click on that...

...oh, Lemon Tassies, the petite cookie of the day. My lenses better be ready soon.

is "special needs" a retarded term?

The panelists introduced themselves, each sharing a small story that identified them as mothers of NICU twins, of a child with down syndrome, of a son with autism. Hearing one mother of an autistic child share a story of how she received a comment on her blog instructing her to go ahead and “drink some more mercury, so you can take care of another vegetable” made me ill. Disgusted, actually, with the capacity some people have to be so cruel. Another mother confided that only a few months ago she gave birth to a little girl, and the nurse handed her over with a “congratulations, it’s a girl, and you know she has down syndrome, right?” Before hearing this, the mother was told she was having a healthy baby girl. She had all the tests, tested negative for abnormalities, and then she admitted to the BlogHer room, “Well, I just feel horrible. I never celebrated her birth, and I never expected…” Everyone in the room nodded, understanding.

It was heavy. It was real. It made me remember, and it made me cry. I still wonder how much of it is my fault.

When our doctor told us he'd just performed emergency brain surgery on our son, that there was pressure in his head that would've killed our sweet bean had it not been relieved immediately, I didn't ask the doctor, "Is he going to be a mentally handi-capable child?" I asked, "Is he going to be retarded?"

He answered, "I don't know." I was sick and hated that no one could give me a guarantee. I'll always hate the unknown, despite the knowledge that there are many blessings hidden in it.

Months later, I referred to my son's pediatric walker as a "'tard cart." Soon the emails filed in. "Given your large readership, you have a responsibility. You shouldn't write such things." "As a mother of a child with a disability, you should know better!"

I do know better. It's not that I'm insensitive or that I don't have access to a medical dictionary or thesaurus. I know there are appropriate words, but the proper PC-friendly terms both irritate and scare the shit out of me. They sound horribly serious and quiet, as if they're coming from the sterile mouth of an uptight math teacher who believes those who indulge in any position other than missionary should spend their lives repenting. On their knees. She won't say "sodomy," "head," or "blowjob," but will allow "oral copulation" when speaking of a list of deeds invented by Lucifer. "Mentally Challenged" is a phrase polite women in long denim skirts use after clearing their throats. The kind of women who wear knee-highs and memorize poems. If there's any kind of movement to be made in an effort to make disabilities sound far less terrifying and stigmatized, it's got to be reclaiming "derogatory" terms and using them lovingly. I have no doubt, one day, people will refer to the word "disability" as derogatory, given that its definition includes "disadvantage."

There's a manifold of innocuous words that, given their context, become downright caustic. "That's so gay," for instance, seems harmless enough, except when you stop to consider that it's a subtle way of inferring that things that are lame (also problematic), pathetic, or imbecilic are in essence "gay." It's a phrase I hope I haven't repeated since I crimped my hair and pulled it into a banana clip, but I couldn't promise as much. So, what did my use of the phrase "tard cart" possibly say about any of my latent feelings about mental and physical handicaps? I'd deleted it as soon as I realized what I'd written had hurt people, but after giving it more thought, I wonder what's so bad about it? I hoped that bringing it up to a room full of women at the BlogHer '08 "Blogging About Our Children with Special Needs" panel might further my understanding.

When can you use a derogatory term (to take the sting out of it, or simply to be able to discuss it at all)? I believed that taking ownership of my situation and the words that were tied to it was empowering. Did others think so? Hopefully, I'd find out.

I raised my hand and began with this: sometimes it's so frightening, and you feel so alone, but you have to get it out, and our fears are not always expressed in the most politically correct way, but is it okay if it's meant with love? I mean, is it okay to use humor, of whatever brand, to get you through it, so you can discuss it openly and, most importantly, assault a bit of the negativity that marks the lives of disabled children? In other words, when it's yours to experience, can't you do with it what you'd like?

Except I didn't phrase it just that way. I rambled and wasn't sure any of it made sense, but at least I was putting it out there. I've certainly heard from readers who've suggested I stand back from the situation and realize that words can hurt, and as a writer, as an advocate for my child, it's my responsibility to make a statement, to be politically correct. It's my job to play nice, and "why when you can pick something nice and positive would you use such an ugly word?" But I wanted to hear from a room full of people who also might have felt that platitudes were derogatory, not the terms themselves. I hate being patronized and pitied. I hated the "tsk" sound I heard on the other end of a phone conversation. I hated "I'm so sorry for what you're going through." I didn't want to be handled with kid gloves or polite sensitive terms.

"Without question," I admitted, "I tend to make fun of things that scare me. When Lucas's neurosurgeon suggested we take the dreamy little marksman across the hall to be assessed for plagiocephaly (aka flat head syndrome), which was the least of our worries, I turned to Phil and began to laugh. 'We're going to have a fucking helmut kid.' Who loves that little tater tot more than his own mother? Why can't I call him whatever the hell I want when everyone knows it's said with love? And people do know that.

Win, lose, or walker, they're mine, and I love my kids unconditionally. It's why I can joke, not mean spirited but fun. The humor is never from a hurtful place, and the words are always said affectionately. Isn't that enough? Otherwise don't we run the risk of alienating people who are too terrified of insulting people by voicing their real concerns?" Except I didn't run on nearly that long.

HERE'S WHAT I WAS ABLE TO DIGEST OF THE RESPONSE: It’s rude, or at the very least, incredibly lazy of you not to make the effort to phrase things in a polite, sensitive, “right” way, even if the phrasing is happening in your own world, among your own friends or readers, on your own blog. It’s the least you can do if we hope to make changes, strides, steps forward.

"Is there a 'wrong' language in telling our own trying stories," I asked, "when really, we just need to get it out, need to tell it in our own voice, with our own words, to deal in our own way? Should we not bother if those words aren’t politically correct?"

“Sorry, keep it to yourself,” I was told in several more indirect words than that. Actually, I was instructed, “Tell a close girlfriend, say it the way you need to, but don’t put it on a blog because it perpetuates the negative cycle of disabilities.”

"You’re bringing attention to the disability as a negative when you use insensitive words, even if humor is your coping mechanism. Talk to a girlfriend, frankly, about it, but don’t publish those thoughts because it does more harm than good, without positive words to speak about disabilities.”

Perhaps more accurately, it was documented on another blog as this: Using humor and language when discussing child's disability: Language frames how we think about things - if you accept a language that puts disabilities first and foremost in the minds of people, that's not positive for anyone.  So many loaded words in our language, but important not to diminish our children when we speak about them.  There are many repercussions when using certain language and types of humor, maybe more than what one person really can deal with.

I thanked them for their opinions and sat quietly taking in their response. Afterward, several woman from the audience approached me, agreeing that people can be too uptight, and maybe it's time we speak honestly about how we feel and with what we're dealing without the pleasantries. There’s obviously an appropriate lexicon when it comes to speaking about disabilities. A socially- politically-sensitive way, where “mentally retarded” is, at the very least, replaced with “mentally challenged.” No one wants to insult anyone, especially with such heightened sensitivities, with a history implied, with a right way of approaching all that’s seen as going very wrong. As we all know, though, humor can be one of the best medicines.

I make fun of myself. When I was shipped off to fat camp, I didn't call it "fitness weeks." I don't think commenting on our perceived downfalls with humor and universally frowned upon words is a failure; it's a strength. It allows us to reverse their power and reclaim it. I tease my husband, my close friends, and my kids, always with love and never ever in a way that would really hurt. They’re kids. I would always treat them like kids. Funny, quirky kids.  Dwarves who whistle while I work. But until Disney, Pixar, Dreamworks, or Warner Brothers can create lovable cartoon characters depicting disabilities with an updated group of dwarves named Quirky, Digger, Shout Out, Fall Down, Sir Limp A Lot, Stutter, and Banger, it's up to me to do my part in breaking down a few walls. Or at the very least, continuing to express myself as if no one else is reading.

the divine secrets of the BlogHer '08 sisterhood

It’s 3:16 am, and I cannot sleep. I’m at the BlogHer conference, and I’m finally able to put a name on this feeling: sorority. Those unfamiliar with the origin of this Greek Tragedy blog might leap to the conclusion that I’m alluding to deep friendship and a profound camaraderie among women. They’d be as wrong as anonymous inconsideration.

The divine secrets of the blogher sisterhood are these:
If you come alone your very first time to such an event, without personally knowing another person, be prepared to regress. Without at least one close friend (or roommate) be ready to be completely stripped down to your most vulnerable self, that girl raising her hand, oooh-ing, “pick me. Pick me!” Like me. Play with me. Be my friend.

Most of my social mingling moments here feel like a tangle of rejection and acceptance. I've certainly made my own efforts to approach people. I weave through crowded cocktail parties the way I did in college--at the beginning where I didn’t really know anyone other than the few with whom I’d arrived in an elevator, on our way to a pledging event. I’m dressed just so, wanting so much to be liked, to be complimented, for a conversation to be initiated. We all want to be liked, admired, and accepted. I don't care how much we have going for us, how many friends and admirers, or how proud and confident we are in ourselves without validation; as social creatures, we all want to be loved.

I walk around here getting a small taste of what others, non-bloggers in my life, must feel being around a blogger. “Is she going to write about this?” Every single encounter--the ones that begin by looking down at another person’s blogher ID tag, or whether it starts with an introduction through a mutual friend—is laced with a small trace of fear. If I can’t find a dollar to tip the bartender for the water he just provided me, is someone going to blog that I’m cheap? Are people watching me? Do people even care?

Fuck, I hope not.

When people in my life preface what they’re about to say with, “you cannot write about this on your blog,” I pretty much always respond, “Don’t flatter yourself.” You’re not that important or interesting (even if you are). It’s the one thing in life we find so hard to believe: that no one notices or pays nearly as much attention to us as we do.

Yeah, but attending a blog conference, surrounded by creative women of talent, it’s hard not to think, “what’s her angle going to be on this?” Or, “how can I capture this in a different way than everyone else?” Ah, I know. I’ll write about what an asshole she was, or how unexpectedly warm she was.

It’s really like walking around a constant, 3-day, pledge class, wondering when you’ll finally be able to fully relax and be inducted into the sorority of women. It’s scary in a way that shouldn’t be. I hear way too many people mention “private parties” with apologies. “Oh, are you going to the Nintendo dinner?” she whispers. No. I wasn’t invited. “What about the private party at the suite upstairs by this sponsor? Oh, did you go to the sponsored private cocktail…” Since when did blogging become so elitist? It really is just another way, ironically enough, to feel rejected.

Until, that is, you aren’t. Until those moments where you connect immediately to someone you’ve read before. To someone who just gets it, with whom you share all the unspokens. And then it all changes. Your outlook, your enjoyment, and what you get out of it all. What I was reminded of most at my first BlogHer experience, at the most basic level, is what it’s like to go about making brand new friends, without relying on insincerity, or flattery, without bonding over mean girl moments. How fragile all of us can be, how nervous, how eager we are to be liked. And how ridiculously satisfying it is to connect with strangers who are now suddenly so much more.

There are three more posts lined up on my experiences at BlogHer, including links to many of the women with whom I eventually bonded.

the "need" to collect

My grandfather’s hobby was money. He liked to manage it, to watch it grow, passing it from fund to fund, speaking with managers of it, estate planning, and taxes. He collected it and watched it grow, much like heirloom vegetable seeds, except, it made him feel uneasy, even if gruesome tax laws and advisers urged him, to gift it. And I understand that miserly, hoarding way. It’s how I feel about the items in my pantry, foods and condiments I’m not sure I’ll need straight away, but that bring me a sense of calm just knowing they’re there. Arrowroot. Large Pearl Tapioca. Lavender Syrup. Rose Water.

Psychologically speaking, I’m not sure that I understand the need to collect things. I’ve lived a lifetime of hoarding, for sure, because on some level I believed that if I didn’t stow away my most prized possessions (my Barbies, epoxy stickers, the chocolate-covered almonds in Hagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond), they’d be taken from me, used, or even ruined by someone else. “Someone else” usually came in the form of my little sister, or otherwise, a parent yanking away my plate. I wanted to preserve things, to know they were there for me at any given moment, whenever I wished. It was something I could control and turn to; just to look at it brought me comfort. It’s why I always save the best for last.

I know some collect butterflies, stamps, baseball cards, or at the suggestion of a grandparent, coins. Others scour the Internet for Beanie Babies, Starwars action figures, pez dispensers, and comic books. The more refined collector might take an interest in shot glasses, snow globes, or dare I say it, bobble heads. These seem to be innocuous collections bred quite possibly from either an inherited collection, or a budding interest in the historical significance of rednecks, but most assuredly, people who collect such items do so purposefully.

I’ve accidentally made quite a nice collection of cookbooks and cameras. Ribbons, scrapbook supplies, and cellulite. I never intended to display said items; they’re really just surplus. Still, there they are, decorating my life.

If I were a collector, I might choose to amass pens and inkwells given my profession. I’ve always loved the idea of collecting sands from each of the places I visit, storing and labeling them in small glass apothecary jars. I’d love to display them on a narrow shelf  mounted beneath a series of black and white photographs of the corresponding destination.

I love the idea of collecting perfume bottles, empty vintage ones to display on a silver tray or shelved on a vanity near a sunken Asian-style soaking tub. But without doubt, I realize what I most love to collect are items for my pantry. I need to see my cabinets stocked. Necessity is not defined by a simple Nestle bag of chips, but rather, bittersweet, semi-sweet, white, mini, and mint chips. I need these items at the ready. Just to look at. I know I’ll be ready, any time I’d like, to create.

The other thing I love to collect is Williams-Sonoma gadgets. I need every last zester. A flexible spatula, a grill spatula (extra long for bigger items). Grapefruit knives and spoons, melon scoops, flour sifters, and copper pots, bowls, molds, and cookie cutters. A gelato paddle. Chinois, or a fine China Cap, fitted with a wooden pestle. I don’t know that I’ll use each and every item, but I love having it all, from stackable bamboo steamers to an egg slicer. One thing is for certain: you have to make sure each item can do more than one thing.

I’m not a fan of Lladro, but since I grew up with Herend figurines, I want to begin to collect some. I’ve always ADORED porcelain vegetables: haricot verts bundled with a pink bow, decorative passion fruit, even bulbs of onion. And of course the petite jewel-like limoges pill boxes. But especially Anna Weatherley designs.

I realize it’s all a luxury, being able to collect the silly things we do from pillboxes to Majorca and Fabrege Eggs, it’s all decorative and quirky, and makes me wonder, just a bit, about the amount of energy we put into such collections. But even more important, why do we do it?

a piece of strange & good old fashioned animal husbandry

“Mile High Club?”
“Totally overrated. It’s right up there with ‘road head.’”
“If you’re giving the ‘I have a headache’ excuse, it’s time to either end things or seriously kick-start your relationship with some intensive role playing. Like, out in public, not just naked in bed, in your standard positions, talking about how ‘I meet you in a meeting and don’t know you. Everyone leaves the conference room, but you notice one of the pages of the agreement isn’t signed. You’re thumbing through the documents, leaning over the table and I take you from behind.”
“Yawn.”
“Yeah, you have to step it up and publicly play the part.”

This is when I chimed in with my wig story, sharing with some girlfriends how I’d called my boyfriend and asked him to meet me at a bar after work. He was heading off to London on business, and I wanted to give him something he’d remember.

Namely, I wanted to give him Vanessa.

I sat on a bar stool in a crowded restaurant, my back to the door, fitted in a blond wig, with turquoise contacts, foreign perfume, and cheap jewelry I’d never wear, in clothes he’d never seen. I introduced myself as V and said Stephanie had sent me as a going away “gift.”

“Holy shit, Stephanie! How do you think of this stuff?”
“How do you not?”

The truth is, your partner has to let you know that s/he’s open to those kinds of things. No one wants to be judged by a lover. We all want to be free to be ourselves, or in this case, someone else. The thing is, I knew he’d appreciate all the effort, that it would totally do it for him. There have been relationships since where I haven’t felt that comfortable sexually, believing that my partner would feel uncomfortable instead of flattered. Knowing what we do about our desire for “new,” “other,” or a “piece of strange,” I’ve always welcomed mixing things up, so long as the mix didn’t involve excrement anywhere or semen in my face.

My then-boyfriend wanted to rip into me on spot, but I made a night of it, complete with small talk, asking elementary questions about his job, things I already knew, asking if he had any siblings. With an hour and bottle of wine behind us, he leaned across the table and yanked my wig straight off!

I gasped, trying to reattach it. “What are you doing?!” I scanned the restaurant to see if any of the patrons or staff had seen.
“I want Stephanie back! I miss her. I want her!”
I was wearing a wig cap, which for those unfamiliar to the bank robber condom of a contraption: I looked like Samson before a swim. I, too, felt betrayed.

As it turns out, it’s just as the cow study claims: you cannot doll up dolly, hoping to fool a bull. If he wants a piece of strange, it doesn’t necessarily mean you should be the one to act strange. Sometimes, different just means “someone other than you, no matter who you are.”

if only

Phil recently phoned a woman who'd cleaned our house in Newport, RI, to see if she was available to tidy up after the tenants vacated (and before the new renters arrived). "It's that time of year again," he said after pleasantries were exchanged. She paused for a moment, then responded, "Well, I'm not cleaning houses anymore. I have inoperable cancer."

HOW DO YOU EVEN RESPOND TO THAT?
Do you sigh, apologize, let on in some way that you know they're going to die? Do you address it? Ask how her family is doing? "Gosh, I'm so sorry to hear that. If there's anything I can do... I certainly wish you and your family the best..." What do you say?

It of course got me to thinking, not just about decorum but about death. Then I played the "if only" game. "If I only had five years to live (and knew it) what would I do differently?"

Here are the notes from my handwritten journal (which means I felt them at the time): It's a circumstance that says, "This is your last chance. What are you waiting for?" I think the key to answering that, for me, is doing whatever I could to experience the broadest range of emotions and circumstances. I'd move. I'd travel. I might divorce and even remarry. Or maybe renew my vows. Something to recreate the emotions and excitement that come with falling in love. Make videos for my children on different topics, offering unconventional wisdom. I'd spend time with family more, let everyone know I loved them, assigning each of them a song. Tell them each time they hear it after I'm gone will let them know everything is going to be okay. We don't want to be forgotten. I think it's one of our biggest fears.

I want to touch lives. I want to feel alive. And for me, that means seeing many things, trying new things, and living out loud, even if it's sloppy. I want imperfection, highs and lows. For my heart to break, only for it to soar with joy it's never before known. We all want to leave our mark on this world, to contribute, to change the lives of others. Legacy. I'd want to make certain my children were emboldened to live their best most courageous lives, following their passions and hearts, and knowing that they can never go wrong with the truth.

phone tag hags

It's come to this: sending emails and checking calendars, all to arrange a PHONE CALL. When did this begin? And when did I start playing by these rules? No one needs voicemail anymore with all the planned phone call dates happening lately. I see it clearly now. It doesn't happen with my family, or the friends who live close by. "Phone dates" are planned across the country so I may catch up properly with some of my closest. Which is actually kind of sad. The whole point of friendship is being able to just phone out of the blue, to get advice quickly, or just to hear your voice. Let me also be clear on this: men are able to sustain their friendships just fine without making phone dates with one another. Why do so many women I know email to let you know they'll call you later? The scheduled phone call, when not directly related to business, needs to stop because it's turning friendships into clinical moments, and I hate it.

if Marianne had a blog

The problem of course with non-fiction stories of one’s life, is that it can’t always be tidied into a bundle of joy. It cannot begin poorly, then circumstances only worsen until our heroine ultimately gets all she deserves and all she’d ever dreamed possible. This can happen in stories of sisters, stories of love, two that begin hating each other, where there are misjudgments and wrongful assumptions, eventually all brought to life, prompting her to run to him (always in the rain), to lose her composure, and he won’t need an explanation. This is the way it happens in tales, in novels where stubborn is softened, where well-meaning stops meddling.

Life is sad when it doesn’t end up as we’ve imagined it for ourselves. In the books, these women who swooned and lived with passion, ultimately suffered from their grand illusions, usually falling in love with the idea of love, too fast. From their suffering always arises a new view, more compassionate, sensible. Not as fast to judge, to be as hard, open-minded, looking for someone gentle, someone noble, who’ll always care for her heart. Who’ll always adore her.

Let us take Marianne from Sense & Sensibility. Now that she’s married to The Colonel Brandon, what truly is her temperament? She plays her piano forte. He still adores her, gets her all the things she’d ever hoped for, hopes to bring her every happiness. If she had a blog, she’d be writing how she still thinks of Willoughby.

sleepaway camp for adults

If I were to go to sleepaway camp today, I'd make a point of including wine into my nights and more sunblock into my days. Louis Armstrong music would be piped in over the loud speaker during shower hour. There'd need to be activities everyone at camp absolutely hated, aside from cleaning the bathrooms, just so we could bond in the misery of it. I'd want more water fights and later curfews. The food would be gourmet, with instructional classes that involved purees, puddings, and cooking en papillote. We'd learn how to construct the perfect tartin, uniform slices of apple with dabs of butter, a shower of cinnamon, and the soft fall of fresh minced rosemary. There'd be music with meals, and we'd all learn to slow down a little, to enjoy and savor, without the need to overindulge. We'd leave the meal sated, not stuffed, then grab our photography equipment and depart to a scenic town or hike or lake. We'd be moving, active, climbing hills, but we wouldn't realize it because our attention would be directed on getting the shot, telling the story, capturing the gesture.

I think that's the key to getting people who hate exercise to not mind it so much. Put the focus on something else. It's why I think wii Fit is a socially responsible move on Nintendo's part, even if it's not suitable for kids and could damage their self-esteem. "Mummy, the machine just called me Pizza Hut." The wii might very well start being called the wah.
 

horizon lines

When I think of adults, I think of the smell of newspaper, of briefcases, and buttondown shirts. They drink strong coffee, own a trenchcoat, and have more than one key. They plan for inclement weather and always have the time.

I sleep on the floor at the airport.

you, you, you, oughta know

Let me begin with this reality: if you're a contestant on the third or fourth season of a reality show, dammit, you should know better.

How is it that no one on Bravo’s “Top Chef” knows how to compose a soufflé? As a new contestant, you’ve seen earlier seasons and know quite well what led to the downfall of those who’ve come and packed their knives before you. Given this, why haven’t any of them committed several unbearably decadent dessert recipes to memory before signing all their paperwork and racing off (along with their kick-ass secret ingredients) to the test kitchens?

Now unless you’re on “American Idol,” there is not a single occasion where singing would be viewed as a favorable means of impressing a man. Pull off your shirt, give him a lapdance, or gurney up and take an ambulance ride for the team, but for the love of reality television, there should be no yodeling, no songwriting, and certainly no flashy bel canto techniques--no matter how dire the circumstances. Have the contestants of “The Bachelor” learned nothing from those who’ve come (and humiliated themselves) before them? Drama and catfights might make for ratings (and even real life dating) but not for publidating. If you hope to woo him by reciting poetry, you might as well soil yourself.

Now, onto drama-dearest: the idea is, you're not supposed to like her. Shayne Lamas (daughter of Are You Hot Or Not Lorenzo) is one of the contestants on this season's "The Bachelor"—the uncircumcised London edition. In response to what makes her high-maintenance, the air-bronzed 22-year-old listed the five things she believed mattered most when it came to her appearance: cars, shoes, (ohmigod) handbags, sunglasses, and watches. "With those things covered, no one cares what you're wearing on your body." I've paraphrased, but I can say with certainty that if it's the producers' job to make us roll our eyes when she speaks, they should start updating their resumes.

By design, these reality shows set you up to root for (and against) someone, and even if you begin watching only to mock the show (and the girls who somehow think it's a brilliant idea to bust into song when getting to know a man), you inevitably find yourself having preferences. Shayne is the girl America should hate. Well, count this American girl out. Shayne might just be a spoiled scapegrace with a penchant for shoes and theatrics (and not merely because she's an actress for a dying), but I like her, really like her. As much as they try to emphasize the importance of her suitcase chockablock of shoes, she’s still real, as real as we can tell from our sofas, of a person we don’t really know. When Matt, this season’s Bach, implied she was too young for anything serious, she agreed as it pertained to marriage and then called him out, arguing most men, even at 30, aren’t really ready to be married. At the end of the day, I think we all like people who are comfortable enough in who they are that they don’t apologize for it. It makes them endearing. I love seeing people get unglued, going a little crazy, because really those who are too tempered and neat with their emotions seems to lack passion and depth. "Mature," they might say. I say, "yawn." We all need people in our lives who need, who tell you when they're scared even if they know it makes them look weak… and we can only hope they share our size in shoes.

stealing time

I'm never the first one asleep. I don't sleep on planes, or anywhere it would be convenient, and favorable for all, to shed a little bit of my anxiety. I realize people who nap are healthier, that they live longer, but I wasn't built with this ability. I suppose if I suddenly found myself in the armed forces, I'd find a way to sleep, to get it while I could. I hear that's how people can become good nappers: when they're completely deprived of sleep. It becomes a necessity. They become so deft that they can even sleep with their eyes open--something I don't entirely believe is possible. Doctors are great nappers. The Wasband could fall asleep anywhere, even in someone else's bed. Budumpbump. Even being that cheeky doesn't tucker me out. Alcohol might slow me down, but I've never passed out.

Some people have stories their parents still tell, stories about how, as a child, they fell asleep at the dinner table, their head, face first, into a bowl of spaghetti. I'm not one of these people. I always resisted sleep, thinking I was missing out on the big moments. I could hear the company downstairs, my father's laugh, and I could picture his whole head turning red. I hated the idea of missing a second of the living.

When I do fall asleep, it's always on my stomach, with one leg knocked out. I imagine beds of my past, trying to comfort myself, to leave all the things in my life now and return to a time when there was company downstairs and voices that carried. When I fell asleep in high school, I was boy crazy and dating, so at night, as I willed myself to sleep, if a car whizzed by the house, I always imagined it might be that boy, maybe after a fight we'd had over the phone, the one where I felt he was too quiet, where I asked if he really loved me and it took him too long to answer. I was impossible, and frankly, I still am. Still, I imagined that he couldn't resist driving to my house, to throw a pebble at my window, the way it's done in John Hughes films. I'd dart up, and peek through my blinds, hoping to see a car in our driveway. There never was. Then I'd switch sides--still on my stomach, but now the other leg kicked out--and wish my house was like Doogie Howser's, with an accessible roof and a window that swung open. Even if I had the window and the house, I remember thinking, it's not like anyone would use it. But by morning, I'd forget things like that and apply my blue eyeliner and tease my bangs, hopeful that today would be the day where my whole life changed.

Now when I'm trying to sleep, I think of my days and try to will the stress away, try to tell myself that I'll be loved no matter how my book does, that I'm okay just as I am, that everything that frightens me is really irrational, that I'll see in time. And none of this self talk helps. Then baby songs infiltrate, "let's all click our sticks today." I change positions again. And I know I'll never stop worrying if I've made the right decisions with my life, with my words, and with my choices, and I wonder if really I'm any different than the girl in her parents' house who keeps hoping someone will drive up and rescue her.

compact cars and shafts

"I want it to be as compact as possible when I'm not using it." It's true of your cell phone, a pocket knife, or a contractible beach bag, even. But Phil feels this way about his man bits. The growers vs. showers debate unfolded in the following manner:

"I get these emails all the time," Phil says as he looks up from his laptop. "I just got one that says 'Be 10 inches when flaccid.' Who would want to be ten inches when they're not even doing anything with it?"
"You've been sampling the punch again, haven't you?"
"No, really, what's the point? I mean, it's not like it's in service or anything."
"Well, I for one think it's quite nice--are you kidding?!--a nice third leg hanging down mid-thigh..."
"Nah, who wants that? I want it to be that way hard, not soft."
"You want a collapsible travel cup."
"Who needs all that excess to just get in the way?"
"A radio antenna."
"Huh?"
"You basically want a space-saver penis."
"This isn't that pyramid show."
"Baby, the wheels of an aircraft are supposed to be retractable, not your dick." He shrugs. "How big is yours, I mean technically?"
"I don't know." Lie numero uno.
"Oh, come on. Every guy knows, or at least has a general idea." When I say "general" I really mean they've accounted for the weather when measuring their instruments. Marked by exactness, penile particulars are never relayed in shrugs of "I don't know." Males assess their assets from all possible angles, treating their calculations as if they're SAT results, only considering the best combination of scores. If he admits to only having a "general idea," it means he's all but tried to weigh the thing.
"I've never measured it." Dos.
"You mean never this year, or never since we've been married or something, right?"
"No, never."
"Then there's something wrong with you." I get that it's not a practice of grown men, but I cannot imagine a pubescent boy trapped up in bathrooms with his mother's lingerie catalog, or even a dated J.C. Penny's circular, and believe, even for a moment, that he never once measured his manifesto.
"It's true. I haven't." Tres and quatro: two counts for adamantly declaring it a truth. Next he'll say he never once sampled the fruit of its labor. "Besides," he adds, "all that's important is that it's big when it's in use, but otherwise, small as possible works."
"You'd never survive as a gay man."

writerly friends

In New York, I had a few writerly friends, friends I'd met through friends, at work, or in workshops and classes who became more than just the people beside me in class and transitioned into the ones who occupied the barstool beside mine. Mostly we liked appetizers and wine. Bars offered equal parts chatting and watching, and the next day, there could be emails with attachments and questions about flow. What I love most of my writerly friends is the way they watch the world. There is a bond between us when we realize we're thinking the same thing. It's also a relief to be able to spend almost an entire night brainstorming. You cannot monopolize a conversation, speaking only of your latest short story, novel, or memoir with certain people. I have friends, friends who by their own admission, who couldn't write if you paid them, yet one of their greatest joys is to be a part of the creative process, to hear all the ideas, to spend an entire night mapping out plots or sculpting characters. So it's not that the friends need to be writers, they just have to be the type that can tell you no. No, that idea isn't all that original. No, it's been done before. Sure, if you're going for the whole cliche expected route. I need more of these friends, friends who know techniques and traps. Who can tell me when I'm relying too heavily on description because something else must be lacking. Friends who can line edit. Friends who want to spend the night talking about ideas. I think every writer needs these friends. It's why so many writers are married couples, why the philosophers band together, why the writers of the past met at round tables in hotels. I'm on the watch for some.

i'm fine, me too, we're fine, and how are you? hello.

Phil was at the club, the beans in "kids club," and I was at home with a cold. I took a shower. As soon as I stepped in, once the water slid through my hair, I imagined a man with a navy blue ski cap pulled over his head holding a knife. Or maybe a gun. It wouldn't matter. An intruder. I have thoughts like that a lot. Not so much that it makes a noticeable impact on my life, but every now and again. Walking down the street in New York, I sometimes imagined a bullet being shot through the back of my head. 

I haven't learned my house yet. In the house of my childhood, I knew every step. I could walk the house in the dark and know when a banister would end, if there was another step up. Where the hinges were on the door. I could race through that house, weaving between furniture, chasing through rooms, and I loved its sounds when it was time to sleep. I thought I heard the attic sometimes. Not that anything happens in an attic, besides storage, but I thought I could hear the wood.

I could feel the garage beneath my bedroom. In the morning, when I heard Poppa march down the stairs, deactivate the house alarm, and open the front door, I knew it was 6:30AM. I heard his steps crunch in our pebble driveway, and I knew how many steps it would take back inside the house from there, where the morning paper had been. I'd still have a few more minutes in bed before my alarm. I'd try to remember my dreams. They were never of being shot in the head. I dreamed of an enormous fish the size of a whale with fangs, somehow coming after me through the faucet in my bathtub. I didn't dream of death, though.

In my house now, I don't know the steps. Sometimes I worry I'll miss one, fall down them and die. Then last night, while falling asleep I thought, "When I die, if they have to cut me open to do some kind of autopsy, I hope they remove some of the fat. Grab at least four handfuls. It's the least they could do." But I'm dead. I'm not even in there anymore, why would you even care? Because I don't want to be remembered as fat. What do you want to be remembered as then?

Then I turned over and tried to think of something else so I could get some sleep. But I couldn't. I want to be remembered for my cooking, I thought, for the way I sing, maybe, how strong I made my children, to be remembered as the woman who wanted to give Abigail the middle name Brave. As someone who touched others lives in a way that rendered my time here worth it. My time here necessary. That I was a small, but crucial cog in the universe. I want to be remembered for my creativity, I guess, but it's okay if no one thinks of that first. What would I want them to think of first when thinking of who I was? To those who knew me well, I'd want to be remembered as someone who loved them unconditionally--no, I'd want them to know it in their bones, that they were loved fiercely. For those who knew me peripherally, I'd want them to think, in a strange way, that I made their life better. That I inspired and gave someone a little hope. That I lived life passionately, without stops. To be remembered as someone who enriched the world around her. Enlivened it. I have never, not even once, thought "I want to be remembered as someone beautiful." Who cares about that?

And on what do I choose to focus while I am here? My double chins. My external appearance. And I'll admit it, when I learn of someone successful, someone who does enrich the world around her, who brings integrity and humor at the strangest of times, if I see her photo, and she's fat, it somehow means less. That's so fucked up.

Sometimes when I'm driving, I think, today could be my last day. I could get hit by an out of control car, and the car would go over the cliff. We have cliffs here. Windy roads with ledges. Or I think, what if I hit a deer. What would I do? Who do you call if you hit a deer? Do you get out of your car to see if it's okay? I would assume so. Of course you do, you idiot. These are the things I think about, a lot, or maybe just every now and again. I suppose it's relative. I thought it was normal, but when I asked Phil if he ever thought these things he looked at me like my teeth were made of corn, and my eyes were maybe hubcaps. He'd never seen anyone so strange, with a mailbox mouth. I'm not normal. But we all know there is no normal. Still, I'm fine with being not normal.

greek tragedy writes back

I give a lot of advice, that is, when someone comes to me for it. And truth be told, sometimes I open the trap and give advice when it's not asked of me. And then I apologize and remind myself they're talking because they want someone to listen. So I do. Today I received an email from a woman in college asking for my advice. I'm not a therapist, but when someone asks my opinion, I give it. And now I'm giving it out, here on the blog, because I know it's what I wish someone walked me through when I was going through it. It applies to so many of us, at many points in our lives, and it's really what I hung this blog on: rejection.

She  (we'll call her Emily) writes: I just got rejected from rushing the sororities at my school, which many of my friends are involved with. to say the least, i feel broken and worthless. my power was taken away from me by a bunch of overly empowered girls. knowing that this same thing happened to you, and inspired your great success, 'greek tragedy', I was hoping you might tell me something, with your usual eloquence, that would let me know that this isn't the end. that it's possible to still be happy and lead a full life. that you can still have hundreds of boyfriends, good hair, accessorize well, and have friends fondly referred to as Smelly even though you feel tender and defective right now. tell me that the girls who rejected you are now fat and living in tulsa. tell me something to make it okay please.

I respond: Oh Emily, Emily, Emily, look how great a job you did at that cheer up all on your own. You don't need anyone to tell you you'll be a success, that you'll be happy, no one to offer you promises, because just look, look at what you wrote to me. Deep down, or at least intellectually, you know that's all true. That not being in a sorority will have zero influence on the rest of your life. Emotions, though, man, that's where it's hard.

Intellectually you know everything I could tell you, but emotionally you feel like a beat up little girl who wants to sulk and dissect everything for "why"s. Why is the universe singling you out and fucking with you like this? Like I wrote on the blog when it happened to me, LOOK UP. Not cheer up, but look up, realize there is a whole world around you, different options. I know this might sound strange, but stop to think about this for a second: imagine this happened to you on purpose. Not only to make you stronger but maybe to force you to also make new friends, to not rely on an easy system, to force you to grow and leave your familiar boundaries (ones you set for yourself that maybe it's time to outgrow).

I promise you, five years from now, you will look back at this time and think, "I can't believe how upset I was over that." Okay, that won't always be the case. Sometimes you'll look back and think, "that sucked, but obviously I got over it." Because at the end of the day, rejection just sucks. But it sucks for everyone. If I were you, and I was, I'd turn it around and force a smile and remind myself that I don't need others to know how awesome I am. Because I know it. And dammit, if I don't, I'm going to figure out how to know it. I'm going to wake up and decide to do something new, something I've never done before. I'm going to make a new friend, to extend myself, offer someone help by going out of my way. Today I'm going to smile to everyone, even if they don't smile back. Because that's the beauty of our lives, the ability to change them, to grab hold of them, and live them. Life is too short to still be sulking about it!

And for what it's worth, the friends of mine who were in sororities ended up dropping out. "What a waste of money. All those dues. And it was all so forced and fake. It's basically for people who don't know how to make friends on their own." And also, funny enough, after college, I made friends with a woman (sweet Dulce) who loved her sorority sisters and introduced me to all of them. They're now some of my closest friends. I'm an honorary Johns Hopkins member of whatever sorority they were all inducted. The point is, you'll get over this with grace. We don't get to choose what happens to us, but we can choose how we react to whatever comes our way. Make this an exemplary moment in your life, a time you'll look back upon and say, "Wow, I'm so proud of how I handled that, with such grace and strength. It was hard for me, but look how I rolled with it, look how well adjusted I was able to be about that." And that will give you strength to face whatever the future might hold.

I hope this helps. I'm posting it on my blog because I think a lot of people need a good pep talk. Because, see, it happens to everyone. The sooner you learn to handle rejection with grace, the better. Because after I dealt with the blow of no sororities wanting me, I dealt with a husband who didn't want me or the family we'd planned for. So all these rejections are just training us to handle change, to evolve into better, stronger people. It's what Straight Up and Dirty is all about. And believe it or not, it doesn't harden you, but it does enable you to realize not only aren't you alone in any of it, but you're more compassionate, and are able to bounce back from a blow all the quicker. Not exactly a Tulsa Oklahoma answer, but my truth, just the same.

what crap advice

My finish this sentence post ought to have been, "Growing up, the advice I hated most from my mother was..."

But even I wouldn't know how to finish the sentence. Mom didn't give big advice. I never got heady wisdom from her that made me think of life differently. No comforting "this too shall pass" or strong "Nothing is taken from you that you cannot learn to live without." I got practical words about buying Halloween candy I hated, so I wouldn't eat any. Sadly, though, despite hating coconut, I'd manage to ferret out the almonds of a miniature Almond Joy. I'd try to convince my mouth that it really didn't mind the stringy coconut bits that stuck in my molars like chicken. But I couldn't convince myself; I'd toss the rest out. She was right. It was good advice. I wish I got more of it. Advice that wasn't cliche, but instead, dead on and unexpected.

Advice is different than teaching practical things like putting peanut butter on both slices of bread before adding the jelly, to avoid a soggy sandwich. Advice is what we cling to so our lives and outlooks can improve, so we can get through things with grace. It's not about putting a slice of bread in with your brown sugar to keep it soft, about eating parsley for good breath. This is the advice I got from Mom. Recipe tips for life. I still don't get advice about setting limits, that they make children feel safe. She never set any. Too many mothers treat their daughters as friends instead of as their daughters. They want to be liked. I don't want to be that kind of mother. I'm looking forward to the day she screams, "I hate you!" I'll know I'm doing a good job.

Good advice: "Send thank you notes, and never send store-bought sympathy cards."

details not included

I forgot one of my best friend's birthdays. It was mid-November. If I were in New York, there'd have been an evite, or at least talk of how we'd be celebrating come the weekend. We'd detail where she'd be eating with her husband, what she was planning to wear, even. And then I'd ask about all the things she bought in the name of, "Well, my birthday is coming up, and I totally deserve it. So, why not?" And I'd get to see said purchases. But I'm in Austin, and it's not the same.

With all my friends in other parts of the country, we aren't able to love one another in detail anymore. Broad strokes love is there, the deep kind that makes us all feel safe, and I'm sure it always will be. But we both miss out on the details. With remarkable ease, we can say we're "pick-up friends"==friends that pick up just where we left off. And it's true, we swing right into our back and forth, asking the right questions, getting to the heart of things. But, still, we miss the sidelines. And it sucks.

I want to know what my friends are fighting about with their significant others--not in the way you recount an argument a week later, in breezy, "Yeah, but we worked it all out" generalizations. I want radio-announcements as it's happening. I want to hear the excitement in her voice, to know what the next step is with her job. What she's thinking of getting him for the holidays. Instead, phone calls are cut short by the lives we're living across the country. And the details are shared with the lives lived closer to where we are. With new friends, different friends, friends closer to where we are in our lives, situations and proximity.

Even via IM, knowing the friend is so far away, we're less apt to discuss plans. There's very little "what are you up to tonight?" because as far as we're concerned, every night is the same, and it's lived without us in it. When you're in the same city, you get windows, unexpected opportunities to see each other. Other plans fall through, work lets out early, oh, and there's such lovely drinking to be had. "What's up tonight?" allows for, "maybe we'll grab dinner." Or, "come over, and let's bake and play Christmas music and sing like muppets!" But across the country it becomes, "What's new?", which is never answered with details. It only asks for the general.

One friend used to IM me for wardrobe brainstorming before a party. It's harder now. I don't get to see her as often, no longer know which are her best pants or shoes. And there's no longer cause for, "I ate at Irving Mill last night"--not because  Irving Mill is a Danny Meyer knock-off, but--because when's the next time I'm even going to New York? I'd only get food jealousy, anyway. The point is, I no longer get the dish on their dishes, dates, or dramas. I get the broad strokes. The panicked phone calls, the big news, the "we need to catch up already!" And I miss the unimportant and ordinary in my extraordinary friends. I miss ping-ponging phone calls, the "Shit, that's him on the other line now. I'll call you right after and tell you what he says."

When the grandparents are able to spend time with the tots, I notice they all take pride in observing. They feel more connected with Lucas and Abigail because of what they notice. "He rubs his ears when he's tired." When they can speak of their grandchildren in details, it makes them feel like they know them, like they're closer than they are. They can watch on the nanny cam's we have stationed in the playroom, so they don't miss out on the little things. "She took twelve consecutive steps today and seems to absolutely love the yellow car. Is that a bath toy?" All of us feel more intimately connected by what we know about others. And when we see it for ourselves, it's tenfold.

Left with outlines, we get less to love. We miss the nuances, the everyday dramas, and in turn, the friendship we had. I fiercely love my friends and know they love me just the same. But it's still different. I know each of them would drop everything if I needed them, and they know, I too, would schlep my ass across the country for them, kids in tow. And there's comfort in that, but it doesn't come with details.

Happy belated birthday, Smelly. I love you very much. Congratulations on your engagement, Alexandra (I'm honored to be a bridesmaid)! Dulce, how I miss all your sweet dilemmas, your sweet voice, and our crafty therapy sessions. I miss my Moniquey so, so much! And my Yasmin (it has been too long). Of course my sweet Amy and all her eye rolling, all the nicknames, all the love. And always, Miss Kimberlee. I miss Christine and her Christmas brownies, creative drinks with Miss Hillary, and wish I were there to see Jen K's belly bloom. I hope Natalie is coming to Austin over the holidays to visit her sister, my Austin lovebug friend Lacey. I miss my close knit of New York chicklets (including the ones I haven't mentioned) and wish they all had nanny cams. 

a year in review

I was clicking through the archives of this site just now, trying to gather up bits of memory for my year in review holiday cards. I was hoping to make a list of favorite moments from 2007. I always hear new parents say the first year was a blur. It wasn't a blur. It was just boring. But you had twins! No, I had twins in 2006, and in 2007 there was breastfeeding and too much food. And no fun clothes. I didn't leave the house. I was a shut-in, and I was a cranky bitchfest. I spent the year pissed off. I was angry about being fat. I fucking hated feeling incompetent, not knowing exactly how to comfort the tots, then listening to Phil tell me how I could do it all better, his way, and what really pissed me off? Listening to strangers comment on my blog with, "don't you have more important things to do than blog? Like take care of your newborns?"

I'm angry at myself now for ever letting those people get to me. I'm angry at all the people who made me feel bad about feeling fat. Who said, "it's not about you. How selfish are you?" Yes, it is about me. It doesn't stop being about me just because life changes, just because the universe shifts a little, just because you become a mother. You can take care of others and still think about yourself. And making people feel bad about this serves who, exactly?

I remember in remarkable detail not wanting to get out of bed just because I heard a child cry. Sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I left it to Phil. Sometimes I did. They thrived. Things got easier. I still get pissed at all the people and their warnings of how hard it would be. Why do that?

I was a new mother, am a new mother, and if you asked me how I felt, I doubt you'd hear overwhelmed, or even exhausted. Those wouldn't be the first words out. Like a tub. A porker. A roll. And I hated not fitting into clothes without elastic. I still see women shopping at Target with their newborns, a car seat in the shopping cart, and I think, "how is she that thin with a child that age?" Must be the nanny, I hope. But I know it's not. And I get angry that I'm not her. I'm not thin mom. And I get angry that I'm even angry about it. Not all that much has changed in a year.

when a man loves a woman

It had to have been a Meg Ryan movie.  Just had to be.  In one of them, When A Man Loves A Woman, I'm pretty certain there's some bit about how no one can make us feel.  Guilty.  Apologetic.  Useless.  Small.  We do that on our own, permit ourselves to feel ugly, stupid, unworthy.  And I'm not talking about the dressing room of a department store.  In our everyday lives, forget that we can be unapologetically cruel to ourselves.  That's not what I'm talking about.  As adults, the film inferred, no one makes us feel anything.  We listen to what someone has to say, pay attention to their body language, then determine how we feel. About them, the situation, ourselves.   

While that might sound reasonable, it isn't the way it works.  Forget for a moment that people make us feel loved, adored, special, and sexy.  As adults we can choose what we accept, can weigh the words of others and come up with our own conclusions about what's valid, then decide to reject the rest.  That is, when we have a chance to think it all over, when there's some breathing room, when we get an opportunity to step away and assess.

When I take that opportunity to figure out how I feel, I'm always fucking hungry.  It's completely inappropriate.  Here we'll have one of those, "I don't feel like talking to you right now" fights, and I'll storm off to a room by myself.  Shit, it's never the kitchen.  I usually just dive into the bed, sinking my face into the pillows.  Then I scream or cry.  Then I get really pissed because now I'm stuck in the bedroom for our childish standoff.  I should be using the alone time to reflect on what's been said. To make some sense out of how I'm feeling and how he must be feeling.  I recognize that thing I said, just because I knew it would piss him off, how I subtly attacked his manhood (not that manhood) and let him know I expected more of him.  And it's in these quiet moments with myself that I should realize what I've done wrong, where I need to apologize, and also, where I don't. But at least part of my time in isolation is spent thinking, "I picked the damn room."

Sometimes he makes me feel like how I feel or think is wrong.  And upon those sometimes, I sway his way and question it.  Maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe he's right.  And other times, I go through this same process and say, "No, this time, it's not my issue."  But I'm afraid, even when it's his issue, it's still my issue, because I'm with him, and it's our life.  And truthfully, the line gets blurred and I sometimes don't know if I should be the one to change my behaviors and beliefs or if it's him, or maybe a little of both.

I hate having to say I'll work on something if I don't see anything wrong with what I'm doing in the first place, when I think it's he who should be working on things.  And I'll do what I can to help support his change.  But it's never that.  Ever.  It's always my having to change.  I'm always the one who's wrong. 

Here's what's interesting.  In my last relationship, I was always right.  Of course neither is true, but it speaks to the balance of things.  Of the dynamic between the people.  Who feels they must always bend, who feels they're pulling the relationship up, and who feels they're always apologizing for shit they don't even do. 

I don't want to be with someone who's always trying to teach me a lesson, and the lesson always seems to be on how I can be more like him, because that's "the right way."  I want to live our way without having to change my way.   I think you can be who you are without having to change.  I think it's possible to change certain behaviors and still remain true to who you are.  But it's not easy to always recognize when it's something you should just let go, or when you should dig in your heels and insist the other person needs to work on their issue.  Even harder is coming up with something that works for the both of you, that requires you each to bend toward the middle.  Because someone always needs convincing that they need to be a participant in all of it, and their actions might require change, too.

I will work on not changing who I am, as I always say, but on
changing some of my behaviors.  I've decided to look at it that way,
instead of stubbornly saying I refuse to change.  I will continue to
be me, as that is who you fell in love with, but I will work on
changing certain behaviors that will bring more joy to our lives,
specifically: being responsible and proactive (not putting my head in
the sand, as you'd say) and setting a good role model for our
children (that a woman can take care of things without help, if need
be).  It takes two people to fight, and it's very important to me
that our children don't see us fight or raise our voices at each
other, disrespect each other, etc., so I will try my hardest to leave
a room, take a time out, whatever I need to do to enforce that rule.

I storm off, pre- or mid-fight, and then I wonder if I picked the right room.  The bedroom has everything I need.  I have clothes and blankets, a television, books, light, and a comfortable bed.  But there's no kitchen.  If I am brooding downstairs I think, "if only I could sleep on the sofa."  But I never can.  I need to start hoarding food in this bedroom of mine.

imagine

Imagine, as you must, that I get a pile of shit every day from drive-by readers who want to bitch me out because they honestly believe I write this blog to entertain them.  Now double it.  I of course get your average, "You're a jap, and so self-centered" missives, and then the slightly meatier, "Where is your sense of obligation to the world?!" outraged ALL CAPS kind of memos.  Throw in the occasional, "I hope you get cancer" email along with the ever lovely, "Divorce him now," advice.  "You've lost your edge" makes me laugh, along with "Where's the old Stephanie?"  The old Stephanie, if you really care to click through the archives, wrote about antiperspirant and sushi and makeup and hair products, too.  Thanks. And she had spelling mistakes she never bothered to correct.  Life, I promise, goes on.

We all go through phases.  Bad hair, bad pants, bad, bad color schemes, bad boys, bad manners, sure, bad spelling.  There are wilder times, fuck this shit--I can't take it anymore times, cozy happy content times, crisis, recognizing how much we need to change times.  It's all part of who I am.  Bad hair color times.  I forgot that one.  I'm a complainer sometimes who wants to vent about her vagina or fat or missing her friends or dog, yes, even though there are people dying from hunger and disease.  Wants to bitch about her husband.  Wants to dream up the perfect cozy home and use the blog as a route there.  Wants to make a list of wants, however frivolous from how to set her dining table to nail polish colors to the best belt for jeans.  Worries about her job as a mother and just wants to get it down, on the old-fashioned Internet.  Wants to capture sweet moments with her children, wants to take photos of them miserable.  Wants to just be me, not be ON, just be.  And that's why I started this blog, and it's what I intend to continue to do, despite the emails stating, "Single women or women who are not as fortunate to have a charmed life would not relate to your perfect dining room table.  I am as fortunate and find it boring. Being a Psychiatrist is what drove me to write this to you."  Oy.  And from the same reader: " I thought that you were Jewish.  Those of us who are don’t really care about the wreaths and the holiday stuff that you seem to write about quite frequently.  Xmas is two months away and when you pass by Gracious Home on the UWS their X-mas wares are already in the window.  It’s not even Halloween! It seems premature for you to be writing about that already."  Again, my answer is, I don't post to keep up with the season, the nines, or the Joneses.  I write about what's on my mind and what I'm feeling, and I don't have a boss who approves it, to see if it's what others want to think about.  So despite how well-intentioned you may be, and I appreciate that you are, try to understand that I do this for me, to just let loose and be able to have this space as my public scrapbook.  Yes, public.  Public because I happen to know people enjoy it, but more importantly, because I happen to know people think because of it. 

And I think in the coming weeks, you'll see a whole lot more of that uncensored me (even if it's a full week of drunk emails from my past, or lists of all the material things I want, or all the things I'm thankful for, or all the things I can't afford but want to).  Definitely a post or twenty with every single sentence beginning with "I" or "Me" or "My."  Because I can.  Because this is mine.  Because with Moose handed in, I expect to post more, though very little of it will be polished and well-written, simply because between magazine writing, book writing, and TV writing, I plan to use this space as a sounding board and vent space, as I did when this blog began.  Because my rant is done and so is the day. 

There are the "How do you deal with all the horrible shit people say to you?" emails, which I might as well address--because giving all the attention to the "When you write about the 'beans' and how content you are with life, it's dull and boring," emails isn't fair--where readers are asking me for advice on how to handle it, as they're just now getting their first taste of it.  I could say something about thick skin and a good cream for that, but the truth is, like everything else you get enough of, you simply become desensitized.  And then, if something does bother you, you might use it as a lesson, figuring out what you can learn about yourself by reading your reaction.  Why am I letting this bother me?  More often than not, it truly is THEIR PROBLEM, not yours.  But if something really does bother you, and I've said this before, try to figure out why you're so hurt by it.  Usually, you'll come to this conclusion: is there truth in it?  And if so, does it bother me enough to change?  And that's all we really need.  Seriously, the assholes in our lives