I had a dream a few days ago. It was a doozy. All layered and vivid and filled with stuff my unconscious self apparently wants me to deal with. Including my fear of writing.
Ghandi once said that it was our light we were afraid of, not our inadequacy. What I'm discovering is that the light I shine tends to hurt people's eyes and they just want me to shut down. And so I did. But I'm getting tired of hiding within my own life.
It only took one person to tell me that I was acting ungrateful, ugly and spoiled to shut me down. It only took one person to tell me that what I was writing was hurting her feelings to stop me from heading to the keys for my own comfort. I have trouble letting others take responsibility for their own feelings and assume that I actually do have that much power.
I hold these fantasies that, someday, after this or that person is gone, I will be able to come out of hiding. I can tell my stories. I can share myself fully. I won't have to edit myself or maintain a facade that makes others comfortable. My life feels as though it is on pause until then. Which is the definition of enmeshment. Murray Bowen would have a field day with me.
It feels important that I begin here, again. Start the process again. Just sit here in this expressive space and just sit, if that's what I need to do again. Epilepsy and critical family members found my blind spot and sent me to the sidelines for quite a while. I'm limping back.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Monday, May 10, 2010
Patsy Cline on the Rocks, Please.
I’m about to lose my head. I’ve figured out that the only way to manage is to start drinking. Heavily. I really need a long island iced tea, like, immediately.
I’ve developed a seizure disorder known commonly as epilepsy but less commonly as partial complex seizures with generalized seizures. It sounds pretty bad, and I suppose it is, but after watching my mom go through a life-threatening diagnosis of brain tumor, I am happy to learn that it’s just epilepsy. Treatable with meds, which I’ll start eventually, my diagnosis and I will go on to live a happy, healthy life. That is, if I can keep my driver’s license.
However my brain, as it is now, is still having all kinds of epileptic fits leaving me all fuzzy headed and dizzy. It’s as if I’m walking around underwater, all slow motion and blurry-eyed while everyone else is moving at life’s normal pace. The chronic fatigue and lack of energy has earned me the name “Narcolepsy” with my closer friends. As I type, I find myself wishing I could just curl up on the couch and drift away.
But I can’t.
Jack.
I’m still a mother. A mother who has a very energetic 3 ½ year old who, just this moment, came screaming into the room yelling “Kitty!” and jumped onto my head. And since I accidentally burned down my parent’s house recently, we’re living in a hotel without the usual grandparents and 2 acres of land to keep him occupied.
His toddler pace and my old lady pace are already unevenly matched, but this is getting ridiculous. I have absolutely zero interest in playing tag or going for a bike ride or role-playing Monsters Inc., and so I have come to refer to the TV as his nanny. Even making meals feels next to impossible. He and I have both survived on goldfish crackers and string cheese for the past few weeks. I’m lucky if he gets a vegetable or fruit in his body at any point in the day.
Fast-paced anything makes me dizzy and nauseated. It's almost like I'm drunk but without the fun lack-of-inhibitions and karaoke music. Most days, I have these strange moments where my entire left side goes numb and I sorta go away to a dream-like place in consciousness for about 20 or 30 seconds. I smell smoke when no one else does and usually this hallucinatory campfire gets so strong that it brings along it's friend Gnarly Headache and Vomiting.
After a long, nauseating day at work (nauseating because the seizures make me feel like I’m standing on a boat all day) I picked up Jack from day care and he proceeded to scream about a lost robot he wanted me to find. I found myself singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” as a coping device to drown out the child-abuse-inducing fit behind me. It worked and he’s bruise free and I’m still allowed to be within 100 feet of him without a monitor.
We’re doing alright. Everything will be okay. Everything is okay. I mean, in the midst of the house-fire and the moving into hotels and the EEG’s and the overdrawn bank accounts due to having worked only 3 out of 5 days a week since March, Jack is now potty trained. And obviously I’m writing again. I’ve even found a way to quit smoking.
I'm really happy to finally have a diagnosis that explains all of these crazy symptoms I've had and that justifies all of the help I've needed from friends and family. It's a life changing diagnosis, not a life threatening one. And so I suppose some days I’ll have to make it okay that the closest thing he has to a functional parent is Dora the Explorer. And I might need to learn a few more Patsy Cline songs to get me through the harder times, although singing the lyric, “…and I’m crazy for loving you…” feels really good to sing when I’m especially frustrated. In the meantime, I’m accepting meals and free babysitting services. Signup sheet is on the door. Best Western Hotel, Room 100.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Life in Reverse.
I was a really odd teenager. I was terrified of drugs and alcohol. I was horrified at the idea of my parents being upset with me. I was even more worried about God not liking me and so the naughtiest thing I ever did was let my boyfriend touch my boobs under a houseboat on a family vacation to Lake Mead. And boy, did I feel awful about that. A good few weeks of repentant prayer, I'll tell you what.
I was really, really responsible. I studied hard and late into the night. I was in honors courses and took AP English. I was in the student body government for 3 out of the 4 years in high school. I took my job as a Christian very, very seriously and went through devotional books like it was some sort of spiritual porn. I prayed for those who didn't know the Lord, and I prayed for my friend, Amber Rady, who I found out had recently starting smoking cigarettes and who smelled like them after senior lunch last week. I prayed that I would always be focused on God, that I would honor him, that I would continue to grow closer and closer to him.
College wasn't much different. It didn't take long for me to become involved in the student ministries at my school and to be singing with the worship band in chapel. My 21st birthday went by without so much as getting tipsy and I created an accountability group to help rein in my crazy impulses to get naked with my boyfriend. When I walked across that stage and moved the tassel from one side to the other I had never been drunk, never had sex, never watched a porno, never smoked a cigarette, never smoked a joint, and never hung out with someone who was not a Christian. And I had never, ever, believed that it was okay to think for myself.
At 21 years old, I moved into a residential treatment facility for children who were victims of abuse and neglect to work as a houseparent. In short, I spent three years being a full-time mom to 10 boys who were in institutionalized foster care. At the age of 24, I became a licensed foster parent to raise one of these kids who I felt very connected to and whom I loved very deeply. My boyfriend and his two toddlers moved into my first apartment with my foster son and me and- literally overnight- I had become a wife and mother of three. By the age of 25, I had my first panic attack.
The weight of the responsibilities that I had borne were so overwhelming that I drove to a bar at one a.m. and drank 5 shots in a row, just before closing. When I called my boyfriend, I had no idea where I was. What I did know was that I felt like a little girl trying to take care of everyone around her. I was buckling.
The term "over-responsible" was new to me when I read about it in my graduate school studies a few years later. When I saw the word, it was as if it leaped off of the page and stamped itself on my forehead. I knew exactly what it meant. I knew without having to read about it that I would be defined in the sentences that followed afterword. And I knew immediately how it had set itself up in my consciousness.
My dad was a speaker and a writer for youth ministers around the world. He's kinda famous in the whole Christian subculture of America. As a kid and as a teenager, I spent a great deal of time at youth ministry seminars and conventions, surrounded by youth pastors and people like Tony Campolo, Duffy Robbins, Rich Van Pelt, and Mike Yaconelli. It was not uncommon for me to go to conventions like DC/LA or CHIC and have a staff pass so I could eat lunch with the guys from Jars of Clay or The Newsboys, or to have reserved seats with my name on them for the front row. Being my dad's daughter literally gave me a back-stage pass to the world of adults who make a living shaping teenagers into good Christian adults, and I found out really quick that I was hugely rewarded if I showed up as this uber responsible, well spoken, overly-devout, highly moral and on-fire-for-the-Lord teenager. These guys couldn't get enough of it! They would stroke me with compliments to my "maturity" and to my "heart for the Lord." They would soon realize that I was not like most teenagers who only care about sex and getting high and being angsty and hormonal.... no, I was one of them. I was this strange but amazing anomoly in the world of American teens. I was an adult in a teenager's body, not prone to the desires of the flesh but who's eyes were on the prize.
Now I know that the prize I was always seeking was approval from these men and women who were the leaders and celebrities of my culture. And I am also sadly aware that their attention and approval were filling in the space that was laid vacant by the perception that my own father did not see me or acknowledge me. To be seen and to be known, to be stroked and praised, to be acknowledged and recognized by these icons was an addictive salve for the wounded one inside. And so I became who they wanted me to be. I became the miniature adult, shirking the things of youth and vanity and play. I took in the sick and the wounded and the poor. I did mission trips and service projects and made it a point to sit next to the nerds and the weirdos at lunch, even if it meant social suicide. Jesus would have done it. Duffy definitely would have. The devotional I read last night said that I should.
In other words, I didn't have an adolescence. I didn't take any risky behaviors. I didn't experiment with drugs or multiple identities. I didn't get angry at my parents and tell them they didn't understand. I didn't become brooding and hormonal and lock mself away in my bedroom. In fact, I distanced myself away from all things adolescent and held a view of these behaviors as somehow weak, immature, and to be conquered. I didn't belong out there in the audience with the rest of the teenagers. I belonged backstage, here with the adults who were conspiring to wipe out the nasty adolescent bug that lurked in the hearts of the youth of America.
The effect is that I've lived life in reverse. I was a foster mother to teenagers in my early twenties, a stepmother to toddler/schoolaged girls in my midtwenties, and had a baby in my late twenties. And now, in my early 30's, I am finally doing the adolescence that I never had. Its a bit awkward, doing 17 at age 33, but as any psychology 101 student knows... one must complete and master each one of life's age stages. If not now, then you'll have to do it later.
I believe that this dynamic would be happening for me even if I didn't live with my parents in my childhood home, but the fact that I am living here makes everything just oh-so-much-more authentic. Like the fact that my parents walked in on me and a boy. Like how I just want them to leave me alone and pretend I don't exist. Like how I spend as much time as possible now locked inside my bedroom, listening to my music and watching my shows. Like how I hate that they want to know where I've been and where I'm going. Like how everything about them can drive me absolutely fucking nuts, like the way their breathing sounds or the way they scrape their fork across the plate. I want to sneak out every night. I want to punish them with a bad mood.
I find myself daydreaming and fantasizing about the day I can move out and be on my own, as if I didn't do that for 10+ years already. But to me, its as if I have traveled back in time to the Amber at 17 who drove away for college and never really came back until now. My relationship with my parent's didn't age even though I aged. I left at 17 and I am now back at 17, but this time feeling like the annoying, angsty, sex-crazed, wanna-get-high teenager in the audience who is just here to check out the boys.
My parents don't know what to think of me. I think they're worried. They see me taking risks and dating 22 year old boys and getting into trouble and having a bad attitude and they want to know what happened to their responsible, God-fearing daughter. I'm finally doing 17, that's what. Oddly, doing 17 at 33 makes sense to me. I think it actually makes more sense to do 17 at age 33. I can get into bars. I have a job and money. I have a car and can pass as an adult if I need to. But they won't understand that. Parents just don't understand.
I was really, really responsible. I studied hard and late into the night. I was in honors courses and took AP English. I was in the student body government for 3 out of the 4 years in high school. I took my job as a Christian very, very seriously and went through devotional books like it was some sort of spiritual porn. I prayed for those who didn't know the Lord, and I prayed for my friend, Amber Rady, who I found out had recently starting smoking cigarettes and who smelled like them after senior lunch last week. I prayed that I would always be focused on God, that I would honor him, that I would continue to grow closer and closer to him.
College wasn't much different. It didn't take long for me to become involved in the student ministries at my school and to be singing with the worship band in chapel. My 21st birthday went by without so much as getting tipsy and I created an accountability group to help rein in my crazy impulses to get naked with my boyfriend. When I walked across that stage and moved the tassel from one side to the other I had never been drunk, never had sex, never watched a porno, never smoked a cigarette, never smoked a joint, and never hung out with someone who was not a Christian. And I had never, ever, believed that it was okay to think for myself.
At 21 years old, I moved into a residential treatment facility for children who were victims of abuse and neglect to work as a houseparent. In short, I spent three years being a full-time mom to 10 boys who were in institutionalized foster care. At the age of 24, I became a licensed foster parent to raise one of these kids who I felt very connected to and whom I loved very deeply. My boyfriend and his two toddlers moved into my first apartment with my foster son and me and- literally overnight- I had become a wife and mother of three. By the age of 25, I had my first panic attack.
The weight of the responsibilities that I had borne were so overwhelming that I drove to a bar at one a.m. and drank 5 shots in a row, just before closing. When I called my boyfriend, I had no idea where I was. What I did know was that I felt like a little girl trying to take care of everyone around her. I was buckling.
The term "over-responsible" was new to me when I read about it in my graduate school studies a few years later. When I saw the word, it was as if it leaped off of the page and stamped itself on my forehead. I knew exactly what it meant. I knew without having to read about it that I would be defined in the sentences that followed afterword. And I knew immediately how it had set itself up in my consciousness.
My dad was a speaker and a writer for youth ministers around the world. He's kinda famous in the whole Christian subculture of America. As a kid and as a teenager, I spent a great deal of time at youth ministry seminars and conventions, surrounded by youth pastors and people like Tony Campolo, Duffy Robbins, Rich Van Pelt, and Mike Yaconelli. It was not uncommon for me to go to conventions like DC/LA or CHIC and have a staff pass so I could eat lunch with the guys from Jars of Clay or The Newsboys, or to have reserved seats with my name on them for the front row. Being my dad's daughter literally gave me a back-stage pass to the world of adults who make a living shaping teenagers into good Christian adults, and I found out really quick that I was hugely rewarded if I showed up as this uber responsible, well spoken, overly-devout, highly moral and on-fire-for-the-Lord teenager. These guys couldn't get enough of it! They would stroke me with compliments to my "maturity" and to my "heart for the Lord." They would soon realize that I was not like most teenagers who only care about sex and getting high and being angsty and hormonal.... no, I was one of them. I was this strange but amazing anomoly in the world of American teens. I was an adult in a teenager's body, not prone to the desires of the flesh but who's eyes were on the prize.
Now I know that the prize I was always seeking was approval from these men and women who were the leaders and celebrities of my culture. And I am also sadly aware that their attention and approval were filling in the space that was laid vacant by the perception that my own father did not see me or acknowledge me. To be seen and to be known, to be stroked and praised, to be acknowledged and recognized by these icons was an addictive salve for the wounded one inside. And so I became who they wanted me to be. I became the miniature adult, shirking the things of youth and vanity and play. I took in the sick and the wounded and the poor. I did mission trips and service projects and made it a point to sit next to the nerds and the weirdos at lunch, even if it meant social suicide. Jesus would have done it. Duffy definitely would have. The devotional I read last night said that I should.
In other words, I didn't have an adolescence. I didn't take any risky behaviors. I didn't experiment with drugs or multiple identities. I didn't get angry at my parents and tell them they didn't understand. I didn't become brooding and hormonal and lock mself away in my bedroom. In fact, I distanced myself away from all things adolescent and held a view of these behaviors as somehow weak, immature, and to be conquered. I didn't belong out there in the audience with the rest of the teenagers. I belonged backstage, here with the adults who were conspiring to wipe out the nasty adolescent bug that lurked in the hearts of the youth of America.
The effect is that I've lived life in reverse. I was a foster mother to teenagers in my early twenties, a stepmother to toddler/schoolaged girls in my midtwenties, and had a baby in my late twenties. And now, in my early 30's, I am finally doing the adolescence that I never had. Its a bit awkward, doing 17 at age 33, but as any psychology 101 student knows... one must complete and master each one of life's age stages. If not now, then you'll have to do it later.
I believe that this dynamic would be happening for me even if I didn't live with my parents in my childhood home, but the fact that I am living here makes everything just oh-so-much-more authentic. Like the fact that my parents walked in on me and a boy. Like how I just want them to leave me alone and pretend I don't exist. Like how I spend as much time as possible now locked inside my bedroom, listening to my music and watching my shows. Like how I hate that they want to know where I've been and where I'm going. Like how everything about them can drive me absolutely fucking nuts, like the way their breathing sounds or the way they scrape their fork across the plate. I want to sneak out every night. I want to punish them with a bad mood.
I find myself daydreaming and fantasizing about the day I can move out and be on my own, as if I didn't do that for 10+ years already. But to me, its as if I have traveled back in time to the Amber at 17 who drove away for college and never really came back until now. My relationship with my parent's didn't age even though I aged. I left at 17 and I am now back at 17, but this time feeling like the annoying, angsty, sex-crazed, wanna-get-high teenager in the audience who is just here to check out the boys.
My parents don't know what to think of me. I think they're worried. They see me taking risks and dating 22 year old boys and getting into trouble and having a bad attitude and they want to know what happened to their responsible, God-fearing daughter. I'm finally doing 17, that's what. Oddly, doing 17 at 33 makes sense to me. I think it actually makes more sense to do 17 at age 33. I can get into bars. I have a job and money. I have a car and can pass as an adult if I need to. But they won't understand that. Parents just don't understand.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Community, Intentional or Not.
So, I haven't written much in a long time. I've been busy doing a lot of other stuff, mostly nothing, but nothing usually keeps me pretty busy. I did some other stuff too, like dated a guy for a minute and went to work on time a few days here and there and, oh- I ran a 10K. That was pretty legit. So, you see, I've been busy.
Mostly I just haven't been in the mood to write. I'm a fickle blogger. A ficklogger. A flogger. A blockle. Whatever.
But today I want to write some thoughts on community. I'm a fan of community. In fact, after I finish writing this I'm gonna go officially become a fan of community on facebook. I grew up in a strong, loving, motley crew-funky bunch, church community as a child. These people loved me and the loved each other and they were messy and weird and broken and wacky and brilliant and talented and odd and creative and committed to each other and to the thing that brought them together that was the church. They came to my homecoming coronation and to my school plays. I went to their children's piano recitals. We went to pool parties and church retreats and potluck dinners and weddings and Fourth of July fireworks together. In the days before cell phones, they were who I called when my mom was not at home and I was in the school nurse's office with a 103 fever. These people were family. Old home movies prove it.
I felt like I mattered to these people. And I felt useful. Being one of two teenagers in the church, I was the valued child care staff/nursery worker. I knew I had a role. I also felt like the things of my life were important to them, like when they announced in the service that I had been elected Junior class president. They knew who my boyfriend was and when I got a new dress and when I decided to change my hairstyle. They noticed me.
Years of social work have formed in me the opinion that we are all literally dying of lonliness. We live in these separate existences, in these separate homes, in these separate lives, not connected, not knowing our neighbors, not wanting to be seen or heard or known or touched by those around us. We go from work in our cubicles to home in our apartments, careful to not raise the volume too loud on our TV's lest we become aware of the other that lives a drywall sheet away from us. We wear our ear buds and avoid eye contact and mumble polite hello's to our coworkers in the kitchen as we heat up our leftovers. And we wonder why the hell we are all so fucking depressed.
I started investigating this idea of living such independent, isolated lives and realized that this is a strictly American, late-20th century lifestlye. Up until the last few generations, everyone lived in community. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, random friends and loved ones all lived in the home together. Before this, whole tribes lived in community and everyone was valuable and had a role. If you ran fast, you became a hunter. If you liked babies, you took care of babies. If you had a knack for cooking or growing stuff or figuring out what herbs cured things you became the cook or the gardener or the witchdoctor for the tribe. Births were celebrated because it meant another valuable hunter or warrior or gardener. From the moment you were born you brought distinct value to the tribe.
A great deal of the depression and anxiety that I see as a therapist comes from feeling separate or unsupported or alone or unloved. We don't feel connected. We don't feel like we matter. We don't know how to experience intimacy with ourselves or with others. Some of the kids I work with have no other conversations with an adult all week long until they come to see me. Their parents are busy working 2 jobs each to support the lifestyle that they live or are too depressed and undersupported themselves to be present with their children.
I started looking into what is now called Intentional Community several years ago. Turns out there are other people who siing the praises of community like I do and have banded together to form their own communes. Some are religious and some are not. Some are formed around the ideals of sustainable and organic living, some are not. Some live in communal homes while others live in seperate homes and share communal yards and pools and playgrounds. My friends caught wind of my commune intentions and said I should start my own, which we would call The Radish Commune where we would all grow our own vegetables and grow our armpit hair and take showers once a month.
The Radish Commune never came to fruition, so I moved home a year ago because I could not live alone. I was working two jobs to support my family and I had become a stressed out, maniacal woman. I was angry and sleep deprived and so stressed out that I could not enjoy the 900$ 2-bedroom apartment I was living in that was what my second job was paying for. I was hating my life, hating my son, hating my job, hating my neighbors, hating myself, hating the "rat race" that I had chosen but felt victim to. In a moment of clarity, I quit my second job and moved home so that I could live and breathe again.
Now, I will not lie and tell you that I love everything about living with my parents. There are obvious drawbacks, some of which have made me wonder how I can somehow earn an extra grand a month so I can get the fuck out of here. In fact, I spent the better part of the last year dying to move out again. However, I think I may have unintentionally created the commune that I was looking for. This community of me, my son, my mother and my father is a lumpy bumpy crew. We don't like eachother a lot of the time. In fact, we really drive each other all crazy. Jack writes on my mom's walls. My dad is just socially awkward. My mom listens to the TV so loud that I can hear it down by the pool. And I am the messiest person in the world and leave my shit everywhere.
But.
Jack has three playmates instead of one. I have dinner cooked for me every night. Mom has her own personal kitchen cleaner upper. Dad has someone to play baseball with in the backyard. Jack has two other laps to snuggle into when his mommy is mad at him. My mom has someone to vent to about her annoying coworker. Dad has a buddy to keep him company at the lawnmower every Saturday morning. I have built in babysitters for almost any night of the week. Jack and I also get a HUGE house with a HUGE yard with a pool and a sandbox and a big driveway for bikes and a swingset and a garden and treefort. Jack can actually go outside and play, whereas most kids I know have no outside and so they stay inside and play videogames all day. Why would I trade this for an apartment with a yard that can barely fit a platic kiddy pool? Because my mom fusses at me for not getting enough sleep? Because my dad makes bacon every morning that smells up the whole house? Because I can't have boys over? Because it FORCES us to be in relationship and to work through shit that we haven't had to work through sinceI moved out at 17?
Well, yeah. That's a big one. But that's the stuff of community. We are forced to deal with one another. We are forced to live with eachother, even though it's uncomfortable. But there's comfort in that. They know I'm annoying. They know I'm messy. They know I have a certain set of values that are vastly different than theirs. This has created conflict - which we've had to WORK THROUGH. And it's been ugly and uncomfortable and has made me want to move away from it all on more than one occasion. But somehow I find it comforting. It's the real life stuff of unconditional love.
Tonight my friends all came over and cooked burgers that we topped with bacon and guacamole and grilled onions and cheese. My dad played with the kids while my mom and my girlfriends made the food. I (of course) was mixing margaritas. The dads sat chatting and rocking babies. I realized that The Radish Commune had come to life, here, at my childhood home except that it's more like The Guacamole Bacon Cheeseburger Commune, which I would much rather be a member of anyways.
It's not cool to tell people I live with my parents. But it works for me. It allows me to breathe and slow down and actually enjoy my community. It allows me to feel supported and held and contained. It allows me to give my son a yard and a open sky and a tree fort and solitude that comes from being able to get space away from his mom if he wants it. Is it easy? No. Does it make me miss solitude and personal space like CRAZY? Yes. Does it force me to stretch into giving and receiving unconditional love like I never thought I was capable of? Yes. Does it make me have to grow up and be an adult around my parents? You bet. Was it awkward when my parents came home when they were supposed to be away and found my having sex on the living room floor? Umm... yeah. Would I want any of this to be different? Not right now.
Mostly I just haven't been in the mood to write. I'm a fickle blogger. A ficklogger. A flogger. A blockle. Whatever.
But today I want to write some thoughts on community. I'm a fan of community. In fact, after I finish writing this I'm gonna go officially become a fan of community on facebook. I grew up in a strong, loving, motley crew-funky bunch, church community as a child. These people loved me and the loved each other and they were messy and weird and broken and wacky and brilliant and talented and odd and creative and committed to each other and to the thing that brought them together that was the church. They came to my homecoming coronation and to my school plays. I went to their children's piano recitals. We went to pool parties and church retreats and potluck dinners and weddings and Fourth of July fireworks together. In the days before cell phones, they were who I called when my mom was not at home and I was in the school nurse's office with a 103 fever. These people were family. Old home movies prove it.
I felt like I mattered to these people. And I felt useful. Being one of two teenagers in the church, I was the valued child care staff/nursery worker. I knew I had a role. I also felt like the things of my life were important to them, like when they announced in the service that I had been elected Junior class president. They knew who my boyfriend was and when I got a new dress and when I decided to change my hairstyle. They noticed me.
Years of social work have formed in me the opinion that we are all literally dying of lonliness. We live in these separate existences, in these separate homes, in these separate lives, not connected, not knowing our neighbors, not wanting to be seen or heard or known or touched by those around us. We go from work in our cubicles to home in our apartments, careful to not raise the volume too loud on our TV's lest we become aware of the other that lives a drywall sheet away from us. We wear our ear buds and avoid eye contact and mumble polite hello's to our coworkers in the kitchen as we heat up our leftovers. And we wonder why the hell we are all so fucking depressed.
I started investigating this idea of living such independent, isolated lives and realized that this is a strictly American, late-20th century lifestlye. Up until the last few generations, everyone lived in community. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, random friends and loved ones all lived in the home together. Before this, whole tribes lived in community and everyone was valuable and had a role. If you ran fast, you became a hunter. If you liked babies, you took care of babies. If you had a knack for cooking or growing stuff or figuring out what herbs cured things you became the cook or the gardener or the witchdoctor for the tribe. Births were celebrated because it meant another valuable hunter or warrior or gardener. From the moment you were born you brought distinct value to the tribe.
A great deal of the depression and anxiety that I see as a therapist comes from feeling separate or unsupported or alone or unloved. We don't feel connected. We don't feel like we matter. We don't know how to experience intimacy with ourselves or with others. Some of the kids I work with have no other conversations with an adult all week long until they come to see me. Their parents are busy working 2 jobs each to support the lifestyle that they live or are too depressed and undersupported themselves to be present with their children.
I started looking into what is now called Intentional Community several years ago. Turns out there are other people who siing the praises of community like I do and have banded together to form their own communes. Some are religious and some are not. Some are formed around the ideals of sustainable and organic living, some are not. Some live in communal homes while others live in seperate homes and share communal yards and pools and playgrounds. My friends caught wind of my commune intentions and said I should start my own, which we would call The Radish Commune where we would all grow our own vegetables and grow our armpit hair and take showers once a month.
The Radish Commune never came to fruition, so I moved home a year ago because I could not live alone. I was working two jobs to support my family and I had become a stressed out, maniacal woman. I was angry and sleep deprived and so stressed out that I could not enjoy the 900$ 2-bedroom apartment I was living in that was what my second job was paying for. I was hating my life, hating my son, hating my job, hating my neighbors, hating myself, hating the "rat race" that I had chosen but felt victim to. In a moment of clarity, I quit my second job and moved home so that I could live and breathe again.
Now, I will not lie and tell you that I love everything about living with my parents. There are obvious drawbacks, some of which have made me wonder how I can somehow earn an extra grand a month so I can get the fuck out of here. In fact, I spent the better part of the last year dying to move out again. However, I think I may have unintentionally created the commune that I was looking for. This community of me, my son, my mother and my father is a lumpy bumpy crew. We don't like eachother a lot of the time. In fact, we really drive each other all crazy. Jack writes on my mom's walls. My dad is just socially awkward. My mom listens to the TV so loud that I can hear it down by the pool. And I am the messiest person in the world and leave my shit everywhere.
But.
Jack has three playmates instead of one. I have dinner cooked for me every night. Mom has her own personal kitchen cleaner upper. Dad has someone to play baseball with in the backyard. Jack has two other laps to snuggle into when his mommy is mad at him. My mom has someone to vent to about her annoying coworker. Dad has a buddy to keep him company at the lawnmower every Saturday morning. I have built in babysitters for almost any night of the week. Jack and I also get a HUGE house with a HUGE yard with a pool and a sandbox and a big driveway for bikes and a swingset and a garden and treefort. Jack can actually go outside and play, whereas most kids I know have no outside and so they stay inside and play videogames all day. Why would I trade this for an apartment with a yard that can barely fit a platic kiddy pool? Because my mom fusses at me for not getting enough sleep? Because my dad makes bacon every morning that smells up the whole house? Because I can't have boys over? Because it FORCES us to be in relationship and to work through shit that we haven't had to work through sinceI moved out at 17?
Well, yeah. That's a big one. But that's the stuff of community. We are forced to deal with one another. We are forced to live with eachother, even though it's uncomfortable. But there's comfort in that. They know I'm annoying. They know I'm messy. They know I have a certain set of values that are vastly different than theirs. This has created conflict - which we've had to WORK THROUGH. And it's been ugly and uncomfortable and has made me want to move away from it all on more than one occasion. But somehow I find it comforting. It's the real life stuff of unconditional love.
Tonight my friends all came over and cooked burgers that we topped with bacon and guacamole and grilled onions and cheese. My dad played with the kids while my mom and my girlfriends made the food. I (of course) was mixing margaritas. The dads sat chatting and rocking babies. I realized that The Radish Commune had come to life, here, at my childhood home except that it's more like The Guacamole Bacon Cheeseburger Commune, which I would much rather be a member of anyways.
It's not cool to tell people I live with my parents. But it works for me. It allows me to breathe and slow down and actually enjoy my community. It allows me to feel supported and held and contained. It allows me to give my son a yard and a open sky and a tree fort and solitude that comes from being able to get space away from his mom if he wants it. Is it easy? No. Does it make me miss solitude and personal space like CRAZY? Yes. Does it force me to stretch into giving and receiving unconditional love like I never thought I was capable of? Yes. Does it make me have to grow up and be an adult around my parents? You bet. Was it awkward when my parents came home when they were supposed to be away and found my having sex on the living room floor? Umm... yeah. Would I want any of this to be different? Not right now.
Monday, May 18, 2009
It's worth the 22 minutes.
FREEDOM TO CHOOSE WINS
AT THE AMERICAN PAVILION EMERGING FILMMAKERS SHOWCASE AT THE 2009 CANNES FILM FESTIVAL
I'm so proud of my classmates and professors who made this film- and the healing experience at the womens' prison- possible. Congrats on your win!
"This uplifting film chronicles the extraordinary triumph of the human Spirit. Freedom to Choose shares the story of 46 graduate volunteers from USM's Master's Program in Spiritual Psychology and 160 inmates at Valley State Prison for Women who came together for a radical experiment that would change them all -- forever."
Freedom to Choose short form from University of Santa Monica on Vimeo.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Whining is my kryptonite.
Jack just might be the most valuable asset to the United States Department of Defense, but they don't know it. He might just be able to solve the whole Middle Eastern crisis if the US military would just tap into his innate skill as a torture device. Waterboarding? Bah! Who needs waterboarding? We've got Jack Rice! Ten minutes left alone in a room with him whining about milk or Thomas or juice or the sandbox will send anyone, ANYONE to give up even the most important of national secrets.The first thing I hear every morning is his whining. He wakes up grumpy and fussy and crying and goes to bed doing the same thing. He doesn’t know how to ask for anything without whining for it and it is driving me CRAZY. I want to grab a roll of duct tape and wrap it around his mouth and not take it off until he’s five and can ask for things in full sentences.
I totally understand that he is just doing what he knows how to do. I know that I should ignore the whining and tell him to ask for things in a nice voice. And I do. About 47 times a day. And I begin to lose my patience with it at about time 16. It’s getting really old. Really, really old. Lately all I can think about is taking a vacation to a land where toddlers don’t exist.
Most of the time, including right now, I feel pretty lame about how little patience and tolerance I have for the stuff of motherhood. I have to bite my tongue, every morning, when he refuses to get dressed and all I want to do is throw my own little tantrum. I have to force myself to remain level when he stands at my legs begging, up up up, after I’ve just stepped out of the shower. Never mind the fact that he stood at the door of the shower crying for me the entire time I was in the shower. Or that he opened the bathroom door and now my mom, dad, and their guests now know every curve, roll, and dimple on my body.
It feels as though his level of need for me is beyond what I can give. And I am starting to resent him. I know that his whining and needing and clinging and fussing is his way of letting me know that I am not present enough with him but the truth is… I’m not. I don’t want to be. I want to get as far away as possible from that black hole of need and not-enoughness. It is exhausting. It is so draining. And so I sort of stiff arm him, energetically, and he goes insane with fear and abandonment.
It hasn’t helped that he’s been sick for two weeks which just amplifies all of the icky stuff like the whininess, lack of sleep, and generally fussy mood, and leaves very little room for fun. I need to have fun with my son again. I want to enjoy being a mom with him instead of feeling like its all chore, work, and annoyance. I want to share a moment with him where we’re both surprised and delighted and enjoying the company of one another. I don’t expect every day to feel this way and I certainly don’t expect to like everything about being a parent. But I am ready to like him again. And like me around him.
Moms? Dads? Tell me you’ve been here and tell me what you did to get out.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Friday, December 12, 2008
Indulging myself.
I'm feeling like connecting with you, my huge readership, but not feeling like writing anything poignant. Usually I like to have a point, but right now I just want to be a pretentious blogger who thinks that you, my huge readership, wants to be updated on my life. So, indulge me. It'll fuel my ego.
1. My TV has made it's way out of the hallway closet and back into my bedroom. I'd really like to be one of those people who thinks that mindless activities are useless and embraces life with such fervor that they refuse to waste time in front of the boob tube. But I'm more of a think-Real-Housewives-of-Atlanta-is-ridiculously-good-TV kind of person.
2. I am really freaked out by being back in touch with old high school acquaintances and friends on Facebook. In fact, I have had to found myself wanting to censor what I would normally write on here because I am afraid that these high school people will find their way here from Facebook. Christian High School creates a certain type of person and I was one of them for many years. And I know what I thought then about people like me now. (see number 3)
3. I have been getting a lot of booty lately. Like, a lot. My libido has returned with some kind of force similar to that of Hurricane Katrina. I went on a three year hiatus after Jack was conceived, and when I say hiatus I mean Sahara Desert. No interest. None. Zilcho. Howevah... four guys in one week may indicate the winds have changed.
4. I have lost over 30 pounds since August 1. Which is awesome. I'm hoping to have a super svelte body by this time next year. And run a marathon. And have a nice relationship with my body instead of a mean, abusive one.
5. Awesome thing number 2? I quit smoking. Well, mostly. I might indulge in one while sipping on a long island every once in a while.
6. (did I really admit to having sex with four different guys in one week?)
7. I love this song and I can't explain why. However, every time I listen to it I feel sorta sad that Cher isn't the one who wrote it and performed it originally. And not because I think she would sound better or anything, but because in my mind she gets pissed (and then sad) that it is not her song.
8. I have finally decided that I am a messy person. I just CAN NOT keep a room/office/desk/house clean. I clutter things up in a matter of hours. I am tired of trying to hide it from you in fear that you will think less of me. I'm messy. There.
9. I have been harboring a grudge about the fact that I don't get the same kind of admiration, acknowledgement and benefits that military personnel get. Now, before you decide I am a total bitch, hear me out. I have been working for the county of San Diego for close to 10 years now providing mental health services to children and families. The work that my coworkers and I have done have most likely prevented many children from becoming drug addicts, criminals, from repeating the patterns of abuse on their own children, or otherwise becoming a drain on taxpayer funds and resources. Instead, what we have done is create healthy, contributing members to our community. I have two masters degrees. I make 17 dollars an hour, which is the most I have ever made in this field. It is the most I will make as (due to my extensive experience) I have reached my salary cap with the county-funded program I work for. I know I am a valuable asset to the country. And yet, I get no recognition. No housing allowance. No health benefits. No college tuition. No tax-free groceries. I am bitter, I know. But for once, I would like someone to say to me, "Thank you for your service." And then give me $1000 a month to pay the rent.
10. I am irrationally refusing to get into the whole Twilight phenomenon. I don't know why I do this. I did it with Sex and the City, too, and now I own the entire series on DVD, plus the movie. And those are the only DVD's I own. So, I know I'll eventually get off my weird issue, whatever it is, and be swooning along with the rest of the nation before long.
1. My TV has made it's way out of the hallway closet and back into my bedroom. I'd really like to be one of those people who thinks that mindless activities are useless and embraces life with such fervor that they refuse to waste time in front of the boob tube. But I'm more of a think-Real-Housewives-of-Atlanta-is-ridiculously-good-TV kind of person.
2. I am really freaked out by being back in touch with old high school acquaintances and friends on Facebook. In fact, I have had to found myself wanting to censor what I would normally write on here because I am afraid that these high school people will find their way here from Facebook. Christian High School creates a certain type of person and I was one of them for many years. And I know what I thought then about people like me now. (see number 3)
3. I have been getting a lot of booty lately. Like, a lot. My libido has returned with some kind of force similar to that of Hurricane Katrina. I went on a three year hiatus after Jack was conceived, and when I say hiatus I mean Sahara Desert. No interest. None. Zilcho. Howevah... four guys in one week may indicate the winds have changed.
4. I have lost over 30 pounds since August 1. Which is awesome. I'm hoping to have a super svelte body by this time next year. And run a marathon. And have a nice relationship with my body instead of a mean, abusive one.
5. Awesome thing number 2? I quit smoking. Well, mostly. I might indulge in one while sipping on a long island every once in a while.
6. (did I really admit to having sex with four different guys in one week?)
7. I love this song and I can't explain why. However, every time I listen to it I feel sorta sad that Cher isn't the one who wrote it and performed it originally. And not because I think she would sound better or anything, but because in my mind she gets pissed (and then sad) that it is not her song.
8. I have finally decided that I am a messy person. I just CAN NOT keep a room/office/desk/house clean. I clutter things up in a matter of hours. I am tired of trying to hide it from you in fear that you will think less of me. I'm messy. There.
9. I have been harboring a grudge about the fact that I don't get the same kind of admiration, acknowledgement and benefits that military personnel get. Now, before you decide I am a total bitch, hear me out. I have been working for the county of San Diego for close to 10 years now providing mental health services to children and families. The work that my coworkers and I have done have most likely prevented many children from becoming drug addicts, criminals, from repeating the patterns of abuse on their own children, or otherwise becoming a drain on taxpayer funds and resources. Instead, what we have done is create healthy, contributing members to our community. I have two masters degrees. I make 17 dollars an hour, which is the most I have ever made in this field. It is the most I will make as (due to my extensive experience) I have reached my salary cap with the county-funded program I work for. I know I am a valuable asset to the country. And yet, I get no recognition. No housing allowance. No health benefits. No college tuition. No tax-free groceries. I am bitter, I know. But for once, I would like someone to say to me, "Thank you for your service." And then give me $1000 a month to pay the rent.
10. I am irrationally refusing to get into the whole Twilight phenomenon. I don't know why I do this. I did it with Sex and the City, too, and now I own the entire series on DVD, plus the movie. And those are the only DVD's I own. So, I know I'll eventually get off my weird issue, whatever it is, and be swooning along with the rest of the nation before long.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Right on, sista. Right on.
"Okay. So Prop 8 passed. Alright, I get it. 51% of you think that I am a second class citizen. Alright then. So my wife, uh I mean, roommate? Girlfriend? Special lady friend? You are gonna have to help me here because I am not sure what to call her now. Anyways, she and I are not allowed the same right under the state constitution as any other citizen. Okay, so I am taking that to mean I do not have to pay my state taxes because I am not a full citizen. I mean that would just be wrong, to make someone pay taxes and not give them the same rights, sounds sort of like that taxation without representation thing from the history books.Okay, cool I don't mean to get too personal here but there is a lot I can do with the extra half a million dollars that I will be keeping instead of handing it over to the state of California. Oh, and I am sure Ellen will be a little excited to keep her bazillion bucks that she pays in taxes too. Wow, come to think of it, there are quite a few of us fortunate gay folks that will be having some extra cash this year. What recession? We're gay! I am sure there will be a little box on the tax forms now single, married, divorced, gay, check here if you are gay, yeah, that's not so bad. Of course all of the waiters and hairdressers and UPS workers and gym teachers and such, they won't have to pay their taxes either.Gay people are born everyday. You will never legislate that away.Oh and too bad California, I know you were looking forward to the revenue from all of those extra marriages. I guess you will have to find some other way to get out of the budget trouble you are in.…Really?When did it become okay to legislate morality? I try to envision someone reading that legislation "eliminates the right" and then clicking yes. What goes through their mind? Was it the frightening commercial where the little girl comes home and says, "Hi mom, we learned about gays in class today" and then the mother gets that awful worried look and the scary music plays? Do they not know anyone who is gay? If they do, can they look them in the face and say "I believe you do not deserve the same rights as me"? Do they think that their children will never encounter a gay person? Do they think they will never have to explain the 20% of us who are queer and living and working side by side with all the citizens of California?I got news for them, someday your child is going to come home and ask you what a gay person is. Gay people are born everyday. You will never legislate that away.I know when I grew up gay was a bad word. Homo, lezzie, faggot, dyke. Ignorance and fear ruled the day. There were so many "thems" back then. The blacks, the poor ... you know, "them". Then there was the immigrants. "Them.” Now the them is me.I tell myself to take a breath, okay take another one, one of the thems made it to the top. Obama has been elected president. This crazy fearful insanity will end soon. This great state and this great country of ours will finally come to the understanding that there is no "them". We are one. We are united. What you do to someone else you do to yourself. That "judge not, lest ye yourself be judged" are truthful words and not Christian rhetoric.Today the gay citizenry of this state will pick themselves up and dust themselves off and do what we have been doing for years. We will get back into it. We love this state, we love this country and we are not going to leave it. Even though we could be married in Mass. or Conn, Canada, Holland, Spain and South Africa, this is our home. This is where we work and play and raise our families. We will not rest until we have the full rights of any other citizen. It is that simple, no fearful vote will ever stop us, that is not the American way.Come to think of it, I should get a federal tax break too."-Melissa Etheridge
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Motherhood Smotherhood.
You all might find this totally shocking but, according to Google Analytics, one of the phrases that people enter into a search engine that eventually results in them visiting my blog is, "I hate motherhood." I have to admit that I find this to be both disturbing and awesome. It's disturbing because it forces me to realize that I really do hate motherhood. It's awesome because it means that I am not alone! Yeah!
I don't hate everything about being a mother. Take Jack. I like Jack. He's actually an incredibly cool kid. He's funny and entertaining and sweet and cuddly. He's engaging and intuitive and he laughs easily and heartily. And I like other stuff about being a mom... I like the cute stuff about it. Like making Halloween costumes and getting to peruse the toddler section at Target.
But there's just so much about it that sucks. Like never, ever, ever getting to sleep in. Ever. And holding down a second job just to be able to afford a babysitter. Or, in my case, watching each one of my friends start avoiding my calls because they know I'm calling for free babysitting. And there are these moments where I fully believe that the insides of me are going to come shooting out of my mouth in a firey blaze of rage. This feeling usually happens at about 8:45am when I'm running late to work (due to having a toddler stuck to my leg all morning), have no makeup on (due to melt down about a bug), have no food in belly (due to melt down about lost choo choos), and I'm strapping a kicking child into a car seat. RAHHHHHHHHHHH!
Motherhood and I just feel a little bit incompatible right now. I'm craving social interaction and staying out late and sleeping in until noon. I'm irritated that I can't stay over at a friend's house, have too much wine, or take a weekend road trip. I'm frustrated that I can't go running when I get home from work because that three hours of time is all we have together before his bedtime. I know it's not about Jack and I really, really make an effort to not take my own stuff out on him.
It's really weird to equally loathe and love something so much. He can, in the same moment, fill me with rage and pride, annoyance and adoration. These pictures are from this morning when he woke me up (an hour earlier than normal) and screamed and cried and whined for a good 45 minutes or so. By 7 am, I had decided that I was going to hate today. I pulled out my laptop and googled, "I hate motherhood" to see if there was anyone else out there who could share in my misery. Turns out there aren't a lot of people admitting to it. But, it was in this moment that Jack hugged me around my neck, kissed my cheek and (in the most adoring voice) said, "Mommy!"
In case you were wondering, Jack was wearing his Halloween costume here. I don't usually dress him as a sailor. And don't be jealous of my morning hair.
I don't hate everything about being a mother. Take Jack. I like Jack. He's actually an incredibly cool kid. He's funny and entertaining and sweet and cuddly. He's engaging and intuitive and he laughs easily and heartily. And I like other stuff about being a mom... I like the cute stuff about it. Like making Halloween costumes and getting to peruse the toddler section at Target.
But there's just so much about it that sucks. Like never, ever, ever getting to sleep in. Ever. And holding down a second job just to be able to afford a babysitter. Or, in my case, watching each one of my friends start avoiding my calls because they know I'm calling for free babysitting. And there are these moments where I fully believe that the insides of me are going to come shooting out of my mouth in a firey blaze of rage. This feeling usually happens at about 8:45am when I'm running late to work (due to having a toddler stuck to my leg all morning), have no makeup on (due to melt down about a bug), have no food in belly (due to melt down about lost choo choos), and I'm strapping a kicking child into a car seat. RAHHHHHHHHHHH!
Motherhood and I just feel a little bit incompatible right now. I'm craving social interaction and staying out late and sleeping in until noon. I'm irritated that I can't stay over at a friend's house, have too much wine, or take a weekend road trip. I'm frustrated that I can't go running when I get home from work because that three hours of time is all we have together before his bedtime. I know it's not about Jack and I really, really make an effort to not take my own stuff out on him.
It's really weird to equally loathe and love something so much. He can, in the same moment, fill me with rage and pride, annoyance and adoration. These pictures are from this morning when he woke me up (an hour earlier than normal) and screamed and cried and whined for a good 45 minutes or so. By 7 am, I had decided that I was going to hate today. I pulled out my laptop and googled, "I hate motherhood" to see if there was anyone else out there who could share in my misery. Turns out there aren't a lot of people admitting to it. But, it was in this moment that Jack hugged me around my neck, kissed my cheek and (in the most adoring voice) said, "Mommy!"
In case you were wondering, Jack was wearing his Halloween costume here. I don't usually dress him as a sailor. And don't be jealous of my morning hair.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Kissing a lot of toads...
It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I can go through an entire week and never talk to a man. Excluding my father and the one or two gay teachers that I interact with for 10 seconds when I pick up my clients out of the classroom, I have absolutely no contact with men. Every day I wake up to my son and my parents, go to work to women and children, pick up Jack from his all-female staffed daycare, and drive back home to my parents.
The weekends might offer an opportunity to interact with a male as I usually spend the weekends playing poker or other games with my friends, some of which are men. However, all of them are married. Or related to me. So..., yeah.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not necesarily complaining. I absolutly love the women that I work with. My office is filled with fantastic, brilliant, beautiful women who I feel completely honored and lucky to work with. And, surprisingly, I really like living with my mom and dad. Usually I like my son, and my friends are all incredibly loyal, loving people who are like extended family to me. I live a charmed life and I am damn grateful for it.
It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I found myself flirting with a lesbian coworker and wishing we could go make out in the file room that I realized that I am missing masculinity in my life. (Or, that I might be gay, which would be the other obvious conclusion.) This need to interact with male energy was potent, so I did what every girl who needs to get her flirt on would do: CRAIGSLIST.
So, I'll preface this "bad date story" with the statement that I have actually had some really good dates in the past few weeks. It's been great to get out there and remember what men look like and remember what it feels like to to be a girl around a guy. I've even been able to play kissy face with one or two of them. So when I found an ad with the title, "Margaritas at the beach," on the same night that I had a babysitter lined up, I responded with gusto!
His name was Mike. He, too, was feeling social this particular Monday evening and wanted someone to join him at the bar. We decided to meet near his house at the beach, which was within walking distance to the bar. I knew within seconds of meeting him that this was going to be a bad date.
I wish I could pinpoint what clued me into the fact that this guy was a wackadoodle, but I really can't. Maybe it was the statement, "Amazing things happen to me every day," followed by a story filled with syncronicity and coincidence about how he happened to win a local radio station's "Stupidest Tattoo Contest" received a free trip to Vegas where he ended up on stage with Pink, or his off-handed (or, I should say attempted off-handed) comments about his "career" as an actor, or the way every statement that came out of his mouth was an attempt to elicit a reaction from the listener. As in, "Yeah, my family couldn't believe who I was in a shoot with the other day..."
The man loved to talk. THe man loved the sound of his own voice. And he loved to share "his philosophy" on things (which, by the way, were so ridiculous. Like his "philosophy" on sex which I will spare you from). And what's worse is the way he would (very poorly) feign interest in what I had to say. It's as if he was allergic to eye contact and the social skill called reciprocity. It felt as though his idea of the purpose of my talking at all was to find something in what I was saying in which he could interject his opinions on.
Mike never once asked me a question about me. He did, however, at one point say, "Man, I've been talking a whole lot and haven't really heard a lot from you. What's your opinion of what I just said?" He went out of his way to tell me about how sensitive and sweet he is, and how he has a hard time finding women who can handle how much attention he gives them. He shared about his "problem" of being the one his friends come to for advice ("...you understand, being a therapist and all. God, we have so much in common!") and how it "annoys" him how they are constantly calling him and sending him emails asking for help.
Which brings me to the Blackberry. Oh God. How socially ignorant does one have to be to actually pick up one's mobile device EVERY TIME it goes off- even if the person you're on a date with is in the middle of a story (even if YOU'RE in the middle of a story)- and return the text, email, phone call? Internet, this man's phone was blowing up and it did not matter what the context of the moment was... he had that stylus out and his eyes glued to that 2" x 2" screen. And when he was done emailing or texting (or looking at porn or whatever the fuck he might have been doing), he would turn to me and ask, "So, what was I saying?"
To say this man was a narcissist in one of the hugest understatements I have ever made. He was the classic "one-upper." It didn't matter what I was doing, he had already done it or was doing it now or had invented it. I thought about saying, "Dude, I have the worst menstrual cramps right now," just to see how he would have responded. Probably with, "Yeah, my appendix is bursting as we speak."
One of the best (weirdest?) stories of the night was when he randomly interupted me to show me a picture on his (goddamn) Blackberry. He thrust it into my face and said, "Who does this guy look like?"
"Uh, the anglo depiction of Jesus," I answered.
"The story behind this picture is totally amazing. I spend the weekend with a friend of mine. You might know her. She's an actress? On (insert lame sitcom here)? No? Okay, anyway, I was spending the weekend with her a few weeks ago and we went out for drinks. She was talking to this guy (points to anglo Jesus guy) and asked me to take a picture of him because she was so astounded by how much he looks like Jesus Christ (!). While she was doing that, her boyfriend, Dan, called but she missed his call. He was out of town but was flying home that night. She tried to call him back but he was already on the plane. So, a few hours later I'm crashed out on her couch and she's in her bed and she wakes me up and she's crying. She says, 'Dan's dead.' I was like, 'No, he's not.' She was like, 'Yes, he is. I just got the phone call. He was killed in a plane crash.' You know that plane crash that killed Travis Barker? Yeah, well Dan was his body guard. Anyways, don't you think it's just totally amazing that she missed his last phone call to her because she was talking to a guy who looked just like Jesus Christ?"
No. No, I don't. I don't think that's amazing at all. In fact, I think it's just plain weird that you think ANYTHING of it at all. And furthermore, what is amazing is that I AM STILL ON THIS DATE.
So, I tell him I need to go. He tries to convince me to come up to his place, that we "don't have to do anything at all although (eyes scanning my body) I am totally attracted to you." I decline, and he says, in his usual manner of pontification, "You know, I never meet women like you. Women who are intelligent and spiritual and attractive. I want a girl like you, a girl with some meat on her bones (!) and who wears converse and who isn't teh usual Hollywood bimbo. I mean, I get that we're not going to do anything tonight. I get that we're either going to be really good friends or we're going to end up fucking each other's brains out (!!). We're just so much alike, you and me. And I'm curious... what's your opinion of me?"
You'll understand when I tell you that I threw up a little in my mouth at this point.
I answered that, if he was asking if I wanted to see him again the answer was no, and given that we are no more than strangers my opinion of him doesn't matter. The entire way back to my car, he was begging me for my thoughts on him, explaining that "I really respect your opinion," and that he knows that I've been "psychoanalyzing him all night" but (dramatic pause) "...I've been psychoanalyzing you, too."
Brilliant. Just what I need: his analysis of me. I thanked him for the drinks, got in my car and sped away.
The next morning, I got a text in true Mike form:
"Thanx for last night, figured out what my problem was..."
along with two emails that said the same thing.
Blurg.
The weekends might offer an opportunity to interact with a male as I usually spend the weekends playing poker or other games with my friends, some of which are men. However, all of them are married. Or related to me. So..., yeah.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not necesarily complaining. I absolutly love the women that I work with. My office is filled with fantastic, brilliant, beautiful women who I feel completely honored and lucky to work with. And, surprisingly, I really like living with my mom and dad. Usually I like my son, and my friends are all incredibly loyal, loving people who are like extended family to me. I live a charmed life and I am damn grateful for it.
It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I found myself flirting with a lesbian coworker and wishing we could go make out in the file room that I realized that I am missing masculinity in my life. (Or, that I might be gay, which would be the other obvious conclusion.) This need to interact with male energy was potent, so I did what every girl who needs to get her flirt on would do: CRAIGSLIST.
So, I'll preface this "bad date story" with the statement that I have actually had some really good dates in the past few weeks. It's been great to get out there and remember what men look like and remember what it feels like to to be a girl around a guy. I've even been able to play kissy face with one or two of them. So when I found an ad with the title, "Margaritas at the beach," on the same night that I had a babysitter lined up, I responded with gusto!
His name was Mike. He, too, was feeling social this particular Monday evening and wanted someone to join him at the bar. We decided to meet near his house at the beach, which was within walking distance to the bar. I knew within seconds of meeting him that this was going to be a bad date.
I wish I could pinpoint what clued me into the fact that this guy was a wackadoodle, but I really can't. Maybe it was the statement, "Amazing things happen to me every day," followed by a story filled with syncronicity and coincidence about how he happened to win a local radio station's "Stupidest Tattoo Contest" received a free trip to Vegas where he ended up on stage with Pink, or his off-handed (or, I should say attempted off-handed) comments about his "career" as an actor, or the way every statement that came out of his mouth was an attempt to elicit a reaction from the listener. As in, "Yeah, my family couldn't believe who I was in a shoot with the other day..."
The man loved to talk. THe man loved the sound of his own voice. And he loved to share "his philosophy" on things (which, by the way, were so ridiculous. Like his "philosophy" on sex which I will spare you from). And what's worse is the way he would (very poorly) feign interest in what I had to say. It's as if he was allergic to eye contact and the social skill called reciprocity. It felt as though his idea of the purpose of my talking at all was to find something in what I was saying in which he could interject his opinions on.
Mike never once asked me a question about me. He did, however, at one point say, "Man, I've been talking a whole lot and haven't really heard a lot from you. What's your opinion of what I just said?" He went out of his way to tell me about how sensitive and sweet he is, and how he has a hard time finding women who can handle how much attention he gives them. He shared about his "problem" of being the one his friends come to for advice ("...you understand, being a therapist and all. God, we have so much in common!") and how it "annoys" him how they are constantly calling him and sending him emails asking for help.
Which brings me to the Blackberry. Oh God. How socially ignorant does one have to be to actually pick up one's mobile device EVERY TIME it goes off- even if the person you're on a date with is in the middle of a story (even if YOU'RE in the middle of a story)- and return the text, email, phone call? Internet, this man's phone was blowing up and it did not matter what the context of the moment was... he had that stylus out and his eyes glued to that 2" x 2" screen. And when he was done emailing or texting (or looking at porn or whatever the fuck he might have been doing), he would turn to me and ask, "So, what was I saying?"
To say this man was a narcissist in one of the hugest understatements I have ever made. He was the classic "one-upper." It didn't matter what I was doing, he had already done it or was doing it now or had invented it. I thought about saying, "Dude, I have the worst menstrual cramps right now," just to see how he would have responded. Probably with, "Yeah, my appendix is bursting as we speak."
One of the best (weirdest?) stories of the night was when he randomly interupted me to show me a picture on his (goddamn) Blackberry. He thrust it into my face and said, "Who does this guy look like?"
"Uh, the anglo depiction of Jesus," I answered.
"The story behind this picture is totally amazing. I spend the weekend with a friend of mine. You might know her. She's an actress? On (insert lame sitcom here)? No? Okay, anyway, I was spending the weekend with her a few weeks ago and we went out for drinks. She was talking to this guy (points to anglo Jesus guy) and asked me to take a picture of him because she was so astounded by how much he looks like Jesus Christ (!). While she was doing that, her boyfriend, Dan, called but she missed his call. He was out of town but was flying home that night. She tried to call him back but he was already on the plane. So, a few hours later I'm crashed out on her couch and she's in her bed and she wakes me up and she's crying. She says, 'Dan's dead.' I was like, 'No, he's not.' She was like, 'Yes, he is. I just got the phone call. He was killed in a plane crash.' You know that plane crash that killed Travis Barker? Yeah, well Dan was his body guard. Anyways, don't you think it's just totally amazing that she missed his last phone call to her because she was talking to a guy who looked just like Jesus Christ?"
No. No, I don't. I don't think that's amazing at all. In fact, I think it's just plain weird that you think ANYTHING of it at all. And furthermore, what is amazing is that I AM STILL ON THIS DATE.
So, I tell him I need to go. He tries to convince me to come up to his place, that we "don't have to do anything at all although (eyes scanning my body) I am totally attracted to you." I decline, and he says, in his usual manner of pontification, "You know, I never meet women like you. Women who are intelligent and spiritual and attractive. I want a girl like you, a girl with some meat on her bones (!) and who wears converse and who isn't teh usual Hollywood bimbo. I mean, I get that we're not going to do anything tonight. I get that we're either going to be really good friends or we're going to end up fucking each other's brains out (!!). We're just so much alike, you and me. And I'm curious... what's your opinion of me?"
You'll understand when I tell you that I threw up a little in my mouth at this point.
I answered that, if he was asking if I wanted to see him again the answer was no, and given that we are no more than strangers my opinion of him doesn't matter. The entire way back to my car, he was begging me for my thoughts on him, explaining that "I really respect your opinion," and that he knows that I've been "psychoanalyzing him all night" but (dramatic pause) "...I've been psychoanalyzing you, too."
Brilliant. Just what I need: his analysis of me. I thanked him for the drinks, got in my car and sped away.
The next morning, I got a text in true Mike form:
"Thanx for last night, figured out what my problem was..."
along with two emails that said the same thing.
Blurg.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
It could be worse. He could love Barney.
My life has been taken over by Thomas the Tank Engine. Jack has found the love of his life and it is a blue steam engine. Jack eats, breathes and sleeps Thomas the Tank Engine, and due to our close proximity, I now do, too. The first thing out of Jack's mouth every morning is "Choo-Choo, Mommy," and it is apparently now a requirement that I kiss Thomas, Percy and Stanley along with my son at bedtime. He has a meltdown every day when I drop him off at daycare not because I am leaving, but because he had to leave his choo-choos in the car.So, today while suffering under almost intolerably boring and painfully nerdy videos of model trains (to which Jack was glued), I was relieved to find the following video as it was the only one that Jack and I both enjoyed.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Online Dating Photo.
A few days ago, my brother was showing me the features on his new iphone and it didn't take me long to a) decide I have to have one right now and b) develop a sharp stomach cramp from laughing hysterically. Anyone who owns a mac knows that they have this fantastic feature that lets you skew photos in the most marvelous way, resulting in hours and hours and hours of fun. I don't care how bad of a mood you're in; messing around with this feature on a mac will have you guffawing uncontrollably in moments.
It didn't take me long to go from "Ha, these are hilarious," to "Let's post one on Craigslist in the personal ads!" After perusing the personal ads in the Casual Encounters for a bit of inspiration (and to get some of the native lingo), Nate, Tam and I came up with this ad:
Sweet girl looking for NSA relationship - w4m
I am a sweet girl who craves tenderness and passion. I am longing for an night of romance, maybe starting with wine, moving to kissing, and where it goes from there is up to you and me. What I don't have in looks I make up for in flexibility. And I've got a killer rack.
Only serious replies, please.
Please send a photo and I'll send more.
Tam and I giggled nervously as I posted the ad. I was actually kind of scared at the responses I might get, thinking they would be horribly vicious and mean. Something like "You must be out of your fucking mind!" or "In your dreams, Fatty Mc Fatterson!" I thought that my ad would get removed, ignored, laughed at.... but what I didn't expect was this:
~hi I saw your post and would love to give you hours of fun tonight. I am a 31 y.o. construction worker with a nice 7" (bleep), a talented tounge and plenty of stamina. I would also love to see how flexible you are. If you are interested reply back and we can set something up.
~wanna have that drink of wine with me tonight?
~wow. i'd love to meet and see that killer rack.
im a motor boatin sob and i would love to motor boat you right now.should i host or you?let me know.here is a pic.
And one, sent without a photo, simply said, "wish i was younger... bummer." Along with about 35 others. Most of them I can't post because the photos are close up shots of their junk (which, on a side note, I find to be so simpleminded. It's like these guys think, "Hells yeah, she'll LOVE this. I'd love to see hers, she DEFINITELY wants to see mine." To which I say, "Um, no. No we don't."). 42 responses total, peeps. 42.
So this whole thing has got me all discombobulated. My brother is convinced that these guys aren't for real. My friend thinks that the guys who responded knew it was a joke. I think they're for real (Well, maybe not the motorboating S.O.B., but I really hope so). Clearly they read the email, clearly they saw the photo.... and they want to hook up, tonight. It sorta blows away everything I've ever been taught about men, sex and attraction. Which, granted, was a really lame education from the culture at large and my ex, who stopped having sex with me after I gained some weight and said my body was "deformed." So, I can accept that I may be... a little bit skewed.
Those of you who know me are aware that I am the very first person to advocate that we do not have to meet society's standards of beauty to attract a loving partner into one's life. I fully believe that, if the girl in that photo were real, she could and would absolutely be worthy and deserving of a wonderful lover and friend. I also believe that she would not be the kind of girl that a man would want to randomly hook up with. Develop a fantastic relationship with after one gets to know her and falls in love with her sparkling personality and charm? Yes. Send a photo of one's penis to and get naked with having never spoken to her before? No.
So, help me out people. I want to hear your explanations. One friend said they're all sex addicts. That makes sense to me. Another said they're all ax murderers. While somewhat believable, I think we'd be hearing about a lot more Craigslist murders on the news and Dateline would do a "To Catch a Casual Encounters Murderer." Tam thinks these guys have a fetish. For... big chins.
It didn't take me long to go from "Ha, these are hilarious," to "Let's post one on Craigslist in the personal ads!" After perusing the personal ads in the Casual Encounters for a bit of inspiration (and to get some of the native lingo), Nate, Tam and I came up with this ad:
Sweet girl looking for NSA relationship - w4m
Only serious replies, please.
Please send a photo and I'll send more.
Tam and I giggled nervously as I posted the ad. I was actually kind of scared at the responses I might get, thinking they would be horribly vicious and mean. Something like "You must be out of your fucking mind!" or "In your dreams, Fatty Mc Fatterson!" I thought that my ad would get removed, ignored, laughed at.... but what I didn't expect was this:
~hi I saw your post and would love to give you hours of fun tonight. I am a 31 y.o. construction worker with a nice 7" (bleep), a talented tounge and plenty of stamina. I would also love to see how flexible you are. If you are interested reply back and we can set something up.
~wow. i'd love to meet and see that killer rack.
im a motor boatin sob and i would love to motor boat you right now.should i host or you?let me know.here is a pic.And one, sent without a photo, simply said, "wish i was younger... bummer." Along with about 35 others. Most of them I can't post because the photos are close up shots of their junk (which, on a side note, I find to be so simpleminded. It's like these guys think, "Hells yeah, she'll LOVE this. I'd love to see hers, she DEFINITELY wants to see mine." To which I say, "Um, no. No we don't."). 42 responses total, peeps. 42.
So this whole thing has got me all discombobulated. My brother is convinced that these guys aren't for real. My friend thinks that the guys who responded knew it was a joke. I think they're for real (Well, maybe not the motorboating S.O.B., but I really hope so). Clearly they read the email, clearly they saw the photo.... and they want to hook up, tonight. It sorta blows away everything I've ever been taught about men, sex and attraction. Which, granted, was a really lame education from the culture at large and my ex, who stopped having sex with me after I gained some weight and said my body was "deformed." So, I can accept that I may be... a little bit skewed.
Those of you who know me are aware that I am the very first person to advocate that we do not have to meet society's standards of beauty to attract a loving partner into one's life. I fully believe that, if the girl in that photo were real, she could and would absolutely be worthy and deserving of a wonderful lover and friend. I also believe that she would not be the kind of girl that a man would want to randomly hook up with. Develop a fantastic relationship with after one gets to know her and falls in love with her sparkling personality and charm? Yes. Send a photo of one's penis to and get naked with having never spoken to her before? No.
So, help me out people. I want to hear your explanations. One friend said they're all sex addicts. That makes sense to me. Another said they're all ax murderers. While somewhat believable, I think we'd be hearing about a lot more Craigslist murders on the news and Dateline would do a "To Catch a Casual Encounters Murderer." Tam thinks these guys have a fetish. For... big chins.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Fall Equinox
Every fall, three of my friends from USM and I commit to a year of personal growth through the completion of a personal project. Each of us decides what that will be for us- whether it's learning how to play the guitar, moving into private practice (we're all therapists), or losing 25 pounds- and then we support one another through all of the crap that comes up along the way. We commit to a two hour conference call every other Sunday, and to being available to one another in the less scheduled, call-in-the-middle-of-the-week-because-I-want-to-give-up moments. This will be our third year together and I am so excited to get the project going.I've decided to take on a writing project. I'm going to finally write my book. I have set aside Thursday nights as my writing night, sending Jack to Aunt Melissa's for the night and even leaving work and hour early. I'm hoping that I will be able to create other pocket of times throughout the week for additional writing, but for now Thursdays are what I know for sure.
What I also know for sure is that in setting this powerful intention I have created something much larger than myself. It is as if the book is being born through me and it is only my job to show up and be the vehicle through which it is delivered. Knowing this, feeling this, allows me to relax into the process and let what shows up on the page show up on the page. It's not about getting it right... it's about letting it come forward.
What's in you? What wants to be birthed through you? Commit with me to create the space to let it show up this year!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Back on the Wagon.
So, I just got rid of my TV. Again. It took a great deal of energy to push through the resistance screaming from inside of me, but I did it. It's in a cabinet in the hallway, out of my bedroom.I cannot be trusted with television. Really, I can't. I'm like an recovering alcoholic who thinks to herself, "Oh, I can have just one beer." Three hours later I'm glued to the TV, watching the all day marathon of Project Runway, all intentions of writing or otherwise being present totally out the window.
I have been listening to the voice within that has been begging me, urging me to WAKE UP. Live. Fully. Embrace the moment. Drink in the day. Taste it and swish it around. Love each moment. Love each person who walks by. Show up. Your life is here, now. Breathe it in! The TV is like a lullaby, gently rocking me back into snooze mode, numbing me out, lulling me off to sleep.
Here's another thing TV does to me: it makes me feel bad. I mean, there aren't a lot of commercials that send the message, "Hey! You're fantastic just the way you are! Really! You've got everything you need within to change your outer reality! Take a moment to reflect on all of the beauty around you and be GRATEFUL!" No, no. When I pay attention, I see that the main message that's getting subtly but powerfully lodged into my consciousness is "You're not enough," and "You're unsafe." Not good. And not true.
So, bye bye TV. Again. I'm back on the wagon. Now it's time to go make my bedroom a sanctuary where I am daily inspired to wake up and be in the moment. And to love it, fully.
Throw it All Away.*
Music by Glen Phillips and Toad. Lyrics by Glen Phillips.
take your cautionary tales
take your incremental gain
and all the sychophantic games
and throw 'em all away
burn your tv in your yard
and gather 'round it with your friends
and warm your hands upon the fire
and start again
take the story you've been told
the lies that justify the pain
the guilt the weighs upon your soul
and throw 'em all away
tear up the calendar you've bought
and throw the pieces to the sky
confetti falling down like rain
like a parade to usher in your life
take the dreams that should have died
the ones that kept you lying awake
when you should've been all right
and throw 'em all away
with the time i waste on the life i never had
i could've turned myself into a better man
'cause there ain't nothing you can buy
and there is nothing you can save
to fill the whole inside your heart
so throw it all away
won't fill the whole inside your heart
help me empty out this house
the wool i've gathered all these days
and thought i couldn't do without
and throw it all away
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Plunge.
My friend and coworker, Jalene, facilitated a workshop for our staff at my home on Tuesday. This workshop was entitled, "The Plunge," a play-on-words bridging the pool party theme with the diving into inner awareness she was hoping we would engage in throughout the workshop. Her encouragement to us was to make this year the best year of our lives, and she did so by sharing her own enthusiasm about her commitment to making this year the best year of her life. She spoke with passion and excitement about what it means to plunge into your life, to say, "This is the year that I'm actually going to do it!" She encouraged us to sketch out what our life will smell like, sound like and taste like, to really flesh out the feelings and sights and sensations that we want to be experiencing. She has us write down the colors and the aromas and the feelings of this future vision, this someday experience that we can see ourselves having.
And I saw it. I saw myself living vibrantly, in fu
ll, authentic expression. I saw myself unafraid; in full acceptance of who I am and the choices I have made. I saw myself proud and inspired, awed and humbled at the beauty of Life. I saw myself dancing out of a spontaneous desire to feel my body move and to celebrate the fantastic-ness of the moment. I saw myself totally present, totally aware of my own Divinity and to the Divinity in others. I saw myself radiating this love and receiving it back. I felt the inexplicable joy that arises out of authentic awareness and the complete calm and peace that comes from trusting that Life really wants what is best for us. I saw things just working out for me because I am in congruence with Life, not resisting it, not needing it to change.
But then I got scared. I realized that if I were to live this brilliantly, this fully, this expressively then I would no longer be anonymous. I would no longer blend in and be safe. I would be seen. I would no longer able to control how I was being perceived. It would be balls-out, full blown visibility.
And then it occurred to me: I am using my weight to stay hidden. I am using my weight to, literally, weigh me down and keep me from having the energy to be seen. It's as if the weight has served me by keeping me small and limiting my expression to certain expressions. Its prevented me from taking risks and stepping up into the fullness of who I really am. It's created a fog, a sludge, through which I can stay hidden.
The quote by Marianne Williamson comes to me, again.
But the weight is going away. I've lost 14 pounds since August 4th as a result of this new fuel I'm giving my body. And while I'm excited about that, I'm also scared. This means I'm really doing it. I'm stepping forward. I'm taking the Plunge. Am I ready to be seen? Am I ready?
And I saw it. I saw myself living vibrantly, in fu
ll, authentic expression. I saw myself unafraid; in full acceptance of who I am and the choices I have made. I saw myself proud and inspired, awed and humbled at the beauty of Life. I saw myself dancing out of a spontaneous desire to feel my body move and to celebrate the fantastic-ness of the moment. I saw myself totally present, totally aware of my own Divinity and to the Divinity in others. I saw myself radiating this love and receiving it back. I felt the inexplicable joy that arises out of authentic awareness and the complete calm and peace that comes from trusting that Life really wants what is best for us. I saw things just working out for me because I am in congruence with Life, not resisting it, not needing it to change.But then I got scared. I realized that if I were to live this brilliantly, this fully, this expressively then I would no longer be anonymous. I would no longer blend in and be safe. I would be seen. I would no longer able to control how I was being perceived. It would be balls-out, full blown visibility.
And then it occurred to me: I am using my weight to stay hidden. I am using my weight to, literally, weigh me down and keep me from having the energy to be seen. It's as if the weight has served me by keeping me small and limiting my expression to certain expressions. Its prevented me from taking risks and stepping up into the fullness of who I really am. It's created a fog, a sludge, through which I can stay hidden.
The quote by Marianne Williamson comes to me, again.
I have created the weight as a means of resisting being fully present in my life. It slows me down. It makes me tired. It tells me that I can't do this or that or this. It is my excuse for why I can't step up to my potential and live it now. "I'm to heavy," I say to myself. "Maybe when I'm thin and wiry then I can be energetic with Life." Who wants to see a fat girl in love with life, anyways?"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
But the weight is going away. I've lost 14 pounds since August 4th as a result of this new fuel I'm giving my body. And while I'm excited about that, I'm also scared. This means I'm really doing it. I'm stepping forward. I'm taking the Plunge. Am I ready to be seen? Am I ready?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Yep, he's my kid. No doubt.
My coworkers spent the day at my home today for a team-building retreat. And, while most of you may be rolling your eyes and throwing up a little bit due to images of corny, awkward, Office-esque team building games, it was actually a very lovely, heartfelt experience. Seriously, you really wish you worked at my office. The women (and one man) that I call my coworkers are the most loving, compassionate, funny, inspiring, diverse, and authentic people that I could ever dream of working with. Could you imagine working with a bunch of other therapists all day and feeling BAD? Heck no.
Anywho, during the lunch break we busted out the karaoke machine and I took some video, which I am very tempted to post, but I want to stay working where I am working. What I will post, however, is what I stumbled upon when I left Jack alone for two minutes:
I love this kid.
Anywho, during the lunch break we busted out the karaoke machine and I took some video, which I am very tempted to post, but I want to stay working where I am working. What I will post, however, is what I stumbled upon when I left Jack alone for two minutes:
I love this kid.
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