A rant about some feminine matters.

No, this blog is not about my period. At least not yet. Sometimes my posts end up in a very different place than I began, so really it's anyone's guess as to what topic this post will end on. But for now it is not about my period. It's about feminism. Well, kind of. 

Okay, so I'm a long-time Sex and the City fan. Nod, fist pump or groan here, whatever your stance, I don't really give a shit. I like it, and while I respect people who don't like it (to each their own and all that), I don't really understand people who adamantly don't like the show. Unless you're a man. Or a woman who doesn't like awesome TV shows with full-frontal nudity. I maintain that this show offers a bevy of insight to the female psyche. And on another level I just like seeing what bat-shit crazy outfits SJP dares to wear in public. And why does she wear a bra with everything? Her boobs aren't that big. Sometimes you can forego a little extra support to avoid everyone seeing your lacy black bra hanging out of your dress. Or just wear a strapless! If you can afford couture clothing and $400 shoes that are never duplicated in an episode, you can afford a friggin' strapless bra.

If you've never seen the show (gasp!), I will fill you in. There are four women that live in Manhattan and are best friends. Carrie, who is a writer, wears ridiculous clothing and spends more than she makes. She's small and thin, kooky and witty, and has issues with men. Samantha, who is a publicist, is the oldest of the bunch and has sex with anyone with a hard body (no pun intended). She's sassy, brassy, and--being the whore of the group--has issues with men. Charlotte, who originally is the manager/curator of an art gallery and eventually becomes a housewife, is incredibly uptight and kinda prude. She comes from old money and is often aghast at the outlandish behavior of her friends, but is sweet and has issues with men. Miranda, who is a lawyer, is the sarcastic redheaded ball-buster who delivers one-liners like it's her job. She's the most self-aware of the bunch and has issues with men. Cue hilarious antics regarding common relationship and life struggles.

Moving right along in this blog post that wasn't supposed to be about Sex and the City, there's an episode in the second season where the four women are sitting together at lunch/brunch/coffee/vats of alcohol discussing their recent relationship woes/struggles/victories/embarrassing sexual escapades. Miranda, the one that everyone thought was a lesbian until she let her hair grow out and had a baby with a man, gets frustrated and tries to change the subject. When nobody can stray from their man topic, she gets pissed off and storms out after delivering the following thought:   

"How did it happen that four such smart women have nothing to talk about but boyfriends? It's like seventh grade with bank accounts."

BAHA! 7th grade with bank accounts. Oh, Miranda, you slay me. 

But seriously... have you ever noticed that women talk about men? Like... a lot? 

It's arguable that the reason women talk about men is because we as a gender are very focused on relationships, romantic or otherwise, and our interactions with other people. I have my own theories, mostly that the majority of (straight) women get their validation from male attention, and blah blah blah something something we need better hobbies and stuff. Don't get me wrong, there's no shame in discussing men or your relationships with them, as long as we learn from things and grow. So often we don't do either of those things, and we just get stuck on some kind of emotional plateau. Worrying about the difference between "love you" and "love ya" is fine in high school, but as a 28 year-old, perhaps you should be investing your time elsewhere, like worrying about whether or not there will be a 3rd Sex and the City movie (I love this franchise, but come ON people. Enough is enough). 

The root of this rant is a radio show I heard while driving home tonight. It was a radio station that plays pop and mostly top 40 music, so I'm not entirely sure what I expected, but I was a little disgusted with the discussion happening between the three women on the air. First they were talking about whether or not they "can do" monogamy. One of them came out with this gem:  "I really enjoy being able to say, 'next, next, next' to guys and do what I want with them and then move on without any emotional attachment. But I mean, not in a slutty way." 

Wrap you head around that while I move on to the next part.

They segued into the topic of flirting vs. hitting on. Let me say that again. They were debating the difference between a man flirting with a woman, and a man hitting on a woman, and whether one is closer to adultery than the other. The hostess of the show maintained that flirting is harmless and is just something men do to be friendly to women, but that hitting on a woman is a clear move toward sex and is punishable if you're in a committed relationship. She also said that women are so often "desperate enough" to "misread signals" of men who are "only wanting to flirt a little bit". 

.............Am I the only one flabbergasted by this entire concept? Yeah, okay, I'm not saying that a guy who is married should be sent to the stocks for being friendly to another woman (unless he's my husband), and I GUESS if you consider being friendly the same thing as flirting (which I don't), you shouldn't worry about it. But to say that women are so stupid that they shouldn't get worked up by a man showing interest and being friendly to them? That is both insulting AND goes against the idea that "YOUR HUSBAND IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER DON'T DISCOUNT ANY MAN YOU SHOULD KEEP UP YOUR STANDARDS BUT DON'T BE SO PICKY THAT YOU WIND UP ALONE AND MISERABLE WITH 34 CATS!!!!" that this radio show also seems to promote. Can't we please just stop all these inane conversations and confusing ourselves? As if women don't have enough to worry about between the menstruating and the being arrested for naming rapists, let's add another level of bullshit called DIFFERENTIATING BETWEEN FLIRTING AND HITTING ON. Oh my GOD I want to smash something right now. Seriously, I haven't been this worked up over a topic on this ridiculous show since the hostess told a caller that her gaining weight was the reason her marriage is falling apart. Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn't listen to it anymore, but it's like a train-wreck. It makes me sad but I can't look away.

My friend is always telling me how lucky I am to be married and out of the singles' scene. I usually brush these thoughts aside because married life is not always perfect, but if it means that I have to have one fewer conversation about stupid shit like whether a guy flirting with me is actually interested in me or whether I'm just misreading his signals and holy crap this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, I wholeheartedly agree. 

Love means never having to say, "I need some privacy so I can poop."

When I was pregnant and visualizing what life would be like as a mother, I was worried about a lot of things. What childbirth would be like, would I poop on the delivery table, would I have to have a c-section, how I would survive at home the first few weeks basically not knowing whether anything I was doing was right or wrong. I knew things would change when Clara came. I knew that I would have to sacrifice a lot of things, like sleep, social life (ha), quiet time and freedom. What I didn't realize was that, between a baby and a dog and two cats, I would NEVER be alone in the bathroom again. Ever. 

Think about that for a second. Never before have I appreciated that alone time as much as I do now, because I rarely get it. Any time I need to use the bathroom at home, I have to turn it into a game. I find Clara and get her to chase me down the hall, which she loves doing. I get her to follow me to the bathroom so that I can pee and keep an eye on her. This means the door never closes. Usually I will be going to the bathroom and she will be wandering around in the bathroom, climbing into the shower stall or trying to climb up into my lap, or grabbing my glasses off the counter and making a run for it. Now that we have a dog, Ruby joins in. This morning they both were fighting over my glasses (DKNY makes some very durable frames, by the way). If Clara is asleep, Ruby whines at the door until I let her in, and then she just lies on my feet until I finish up, waits for me to flush, then drinks out of the toilet. If Ruby happens to be outside and Clara is asleep, Callie (one of the cats) comes in and sticks her paws under the door until I let her in, then she sits in the shower stall across from the toilet and just stares at me. Oh, what a glamorous life I lead. 

I really love being a mother, but if you ever want to be able to poop alone, you probably shouldn't have kids.  Or a dog. Or a cat. You should probably just live alone in the woods. But watch out for bears. 

Reformation and Reclamation

Ever since The Great Coldstone Shaming of 2012, I have been really contemplating things in my life. I mean, I've always been a very pensive person and have always spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on my life and the things around me, but I have really been examining my choices, particularly regarding my weight and my personal development. I have been thinking about school, weight, career aspirations (or lack thereof), our family, and trying to figure out what really makes me happy and what I need to do to capture more contentment in my life.

I have a good life. I have an amazing husband and the most beautiful and funny little girl you could ask for. We have a nice home and family around us, and we don't go to sleep hungry. As difficult as it is for us to maintain, I have been blessed enough to be able to stay home with my daughter instead of having to truck her off to daycare, and I am appropriately grateful for all these things. But that doesn't mean that I don't have regrets, frustrations or heartache. 

My personal struggles are not particularly secret. I've dealt with depression and anxiety for a long time, weight issues for a shorter time, and both of these things have set me up for "issues" of other kinds, like uncontrollable spending habits and a complete disregard for educational authority. ......Okay, so the educational thing is more of a choice than a victim circumstance, but I maintain that it is at least related. But seriously? Shit has been hard.

Let's begin with the obvious. My weight. I haven't always been fat. Those who have known me for a long time will remember that in junior high and even high school I was pretty much the same size as everyone else, even though I always felt way bigger. Well, except my boobs, those have always been ridiculously advanced for my age. But the point is that I didn't come from childhood obesity or anything. I think when it started was when I got my license and started getting fast food. I was very active in high school, being a member of something like 13 performing groups, playing in a community soccer league and working as a nanny during the summer. I was able to eat mostly what I wanted because I was busy enough to burn it off. I actually remember thinking to myself at one point, "Hey, maybe I'm like those girls who can eat whatever they want and never get fat!" Fast forward 10 years and this is the perfect plot to a movie featuring Adam Sandler dressed as a woman in a fat suit. 

My personal delusions aside, I guess I just never learned how to nutritionally take care of myself. I have always eaten what I wanted when I wanted it. My weight has been steadily increasing since I hit my 20s, and I have attempted many different diets (Weight Watchers, LA Weightloss, Paleo, Smoothie diets, Veganism, etc). They never work because, ultimately, I don't want to follow them. Weight Watchers has a saying that goes, "Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels". What a crock of shit! Shrimp pasta with garlic-butter sauce tastes way better than being thin feels! Anything with ice cream and caramel sauce tastes better than being thin feels! And pizza? Well...let's stop this before it gets dirty. My point is that when I was thin, I didn't feel thin. I didn't feel pretty most of the time, except when I was receiving validation from a guy, which is a whole different can of emotionally insecure worms. Being "thin" never did anything for me except make me feel like I wasn't thin enough. Being fat has a certain comfort to it. I don't really have to worry about trying too hard because I will still be fat regardless of how successful I am. I will get looks from people either way, but being fat usually elicits a look of pity rather than one of jealousy-bred hatred. Though it may have been unintentional, I definitely chose to get fat. And I have known this for a long time. 

But having Clara has changed some things. Before, I didn't really LIKE being fat but I didn't care enough to do anything about it. I had a guy who loved me and thought I was beautiful regardless of how many chins I had. My friends were still my amazing friends who laugh at my jokes, and I could still find clothes SOMEWHERE that I fit into and felt cute in. Despite being morbidly obese, I'm actually pretty "healthy". I don't have high blood pressure, I don't have terribly high cholesterol or glucose levels, I don't have gallstones and I can still haul my fat ass around on foot when I need to and get a reasonable distance before tiring out or quitting. But is that truly health? I think we all know that it isn't. Now that I have a little girl to think about, I realized that if I don't change my habits, she is going to develop them and go through a childhood and adolescence and probably adulthood with weight battles and health problems and that is the last thing I want for her. I might deal with being a fat adult, but I don't know how I would have dealt with being a fat kid. As it  was, when I was going through puberty and growing a fuller body frame, some boy in my class started calling me "flubber" and I wanted to deck him every time, but I just cried instead. I don't want that for her. 

So we have been making changes. We eat fast food sparingly instead of regularly. I try to cook every night and make our own bread so that what we're eating isn't completely full of preservatives and chemicals. We are making an effort to drink as much water as we can stand (with the heat that isn't much of a battle, thankfully), and now that we have the dog I have been trying to play with her and walk her as much as I can. But things aren't going as planned. Now that I actually WANT to lose weight and be healthier, I am finding myself physically barred from doing so. My knee hurts really, really badly whenever I walk or stand for more than a few minutes. My shins ache, my calves are cramping up, my feet cramp up into claws that I can't un-clench and my back huuuuuuurts a lot. A lot. This sucks and I'm hating myself for letting it get this far. 

Cut to scene of me sitting in front of my computer, researching LAP band surgery and eating cookies, a completely typical Monday morning activity. Sigh. If only it were that easy. In any case, I want to change. I want to be better than I am and that involves losing weight, finishing my annoying educational goals (at least the short-term goals) and working on my emotional health. Thank God for support groups and comedic memoirs to get me through these difficult times.

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Dog days

If anyone had told me before that dogs are basically goats with less annoying voices, I probably would have thought twice about getting one.

A long time ago I was house-sitting in a mansion for my bosses. This place was gigantic and they had four kids, so they had alarms installed on every door to the house. Whenever a door would open, a beeping sound would go through the whole house, and sound again when the door closed. I had taken a bath in the jacuzzi tub because I am an absolute sucker for jets. I cannot pass them up. Sometime during my revelry someone came into the house, but I didn't hear the doors. It was late at night, probably around midnight. I was climbing into bed in this ridiculously huge master bedroom with floor to ceiling windows, and Rufus, the family's harlequin Great Dane, started growling. I don't know if you've ever heard a very large dog growl, but it is scary. It sounds like thunder. I was instantly anxious and when he got up and walked to the door with his fur standing on edge I started freaking out. I listened carefully and heard a soft rattling sound coming from the kitchen down the hall.. I started talking really loudly and shouted at Rufus to "GO GET 'EM!" He went bounding through the house, barking that terrifying bark, and I armed myself with a golf club that had been sitting near the bed (why is it that rich people feel the need to sleep with their putters?) There was a door slam, barking, claws scraping against the hardwood floor, then I heard the door alarm sound once, then twice. Whoever it was had left the house.

Ever since that incident I have never felt comfortable being alone in a house at night. Now that I have my daughter, I'm especially uncomfortable with the idea. Whenever my husband is out of town for work, I am somehow convinced that someone is breaking into our house or scraping on the window, and I end up just standing in the hallway, clutching my cell phone, debating about whether or not I should call the police. Usually my humiliation at the idea of reporting a bush scraping the house siding wins out and I just go to sleep and have nightmares. However, when my husband mentioned to me that he was going to be working out of town a lot this summer, we decided to get a dog. We have two cats and I love them almost as if they were my children, but seriously, cats are terrible in a crisis situation. They sleep really heavily and if they happen to wake up, they just run into the garage. THANKS A LOT, assholes. FYI, nobody will be here to feed you when I get killed by a jumpy burglar.

So anyway, we adopted a puppy from the local animal shelter. Her name is Ruby. She's cute. She's happy. She's affectionate. She lets my baby crawl all over her with very little complaint. She eats everything that gets left on the floor, and some things that are close enough to the counter's edge for her to swipe. Everybody's heard about dogs eating shoes and homework and all that, but I didn't realize they actually EAT things. I thought they just chewed things up and left them in pieces. No. Eat. Eaten. Digested. Pooped out in the backyard.

The list of things Ruby has eaten so far include a shoe, a pillow, a measuring cup, a plastic sand shovel, a rope toy, part of our bed comforter, a tennis ball, pine cones, a snail shell, and a refrigerator magnet. This is not unlike my daughter, who will also try to eat anything she finds on the floor, including a very disturbing incident where she ate a piece of cat poop that she mysteriously found. More on that later.

Thus far, owning a dog has solidified my belief that I am mostly a cat person. Here's the thing. I love dogs. I think they are cute and fun and awesome animals. I just happen to appreciate the independent nature of cats more than the loyal and somewhat dumb personality of dogs. Dogs are so needy, and they freak out if they don't get their energy out and they have smelly breath and insist on covering you in drool. My dog also thinks she's a small dog/cat/parrot and perches on the back of the couch around my shoulders. It's funny until she gets my neck with one of her gigantic claws. It's not AS hard as I thought it would be, but owning a dog (more specifically a puppy) is like having another baby... only that baby can jump and reach your face with her tongue and runs as fast as a car and tries to eat your cats. Also? Training a dog is a bitch. I just get so frustrated when she doesn't listen to me the first 400 times I say something (see the parallelism of dogs and babies?) and I eventually just get pissed off and put her outside. But then when I let her back in she is so excited to see me that she needs to jump! and bark! and lick! and nip! and roll! and tummy rub! tummy rub! tummy rub! and chase the cats! and this goes on for awhile.

Sigh. I don't regret getting Ruby. She really has been a nice edition to the family so far, except for the stress that the cats are under. One cat bolts into the garage as soon as he catches a whiff of the dog, and the other cat that will actually stick up for herself doesn't have claws, so it isn't that effective. Ah well. Everyone tells me that it gets easier once they start picking up on their obedience training, so I guess I just have to be patient. Grumble, grumble. In the mean time I will just have to be satisfied that there is yet another creature in my house who wants nothing more than to sleep on my feet and get belly rubs. And it IS pretty cute when Clara feeds her things from her high-chair tray. And snuggles her. And when Ruby's shepherd instincts kick in and she tries to herd Clara down the hall. And when she jumps into the baby pool and snaps at the water.

.....yeah, okay, maybe there's hope for me becoming a dog person.

My 260 pound life. Ok, 262.

I have had a lot of strangers say some really hateful things to me throughout my life. I will never understand why, but I literally have been walking down the street or through a bar and had people pass within one or two feet of me, look me dead in the eye and say things like "ewwwww!" or "what an ugly bitch." It's pretty horrible, and every time it has happened I have been left stunned and confused. Sometimes it's almost funny, like when I was working at a department store and encountered a little girl who looked at me, screamed "monster!!" and then ran away, or when a clearly clueless guy asked me when I was due (years before I actually got pregnant). I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor about myself, especially considering I'm the one who controls my weight (or doesn't control it), and self-deprecation is definitely my specialty, but there are some things that just cut like a knife.

Tonight I was in Coldstone because I had been fighting a sweet tooth all day. I know, I know, I went out buying ice cream so I was basically asking to be called fat, but whatever. Listen to the damn story. I was buying a couple containers of different flavors to share with my husband and roommate and a friend was in town so I kinda figured there'd be a freezer raid at some point. So I was stocking up. While the girl was packing my order, I was watching this adorable little boy in line behind me. He was probably about 4 and was super excited about all the different flavors he got to choose from. He was there with his dad, which for some reason made me smile. Until he turned around and stared at me.

Boy: Is there a baby in your tummy?

(this is not the first time I've been asked this so it seriously didn't phase me. Plus this kid had the cutest little lisp so I just smiled)

Me: Nope, not anymore.

Boy: Why not?

Me: Because she got too big so she had to come out.

Boy: Why did she have to come out?

Dad: This is not a conversation I want to have with him any time soon.

Me: Oh, ok. Sorry.

Boy: Why is your tummy so fat?

Dad: Trevor! Don't be rude! I'm so sorry, miss.

Me, laughing: Oh it's ok. I guess I've just had too much ice cream.

Boy: It's a REALLY big tummy!

Dad, turning beet red and yanking the boy behind him: TREVOR! I am so, so sorry.

Bitch girl at the counter: So did you still want all three containers?


The most embarrassing part is that I was in an ice cream shop, of all places, and it was full of seemingly fit people. Nobody else in there was fat, except me. And I was ordering three fucking cartons of ice cream. Needless to say, I canceled the third and only got two, which is still embarrassing given the situation, but I just felt like shit. I was spiritually crushed by a 4 year-old. I kept smiling and reassuring the dad that it was okay, kids say the darndest things, blah blah blah, because it wasn't his fault and he was very clearly mortified. I always said that as embarrassing it is to get asked if you're pregnant when you aren't, it has to be even more embarrassing when you're the one asking.

I left there trying to hold my head high and act like I wasn't bothered. I think I deserve an Oscar for my performance, quite frankly, because I cried on the way home. I didn't eat any ice cream. Instead I told my husband the story, took some Nyquil and started blogging. Because that's the fastest way to stop being called fat, to take OTC cold medicine and sit on your ass feeling sorry for yourself.

Whatever. Baby (not in my tummy) steps.

Sweet mother of God.

There was a time when I never thought I would be a mother. Ever. I went through a period of time (basically up until Eric proposed to me) where I was literally incapable of picturing myself getting married or having children. I guess I had been through so many failed relationships and played the dating game so long that I just assumed that would be my whole life. I wasn't in love with the idea but I had come to terms with it. Then I got married, shortly after that I found out I was pregnant and my whole world turned upside down in the best way possible.

I realize that it's annoying for people who haven't experienced something to read about other people spewing their personal experiences and gushing about how wonderful something is. Oooooh, marriage is soooooo greeeeeeeeat, being a mother is sooooooo amaaaaaaaaaazing! Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! I get it. It's annoying. So you might want to stop reading now.

No, seriously though, these admittedly wonderful things are not flawless. There are some women who appear to having everything all together. They are in great shape. Their houses are spotless. They wear clothing that is both classy and on trend. Their husbands have awesome jobs and college degrees. Their hair always looks like they just stepped out of a salon. Their child(ren) are adorable and also wearing trendy and adorable clothing. They have nap schedules down to a science. They never raise their voices. They are pissing me off.

Okay, these things are not what they seem. Even these stepford mothers have bad days. They might not broadcast them to the world, but they have bad days where their hair is flat, their kids get sick and barf all over their trendy clothes, they don't have the energy to scrapbook or cook dinner so they just order pizza and leave the dishes in the sink. It happens. They might not write blogs about it, but it happens. So stop getting down on yourself. K? Thanks.

I myself have many of these days. Granted I didn't start in the same scenario as described above.... I'm seriously overweight. My house is typically pretty trashed. I wear clothing that is usually found on clearance at Target or Lane Bryant. My husband has an awesome job and a college degree, but I have neither and it makes me feel inferior. My hair always looks like crap because I am perpetually growing it out or too lazy to style it. My child is definitely adorable and is usually wearing adorable clothing, but most of it is hand-me-down or bought from a used clothing store, and I often use her cute appearance as a reason why I don't have to try as hard on my own. We almost have naps down but for 9 months there were basically no naps, which is hellish. I raise my voice... um... a lot. Like... a lot. Not necessarily at my daughter, but just in general. At the cats, at other drivers, at the radio, at myself... yeah. I do not have it all "together".

Every time someone asks me what it's like to be a mom, I immediately think to myself, "I couldn't possibly describe it", so I just say, "It's the hardest and best thing I've ever done." Which is true. Clara is the most amazing thing I've ever done in my entire life. Granted she was an unexpected surprise (don't rely on birth control alone, friends), my pregnancy was kinda crappy and my birth experience was downright traumatic, I wouldn't trade her for anything in the world. Even when she screams at me for hours because I can't figure out what will make her feel better. Even when she rips out chunks of my swiftly-graying hair. Even when she refuses to fall asleep without me rocking her for hours on end. Even when I think I'm going to go crazy and put my head through a window...  the good moments (and there are hundreds of them every single day) make up for all the unpleasant ones, ten-fold.

If you are in the market for a child, I suggest taking your time. Live your life, experience all the things you want to experience like travel or daredevil kicks, anything that you can't see yourself doing while toting a kid around with you. Don't lose heart about falling in love, because I firmly believe that people who are wonderful together will always connect sooner or later. But if you want to be a mother... please, be a mother, and be a damn good one.