Dealing With Misogyny

Yesterday, I posted something about being a woman dealing with misogyny. And I am happy to report, that after my musings were posted, I spoke with the gentleman who's behavior led to that post.  I said what I had to say, politely, and simply. I called him out on his behavior and told him that it was not O.K. with me. That even though I had, in the past, smiled and made light of it, that, that was a CHOICE made on my part in order to quell the situation, and maintain a peaceful environment. I let him know that I would like to work it out, but I did not offer up any solutions at the time. I just wanted to make him aware of the situation, and make it clear that I would stand up for myself if he ever disrespected me in a major way again. Then I put the ball in his court. I had thought about a few suggestions or alternatives to offer up. I thought back to my younger days when I had learned all about "I" statements. But ultimately, I decided to *not*  process everything with this person. -I didn't need to. It's not like he's my boyfriend. He was just a guy who was treating me differently (with less general respect) simply because I was the only female in his environment. I also wanted to give him a chance to come up with these solutions on his own. It hampers people's development as human beings, when you provide all of the answers for them. Not only is it disrespectful to do ('cause the underlying message in that is: "Hey, I'm going to fix this for you and tell you what to do because I don't think you're capable of figuring this out on your own.") it makes the solution something external rather than internal. Fundamentally I believe in this person's ability to get there on his own. It may be a long path, but I think he's on it -even if he's not aware of it.

It felt good to stand up for myself. He was quiet for a moment, and his eyes looked down, and then he apologized. I honestly didn't expect that. This is a person who could use a good deal of anger management, and although I had contemplated offering up this suggestion, I decided against it. He is the one who must make that move. And I don't want to *coerce* anyone into doing something that they don't want to do, no matter how helpful it may be for them in the long run. There are a few exceptions to this statement such as: children who need guidance, nurturance and structure...in that case I would not be above devious mom-like tricks. Whatever it takes really to help my beloved. But this person is not that close to me. He's a *friend* but not a best friend. And it seems that he needs to find his own path. I hope that he does. Living his life the way he does, with such consistent anger and disrespect towards approx. half of the population, ironically primarily hurts him. It ensures that he will be without a mate -because no self-respecting woman would choose to be with someone who has no respect for her or her sisters. It also pushes people away from him (his male friends AND me). -From what I can tell, I think I'm actually his ONLY female friend. That's pretty telling in and of itself! It limits the kinds of jobs that he can have and do well in. His whole life really. The longer he lives with this bitterness in his heart, the more self-fulfilling his beliefs become. He said something about love never working out and always leading to pain. Well...if you really believe that...then I'm afraid, that's what's going to be true for you in your lifetime. I know that a lot of his anger towards women stems from his still hurt feelings from past relationship failures, and for that, I have compassion. It's hard when things don't work out or when people don't treat you the way you'd like to be treated. It's sort of like he was once a beautiful butterfly who's had his wings crushed and mangled with defeat, and now, instead of straitening out his wings and giving himself all of the healing and love that he deserves, he's embraced the mangled crushed look, and become a curmudgeony old bug instead of a dazzling monarch. I wish you well butterfly. Get back to your roots because at the heart of it, I know you're a beautiful person. Learn to love and appreciate women. See them as your equals. Treat us like your beloved sister or mother, friend, or child. Learn to love with your whole being. I will be rooting for you. ...But just in case...I will also be carrying a fly swatter for when you get out of hand. ...Just sayin'...

How Do You Deal With A Misogynistic Pig?

Imagine that you are a woman. Now picture yourself engaged in a conversation with a man who says things to you like "You ask too many questions.". Someone who speaks over you when you are talking or makes a hand puppetting gesture like a person's mouth opening and closing "yap, yap, yap, yap, yap" in the background, while you are speaking. He does this often. Not because you actually *do* ask too many questions, or speak too much, but because he is the type of person who doesn't respect women, period. What he would prefer, is for you to sit quietly and attentively, eyes sparkling with interest, mouth pert in a quasi-enthusiastic smile, while he tells his stories. At the end, you laugh. On cue. And tell him how funny/smart/right/etc. he is. Now this guy isn't a jerk (all the time). He can actually be quite nice. But underlying that, is a general disrespect and hostility towards women. ...So what's a girl to do?

I want to play well with others...but what does one do, when one is faced with someone who doesn't play well with *you*? How do you handle it?

The men in my life that I am close to, tend to have this amazing quality of just being able to shrug it off and mentally (if not out loud as well) just say "Fuck him. He's being an asshole." -Which is true. He *is* being an asshole. But so what? That still doesn't cover my part of this equation. What do *I* do about it? I want to posses the same type of strong, level-headed comportment that my cousin, Mark does. He's a career military man, a Marine. And I have noticed the way he interacts with people. He is the type of guy who enters a room full of strangers, and will take the time to smile, look each person in the eye, while shaking their hand firmly and making sure to introduce himself politely and make sure that he has their name. He is strong but gentle. And I don't think that someone like the previously mentioned fellow, would ever dare to disrespect him. But maybe I'm wrong? Maybe he would? That part doesn't really matter though. I know that I cannot *make* people be nice to me. But what I really want to master in my life is control over my emotional state, so that when they do act like jerks, *I* am not reduced to tears, or eaten up by it in later hours...always wondering what I could have done differently to make history not happen. To make that interaction more pleasant and respectful for all. I am learning that I have to let that idea go. Into each life a little rain (and the occasional jerk) must fall. The big lesson for me is to learn how to handle *myself* in those situations. And how to feel good about it afterwards.

...So in this situation, I did stand up for myself. I did say "I do not ask too many questions." and I also tried to placate the situation and make nice by laughing it off and making a joke of it. But inside I felt like I had been run over. I can expect this situation to arise again because like I said, this person's problem is that they have a problem with women...and I am a woman. No getting around that sir. So sorry for my genitalia, or lack thereof. I have decided to try and think of good models for the type of strength that I would like to posses. Kind of like "What would Jesus do?" only it's more like..."What would my cousin Mark do?" or "What would Tecumseh do?"...or "What would my Grandma or Grandpa do?" ...and one of the things that I *know* they *wouldn't* do, is take crap from a person like that. I'm not sure how they would stand up against it but I know it would be dealt with and would not be ignored or woven into a part of everyday life, that's for sure.

Act of Valor

I actually saw "Act of Valor" last night with the dudes. (T'was a dude pick) The first 20 minutes were slow and I found myself feeling a bit like I had paid $10 to see a propaganda film that the U.S. government should have been paying *me* to watch. But once the action picked up, I found myself actually liking *parts* of it and thinking more deeply about the roles of our civic leaders and how that interacts with military. One of the things that I really took away was that the Navy Seals portrayed in this film were actually pretty good guys. They did not want to go to war, were not blood thirsty mercenaries, and if left well alone, would have been more than happy to live their lives in peace and service to their country and families. That ultimately, what they really wanted was peace and safety. Now this is either true, or one of the most influential pieces of propaganda that I've ever seen with my own eyes. Either way, it got me thinking about leadership and responsibility. And what occurred to me, was that our politicians weren't as driven as the men and women of our military, to be honest and to shoulder the responsibility (good or bad) for the outcome of their decisions. They actually seem compelled by the political structure of our country and how we integrate media into that mix, to lie and be deceitful about who they really are and what they really think. And when they make a mistake or leave someone waving in the wind all alone, political strategy would dictate that it would be a preferable course of action, to attempt to deflect and distance. To pretend that it was not them, who made the mistake. To find somebody else to blame. I'm sure you can see the problems that arise from this. We are living through them today. We are living in a world that often times seems lacking in humanistic values. Where mistakes are made -and repeated multiple times because no one is willing to take responsibility when things go wrong and say "OK this isn't working, we need to change somethings." Caring about one another, being compassionate, and working together to help create the solutions to our world's problems is everyone's responsibility. It's hard work embracing this type of ideology, but I think it is what will lead us to the collective outcome that we would all want: world peace. Or at least a world with less poopy stuff.

And at the end of the movie last night, I was introduced to a lovely poem by Chief Tecumseh, which I will leave you with to ponder. I love it. ...I may even frame it above my desk to inspire me daily. Here it is:

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart.

Trouble no one about their religion;

respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours.

Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life.

Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people.

Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend,

even a stranger, when in a lonely place.

Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living.

If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself.

Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools

and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled

with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep

and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.

Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

~Chief Tecumseh, Shawnee Nation 

Moving In With Men: Gird Your Loins

"You're worried about the silverware?" He blurted it out like an accusation. I was being petty. It's true. I can't deny it. You see, we're in the process of moving in together. And I've never done this -live with a guy before. OK. That's not exactly true. I've "lived with guys" before...as in my roommates. And I never had any problems with that. Probably because Ron, (one of my previous housemates) had come up with the genius idea of having a maid come in every other week and clean the deep stuff. She'd wash the floors, and vacuum the whole house, including our rooms if we left the door open and the floor was clear of stuff. She'd even clean our windows and window sills so they never accumulated that gross schmutz that most people seem to have. And when the house was sparkly and clean, she'd go into the garden and cut some fresh flowers, leaving them in cute little bouquets all over the house...in the bathroom, on the dining room table, in the kitchen, even in my bedroom. I loved it! The main reason that we had a maid though was to avoid arguments. The kind that would arise when one roommate felt that they were doing more of the gross work than the others. I think this was particularly helpful in the bathroom area. With the maid, none of us ever had to scrub the tile, or for that matter...scrub the toilet. This can get particularly gross living with men, as they seem to sometimes *miss* and hit the floor next to the toilet. And my fears of how to *diplomatically* handle these situations sans maid service are starting to come up. I'm afraid of disrupting "The Dude Palace". I've got to get over this.

I honestly like living with guys. Apart from the occasional gross surprise that men seem to bring. Like cutting one on your foot while he sits down on the couch and you *naively* play footsie, teasingly nestling it underneath his oh-so-cute tushie, and then brrrrpppp. Insta-foot-massage of the *unwanted* kind (to which he vehemently denies ever happened.) But my foot knows the truth! And there's also the dude clutter, of video games, and movies, and dirty plates and glasses everywhere, which somehow seems worse than when *I* leave the same things around. Maybe because my stuff is interesting to me and theirs for the most part, is not. I have no interest at present in learning a new coding language or on perusing a Chemistry text book. But I like having these things somewhere in the living room. Just as to where is the question at hand? We've already established that the Cute Boy's family kitchen table will be the one we are using. And I like it. It's cute. It's oak. And it has a lot of good memories associated with it. It's one of the few family pieces of furniture he has actually. I like the idea of sitting down to dinner at it with him and the 'mates, and having house dinners.

You see...what I really want, more than anything, is that feeling of home. But I'd like *this* home to be a further evolution of my past ones. I want this one to be clean and inviting. Comfy and warm. Someplace that people really enjoy being. It's got the potential that's sure. And we'll get there. It's already an awesome house. And they've got most everything that a person could want by way of entertainment. I love being there and evening's spent in the living room are enjoyable. Scott and I take our dogs for walks or over to the nearby park to play fetch. I know I'm going to like being here. It's just lacking a woman's touch. I just get so hung up on the details. It actually IS important to me how my fork feels in my mouth. To the Cute Boy, this predilection that I have with nice silverware is weird. The oddly bent tines of his thin and tinny silverware seems fine to him and every one else in the house (all dudes for the record). But to me, it detracts from the sensuous feeling of pasta and cream sauce gliding over the tongue. I like to *experience* my food. It's like breathing or laughing to me. It's a part of every day life that I relish and enjoy. A while ago, I made a minor investment in what I like to think of as "nice silverware". I was at the downtown Crate and Barrel, near Union Square with a friend of mine and I just decided that if I was going to do it...I better just do it now. I had been eyeing the same set of silverware for oh...the last 7 or 8 years. And it seemed silly to *not* buy it. Every so often I would compare my red plastic picnic ware from Target, to the set I secretly desired, and I'd imagine how much better the food would feel if it was on the sturdy and chic set from CB. For the record, it did feel better. So now, naturally, I want to bring over my set and use it. Which isn't a problem, I'm sure. The problem is me again. I think about the janky bent tines and bent spoon handles they have...or how they will sometimes use butter knives as ad hoc tools to open things with, and I cringe.

Will they do this to my flatware? -Probably.

Won't they see the obvious superiority of these instruments and treat them accordingly? With respect? -Don't set your heart on it.

The silverware is just a small thing. This fear of living with men goes all over the place. And honestly, I need to just get over it. I need to love the things I love and use them, and not worry about weather or not they will break -because they will. Eventually, everything breaks or wears out. Entropic decline is the way of all things. And I've just got to make peace with that fact and get on with the business of living and enjoying. The *people* are what's important...not preventing wear and tear on my things. ...But it would be nice if my forks  could survive this move.

Reframing Depression

Sometimes things happen, that are not connected, but initially it's hard to see that. Well..for me anyways. I'd guess that's true for most people too though.

I came home the other day to find that someone had turned over a stack of plastic storage boxes that I had by my front door. Whoever had done it, had also taken the time to move the small bag of potting soil I had -probably contemplating weather or not it was worth taking. They pushed some vases and tiles that I had soaking to clean in one of the plastic boxes, onto the ground. They also turned over a beautifully aged pot that I had with plants in it. They dumped out the dirt, smothering the plants beneath, and took the planter. They also took a shovel while they were at it.

Coming home to this, was kind of a surprise. It felt like such a violation. I thought to myself "What kind of person does this and thinks it's OK?!? I felt like this person could strike again at any moment. I felt unsafe in my home. So much so, that I hid out at my boyfriends house largely for the next few nights. I didn't want to deal with that feeling. So putting some time and distance between me and the event seemed like a good idea. But after a little while, I felt depression creeping in. How strange? I didn't want to go out. I just wanted to curl up on the couch and cuddle with the Cute Boy and the dogs. But then, I went to see my therapist. And she had some very amusing and useful insights that I thought I'd share with you.

Part of the alarming thing to me was the feeling of depression coming over me. It was something that I had dealt with many years ago, and had believed that I had conquered and vanquished from my life. How wrong I was. It had returned with a vengeance. Mainly by making me feel sleepy and constantly hungry too. Nice combo for the love-handles!

Sabrina noted the way I talked about depression. Like it was mine, a thing that belonged to me. An intrinsic part of my nature. Like because at one point in my life I had ever felt it, and admitted to feeling it, that there was now a *seed* of depression planted within my soul and I was now forever marred by it. I would be forevermore someone who struggled with *depression*. I was one of those *depressed people*. "Sign me up for the meds doc, I've got the blues...forever." She actually laughed a bit about it. We both did. She said, I think it would be more useful to think of it like getting the flu or a cold. I would never say. "Well...I had the flu once when I was a teenager. Ya know...typical teen angst flu. And well. I thought it had gone away, but then...I got the flu again. It came back. But it turns out...I had the flu this whole time. I only *thought it was gone*. But it turns out, I'll have this flu for the rest of my life." So that's how I'm trying to look at it. Right now, I'm feeling a bit of depression. But I'm managing it. And I've got a pretty good plan for overcoming it. Bipedal locomotion will be involved. I plan on walking, biking, and swimming a lot. Also seeing my friends and laughing as much as possible. Getting good food and sleep. And also focusing on 3 things that are going to go well today (in the morning)...and visualizing them going well. And then at the end of the day, 3 things that went well and the reasons why. Even looking at depression this way helps. It feels less invisible. Less a part of me. Less entwined with my nature and spirit. 

Hold My Hand...We'll Get Through This Together.

He told me to hold his hand. "Just hold onto my hand, and relax. Just hold on and breathe and let it pass. This will pass. And you will make it through. Just hold onto my hand." It was the same comforting message that he gave me when I was in the midst of an anxiety attack. When my emotions would well up inside of me and become uncontrollable staccato. Jerky breathing and movements. Unable to get a good gulp of fresh air. I would pinch my eyes shut as tightly as possible and feel his hand in mine and breathe.

It's no wonder that I'm having these feelings so much right now. I am at a precipice in my life. And beyond this point is the unknown of my life. Nothing will ever be the same again. But I'm glad to have someone kind and gentle to remind me that if I just hold on, that this will pass, and I will make it through...and he will hold my hand the whole way. Thank you. I needed that. 

Even Neighborhoods Die and Are Reborn

        The smell of the Mimosa Tree filled the air. On hot dry days walking home, I would come around the last bend, and step onto my block. Even in the dark, I knew this spot. But on hot dry days, this spot was an oasis. The shade from the tree's thick canopy was like a welcoming gesture. As if the tree it's self was saying "Now you get on home little Missy. Your mama will be worryin' about you." Like the tree was greeting me, embracing me with it's cool shade and thick heady scent, and then swiftly sending me on my way home to Victor Drive. I will miss this tree. I will miss walking under it.

Like I miss the little girls who used to live behind my house in the old farmhouse on Elliott which was torn down by the JC to make room for a vacant lot for their building supplies and forklifts. I don't remember those girls names. But I do remember how they would set up a little card table there on the corner, catching the traffic of students coming and going to class. Selling them ice cold glasses of sweet pink lemonade. I will miss those girls, that house, this tree, and this corner. But most of all, I will miss home.

It's time to move on though. The neighborhood's changing. Even if I could stay, I'm not sure I'd want to at this point. Millie's gone and now all that's left across the street is her creepy son who stares at me from behind her lacy old lady curtains. I'm glad he's stopped trying to talk with me.

Hugh next door passed away. And it's hard to get used to these changes. I'm used to seeing him outside, casting his fly fishing lines. Practicing in the street. Or even feeding those damn pigeons! We had so many pigeons in our neighborhood. He lured them in by feeding them. But it made him happy, and that made me happy to see; so in that way, it made this world -and more specifically, my neighborhood a better place to be. He's gone now.

When I look out my back window, across the deck and into the garden, I see the roses that we planted together. But the tall ancient mission olive tree is gone. It's feathery silver branches would dance in the wind and hypnotize me at night. The glow from the moon light suited it. And the big old fig tree, with the canopy as big as any I'd ever seen, was gone too.

The Kawase's on the corner were the last ones to have a cedar shingled roof. We were the 2nd to last. On mornings after a big storm, people wouldn't know weather to return the shingle tiles to them or to us because nobody knew who's roof it had fallen off of. But people cared. They cared enough to at least *try* to return the wayward shingle to it's rightful owner.

I would say Hugh's widow Dora, and her daughter and grandchildren...and the Kawase's on the corner, and the Saneholtz's across the way that bought old Mrs. Rheinie's house are all that's left of this old dying neighborhood. Well...them and me. But I'm leaving soon. And when I go, this neighborhood will die just a little bit more.

It's changing. I'm not sure what it's turning into. But it's not the same place. There's no friendly Irish pub within walking distance, where you can go for Shepard's Pie and a berry Trifle desert. No more ice-cold rootbeer floats from the old A&W or the hot and slimy chili cheese fries that we would munch on. I don't see people as much. There's no more connection between the neighbors. More and more, we're distant, and fundamentally strangers to one another; and that's not the way it used to be. No.

Taking it's place is the ever growing noise. The noise pollution from the freeway that seems to actually grow every year, as more and more people move to this area, or drive instead of walk or ride their bikes. The obnoxious "Beep Beep Beep" of the trucks and forklifts that come into the empty lot behind my house, flashing their orange rotating lights like a cop car's into my bedroom window and waking me up, not with the sounds of nature, not with the mockingbird's song, or even the crow's harsh call, but with the sounds of construction and moving and banging and dropping and of course that beeping that says "Hey...I'm backing this little piece of shit forklift up, I thought you'd want to know that, since it's 5 O'clock in the morning and all..." Yeah. I won't miss that.

I also won't miss the jerk with the convertible BMW roadster who bought his house cheap a couple of years ago, just in time to be here for the end of my mom's life, but not in time enough to really get a feel for who she was, or what kind of people *we* are. We are not bad people. And honestly, our roots here go deep. So it surprised me when this relative newcomer to our neighborhood gave my mom these cold alien looks. Tight jawed. Unfriendly. Unwelcoming. As if to say "You are not wanted here." My mom as sweet as she was, was oblivious to him -and for that, I am grateful. She would always wave and smile at him and greet him like a friend. It perplexed her why he never said anything back. "He must not have heard me." she would say. "Yes, he must not have heard you." I'd repeat, all the while feeling tightness in my chest. This pain, that I couldn't possibly let out. She and I would go for slow shuffling walks around the block. We took our time. She was constantly learning to walk again in those days. So we went, one slow step at a time around our small block. In front of his house, we would make our slow progression, taking 5 or 10 minutes just to go across his tiny front yard. I don't know what he thought of us? It was obvious that my mom wasn't well. And from her crazy unkempt hair, and MY crazy unkempt hair, that we probably didn't see the world in quite the same way that he did. I think he may have even thought we were a slow moving parade of vagrants who wandered out from the homeless shelter around the corner at the Armory. He regarded us like that. But our house was not always the dingy shell that it is today. Years of slaving and struggling and trying desperately to make happy the one true treasure and joy in my life...trying to keep her just a little bit longer...and trying to keep everything going all at the same time was hard. So I stopped watering the flowers in the front yard. I didn't care if my trash can was out on Thursday, even though garbage night came and went on Monday. I was tired, and just trying to hold on. But these people didn't know me. Didn't know my mom. Never saw the house in it's glory years when my grandparents called it home. Never knew what a tight ship they ran. Or how friendly and nice we all are. No. To them, I was the scourge. Something to get rid of. When was I finally going to be gone so someone "nice" could move in? And by nice, they meant really more like them. Someone who would fix the place up and landscape it like it was out of a Sunset magazine. I wanted to. I tried when my mom was alive.

We used to have rows of lavender lining our front walkway. And rosemary planted by the curb. The sweet scent of mockorange greeted you at our front door. I dug out the rosemary and lavender after they had grown dry and straggly from several seasons of fending for themselves. I let the two large pine trees that I planted with my Grandpa be all the landscaping we needed in the front. The pine needles carpeted the ground below, and after the rains, thick rings of mushrooms would poke up from under them. "Fairy rings". -That's what my mom called them. And I think that some part of her, may have actually believed in fairies. May have actually thought of this place, our home, as being a special and sacred place for fairies to come and go. To enter into the world of the everyday. My mother was always a small person. Some friends even called her Vivalina. Like Thumbalina. She even had litte elvish points in her ears. I used to kid her and joke, that I knew the truth about her. But that I would keep her secrets safe and protect the magical entrance to her kingdom.

No...these people didn't know who we were. So when they left a big shopping cart filled with clods of dirt and old sod that they had pulled up from their old landscaping (to be replaced with the beautiful wooden walkway and the wabi-sabi landscape) well...when they left that in front of my house kind of like a passive-aggressive "fuck you" how could I get mad at them? They didn't know who I was. Didn't know that inside of my house was a sick woman, who lay dying, and that when they finally left that cart, she had just died. They didn't know that even though to them getting rid of that heavy shopping cart full of dirt would be just a minor nuisance, to me...it became the chore that never got done because I had better things to do. More important things to do than to deal with their crap, or even attempt to try to talk to them after that. They didn't know. I'm sure they're nice people. Under better circumstances, we might have actually been friendly. Maybe not "friends". ...most of my friends don't do things like that, even to people that they think are assholes who deserve it. Well...I tell you...I won't miss them. Not one bit.

This neighborhood has a life force. And whatever it was from my childhood is dying all around me. And the weeds that are popping up are people like the Sunset garden home two doors down. So it's time to let the wind blow through me, and clear this whole place out. Most of the things that I will miss about this place, are already gone.

The Last Sunday Brunch In Winter

I went out to the last Sunday brunch that I will be having for a while. And it waaaaas good! The Cute Boy and I ventured out in the rain, this wet Sunday morning, to one of my favorite spots in Graton: The Willowood Market Cafe. Upon being seated in the back, in one of their cozy little tables for two, our waitress brought us two cups of coffee and asked us "What'll it be?" We looked at her and smiled. I think my smile was more like an elated child's Cheshire grin. My eyes seemed to say "You're in for a laugh, here we go..." And then, I hit her with it. I told her I was going to be ordering three breakfasts. I placed my order swiftly and decisively. I knew what I wanted before I even got there. "I'll have the Eggs Benedict, the Monte Cristo, and the Huevos Rancheros." I handed her the menus and smiled up at her sweetly.

"OK" she said with a laugh. "And what would you like?" she said looking down at The Cute Boy. ...Now I feel it's important to stress here...The Cute Boy is one beefy hunk'O man. He looks like the kind of corn-fed, good, solid stock that he is. Kinda like he played football in his High School glory days and will forever more carry that solid broad-shouldered manly physique with him. He didn't actually play High School football, but he looks like it. So when he looked up at her with his sweet baby blues and ordered *just* the Eggs Benedict, I think it threw our waitress a little. She had to repeat the order to us and even come back one more time to make sure she got it straight. I imagined her saying "The little lady at table 4 would like three breakfast's and her beefcake boyfriend will be having one. OK. Check. Got it. ???"

I'm not pregnant. But there is a very good reason that I am eating like it is going out of style. ....Oh...and one more thing...before we left, I ordered a crème brûlée too! Some part of me felt horrible just doing it. I thought about people who had little or no food, and about saving money. But ultimately, I went ahead with my plan anyway. It's not like I do this every day. And honestly, this is one of the cool parts about being an adult and paying for everything yourself: you can get, whatever you want. You can order two or more different things if you want to. Obviously, I didn't eat it all. I just munched away at the parts that I wanted and liked, split my Eggs Benedict with my boyfriend, and then went home with two large containers full of food. (I'll be eating breakfast food for dinner tonight...as well as breakfast tomorrow!)

The reason that I was indulging in all of these delicious salty, savory, and fatty foods, was because on Tuesday, my juicer arrives. Yes...you read that correctly...my *juicer*!

Some time last year, my friends Laurelin and David watched this documentary called "Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead". (If you want you can click on that title and watch it for free on Hulu.) It's about this guy from Australia who went on a juice fast in order to regain his health. This not only improved his life tremendously, but inspired him to then try to get out the word to the average person as to what the potential health benefits are to eating (drinking really) a diet that is rich in phytonutrients.

For the past couple of years, I've been having some pretty bad gastrointestinal issues, primarily due to stress. I'll say it, I'm a stress puker. When things get stressful for me, I toss my cookies. Or...even worse...I get horrible diarrhea. -Sometimes BOTH! :p It got so bad that my stomach was going into overdrive with the acid production, and I even got an ulcer. I've tried the traditional Western medicine approach -and I'll continue to do that as well. But I'm now more open to trying this whole juice fasting thing. I'm hoping that it will reset my G.I. tract to a healthy normal state, help me feel better in general, lose weight, and have more energy. We'll see. But I'm willing to give it a go. A serious go.

My friends who have tried it, said that they could really feel the difference in their bodies from the days that they didn't juice. Laurelin said that it just felt good. Like she felt cleaner from the inside. Healthier. More energy. And I have to say, all of that sounded very nice to me. I want to feel "clean from the inside". My trainer really wanted me to focus on eating more fresh raw fruits and vegetables. And when my Aunt, who is recovering from cancer, and also happens to be a good level headed health professional said that she was going to be juicing as well, and made the whole family sit down and watch the "Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead" documentary over Christmas, I knew it was something that I wanted to try.

So I ordered my juicer from Amazon. And when it arrives on Tuesday, I'm going to be doing it. Vegetables, fruits, nuts, and beans. I remember when I was a McDougall vegetarian, I never really had to limit my portions. It was literally impossible for me to eat so much fresh fruits, vegetables, brown rice, and beans that I got fat. And believe me...I tried! ...Well...I didn't really *try*. But I guess what I'm saying is that I chowed down. I ate as much as I wanted, and I exercised, and I remember just feeling good. I had energy. I felt clean from the inside.

SO I'm resetting my body. This seems like the perfect time to do it too. I'm just now, recovering from a mild case of Walking Pneumonia. I've been sick since Christmas. And my lungs are not back to normal yet. It's way better though. But I realized that this is a perfect time to try this juice fast. My reasoning is, that I've actually eaten a lot less this last month because of my cold. There were a good two weeks where I barely ate. So I think it will be a nice segue into juice. Last night, The Cute Boy and I ate a pizza dinner at his sister's house. It was so good! But we didn't even make it out of her neighborhood, before I had to pull the car over and puke. -I threw up six times last night. Violently. In all likelihood, I will probably get sick from what I ate earlier today. But I'm really hoping that this new diet will help relieve this. I have nothing to lose, and a whole lot to gain. Wish me luck!

One Year Anniversary

Today is officially our one year anniversary!

After my mother died, (as I'm sure you all know), I was besieged by so much grief, it was hard to even breathe on some days. And then came the calm. The melancholy. The quiet days of just being. Learning to breathe again. Noticing the sun outside and the squirmy little puppy that was mine, and the elegant sleek racing dog that was always there. -These were my new family. This was the new pack, sadly, without my mother.

This was where I was, when love found me. Who in the world would have thought it possible? The state that I was in was pretty much as unattractive as I could imagine myself. -But I guess that's how you know when it's real; love that is.

In this year, there have been so many things to be grateful for. I have completely fallen apart. And I found someone who loves me, even in that state. It all started with friendship and a crush, many years ago. When we reunited, I think we both liked each other almost immediately. By the end of the first day together, we both felt something good. Was it love? -Not yet. Whatever it was, it felt nice.

Early on, I had to have a tooth extracted that was growing up into my sinus cavity. I remember being so surprised when The Cute Boy showed up at my door unannounced, with a basket of flowers and a card (one of the few that he's given me -'cause he's not that into cards). It said "I hope you feel better". It was a day *before* my surgery, and he was already wishing me well. I remember standing there at my front door, perfectly healthy and smiling at him. It was one of the sweetest things that a guy had ever done for me. -a preemptive get well wish. He offered to take me the Doctors and take care of me afterward, but I declined. I had already made plans for another friend to drive me. In the end though, The Cute Boy did help out when I needed my prescription but still couldn't drive because of the sedative. He went and got it. It was funny, because although I had gotten my mother's prescriptions many times, I had never actually had a friend go pick up mine for me. I was worried that they wouldn't fill it for him or that there would be a problem and I would have to go down to do it myself. (Ye of little faith!). He didn't have any problems. That shifting, from being the caretaker, to being the cared for, was a strange one for me. I didn't trust it at first. But there would be many more opportunities for The Cute Boy to prove to me his trustworthiness. His tenderness. And most of all, that I was safe. Isn't that funny? Safe!? Why on earth would I *not* feel safe??? But looking back on it, it all makes sense. I had spent so many years, taking care of my mother, always being the one to protect and shelter her. To love her. To care for her when she was sick. To handle everything and try to hold it together while my whole world fell apart. I can't tell you how hard it is to watch someone that you dearly love deteriorate. To witness their body betray them and rapidly wither and change in sickness. The most painful memories I have are of this, and of being completely helpless to stop it. During this all, I was the guardian. I stood watch over her, protecting her. But who was there to protect me? I hadn't even realized that there was anything missing there, or that I had such a deep need, until I got sick around Christmas this year, and The Cute Boy took me over to his house and set me up on the couch. I could see the beautiful twinkling lights from our Christmas tree. And he gave me full command of the television. It was a little overwhelming to be perfectly honest. The last time I watched TV, we had basic cable, and pretty much just got 12 channels. The rest were all Home Shopping Network or rotating public announcements or broadcasts of city council meetings made at our local community cable station. Not only was his television enormous, but there were over a thousand channels. A thousand channels! I didn't even know how people could watch so much TV. Where did they find the time? And how did they navigate it all? I stuck mainly to the special cable stations, like HBO or Showtime. But even then, there were all of these extra versions. The only channel that he didn't have, that I wanted to watch was MTV Arabia. -I was curious. Anyhoo...Set up on his couch, nestled under a comforter, it felt nice to be there with The Cute Boy and his roommates. They were actually really surprised at how I could seemingly sleep through anything. Their raucous laughter and chiding. What he didn't know, was that this felt good to me. To be sick, to be weak, and to be able to close my eyes and rest, knowing that there was a house full of people who loved me and would never let any harm come to me. It reminded me of home and family. Of being a child, and feeling safe and protected. Of being tenderly loved.

There are so many things to be grateful for, and these are only a few of them. 

Oozing Snot But Still Having a Good Time...So this is what it feels like to be a garden snail?

When I was a teenager, one of my closest friends had a belief (passed down from her mother) that "Whatever you are doing on New Year's Eve, is what you will be doing for the rest of the year." -For me, these words were like a curse. They would propel me into a frenzy of activity and worries, trying to make those few precious hours really count, and somehow be "the best hours of my life" up until that point. Consequently, many NYE's were filled with so much pressure, that it detracted from the fun that I could have been having, had I not felt *obligated* to be having such a good time. Just to be clear, my NYE's weren't that radically different from anyone else's. I would get dressed up, go out, have fun with my friends. We would find fun things to do, sometimes going to parties, sometimes going to big public gatherings of people, or dancing. It was fun. But I still felt the pressure of the curse. I would compare my relatively ordinary life to those of characters in the movies and feel let down. How come, at the stroke of midnight, I wasn't passionately being kissed by the dashing man of my dreams? Where was my Harry (like from "When Harry Met Sally") making his way to wherever I was, crossing the room, just to profess in the most touching way possible his deepest and most ardent affection for me? Compared to that, my life was a let down. I was a 13 year old girl with a lions mane of crimped hair, and slouch socks, eating pizza and staying up late with my girlfriends. When I got older, not much changed, except for the hair and slouch socks. Oh sure the parties changed. Things got a little more grown up. But those cycling feelings of pressure and disappointment followed me into adulthood. 

Sometime around my early twenties is when things finally began to change a little bit. I think it was actually my first laid back NYE since the casting of the curse. I was visiting some friends for Christmas in the Seattle area, and stayed for New Year's. Some time during the visit, a group of us had gone down to the Franklin Covey store to pick up new planners and paper refills for them. I chose the "Seven Habits" planner, modeled after the book. It actually felt luxurious getting that planner. The cover was a nice textured brown leather, something that would wear nicely over time. Somewhere in the paperwork for setting up your planner, was the idea of a mission statement. A personal mission statement to kind of focus and guide your life. Eva and I took our planners down to a local coffee house and sat there, listening to warm, coffeehouse jazz and merrily philosophizing about what we wanted our lives to be like. Who we wanted to be. What we wanted to contribute to the world and how we wanted to connect with others. Then, once our mission statements were done, and our Covey planners were all set up for the upcoming year, we would write out our Buddhist determinations for the upcoming year. -Goals that we were willing to commit to for the next year. For many years after, even when Eva and I were in different states, we would do this tradition. This year, I haven't gotten on it *yet*. But I will. 

This year, I was horribly sick on NYE. And not only was *I* sick...but my fabulous boyfriend had it too! Together, we were a coughing, hacking, fever-ridden, wheezing mess. Snot oozed out of us. Whole boxes of tissues were used up and discarded. I barely ate for a week. We stayed in this year and cuddled and watched movies. The little girl in me, who is still somewhat daunted by the words of my childhood friend, thought "Oh great...so what does this mean? I suppose I'm going to be sick a lot this year. And spend a lot of time at home doing nothing, while every one else is out having fun." But then the adult woman in me told that little girl to calm down because I was actually happy. Even being home sick, I was having a good time with The Cute Boy. It felt like we were doing something delicious, even though we were only hanging out, talking, and laughing, and cuddling. It felt good to just be myself, even a really sick and slightly gross version of myself with bedhead because even in that state, I was having a blast with an awesome guy who loved me and was tender with me. He does things. Little things that my family used to do for me. Like rubbing my back and cooing "sana, sana, sana culita rana" to me. And he got me a washcloth and rinsed it under cold water, rung it out, and brought it to me when my fever was so bad that even my eyeballs felt hot. It may not sound like much, but believe me, it is. And we both feel it -the gratitude of finding and loving someone, who loves us in return, and takes good care of us. We learn and we grow. And I'm trying to outgrow my childhood insecurities and enjoy my life more. It's a process, but it's coming along. More and more, I'm realizing that being successful in life isn't about being perfect. It's about being myself and loving myself with all of my imperfections. It's also about enjoying life, even through the challenges.