"Just wait. When you have your own kids, you'll understand."
"Sure, I will. I'll understand that you're mean and I will NEVER be that mean to my kids," I replied. Under my breath. From the safety of my bedroom. To no one in particular.
This exact conversation happened ad nauseam between my mom and I. During those times when I thought she was being wholly unreasonable, I would sit in my room and think about how much nicer I was going to be to MY children. Because I wasn't a mean person. And because cake was a totally valid option for dinner.
I went through my childhood assuming I'd have kids. I dreamed about living in my own version of a Barbie-house with my fabulous husband, gorgeous children, and possibly a dog. Or a pony. I hadn't made up my mind about that one. Details aside, I definitely wanted the family I didn't have.
Shortly before graduating high school, I was sitting on the couch with my then-boyfriend. He made a comment about never wanting to get married and never wanting children. Although I'd already had my suspicions, I knew in that single moment that we would have to break up. Coming from a broken home, those things were too important to me to even consider compromise.
However, as a teenager, I knew that I absolutely did not want to become Afterschool Special fodder. Birth control was a very high priority and although it meant getting my lady parts poked uncomfortably, it was a price I was eagerly willing to pay.
Edward and I met freshman year in college and our relationship was the stuff of romance novels. Passionate, unyielding, and nearly all-consuming. We agreed that a family was in our future but we needed to finish college.
Fast forward to college graduation, getting married, moving away from my home-state, getting adult jobs and having MONEY for the first time. As we were deciding how to celebrate our first anniversary, the subject of babies came up. It was the first logical time in our lives when we had the means to raise a child. However, having moved out west put us much closer to Disneyland and we decided to do that instead since I was a horrendously deprived child and had never had the pleasure of doing Disney. Our Disney trip was wonderful... riding Mr. Frog's Wild Ride during the day and watching hotel porn at night. I ran around the park riding every single ride like a 10 year old... except I got to do it with my husband. I experienced not one single pang of envy as I watched the moms kid-wrangle and face-wipe.
Again, we evaluated parenthood on the next anniversary. By this point, we had purchased a home and although we were somewhat cash poor from the move, we had a "good situation" for breeding. Nice home, stable relationship, steady jobs. And still, neither of us felt ready.
As the years passed, I started to wonder if I would ever be ready. And I started to consider the possibility of never being ready. Somewhere in our mid-20's, Edward and I both said out loud that neither of us wanted kids. Although we both enjoyed the idea of creating a person that was the combination of the two of us, neither of us wanted to be a parent.
I struggled with this. I was supposed to want to drive a mini-van and bake brownies for classroom parties. I was supposed to love the way newborn babies smell. I was supposed to want to "complete" my family. I was supposed to want to change diapers? And I was supposed to want to deal with green boogers and temper tantrums? And talk endlessly about my children and other people's children?
That's where it all started to make sense. Not having kids was a valid option. Unfortunately, society at large doesn't really agree.
Somewhat surprisingly, we never got any flak from our families about our decision. It was other people. I had started a new job and was getting to know my coworkers when one of them asked me if I had kids. I told her that we did not have children and that we had decided we didn't want kids. Ever.
She smiled, patted my shoulder condescendingly and said, "Oh, you'll change your mind." If I had a dollar for every time someone said this to me, I'd be able to buy a really nice pair of shoes. Maybe two pairs.
Apparently, it was okay to disregard my choices but not socially acceptable for me to say "Oh, I'm sorry. You probably haven't seen any recent movies then and your husband has become familiar with throwing a hot dog down a hallway" upon learning that someone had kids.
I don't begrudge people who have children. Someone's got to do it. It's a valid choice. Just as my decision not to have them is a valid choice.
Just as eating cake for dinner is STILL a valid choice.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Equal Parts
I'm not a good bartender. Or a good cook. I can follow a recipe and make something that tastes alright but I do not have that innate ability to eyeball measurements. I have multiple measuring spoons and cups in my kitchen. Occasionally I cheat and use the big soup spoons, but I almost never pour almond milk into my chai without measuring it first.
Consequently, I've found managing two relationships simultaneously to be challenging. Because time and energy are finite, you cannot feed and water them the same. Additionally, one might need more food and less water and the other might prefer to be scooted out of direct sunlight.
This weekend marks 5 years that Stuart, Edward and I have been making this work. A stable poly situation for 5 years! We should get a prize. But I would settle for a gold star. Or a margarita. On the rocks with salt, please.
One of the most difficult aspects of our lives is reconciling the fact that the relationships will not be equal nor the same. I tend to be a fair-minded person along with my fruity codependent topping so this has been something of a trial. Plus, I am a master of projection along with trying to stay atop decent person-hood and treating others the way I would want to be treated. Strangely enough, not everybody wants hot fudge on their ice cream or spankings in bed. Who knew?
There is this emphasis in poly on being fair. You get to do xyz so I must get to do the same (even if I hate xyz and we haven't spoken in years). I have learned that the sandbox rules don't necessarily apply.
Things are not usually equal. One relationship may have more fights while the other has more sex. One relationship may have more giggles while the other is struggling with disconnection. As the pivotal person in my poly-verse, this is hard. Really hard. There's the fruity codependence AND it's distant and ethnically different cousin, GUILT. There's an inherent desire of wanting to give everyone the same amount of ice cream. But, I only have so much and life just doesn't roll that way (plus, some of us are lactose intolerant). I did try early on (and with glorious failure) to micro-manage all of this so that nobody went to bed hungry. But, it made me a little nuts and things took on a rather artificial air that wasn't real or sustainable.
Allowing the relationships to just simply be has been a test of my patience and acceptance. I'm not good at letting things be. I want to bedazzle them, re-paint them, or make them glittertastic. And it's uncomfortable when things are tipped more favorably in one direction. When I am with the partner with whom things are going well, I feel like I am betraying the other partner. How could I possibly be having a good time (or an orgasm) with Person A when things with Person B are off kilter? Does that make me a bad person? Do I wait until both people are having the exact same amount of fun before I start breathing again? Should I quit my job and join the circus? Will anyone notice if I vajazzle myself?
Decisions, decisions. It is these moments when I start to kind of sort of understand multiple personalities. My head and my heart play a free-spirited game of Good Cop/Bad Cop and I can usually walk away feeling ethically stable but still irrationally emotional.
When these feelings arise, I have a go-to dialogue in my head. "This is okay. Things will often not be equal. You love them, and they love you. Everything is fine. They will still buy you Junior Mints at the movies. Wax on, wax off."
It usually works. Mostly. And in the end, everybody usually gets enough ice cream. It is not, however, my fault that they eat more slowly than I do.
Consequently, I've found managing two relationships simultaneously to be challenging. Because time and energy are finite, you cannot feed and water them the same. Additionally, one might need more food and less water and the other might prefer to be scooted out of direct sunlight.
This weekend marks 5 years that Stuart, Edward and I have been making this work. A stable poly situation for 5 years! We should get a prize. But I would settle for a gold star. Or a margarita. On the rocks with salt, please.
One of the most difficult aspects of our lives is reconciling the fact that the relationships will not be equal nor the same. I tend to be a fair-minded person along with my fruity codependent topping so this has been something of a trial. Plus, I am a master of projection along with trying to stay atop decent person-hood and treating others the way I would want to be treated. Strangely enough, not everybody wants hot fudge on their ice cream or spankings in bed. Who knew?
There is this emphasis in poly on being fair. You get to do xyz so I must get to do the same (even if I hate xyz and we haven't spoken in years). I have learned that the sandbox rules don't necessarily apply.
Things are not usually equal. One relationship may have more fights while the other has more sex. One relationship may have more giggles while the other is struggling with disconnection. As the pivotal person in my poly-verse, this is hard. Really hard. There's the fruity codependence AND it's distant and ethnically different cousin, GUILT. There's an inherent desire of wanting to give everyone the same amount of ice cream. But, I only have so much and life just doesn't roll that way (plus, some of us are lactose intolerant). I did try early on (and with glorious failure) to micro-manage all of this so that nobody went to bed hungry. But, it made me a little nuts and things took on a rather artificial air that wasn't real or sustainable.
Allowing the relationships to just simply be has been a test of my patience and acceptance. I'm not good at letting things be. I want to bedazzle them, re-paint them, or make them glittertastic. And it's uncomfortable when things are tipped more favorably in one direction. When I am with the partner with whom things are going well, I feel like I am betraying the other partner. How could I possibly be having a good time (or an orgasm) with Person A when things with Person B are off kilter? Does that make me a bad person? Do I wait until both people are having the exact same amount of fun before I start breathing again? Should I quit my job and join the circus? Will anyone notice if I vajazzle myself?
Decisions, decisions. It is these moments when I start to kind of sort of understand multiple personalities. My head and my heart play a free-spirited game of Good Cop/Bad Cop and I can usually walk away feeling ethically stable but still irrationally emotional.
When these feelings arise, I have a go-to dialogue in my head. "This is okay. Things will often not be equal. You love them, and they love you. Everything is fine. They will still buy you Junior Mints at the movies. Wax on, wax off."
It usually works. Mostly. And in the end, everybody usually gets enough ice cream. It is not, however, my fault that they eat more slowly than I do.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Creation of an Atheist
With the Rapture:FAIL come and gone, now is as good a time as any to get the subject of religion off my chest.
Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe. I really do. To think that there is a master plan for everyone and everything seriously appeals to my inner control freak. It means I can just sit back, relax, and procrastinate to my heart's content because everything happens for a reason. It means my OCD can have a margarita or four because everything is in the hands of the divine.
I wish.
I tried to believe in god. I tried to climb on-board the holy train multiple times in my life but never managed to hang on for very long before reason plucked me off.
Growing up (as it always comes back to that, doesn't it?), I had a strange introduction to religion. My mother termed herself a "recovering Catholic" and my father's side of the family were Christian Scientists. My mother would have sooner given me a jailhouse tattoo before dragging me to mass so I mostly attended church with my father and grandmother. They attended "adult church" upstairs while I went to Sunday School. Problem was, our church was in a mostly retired section of town so I was literally the only kid in Sunday School. I had the teacher all to myself and she asked me to read passages from the Bible to her. I gladly did so because I loved reading out loud but I didn't pay one bit of attention to what I was reading. None of it seemed important. And this is why when you say "Well, you know the story of how Mary cut her baby in half and fed it to a lion, right?", I will look at you blankly. Any Biblical knowledge is mostly from pop culture osmosis, and even then, I think my brain tries really hard not to let godliness in (it burns). I can sing Duran Duran's "Hungry Like a Wolf" from memory but I have no idea what is old testament, what is new testament and why any of it is or should be significant to my life.
Around the age of 12, I realized that the Christian Scientists were a not-very-well-disguised cult and would probably ask for an organ donation soon. I needed to find a new religion and fast. I started attending church with my friends so I could try them out. I saw the Catholics apologize for an hour, the Pentecostals wave their arms in schizophrenic unity and observed the Lutherans promising not to have premarital sex. None of it fit. I watched my classmates wearing the WWJD bracelets and it was a mystery to me. What WOULD Jesus do? I had no idea. But I was fairly certain that he wouldn't wear a pompous bracelet and then refuse to sit with me at lunch. It all seemed so absurd.
I eventually decided that I still liked the idea of god and that he would probably want me to be happy and make good choices for myself. I didn't think repenting made a lot of sense because life is about mistakes and "real" repentance seemed to be learning from those mistakes rather than apologizing to a statue. Simplistic as it was, my version of religion made a lot more sense to me than anything I observed in a cathedral on a Sunday morning.
Over the years, critical thinking kicked in and I started to understand that religion is merely a warm blanket to wrap oneself in. It's an easy way to make sense of the good and the bad. I cannot argue that it's comforting to think our loved ones are watching us from heaven. It's clear that believing god has a plan when natural disasters occur is preferable to allowing yourself to think that life just sucks sometimes. The prospect of death is much less scary when you let yourself believe that bottomless milkshakes and roller skates await you. I get it. And sometimes, I wish I could turn off the critical thinking portion of my brain and just drink the kool-aid.
But here I am, married to my rational thoughts and practicality. I, and I alone am responsible for my poor choices (and my good ones!). The shitty things that I can't control are because life sucks sometimes. And as much as I would LOVE to believe that there is a force greater than me driving the car, I don't. Sometimes life is ridiculously and horribly unfair. And it's not a test of my strength or purposefully to make me stronger. It's because life sucks sometimes.
This is likely why I've developed a serious allergy to all things god. Mentions of religion (especially in political arenas) make me twitchy. I'm a master of nodding and smiling with the kool-aid drinkers. Since embracing my atheism, I've become annoyed with how ubiquitous religion is. I'm probably less tolerant than I should be. I try my very best to be tolerant of others but have difficulty not making jokes about kool-aid or sheep.
Now... if church were about watching actual sheep drink actual kool-aid, I might just be interested.
Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe. I really do. To think that there is a master plan for everyone and everything seriously appeals to my inner control freak. It means I can just sit back, relax, and procrastinate to my heart's content because everything happens for a reason. It means my OCD can have a margarita or four because everything is in the hands of the divine.
I wish.
I tried to believe in god. I tried to climb on-board the holy train multiple times in my life but never managed to hang on for very long before reason plucked me off.
Growing up (as it always comes back to that, doesn't it?), I had a strange introduction to religion. My mother termed herself a "recovering Catholic" and my father's side of the family were Christian Scientists. My mother would have sooner given me a jailhouse tattoo before dragging me to mass so I mostly attended church with my father and grandmother. They attended "adult church" upstairs while I went to Sunday School. Problem was, our church was in a mostly retired section of town so I was literally the only kid in Sunday School. I had the teacher all to myself and she asked me to read passages from the Bible to her. I gladly did so because I loved reading out loud but I didn't pay one bit of attention to what I was reading. None of it seemed important. And this is why when you say "Well, you know the story of how Mary cut her baby in half and fed it to a lion, right?", I will look at you blankly. Any Biblical knowledge is mostly from pop culture osmosis, and even then, I think my brain tries really hard not to let godliness in (it burns). I can sing Duran Duran's "Hungry Like a Wolf" from memory but I have no idea what is old testament, what is new testament and why any of it is or should be significant to my life.
Around the age of 12, I realized that the Christian Scientists were a not-very-well-disguised cult and would probably ask for an organ donation soon. I needed to find a new religion and fast. I started attending church with my friends so I could try them out. I saw the Catholics apologize for an hour, the Pentecostals wave their arms in schizophrenic unity and observed the Lutherans promising not to have premarital sex. None of it fit. I watched my classmates wearing the WWJD bracelets and it was a mystery to me. What WOULD Jesus do? I had no idea. But I was fairly certain that he wouldn't wear a pompous bracelet and then refuse to sit with me at lunch. It all seemed so absurd.
I eventually decided that I still liked the idea of god and that he would probably want me to be happy and make good choices for myself. I didn't think repenting made a lot of sense because life is about mistakes and "real" repentance seemed to be learning from those mistakes rather than apologizing to a statue. Simplistic as it was, my version of religion made a lot more sense to me than anything I observed in a cathedral on a Sunday morning.
Over the years, critical thinking kicked in and I started to understand that religion is merely a warm blanket to wrap oneself in. It's an easy way to make sense of the good and the bad. I cannot argue that it's comforting to think our loved ones are watching us from heaven. It's clear that believing god has a plan when natural disasters occur is preferable to allowing yourself to think that life just sucks sometimes. The prospect of death is much less scary when you let yourself believe that bottomless milkshakes and roller skates await you. I get it. And sometimes, I wish I could turn off the critical thinking portion of my brain and just drink the kool-aid.
But here I am, married to my rational thoughts and practicality. I, and I alone am responsible for my poor choices (and my good ones!). The shitty things that I can't control are because life sucks sometimes. And as much as I would LOVE to believe that there is a force greater than me driving the car, I don't. Sometimes life is ridiculously and horribly unfair. And it's not a test of my strength or purposefully to make me stronger. It's because life sucks sometimes.
This is likely why I've developed a serious allergy to all things god. Mentions of religion (especially in political arenas) make me twitchy. I'm a master of nodding and smiling with the kool-aid drinkers. Since embracing my atheism, I've become annoyed with how ubiquitous religion is. I'm probably less tolerant than I should be. I try my very best to be tolerant of others but have difficulty not making jokes about kool-aid or sheep.
Now... if church were about watching actual sheep drink actual kool-aid, I might just be interested.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Naked Truth
I'm not a very good naked person. And oddly enough, I am attached to someone who is a nudist. Stuart wasn't always "the naked guy." He grew up in a climate so conservative that allowing your elbows to show could have been considered "asking for it." My childhood was far more liberal, yet I was not.
I was not a modest child until about the age of 6. Prior to that, my favorite way to dry myself off after a bath was to run around the house naked until the water the was gone and I was baby-powder-dry. The trail of tiny wet footprints in the carpet were the only evidence of the rubber duckie regatta that had just gone down.
My best guess about my attitudes is once again related to my mom. She was fairly open about sexuality and even threw her "sex clothes" into the laundry. At age 13, I marched into the living room holding her crotchless panties with a pair of tongs and demanded to know what they were. She explained and horrified, I threw them back into the washing machine determined never to spend money on underwear that doesn't actually cover anything. That incident actually sums up much of my childhood... I have to imagine there was a Puritan walking around missing their values because I had them and I wasn't giving them up.
Not being a very good naked person, being interested in Burning Man and poly were sort of what led me to Stuart. Edward had been dating a girl that I was not terribly comfortable with and it was difficult not to have any friends who "got it." Stuart had a profile on a poly website I belonged to and eager to make friends (which, I want to be clear, was my ONLY intention), I sent him a note. Although I was still clutching tightly to my modesty, I recognized I could use some loosening up.
And it worked. Some. I am far less concerned about covering up when changing near other people. I developed a group of friends with whom I was comfortable naked. I have been topless at parties and at Burning Man... I don't mind that so much although it's really a practical issue. The girls prefer some support, get in my way when allowed to roam free, and it gets sweaty under there.
[A side note...Stuart just woke up, realized I was writing, realized what I was writing about, lifted up his sarong and said "Should I be naked while you're writing that?" I suppose I should be grateful my morning didn't start off with scrotum animals.]
Our social environment brings a lot of nudity into my life. On an intellectual level, it doesn't bother me. They are bits, really no different than ankles or ears, and (most) everyone has them.
On an aesthetic level, you'd never catch me wearing a t-shirt that says World's Biggest Scrotum Fan. And scrotums attract a lot of attention on a naked guy. They're really like the Hawaiian shirt of naked. They're a little flamboyant, undiscriminating, and when one is near you, it's really tough not to notice it. And for me, it's really tough NOT to zip tie it to it's more vagina-friendly counter-part, Mr. Penis. Lest anyone think I'm a man-part-hater... I'm not. I loves me some good penis. And penis is probably responsible for my failure as a bisexual. It just doesn't need a wing...pair. Not as far as I'm concerned.
On an emotional level, I am at times uncomfortable with nudity. For me, nudity implies and invites a level of intimacy that I don't necessarily want. I do recognize that it is 100% my own perception and that naked people are most likely not trying to be intimate with me. I do, however, find it difficult to discuss my thoughts on the Obama administration when your schlong is inches away from my cup. And... I'm a girl. I like a little mystery. And at times, I'm a really petty girl and thus named an acquaintance MicroPenis because it was practically inverted. And now, at parties, I really want to hug his girlfriend and tell her I'm sorry. (Reason #56 that this blog is anonymous. I'm a terrible person sometimes. And if you're reading this, you probably already love me and this is not news to you or you've never met me and wouldn't know me from Adam. Or Eve. Or a transgendered combination of the two.)
In a social culture that is highly supportive of nudity and more specifically, naked chicks, I am content to let others fill that role. Occasionally, I do feel a bit envious that I'm not like that, but it just isn't me.
Besides, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
I was not a modest child until about the age of 6. Prior to that, my favorite way to dry myself off after a bath was to run around the house naked until the water the was gone and I was baby-powder-dry. The trail of tiny wet footprints in the carpet were the only evidence of the rubber duckie regatta that had just gone down.
My best guess about my attitudes is once again related to my mom. She was fairly open about sexuality and even threw her "sex clothes" into the laundry. At age 13, I marched into the living room holding her crotchless panties with a pair of tongs and demanded to know what they were. She explained and horrified, I threw them back into the washing machine determined never to spend money on underwear that doesn't actually cover anything. That incident actually sums up much of my childhood... I have to imagine there was a Puritan walking around missing their values because I had them and I wasn't giving them up.
Not being a very good naked person, being interested in Burning Man and poly were sort of what led me to Stuart. Edward had been dating a girl that I was not terribly comfortable with and it was difficult not to have any friends who "got it." Stuart had a profile on a poly website I belonged to and eager to make friends (which, I want to be clear, was my ONLY intention), I sent him a note. Although I was still clutching tightly to my modesty, I recognized I could use some loosening up.
And it worked. Some. I am far less concerned about covering up when changing near other people. I developed a group of friends with whom I was comfortable naked. I have been topless at parties and at Burning Man... I don't mind that so much although it's really a practical issue. The girls prefer some support, get in my way when allowed to roam free, and it gets sweaty under there.
[A side note...Stuart just woke up, realized I was writing, realized what I was writing about, lifted up his sarong and said "Should I be naked while you're writing that?" I suppose I should be grateful my morning didn't start off with scrotum animals.]
Our social environment brings a lot of nudity into my life. On an intellectual level, it doesn't bother me. They are bits, really no different than ankles or ears, and (most) everyone has them.
On an aesthetic level, you'd never catch me wearing a t-shirt that says World's Biggest Scrotum Fan. And scrotums attract a lot of attention on a naked guy. They're really like the Hawaiian shirt of naked. They're a little flamboyant, undiscriminating, and when one is near you, it's really tough not to notice it. And for me, it's really tough NOT to zip tie it to it's more vagina-friendly counter-part, Mr. Penis. Lest anyone think I'm a man-part-hater... I'm not. I loves me some good penis. And penis is probably responsible for my failure as a bisexual. It just doesn't need a wing...pair. Not as far as I'm concerned.
On an emotional level, I am at times uncomfortable with nudity. For me, nudity implies and invites a level of intimacy that I don't necessarily want. I do recognize that it is 100% my own perception and that naked people are most likely not trying to be intimate with me. I do, however, find it difficult to discuss my thoughts on the Obama administration when your schlong is inches away from my cup. And... I'm a girl. I like a little mystery. And at times, I'm a really petty girl and thus named an acquaintance MicroPenis because it was practically inverted. And now, at parties, I really want to hug his girlfriend and tell her I'm sorry. (Reason #56 that this blog is anonymous. I'm a terrible person sometimes. And if you're reading this, you probably already love me and this is not news to you or you've never met me and wouldn't know me from Adam. Or Eve. Or a transgendered combination of the two.)
In a social culture that is highly supportive of nudity and more specifically, naked chicks, I am content to let others fill that role. Occasionally, I do feel a bit envious that I'm not like that, but it just isn't me.
Besides, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Feminine Wiles
It was a mere three days ago - Thursday. I had a few hours to kill before my sanity-preservation appointment (also known as therapy) so I thought I would take myself out to a nice lunch, do a little shopping and indulge in some much needed and well-deserved me-time. Lunch was delicious and en route to my shopping destination, I decided to stop at the gas station. I still had half a tank but this gas station has one of those super convenient drive-through car washes you can add on to your gas purchase. Because mi madre will be here Tuesday, I thought I should put on my Diligent Daughter Pants and get the vehicle washed so that when she clings to it nervously while wishing I would let her smoke in my car, it would be pleasant for all of us.
I must have been operating on autopilot because after I pulled the nozzle out of my gas tank, I realized I had just put 8 gallons of ethanol in my car. Oopsie.
I then experienced what I ruefully describe as a Moment of Girl. A Moment of Girl is best explained as a visceral, kidney-stabbing experience when you realize you are woefully unprepared to deal with the current situation and it is because you have matching x chromosomes.
My mind raced as I tried to recall everything I knew about ethanol. I remembered that it came from corn. And I think people were asking fast food restaurants for their used... vegetable oil. Shit. I was pretty sure hippies used it but I really couldn't tell you if they grew pot with it or powered their Vespas with it. As my Moment of Girl set in much like that imminent moment right before the food poisoning says hello, I realized I didn't know a goddamn thing about ethanol including whether I'd just ruined my car.
So what did I do? I called a boy. And there is nothing that cements a MoG like calling a boy for help. I could practically hear Susan B. Anthony admonishing me from the grave. Had Betty Friedan written all those love-your-vagina books for nothing? Was Gloria Steinem going to remind me that this is why I should be riding a bike?
Boy advised me to wait for him to arrive so he could drain my gas tank. After I hung up the phone, I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh, cry, or see if the gas station carried wine coolers. A few minutes later, boy called back with a mechanic's advice to top off the tank with premium non-corn-infused gas and start driving. So, not only did I have to directly disobey the directions on every gas pump about NOT TOPPING OFF THE TANK but I had to drive a vehicle that may or may not continue to operate. (I should mention here that non-operational vehicles are also MoG-inducing. Once again, I don't know a goddamn thing about cars AND there is the added bonus of rapists everywhere.)
As shopping was now off the table and driving drunk is still illegal, I decided to spend the next 45 minutes driving in hopes of mixing the old gas, corn fuel, and Mercedes gas. I stayed in the right hand lane, made only right turns and breathed occasionally. My car did not sputter, backfire or otherwise cease to operate. I spent most of that 45 minutes repeatedly thanking the Japanese people for sushi and cars.
I'm not exactly sure what the take-home lesson is here. Perhaps it was another ha-ha-fuck-you reminder of the fact that I cannot write my name in the snow with my own pee, compress unwanted feelings into a resounding belch, and never enjoy the coveted male morning ritual of showering, shitting and shaving. (This is why I will never date a boy who flat irons his hair or who has more make-up than I do. I have enough issues without involving gender identity.)
After a MoG, it is important to remind oneself of the benefits of belonging to The Cliterati. Boobs are useful and can often score free stuff. I pretty much never have to deal with scary bugs or rodents. I can wear sparkly nail polish without having to field questions about my "domestic union." And, I can order cocktails in a rainbow of colors without my virility being called into question.
But, I still need a boy when it comes to cars, home repairs, and scorpions. And that, I suppose, is the nature of the Yin... and the Wang.
I must have been operating on autopilot because after I pulled the nozzle out of my gas tank, I realized I had just put 8 gallons of ethanol in my car. Oopsie.
I then experienced what I ruefully describe as a Moment of Girl. A Moment of Girl is best explained as a visceral, kidney-stabbing experience when you realize you are woefully unprepared to deal with the current situation and it is because you have matching x chromosomes.
My mind raced as I tried to recall everything I knew about ethanol. I remembered that it came from corn. And I think people were asking fast food restaurants for their used... vegetable oil. Shit. I was pretty sure hippies used it but I really couldn't tell you if they grew pot with it or powered their Vespas with it. As my Moment of Girl set in much like that imminent moment right before the food poisoning says hello, I realized I didn't know a goddamn thing about ethanol including whether I'd just ruined my car.
So what did I do? I called a boy. And there is nothing that cements a MoG like calling a boy for help. I could practically hear Susan B. Anthony admonishing me from the grave. Had Betty Friedan written all those love-your-vagina books for nothing? Was Gloria Steinem going to remind me that this is why I should be riding a bike?
Boy advised me to wait for him to arrive so he could drain my gas tank. After I hung up the phone, I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh, cry, or see if the gas station carried wine coolers. A few minutes later, boy called back with a mechanic's advice to top off the tank with premium non-corn-infused gas and start driving. So, not only did I have to directly disobey the directions on every gas pump about NOT TOPPING OFF THE TANK but I had to drive a vehicle that may or may not continue to operate. (I should mention here that non-operational vehicles are also MoG-inducing. Once again, I don't know a goddamn thing about cars AND there is the added bonus of rapists everywhere.)
As shopping was now off the table and driving drunk is still illegal, I decided to spend the next 45 minutes driving in hopes of mixing the old gas, corn fuel, and Mercedes gas. I stayed in the right hand lane, made only right turns and breathed occasionally. My car did not sputter, backfire or otherwise cease to operate. I spent most of that 45 minutes repeatedly thanking the Japanese people for sushi and cars.
I'm not exactly sure what the take-home lesson is here. Perhaps it was another ha-ha-fuck-you reminder of the fact that I cannot write my name in the snow with my own pee, compress unwanted feelings into a resounding belch, and never enjoy the coveted male morning ritual of showering, shitting and shaving. (This is why I will never date a boy who flat irons his hair or who has more make-up than I do. I have enough issues without involving gender identity.)
After a MoG, it is important to remind oneself of the benefits of belonging to The Cliterati. Boobs are useful and can often score free stuff. I pretty much never have to deal with scary bugs or rodents. I can wear sparkly nail polish without having to field questions about my "domestic union." And, I can order cocktails in a rainbow of colors without my virility being called into question.
But, I still need a boy when it comes to cars, home repairs, and scorpions. And that, I suppose, is the nature of the Yin... and the Wang.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Mirror, Mirror
It happened about seven years ago. I was putting the finishing touches on my make-up and hair before going out for the evening. As I leaned back to check out my handiwork, I had a startling and gut-wrenching moment. I looked a LOT like my mom.
That in and of itself wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that we'd never really resembled each other. People always said I looked like my dad and growing up, people often thought she was my sister.
And of course, with the growing up and moving away from where she lives intentionally is the standard adult-child-rhetoric of "I'm not going to be like THAT." It's a little disturbing when you look in the mirror and whoomp, there it is.
I firmly believe that you cannot truly know yourself as an adult until you move away from your parents. Crossing the country isn't necessary (although I did) but it needs to be far enough away that Mom can't drop in with an unexpected casserole or volunteer to do your laundry. (My mother, to her credit, taught me how to do laundry when I was about 7 or 8 and said "You're going to need to know how to do this later. Or sooner if I don't feel like doing it.")
I left home when I was 18 to attend college. Considering I already parented myself quite a bit, being on my own wasn't a huge shock (my freshman year roommate however, discovered cigarettes and boys after finally being released from her small bible belt town). I reveled in being able to do things my way and on my own. Strangely enough, I still do. (My husband and I still giggle like 10 year olds when we eat cake for dinner.)
As the years passed, I established an identity and a life that is very different from my mom's. Often I wondered how it was that we shared DNA. At some point in my late 20's, I said something to someone that nearly froze me in my tracks. I don't remember what it was but the moment those words left my lips, I knew they were my mother's. And that was nothing short of horrifying.
Most of us resolve never to follow in the annoying footsteps of our parents. Those habits or phrases that make you cringe... we think we've effectively banished them from our psyches until, one day, unwittingly, it slips out like the tiny bit of pee that escapes when you laugh too hard. Those moments make it difficult to argue against nature.
I still consider myself to be very different from my mom. But the older I get, the more I find myself saying things she would say or doing things she would do. The biggest difficulty is being patient with her when she's being annoying and especially if it's something annoying that I've done recently. It's like being run over by the Hypocrite Bus. I've had to learn to bite my tongue (to the point of nearly biting it in half at times) and to be judicious about what to tell her. I am probably over-careful of what I share and likely miss nuggets of wisdom here and there because of it.
When I was 11 or 12, I was glued to the TV watching an episode of Donahue or Sally Jesse Raphael. It was about people with drug problems and I found it fascinating. There was an addiction counselor who referenced the Serenity Prayer and the words quickly appeared on the screen.
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference."
I quickly read the quote and memorized it thinking my mom would appreciate hearing it. Later when she arrived home, I eagerly recited it to her.
"Yeah, that's a good one," she said. "I have a better one though."
"You do? What is it?"
She smiled and took a drag off of her cigarette.
"Fuck it."
Still good advice.
That in and of itself wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that we'd never really resembled each other. People always said I looked like my dad and growing up, people often thought she was my sister.
And of course, with the growing up and moving away from where she lives intentionally is the standard adult-child-rhetoric of "I'm not going to be like THAT." It's a little disturbing when you look in the mirror and whoomp, there it is.
I firmly believe that you cannot truly know yourself as an adult until you move away from your parents. Crossing the country isn't necessary (although I did) but it needs to be far enough away that Mom can't drop in with an unexpected casserole or volunteer to do your laundry. (My mother, to her credit, taught me how to do laundry when I was about 7 or 8 and said "You're going to need to know how to do this later. Or sooner if I don't feel like doing it.")
I left home when I was 18 to attend college. Considering I already parented myself quite a bit, being on my own wasn't a huge shock (my freshman year roommate however, discovered cigarettes and boys after finally being released from her small bible belt town). I reveled in being able to do things my way and on my own. Strangely enough, I still do. (My husband and I still giggle like 10 year olds when we eat cake for dinner.)
As the years passed, I established an identity and a life that is very different from my mom's. Often I wondered how it was that we shared DNA. At some point in my late 20's, I said something to someone that nearly froze me in my tracks. I don't remember what it was but the moment those words left my lips, I knew they were my mother's. And that was nothing short of horrifying.
Most of us resolve never to follow in the annoying footsteps of our parents. Those habits or phrases that make you cringe... we think we've effectively banished them from our psyches until, one day, unwittingly, it slips out like the tiny bit of pee that escapes when you laugh too hard. Those moments make it difficult to argue against nature.
I still consider myself to be very different from my mom. But the older I get, the more I find myself saying things she would say or doing things she would do. The biggest difficulty is being patient with her when she's being annoying and especially if it's something annoying that I've done recently. It's like being run over by the Hypocrite Bus. I've had to learn to bite my tongue (to the point of nearly biting it in half at times) and to be judicious about what to tell her. I am probably over-careful of what I share and likely miss nuggets of wisdom here and there because of it.
When I was 11 or 12, I was glued to the TV watching an episode of Donahue or Sally Jesse Raphael. It was about people with drug problems and I found it fascinating. There was an addiction counselor who referenced the Serenity Prayer and the words quickly appeared on the screen.
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference."
I quickly read the quote and memorized it thinking my mom would appreciate hearing it. Later when she arrived home, I eagerly recited it to her.
"Yeah, that's a good one," she said. "I have a better one though."
"You do? What is it?"
She smiled and took a drag off of her cigarette.
"Fuck it."
Still good advice.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Click Clique
When I got involved in the Burning Man community six years ago, then-friend-and-later-partner Stuart described it as "all the kids who ate lunch by themselves."
That was a perfect fit for me. While I only ate lunch by myself a handful of times (I preferred to escape to the library to avoid awkward social situations), I was definitely not a cool kid. My parents were divorced which was not a common thing. In 4th grade, I decided I wanted large frames for my glasses that were similar to my teacher's, thus producing a bevy of photos where my glasses are almost larger than my face (looking back, I have to ask - why did NO ONE stop me?). I preferred the company of books to other kids. In high school, I participated in the requisite non-conformist-angsty-teenager bullshit and wrote pages and pages of depressing poetry. As a 13 year old, I fantasized about moving out of my mom's house because I thought (and it turns out I was right) I would probably be a better adult than she is. My mom used to say I was "10 going on 40." She was right.
In the beginning, Burning Man was all about reclaiming my lost childhood... which perhaps wasn't as lost as it was compressed into an unnaturally short period of time. I found burners to be much more open than "regular people." I suddenly had a bunch of new friends, lots of things to do on the weekends, and a way to channel my overly adult tendencies into experiences that allowed me to play, grow, and be.
It has been an incredible experience. I've witnessed art that took my breath away, found joy in things I never thought I would, and have met some truly special people. I cannot honestly say that Burning Man changed my life, but the community I've become a part of has profoundly changed me.
Lately though, I've had the chorus running through my head of "One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other". I'm not sure who is the thing and who is the other but the pieces aren't fitting together as nicely anymore. My community is starting to feel like a pair of shoes you dearly love but are falling apart. I've been trying to pinpoint why...
I am feeling bored by the requisite fire spinning and/or hula hooping that seems to happen to at nearly every event. Instead of appreciating those experienced in the art of poi, I want to chuck them at someone's head.
I am annoyed by the "spirituality" (=lack of personal responsibility) that has become rampant. Jaded Cynical Atheist reporting for duty! As someone put it recently... "Just because two things happen close together does not mean they are related." Yes, yes, fucking yes. If I hear that "things happen for a reason" or "such-and-such was not meant to be", I might just anally rape someone with a fire staff. I won't feel bad about it either. I really do try to be tolerant of people with imaginary friends or ridiculous ideas about the world but am failing miserably. Which brings me to my next point...
Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I'm rapidly approaching Get-Off-My-Lawn old person-hood. I haven't yet reached the point where I want to do my crossword puzzle and you should shut the fuck up, but I feel it might be rapidly approaching.
Maybe my inner child has died. Perhaps I will wear black today to commemorate.
And then there are the drugs. Drugs too are rampant in the community. I really have no issue with recreational drug use. But it seems that every event and every party is merely an excuse to listen to loud music, get fucked up and make poor decisions which will later be dismissed as what the universe has destined for you. My hard-won conclusion about this is that interactions with people are ceasing to feel real. The "connections" that happen under the influence don't feel legitimate. I find myself shying away from people I'm interested in getting to know because they're in Saucer-Sized-Pupil-Land. Although I grew up in Nancy's Just Say No era, I don't always. However, I tend to limit my occasional yeses to small groups of people who have also said yes. With close friends and partners, it's more of a bonding experience. And maybe Saucer-Sized-Pupil-Partakers are having a bonding experience with me... I'm just not feeling it.
Finally, there are the people who live for Burning Man. They eat, sleep, and breathe it. You can identify them by the tickers on their Facebook pages as to how many days until the man burns or their condescending references to "the default world." Living for one week in a place that could fairly described as a "dusty hellhole" is utterly depressing to me. I want to shake those people violently and scream "STOP IT." I would also like them to critically evaluate why their default world sucks so much. Ooooh. It's probably the universe's fault.
I'm currently stuck in this weird limbo of not wanting to break up with Burning Man yet not feeling terribly connected to it either. I have committed to attending this year but am waffling as to whether I'll actually go. It upsets me to think that perhaps I've outgrown something that has been so near and dear to my heart for six years. But I have to acknowledge that my heart isn't in it right now. I am truly faking it like a porn star.
That was a perfect fit for me. While I only ate lunch by myself a handful of times (I preferred to escape to the library to avoid awkward social situations), I was definitely not a cool kid. My parents were divorced which was not a common thing. In 4th grade, I decided I wanted large frames for my glasses that were similar to my teacher's, thus producing a bevy of photos where my glasses are almost larger than my face (looking back, I have to ask - why did NO ONE stop me?). I preferred the company of books to other kids. In high school, I participated in the requisite non-conformist-angsty-teenager bullshit and wrote pages and pages of depressing poetry. As a 13 year old, I fantasized about moving out of my mom's house because I thought (and it turns out I was right) I would probably be a better adult than she is. My mom used to say I was "10 going on 40." She was right.
In the beginning, Burning Man was all about reclaiming my lost childhood... which perhaps wasn't as lost as it was compressed into an unnaturally short period of time. I found burners to be much more open than "regular people." I suddenly had a bunch of new friends, lots of things to do on the weekends, and a way to channel my overly adult tendencies into experiences that allowed me to play, grow, and be.
It has been an incredible experience. I've witnessed art that took my breath away, found joy in things I never thought I would, and have met some truly special people. I cannot honestly say that Burning Man changed my life, but the community I've become a part of has profoundly changed me.
Lately though, I've had the chorus running through my head of "One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other". I'm not sure who is the thing and who is the other but the pieces aren't fitting together as nicely anymore. My community is starting to feel like a pair of shoes you dearly love but are falling apart. I've been trying to pinpoint why...
I am feeling bored by the requisite fire spinning and/or hula hooping that seems to happen to at nearly every event. Instead of appreciating those experienced in the art of poi, I want to chuck them at someone's head.
I am annoyed by the "spirituality" (=lack of personal responsibility) that has become rampant. Jaded Cynical Atheist reporting for duty! As someone put it recently... "Just because two things happen close together does not mean they are related." Yes, yes, fucking yes. If I hear that "things happen for a reason" or "such-and-such was not meant to be", I might just anally rape someone with a fire staff. I won't feel bad about it either. I really do try to be tolerant of people with imaginary friends or ridiculous ideas about the world but am failing miserably. Which brings me to my next point...
Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I'm rapidly approaching Get-Off-My-Lawn old person-hood. I haven't yet reached the point where I want to do my crossword puzzle and you should shut the fuck up, but I feel it might be rapidly approaching.
Maybe my inner child has died. Perhaps I will wear black today to commemorate.
And then there are the drugs. Drugs too are rampant in the community. I really have no issue with recreational drug use. But it seems that every event and every party is merely an excuse to listen to loud music, get fucked up and make poor decisions which will later be dismissed as what the universe has destined for you. My hard-won conclusion about this is that interactions with people are ceasing to feel real. The "connections" that happen under the influence don't feel legitimate. I find myself shying away from people I'm interested in getting to know because they're in Saucer-Sized-Pupil-Land. Although I grew up in Nancy's Just Say No era, I don't always. However, I tend to limit my occasional yeses to small groups of people who have also said yes. With close friends and partners, it's more of a bonding experience. And maybe Saucer-Sized-Pupil-Partakers are having a bonding experience with me... I'm just not feeling it.
Finally, there are the people who live for Burning Man. They eat, sleep, and breathe it. You can identify them by the tickers on their Facebook pages as to how many days until the man burns or their condescending references to "the default world." Living for one week in a place that could fairly described as a "dusty hellhole" is utterly depressing to me. I want to shake those people violently and scream "STOP IT." I would also like them to critically evaluate why their default world sucks so much. Ooooh. It's probably the universe's fault.
I'm currently stuck in this weird limbo of not wanting to break up with Burning Man yet not feeling terribly connected to it either. I have committed to attending this year but am waffling as to whether I'll actually go. It upsets me to think that perhaps I've outgrown something that has been so near and dear to my heart for six years. But I have to acknowledge that my heart isn't in it right now. I am truly faking it like a porn star.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Ceiling or Rain Fly?
I never realized how important the progression of a relationship is to me until I was in one that very certainly, unmistakably hit a ceiling. It was, again, my first same-sex relationship and once the fury of the NRE, the hustle and bustle of her relocating to my city from the east coast, and the general "OMG, we're actually together-together now" died down, reality began to set in and I started to understand that without growth, things die.
I also began to truly understand that without the cooperation and support of our spouses, we would find ourselves stuck, our noses pressed up against a pane of glass that wasn't going anywhere.
The hows and whys are unimportant to this topic but things began to fall apart about a year into our relationship. My husband was still mostly supportive of my relationship (he felt that she wasn't treating me terribly well) but he was disillusioned with her and no longer wished to spend time with the two of us. Her husband and I went through several periods of trying to reconnect until finally settling into a destructive pattern of doing our best to pretend the other didn't exist. The friendship between the guys had soured long ago. She and I were on an island and there really wasn't much to eat.
Simply being together was a struggle. Spending time with me became a power struggle with her husband. I deeply missed the times when we were able to be with each other and our spouses without stomping on eggshells. It was heart-breaking, educational, and exhausting.
Without any room to grow and very limited air, my interest in staying in the relationship began to dwindle. The love was still there but the respect and compatibility were fading fast. It was a paradox to feel suffocated by something that was so important to me. The end was definitely in sight and it was just a matter of when I chose to acknowledge it.
I compare all of that to my poly dynamic now. Edward, Stuart, and I have been in a vee for 5 years at the end of this month. It hasn't really occurred to me until recently that there might be a ceiling. And upon further reflection, I'd say it's more of a rain fly. While we have no plans in the immediate future to combine households, I can't say it's out of the question. Most importantly, I'd say that any important plans definitely include all three of us and that, perhaps, is the major difference.
The guys have a deep love and respect for each other and the respective relationships. When Stuart and I are out enjoying a nice meal, we miss Edward because he's such a foodie. When Edward and I were out on our planned "date" in The Netherlands, we missed Stuart while we were enjoying beers on a patio because the three of had enjoyed doing that together previously on the trip.
Edward is easily the Poster Husband of Poly. On Stuart's birthday while we were in Europe, he was packing my things so I had the time and the freedom to go celebrate with Stuart in the naughtiest of ways. I came back to our stateroom with a bundle of clothes under my arm to find most of my things packed and ready for disembarkation the following morning. On days when I've felt overwhelmed and consequently depressed by the demands of loving two people, he's snuggled me, stroked my hair, and suggested I go live with Stuart full time for a while.
I suppose the moral to this story is that ceilings aren't necessarily part of the package. Sometimes it's more like a rain fly. And those come off pretty easily.
I also began to truly understand that without the cooperation and support of our spouses, we would find ourselves stuck, our noses pressed up against a pane of glass that wasn't going anywhere.
The hows and whys are unimportant to this topic but things began to fall apart about a year into our relationship. My husband was still mostly supportive of my relationship (he felt that she wasn't treating me terribly well) but he was disillusioned with her and no longer wished to spend time with the two of us. Her husband and I went through several periods of trying to reconnect until finally settling into a destructive pattern of doing our best to pretend the other didn't exist. The friendship between the guys had soured long ago. She and I were on an island and there really wasn't much to eat.
Simply being together was a struggle. Spending time with me became a power struggle with her husband. I deeply missed the times when we were able to be with each other and our spouses without stomping on eggshells. It was heart-breaking, educational, and exhausting.
Without any room to grow and very limited air, my interest in staying in the relationship began to dwindle. The love was still there but the respect and compatibility were fading fast. It was a paradox to feel suffocated by something that was so important to me. The end was definitely in sight and it was just a matter of when I chose to acknowledge it.
I compare all of that to my poly dynamic now. Edward, Stuart, and I have been in a vee for 5 years at the end of this month. It hasn't really occurred to me until recently that there might be a ceiling. And upon further reflection, I'd say it's more of a rain fly. While we have no plans in the immediate future to combine households, I can't say it's out of the question. Most importantly, I'd say that any important plans definitely include all three of us and that, perhaps, is the major difference.
The guys have a deep love and respect for each other and the respective relationships. When Stuart and I are out enjoying a nice meal, we miss Edward because he's such a foodie. When Edward and I were out on our planned "date" in The Netherlands, we missed Stuart while we were enjoying beers on a patio because the three of had enjoyed doing that together previously on the trip.
Edward is easily the Poster Husband of Poly. On Stuart's birthday while we were in Europe, he was packing my things so I had the time and the freedom to go celebrate with Stuart in the naughtiest of ways. I came back to our stateroom with a bundle of clothes under my arm to find most of my things packed and ready for disembarkation the following morning. On days when I've felt overwhelmed and consequently depressed by the demands of loving two people, he's snuggled me, stroked my hair, and suggested I go live with Stuart full time for a while.
I suppose the moral to this story is that ceilings aren't necessarily part of the package. Sometimes it's more like a rain fly. And those come off pretty easily.
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