Evolving Revolver

On Turning Two

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Wed, 08 Jun 2016 18:12:00 +0000

I am still afflicted with a severe bout of writer's block. I've been avoiding doing it, procrastinating in all the ways a good artist can procrastinate. I have moments of brilliant inspiration as I drive into work only to lose them by the time I'm unchained from my desk at night. It's pathetic. I need a writer's colonic.

You don't care about that, though. You care that my darling son turned two on Monday.

Two years old, as if he was turning twelve or something.

I would say I don't know where the time has gone, but I do. It disappeared in tubby time, and Elsa sing-alongs; a traumatic first hair cut, and an almost move; an anti-climactic Halloween, but a lovely Christmas, and Easter. It dissolved into giggles and first steps and first word and all his baby teeth, and "Maman, chopate milk?" It melted into the sweetest cuddles and the saddest tears, totally irrational toddler opinions and goofy interpretive dances.

Luca has changed so much in one year - in a year that was personally one of my hardest. Despite his father and I moving forward in our separate lives, he has blossomed into a happy, hilarious, sweet, little man. He is the glue that keeps me together, even when the days are tough, smiling his playful, toothy grin just when I am about to lose it altogether.

He is the unpredictable character who always has to wear socks (and insists that I keep my feet covered as well) and hates having his clothes changed because sometimes being naked is just too much. He is the precious boy who drinks his milk with a spoon, but always insists that we clean up the mess immediately. He can perform Elsa's "Let It Go" with near perfection, down to the last foot stomp. He is the playful devil who - for reasons that were not made evident - wandered into the kitchen, took a banana from the counter, brought it to me and put it directly down my shirt.

He is the reason I create, the reason I continue to work harder, and the reason I can't give up. He is the driving force behind my modest dreams (Just a house with a yard and room for Abuella), and the voice of my subconscious as I meet new people. (Are they good enough for him? Will they stick around? Are they worth our time?)

All this in just two years. I didn't know what kind of a person I would become when I gave birth to my son. I do not know what kind of a person I will be next year. I know, though, that I have irrevocably shifted and whatever my future holds will only exist because of the woman my son makes me. He is my everything.

The Block of the Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Fri, 13 May 2016 17:43:00 +0000

I have started to write something here approximately a dozen times in the last two weeks, and then stopped. Maybe it’s because of exhaustion, or parenting, I don’t know, but my mind has felt slow and my words have felt chunky every time I put them down. What do I have to say?

I wish I could tell you everything, but I stumble over the way to even say that.

Times like this make me doubt that I am actually a writer. Do I have the ability to finish anything?And what do I even write, besides this blog, that people will want to read?

I was recently asked what I write.

“Nonfiction,” I said.

“Oh I love nonfiction, what kind?” he asked.

I squinched up my face and replied, “Memoir.”

“You’re not selling it very well!” He laughed.

I usually call it “personal non-fiction” because I so hate the sound of the word “Memoir”. To me a memoir implies that some harrowing event has occurred in your life and you cannot move forward unless you’ve shared that event with the world. I love memoirs, actually. I love reading about people’s survival and growth. I like to read about people who have lived through wars, or married poets, or traveled the world. What have I done that is worthy of the word “memoir”?

So I don’t call it that because it feels disingenuous. I am not a remarkable person. However, for years there has been a story inside me and anytime I sit down to write it what comes out is “personal nonfiction”. I’ve tried writing fiction but I’m daunted by the task of building a world and characters that are believable. I wonder – am I just lazy?

It seems, though, that I have little nice to say about myself as a writer. I suppose that’s something I should work on in therapy. Why don’t I believe in any of my talents? Is it because my mother told me that writers and artists don’t really make money, so don’t be one? Or is it because there is always going to be someone out there who’s better at it than me (so why should that stop me?) Obviously I have issues, but mainly I don’t feel legitimate.

“I write. I am playing with watercolors,” I say. But never, “I am a writer. I am an artist.”

The only career I feel legitimate calling my own is event planning, but some days even that doesn’t feel true. What do I need to finally let myself feel good enough? I wonder.

So what makes a writer or an artist legitimate? What makes any craft legitimate? Why does it even matter?

I know I am because I don’t feel right when I don’t do it. I know I am, because I always have been. I know I am because other people tell me so. Maybe in my five year plan a book will happen. Maybe no one will ever read it. Maybe it will be the first of many. Either way, I’m going to keep doing it.

Besides, it looks like I’m not all that blocked up, after all.

As It Turns Out

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Sun, 17 Apr 2016 13:33:00 +0000

I am not doing alright with the whole "divorce thing".

Well, strike that, reverse it. I'm doing okay with the "divorce thing". When my ex and I separated it was because both of us had given up on the relationship in some regard. In the year that has passed we've dealt with a lot of that and, in many ways, are better friends now than ever before. (And in many ways we still can't stand each other, so no going back!)

What I'm not doing well with is all of the stuff that I haven't been dealing with because I was going through a fucking divorce, and that is enough emotional trauma for one person thank-you-very-much. There were things that I have been decidedly ignoring so that I could focus on not losing my shit over losing my marriage, and now that the divorce is final with a capital "F" I have no choice but to deal with these other things.

Now, though, they are HERE, sitting on my head like giant, blinking neon signs waiting to be addressed.

"Juliet!" They tap me on the shoulder, "Don't you want to think about your soul-crushing debt today?"

"Juliet! Juliet! Why are you so angry at your sick friend? How did you let that happen? Don't you think she needs you now?"

"Hey! Juliet! Your uncle is super sick. Maybe you should call him? How is avoiding that proactive? You're going to regret that."

"Hey! Hey, bitch," Because they've started to get nasty, "Where is all your support system? Why did you put all of you eggs in one basket? You need people right now, but you don't even know where to look, do you? You're an idiot."

Honestly, my issues are real dicks.

I am falling apart, it seems. Strangely, I thought that this year would be the year I'd be all put together again, ready to be the NEW ME, all sparkly and fresh. But as it turns out I am much more like Humpty Dumpty, laying next to the wall helplessly expecting the King's knights to put me back together. Spoiler alert, Mr. Dumpty: they can't.

I just don't know what I believe to be true anymore. For some time now I have been fighting for my idea of a village to replace what I once considered a stable life. I don't have a marriage anymore, but couldn't I have a few people who really get me to reach out to whenever I needed them? Couldn't I have them on speed-dial for those days when I'm falling apart so they could be here to distract my son or make me a goddamn cup of tea? We would all live within spitting distance of each other and we would all give and take when needed. It would be symbiotic, and supportive, and nurturing.

People have been saying to me, though, "We can only count on ourselves, really. There is no one else who will always be there to take care of you."

I don't want to believe that. I don't want to believe that we are born alone and we will die alone because in my mind neither of those things are true. We are born into the caring arms of our mother and will die surrounded by our loved ones. So shouldn't our lives be filled with the same? Isn't that how it used to be? We would raise our children, they would take care of us, we would care for their children? Humans are social animals, who have always lived in packs. That is normal. That is right.

Except we don't anymore, not since a long time. We all grow up and move away and our immediate family is often just that - no aunts or uncles or cousins in the same state, no grandmas and grandpas in the same country. Staying connected means emails and phone calls (if you're lucky) and Skype dates (if you make the time). Good friends are transient, even if they are forever. Neighbors are just proximal, not the proverbial kind who will lend a hand.

So, really and truly, when I look around for a helping hand to put my broken shell back together, there is no one around. And even if they were, everyone has their own shit to deal with. Mine seems heavy but that says nothing to the person whose young child has cancer or to the person who is going through a horrible custody battle, or who has just lost their job, or whose father is dying. Everyone has something.

Which makes me stop and wonder if all those people I don't want to believe are actually right - the only one I can count on is myself? Because we all have baggage that weighs more than the sum of our lives. This world is heavy.

I wonder also, if I am thinking about it wrongly. Maybe what our village looks like now isn't organic and natural, but rather tied together by texts and phone calls and emails. Maybe we our village is spider webbed across the globe and includes Instagram followers and blog readers and people we may never actually meet. Maybe... maybe our village is bigger than ever?

Despite spending the entire day in bed yesterday, I will try again today. I want to because my issues - dicks though they be - aren't going to go away just because I stay hiding under the covers. I will try again because right now I am a mess but only I can really know where all the pieces fit, and because maybe I'm not really alone after all?

It's a thought that is worth getting out of bed for.

On Heartbreak and Healing

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Sun, 20 Mar 2016 21:38:00 +0000

On Wednesday, I filed the final papers in my divorce. Almost one year exactly from separating from my husband, I expected to be filled with relief and even joy. That means that I was surprised when I was hit by a wave of depression after I left the courthouse.

For an hour, I sat drinking a cold coffee in the shade of Philadelphia's City Hall. I took pictures and posted them to Instagram. I feigned interest in some Game of Thrones promo that was drawing a crowd. I moved from one chilly location to another, finding the last sliver of sun had already slipped behind the skyscrapers of downtown. I wasn't really cold though; I was numb.

"I need to leave here, but I can't move," I texted to a friend.

"I suddenly feel more alone than ever," I texted my ex.

"I know, me too," he replied. "Do you want to come over?"

His sentiment was sweet, and though I know he needed someone too, I couldn't bring myself to mourn my divorce with my ex husband. Two sad people in a room together sounded like a good ol' fashioned cry fest waiting to happen.

That made it worse, somehow - knowing that we both still care about each other enough to not want to see the other hurting, It is very unlike so many of the divorces that I've seen in the past year, fret with anger and maliciousness and fights over money and, sadly, the children. We agree on the most important things - my ex and I - how to raise our son and that we need to try our best to be friends, for him. It winds up looking very unconventional, but we know it is what is right for our disjointed family.

We also agree that we can never live together under the same roof, again . Despite our best efforts we can each make the other person totally lose their shit and what is civil suddenly becomes toxic. In January, during the snowmageddon, we tested the theory on my bright idea that neither of us would want to be trapped, away from our son for longer than 48 hours. By the time the last flake had fallen we were at each other's throats, critical and criticizing each other's every action.

It is the right thing, the divorce. And yet...

Now I am a officially a single mother and a divorcee. Now any lingering hope of reconciliation I may have had in the depths of my mind are gone. Now I am really alone.

The last glued together piece of my mangled heart broke off and fell to the floor, shattering in a million pieces. The flood of tears and heartache burst open. I found myself on the floor of my kitchen, weeping, my heart physically aching in my chest. This time though, there was nobody there to pick me up.

My friend - the one I was supposed to move in with and couldn't - is still gone. It was she who had come to my side the night my marriage dissolved in a cloud of orange curtains and broken doors. She couldn't come now.

There was no one to hold my hand and put me in bed and tell me things would be different in the morning.

With some courage I reached out to an old friend in Colorado. He listened to me cry while his two little girls played in the background. I sobbed indistinguishable sentences into the phone until I didn't have anything left but tears. He made a promise to come visit.

I have been doing all this alone for a year now, but just like I felt distinctively different the day after I was married, this felt different too. It was really over. Something had shifted inside, like the breaking of a bone. Something I couldn't see but knew was fractured.

This bone will heal, eventually. With any luck it may grow back together with the same strength it had originally, but there is always a risk that it won't set correctly creating a malformation where something clean and straight once was. And there will always be a scar, nearly invisible to the naked eye but in the right light will remind me that I was once deeply wounded.

I know that, in the grand scheme of my life, this may not be the worst event I ever live through. I know that, compared to others, I am blessed with a comfortable life and an amicable separation. For these things I am grateful. I am grateful for my family, for my far off friends just a phone call away, and I'm grateful for my son. I have a job that I enjoy and a bright future. Someday, maybe, if I am lucky, I will even be loved again.

For now, though, I am tender. I am tired and I am sad. I am lonely. I am grieving.

It is the first day of spring and a light snow has begun to fall. It stops and starts, unsure of how to continue. By morning it will have crowned the crocus' with a halo of white, threatening to freeze off the buds on the trees and covering the newly greened grass.

Just behind the clouds there is sun. The longer day will be enough to melt off the cold and thaw the branches. With any luck no harm will be done to the fruit trees or the flowers. With any luck all that is delicate and poised to bloom will live on.

After all, it is the end of winter.

Always Take Your Toddler's Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 14 Mar 2016 01:10:00 +0000

My son has reached the age where he absolutely must use force in everything he does. Instead of kissing mommy, he loves to head butt. All of his cars have fiery crashes on the regular, and trains go off the rails with incredibly wild energy. While playing tea today with some teeny espresso cups that I thought would be so clever to give to a toddler (just don't ask), he did our little "cheers" with so much fervor that the cup smashed. He is clumsy - just like me - and his way with things these days is that of the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Which, it turns out, is me, in love.

There is a short version of this story and a very long one, which theoretically justifies all my actions and explains the details and gets you rooting for team ‘LOVE’ but we don’t actually need that one so I’ll stick with the short which is this: When I don’t get what I want, I throw a temper tantrum.

Just like a toddler.

Many years ago when I was sixteen, I thought that love would come easily. I sincerely believed that, as a relatively attractive and fairly intelligent girl, I would have the pick of the litter. That is to say I assumed that I would be able to wave my hand and have some damned charming prince from a fairy tale ride in on his white corvette and steal me away to happily ever after.

I got engaged at nineteen to a man I believed was this (but who was also still a child) thinking I had it all figured out and counting my 2.5 children and our splendid life in Denver. Months into our engagement, when I realized I was in no way ready to be a wife - or a mother for god sake - I cheated on him and ruined everything, thus beginning a string of boyfriends probably brought on by bad karma. Each man after this person seemed more emotionally unavailable than the last. Years passed and I felt a certain desperation each time I met someone I thought might be "the one". Somehow they never were.

More often than not, when I met someone, I became a bad version of a country song "letting my crazy show", grasping desperately to make the thinnest veil of attraction become a future but ultimately frightening men away.

I ran around like a bull in a china shop, smashing opportunities and scaring the customers.

It did not take my therapist long to figure out what was wrong with me. In something like our second session together she said "Oh, so you reject men before they reject you."

(And I date unavailable men - emotionally or physically - all due to my raging abandonment issues but that is a story for another day, altogether.)

Yes, I reject men before they reject me. I, however, as an especially, shall we say dramatic, version of a woman, like to go one further and burn the motherfucker to the ground.

BURN MOTHERFUCKER, BURN.

Example: Guy says he wants to take me on a date. I accept date, two weeks out because our schedules don't jive and this is the first available. Except on the eve of said date he is notably less engaged and I call to cancel said date before it even happens assuming that he is seeing multiple people at once and that I am the last on his dance card.

Okay, this is a bad example because he was seeing multiple people and less interested in me. My intuition is usually right. HOWEVER, had I given myself the chance to have a date with him perhaps we'd be in some kind of amazing relationship now, planning our future. Perhaps.

The part of that example that is not inaccurate is the part where I jump the gun, assume the worst and drop the axe. My heart knows no grey area, no middle ground that might lead to something healthy and strong. I believe in all or nothing, which so far has left me with nothing.

So tonight, when my son tried to shut the basement door, which is wedged open with a childproof gate so the cat can get down but he can't, I had to laugh at myself for the advice I gave him.

"Baby," I said firmly, "If something doesn't work, using force will only break it. You have to be gentle."

Ha. Yes. Gentle.

Gentle on him, gentle on that door that cannot be closed no matter how hard you try, gentle on myself and on my heart. Gentle on others, who, despite their faults and their struggles, are trying their very best at this mess we all muddle through.

Despite what I taught myself growing up, there is no urgency in life, no hurry. Time has it's own agenda and all I can do is be gentle with it, finding comfort in the grey area in between. And there is comfort in grey, a dull calm that isn't a compromise but rather a place to accept that we do not always get what we want and that eventually we do really and truly get what we need.

As it turns out, grey is the new black. And toddlers always know best.

Let's Pretend This Never Happened

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 22 Feb 2016 00:11:00 +0000

Two weeks ago I wrote about my impending move.

Tuesday of last week, the bottom fell out and we cancelled everything.

I don't really know how to write about it because the reason isn't mine to share. I guess that says enough, in a vague sort of way. I'll just leave it at that.

When I found out I would have to be moving alone, I thought for a moment about just getting a new roommate. It would have taken more than four days to arrange, of course. There would have been a buffer of time if I needed it. Thing was, I didn't want another roommate. I wanted my friend to be my roommate, and if we hadn't made the decision to move in together I wouldn't have thought about moving at all. I like my independence. I like the space I've created for my son and I. I like not having to worry about whether or not I can really trust the person I'm living with, because that person is Boo Radley. His worst offense is puking on the rug.

I am angry, however, at the situation. I am angry at myself for not paying attention to the red flags - oh the fucking red flags! How many times do I have to tell myself to pay attention to the motherfucking red flags?

When I tell myself that this time I know that I ignored them on purpose. I saw them. I didn't want to see them. I thought - I hoped - that our move would change things.

You can't change things that you aren't in control of, though. I understand that now.

So I took a day off work, spent a couple hundred dollars at Ikea, and reorganized my house. All of the little ways my space had been driving me nuts (mainly the sea of clutter) had to go. I reorganized the cabinets and dragged the heavy Besta unit I'd been hiding my shoes in down to the basement. I clocked three hours building the slimmer, more red replacement. I mopped, and sorted closets. I took apart my son's baby room and reconstructed it into a toddler space I hoped he'd want to spend time in.

Then I cried.

I cried for my friend, I cried for myself, I cried because no matter what my best-laid plans are I cannot seem to get ahead. I've been doing so good at being positive and moving forward and focusing on making healthy choices for myself and yet I've come here again, this two-steps-back place I'm so familiar with.

It could be considered comical. If I were a pretty blond with a book deal I would have a best seller on my hands, and in the movie, I would be played by Emma Stone. (Yes, I am still bitter about the success of Eat, Pray, Love.)

Tonight, with all my boxes unpacked, I can't help but wonder what other things I am choosing to ignore. Should I be looking beneath rocks? Under the bed? Should I post a disclaimer to all the people I meet that, at any moment I might spontaneously combust? But I daren't tempt fate. Things can always get worse if you give them a chance.

Maybe this time, I won't give them the chance, though. Maybe this time, I won't have to undo everything I've just done. Maybe, just maybe, this is the bottom and now I can begin to head back up.

Head In the Sand

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Tue, 16 Feb 2016 17:50:00 +0000

“That’s the problem with wearing your heart on your sleeve,” he said, his lilting accent rolling over me like a breeze.

“Yes, but I’d rather feel too much,” I justified, avoiding his eyes and his crushing smile. If I looked at him directly I might say something I regret.

He was a delightful surprise if a poorly timed one. Everything interaction was intense but joyful. My coworker told me I looked like a giggly school girl when I talked about him because that’s how I felt. I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, but I didn’t want to be distracted from whatever seemed to be happening.

Eventually, of course, I did say the things I would later regret - things that I had suspected would send him running for the hills. And they did.

I wish I could have kept my head in the sand, ignoring the inevitable. I hate being right about these things (and I always am) so I put it off as long as I could. It was long enough to get to have a few moments where I felt like I was something special, someone worthy, someone beautiful. I like to think the feeling was mutual.

Maybe I’m being dramatic - I like to think that’s possible too. I’m nothing if not dramatic.

Some Days Aren't Yours At All

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Sun, 14 Feb 2016 03:15:00 +0000

In exactly one week I'll be sleeping in a different home. I've not processed it, or made peace with it, or even finished packing.

I will miss this apartment and this part of my neighborhood. I will miss the first place I called home after leaving the home that I "built" with my ex husband. Yet, much like the Big House (as we call it now) that I left behind, so many of the memories here are sullied with sadness that I think it can only be a good thing to move on.

It will be almost exactly a year since I moved out. I suppose I should reflect on that, but I'm afraid to.

Laying in the bed next to me is my son. Twelve months ago I bought him a crib for his new room with the full intention of him using it, maybe of weaning from nursing, maybe him sleeping through the night. He was only eight months old then. He was barely eating solid foods and was months away from beginning to crawl.

That first night alone with him, I nursed him in a chair in his new room, listening to the sound of the neighbor's dogs barking to be let back in. He nursed for a long time, and I cried, mourning the soft light of the room we brought him home to and the walls that were familiar and safe to him. Eventually I was able to unlatch him and lay him in his crib, and I went to my bed feeling further away from him than I'd ever felt in my life. The fear of the unknown enveloped us, making the air cold and empty.

He woke from a dead sleep at ten or eleven and was disoriented. His cry was of fear. When I got to his room, he looked at me tearfully - questioningly. I took him in my arms, shushing him gently, and we left his crib empty behind us.

"Mommy's here, mommy's here," I whispered, but it was just as much for me as it was for him.

Despite my best intentions he never slept in that crib again. He belongs beside me, and that is where he will stay until he is ready.

In the new house, just like this one, there will be a bedroom for him. I will make it cheerful and fun, with all his favorite toys and probably adorned with all things Frozen, but I doubt very highly that he will use it for sleep. Not anytime soon.

He's snoring now, arms stretched above his head in a diamond, markered up fingers twitching at his ears. His cheeks are rosy with sleep and his perfect, teardrop lips occasionally pucker into a sucking motion, searching for my breast while he dreams. He is beyond beautiful and I marvel that I can still stare at him incessantly after twenty months of his life. I never knew another human could be so fascinating in their sleep until I became a mother.

For a moment I am trapped by my fears. Who will be the first person to hurt his feelings? Who will be the first to break his heart? Am I doing this right? What if, despite everything I and his father do to raise him well, he becomes one of those children who commits a terrible act of violence? What if someone commits a terrible act of violence against him?

My stomach churns because we are all always within spitting distance of something terrible happening. Here - in this apartment - I live next door to a drug dealer. I couldn't prove it and I don't care to try but it brings a certain kind of unsavory character too close to my door. I found out that the street we are moving to has an active neighborhood watch, but even with that there are still a myriad of things crouched in the shadows waiting to get us. Poisoned water, cancer, nuclear war, kids with their parents guns, Donald Trump - the list is too long to innumerate.

So I don't. Instead I kiss him gently, careful not to wake him, say a prayer some higher power I'm not always sure I believe in, and try to think about spring. I plan to have him help me plant flowers in our little yard. I plan to make sun tea. I do not plan to lose him to my fears.

They are becoming fewer and further between, but some days all the fears come out. Fears for my son, for my mother, my sister and her family. Fears for friends who might die and fears of my own mortality. Big fears like that, but also the little ones that sneak out of the dark corners of my mind like, "Will I ever be good enough for someone to love again?" and "Will anyone ever accept me as I am?" Those days I feel myself slip. I am like someone falling backwards, grasping the air desperately for anything I can grab to keep myself from the inevitable crash. Those days end in bruises, purple and yellow and swollen.

Slowly - more slowly than I am comfortable with - I am learning to manage my fears. That is all we can do, really, because life is so terribly uncertain. I am trying to not let them control me, to dictate my actions or bury me in darkness. I am learning how to walk again without slipping, one foot in front of the other. Deliberately. Kindly. Patiently.

That is how, in one weeks time, I will find myself laying next to my son in a new room, in a new house, looking into the future. It has taken me a year to find the footing to get there. The journey is far from over, but I am not afraid of that.

For The First Time In Forever

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Sat, 06 Feb 2016 01:38:00 +0000

My life has begun to be a constant repetition of the movie Frozen.

My son loves this movie and I only have myself to blame. The only thing he (currently) throws tantrums about is when mommy takes away Elsa to do real life things like eat. Tonight my therapist suggested that I get the little toy frozen characters and play it out with him and I thought dear god why didn't I think of this before? PLAY with my son. She's a genius.

Regardless of how I plan to gradually eliminate my son's obsession with holding Elsa in his arms (read: hugging the tablet), I currently wake up with the music in my head. And I hum it in the car. And I probably sing it in the kitchen at work, much to the chagrin of my coworkers. This is where I'm at right now. So, new blog subject? YES, it's that song from Frozen.

As adorable as it is that my son walks around the house having imaginary play with Elsa and Ana, and that for a week straight every time "For the first time in forever" would start up he would shout "Wheeeee!!!", that is not what this post is about. This post is about me. Because that is also where I'm at right now.

I spent most of the month of December thinking about how ready I was to move on from my shitty year. I decided that I would do a burning ceremony, writing down all the bad things that had happened - the shitty dates I'd gone on, the people that had made me lose my faith in humanity - with the intention to throw them into a fire. The simple act of listing out my grievances may have been enough, and putting them in the fire was one last moment of pain. I didn't celebrate on New Years Eve; I cried myself to sleep, mourning a terrible 2015.

In the morning I woke with the kind of resolve I'd hoped for, though. I washed the smoke out of my hair and promised myself that this year I would only be kind to myself and I would not let in people who didn't want to do the same. It seemed like an insurmountable task, considering the fairly long list of people I'd encountered since last spring who had not treated me with much respect. Yet, I was determined.

Most of January I sort of fumbled through that resolution, learning what boundaries I needed and with whom, and talking it over with my shrink. I allowed myself to feel an ounce of hopefulness again that I might someday meet another person who would care about me as much I could care about them.

There were a couple of non-starters. One guy, despite being handsome and relatively charming, was a Trump supporter who wanted a handgun. Another was a welder who couldn't be bothered to respond to a text. There was the doctor fellow who was simply TOO busy to ever make it to a date, and then there was the older man who omitted the pertinent information of his marriage until it finally occurred to me I hadn't asked (but we were already naked).

So, I'm not good at this yet, but that wasn't the important thing that happened.

On the night I met Mr. Lies By Omission, I decided to take myself to the restaurant bar near my work for a happy hour drink. Glass of wine in hand, I did something strange and almost foreign: I took out a pad of paper to write.

"They're not real diamonds, they're Diamondique from QVC, " I scribbled down the words of the woman to my right.

Man to my left completely ignores the stunning woman beside him in favor of a business call. His hand is running up and down her bare legs, and up her skirt. He drinks a whiskey "neat". Is that his girlfriend? I suspect it is not.

Men across the bar check in with their wives. "Having drinks with the guys, be home late," they text.

I guess I've journalled in public in the past years, but something about this time was different. I wasn't using my notebook to hide.

I struck up a conversation with the girl who'd been ignored for a business call. When she asked me what I was writing I unabashedly lied that it was observations for a book I was working on. Sure, I was a writer.

Over the course of three hours, I wrote and chatted with the bar fellows and flirted with men. I felt something about myself that I hadn't felt in a very long time, something attractive and compelling. I felt like maybe, just maybe, I had gotten my sparkle back.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I believed that I was the kind of person that people noticed when I walked in a room, and that they wanted to be around. Not because I am so exceptionally beautiful, but because I have a something inside of me that sort of draws people to me. For a moment, I can make them feel happy, or understood, or simply less alone. I make strangers feel like friends. I called it my sparkle. Maybe it's just a light that can't be put out. Regardless, I thought for a very long time that I had lost it for good.

And yet, there in a moment, I felt myself floating. Perhaps on the edge of making yet another bad choice, but also on the edge of feeling like myself again. Where I'd been keeping that version of me was no longer a mystery. For the first time in forever, I was sparkling.

Ready To Let Go (Almost)

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Thu, 10 Dec 2015 01:03:00 +0000

Tonight is about me.

Generally, on nights without my son, I eat ice cream and maybe get a little drunk because I'm depressed that he isn't with me. It's a pretty healthy habit, I'm sure. Today, though, after the kind of week I've had, my feet hit the floor with only myself in mind. My baby was happy and safe with his daddy. I needed a bath.

Ten minutes before that, I met my ex to remove my name from the deed of the house that we bought together. He kept asking if I was alright. I guess part of me wasn't thinking about it. I guess I probably wasn't alright. But there were the papers. There, they were signed. There, our house was no longer mine, it was his.

Thirty minutes before that, I stopped at the pharmacy to refill my prescription for my antidepressant. I haven't stopped taking it in the years and months that have passed. Not while I was pregnant with my child. Not when my marriage fell apart. Not when I moved into a little apartment of my own, knowing it was only temporary, but that I was never going to be able to go back. Did that drug save me? Or was it my son and his truly magic spirit, buoying me just enough to keep going?

I discovered that my pharmacist - a friend - was leaving for another job. It felt sad. She knows me - knew me from the very beginning of my journey to mental health once I returned to the states. I remember picking up my medicines from her thinking "I think we should be friends". And we were, but only as close as you can be with someone who works an opposite schedule of you and knows every pill you take. It occurred to me that I might never see her again, but vowed to make that untrue.

Two hours before that, at work, the last of my Christmas boxes went out in the mail. On Monday, when they should have gone, my boss's boss discovered a typo that I had missed in all of the eight hundred Christmas cards we'd just had printed and I was about to send out. A typo. A mistake I could remedy, and even parlayed into a small bit of savings, but cost me professional credibility. I had been preparing to negotiate a raise, as soon as the Christmas mailing went out, and because my boss's boss was keenly aware of my flub that meant all my hopes were dashed. I had failed myself - and I had a good cry about it, too.

But the boxes were out, and once the cards were stuffed and labeled I would be done with Christmas at work. There was a weight lifted, temporarily, in the satisfaction of an (almost) finished job. Probably nothing could be done about me getting a raise this year, and I had to just be okay with that.

Six hours before that, I woke with the decision to have a better day than the yesterday. The mistake I had made with the cards was behind me. I had dreamt that my boss, upon winning a deal that earned him a million dollars, had still decided to not give me a raise. And though it wasn't fair (in my dream), I realized (in reality) the same would likely happen and I have no control over that. Corporate America isn't fair, life isn't fair and I can only keep trying as hard as I can to get what I need in life. Also, though, I thought about the Rolling Stones.

"You don't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you might just get what you need."

And it is so, so true.

Tonight, after two glasses of wine, dinner, the Mindy Project and a delicious mud mask called "Rejuvenate" (For my face, not my belly, obviously), I feel...better. Maybe because I am completely relaxed, with Boo Radley curled up beside me and a candle flickering on the nightstand, free from expectations and ready for bed. Or maybe because the year is finally coming to a close. This horrible, hard year, where I had to prove my mettle over and over again and still have nothing to show for it. Friday I will file my divorce papers. The house is no longer mine. Work is what it is for now, and all I know that I tried my best despite everything I have gone through, personally (and it was a lot). My glass, for all that I have tried to fill it with in my life, is very nearly empty.

Which means I can begin to fill it again. With love, and a new home and more fervor in my career. With the joyful babbling of a tiny little human who loves me as I love him. With new friendships and new hobbies and renewed strength. Because an empty vessel is only a symbol for what may come.

For all that, (I think) I am nearly ready.

I Am Not Thankful

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 30 Nov 2015 03:25:00 +0000

On a "night off" from my son, I am drinking wine and listening to Christmas music.

This is actually not a seasonally exclusive past time for me. When I am depressed I often drink and listen to Christmas music because, honestly, who can feel sad when listening to Andy Williams proclaiming that it is literally the most wonderful time of the year? He's pretty fucking convincing, even in June. Don't even get me started on the Grinch Who Stole Christmas recording.

Tonight I am not especially depressed. I am drinking, yes, and I am listening to Christmas music, yes, but most of the depression for the weekend has passed.

My son is a toddler, officially. He has entered the tumultuous, fiery period of life where not only can he not speak to express himself properly, (in either of his two languages) but he wants to be an Independent. Human. Being. Which does not account for any of the self-control or emotional understanding that comes with later years (and usually many, many hours of therapy).

So here we are, rolling around in a whiny, non-verbal, clingy, mommy-centric moment of utter torture. And I need a break.

Thanksgiving was fine. We went to my mom's house, and it was pleasant. Luca and I love going to Abuela's house (or "Alella", as Luca says) so I can drink eggnog spiked coffee and he can sort her CD's and play with the hard plastic storyteller doll on her bookshelf. We watch movies on the big TV and nap on the loveseat. It's grandma's house at it's best.

When I left, I went to my babysitter's house where they had thirty-some-odd people gathered for the holiday, and I spent the whole hour trying not to cry. Yes, I was exhausted, but also because this is what I would have made if I had my own "perfect life:. A long table filled with all of the people who loved my family and each other. Children playing in the corners, avoiding food for the sake of fun and nobody leaving until they absolutely had to.

I got close. I had a home that I would have opened up. I had a family and a fireplace and guest bedrooms that would have held all those who couldn't and didn't want to leave. I had the heart of a family bigger than the space I could provide. I had it. It was mine. And then, one night, over an argument about orange curtains, is dissolved into the dark shadows.

I am not Thankful. Why should I be?

I am not thankful for a too-expensive apartment five minutes from the house I once called mine. I am not thankful for joint custody and the loss of a love that I thought - despite it's issues - would survive the pain, for our son. I am not thankful for the hard lesson that "love is not enough". I'm not thankful for quiet night alone, in lieu of rocking my son to sleep while my husband waits for me in the next room.

No one is waiting for me. Maybe ever again. It's a realism that I have to begin to accept. The only one I can count on is me. Maybe is that is the lesson from all of this I am supposed to learn. I honestly don't know.

Social media, depsite bringing us together, is a terrible piece of shit and this is why: On Thanksgiving, while I was feeling all of the above, my feed filled with post after post of "I am thankful for blah blah blah" and "100 days of Giving Thanks" and "Here is a photo of my huge amazing family right now, aren't you jealous, you sad motherfucker!?"

What I wanted to say, but didn't, was what I am saying now. I am not Thankful. I don't think this is something to be particularly sad about, I just think it's realistic. Yes, we have plenty to be thankful for, but sometimes, honestly, we are not. Sometimes our hearts break and we can't breathe. Sometimes we fail as parents and as friends. Sometimes we don't take care of ourselves and sometimes we forget that there are people out there who have it worse than us.

And that's fucking OKAY.

Tell yourself that right now. IT'S FUCKING OKAY TO NOT BE THANKFUL. Tell yourself that because I'm goddamed telling myself. I am too tired to be thankful that I am not a Syrian Refugee, or a Ebola patient, or a homeless person under a bridge. My life is hard enough as it is and I am allowed to feel the pain of that. I am allowed to feel sad for the shitty cards this year has dealt me.

Tomorrow, I will wake up and I will be late for work because I am always late for work and I will feel completely inadequate at a job I am totally qualified for. Then I will leave early to pick up my son so that we can do our very best at being a family in the thirty some-odd total waking hours that we have together as a divorced parent and their child, and I will try not to have an anxiety attack about the fact that this may or may not have cost me my raise. I will try not to feel bad about letting him watch fifteen minutes of TV on my phone while I cook a meal he will not eat, because he's almost two, and I will eat a few bites of it myself between bathtime and cleaning up what he threw on the floor. I will fall asleep while putting him to bed and forget that there is a list of things I was supposed to do after he was sleeping, briefly cry that I have missed another of my nieces swim-meets and get a broken six hours of rest because my toddler son still does not sleep through the night.

I will not think about World War III. I will not think about China, or Donald Trump or Global Warming. I will fall asleep, dead to the world because I have emotionally had "enough" and cannot take one more single thing. Because I am not a fucking robot.

The one thing that might go through my head, after four glasses of wine, is Andy Williams, "The Most Wonderful Time of The Year." Because if you really want me to believe something, you better fucking sing it with sleigh bells.

It Happens Every Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 26 Oct 2015 20:16:00 +0000

It is fall.

It is Halloween.

It is nearly November.

What is happening that is making time go by so quickly?

Sometimes I pick the wrong music to listen to at work and I don’t drink enough water and I find myself sad. Hydration equals Happiness. I don’t do either of the things on purpose.

This morning I woke up feeling emotionally cluttered. As if I don’t have enough on my plate I’ve somehow added more. But I’ve stopped dating. I’ve deleted my dating profile online. It didn’t give me hope, it gave me dread. I’d open it to a page of smiling men and my stomach would lurch at the seemingly infinite possibilities for rejection. And the lack of choice. And the possibility of choice. I don’t want anything like that, not that way. I was right the first time – I should have stayed away from internet dating. I should have trusted my instincts.

I’m trying to clean house.

Physically and emotionally.

Apart from the Toy-nado, there seem to be piles. A bucket and box of paint from the last painting job, stacks of papers that need filed, things that should have homes but will end up in corners of closets so that I no longer have to look at them, all clutter my floor space and tables.

Inside my brain, piles of conversations litter my waking moments and poignant dreams color my sleep.

I need a sponge and bucket of soapy water. I don’t want all this cobwebby mess hanging about anymore. I want neat stacks and closet organizers and labeled shelves.

Do I sound sad all the time? I’m not sad all the time. I’m doing well, actually. But I have my limits. I have thresholds. I need to keep things simple. There is a lot of superfluousness in my life. I can’t keep it that way – won’t.

Don’t worry, Dear Uncle, I’m still seeing my therapist. No rash moves. I’m doing just fine.

It’s just fall, that’s all.

Just on the Divorce Part

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 12 Oct 2015 19:49:00 +0000

Patience has never been one of my best virtues.

I am a lot of things - caring and thoughtful, warm and open, a relatively good baker, and a fair to middling artist. I'm a great mother (I like to think, anyway) and a good friend. My not so great attributes lie in cooking steak, getting gifts for people in a timely manner, calling on birthdays, and maybe (fine, I'll admit it) driving. I drive like a typical girl. Patience, however, ranks below even those things. I'm sure I've written about it here before.

So, okay, I'm not patient. Except there are certain moments in your life you just cannot speed up. Being pregnant was one of them. Waiting for visas in France (unfortunately) was one of them. Waiting for my son to start walking is another. And healing from a divorce is, apparently, one of them, too.

I want to be ready to move on. I want to be ready to date and oh sweet baby jesus I want to be able to buy a house for Luca and I, and wouldn't I just be thrilled to be able to start paying down the debt I've incurred from this whole mess? I want all of that, and I want it NOW.

But...

It doesn't work that way, does it? "The heart wants what the heart wants," said someone noteworthy. And it works the other way too, though less grammatically. "The heart doesn't want what it doesn't want." Moreover, though, it does things in its own damn time. Which makes moving on with life a little tricky.

I was discussing OKCupid with a new friend this morning and just talking about it made me angry. I hate being rejected by this guy and the other guy. I hate going out on three dates a week to be groped by one and dismissed by another with no given reason. I hate window shopping for my next date and hoping that they won't have something better going on or - worse - three better somethings going on.

Because that's the problem, I feel. There are just so many choices out there and all of the barriers have been taken down from us meeting our "Ideal Mate". There is always someone else who seems better - more your type, more interesting, more talkative. If you can get the Perfect Person then why would you settle for ALMOST.

This is my own insecurity, I think. Yet, I do feel that there will always be someone out there who is "better" than you. When I was in the third grade I learned that I was a pretty talented drawer. I remember drawing a whale and sharing it with some of the other students in class. I was such an awkward kid, desperately seeking the approval of a group of children who thought I was weird because I cried too much, yet I constantly opened myself up to them. I thought it couldn't be wrong. I still think that.

So here I am, a squirrelly little girl in her kitten sweatshirt, sharing a picture of a humpback whale so proudly.

"I can draw too," said Amanda. Amanda was awkward too. We would pretend that we were dinosaurs in the playground. She was always the T-Rex.

Amanda shared her picture of a dinosaur that was, indeed, better than my sketch of a whale. She was simply better than I was. The group of kids migrated away from my work to hers and I was quickly forgotten. I folded up the picture and hid it in my book bag, dejected.

The world is a revolving door of Amandas, I've learned. It's simply a fact: there is always someone out there better at what you do than you are. It's a statistical probability. Unless you are super human, super genius or otherwise super. It just is.

I talked it out with this new friend, trying to work out what the real problem is. Let's forget the fact that this is a person whom I came to know on OKCupid and before we could meet in real life I threw a proverbial hand grenade at him because I was so afraid he was rejecting me for someone else. He's easy to talk to and so I continue to do it, though I wonder to what end. Am I just deferring to him in the hopes that he'll find out he made a mistake, hoping he'll run out of other "Ideal Mates"? Probably.

So I deactivated my dating profile. Because I don't really need more friends but also because my poor sea-worn and battered heart cannot fathom the concept of internet dating and whatever merits it might actually have.

My dearest uncle emailed me after my last post and encouraged me to stop self-loathing. "I'm not self loathing!" I returned. But I'm certainly not self-loving.

I am worthy, said another asked me to remember. "Of course I am!" I replied. But I don't really believe it, apparently.

There is so much they don't tell you about divorce. Or the do but you don't really understand until you've lived it. Splitting assets, sharing holidays with your child, learning to set boundaries. Desperately longing for some kind of semblance of the stability you once had, but with no solid ground in sight.

The truth is I'm tired. Physically and mentally. If I don't keep myself completely busy I get sad, but if I am too busy I break down. Don't even talk to me during weeks that I PMS.

But...

People have lived through worse. I cannot compare my journey, but I can learn from them. I can listen, patiently.

I can learn to be patient.

On Divorce and Dating

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Tue, 08 Sep 2015 01:43:00 +0000

Although relatively little time has passed since my marriage dissolved, I have already reintroduced myself to the dating scene. I think it’s something that most newly divorced people do – some kind of weird rumspringa to reintroduce us into the single world. Maybe we’ll choose to return to the safety of our comfortable, if dysfunctional marriages? Or maybe we’ll take the chance on a “fresh start”.

Things in the dating world suck, now, though. I’m sure they sucked four and a half years ago when I went off the market but I was younger and more resilient. Or more frequently drunk. Or the distinctly possible answer is that I had simply forgotten. Forgotten that dating blows big, fat, hairy donkey balls.

Oh, you didn’t know that? You have been living under a rock.

I do think it’s worse now. Not only do we have internet dating sites, but we have Ashley Madison and Tinder.

God, Tinder.

What fresh hell created Tinder? I tried it, I actually did. And there is something super gratifying about swiping right and getting that little spinning match symbol. It’s like speed dating for the internet. But just like everything the social networking has shit on, Tinder has enforced the emotional distance created by two screens, making people feel like the possibilities of meeting another person and having a spark are infinite. “Eh, you’re pretty great but I have three other intelligent, tall blondes in my shopping cart and I want to try them out first.”

It's the problem with "these kids nowadays", in general. This generation (which obviously includes myself) has never known a time when there weren't a hundred different varieties of literally everything - from deoderant to yogurt to TVs and yes, even their potential mate. They have never known a time when families didn't scatter like seeds in the wind over countries and continents; a time when you marrying someone from the next town over was a pretty big stretch because who's parents house would you have dinner at on Sunday? And I am simplifying it, but there was something different to that time when people's standards weren't miles high because they could look around their church or local stadium and literally see their choices for a mate.

Now, you can search the actual whole entire world for someone to meet, and you can narrow down your choices as much as any algorithm will allow, discluding any thug under 5'7" who doesn't brush their teeth twice a day. That is not an exaggeration.

But I digress.

I want so badly to meet someone "organically", that I sent an email to my friends and family with a list of qualities I am looking for in a potential mate. My list had twenty bullet points including things like patience, intelligence, compassion, liking kids, reading books, cooking, having a talent and being kind. It also included things like "Has a job and a steady income", "has a car" and "does not live with his parents".

"This is just a list of the characteristics of a good person," One person responded. Which I found sad because I have a terrible time finding people to match this list.

I put it out there that I was going to start dating again. "I REFUSE to use the internet to get a date," I said. All caps.

As it turns out, nobody knows anyone that they would like to set me up with. Not even one single person. It was disheartening.

So I joined a dating website. I am a hypocrite.

Within a week, I had received over a thousand "likes" and something like 60 messages. Within those messages I was asked if I wanted to have a threesome with two guys, begged to go on a date by someone who was married ("Will that be an issue? I promise you'll have fun!"), propositioned to 'make a salary by having a servant or houseboy', whatever that means, and asked if I wanted to make out. One guy simply said, "Nice toes." Most of them started out with a pretty stellar "Hey!" and left it hanging.

Of the men I contacted, only about a half a dozen responded, I assume because of the aforementioned too many choices. I gave my number to one person who proceeded to never contact me again and went on one date with a very nice guy who actually had none of the qualities on my list, which is to say he didn't have a job or a car, or even a cell phone.

I am trying to remain hopeful, however. I decided that my previous stance of "all men are terrible pigs and I don't trust any of them" was not attracting any of the types I am looking for. I meditate a little on my list every night, hoping to bring a positive someone into my life, rather than continue to rush into the arms of those who I actually know are going to let me down.

Oddly enough, the hardest thing of all is being patient. I'm happy with where my life is. I'm happy with my career, my friends and family are keeping me above water even on the bad days, and being a mother to my son is like pure magic to my soul. I guess the truth is that I don't need anybody, but it sure would be nice, someday. "Someday", sort of like "forever", is one of those vaguely tangible ideas that humans are so blessed to have as an evolved species.

Though, to look at dating now I have begin to wonder if we've really evolved at all...

Friday's, These Days

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Sat, 22 Aug 2015 01:35:00 +0000

Every other Friday I am single. Not a mother, not a wife separated from her husband. I am single.

I could go out and paint the town red. I could sleep with a different man each night and stay out until dawn. I could do a lot of things that I just don't - not anymore. See, Friday for me, these days, means something different.

Well - it means two different things really. If I have my son, it means a night of cuddling and cooking dinner and mentally preparing to be away from him for two exceptionally long days. If I am "single", it is a night of doing laundry and food prep and cleaning up the tufts of cat hair that linger in the corners like shy girls at the dance, waiting to be snatched up by the rough wheels of my vacuum cleaner.

I drink wine to get me through it. Sometimes I take a xanax at bedtime to ensure at least six consecutive hours of sleep will occur and I can be rested and present for the two luxurious days with the most important man in my life. Sometimes I go out and I immediately regret it.

I am not the girl I once was.

I am not altogether sad to leave her behind. Occasionally I have the animal desire to go visit her in a short sequined dress and heels that make me tower above the men who would ask to be my lover. I am not dead, after all. It just doesn't feel genuine anymore. It feels obviously painted on - contrived. Who am I now, then, if I am not that woman?

For years, I filled the emptiness with lust. I chased down my knight in shining armor, begging him to lift me onto his horse and live happily ever after. Paris was a wash of men who I loved carelessly, thinking - or never once thinking - that they could somehow fill the void. There were Pascals and Nicolas' and Marcs and Christophes and Nathans and Brunos and Thierrys. My "number" eked up and I stopped counting. Who would be "the one"?

Just one - the one I gave a name to - fulfilled me enough to believe in myself. Just one - the one I birthed from my belly - gave me strength enough to love who I am as a woman.

I don't want to be one of those crazy mothers who makes her son the stars and the moon and thusly makes him hate his mother. I have seen how that turns out, too, and it isn't pretty. But...

But it's Friday again. I'm cleaning the comforter for the umpteenth time because my geriatric cat pooped on it while I was at work. That's what he does now because he's sixteen and suffers from constipation and sometimes it just hurts to poop so he goes wherever he likes. When I am 85 I guess I will probably poop wherever I want to if I'm not feeling well.

This morning I put on a blue rubber glove and laid him out on a drop cloth and I helped him do his business. That's how you help old creatures. My son played patiently with his stacking boxes, blissfully oblivious to the tribulations of an aging animal. I wonder if he'll ever hold me someday, while I poop.

When he was first born and I thought I needed to add formula to his diet he had terrible constipation. I never imagined that I would be so happy to see a poop come out from something in all my life. It warranted a cheer, and sometimes a drink, but usually some serious hand washing all the way up to the elbows. Lots and lots of disinfectant wipes. The moments leading up to the Hurrah were excruciating, though. It was the first time that I understood what it meant for a mother to feel the pain of her child. How many times did I weep to see him crying through the pain? As a brand new life on the planet, he couldn't understand pain, and as a brand new mother I did not know how to explain it to him. My mind extrapolated that moment into the hundreds of thousands of boo-boos and heartaches that he would feel as a human on this planet. This was only the beginning of his life who felt pain and sadness as well as joy and love. So I held him tight, singing or shushing or rocking. I held him until he felt better, because that's what mother's do when their newborn baby is hurting.

The worst thing about single Friday is that there is no one here to hold me. Though there technically is no physical pain associated with it, I instinctually need arms wrapped around me, holding me tight. I wish there was someone to rock me to sleep. Yet I know this is not the time. I know that now the only mother who can teach me about this particular pain is me.

This is complicated, as I have never bothered to listen to myself before and always figured I would be a terrible mother.

When I was a child I never played pretend with my dolls that I was their mother. I had a Cabbage Patch named Rufus (of all things!) and I think I felt vaguely motherly towards him, but in general my maternal instinct was nil. I remember, specifically, the Home Ec class where we were required to bring home a baby doll that cried. It was a newer kind of thing that required you to hold a key in a certain position for a certain number of minutes in order for it to stop crying. This was meant to be some kind of birth control, showing us how demanding a newborn was. It's cry was incessant and loud and shrill.

Mine was broken, though. Or I had to have it for longer than a night. I can't remember the circumstances other than I ended by crying, throwing it against a wall before my mother took the batteries out. Clearly, I was not meant to be a parent.

Years later, I understand how that was a pointless exercise. A malfuntioning doll with a battery is a very poor example of a colicky baby (if that's what it was meant to be) and when I had my own inconsolable child so many years later I had zero desire to throw him against a wall. A real life - your own progeny - has a different meaning and a different sound than anything that can ever be explained. Love tranforms your heart into something that becomes patient in a way that you did not know you could be and your ears become (mostly) deaf to the sound.

That is how I have come to feel that this Friday is a sucessful one. Even though it began in a latex glove, forcing rock hard feces out of one animal and bathing the mushy, teething poop off of another, I know that my life is full and my heart - though sometimes tired and aching - is full of love. There are few moments to weep about being lonely and fewer moments to wish someone would rescue me.

Someday, though, I certainly hope I will have a loved one who will hold me while I poop.

Vacillate

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Wed, 17 Jun 2015 17:46:00 +0000

vac·il·lateˈvasəˌlāt/
verbalternate or waver between different opinions or actions; be indecisive.
"I had for a time vacillated between teaching and journalism"

synonyms: dither, waver, be indecisive, be undecided, be ambivalent, hesitate, be of two minds, blow hot and cold, keep changing one's mind, be conflicted;

I never for one moment suspected that going through a divorce would be easy. I watch my mother's last divorce rip her security from her at the age of 53, no less and fully expected an upheaval. I don't know, though, I guess I thought that because it was mutual things would be different. I thought that because I had seen it coming I was emotionally prepared in some way.

In a way, I was.

"You're so strong," people say.

"You're really taking this so well," say others who don't know me as well.

The truth is, though, that literally every hour of every day holds a different emotion for me. There is no way to predict it because there are no triggers. One moment I could be holding the baby, feeling deep love and gratitude for our time together, and the very next the sun will shift and I will be reminded of the first week I went back to work, holding him while he slept in the big grey chair in his room. He had been desperate to nurse and neither of us was in love with being away from each other all day.

I begin to cry then because I was once sad to be away from him for eight hours. Now I am sad because I only get to have my child fifty percent of the time.

This morning the sun was shining in a brilliant blue sky. I had rediscovered an old album I loved and was listening to it loudly in the car. My GPS took me down unfamiliar backcountry roads and I my windows were wide open to let the cool morning air in. I felt light. Euphoric.

As the morning passed my mood leveled. I worked. I read the news. I spoke to a friend about her ex-husband and how unkind he had been. In a moment, my mood took a nose dive. As if her pain were mine. Suddenly I felt literally heavy. My face felt slack and empty. I was deeply sad.

It has become prevalent now to talk about Highly Sensitive People. This is a thing now that some psychologist identified as a "real" trait and so society is beginning to take notice in it. An HSP is the type of person who cries easily, offends easily, falls in love quickly and generally has deep emotional states. They are also the type of person who is highly intuitive, incredibly observant and very thoughtful. They are creative and detail oriented. They the odd kid in the pink poncho playing in the back of the schoolyard by themselves, maybe trying to make conversation with the crows in their language.

I am a Highly Sensitive Person.

I'm glad that there is a label for it now because of the people who have crawled out of the woodwork to tell me that I shouldn't be so emotional. I shouldn't be so passionate and I certainly shouldn't express it. To be fair, most of these woodworms are men who clearly don't care about who I really am, but having those sort of sentiments shared with me right now is enough to make my skin crawl.

Because right now my reality is more than just being an HSP. It's about every single emotion I've felt - or repressed - in the last five years coming to the surface to say hello. It is being a gaping wound, infected by everyone else's emotions and hardships and becoming part of me. It is trying to heal, believing I have, only to begin bleeding profusely from somewhere else.

I'm going through it the best I can. Most days I do so with grace and have a pretty good mask to lead people into believing I'm doing just fine. Other days I get home to my empty apartment and I crumble. I sit down on the side of my bed, think about whatever it is that day that has chosen to present itself with a smack in my face, and I have an ugly cry. Sometimes a good cry is enough, and other nights it's a stiff drink and some Christmas music. On really bad nights, there is all of the above plus a Xanax and an early bedtime with the curtains closed tightly against what remains of the daylight.

I didn't know that would happen when I moved out. I don't know why.

In this vacillation I am learning to bend, though, I guess. I am learning to feel free to feel and forgiving myself for holding it back for so long. I am learning to be kind to myself. The hope is that, eventually, things will become constant again. The security I had ripped away from me will be reconstituted and I will find balance on my own two feet.

The mere thought makes me light, once again.

One Year, Somehow, Already

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Tue, 09 Jun 2015 17:24:00 +0000

It rained on Punkin's birthday, of course. Not for the whole time, but long enough for us to have to move all the food in. That is the nature of the best laid plans, I guess.

Regardless of that, and of the few people whom I would have loved to be there falling ill, it was a great day full of all the emotions that one person can shove into a single day. Happy, sad, excited, angry, dumbfounded - all things put in place by the events of the past year that I didn't record very well and couldn't possibly begin to recount in detail. I think I spent half of it napping.

I wrote a letter for Punkin, on Sunday. Not Saturday because I was too tired and so was he. My goal is to write him a letter every year on his birthday and give them to him when he's old enough to appreciate it. Maybe 21. Maybe later. It is a poorly written letter - not my best work, by far - but I documented who was there in first and last name and I told him why we loved those people. Will they all be at his party next year? I wonder.

It was hard to share a day like that with someone I used to call my husband but no longer do. We don't hate each other, most of the time, but I'm processing so many things right now. How to be a single parent is one of them. How to let go of the past - all my various pasts - is another. I have to remember that who I am is not who I was and probably not who I will be in the future. I have to remember to live in the present. It's easy on the days that I have Punkin, because I can give all those moments of "present" to him. When I am alone, it's not so evident.

A whole year passed since he was born, can you believe that? I don't know how it went so quickly. I began by measuring his life in weeks, and then months and now he suddenly a "Big Boy" learning to have like and dislikes and make jokes and think things are fun or not fun. He went from being a squishy little nugget with colic and poops that squirted across his changing table to a vibrant, chattery little bird, interested in people watching and loving hugs with mommy and daddy. So much happens in a year.

I have postulated that people began the tradition of birthdays as a way to celebrate keeping their children alive for another year. Back in the day when the chickenpox or the flu could be the reason half of your kids died it would have been a real thing to celebrate. "Yay!! I my child did not die! Let's have a cake and make a wish that we don't die next year."

Now that we have vaccines and westernized medicine and health insurance (if you're lucky) we celebrate just as much for the parents as for the life of the child. "Yay! We made it through a whole year without killing each other! We didn't die from sleep deprivation, like we thought we might!"

Ex-H and I didn't make it out completely unscathed. But neither of us died (sometimes I thought I would), and we are on the way to figuring it out.

So we move forward. I am happy that there is life blooming before me while the other is poised all too near my front door. The reality that nothing is permanent - even the sleepless nights with an infant or the crazy toddler years - is something I grapple with. Some days I want to take everything I love and take it away to some farm in Canada where we can feel nothing but joy and live forever. Or die of old age, in our sleep. I try not to think about it. I try to be present - in the moment. I give my son all the love I can possibly give and hope that it's enough. I try to make it through another year, so we can celebrate with cake and a candle and a wish that we can do it all again.

It was a joyous day, and his smile erased all the other things I felt that were getting in the way of bliss. It always does.

I'm Still Here

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Wed, 03 Jun 2015 11:06:00 +0000

This week my baby turns one.

It has officially been a year and a half since I wrote here.

Literally everything in my life is different.

For a time, after the baby was born, everything was good. It was better than ever. I think they call that a honeymoon period. Then things got bad again, just like they had been on an off for years.

One night we fought about orange curtains. My weary, frazzled to the bone body simply couldn't take it anymore. As the curtains lay dismantled on the dining room floor, we screamed at each other. Walls got damaged. Doors broken. And at the end I lay, like the orange curtains, dismantled on the bedroom floor, a chunk of my own hair grasped firmly in my fist.

The baby, somehow, did not wake. I knew in my heart of hearts that we would never again get so lucky.

In the morning Husband and I agreed that we couldn't - shouldn't - be doing this anymore. It was time to make good on all previous threats.

The baby and I moved out two weeks later.

Everything is different now. The little house (as we call my apartment) is airy and bright. I have decorated it in jewel tones and shimmering colors and photographs of family. Baby's bedroom was christened with two giant Dr. Seuss murals. I am pouring love into it, painting over the pain I feel every time I pull up to what was once my home. The weeping cherry tree still frames the front door. The Azealas just finished blooming. In the backyard there is a rose that I planted on my first mother's day.

None of that belongs to me anymore.

But my son is so happy. Truly, amongst all the little boys I know he is one of the happiest. His little infectious laugh - an echo of my mother's family - is proof positive that I have done the right thing.

To heal, I have begun writing again. Here. There. On scraps of paper. In little journals. I need it, I realized. I have always. So during this time of change, during yet another moment of evolution, I will emote. I will purge and tell stories and dream and begin to live again. I will let the light that I've covered for so many years burst forth.

I'm a mommy now. That is a story for tomorrow. Today I am just a woman, learning how to live again.

Hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Wed, 18 Dec 2013 17:11:00 +0000

My computer died. I wish I could say that this is the reason I haven’t been writing, but it’s not. I’ve been busy, true, and preoccupied with other things, yes, but mostly I just haven’t felt like writing. I haven’t felt like sharing, maybe, either – at least not publicly. Some time ago I read the blog of friend whom I’ve followed since I began to write like this who decided to “retire” from blogging. She was simply ready to move on from it. I wonder sometimes if I am as well.

The truth is I don’t really know. I know that the reasons I started blogging are not the reasons I continue to blog. I know that the information I feel comfortable sharing now is vastly different than that which I used to share. But I also know that it has been a comfort to me in so many hard times. It has been my community, where I have met wonderful friends – relationships that have crossed the boundaries of internet lines – and shared momentous occasions with them via this page. And I know that I will have many more occasions to share. So I don’t quit. Not just yet.

But Life continues to happen, even if I don’t write about it here.

The protesters (who, by the end, were just one guy sitting on the roadside in his truck smoking a cigarette) finally gave in. I don’t know if the project at the Cricket Club finished, if he moved to some other area to protest or he finally got lucky and got himself a job, but one day the signs were simply no longer there. As if it had never happened at all, and maybe it really didn’t. No one seemed to flummoxed that they were present to begin with, so why would anyone notice when they left?

The drama with my insurance company was basically a mood swing. I got upset about it and then it worked itself out, as these things usually do. The therapist I was seeing decided to stop taking Aetna and so I decided to stop seeing her. She was lovely but out of my price range. This meant that I could have all the biofeedback sessions I needed until the end of the year. Which turned out to be a godsend when I found out I was pregnant and had to go off my mood stabilizer.

Yes, I’m pregnant. After all the fuss I made about not being sure I wanted children it happened on its own. Not like it was an immaculate conception, I know how babies are made, but we weren’t really planning on it.

For those of you who may be wondering I do not love being pregnant. I’m not a fan of feeling sick (although most of my morning sickness has passed by now) and if you’ve never been preggers before let me just explain to you that your body basically does every gross thing you never thought it could do. Not to mention you are gestating an alien succubus. It’s a miracle, yes, I guess, but it’s weird as hell when it’s happening to you.

One thing I dolike is that, somehow, all the extra hormones raging through my body right now completely leveled off my moods. It’s the best mood stabilizer I’ve ever had – to the point where it’s almost hardto cry. (Although I did tear up at the Christmas iPhone commercial last night. That one’s a doozy.) I feel so balanced and happy. And simultaneously cranky from lack of sleep and nausea, but mostly level. I’m sure the biofeedback is helping as well, but nothing can compare to a pregnant woman’s hormones, I’m sure.

So it’s happening. We’re having a baby. The Evolving Family is evolving. The big ol’ house we never thought we’d be able to fill will soon be just big enough for the three of us. Somehow, this bizarre thing that is growing inside my body is going to come out and become a human. Husband and I will be its parents. And life will continue to move on.

Whether I write about it here, life will go forward. There is no stopping, no waiting for an explanation, no pause until the next episode. Things just happen.

And that is why we must never stop evolving.

RANT

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Tue, 24 Sep 2013 15:47:00 +0000

My route to work, apparently, is very treacherous if you are a raccoon. I see the remains of countless deaths each week, of all ages and sizes. I’ve become desensitized to the mass killings. You’d think the raccoons would just change their route, already.

***

Have you been on hold with Aetna lately? I have a few questions, first of them being do they want me to kill myself now?

I’ve concluded, after several hours on hold and in “conversations” with various call centers that there is no more stressful experience than trying to get what you need from an insurance company. They begin by playing the first phrases of Fur Elise in obvious repetition until, just before you begin smashing your head against your desk, they cut in to help you. Only literally no one at Aetna is a native English speaker and despite the clarity of the things I say they seem to never understand me. It’s a little like talking to a wall.

But that’s really not the worst part. The worst part is the coverage itself. I have what is considered “good” insurance and for most things it is satisfying. I can go to the doctor for twenty dollars and the specialist for forty. Most of my appointments fall under the specialist category but I consider it better than having to pay full price. However when it comes to what insurance companies call “Behavioral Health” getting the help you need is seriously off the mark.

Recently I’ve returned to therapy. It was a long hiatus, mostly fueled by lack of wanting to jump back into the psychologist “dating pool”. Finding a therapist that I actually likedthat took my insurance was not easy. I have been to several since I moved here that were less than stellar and so I just stopped going. I need it though so, reluctantly, I opened up my provider list and started the search anew.

I have been fortunate this time to find not one, but two people who I think will be able to help me. One is a cognitive therapist and the other someone who will help me with relaxation techniques and give me some biofeedback. I am looking forward to working with the both of them to put some new tools in my not-being-crazy-toolbox.

First, though, I have to get past my insurance. As it turns out I am allotted only twentybehavioral health visits per year, of which six have already been used. I did the math: Until the end of the year that leaves me with fourteen visits that I have to split between three therapists (don’t forget I see a psychiatrist as well). Now, if I were coded as having a “serious mental health issue” I would have a whole sixty visits per calendar year, but most therapists hesitate to code you that way because it's harder to get life insurance blah blah blah.

This year I can probably finagle things to maximize my fourteen remaining visits, but what am I supposed to do for next year? Even if I was coded as having a “serious mental health issue” I figured out that sixty visits allots for general therapy every other week and a psychiatrist once a month. You can mix that up a little bit but it still doesn’t amount to much. If a person did, indeed have a serious mental health issue – like bipolar or schizophrenia – they would most likely need therapy once a week, and then hopefully they are only seeing their psychiatrist every three months, and that could work but here’s hoping they don’t have a break down anywhere in that time. Don’t change your meds, don’t have a crisis, don’t need anything more than exactly what you have because then you’ll be screwed. As if having bipolar or schizophrenia isn’t screwed enough.

Then there are those of us lucky enough to be “just” depressed, or borderline something, or going through a terrible time. We get therapy twice a month, max. Hope you’re not medicated! And don’t you let that silly therapist talk you into seeing her every single week because, well, you just can’t afford it!

The whole thing is ridiculous. As if choosing a therapist isn’t hard enough, as if treating a mental illness isn’t stressful and exhausting, now we have to worry that our “good” health insurance isn’t going to cover us.

The icing on the cake, for me, is the growing number of therapists who don’t even take insurance. I GET that insurance companies are a pain in the fucking ass. I DO. See above paragraphs. I really get it. But what, pray tell, am I supposed to do if you don’t take insurance? Oh, right! A sliding scale! One that goes to, at its lowest, sixty dollars. Because that’s affordable? I’m already kind of sick to my stomach thinking of the totals for all this therapy. Husband says “We’ll make it work”, but I do the budget in my head and it’s tight. So sixty dollars a session? No. Or I could pay the out-of-network cost! That’s a great deal. I’ll pay eighty percent of your hundred and ninety dollars per hour. I ask you – WHO THE HELL HAS THAT KIND OF MONEY?

(But they’re doing it for the patients, I hear. They spend less time filling out paperwork with the insurance companies and more time with us. Yeah, sure, whatever.)

There aren’t any other options, though. What you could find in the manner of free therapy – if you’re a student or you’re poor, but not those assholes in the middle class, they make too much! – it’s pretty much a joke. Asking a student of psychology to help a person through a major mental disorder or break down isn’t even fair. I agree they have to get real world skills somewhere but just because your poor doesn’t mean you shouldn't have access to a real professional.

I often think of the time I worked for a disability law firm. Their job was to get people Social Security Disability (another joke of a system but don’t get me started). My job was to do basic intake evaluations to prepare them for their meeting with the lawyer. I would ask questions and they would answer. Some of those people didn’t deserve SSD and some of them did. I wasn’t the final decision maker, I just listened.

There were an astonishing amount of those people who were suffering from depression, bipolar and PTSD so crippling that they couldn’t work. Hang on, take a step back – that happens? I mean, if you properly treat all of those things you can still function in society, right? But most of these people were also terribly poor, and whatever “help” they had gotten hadn’t worked.

One woman began crying on me during her intake.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she said, “I’m never going to be better. Things will never get better.”

“Listen,” I replied quietly so that the rest of the room didn’t hear me try to help her, “Things will get better but you have to take care of yourself. Have you gone to the Poor Peoples Therapist?”

I didn’t call it that, but that’s what it was – an association in town that would help crazy people who didn’t have money.

“I tried. I tried but they won’t see me for another three months.”

“And you told them it was an emergency?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter to them.”

“I’m sure it does, honey. It’s just…” I didn’t know what to say. I had tried to go there myself once and knew it was incredibly hard to get in to see a therapist. Rumor has it they weren’t very good anyway.

She began to bawl uncontrollably at this point.

“I’ve been waiting two years for my SSD! I can’t afford no medication. I can't do this anymore! No one wants to help me!”

That, right there, sums up exactly how I feel about our mental health care system coupled with the villainous insurance provider. In the end, crying with her now, I urged the woman to go to the hospital and check herself in as suicidal. I had heard that if you admit yourself in the ER they are required to care for you, give you medication and offer you someone to talk to. The only caveat being that you are in a terrifying mental ward and you have to stay for at least two days.

And these are our options. They go from not-great to horrifying, as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no sign of improvement anytime soon.

It’s things like this that make me wish I was still in France. If I could, I would take my mom, move her there and live healthily ever after. But I’d never find a job that paid me as well and we’d be a fucking long way away from everything we’ve built here. So I take what I can get.

Which I think it the moral of the story.

That and “watch out for raccoons, because they’re idiots.”

Turning

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 23:07:00 +0000

The first pot of fall soup is simmering on the stove. The windows of the kitchen are open, airing out the smells of cooking into the neighbor’s yard. A bouquet of kale casually awaits it’s watery death next to the pot.

I am suddenly very hungry.

This weekend I hit the wall. Not literally – I would be very angry with myself if I had to patch up a hole in the plaster. Emotionally. Something stirred loose and I felt it. I desperately needed a place to hide.

I worry that the meds are going to stop working again. I am keenly aware of my brain chemistry these days.

I took today off to attend to personal business. It felt nice to be cooking before 5 p.m., even though we won’t eat so early. I like having a few hours left where I am able to still think clearly, before the muddy slosh of after-work washes over me and all I want to do is watch television. I almost feel like there is enough juice left in me to be creative, like I haven’t been squeezed dry yet.

I don’t know if you noticed but a whole week went by without a post. After my streak of regularity I felt sort of empty for not having written anything. It was a busy week.

Or was it? I don’t remember so many things happening, but somehow all of the hours got filled and none were left for this.

I promised my aunt and uncle a blog about a baby bird I tried to save. I haven’t forgotten.

I wonder if my husband would feel like a widower if I stayed up here in this room, night after night, until I had worked out whatever creative thing is lying just under my surface. I wonder what he would eat.

That’s an exaggeration – Husband does fine without me. But it’s difficult to know how a significant other might react to not being chosen as the center of your attention for long stretches of time. I just wonder.

For now I am sitting in the attic on a steel chair that is much too short for the desk we purchased for my writing space. The desk, consequently, is perfectly sized, yet the room still feels naked.

I’m not sure what it needs to feel less sparse. It’s a work in progress. Like so many important things in my life.

That’s a whole other tangent. I don’t feel like being so tangential this evening.

I feel like making pie. I won’t though, because the sunlight has slipped behind the horizon and soon I will be curling up on the couch with my little family and forgetting about the kitchen. Then I’ll get ready for bed and tomorrow will be another work day.

I’ll throw myself back into the week and try to ignore the very faint hum of anxiety buzzing in my chest for no reason that I can place. I will breathe in three times, and out three times, over and over until I feel better. I’ll drink tea and not dwell on things.

I’ll have a delicious hot soup for lunch.

Open The Window

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 02:39:00 +0000

This week, just as predicted, the summer has decided to be over. The air is drier and cooler, and the light is beginning to slant through the trees in that way it does in the autumn. The leaves are beginning to turn brown and fall from their branches. Like clockwork.

So we went to Maryland. It was the first trip weekend trip we'd taken - just the two of us - since we went to Cape May what seems like a million years ago. We needed it. We needed a place in the middle of nowhere to open the window, shake out the heavy, dirtied things and let them soak in the sun.

The first thing we did was sleep. There's not much to do in Rock Hall, actually. So sleeping was a perfectly acceptable activity.

Then we ate.

Eating is probably the best activity to do in Rock Hall. We ate at the one place on the bay that sells bushels of crabs and ate them. Garlic crabs weren't what we wanted, but we ate them just the same. We were in bed by ten.

The bed and breakfast was wonderful. It was so wonderful that I'm not actually going to share it with you, here. I want to keep it my little secret for awhile. The innkeepers were warm and hospitable and the breakfast was hot and plentiful.There were dogs on the property. Four of them, all dying to wander around the property with you and be pet and begging to play fetch. Somehow this made the inn feel like home.

I want to go back there and write. In the off season when it's cheap and there will be no one around, maybe it would be better. Although having Husband there was so comforting. Doing nothing him was so refreshing. As opposed to the always going we usually do. We laid by the pool and drank beer, then we kayaked and when we were tired of that we ate some more.

Crab, in case you were wondering.

We ate our weight in crab. We are expert pickers now.

We'll go back. Husband says he wants to try somewhere different but I think I found my spot. A retreat where I can think. Plenty of noise but the organic, ocean variety. Reed crickets and seagulls and ducks and fish flopping in the water and boats chugging across the waves. That is silence enough for me.

Plenty of fresh air.

Sometimes all it takes is opening the window to find the change of air you've been looking for.

It's a Protest Thing, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 02:28:00 +0000

As of last week the Enormous Inflatable Cat has been replaced by these.

While I thought the cat was pretty conversation worthy, apparently it’s not really a "thing" until you call SHAME on something. Since theses signs went up I’ve seen a spike in traffic to my blog, specifically the one where I mention this little protest against the Philadelphia Cricket Club. I thought I couldn’t possibly be the only information out there on this but it seems to be the case. Not even IBEW98 has put anything on the internet to explain why they’re out there.

Because people are interested though – and because I’m interested too – I decided to try to find out a little more about why the union wants us to boycott the Cricket Club. You know - besides amassing obscene amounts of money for membership. While my Marxist tendencies agree that’s pretty gross (especially if they aren’t giving back to the community), there is nothing technically wrong with it.

On my first encounter with the gentleman at the protest site, I was given a flyer with some basic information as to why they were upset. They were turned up for job in favor of Gillespie Electric who didn’t pay their workers fairly. They were “Out of Towners”, as well. They wanted Philadelphia Cricket Club (PCC) to assume accountability for their part in the community.

When I talked to the union members at the site again, I couldn’t help but get the idea that the idea that this fight might be a little more immigrant-based than they lead on. The people that Gillespie hired weren’t trained like union workers were, was the gist, and when it came time to paying taxes the company was only required to give them a 1099 – which didn’t ensure that taxes were actually getting paid. No specific mention of “illegal immigrants” was made, but this is what I gleaned from the conversation.

Honestly, it reminded me a little bit of the South Park episode where people come back from The Future (where we’ve made Earth a terrible place to live) and they get a bunch of menial jobs so that they can stay in The Present. The union gets together a town hall meeting and people take turns telling about how they’ve been cheated by these “Goobacks”, each with the punchline “They took our jobs!”

(I may have a differing opinion on immigration, however, which makes me see it that way.)

Out of fairness to all parties involved, I reached out the CEO of the Philadelphia Cricket Club, whose contact information was given on the flyer handed to me by IBEW98. He was prompt and thorough with his responses, if most definitely acting in his best interests.

While I could not get a direct answer as to whom had bid on the job, nor to the question of the actual membership dues, I was informed that in the “open shop bidding process” the union’s prices was double, and “exorbitant”. As far as “local”, PCC does not consider the location of Gillespie Electric to be outside of that definition. As the business is based forty miles from the site, I personally wouldn’t consider it “local” but Philadelphia doesn’t fall within that area either, so you decide on that one.

When I was told that the reported membership dues of $43,000 per year were “somewhere in the range of ridiculous and preposterous”, I found myself dubious. I don’t actuallyexpect that an exclusive country club would admit to being so expensive to join (and not disclosing an actual amount doesn’t help me believe them) but then I’m rather against expensive, exclusive country clubs to begin with. I don’t understand how that other half lives, what purpose that sort of thing would even serve, or why that information would have to be such a secret. I work on the assumption that if you don’t see a price it means that it costs too much, and maybe I kinda resent the One Percenters for not sharing.

But we should probably not reference my Marxist tendencies again…

If we could label this funny little distraction on my morning ride to work, I think it would be called “Pass The Buck”. I’m guessing that no one is particular innocent here. Union IBEW98 wants to throw a stink because they were turned down for a job and are out of work (obviously, because they seem to have some time to kill!), PCC probably has enough money to pay more for the work (but should they? I mean, I would go with the low bidder too.) and I’m just guessing Gillespie Electric has a couple of people being paid under the table (I can’t confirm it, though, because when I contacted them about it I got no response and who is going to own up to that).

So, though the CEO of Philadelphia Cricket Club disagrees, what I said before remains true: The Union got me talking and they got people interested in what they’re doing and so to that end they have succeeded.

After all, what red-blooded American doesn’t love a good protest? Even if it doesn’t really make any sense.

Looking at Your Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Mon, 26 Aug 2013 21:19:00 +0000

I’ve been going to yoga lately. When I say “lately” I mean four times in the last two months, and when I say “yoga” I mean hot, power yoga (which is like Bikram but not). I like it, despite it being sorta-yoga and despite the group of show-off yogi people that always parks at the front of the class. It does it’s thing for me. I get to stretch and crunch and sweat. It gets me out of myself.

This week, in the beginner’s basics class (which is the class I take because all the others require many more push-ups and are fifteen dollars), the teacher was more meditative than usual. Or maybe I just paid more attention to it. Either way I felt more introspective.

“What I like about yoga,” she said, “Is that it forces me to look at my shit.”

What she didn’t know – couldn’t have known – is that I had already been looking at my shit. It had showed up in the first pose and hadn’t left. It was blocking each breath I tried to inhale and making my outward breathes ragged and weak.

If I’m honest with myself, I would say that my shit has been there for some time now, lurking underneath the surface of my subconscious and waiting patiently for me to acknowledge it. That day, somewhere between chaturanga and a downward-facing dog, it decided to make itself know, waving a flag of urgency under my nose.

“Here I am,” It said to me, “You see me? Stop ignoring me. You know your approach to this just isn’t working.”

I coughed on an inward breath and focused on a point at the end of the studio. Something stable and unmoving to hold me to the ground.

“Hey!” It yelled at me, “You’re going to have to deal with this properly, at some point. It’s not going to go away.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I twisted into some kind of pretzelly chair pose, wringing out my insides.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, finally acknowledging the pestering knot inside me. “But I’m just not ready yet.”

Throughout the rest of class I thought about possible ways to clean away my shit, but there wasn’t one that I was ready to look in the face yet. No, not now. Give time it’s time, see how things develop. Don’t cut off the nose to spite the face. All of that felt way more true than staring down my shit and doing something about it. There are things in life that I take at a full run, jumping to a free fall from the door of an open airplane, with my arms spread. I am not afraid of the future, and I’m not afraid of making choices. But sometimes I’d rather just stay home.

So I let it go. In some form or another I suppose that was the proper Buddhist response. I am living in the present. No decisions need to be made now. Nothing needs to be done. Despite the cowardice I was feeling. For now, things are good enough. Good enough isn’t great, but I guess I’m just not ready for the alternative. Not yet.

Identification Personnelle

noreply@blogger.com (Evolutionary Revolutionary) — Sat, 24 Aug 2013 13:30:00 +0000

 -Amélie's father was a former army doctor, 

         and was working at the hydropathic establishment of Enghien-les-Bains.

        Raphaël Poulain doesn't like 

         peeing next to somebody else.

        He doesn't like 

         noticing people laughing at his sandals .

         .coming out of the water with his swimming suit sticking to his body

        Raphaël Poulain likes 

         to tear big pieces of wallpaper off the walls 

         to line up his shoes and polish them with great care 

         to empty his toolbox, 

         clean it thoroughly, 

         and, finally, put everything away carefully.

        Amélie's mother, Amandine Fouet, 

         was a Primary School teacher from Gueugnon, 

         she had always been unstable and nervy.

        She doesn't like to have her fingers all wrinkled by hot water.

        She doesn't like it when  somebody she doesn't like 

         touches her, 

         to have the marks of the sheets on her cheek in the morning.

        She likes the outfits of the ice-skaters on TV.

         to shine the flooring.

        to empty her handbag 

         clean it thoroughly, 

         and, finally, putting everything away carefully.

This is, quite possibly, one of my favorite beginnings to any movie ever made. It's because of this I find myself making similar lists of mundane things I like and dislike, regularly. Almost any woman my age will agree that this movie made some kind of emotional ripple in her and left her secretly wishing to be Amelie Poulain.

Things I dislike:

- Wearing socks that have lost their elasticity.
- The shape and texture of bananas.
- The look of dead skin anywhere on my body.

Things I like:

- Spontaneous eruptions of dance.
- Catching other people singing in their car.
- Getting stuck in a torrential downpour without an umbrella

***

I was talking with someone recently about life and living it in general, and they said something to the effect of "any day is a good day if you wake up and can still feel your toes".

I turned that thought over in my mind, letting it go smooth like a stone in a river. Any day is a good day if you are still alive.

Somewhere, fairly recently it would seem (like maybe the past couple of years?) I think I stopped paying attention to my toes. Things got really, really really hard, and then they were suddenly remarkably easy. As if nothing had ever been bad at all - as if I hadn't ever tried to throw myself out a window or hidden in a closet crying - my brain was suddenly functioning. And it was doing that thing that brains do in order to keep you alive, magically losing perspective on just how low you can go.

Things are normal now. Easy. My biggest problems are ones that can mostly be solved by looking it up on google. I find myself complaining about being too social. Oh God, we have too many friends.* Our house needs blah, blah, blah. I'm bored at work this week. Blah, blah, blah.

I had an "aha" moment this week. I felt my toes again. Maybe it was what that person said that sparked it, or maybe I just woke up from some kind of long numbness. There is life to be lived. There are decisions to be made - by me. There is happiness to be grasped at every single second, and if you're lucky you catch it. If you reach out and grab it, you will catch it. I've known it for a long time, then forgot, but I remember now: I am responsible for my own happiness.

*I never actually say that. I love our friends.

***

The longest, sweetest, saddest love poem ever written. Hauntingly beautiful.