This Week at Sprocket Ink

I've been busy, busy but I still found time to knock out two posts at Sprocket Ink. What can I say? I make it happen. My move is Saturday, so wish me luck! AHHHHH!

In the meantime, go read:


Baby Tramps Today. Prostitutes Tomorrow.
LZ Granderson wrote: Parents, don’t dress your girls like tramps. I respond.


9/11 Health Bill is Total Crap. That's Putting it Lightly.
New 9/11 health bill requires responders and survivors to prove they’re not terrorists before they can receive medical care. Seriously.

As always, muchas gracias for reading! Please help me out with your comments and likes and tweets and stumbles and diggs!

Next time you see me, I'll either be dead from this move or will have survived. EEEEE!

Photo of the Day: Wishful Thinking

So what are you gonna wish for? C'mon, you can tell me!

Photo of the Day: Downtown Perspectives

This is one of my views as I walk to the bus stop on my way to work every morning. Can't say it's all that bad.

AHA! she cried, deep into the night.

I'm dropping in from the busy moving front to share with you something big that happened to me this weekend. 

It's no secret that I'm the daughter of a crazy woman. It's a huge part of my life, whether I like it or not. I have to explain why I don't celebrate mother's day or my aversion to Hoarders or a million other things. People want to know and it gets old explaining.

But more than that, my mother's (and my father's) behavior has had a huge influence on who I am and what I do. I grew up in the ideals of not blaming your parents for your mistakes. You take responsibility for your own actions. And I believe that to an extent. Yes, I am an adult with free will and no one is twisting my arm to do anything. And yes, I have worked very hard to fix myself and my own issues and make myself a whole person. I'm continually learnin and it's something I work hard at every single day.

But it would be naive to think that my parents didn't have a huge influence on my life. Everything I learned from watching them is apart of me.

And I had a HUGE AHA! moment the other night. The kind of epiphany that changes everything. Hopefully, anyway.  I'm sorry that I can't share the details of said epiphany, mostly because it would expose very intimate feelings I have as well as details about others. And my goal with this blog has always been to not let me blog hurt those I love.

But this epiphany is huge indeed. It involves a family pattern that's been carried out for generations, passed down from my grandmother to my father to me. Who knows how further back it goes.

Hopefully this recognition helps me break it.

It's about something that I've been naively yet uncontrollably hanging onto. Something I didn't actually want and consciously knew was fruitless, but something I didn't possess the ability to let go of. No matter how hard I tried, it floated there just below my conscious, taunting me in my sleep, reminding me at every turn. It tinged all my interactions.

I think that now I know why it was hanging on despite my best efforts, I think I can finally let it go.

This isn't the first pattern I've broken, but it is the first that's an heirloom.

For instance, as far as relationships go, I was always on the lookout for daddy issues, being that I'm a girl and that's usually what girls have to look out for. I never realized that for years, I was dating people like my mother. I realized this in therapy several years ago. It's still easy for me to do, but at least now I'm more aware and can see it coming.

So parentage does, in fact, influence.

Though I think in the grand scheme of things, I've gotten off easy. I could be a lot worse off and I think what helps is my stubborn determination to figure it out and be happy.

I joke about being crazy, but I am not insane. I don't have a personality disorder. My issues tend to be of the neurotic variety. I'm quirky and odd, but I function. I feel like love repellent a good portion of my love life, but I love myself and most of the time that's enough.

My mom is a hoarder and I have a great fear of hoarding, but I do have my emotional attachments to certain things. I've kept any anthology or textbook that I've found important over my 6 or so years I spent in college. I have all my old notebooks and essays and portfolios. I have an attachment to anything I've learned or created. 

My mom has narcissistic personality disorder. If anything, I struggle with the opposite. This is directly because of her. My whole life was an effort in pleasing a woman that couldn't be pleased. Therefore my adulthood has been an effort in learning how to be more selfish. How to please myself. I would add "within reason," but anyone who is a doormat knows that that's never an issue. Reason has nothing to do with it. Once I learn to stop pleasing others first, then I can worry about keeping it in check.  

My dad is a doormat and, I think, part of why I was choosing partners like my mom is that I was repeating my father's behaviors. When really I should have been looking for partners more like him. Not doormats (I don't want that), but giving people who are super smart and witty and loyal.

Something I used to lament in therapy was being like my mother when I am a mother, or swinging too far opposite. I obviously don't want to be a narcissistic parent, but I also don't want to be too permissive. My therapist was always reassuring, naturally. She knew as I knew deep down that my concern alone for this behavior is what will make me a great mom.  I'll always be alert to it.

My mom is a drug addict. I really can't say that I've inherited this and I'm grateful for that. I'm not genetically related to her. I know people joke about being addicted to chocolate or a TV show or whatever and I laugh, but truthfully, it's bullshit. That's just enjoyment.

People are appallingly lax about prescription drug addiction. It's the somehow acceptable addiction. At least she's not shooting heroine right? Except it's really just as bad.

Until you've had a parent passed out for several days on end strung out on who-knows-what combination of pills. Until you've had to ride with your mom in the middle of the night, while her whole body shakes because she's coming off some pill, to the pharmacist's home, the pharmacist who is illegally filling her prescription because she's convinced him she'll die if she doesn't have it. Until you have to walk away from someone because they will pull you down with them, you just don't understand.

I hadn't intended this post to once again be about my mom's addiction and her insanity, but it took me there. Because it always leads there. 

So back to my epiphany. I think it will also help me take even more steps away from my mother as well.

Every piece of the puzzle helps me become a more whole person.

I can't wait to email my therapist and tell her about this. She'll be so proud!

This Week at Sprocket Ink

Another week, another dollar. Or something like that.

Well I have the juiciness again for you this week. From crazypants to more crazypants. What can I say? I love the crazypants.

This week, go read:

Jesse Jackson Jr, Representative of Crazy Town
Rep. Jesse Jackson Jr. blames iPad for unemployment. I stand amused.


Chubby Models Will Make Women Fat?
Italian researchers warn banning size zero models from the catwalk could worsen the obesity epidemic. I gag. Literally.

As always, thanks for reading! Please leave comments and retweet and like and digg and stumble. Me love you long time!

Photo of the Day: Blue Skies

My friends, the sun has been SHINING here in the land of port! Oh yes it has. It is glorious and I am soaking up my vitamin D. Well, on weekends and my lunch hour and on my walk to the MAX. Otherwise, I'm at a desk. But even then I KNOW it's sunny, so that makes me happy.

Photo of the Day: Sun Shiny

Some sunshinyness for you this Tuesday! These little flowers really were this shiny. Don't you just love that?

Fun Fact: when I was shooting this, kneeling low in the grass too get the perspective I wanted and all that yellow bokeh, a lady walked by with her dog and told me he likes to pee there. Awesome. Damn dogs.

All Annoyed

 For some reason, I'm all annoyed at my blog right now. Annoyed at its existence.

I know why but I don't know why. Blerg.

My blog has always been my safe space to just be me. So when life gets crazy, usually I find solace in this space.

Right now? I'm swamped. I've got my new job (which I'm loooooving!), but still have my freelance gig which should end mid May. Plus I've got Sprocket Ink and blogging AND I'm moving.

That's a lot of balls in the air.

Snicker.

I am one busy chiquita. Top that off with Jeté got sick last week (turns out a bit of toxic poising. long story. she's ok now) and I've been exhausted. And I've been trying to date. But I'll get to that in a minute.

The thing is: except for my furbaby getting sick, I like each of those elements and don't want to be doing anything else. I like the nice double paycheck I have going right now. I love love love Sprocket Ink. And I love my blog. I do. It's the place I've cultivated for myself and I love sharing it with you all.

But it's the last place I want to be right now. I look around me at all I have to do and I sneer at my blog with utter irritation. I don't want to respond to comments (which is usually one of my fave parts of blogging). I don't want to write (but am making myself right now. hello, therapy!). I just want it to be in a coma for a while so I can ignore it or something. Not that if a person I loved was in a coma I'd ignore him or her. But if my blog would just shut up for a while, maybe I could gather my thoughts.

How to the ever loving ever, the last thing I want is my blog to suffer, especially if I'm writing somewhere else. I get SO annoyed at bloggers that get a second writing gig and abandon their blogs. I read their other writing because I loved their blogs first. Our blogs are we we begin. Readers connect through the blogs. The rest is a bonus, I feel.

First and foremost, I want my blog to remain where I express myself and connect with my readers.

And at the end of the day, I want to be a writer. My paychecks are just what pay the bills. I'll never give up writing.

But something has to give. So I'm looking at my social life first. Right now? I just don't have time to "date." Have sex? Yeah I could make time for that. But all the wooing and connecting and posturing that comes with the beginnings of a relationship? Can't do it now. I just can't fit it in.

And yes, I'm a little schizo when it comes to what I want romantically. Right this moment, I just want casual. If I were already in a committed relationship, that would be great. We'd have routines and be able to help each other. I'd love support from a someone.

But it's so much goddamn work at the beginning and I just don't have it in me.

And if I met the most wonderfullest someone that I just knew I'd want to pursue, I guess I'd make it work. But what I'm looking for (or passively not looking) is casual. 

So I went on a first date a week or so ago. It was fine. He was cool. VERY good looking. But then I got sick last weekend (serious. I was down for the count.) and then I started the new job. Needless to say, I haven't been available. And this dude is turning out to be kinda needy. Like majorly high maintenance. And trying WAY too hard. And I'm finding myself totally turned off.

Like, there's being nice and being yourself and all that good stuff. But when someone tries too hard and gets all needy (especially at the beginning), I can't deal. For one, you're not being yourself. Just relax and see what happens yo! It's not the end of the world. Two, I don't need needy. I don't need codependent. I am fiercely independent, almost unhealthily so. I can't deal with someone who's not at least somewhat like that.

So I think I'm over this dude. Too high maintenance. 

*sigh*

Back to blogging. (sorry this post is so rambling)

Like I said, I don't necessarily want to neglect Le Blog, but I may neglect it a little. Just until I've moved or I am down to only one job.

Maybe I won't post every single day and take a day off here and there. Taking Saturdays off has been completely wonderful so I don't doubt a blog sick day here and there would feel awesome.

I'll also maybe write a teensy bit less and share more photos. You love the photos yes?

I'm also giving up one day at Sprocket Ink. Sucks but I can't post three days a week there and neglect my blog first. Ya KNOW?

Lastly, I'll still do my best to respond to comments, but probably won't always respond individually. At least for a while.

Yikes. And I move in two weeks and have just begun to pack. Wish me luck!

Goes to My Head

 This post contains juicy, juicy, scandalous behavior. If you're new to this blog and you're easily offended by the caprice of youth, don't read on. You've been warned.

After an hour of wandering windy Florentine streets, the four of us finally found the Tuscan restaurant Gianni recommended. It seemed only seconds between the time we were seated, menus scoured, food ordered, and the carafe of table wine emptied.

Soon the conversation flowed as easily as the wine down our gullets as we got to know each other.

Earlier, just off a train from Rome, Alice and I had drug our bedraggled behinds to our hostel, a small flat with one large room full of impossibly ancient bunk beds and twin beds pushed together.

We immediately befriended The Twins from San Diego, Jim and Carrie, dumped our bags under our beds, and headed off to find sustenance.

Over spicy risotto, antipasto and, of course, glass after glass of dulcet vino guzzled like juice from tall thick glasses, the four of us filled our bellies and let the laughter fly.

Aided by the crimson courage only wine can lubricate, sexual tension flew between me and Jim. He was entirely too young for me, but whip smart and oh so pretty. I wasn’t exactly hard up. I’d just left Giampaolo in Rome who was probably working his way up another favorite American girl’s skirt at that moment. But what the hell.

Jim was innocent and as the evening wore on, he became more and more tempting.  It soon became clear Alice was attracted to him too and, though it wasn’t my style to compete, suddenly I was an Olympian and Jim was a gold medal. He would be mine, at least for tonight.

Back to the hostel, with one stop at a liquor store for more wine, and the evening was just beginning. More wine. Hours of antics. More wine. We girls compared boob sizes and flexibility and we each shared embarrassing talents, including my imitation of a Howler Monkey and Tiramisu face.

Soon pajamas were changed into and we found ourselves settling in, ready to pass out. On a whim, I announced I’d be a twin sandwich and crawled between Jim and Carrie. Suddenly I was captured, pulled under the covers and subsequently under a half naked man.

Between kisses, he nervously whispered that he couldn’t do this in front of his sister. We hushed and the only other sounds in the room were the giggles and sighs of Carrie and Alice coming from one bed. Seemed she didn’t have the same hangup.

I awoke the next morning to a goodbye kiss, a view of a room full of empty wine bottles and grape-stained glasses, and The Twins leaving to catch a train to Amsterdam.

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: “Give me a memory of the color red. Do not write the word 'red' but use words that engender the color red when you hear them. For example: a ruby, a tomato, fire, blood. Writing has the elegance of mathematics. Try to write economically. A red cherry is redundant. Cherry is enough unless it’s one of the yellow ones from Washington state. Then it’s a yellow cherry. But, otherwise, cherry immediately wakes up the color red in the mind.”

My Tiramisu face, while demonstrating how flexible I was, on a dare.
I never share photos for RemembeRED, but couldn't resist sharing this one.
Sorry, Jim.

Song Sunday: Heal for the Honey

Brooke Waggoner is a recent discovery, one I'm ashamed I didn't know of before. She's completely fantastic! Sweet and eloquent, lyric and moving.

I had a really hard time choosing a song to share because they're all lovey. But this one touched me in a deep part of my heart where I store the truth. So here 'tis. From her lips to my heart to you.

Enjoy!

This Week at Sprocket Ink

One more week at Sprocket Ink! And it was a doozy, believe you me.

 This week, go read:

Blood Banks Say No Thanks to Gay Cancer
British health officials announce that homosexual men will soon be allowed to give blood and I realize it's still 1989.


Obama: Eat My Fiscal Policy and Like It
The president calls for $4 trillion in cuts. Republicans bristle. This girl swoons.

Selling Your Baby to a Child Molester=FAIL
A couple from Indiana tried to sell their newborn baby to a child molester. For $300.

As always, I love comments and likes and tweets and stumbles. Me love you long time!

Photo of the Day: Mystérieuse

This is my new favorite flower, not to take the place of my love of peonies and chrysanthemums of course. It's just so vibrant and lush. The blossoms are HUGE and the trees end up looking like they're covered in big, pink butterflies. But I have no idea what it is.

Anyone want to enlighten me?

Here's a different angle:

On Food Allergies

I've never been one for dieting. I like healthy foods for the most part, but I love my decadent foods too. I just strive for some balance, because if I want a juicy bacon burger, I want to have one without worrying that it will be my last meal.

I like to be able to enjoy the utter bliss of flavor without any guilt. Guilt over food is one of the worst traits of Americans, I think.  Food is a glorious experience, like sex or eating. Wait.

But, eating is not all caprice and felicity pour moi.

Have I mentioned my soy allergy? It's the bane of my existence.

It's always been a huge part of my life and I hate that. I truly do. I have always felt like it makes me high maintenance. I have.

Please don't reassure me. It's how I feel.

I don't want to have to ask a server what's in their bread or soup, or whatever. I don't want to have to check every label. I don't want to go over to dinner at a friend's house and ask to check the labels. It makes people feel badly for me. And I hate that. I'd just rather things go smoothly and not bring a shitload of attention on me and my damn allergy.

But it's in damned near everything these days. The world has soy fever and it makes my life a but perilous.

And that sucks monkey ass. I don't like being the center of attention. I don't want everyone catering their meals around me. It makes me crazy. 

I don't think I'd die from it, but who know what would happen if I ate tofu or something, pure soy. When I get a little, like from soy flour or protein in other food, I get sick as all hell. Fever. My skin starts crawling off. And I get sick to my stomach. It's misery and I always carry Benadryl with me just in case. The best way I survive it is dosing up on the pink pills and sleep it off.

And I know it could be worse. I don't have a peanut allergy where just a whiff of peanuts puts someone into anaphylactic  shock. I don't have to carry an epi pen. I'm lucky that way.

I've never had much patience with people who say they have a food allergy but eat the food anyway. I get the food intolerance people. That I understand. But I've always felt that if you have a true allergy, you'd get super sick.

I guess I just have to learn a little more tolerance. I guess there are varying degrees of allergies. Though I'd tell the people who eat those foods anyway that the more attacks you have, the worse they get each time. Just saying.

But when I find myself considering whether or not wheat is an issue for me, I'm super annoyed.

And no, I'm not going to see a doctor yet. And no, you can't talk me into it. I don't have insurance, I haven't been happy with my medical care in the past, and I don't want a bag of pills like my mother thankyouverymuch.

But I thought I'd just test my diet to see if there's anything to this, keep a diet journal, and cut down on my wheat consumption for a bit. See how I feel.

First, beer is out. No big loss there anyway and no girl wants a beer belly.

But if I thought soy was in everything, wheat is in ten million times more. That math might be a bit funky, but I'm prone to hyperbole so shut it.

Breads? Wheat.

Pastas? Wheat.

Soups? Wheat.

And microwavable meals? Forget it. They all have either soy or wheat or both.

So I went to my local Freddies and found myself in the hand dandy gluten free section, put there so the grocery store can rape you of your money with ease and convenience.

Gluten free is expensive as hell.

BUT! I want to try this out and I'll want sandwiches for lunch this week at my new job so I purchased some rice bread (which is nasty as all hell) and some quinoa pasta (which was pretty tasty) and vegetable broth (because everything Campbell's makes has wheat in it for some damned reason). $547 later (I exaggerate), I had enough food to last me a week.

I may die.

BUT! I've made a list of foods I like that don't have wheat:

• Cadbury Eggs
• Beans (no tortilla) (I hate corn tortillas)
• Corn Chips
• Potatoes (trusty potatoes)
• Fruit
• Cheerios! (yay for oats!)
• Veggies
• Oatmeal
• Hummus
• Nuts
• Bloody Marys
• Ice Cream
• Pastrami (but what do I put it on?)
• Cheese (glorious cheese)
• Any number of condiments (but what do I put them on?)
• Rice (but no soy sauce)
• Coconut Water (nectar of life)
• Juice
• MEAT

Conclusion: there are many foods I can eat without wheat, but how the hell will I make yummy sandwiches? Any suggestions?  Where do you non-wheaties get breads and the like? Do I have to learn to bake my own bread from oats?

Shoot. Me. Now.

If anyone gives me advice that includes medical testing, I will punch you in the larynx.

Photo of the Day: Purple Rain

Another gloriously springtime shot for ya today. I captured this last week, walking around my neighborhood, watching spring explode into everything. I don't know what it is about this, but it makes me think of the eighties, of bright, floral print leggings and side ponytails.

Welcome to Dirty Thirty, Bitter Betty!

Today is my bestie since 10th grade, my first partner in crime, Bitter Betty's (Krissy to me) 30th birthday.

That's right. It's the big 30 and I couldn't let it pass without getting you all to wish her a happy birthday with me.

I love this little lady to my bones and I hope her 30th birthday is the best ever!

So, my dear,

Welcome to the Dirty Thirties Club!

I Am Trying

I am honored today to host one of the most brilliant ladies I know, my friend Jenny. I read this piece and just begged her to let me post it on my blog. I love it. It's something between prose and poetry and it's macabre yet poignant, almost Baudelaire-esque. 


I hope you like it as much as I did.

I Am Trying

Feeling scared today
Write down "I am ok"
A hundred times the doctors say
I am ok
I am ok
I'm not ok
~ eels

I stand in the shower and look at my blood vessels—a branching, complex network, relaying blood to the tips of my toes, the rough spot on my elbow, the curve of my hip.

My body contains approximately 60,000 miles of blood vessels which circulate a little over five liters of blood. Step back from any squeamishness you have and imagine that color—a rich, gorgeous red. Picture the stark contrast to the pale pastel blue of my veins.

It is beautiful.

Millions of vessels. Capillaries, veins and arteries. A nick here, a scratch there. A satisfyingly fat bead gathers on my fingertip when the doctor performs my monthly blood thinner check; a rivulet streams down my shin when I cut myself shaving, pooling at the bottom of the tub until it flows down the drain, pink ribbons swirling.

One small slip, one wrong cut, too much curiosity, and all five liters will leave my body in minutes.

It is terrifying.

I'm not suicidal...I'm just fascinated.

I'm not okay.

~~~~~~~~~~


You can find this utterly brilliant woman at her blog Like Swimming or on Twitter.

Showdown

It began, as it almost always does, innocently enough.

I’d moved to a house with a space to garden and a bed of bedraggled rose bushes which I was exuberant to nurture to their potential splendor.

I purchased a long, green hose with attachable nozzle, which came with a plethora of speeds and pressures, for ease of watering my grass and plants and rose bushes, nothing more.

Little did I know this innocuous apparatus would serve as a weapon that I would use to defend my space and my life in a battle with a most gruesome end.

The first time I saw her, I nearly fell over in fright, giving a small scream and dropping my garden shears.

I’d know her anywhere. I’d seen her face before. I’d seen her in my nightmares.

She stared at me malevolently and her fat, black body sat completely still as if in defiance of her trespass.

But this was my home and her kind was not welcome here. I grabbed the hose, switched the nozzle to “jet” and sprayed her right in her evil little face. She immediately scuttled away and hid.

It had done its job. For the time being.

She appeared again several more times over the next couple of weeks, always creeping up on me while I was gardening all alone, unsuspecting. She’d get too close for comfort and I’d  hit her with a blast of water until she lost her creepy little grip and fell down in the dirt. I was never quite sure if I’d killed her or not. But I suppose not, since she kept coming back. Like a damn zombie.

Then came the fateful day. I got home from work and changed into jeans and walked out into my garden. I peeked into a hanging plant, looking for my newest friend, a baby Praying Mantis (I think he was a baby), a tiny bright green little guy that would greet me every day and make me smile. I named him Ernie.

But what did I find? A tiny green Praying Mantis corpse.

I knew instantly it was her. She had murdered Ernie. In cold blood.

That bitch. She was going to pay.

I got a broom and with the long, wooden handle, bashed at the bushes until she came out, all pissy, fangs dripping with venom, her red belly taunting me.

I was scared, I admit. But this time it was personal.

I sprayed her dead on with the fullest blast of water my spigot would allow, but that bitch held on with all eight legs and the will power of a demon.

I gave up on the hose. It was simply not powerful enough for her. I grabbed the broom handle and took aim. The timing had to be perfect and I couldn’t miss. I had just one shot.

I took it. I smashed the wood handle into that Black Widow spider. She wasn’t going to die easily, but I wasn’t going to let her crawl up the handle and seek her revenge upon me. I squished and squished and then I sprayed again, making sure she was truly and completely dead.

At last, it was finished. I was soaking wet and exhausted.

But I’d won.

I wiped my brow, tossed the hose onto the grass, placed the broom back in the house, and released a long sigh of relief.

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: This week, we're giving you a photo to take you back in time. In 700 or fewer words, show us where your memory takes you.

Remember that this image is merely inspiration. Your piece needn't have a hose in your piece, but we need to easily see how you were inspired by it.

Working Girl

Tomorrow I start a new job! Hooray for a steady paycheck!

A new job in a very chi chi office where I get to wear cute businessy outfits. I've already bought new shoes.  And they are adorbs.

No more working from bed, but I'm excited to go downtown five days a week like a big girl.

I'm nervous because I know the learning curve will be steep, but excited because I think this will be a great opportunity for me.

I intend to try to keep the same posting pace on my blog and you can still find me three days a week at Sprocket Ink. I hope. I may take a couple days off the blog here and there until I get my groove at the new job.

But, since this is a chi chi office, I won't be able to spend any time during the day on the Twitter or FB or reading blogs. Please forgive me for that. I'll do my best to keep up with you all.

Wish me luck!

Song Sunday: Up From Below

I have so much lurve for Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros. They're quirky and different. They mix old time influences with modern and weird elements. Which I just find utterly delicious.

I'm sharing a live version of this song, but check them out. Every version is a little different, which is also super cool.

Enjoy!

This Week at Sprocket Ink

Another week of witty and snarky and uber opinionated posts over a Sprocket Ink! Try to contain your excitement. I know it's hard.

This week, go read:

Sluts March, Take Over the World
In the first ever SlutWalk, sluts marched on downtown Toronto to protest sexual assault stereotypes.

Did You Hear? The Gays Can Cause Tsunamis! Cool!
Cindy Jacobs claims gays caused the Japanese Earthquake & Tsunami. I didn't realize gay was a superpower!

Romney is Mormon. So What?
Mitt Romney has been quiet about his Mormon faith. Should we care?

As always, I love comments and likes and shares and diggs and stumbles! Thank you!

The Survivor Gene

 

I am so excited to be apart of this year's Blogger Body Calendar project. If you don't know what this is, go check it out. The project was founded by one of my fave ladies, Amy Phillips,  co-created by the coolest mom on the planet Alex, and has and will feature some of the coolest blogger chicks out there, some that I feel proud to call my friends.

I discovered it last year, which was the inaugural year and they were able to raise over $500 for National Eating Disorders Association.

I swear that next year I'll badger them until they give me a spot in the calendar itself, but I am overjoyed to be the first guest poster for the blog.

This year’s theme is: Survivor and Strength.

"To me, above all, women are survivors. They survive domestic abuse, physical, sexual, and mental abuse, and the abuse we sometimes do to ourselves (eating disorders, cutting, etc.). Women survive, and do so beautifully.

This year our participants will show off that survivor strength, not because they are all survivors, but because they all are supporters of every woman who has had to struggle against the violence. All proceeds will go Violence UnSilenced."

Please go read my guest post and subscribe to the blog and, most importantly, put aside a little dough to purchase the calendar!

On Hair (down there)

Come a little closer, dearies. I'm about to share more than you could possibly ever want to know. What? You thought I already did that? Mwahahaha! How little you know. I can always get more personal.

After telling you all about my vomit, I thought it was about time to discuss an issue that's been on my mind for the past forever.

My lady jungle. My landing strip. My path to the promised land. My pubic hair.

This wouldn't even be a topic if everyone didn't seem to make such a big deal of it. Of pubic hair in general. Of the need to tame it, shape it, trim it, remove it.

Perhaps you all remember the douche who didn't approve of my soul path. Or the dude on Twitter who I got into a massive argument with over his desire to see grown women bare (sorry, I'm too lazy to find you the links). Or maybe you've had your own battles with your nether hair. Or maybe you were just as insipired as I was by the Vagina Monologues.

Long Live Eve Ensler!

Anywayyyyy.

I, myself, have gone through many phases of hairy and not so hairy glory. In the last 12 or so years, I've waxed, Nair-ed, shaved, and trimmed. Not that I've ever gone completely bare. THAT will never happen.

And now that I'm 30, you know what I've decided? I'm done fussing. Done. I like my hair and if you don't like it, well I can find lovers who do. I'm not exactly desperate for some douchecanoe to go fishing, ifyouknowwhatImean.

For one, waxing sucks. It hurts. It does. Even if you're just waxing the bikini line (which is all I'd really do), it still hurts. Even if you've found the most pain-free aesthetician ever, it fucking hurts. No denying that. Also? It's expensive! And my hair grows fast. Not just on my hooho, but on my head and legs too. I blame vitamins. But I'm not spending all that money on something that's going to be stubbly in a week anyway.

Depilatories. Nair. Veet. Well, these work okaaaay, but just okay. You have to grow out your hair first to do it (just like waxing) and a few hairs always get missed anyway. And then it takes a good ten extra minutes (doesn't sound like a lot, but I'm not one for spending a ton of time on my appearance). Then it leaves a vague chemical smell on your vag for like a day. And while it's cheaper than waxing, those bottles are still like 7 bucks a pop. That adds up. So what I'm saying? Not worth it.

Shaving. Shaving sucks balls. It leaves the little red bumps which if you shave over a second time (like the next day?), it cuts them. CUTS THEM! Like with pain and bleeding. I don't want to cut the delicate skin around my coochie, thankyouverymuch. And shaving only lasts like a day. Once again, I'm just talking about the bikini line. I can't even imagine gals who shave the whole shebang. *shudder*

Here's a news flash: women come with hair! It's a sign of puberty. Of adulthood. Of hormones and pheromones and the goodness of all that is womanhood.

Allow me to quote one of my fave ladies, Lissa Rankin (who I had the pleasure of actually meeting last winter at a book signing):

Pubic hair is not just a biological accident that forces us to the waxing salon. It serves three critical functions. First, it protects the delicate vagina. Second, it serves as a reproductive billboard to alert potential mates that you are biologically (if not emotionally) prepared to procreate. And last, it’s a pheromone carpet and traps the scents that lead potential mates to the promised land. So you might think twice before you shave it all off. It’s there for a reason. Embrace it.

Now go read the rest of her article: 15 Crazy Things About Vaginas

And you know what? The same goes for the menfolk. I don't expect or even want men to manscape. What happened to men wanting hair? It used to be a sign of manhood, of virility, and now guys are shaving it all off.



I don't get it.Why are we so ashamed of our hair? Of our adulthood?


So at the end of the day? No more. I will but swimsuits with a lower panty line. I will let my hair grow out. I may just trim up the bulk, but I am embracing my hair. I am a 30 year old woman and I come with hair. It's a package deal and a desirable package at that!
And if you're looking for the look of a 10 year old girl, I don't want you. Because there's just something wrong with that.

*shudder*

Photo of the Day: Bubble Gum

Spring is spring in the Port Land and we even had a day over sixty degrees last week! Well you bet your ass I slipped on my flip flops, grabbed my bestie and my camera, and went for a walk in the finally warm air. Of course the next day it dipped back down another 10 degrees, but I needed that little tease. It was delicious.

And I just can't get enough of all the pink! It's like bubble gum is bursting all over Portland. And pink is not even my favorite color.

Blogging is better than Web MD

I have a question for you.

Actually, I have to make two points before I get to my major point. It's important that you understand my back story in this case so that you can sufficiently laugh and me and feel sorry for me. Or something. I'm not sure. Whatever. Go with it.

Point one: I don't do that whole Web MD crap. I'm sure it's great and probably helps a ton of people, but being as I am the daughter of a total hypochondriac with a not so tiny prescription drug addiction, I don't want to unlock any weird fears in myself. I don't want to type in the symptoms for a cold and have the web tell me I have the Bubonic Plague.

Children of hypochondriacs have to walk a fine line between reasonable concern for our health and not wanting to overreact to something small and thus sound like a nutjob in the ER.

Point two: I don't like bathroom humor. Or I don't mind it, but I don't participate in it. I'm not offended by fart jokes or whatever, but I'm unlikely to make them.

That's because I don't do things like fart or burp or barf or whatever else you do in the bathroom. I've always been embarassed about that, ever since I was little. Freud would tell you that's why I'm so anal retentive. I say to Freud, my attention to detail and need to control my life only helps the world around me function properly. So there.

For some reason though, I've never had any problem discussing pee or announcing to the entire world and their persnickety grandmothers when I have to pee like a racehorse on death row. Wonder what Freud thinks about that.

I even actually said the word poop in a comment on a friend's blog the other day and you know what? I didn't die! Maybe I'm growing.

So it is with these two points that I finally tell you my very short and potentially pointless story. I've been having stomach issues lately. Again. You don't know it's again because I don't like to necessarily share my stunning digestive pyrotechnics (name that movie).

I've always had a sensitive stomach. I store all my stress there. I had horrible heartburn as a little kid and the doctor had me on all sorts of antacids and dietary hoopla, but he probably just should have prescribed some therapy.

I've had docs decide I was lactose intolerant (I'm not) (and the test period was the worst month of my life) (I love cheese). I've had a colonoscopy (all clear) and steroids meds (I guess to make things work?) which made me feel worse. It's not IBS. It's just that I have a sensitive stomach. And it comes and goes.

Lately, I've been getting nauseated super easily. One beer and I'm not even drunk, but I'm still expelling five days worth of potent potables. My roommates must think I'm bulemic.

So that is how I found myself the other night. I hadn't even had alcohol, but I'd eaten rich food (I love rich food) and I barfed (look at me! discussing barf!) so violently that my face became super red and even tingled, as if all the blood in my body shot into my face at once. Well that can't be good, amIright?

So that sucked. But my question to you is not about my stomach issues. The problem is that now I have these teeny red bumps on my eyelids and around the frame of my face, like they're maybe broken capillaries or something.

Do you think that's what it is? If so, does it go away? Can I treat it?

I'd provide photos, but they're so tiny that the camera didn't pick them up. 

Thanks, readers. You're better than Wed MD.

If anyone says I have the Plague, I WILL find you and kill you.

Chemical Tinged Air

I can be doing the most innocuous of tasks, cleaning tile or walking past a YMCA, and suddenly the powerful scent will hit me and I’m instantly back. Back to every day of every summer I can remember.

I love the feel of the morning stillness, cool enough to feel pleasant before the assault of the desert sun reaches full force. I follow my mom as she unlocks the gates and then into the office, the chemical tinged air comforting only to me.

I strip down to my Care Bear suit, work my sun bleached long hair into a braid, and slather SPF 25 over my tan skin. When I move the straps to smooth in the lotion, it’s like I have on a white suit underneath.

Mom’s first class is for grownups and I don’t feel like getting in yet so I settle on a plastic  lounge chair with a book, watching the shade inch further and further up my body until I’m sitting fully in the sun, the soundtrack my mom’s high pitched shouts of, “KICK KICK KICK.”

Then I help my mom with her Mommy and Me class, helping the toddlers push off my legs with their little feet and paddle to their moms. Then my class starts. I’m the best in my class at stroking all the way across, my long limbs kicking and pulling, my lungs pumping.

Lunchtime means I wrap a big towel around me and settle on the scalding deck with a hot dog, my braid dripping on the concrete, making dark splotches that disappear within seconds.

My friend Megan and I spend endless time in the deep end, taking turns seeing who can dive the deepest, holding our breath until we burst, pushing off the bottom and shooting to the surface. When a diving class starts, we migrate to the shallow end and put diving rings around our ankles, pretending to mermaids. Submarine flips and handstands. Tea parties on the bottom, trying to guess what the other is saying.

We play long into the day until the sun wanes behind the mountains and it’s time to go home. Flips flops slide onto my feet and my towel wraps around my lanky body.

The door handles to my mom’s big blue land yacht are scalding as are the seat belts and leather seats. I sit on my towel to protect my flesh. Since the car has no AC, Mom and I roll down all the windows and let the oppressively hot air blow over us, drying our wet suits, the smell of chlorine still clinging to our skin.

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: This week, your memoir prompt assignment is to think of a sound or a smell the reminds you of something from your past and write a post about that memory.  Don't forget to incorporate the sound/smell of your choosing!

I also added the additional challenge for myself to not use the word “swim” once, even though it’s all about swimming. What can I say? I’m a dork.

Song Sunday: You Don't Know Me

It's about time I shared a Ben Folds song and this one is especially delicious. Plus? It features Regina Spektor, who I lurve.

I hope you lurve it too! Enjoy!

This Week at Sprocket Ink

Can you believe they still like me at Sprocket Ink? I know. I couldn't believe it either.

And not only that, but I'm taking on a third slot, so you'll see three articles from me each week now. I'm so excited about this!

Anwayyyy, down to what you really want, the goods.

This week, go read:

Southwest Says: Bigotry is Okay if You Apologize
Southwest apologizes to a Muslim woman who was ejected from a flight after she ended a cell phone call with, "I've gotta go." 

Japan, When it Quakes it Pours
8.9 magnitude earthquake, Tsunami, death roll rising, homeless and orphans, and a nuclear reactor leak. Japan could use a break.

Inside Scoop: Obama’s True Motives in Libya
Not only has Obama okayed secret aid to Libyan rebels, but according to an inside source, Obama’s motives may not be quite so clear.

And don't forget to help me out with likes and tweets and diggs and stumbles. Thank youuuuuuu!

Photo of the Day: Right on the Nose

I think we were overdue for a kitty shot. Isn't my Hobbes gorgeous? I love his pink nose and long, long whiskers.

Hobbes has always been a sweetheart. He loves his belly rubbed and will purr just because you give him any attention at all. He's never bit or used his claws on me. He's just a big lug, that one. But he was been getting super cuddly lately! Curling up next to me, laying closer and closer. I predict he'll actually climb on my lap any day now. I gotta say, I'm loving it.