The Goodest Boy That Ever Was

It's been 17 days and my immediate, desperate grief has lessened enough that I can talk about it without my eyes blurring over. This might be long, because our relationship was, and because there was a lot of love and adventure in that little 25-pound body.

We met in April of 2005. He was seven weeks old. Tiny. Snuggly. Bug-eyed. We spent his first weekend with us at the Oregon coast where he was immediately spoiled. He didn't want to sleep alone in his crate. He wanted to sleep next to me under the bed covers. I let him so his tiny yelping wouldn't bother our neighbors in the hotel rooms next door. He never slept anywhere else. The men in my life quickly adapted.

He followed me everywhere. It was instant love for both of us. He curled up on my feet while I washed dishes. Sat in my lap wherever I sat. Begged to be carried when the walk was too long and slept on my shoulder.

He wasn't named for a couple of weeks. It felt like such a responsibility, naming a personality. He was Bugsy for a few days, but that wasn't quite right and I finally settled on Rembrandt. Remy. AKA Rembo, Duck-pig-frog-dog.

When we added Ruby to the family, he was the best big brother. He took his toys to her and laid them in front of her. He sat quietly in his jealousy as she shoved hers at us, insisting on being the center of attention. He took the back seat without complaint, gratefully accepting what attention was left over for him. When they first curled up together in front of the fireplace, my heart burst with love for them both.

I had two shadows. Yin and Yang. Where she was temperamental and jealous, he was calm and accepting. Where she hated anything else on four legs, he was the one I could trust. He could go anywhere. He humped, but never harmed.

The adventures we had! He ran along the coast, digging and rolling in loose, warm sand. He rolled in a dead fish in Leavenworth while traveling with my parents. We went on countless walks up the butte and along the river trail, checking pee-mail and leaving return messages. He had a girlfriend, a white boxer as goofy as him. He walked in the 4th of July Pet Parade, rolled in the grass during Sunday concerts in the summer. He was born to captain a boat and floated gently down the river on lazy weekends.He won a pair of goggles at the Puppy Poker day and was a hit at every Halloween event he attended. He was a spider, a shark, a rock star...

He was my rock. He was the love of my life. I lost other loves, one that hurt more than I could imagine living through. But he was always there. Always my constant. His banal routine of eating, peeing, pooping, eating, pooping kept me moving on days I pulled myself through molasses. He never cared how red or swollen my eyes were or how long it had been since I showered. He didn't judge my depression, he simply sat next to me quietly, rubbing his nose into my hand to remind me that he loved me. Always.

I say he was the goodest dog because he wasn't the best. He was neurotic. He hated hugs, they suffocated him. It wasn't until the last year that he would allow me to wrap my arms around him. In his old age, he was a real asshole. He'd pee right on the carpet, looking me defiantly and directly in the eyes. He opened the garbage can in the bathroom to help himself to tasty morsels and fought me for them. He pooped q-tips regularly. He slept right on my shins and my feet and dared to act rejected when I tried to kick him off. I couldn't suffocate him, but he was okay with cutting off my circulation.

When his lump first showed up, I dismissed it as the same kind of fatty nothing he had a few years back. When it grew, and he started losing weight, we went to the vet. It was the first of many over the last few months. He was x-rayed and ultra-sounded and finally diagnosed with Cushing's, not cancer. Because he was 12, I didn't want to put  him through unnecessary surgery so I waited. While I waited, Stanley Dwight grew. And grew. I waited until after vacation so my poor petsitter wouldn't have to deal with his aftercare. I didn't expect that it would be a near emergency when I got back.

He made it through that surgery. He wore the Cone of Shame, which we renamed the Cone of Sadness because it depressed him greatly to have to sleep on the floor with his messy butt rather than the cozy bed where he could crush my shins. There was a small setback, but then he was healing beautifully. He had shiny, new pink skin and his hair was coming back. He seemed to be putting on weight. Our vet was so impressed she released us from weekly check-in visits.

And then, not even a week later, Stanley Dwight was back. With a fucking vengeance. When we talked to Dr. Fox, the conversation turned to chemo and Choices. I went home, pulled my boy on the couch with me, and curled into a ball. The next night, I tried draining the growing, liquid-filled lump. He didn't cry, because he was the Goodest Boy, but he was clearly uncomfortable. I hated myself for doing what felt like torture to him and making him so miserable. I couldn't let that be our relationship. That night he paced the floor. We didn't sleep. He was constantly jumping off the bed to drink water and I had to stay awake to help him back up each time. The next morning he was the saddest I'd ever seen him. He was telling me that it was Time.

I went that afternoon to get him pain meds. I changed his check-in appointment the following Monday to the worst kind of appointment. I didn't just cry in the car. I wailed. It was the beginning of the deepest grief that I always knew would come but could never be ready for.

I canceled everything I had scheduled for the weekend. I spent every minute I could with him. I second-guessed, thinking it was Too Soon. And then his back leg slipped out from under him on Saturday. On Sunday, he showed obvious internal bleeding. He couldn't get on the furniture so I put down blankets and pillows and we laid next to him watching tv, Ruby curled around his dog bed. We fed him pizza and stuffed cheesy bread. He wasn't very snuggly because of his discomfort, but Sunday night he acquiesced and little spooned, with his head on my arm. I told him I loved him countless times through my tears.

On Monday, December 11th, Devon and I loaded him into the car and went to McDonald's. He had a cheeseburger, fries, chicken nuggets, and a chocolate shake. He snarfed it all down like he thought we would change our minds and realize that we were making a huge mistake.

We then drove to our vet's office where Jen met us. His favorite vet tech came in and I will be eternally grateful for that. She cried while I was still trying to hold it in, and told me that I had done more than most people would have. I insisted that she look at his internal bruising and bleeding, at the cankle where liquid was now pooling into his little stick leg. Asking until the very end that I was doing the Right Thing. She assured me that I was. That it was okay and right to say goodbye.

They gave us a small button so that we could call them back for each step of the process, giving us what time we needed. I kept asking Devon if she was ready because I wasn't. He woofed down a treat as the needle went in. I pulled him to my lap before it really took effect and cradled his little bony head with those big ears. In true Boston fashion, he snored and farted to the very end, which had us laughing through our tears. And there were so many tears. I told him over and over that I loved him, that he was the goodest boy, that I was so grateful for him. I don't know what he heard or what he understood, but I hope he felt how loved he was. Because he was. Even when he was being an ass, I loved him more than I could express but less than he loved me back.

As gravely heartbroken as I was, I was filled with gratitude. He was loved by everyone he made friends with. I had messages and texts from those who cared about him. I was lucky enough to be there with him, to know that he transitioned peacefully. And god, was I lucky to share my life with him! He might have been an asshole, but I will never, ever be as good at heart as he was. No person can. The only thing he ever wanted from me was love and everything I have wouldn't have been enough of what he deserved. 

I'm finding what a complicated beast my grief is. It isn't as deep and simple as I thought it would be. There are so many times I feel perfectly fine and I wonder what is wrong with me. I feel guilty that I don't feel worse. All the time. I hope he's not watching so that he doesn't think I don't care. But then I was caught off guard going to Petsmart for gifts for Dobby, Ruby, and her cousins. It was my last chore before Christmas and the Santa Stew and pie looked so cute and made the perfect Christmas dinner for them and then I realized that Remy wouldn't get any and I cried. I cried until I saw the thickest, most gorgeous boy bulldog and went to pet him and had the thought that Remy sent him to me. At just that moment because he knew what would cheer me up. I laughed too loud and too long at a corny moment in a Hallmark movie. I cried at the studio when Freya had us bent over and laced through a chair. Being over the chair had me feeling claustrophobic, but talking about how that exercise is good for opening up and being vulnerable pushed me into child's pose so that I could hide my tears.

I don't know that it's getting easier because it's still too soon and I'm finding there are small reminders that nearly bring me to my knees when I least expect it. I know that I will miss him dearly for all the rest of my days. I've been told that he's playing happily now with Candy and Mila and Maria and Tank and Lulu and anyone else he met. And I know he is, and that's okay. But I also take great comfort in knowing that he will be waiting for me, that my own mortality is so much less scary because I will see my boy again. I have friends and relatives that have passed, but only my boy makes death seem comforting. It's a relationship that just can't be matched by anything or anyone.

Dear god or whatever or whoever he's with now, I am so fucking grateful that I got 12+ years with the Goodest Boy. The most handsome boy. Please love him for me until I can feel his puppy kisses again.

Like many of you, I'm still sifting through my emotions over what happened this weekend in Virginia. I am angry and sad and confused and lost. Looking for some sort of hope to latch onto, I posted on Facebook that the driver of the car was arrested and denied bail and that one of the "protesters" lost his job. I know my friends are sad and I wanted to offer something encouraging. I've seen others do the same, especially during our TN session of congress. There were posts about hate bill and health care bills that were killed or voted against. It helped us to feel like we were making a difference.

What I didn't expect at all, and what completely blindsided me, was for a member of the burlesque community to call me out on it. What the fuck?? I can't offer some sliver of hope?? She is a woman of color and insisted that I was spreading dangerous rhetoric, that my intention and attitude was wrong. So, immediately, I was defensive. I was told to do some research. And it all totally confused me. I've read books, I've watched films, I've been to and participated in discussions with women of color. Last year I attended a BLM vigil and studied up on how I should behave to be supportive while letting it be about black people and not white allies. I thought, what else can I do??

In my anger and frustration, I allowed the incident to escalate. My friends stepped in to try to defend me. My white ally friends chastised me, at least in my eyes at the time. I thought why even try when nothing I do is good enough??

For two days I felt a rock in my stomach. I questioned why I felt so bad and so angry if I hadn't done anything wrong. I reread comments and posts. On the second day I apologized for half of what I said. I sent a message to the woman who had called me out, trying to explain my viewpoint, my history, how I cared. And I apologized. I thought, okay, that should do it. Because I'm a good person. I do care. If someone can't see that, what else can I do?

And the rock remained in the pit of my stomach. Something was still bothering me. There was a shame I couldn't get past and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

Last night I watched this video. I watched a black woman scream from terror and disbelief and emotional pain and distress. I saw a black man insisting that they didn't want that group in their town, in his town, in his home. I saw waves of white people filled with hate, claiming they were fulfilling their rightful part of history.

And I got it. And fuck, it hurt.

Posting that bills are voted down is not equivalent to trying to find anything good from this past weekend. Hey, one KKK was arrested. Yippee!!! Hey, look how all of those white men can push against a line of police and nothing happens to them!! Look how those men are allowed to carry torches and firearms and how our fucking president excuses it all. Gee, that's progress.

No, I was wrong. I didn't want to be. But this wasn't the time to rally and talk about  how things are going to get better. Not when, right now, they are getting so much worse. People of color are truly terrified by what is happening. Because it isn't new. It never has been for them. And now we have a "leader" who all but endorses it. I try to understand, but I can't really fathom what it feels like to walk through life being hated by such a large group of one's own country.

I don't know how this will end. I know how I want it to end. I thought we were better than all of this. I didn't really think we would elect a misogynistic, racist, completely ignorant buffoon for a president. But we did. I didn't think KKK and neo-Nazi groups would organize. Or militarize themselves. But they have. I keep thinking it will stop. This nightmare will end. But it doesn't. I think, okay, we've reached the tipping point. And another wave hits us.

I don't have any answers. I think I have suggestions, but at this point, I'm not even sure about that. But here they are, for whatever they're worth.

White people - don't include POC in your frustrations. They're not here to make you feel better. They don't have to explain their history. Talk to your white friends. Tell them how you feel sad that you try and you feel misunderstood and then try again. It's okay to be angry, we're all angry. But be appropriately angry.

White friends - be patient with each other. Daily conversations of racism haven't been a regular daily activity for a lot of us. I lived in a town for 22 years where I literally went MONTHS without seeing a black person. There were hispanics and latinos, but it was much less diverse than Nashville. If someone isn't getting it, it's helpful to offer different reasoning rather than getting defensive yourself. And if you're not capable of that in the moment, if you don't have the mental or emotional energy, save it for later. We need each other and we need understanding. Am I full of shit on that one? I could be. Like I said, I don't know anymore.

If you have an interaction that leaves you feeling less than okay, explore that feeling. Dig down. Your gut and your heart know what's off, so listen to them. Be humble.

I want to say that hate won't win, but damn. It's got a really fucking good lead right now.

The Death of Dating

Last night I had drinks with someone I met online. At first I appreciated that he wanted to skip the formalities and small talk and meet right away. He seemed to have a sense of humor. I think the road to hell should now be paved with seems.

To start, he was 20 minutes late. But, Nashville traffic being what it is, I went with it. He sent an odd message about panhandlers, thinking he was making a joke. It was off-putting but I hoped I just misunderstood it.

He has a dog. We had a nice conversation about dogs and how great they are. It's charming when a man really loves his dog.

And then it went downhill. I specifically have a comment in my profile to not contact me if you voted for Trump. I foolishly expect that this will be respected. When he asked me if I don't like Trump, he said he could tell because of "all the woman stuff." Um... woman stuff??

He then proceeded to tell me a 30-minute story about how his wife left  him. For a black man. When you say, "I'm not racist but..." and then follow that with a terribly insulting imitation of a black man, then yes. Yes, you are a racist. A big one. I don't blame the woman for leaving.

Because he kept insisting he wasn't racist, I pressed him on his vote. He didn't want to answer, which made his choice obvious. What's worse is that he voted on a single issue. Gun rights. His collection of 20 guns was more important than women's health or right to choose, more important than the environment or the economy or foreign relations. I asked if the protection of his second amendment right was worth what happened in Virginia. If it was worth a woman dying for. He didn't have an answer.

Now I'm left with feeling like I can't trust anyone. That there isn't someone who can be just basically respectful and kind. So I think I'm done. I'm definitely done wasting my time on men who completely disregard my feelings as a person, let alone as a woman.

I have dogs. I have a daughter and a best friend. I have a business and a hobby that I love. It's a good life. I'm okay with it being a single life. Right now it's better than the alternative.

How It All Makes Sense Now

Like many of us, my world seemed to fall apart November 9th. After I spent a few days being deeply depressed, I decided to take action. I took all the action and went to all of the things and I got really involved. I wanted to Be Effective and Make a Difference and Have My Voice Heard. I protested, I joined groups, I went to meetings, I signed up for nearly anything that was put in front of me. I wanted to find the one thing that would be My Purpose.

And then I was overwhelmed. I couldn't focus on one thing because I was trying to do everything. I was close to burnout. The other goals I made for myself this year seemed less important and I was spread too thinly everywhere.

This last week I went to National Training for Pure Romance. Thursday night I was sitting in Aronoff Center in Cincinnati for opening session. Pure Romance will be celebrating 25 years of business in 2018 and, during the opening video, our founder Patty Brisben reflected on the beginnings and on the changes she has seen in the business and what it was like starting out. Her husband left her and their children because he wanted a wife who was more successful. (And all I can think is, "How you like me NOW?") She was broke. She was scared. She got involved in a business where she was shunned by mothers and other women. And she kept going. She kept going and she now heads a $200 million empire.

That piece was inspiration in itself, but she continued. She said how thankful she is that, as consultants, we are changing the lives of women every day. We empower them. We teach them about sexual health. We encourage them to do all of the things that our current administration is against. She got emotional and I did too.

Because it hit me. I am exactly where I need to be to Make a Difference. I don't necessarily need to protest, although I'm sure I will at times. I don't have to sign up for every single event involved with my political party. I can just focus on the parties I have with women. The conversations I have with them. The education I provide that so many hundreds of them have been lacking. We talk about consent and communicating what we want and how to get it. If women can do that in the bedroom, which is one of the hardest places to use one's voice, then they can learn to do it outside the bedroom too. They speak up not just for themselves, but for other women as well. I can affect change one conversation, one sale, one party at a time. This is it!!!

When we hear about women's health, we often think of abortion or breast cancer, but it's much more than that. One of my teammates went to a class on menopause. Yucky topic, I know. It doesn't feel good. Hot flashes aren't comfortable. While some women look forward to it, others feel like they're less womanly. There is a gamut of emotions and physical symptoms and very little research being done or treatments being offered, considering how complicated this transition can be. The Patty Brisben Foundation is the only one of its kind to focus on this issue, as well as cancer treatment and its effects and research on these and other reproductive issues.

What I need and what I want has been in front of me this whole time. It's usually that simple, isn't it? If we just open our eyes. I went to classes about leadership, sponsoring, common sexual problems, sexual health information, motivation, time management, money management, and a future leader training. And yet this was the biggest lesson that I learned. It's so freeing to now have this direction and this focus.

If this is something that you want to do, I can help you with that. I'd be overjoyed to welcome you into this community where I have gained so much. I'm going to do all that I can to give that back.

If there is no part of you that wants to use your voice this way, I understand completely. Like Patty said, it isn't easy with so many naysayers. However, I still encourage you to Do Something. We have a long way to go to undo a lot of the damage that has been done and we need each other out there in may other areas and forums. I can direct you to those areas as well. Just please be involved because it's too important not to be.

How Andrew McCarthy Relates to Being the Dildo Lady

I met Andrew Fucking McCarthy tonight. You know, Blane (That's not a name, it's a major appliance!!). He's still adorable and wonderful and totally unassuming and a REAL WRITER. He was completely candid and sweet and didn't mind me being an awkward, crazy, author-fan-girl.

I almost didn't go because I do SO MUCH. Because I thought I should spend the whole evening working my business and the booking blitz. Because, most of the time, I feel guilty doing one thing when I should be doing another. But, when I offered my bestie an out, she didn't take it. So I went.

And I smiled the Whole Damn Time. I was connected and In the Moment. And what he said didn't detract from my goals but added to them, added value to them. And he said that escape isn't running from something, but running TO something. To discovery. So I wasn't running from my obligations, I was running to inspiration and motivation and fulfillment.

He spoke a bit about Pretty in Pink and what it meant at the time and what it meant to be that age. How it became an Important Film for our generation and why and how we relate to and cherish that time in our lives. How it's about a girl who feels unappreciated and misunderstood and how she has to make the dress to go to the dance anyway. And how we still, as adults, feel that way but we're able to parent ourselves through it because we know it gets better. We know that you come through the other side.

And that's how life just is. I get lonely. I get discouraged. I think nobody has ever felt the way that I do at times. But then I remind myself that I can get through it because I have done it before and even when it's exhausting, there really isn't an alternative because this is who I am and this is what I do and, damn it, I have something to prove even if it's only to myself.

So, yeah. It was meaningful. Significantly so. More than meeting a cute actor/writer who charmed an entire room and graciously wiped off my drool while putting his arm around me and taking bad pictures because he kept talking.

When I got home and checked on my team and their progress, I was in awe. In just four short days, they accomplished more than I dreamt of. With minimal coaching from me because I'm pre-occupied. They motivated themselves and worked their little buns off and I was so proud I nearly broke down into a pile of sobbing mushiness. I had felt enormous guilt taking the evening off to do something I wanted to do. It felt selfish because I knew, earlier in the day, how hard they are working.

In the end, they were fine. They were more than fine. And I wasn't running from them or from the work I think I need to do. I was running towards the motivation and the recharging of my batteries that I need to continue on. Andy (we're familiar like that now) explained transitions in his life with the phrase, "There I am." Over and over, "There I am." He found acting. "There I am." He found writing. "There I am." And so There I Was. Hearing what I need to hear when I need to hear it. And Here I Am. Motivated, inspired, soul re-filled.

There are times when I drag myself to a party. When I'm tired and not in the mood to be "on." But then I find myself. I find my groove and I find my connections with other women. I find my purpose. There I am. Tonight, in the accomplishment of my team, There I Am.

I didn't make my goal. Far, far from it. But the inspiration is still there. It waited until I came back. And There I Am.

All I need now is for Blane to walk me to my car and tell me he believes in me. And that he will love me.. always.

Stories of Sexism and Violence

There is a blog that I posted last year and again this year when it showed up in my memories for the day. The author grew up in Montreal, Canada. Except for a few early years in Texas, I grew up in California and then Oregon. I should feel a kinship with this woman on the other side of the continent, in another country, and I do. Our experiences are eerily familiar. And this horrifies me. It is disturbing that two women so far apart can have the same feelings, been preyed upon in the same manner. It means that our experiences aren't limited to a geographical area. Or a certain type of man. Or a period in time. They are rampant. They happen every day to every one of us. And there is no end soon in sight.

As I read her words again, I started to recall my own stories. The ones that are non-fiction. Those that haunt me. These are just some of them.

I'm four or five. Young. My class is on a field trip at the police station. There is a large carpet depicting roads and street signs. There is a tricycle on the carpet meant to be a vehicle. I want to "drive" the streets so I raise my hand. The police man chooses me. He says, "My, you're a pretty little girl." I can "drive" and show the other kids how to use the traffic signs, but first I must kiss him on the cheek. I don't really want to "drive" after that.

I'm five. My parents are divorced and my dad has custody but he works so his family friend watches me during the day. Her son is my age. He wants to show me his penis. I don't really care to, but he makes it sound like I really want to. Only he wants to see what I have. I do it just so we can move on and play. It happens a few times and one day his mom catches us and beats the shit out of me.

In sixth grade there is a boy who torments me relentlessly. He snaps my bra and when I get mad, he tells our teacher that I told him to "keep his black hands off of me." I am both humiliated that my teacher, who I respect more than almost anyone, knows that I now wear a bra and that someone touched me without my permission. I am devastated that he thinks I blamed it on the color of his skin when the thought never occurred to me and I cry like my heart is broken. Because it is.

I'm 12 and a family member hugs me but his hand lands between my legs. I pull away in disgust and he acts innocent. "What? What's wrong?" This happens intermittently and semi-regularly until I am 17. He shoves his tongue in my mouth, grabs a breast. I stop him every time and leave the room, but I don't tell anyone because I'm the one that feels ashamed. I don't tell my mom until after I'm married and I think the only reason I forgive him now is because he's old and frail and can't hurt me anymore.

I'm 18. My boyfriend is arguing with me for no reason, we work together in a store at the mall. I turn to leave and he grabs me, turns me around, and shoves me against the door. It's a metal door with a bar in the middle. I try to hit him but he has my arms pinned. As recognition at what he's done spreads across his face, he tells me with fat tears how sorry he is and that I must be so worried about what will happen next time. I tell him that a next time means he'll never see me again. He never touches me like that again, but he breaks things. He breaks my windshield and then his on separate occasions. When I'm 21 and I drive from Oregon back to college in Southern California, I decide to stay with my roommate and her mom in their hotel. I'm tired and tired of being in the car so I deny his invitation to go to his place. His invitation turns into a demand and then a threat. I hear a bottle break in the sink as he threatens to kill himself and I hang up. I end the relationship a few days later.

I'm 22 and engaged. We live together. I weigh maybe 96 pounds but I've always had a little belly. He tells me I'm fat. When he gets home from work he asks if I worked out, saying, "You were home all day. What else do you have to do?" I cry and wish I could be really fat so he'd have something real to complain about.

Years later when we're getting divorced, he tells me he will find someone young, blond, and thin. I am 10 years younger than him at 26 and still weigh under 110 pounds.

I'm a single mom and I work in an insurance office.  When I first start, the owner tells a male co-worker to tell a female co-worker to to tell me to wear a bra with more padding. The office is always freezing. There is an underwriter who asks inappropriate and personal questions when I make changes to my own policies. I tell my boss and he laughs it off. When I bring up sexual harassment and tell him I will do something if he doesn't, he finally calls the underwriter's supervisor. There continue to be comments on how I dress.

I'm in my 30's and live with a boyfriend. I go home at my lunch hour and the husband of his friend is working construction in our neighborhood. He follows me to the mailbox and grins, saying I should invite him over for lunch sometime. At a party with other friends, he walks behind me and rubs his whole front against my back. The room isn't that crowded.

I'm at a dinner with about 10 other people and an executive of our company who is in town for some meeting. He goes on and on about his toddler and his wife and how much he loves her. As people start to leave, he slides around the booth and puts his hand on my thigh while he whispers his room number in my ear. I tell him I won't be needing it. Several months later I'm in a car full of co-workers and my manager on our way to a conference. I tell this story and everyone is repulsed. Several months more go by and I get pulled into the HR office because a rumor is going around about that incident. I confirm that it happened and that, because men are constantly inappropriate and I would probably never see him again, I didn't feel the need to report it. However, my manager gets called out for not reporting it when he heard the story months before. Soon after I'm put on a performance review and the HR manager tells me she thinks it's a retaliation and to keep her informed if my manager says anything out of bounds.

I'm over 40. My boyfriend gets mad when I buy a pair of shoes in a color he doesn't like. When we argue, I tell him he needs to leave but he continues on and on until I hyperventilate. He tells me that my ear piercings look trashy. That I'm book smart but have no common sense. That I'm beautiful but, but, but...

I'm 45 and have recently ended a relationship. It was a mutual breakup with no animosity. A few weeks later he texts me, he's at his company Christmas party in my neighborhood and asks if he can stop by. I assume we're adults and can be friends. He shows up having had more to drink than I thought and continues to work his way through my bottle of whiskey. I tell him he's going to have to leave because I'm tired and need to sleep. He asks, over and over and over, why he can't stay in my bed because he has so many times before. I finally go to my room and lock my door and he leaves. I haven't seen him since.

I'm in a bar, walking through a crowd, at a concert, .....
..... a man puts his hand on my thigh.
..... a man rubs up against me.
..... a man "accidentally" grazes my breast.
..... a man gets offended and angry when I decline his interest. I'm a bitch, a dyke, ugly.....

These are just the stories that stand out. There are other moments. Other experiences. Too numerous to mention, too many to remember.

This is how men and women aren't equal. This is why we so often don't report harassment, abuse, coercion, rape. It happens ever day in small, seemingly innocuous ways and in ways we can't believe someone gets away with it. If I call out this one, another one will do something else tomorrow. And we still are blamed for what we wear, what we say, the time of day, the places we go.

I'm too tired by it all right now to even contemplate a solution.

Choices, Consequences, and Prevention

Last night I inadvertently posted something inflammatory on Facebook. It was meant to express my dismay at discovering how many men my age have young children and how, as a single woman, my preference is not to date those men. My post was taken as a stance against women who choose to have children later in life. Over and over the comments expressed were, "I had my child later - I wanted it that way" or "That was how it happened for me, what's wrong with it?" There is nothing wrong with it. We should have the choice as women to have children at whatever age we feel is appropriate for us and for our families. The general response was a resounding MY body, MY choice.

And THAT, when we are talking about reproduction, is really what it should come down to. Choice. Have a child at 20, or 30, or 45. It is and should be a personal choice. On the flip side, NOT having a child should also be a choice and this is where it gets sticky.

I promise you that no woman wants to have an abortion. Who would put that on their bucket list? But the conversation is always about limiting, restricting, or banning abortion. And this is not where the conversation should start. Once we solve what happens well before a woman is faced with an unwanted pregnancy, maybe we'll stop having this debate.

There is sometimes talk about expanding sex education, but even that comes later. The talks start with young children. Girls and boys both. Parents, tell your children from the start that they own their bodies. When you think pushing a child towards an older person and saying, "Give grandpa a hug" is harmless, it's not. At very young ages you are telling children when they do and don't own their bodies. Maybe grandpa stinks. Maybe your child has sensory/touch sensitivities. There are a myriad of reasons children don't want to show affection to adults and it's not rude for them not to. It is our job to protect our children from predators and taking away control in a a seemingly-innocent situation is failure from the start.

One of the most important things we can do is to use proper terminology. Penis. Vagina. Vulva. Using silly, cutesy names undermines a child's authority in a couple of ways. I once heard a story that I regularly tell my customers at my parties. A young girl told every adult she met that her uncle pet her kitty. Okay. That's nice. How cute. NO. NOT cute. Her "kitty" was not a cat. This child was being abused and asking anyone she could find for help. Their inability to understand her because she used improper terminology told her both that what her uncle was doing was okay and that she had no right to ask for help. Additionally, when a child uses the right words, grown-up words, he or she is taken seriously by adults. It demonstrates that they are very clear and knowledgeable about what is happening.

As children grow, we need to repeat these lessons. I am going to focus on young women solely for the reason that the vast majority of rape crimes are committed by men against women, but understand it can happen to young men too. We need to raise our daughters so that they understand they have a choice and that they are worthy. That attention from a cute boy is nice, but not validation of who they are as a person. This makes it easier for her to say "no" when a boy tries to convince her to go farther than she's comfortable with. It makes it easier for her to have a conversation and dialogue about what her boundaries are and, if she's then rejected in favor of another girl, she won't be as likely to feel that she should have given in.

And this, years later, is where sex education comes in. Certain groups of people are just terrified of sex and any mention of it and are convinced that teaching children about body parts is wrong. It's not. Our vaginas and penises aren't any dirtier than our legs or elbows. If I have a headache, someone will offer me aspirin. If I have a pain in my breast, I should be able to talk about that and get aid just the same. If we don't talk to our kids about sex, they'll get the information somewhere else. Most likely it will be the wrong information. Myths about what will and won't cause pregnancy. Boys telling girls what they think will get her to change her mind. Information is power, arm your children with it.

Birth control is a tricky one as a parent. I know. I've been there. Offering it feels like giving permission. As adults with experience, we know that 16 is SO young, too young. They aren't mentally or emotionally ready for the consequences. You can do everything perfectly up to this point and then hormones happen. Teenagers are walking hormones. Again, information is just a necessity. Arming a kid with birth control isn't encouragement or permission for sex. It's offering a choice in the event that those hormones take over. Just because you have it doesn't mean you have to use it.

Teaching respect for self and others simultaneously teaches respect for life. Let's change the conversation and start it earlier before we demonize women for making choices they'd rather not face. Provide the messages of prevention earlier and we might not have the need for the really tough, divisive arguments later.

A Story About a Story

I have loved Laurie Anderson since high school. I'm not sure how I even became aware of her at that age. She's an experimental performance artist and I was into Duran Duran and Wham! back then. I go years without listening to her though, and then when I do, I fall in love all over again. Her latest album (which is a soundtrack of her film), Heart of a Dog, is layered with music but is mostly spoken. Her voice is beautiful and mesmerizing and the theme surrounds the life and death of her dog, Lola Belle. Which, that piece alone, makes it interesting and easy for me to relate to. But it's interspersed with stories of her fascinating and incredibly interesting life. I can't believe I've never named her as someone I'd like to have dinner with because I would, very very much.

I shared a piece from the album with a friend, who then introduced me to Max Richter. I sat and listened to three instrumental albums right in a row immediately. I realized how absolutely beautiful music is, and in so many forms. Some of what I listened to was heartbreakingly sad, but that made it so much more lovely.

These last few months have been dark and I fear it will only get darker. I've been teetering on the edge of my own Great Depression and I have to keep moving, moving. Stopping my whirlwind of activity and scheduling of my time means I might just topple over into an emotional abyss. The depression is there and the negativity I see everywhere with our current climate is overwhelming.

J and I had a conversation yesterday about how easy it is to hate what is happening, what is being said, done, and the people saying it. And it is. It is so easy. But I can't do it. I just can't, because it will drag me down into that quicksand of depression that I might not be able to pull myself out of next time. So I told her that we have to focus on the positive, the good, and the good that is the majority. The hate makes the most noise, it's easy to be distracted. It does take work to bypass it, but it has to be done.

So last night, when I was losing myself in the melodies, I was reminded of the ways that I find beauty every day. Music. The obvious sunset. The look of love and adoration in my dog's eyes and her trust in me. My daughter, a life I had the absolute privilege of creating and being a part of. Friendships and unforgettable memories with friends. The women I meet in my business who share intimate parts of themselves with me. The most beautiful things are intangible, but they also make us who we are.

While we feel that some of our rights are being stripped away during what is most likely to become an infamous period of history, we still have beauty. Friendships and memories and love are things that can't be taken from us. The beauty we find and that we must look for and hold onto is what will sustain and strengthen us. I believe this, not only because I have to, but because it is what's true. The greater truth is in love.

Empowerment and Epiphanies

Starting one's own business is always daunting. Even more so when that business involves selling sex toys and becoming the "dildo lady." I started my Pure Romance business three years ago, largely for fun and product discounts. I wasn't interested in building a team or giving up my IT income. I wanted to make some new friends and I was promised cheese. (I'll do most anything for cheese.) After meeting other team members and going to trainings, my motivation changed. I started to want more. I wanted to offer more. To more women. So I did.

My business has changed a lot in the last three years and I love it. I've learned how to deal with the looks and the sometimes abrasive questions.

"Oh, it's one of those parties?"
"I'm just not that open about those things."
"I think sex is private."
"Let's face it, it just boils down to selling sex toys."

The last from my sister. While my friends were supportive from the start, my family was not. Which was okay. I wasn't doing it for approval and I'd been to enough parties to know what really happened and how tasteful they are. I figured they'd come around.

My business has introduced me to people I wouldn't otherwise meet. I've made friends across the country. I was able to go on a cruise to Mexico. I worry much less when I need car repair or new tires. I've been able to use party profits to donate to my favorite causes. My confidence grew. I've learned to let go of trying to do things perfectly. This year I'm close to doubling my sales from last year.

While all of those things are wonderful and reason enough for me to continue to grow my business, I've had some recent experiences that have validated that I am doing exactly what I should be doing. My Why, my reason for doing what I do, has changed a few times. The Pure Romance motto is 'Educate. Empower. Entertain.' I have those words in my head at each party and many times as I'm doing business chores. What I've heard from my customers shows me how I'm following that direction and those values.

One customer is very recently divorced and it wasn't pretty. I met her a year ago at a party and she was my hostess at a party over the summer. She called me while I was at national training to order a brand new product and later contacted me with feedback about her purchase. She loved it, and I was glad, but I was touched when she said that the only area of her life going well was the one involving me. Her sex life was better since meeting me than in the 11 years of her marriage. If a woman going through a divorce doesn't need a little self-esteem boost, I don't know who does. I also know that she voted differently than I did but checked in on me the day after the election, offering an ear or a shoulder in my sadness. This is the definition of women supporting and empowering each other.

I did a party this past Saturday with several repeat customers. I like to do a question and answer at the end of my demonstration to give my customers a chance to ask what they want to know about my business. Why I started. What it's like. How we get training. One of the girls asked what has been the most exciting aspect on my journey and my response was knowing when my business started to grow noticeably. How I don't go more than a few days without hearing from a customer with a question or a comment. This year has been really exciting in that way.

We talked a bit about the stigma of sex and parties and the business. I shared how knowing that I am in a place to help women is invaluable. And that's when another of the girls shared something that just gave me chills. She said that since she has been attending parties, she sees herself differently. Where she used to base her value on a man's assessment of whether or not she was attractive, she now dismisses that in favor of how SHE feels about herself. That she's just fine the way she is. That she doesn't have sex randomly with men in hotels. That her self-esteem was improved and her negative thoughts about herself have changed because of what I do. And, I'm sure, because of what she gets from the other women who share their stories at my parties.

And that - that is what I'm most excited about. Because it's SO important that as women we feel strong and capable and smart and desired and, moreover, that feeling comes from inside us. Knowing that I'm able to make a difference and to also keep these women safe from random sex quiets the naysayers, even if only in my head. And it's not because I lecture them. It's because I have products and a platform from which to tell them the truth.

This is what will keep me going. When a party gets canceled, when I fall short of my goals, when I feel like I didn't get the right message across. I know that these women's lives have changed. I know they now have a better foundation for self. I know they are learning to love themselves. It's what I want for all of  us. And it's how I know I'm doing just what I should be and I will continue as long as I can make a difference.

Anti-Climatic History

Last week I voted. For the first time in my country's history, there is a woman running for president. And I voted for her.

I thought I would feel so proud. I thought I'd feel like a part of a greater sisterhood. I thought I'd feel like I'd really Done Something. Something Important. I've seen the posts from other women, I've used the same hashtags. Yesterday I saw a video of a woman crying because she was, finally, able to vote for a woman for president. I read the article about the 102-year-old woman who voted for her. We, as women, are participating in history in a way we never have before. I thought I would feel the way these women did. But I didn't.

It has taken me several months to embrace Hillary. I saw all the articles on all of her misdeeds. All of the questions about her integrity. I was disappointed that our first female presidential candidate was so bogged down in controversy. I wanted her to be someone we could be Proud of.

And then I read dozens of pieces that delved into the controversies and the reasons for them. Word after word, sentence after sentence, discredited what I had read previously. Article after article pointed out the fact that, because she is a woman, Hillary is facing far more scrutiny than a man would in the same position. From women and men alike. Just think, if Laura Bush had been nominated, how many lies would have been told about her fatal car accident? If it were one of her daughters, every drink she'd ever had would be measured. We already know the hateful things that have been said about Michelle Obama. The woman can't wear a sleeveless dress without negative comments.

When the conventions started, I watched those of both candidates. I watched what people said about them, I listened the their nomination acceptance speeches. I've watched the debates and kept myself as informed as possible without sending myself into a deep depression. I've ignored, for the most part, strictly liberal news sources, trying to find the real truth in between all of the words, words, words.

What I found, beyond that fact that women are put under a microscope on a daily basis, is that Hillary is someone I can be proud of voting for. Is she a little too polished because she's a politician? Sure. We're not going to get around that. But she's been put through the wringer and she's come out with her head held high. She's composed, she's unflappable. She doesn't give up. And, after all this time, she's become relatable. She goes to work when she's sick. She's a mother. She's been wronged by her man and yet she weathered that with as much grace as she could. The woman must be utterly exhausted and yet she keeps going because she believes in us. In us as women, in us as members of this country, and in us as just people.

I don't know, you guys. I guess this election has just taken it out of me. I'm tired of fighting for people to see what sexism is. I'm tired of women getting ahead only to be torn down. I'm tired of rapists going free. I'm tired of men being excused for bad behavior and "locker room talk" because "boys will be boys." I'm so deeply afraid that we have made it this far and that the rug will be swept out from under our feet at the last second. Maybe I've seen so much hatred in this country in the last few months that I don't really believe we'll be allowed to progress further.

I wish I felt differently, I really do.

We have less than a week now to find out what kind of country we are. What kind of people, what kind of women. I hope with every fiber of my being that it's something we can be proud of. I hope I can look my sisters in the eye and say, "We did it. Finally."

Necessary Choices

I wasn't going to say anything. There are other stories that are heartbreaking and realer than real. I don't feel like I have anything significant to add to the conversation. But other people are talking. And they're talking without having the proper information. Words like "murder" and "selfish" are being thrown around so I'm going to share my story. Take from it what you will.

I was 25 when I got pregnant. I was married. My pregnancy was planned and very much wanted. I was so excited and so elated that I broke the three-month rule. I told my friends, my mom, I called my grandparents. When I gloated to my doctor that I got pregnant the first month after I was off the pill, she gave me a blank look. I assumed she wasn't as impressed with my fertility as I was.

The first few weeks were uneventful. I had a checkup or two, the regular kind where my blood pressure was checked. I noticed other pregnant women and felt a kinship with them. I noticed tiny babies and started to dream about what mine would look like.

At 12 weeks we expected to hear the heartbeat. I went in on a Friday. There was no heartbeat. I was reassured that often the baby is positioned in such a way that the heartbeat can't be heard, but I saw the concern in my nurse's eyes. My doctor scheduled an ultrasound for the following Monday.

I spent that weekend praying and hoping and convincing myself that everything was okay. I ate a whole pizza. I slept a lot. I went to church and begged through the entire service that my baby be okay. That it be allowed to live.

During the ultrasound, the technician frowned. She rolled the wand across my belly and stared silently at the screen. She left to get the radiologist, a man I didn't know. He pressed the wand into my stomach, looked at the screen, stood up, and backed up to the door. "I can tell you now or I can let your doctor tell you," he said. Tell me what?? I looked at my then-husband for help. I knew it was bad and I didn't want this stranger to tell me, but I had to know.

The baby was dead. It had died at around nine weeks but wasn't expelled. It died and I didn't know. I didn't feel it. I never felt it.

I was sent to my doctor's office. They were ready for me, they took me back right away rather than having me sit in the waiting room next to pregnant women. Actively pregnant women with babies they could feel kicking. Babies that would be carried to term.

My doctor told me she was sorry. My nurse hugged me. They explained to me what would happen next. Laminaria was inserted; it's a type of seaweed product that causes contractions, which would make the next day's procedure easier. It would prep my body for what was to come. It hurt. I was also still in shock from the news and I couldn't process it all at the same time. I was sent home with extra-strength ibuprofen.

That night I laid on the couch and cried. My doctor said it wasn't my fault, but it felt like it. To the core of my being, I felt like I had failed. And not just me, not just my baby, but everyone around me.

The next day, the dilation and curettage, D & C for short, was performed by my doctor in the ER at our local hospital. It's one of the same procedures used during an early-term abortion. My mom and dad met me there, also heartbroken. I only know of two other times that my dad took time from work for anything I did, if that tells you how much this meant to us. Mom sat by me while I filled out insurance and consent forms. Her words, though well-meaning, cut into my heart. "You'll get pregnant again. I knew a woman when I was growing up who had five miscarriages in a row and then just as many children." I listened numbly as she cheerfully chattered on.

I cried throughout the procedure. I wasn't supposed to remember anything because of the anesthesia, but I do. I remember how kind my doctor was. How she told me she'd been through the same thing. How she put me first and only allowed my then-husband to stay in the room when he promised he wouldn't faint.

When it was over, the remains were sent to the lab and I was sent home. My parents walked with me to the car. I felt indescribably empty.

In the days and weeks after, I avoided everyone. This was in the days when the only contact I could have with the outside world in my house was the phone. I'm so glad social media didn't exist. I unplugged the phone and spent the long hours of each day in my bed, getting up and showering just before my husband got home. I talked to nobody. I slept and stared at the walls.

While my baby had no name, no sex, no recognizable form, and I never felt even a flutter, in those days I felt enormously lonely. In the weeks before I had imagined carrying this tiny person around with me. I loved that tiny, unknown person. And then it was gone. I was alone. I hated my body for betraying me. I hated the unfairness. The depth of my sorrow was lost on everyone around me because it just hadn't been tangible. At least it happened early, they said. At least.

That loss still lingers. It always will. I will forget it for months at a time and I can talk about it openly now. But there are unexpected moments - a song lyric, a scene in a movie, a line in a book - that will bring me nearly to my knees with the memory of that grief, that life that could have been.

Why tell you this? It was, after all, over 21 years ago.

I tell you because I want you to know what it was like to not have a choice. The decision was made for me and had been weeks before anything had to be done. We talk about choice like it's a good thing. And it is, but I'm grateful I didn't have a choice to make. I can't even fathom having to make a choice about a life in later stages of pregnancy. Having to make the choice between my life and my child's.

There are women who are asked to make that choice. They are kind, loving women who want to be and who are mothers. Who would do everything in their power to ensure the safety and health of their infant. There are fathers who are asked to participate in this choice. There are doctors who must knowingly end a life that is wanted. Nurses who assist and hold hands and treat everyone with all of the kindness they have.

I wish that these choices didn't have to be made. I wish that with all of my heart. But that doesn't change the fact that they do. I can't imagine being any of those people in that situation. I never want my own daughter to go through that kind of heartbreak.

But what I want even less is for anyone in any of these scenarios to be shamed by their choices. I don't want that choice to be taken away from anyone. These choices aren't made lightly. It's not folly, it's not freedom from an undesirable situation. The choice to end a wanted pregnancy where something goes horribly wrong is heart-wrenching. Let's not add to that pain. Let's not judge women who have to make decisions that we are so fortunate to not have to make.

Let's not take that choice away, hard as it is. Sometimes the alternative is so much worse and it's not for me to decide which side that weight falls on. It's not for our neighbors to decide and it's not for our government to decide.

I got sympathy because I had no choice. I wasn't anymore deserving of it than anyone with a choice. Let's honor that choice and love these women, these mothers and fathers. Let's help them through their heartbreak and their grief rather than condemning it.

And let's be so grateful every day that we aren't asked to make that choice.

The Truth Is Ugly and It Hurts

Before I lose you in what I'm about to say, I want to make one thing very clear. Donald Trump should not be president. There is no way that I can support him, anything he has said, or his past behavior, and I can't imagine doing so in the future. If he fell off the face of the earth, I would heave a "yuge" sigh of relief and move along without looking back. 

The Republican party has been blamed for creating this monster. There are the jokes about the decision they have made and how they have to carry it to term. There is some irony in this situation and there is truth in the theories. Members of this party have so staunchly defended anyone in their ranks that they have backed themselves into a corner with this one. And, while a lot of this is satisfying to members of other parties, and it's somewhat fascinating to watch a faction of the political system disintegrate before our eyes, the rest of us have to admit our own culpability. 

Yep, I'm saying it. We are all responsible for this mess. We, the collective "we." We, as an American society. We have contributed to the nastiness, the name-calling, the blaming, the inappropriate language and behavior. We sensationalized the death of a tiny pageant contestant and then we mourned when a princess was killed and thought that was the pinnacle, that we would change. We urged each other to change. To stop buying the gossip rags and watching the shows that titillated us with all things that were None of Our Business. But then we watched a "celebrity" sex tape and now we greedily await the next one. And the next. We made a celebrity out of a burping, farting family whose central star was named Honey Boo Boo. We watch eligible bachelors and bachelorettes choose among multiple suitors and judge their choices like Monday morning quarterbacks. We read gossip blogs and pick apart the choices people make while hiding behind our keyboards. We feel safe being harsh and mean to those we don't even know when using the mask of anonymity. 

We may not audibly and intentionally support Donald Trump, but we have condoned his gross behavior in a hundred other separate, seemingly innocent acts. The behaviors we have rewarded with our interest have culminated into the Pile of Yuck that is Donald Trump. 

Over the weekend I attended a book festival and got to introduce a couple of the authors during one of the sessions. Both authors had written women as the heroes of their novels and, maybe because of our current political and social climate, I asked if it is necessary that there be a Bad Man in a story in order to juxtapose the woman as the Good Heroine. Both authors, both female, said no, that the impetus for the heroines in their stories were other women and that women can be just as evil. Which brings me to another point. 

So many of us, including myself, wonder how on earth a woman can support Trump. Especially after the things we've heard him say again and again. I have wondered if their self-esteem is so low that they truly believe only a man can be president. However, like my authors said, women can be just as evil and even more so towards other women. I've heard women say out of one side of their mouths how they support their sisterhood while in the next breath they spew unwarranted and unnecessary criticism. I have, in an effort to pretend that rape couldn't happen to ME, questioned what a victim wore. As long as I didn't dress a certain way, or go to certain bars, or leave my house on a Tuesday at 9:17 p.m., the same thing couldn't happen to me. None of which really matters and only serves to distance myself from a woman who really needs help. 

As moms, we constantly vilify other moms for their choices. If she works too much, who is taking care of her children? Why is she so "cold" towards them? Won't they feel abandoned and why doesn't she understand how important her Role As a Woman is?? If she chooses to stay home with her children, she is flat and one-dimensional and should have other interests because her children won't be around forever and then she won't even know who she is. Don't her daughters deserve a better role model and how will her sons learn to respect women? 

Yes, we are all guilty. We have all had the same thoughts and said the same things as Trump. But now, when the sum total of all of this ugliness is held up to us in mirror-form, we recoil, we feel disgust, we feel shame. He says not only what he thinks, but what we have thought at one time or another. Part of why we hate him is because we hate that part of ourselves. 

So maybe this is a time for self-reflection. If we don't like what we see in the proverbial mirror, then maybe we change it. Maybe we say yes, I am guilty. Yes, I have said that and done that and wanted the wrong thing. We recognize those parts of ourselves and make a conscious decision to change. Instead of giving in to the baser parts of humanity, we take out the damaged parts and rebuild ourselves as something better. We stop feeding the beast with gossip and pre-judgments and criticism and hate. When we, all of us, or at the very minimum the majority of us, act from compassion and kindness and truth and careful thought, people like Donald Trump aren't allowed to exist. He isn't nourished by fairness and knowledge but lies and marginalization. 

I think, or rather strongly hope, that most of us are aware of just how dangerous it would be to elect Trump as our president. But I think it's just as dangerous to continue on as we have. Unless we take a real inventory of ourselves as a society and as individuals, this will just be a trial run. The next time we might not be so lucky. If we are, indeed, lucky now. 

Dressing My Emotions

The muggle company I work for gave us all purple shirts a couple of months ago so that we could have a Purple Shirt Day. (I'd like to interject here that mine was HUGE on me, despite being a size medium, because it was a man's size medium. All shirts given at any job have been based on both men's sizing and men's styling. Sexism at work. At its finest. I have kept none of these shirts; this latest joined its brothers in the garbage.)

Anyhoo. Yesterday, several of the men in the office wore their manly purple shirts. I asked one co-worker if I missed another Purple Shirt Day (not that I even participated in the first one) and he replied, "No. This one was just next up in the rotation."

"Excuse me? Rotation? Like your shirts have a cycle?"

He said, yes. He does his laundry, then hangs up his clothes and chooses the one at the end each morning.

Of course I was like, "What the fuck?"  How is that even possible? What if you feel fat that day? He shrugged. What if you hate that color that day? He just looked at me. What if you have to go somewhere after work?? What if you haven't worn that shirt in two years and you realize how much weight you've gained and then you throw it on the floor because you hate it and you never want to look at it again??? What if your butt looks lumpy?! What if your butt looks too flat!!? What if you realize your blacks are completely different blacks and you look stupid? What if the right underwear isn't clean? What if you wake up and you're on your period??!!? Okay, so that probably doesn't happen to him. Probably. I wonder about some men. He just calmly replied that he doesn't have those problems.

I truly, sincerely wish that I could go through shirts in a rotation. I wish it were that simple, but my mind and my body make decisions on their own, on complete opposite ends of the Spectrum of the Day and it's up to me to come up with a truce and most days I'm just not capable of making those kinds of decisions. I'm lucky if I can find clean underwear and brush my teeth. Compromises are made on a daily basis. Major sacrifices pretty much weekly.

So, guys, count your lucky fucking stars and, girls - you know what?  I got nothing on this one.

This Space Is Mine

There is a thing that men do, probably without even thinking about it, and that women experience on varying levels from annoyance to terror. They touch us. They touch us a lot. Strangers. It's putting an arm around us, or "accidentally" grazing a breast or ass cheek. It's leaning in within an inch of our faces, it's aggressive eye contact.

For the love of fuck, guys, you have got to stop this. Tell your friends to stop. After the last few weeks, I am going to refuse to be polite. I insist on being viewed as a person with feelings and boundaries. I demand respect. My response to unwanted physical touch is going to be very clear from now on.

For the last week, I've been victimized by my Depression. It showed up, unannounced, like it always does. Finally, I felt like trying to shake it off. I went to a favorite bar where my burlesque mentors were going to perform. J and I got stools at the corner closest to the stage; it wasn't overly crowded like it is on the weekends, it felt comfortable enough. There was a group of men and women next to us, but J and I tried to keep to ourselves, both of us feeling fragile from our depression at the same time.

One of the men decided to start a conversation with us. And not by saying, "Excuse me, ladies..." No. When my head was turned away from him, he put his whole arm around me, his hand landing at my waist. I am a person with space issues. I am a person who doesn't always like to feel feelings, let alone the body warmth of another person. I certainly do not appreciate being embraced so personally by a stranger. It's rude. It's creepy. It was alarming.

There is something that I do when fighting for air during a depressive episode. If I'm in public and I have to engage with someone, I act cheerful. Because if I'm not forcing overt cheerfulness, I risk falling into a crumbling heap on the floor. I also risk letting out any internal rage I direct at my Depression onto a person and that never ends well.

So, even though I was appalled at this man's assumption that he could touch me in a place and in a way that I consider intimate, even though I wished I could shape-shift myself into a giant boa so I could simultaneously squeeze the life out him while ripping his arm off, I smiled. I answered his questions. I told him where I'm from, how long I've been here, what I was drinking. I allowed him to lean over me and talk to J. I allowed him into my space. I allowed him to continue living under the illusion that women are objects, toys, that we don't deserve the freedom from being man-handled any time we walk into a bar.

I censored myself that night. A few weeks before that, J censored me. It's what we do to each other. We remind each other not to Make A Scene. Just be quiet and it will end on its own. We were at a different bar, one we had been to recently and returned for karaoke. Because it's Nashville. It's what you do. I wasn't depressed, but I was grumpy.

The second we walked in, the dude at the end of the bar asked what we were drinking and said he'd buy our drinks. He was very drunk. I thought he was on his way out the door, so I let him. But no. No, he stayed. He stayed long enough to put his hand on my lower back and lean in. When I turned to J, like, "What the fucking fuck is he doing!??!", she told me to ignore it. See how we are conditioned to this shit? A disturbingly drunk man gropes a friend and we calm the other one down so as not to create further drama.

He tempted me with a very enticing offer. Going back to his place to drink a beer. I declined. "What? Why? I am re-fucking-diculously good-looking and I have a cute penis." I agreed that that was a VERY tempting and gracious offer, but no. "But why?? I have a couch!! Don't you want to go to my place? Why not?" No answer I gave him was satisfactory. None. Because, as a man, who was just allowed to touch me, who paid for my drink, he could not fathom that I, as an object he had just partially paid for, would refuse him. That doesn't happen in his world.

After a while, when he got quiet, I thought he might just pass out on the bar. He shuffled away, to my great relief. Short-lived relief. Because I actually heard him ask J if she wanted to go to his place to "make love." I looked right at him and said, "Are you kidding me right now? You're hitting on my friend after I just turned you down?" To keep from hurting my feelings, I can only assume, he said I could come too. We could go to his work. There's a couch there.

J tried a different tactic. "I like girls." That was okay though, because it seems his penis is so cute it would turn her to the side with the Y chromosome. Surely. His cute penis is potent enough to change the mind of someone who, presumably, had been incorrectly sexually oriented for decades.

Now, during all of this extremely attractive and romantic behavior, Drunk Dude's friend stood behind us, between us. He leaned up against our  hips, our thighs. When we called this contact to his attention, he backed up for a second and then came back even closer. We tried to distract him by encouraging him to do a karaoke song. We assured him that he would be great at it.

God, it was exhausting.

Before you suggest that we, we women, we of the fairer, weaker sex, assert ourselves like a man would, know that we have tried. We have tried so many strategies. We shrink so as not to be noticed. We are polite. We claim to have a "boyfriend." One who will "be right back." We try to ignore. We invite ourselves to blend into a group of women we don't know for protection. We know that anything more direct or assertive than this will only create anger, produce aggression, be met with hostility by the offender.

Drunk Dude is the perfect example. When he finally accepted that there was nothing he could say or do to convince one of us to go home with him, he yelled to this friend, "Fuck them, they're fucking bull dykes!!" and slammed out the door. We were rid of him, but the cost was an angry outburst and the small, insistent fear that he would be outside waiting when we left.

So, gentlemen. I'm about to piss a lot of you off. I'm not going to apologize either. I'll be a bitch or a cunt or a whore, or whatever you need me to be to fit into your limited world view, your standard, your norm. But I will not be unwillingly groped. I will not be embraced without permission. If you don't know my name, you don't know me well enough to put your hands on me. My first "no" is my final answer. I don't owe you an explanation or a reason. You're just being friendly? That's fine, I'm just standing up for myself. I am refusing to perpetuate the idea that Neanderthal behavior is desirable. I don't secretly want what you're offering in your drunken stupor. I don't buy into your cocky attitude. I don't have to believe you're a good guy or see you as you see yourself. I have my own idea, my own opinions, and my own agenda that 99.9% of the time has nothing to do with you.

This body? It's mine. It's 100% mine and you have no god-given right to it. I'm taking up my space and you're only allowed in when I invite you.

Starting a Conversation

The events of the last week....
The deaths of the last week....
Where to start?

I currently have too many thoughts in my head and trying to organize them all in a way that makes sense to even just me seems nearly impossible. There are emotions. On all sides. But why are there sides?

I think I learned about racism in sixth grade. David, a black boy, liked to snap the straps of my bra, which infuriated me to no end. And yet I didn't tell on him (which says more about sexism than I was aware of and is a completely different topic). I glared at him and he laughed. Our teacher, Mr. Black (a white Mormon), pulled me aside one day. He said that David reported that I told him to "keep his black hands off me." I was horrified. I cried. I didn't understand completely what it meant, but I understood it was terrible. I understood that I shouldn't feel that black was different or that being black was wrong. I was devastated that someone would blame me for thinking that way.

When I think about it more, there were other things that happened that pointed out to me that being black was different. My parents never said that black people were less. Not in those words, but in others. Our white, elderly neighbors were robbed late one night when they arrived home. The robbers were two black men. That's all I know. I only know this because that was how it was reported to my parents who related it that way to me. We moved because "too many black people were coming into the neighborhood." (Also - we had the luxury and the privilege to move away.)

I always knew that having a black boyfriend would irritate my parents. I wanted one, I never got one. I wasn't really that brave.

My parents moved to a small town in Oregon when my brother was a baby. We were having lunch in a restaurant near a window. Outside, in the parking lot, were a couple of young black men. My two-year-old brother looked at them and exclaimed, "Those men are dirty!!" He had never seen a black person before. I tried over and over to tell him that was the color of their skin. He shook his head. "No. No, they're dirty." I looked at my mom and told her she should not have left Southern California because now she was raising a racist toddler. She laughed.

Why am I telling you these things? It's not to tell you that my parents are bad people. They're not. It's to tell you that, as white people, we have some pretty fucked up ideas about people whose skin is a different color. And it's not as easy to label someone as being "bad" for thinking what they do because the messages feel so subtle sometimes. I wasn't told that my family didn't like blacks or that they were inferior. I wasn't taught to hate them. The message was simply that they were undesirable to live next door to.

All of this is to say that I understand the complexities of racism. I understand how it's sometimes hard to acknowledge when one is behaving in a racist manner. That it seems preposterous to call some behaviors racist. I know there is a learning curve. I also know that denial perpetuates the violence. I know that we can't continue the way we have. I know that there is injustice in the world. Grave injustice. I know that large sections of the population in my country are hurting. They are suffering, they are losing people they love, and they are dying. They are dying because they're black. They're angry because they're dying. I know this has to change. I know we have to do better.

Social media is the most useful tool when used responsibly and the greatest divider when it's not. It becomes a platform for people to spread hatred and to show the worst of humanity. The ugliest parts of themselves that we wish didn't exist.

There are a couple of things I've read in the last couple of days that gave me what Oprah always called "an aha! moment." These articles helped to put things in perspective for me in a way that I could relate to. As a woman, they made so much sense and I'm hoping that sharing them with you will help my white sisters understand and start a dialogue that helps us to move forward in helping our black sisters and brothers.

The first was an article about a BLM group meeting in the Nashville library. When it was discovered that the group was only open to persons of color, they were told they couldn't use the library as a meeting place anymore. The question was raised that white people might like to help and isn't it discriminatory in a reverse sort of way? But then the author gave the perfect analogy. Suppose a group of rape survivors decided to meet for support. A man approaches and says he wants to help them through their trauma. He is not a rapist, he has never hurt any of these survivors. But he's a man. He represents the gender that violated them. He won't understand, his help isn't welcome.

A second article compared racism to rape. We hear (and say) the same things about both.

"If she wasn't drunk..... If she hadn't worn that..... If she didn't flirt with the other guy....."
"If he kept his hands on the wheel.... If he just kept quiet and didn't ask questions..... If he weren't wearing a hoodie....."

Do you see the similarities? A woman doesn't ask to be raped. We don't ask to be catcalled. We don't ask to be objectified or marginalized or touched inappropriately or ignored or shamed or blamed for the thoughts a man has that we aren't aware of or in control of. People of color don't ask to be shot or suspected of crimes or profiled or accused. When we are just going about our business we don't ask to be victims. If we take ourselves outside of our own perceptions for a second, then maybe we can see that we have similarities.

Another problem I see on social media, and one that I have been confronted with, is that if I care about one cause, I must not care about another. Enough has been said about Black Lives versus All Lives, but this is related. There are several causes I care about and am passionate about. I can care about more than one at one time. I have enough emotion and enough space in my life to do so. Some become more pressing at times than others. If a woman is raped today and she is being vilified in the media while her rapist is being protected, then that is where I turn my attention. If I see an abused dog brought into a shelter who is in critical condition and needs immediate funds for medical care, then that is what I focus on for awareness. If there is an Amber Alert for a missing or kidnapped child, then that takes precedence in that moment and for that day. It isn't all or nothing for one cause and all the rest be damned.

Last week, while talking about Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the greater problem of racism, I was called a cop-hater. Because I care that two men died unjustifiably does not equate to hatred of all police. I can and do understand the enormous sacrifice that officers make on a daily basis. I can feel for their families and know that they also make sacrifices in loving someone who might not come home that night. I can have the utmost respect for men and women who are willing to put their lives on the line to protect me while also calling out that mistakes were made because other lives were ended. There aren't sides. There are people with beliefs and prejudices making decisions that they might not be prepared for, and that result in the loss of lives. That this happens over and over means that something needs to change.

I went to the BLM vigil/protest in Nashville on Friday night. There were two black officers within visual sight of the gathering. One male, one female. Those attending the assembly weren't confronted with a large show of police, they were allowed to congregate without interference. And yet, before the event started, I watched two young black men walk by, silently flipping off the two officers. My immediate reaction was, "Why? They're here to ensure that you get your say, that you get to honor your loss. They're also black, like you. Why so hateful?" The next day I had to separate my own reasoning from their emotion. Maybe it was the uniform itself. And they weren't confrontational, they were expressing their frustration. It was a safe place to do so and they did it peacefully.

If we can stop the automatic voices in our heads for a few moments and try to understand, then we start to be part of the solution. Stop saying, "But I have black friends.... But I have never said that... But I have never done that.... But that's not me....." Because it is. We have all done or said something that contributes to the problem, that separates us from the solution. And even if you have never used the "N word" or refused to hire someone because of their skin color, there is a person of color who has had that experience. Saying that you don't do it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen to them.

And if I take this further, just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't or that it can't. I've never been raped, but it's a possibility. I've never been mugged, but it's a possibility. I've never lost a parent, but that is something that looms in my future. Just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't. And it doesn't mean that it hasn't happened to someone else. It may have happened to someone you know and care about, but they don't talk about it because, most likely, it happens so often it's hardly worth mentioning anymore.

I've come to understand some things in the last few days that I didn't even as recently as the last year. I was in Southern California during the Rodney King riots. Granted, I was safely ensconced in my college environment in Orange County. I watched the horrors from a distance on my TV. There was no social media then so I was allowed to form my own opinions without interference from other, biased comments. What I believed was that it was terribly wrong. What I saw was anger and frustration and fear from a community I wasn't part of. And, naively, I thought that things would change. I thought that this country saw injustice, paid the price, and would move forward.

I was so wrong, because here we are. I can't say if it's worse because we see more of it or if it's less but the worst is being broadcast more easily through modern technology. All I know is that it shouldn't continue, not in any amount. Twenty four years later and we're still having the same conversation. 24. Two decades. 

What I know is that my own internal voices need to change. They way I communicate to those around me needs to change. I can no longer sit by and say, "Oh, how sad. It's terrible but what can I do?" I have a voice. I can use it. It's just one voice and it won't reach everyone, but if everyone like me spoke up too? If we all silenced our own experiences for a minute. If we listened. If we acknowledged that we have more similar experiences than we think while also understanding that what certain groups experience is also profoundly different. If we stop denying that. If we accept and admit that we have been part of the problem. And if we decide we no longer want to be part of the problem. If we educate ourselves, if we look at history, if we open our minds and our hearts.

Oh, what would we do if we realized we could do it? What if we used our White Privilege to reach out? I feel like being white provides yet another advantage. Will you listen to me before you listen to "another angry black person?" Can you understand it coming from me? Does it make more sense? Can you have a conversation with me that you couldn't have with someone else?

Because I'm willing. Are you?

Starting a Conversation

The events of the last week....
The deaths of the last week....
Where to start?

I currently have too many thoughts in my head and trying to organize them all in a way that makes sense to even just me seems nearly impossible. There are emotions. On all sides. But why are there sides?

I think I learned about racism in sixth grade. David, a black boy, liked to snap the straps of my bra, which infuriated me to no end. And yet I didn't tell on him (which says more about sexism than I was aware of and is a completely different topic). I glared at him and he laughed. Our teacher, Mr. Black (a white Mormon), pulled me aside one day. He said that David reported that I told him to "keep his black hands off me." I was horrified. I cried. I didn't understand completely what it meant, but I understood it was terrible. I understood that I shouldn't feel that black was different or that being black was wrong. I was devastated that someone would blame me for thinking that way.

When I think about it more, there were other things that happened that pointed out to me that being black was different. My parents never said that black people were less. Not in those words, but in others. Our white, elderly neighbors were robbed late one night when they arrived home. The robbers were two black men. That's all I know. I only know this because that was how it was reported to my parents who related it that way to me. We moved because "too many black people were coming into the neighborhood." (Also - we had the luxury and the privilege to move away.)

I always knew that having a black boyfriend would irritate my parents. I wanted one, I never got one. I wasn't really that brave.

My parents moved to a small town in Oregon when my brother was a baby. We were having lunch in a restaurant near a window. Outside, in the parking lot, were a couple of young black men. My two-year-old brother looked at them and exclaimed, "Those men are dirty!!" He had never seen a black person before. I tried over and over to tell him that was the color of their skin. He shook his head. "No. No, they're dirty." I looked at my mom and told her she should not have left Southern California because now she was raising a racist toddler. She laughed.

Why am I telling you these things? It's not to tell you that my parents are bad people. They're not. It's to tell you that, as white people, we have some pretty fucked up ideas about people whose skin is a different color. And it's not as easy to label someone as being "bad" for thinking what they do because the messages feel so subtle sometimes. I wasn't told that my family didn't like blacks or that they were inferior. I wasn't taught to hate them. The message was simply that they were undesirable to live next door to.

All of this is to say that I understand the complexities of racism. I understand how it's sometimes hard to acknowledge when one is behaving in a racist manner. That it seems preposterous to call some behaviors racist. I know there is a learning curve. I also know that denial perpetuates the violence. I know that we can't continue the way we have. I know that there is injustice in the world. Grave injustice. I know that large sections of the population in my country are hurting. They are suffering, they are losing people they love, and they are dying. They are dying because they're black. They're angry because they're dying. I know this has to change. I know we have to do better.

Social media is the most useful tool when used responsibly and the greatest divider when it's not. It becomes a platform for people to spread hatred and to show the worst of humanity. The ugliest parts of themselves that we wish didn't exist.

There are a couple of things I've read in the last couple of days that gave me what Oprah always called "an aha! moment." These articles helped to put things in perspective for me in a way that I could relate to. As a woman, they made so much sense and I'm hoping that sharing them with you will help my white sisters understand and start a dialogue that helps us to move forward in helping our black sisters and brothers.

The first was an article about a BLM group meeting in the Nashville library. When it was discovered that the group was only open to persons of color, they were told they couldn't use the library as a meeting place anymore. The question was raised that white people might like to help and isn't it discriminatory in a reverse sort of way? But then the author gave the perfect analogy. Suppose a group of rape survivors decided to meet for support. A man approaches and says he wants to help them through their trauma. He is not a rapist, he has never hurt any of these survivors. But he's a man. He represents the gender that violated them. He won't understand, his help isn't welcome.

A second article compared racism to rape. We hear (and say) the same things about both.

"If she wasn't drunk..... If she hadn't worn that..... If she didn't flirt with the other guy....."
"If he kept his hands on the wheel.... If he just kept quiet and didn't ask questions..... If he weren't wearing a hoodie....."

Do you see the similarities? A woman doesn't ask to be raped. We don't ask to be catcalled. We don't ask to be objectified or marginalized or touched inappropriately or ignored or shamed or blamed for the thoughts a man has that we aren't aware of or in control of. People of color don't ask to be shot or suspected of crimes or profiled or accused. When we are just going about our business we don't ask to be victims. If we take ourselves outside of our own perceptions for a second, then maybe we can see that we have similarities.

Another problem I see on social media, and one that I have been confronted with, is that if I care about one cause, I must not care about another. Enough has been said about Black Lives versus All Lives, but this is related. There are several causes I care about and am passionate about. I can care about more than one at one time. I have enough emotion and enough space in my life to do so. Some become more pressing at times than others. If a woman is raped today and she is being vilified in the media while her rapist is being protected, then that is where I turn my attention. If I see an abused dog brought into a shelter who is in critical condition and needs immediate funds for medical care, then that is what I focus on for awareness. If there is an Amber Alert for a missing or kidnapped child, then that takes precedence in that moment and for that day. It isn't all or nothing for one cause and all the rest be damned.

Last week, while talking about Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the greater problem of racism, I was called a cop-hater. Because I care that two men died unjustifiably does not equate to hatred of all police. I can and do understand the enormous sacrifice that officers make on a daily basis. I can feel for their families and know that they also make sacrifices in loving someone who might not come home that night. I can have the utmost respect for men and women who are willing to put their lives on the line to protect me while also calling out that mistakes were made because other lives were ended. There aren't sides. There are people with beliefs and prejudices making decisions that they might not be prepared for, and that result in the loss of lives. That this happens over and over means that something needs to change.

I went to the BLM vigil/protest in Nashville on Friday night. There were two black officers within visual sight of the gathering. One male, one female. Those attending the assembly weren't confronted with a large show of police, they were allowed to congregate without interference. And yet, before the event started, I watched two young black men walk by, silently flipping off the two officers. My immediate reaction was, "Why? They're here to ensure that you get your say, that you get to honor your loss. They're also black, like you. Why so hateful?" The next day I had to separate my own reasoning from their emotion. Maybe it was the uniform itself. And they weren't confrontational, they were expressing their frustration. It was a safe place to do so and they did it peacefully.

If we can stop the automatic voices in our heads for a few moments and try to understand, then we start to be part of the solution. Stop saying, "But I have black friends.... But I have never said that... But I have never done that.... But that's not me....." Because it is. We have all done or said something that contributes to the problem, that separates us from the solution. And even if you have never used the "N word" or refused to hire someone because of their skin color, there is a person of color who has had that experience. Saying that you don't do it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen to them.

And if I take this further, just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't or that it can't. I've never been raped, but it's a possibility. I've never been mugged, but it's a possibility. I've never lost a parent, but that is something that looms in my future. Just because something hasn't happened to you doesn't mean that it won't. And it doesn't mean that it hasn't happened to someone else. It may have happened to someone you know and care about, but they don't talk about it because, most likely, it happens so often it's hardly worth mentioning anymore.

I've come to understand some things in the last few days that I didn't even as recently as the last year. I was in Southern California during the Rodney King riots. Granted, I was safely ensconced in my college environment in Orange County. I watched the horrors from a distance on my TV. There was no social media then so I was allowed to form my own opinions without interference from other, biased comments. What I believed was that it was terribly wrong. What I saw was anger and frustration and fear from a community I wasn't part of. And, naively, I thought that things would change. I thought that this country saw injustice, paid the price, and would move forward.

I was so wrong, because here we are. I can't say if it's worse because we see more of it or if it's less but the worst is being broadcast more easily through modern technology. All I know is that it shouldn't continue, not in any amount. Twenty four years later and we're still having the same conversation. 24. Two decades. 

What I know is that my own internal voices need to change. They way I communicate to those around me needs to change. I can no longer sit by and say, "Oh, how sad. It's terrible but what can I do?" I have a voice. I can use it. It's just one voice and it won't reach everyone, but if everyone like me spoke up too? If we all silenced our own experiences for a minute. If we listened. If we acknowledged that we have more similar experiences than we think while also understanding that what certain groups experience is also profoundly different. If we stop denying that. If we accept and admit that we have been part of the problem. And if we decide we no longer want to be part of the problem. If we educate ourselves, if we look at history, if we open our minds and our hearts.

Oh, what would we do if we realized we could do it? What if we used our White Privilege to reach out? I feel like being white provides yet another advantage. Will you listen to me before you listen to "another angry black person?" Can you understand it coming from me? Does it make more sense? Can you have a conversation with me that you couldn't have with someone else?

Because I'm willing. Are you?