Archive for January, 2009
Napa for Steve's Birthday
Posted by: | CommentsSteve turns 40 on March 13. It’s appropriate that the day is a Friday, because he was born on a Friday, and Friday the 13ths are his favorite. Forget the ridiculous movies, with not-so-virginal hotties getting slashed to death. Friday the 13th rocks in Steve’s world. They usually bring him good news, or good things. And he’s lucky, because there are three of them in 2009: February, March and November. More good things for him are, well, a good thing.
That said, he also hates to celebrate his birthday. I’ve not yet gotten to the bottom of why. He’d rather I not even mention the occasion. But who am I to honor his wishes. After all, I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. Not the getting older part, but the celebration part.
This will be the fourth birthday I’ve spent with him. The first year, his dad took us to dinner at 17th Avenue Grill, and it was the last time they spoke. Suffice it to say that if I would have stood naked on the table and sung Hello, Dolly! at the top of my lungs, his dad still wouldn’t have acknowledged I was there. I have never been treated so coldly or rudely in my life, and it was the first time I’d met the guy. My mere existence (he’s close to Steve’s psycho ex) galled him. Add that to old business, and the relationship was ruined. I was so glad when, once back in our own car and nearly in tears, I asked Steve if he’d be OK if I never, ever, saw that man again. I made it my mission to make sure that Steve had a glorious birthday every year thereafter.
Two years ago, I took him Brook’s Steakhouse, bought us a bottle of Opus One–his favorite–and took him indoor sky diving in a wind tunnel near Park Meadows Mall. Skydiving is a life experience he’s always wanted to have, and it was as close as I could get him on a snowy night in March.
Last year, I bought him a beautiful watch and took him out for dinner. It was a quiet night, just the two of us. Those are the best kind.
This year is big. The Big Four-Oh. When I was trying to figure out what to do for him, I asked if I could throw him a dinner party. He blanched, and I realized that he’ll tolerate my making him the center of attention, but he doesn’t want to be the center of OTHER people’s attention. I looked around for a weekend trip close to home, even considering three nights in a downtown Denver hotel with nothing but room service, which he’d love. Then, I saw a post from a Facebook friend about Southwest fares for $39 and up.
Steve traveled a lot in his early 20s, when he was single and then with the Army. But since then, he has only left Colorado once, with me, in April 2006, and the only time he’s spent away from home has been the few long weekend trips we’ve taken in the past three years. So, I decided to stimulate the economy a bit. We’d talked about doing a honeymoon in Napa, but since he won’t have significant time off until 2010, that won’t happen anytime soon. I logged on to Southwest and found fares to San Francisco on his birthday weekend for $69 each way, per person. Then, I found an online coupon for an Alamo car rental for $30 for the weekend. Then, I found a cute motel in Napa for $89/night. So, for the cost of three nights at the Hotel Teatro downtown, we’ll spend three days in northern California.
I was going to keep it a secret, but I suck at keeping secrets. So I told him on Friday that I’m taking him to Napa for his birthday. No, it’s not exactly in our budget, but I’d rather spend $500 on an adventure we’ll remember, to a place he’s never been, on a very special day, than spend $500 on things that can be lost (such as the watch, which disappeared recently) and trips 10 miles from our home. He was shocked at first, then a little thrilled. I don’t know if he’s excited yet. But I am.
I know we’ll go to one particular winery, but that’s the only plan I’ve made. He’s never been to San Francisco, so I think we’ll spend at least a few hours in the city, probably on Sunday. The cost of food will come out of our regular budget. There’s a Whole Foods-ish market across the street from our motel, and a fridge in the room. I think we’ll have a wonderful trip, one that makes memories for us.
I know now that he feels pressure to do something big for my 40th, which is June 11, in case you’d like to send dozens of roses, chocolates and diamonds my way. Or a house cleaner. That would rock. I do want something great to happen on my birthday, too. He’s always hit it out of the park on my birthday, so I’m not concerned. But that’s not why I’m doing this for him. I’m doing it because he’s had one hell of a year, and we both deserve to have something nice in our lives to look forward to. And since we’re now eloping, which costs almost nothing, I’m not afraid to spend a little money on a short trip. I can’t wait to get him on the plane, to get him to the hotel, to drink yummy wine with him, to spend one-on-one time with him and only him, no distractions. That’s my part of the gift, what I get out of it.
And maybe, someday, I’ll get him to admit that he secretly does like his birthday.
In the company of women
Posted by: | CommentsI have never had an easy time with women, even though I am one. Various experiences as a girl growing up taught me not to trust other girls. I’ve usually had one or two close friends at a time and a loose association with a dozen or so others, but it’s usually a careful friendship on my part. I’ve usually not fully disclosed myself to my girlfriends because I have been so incredibly hurt in the past by girls … even more so than in the perpetual heartbreak of adolescent dating.
During the past five years, I’ve had a different experience than before. Perhaps the difference is my own self confidence, the lessening of my ardent need to be accepted by others unconditionally (my greatest desire) and my ability, finally, to make room for myself in my own life.
I met my best friend Laurel at the Inner Child Journey workshop at Mile High Church almost five years ago to the day. My ex-husband had suddenly left me, and I turned to this lovely, loving metaphysical church to keep me upright in a storm that blinded me. I signed up for the three-day course in the hopes of better understanding my own wounds. I discovered many things about myself: that it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in god, but that I never felt like god believed in me or that I was worthy of god’s love and interest; that all of my life, I had looked for a soft place to fall, where I didn’t have to be strong and perfect and accomplished, but had never found it. It was a very vulnerable time for me, and this workshop made me even more open and vulnerable. Our small breakout group bonded tightly, and that’s where I met Laurel. We have so much in common, from our birthdays being two days apart, to being adopted, to certain past experiences, to thinking and reacting so similarly that our favorite catch phrase is, sarcastically, “Not that I know anything about that.”
Laurel has been a huge blessing in my life. She is the first girl I have ever trusted so much that I have no secrets from. She is my go-to on bad days and great days and all of the days in between. She has helped me through so much during the past five years, the divorce not the least of the adventures. We’ve had a lot of fun, too. I can be frank with her, and she can be frank with me. I can’t imagine my life without her … even though we don’t see each other hardly enough, despite living less than three miles apart. (Life, you know.) We end almost every phone call with an I love you, words I’d never uttered with friends before I met her. We’re part of each other.
During the past three years, I’ve met a few other women whose company I enjoy. Last night, I went to my friend Nicoleta’s house for a small gathering of girls with wine and food, but mostly wine. I know Nicoleta mildly well, and Emily perhaps a little better, and Donna even less, although I’ve known her for more than three years. Usually we see each other at loud parties. The last two women I’d met only in passing. I still feel hesitant among these women. The connection is there, and I’d like to be closer to them, but maybe I haven’t learned as much as I thought I had. Steve has accused me of being the master of getting just so close to people, but holding them at a healthy distance to keep myself safe (him, too, sometimes). I would really like to trust myself enough to trust them, to really be friends. These are women who I know I could love like I love Laurel, if I let myself. Partly, because of how we know each other, I’m still deeply worried about being judged not good enough, or too self-preoccupied. I know this is silliness, part of my old (and perhaps current) sense of insecurity. I want to be accepted by these women, but maybe I just need to let go of the fear and I’ll feel the acceptance they already have for me.
I also have a few online friends–Jac, Jenifer, Meara–who I have deep affection for even though I’ve never met them. And I have friends from long ago, namely Kristin and Vivian, who I love dearly but they’re far away. Being friends with them here on Facebook has helped reconnect us somewhat, as has actually seeing them in their grownup form. Vivian was my best friend during childhood, and Kristin was my best friend during high school and college. I’ve also always made work friends, and I’ve kept in touch with many, like Stacy, Wendy and Kim, after moving on. While it’s difficult to keep up with the daily antics of all of them when their office is no longer next to mine, I love reading about them in their Facebook updates, looking at their pictures. One current colleague, Catherine, recently told me she feels close to me, even though we’ve hardly spoken because of my Facebook postings. She and I have a lot in common. My colleague Jill and I have turned our shared love of salsa dancing into what I consider to be a genuine friendship as well. I’ve always needed that social outlet at work, especially because I’m not a person who leaves her emotions at the door, and some days, you just need someone to talk to.
I am greedy for friendship. I crave being understood and accepted by women. I desire a strong connection to women. I’ve spent the first half of my life feeling on the outside looking in when it comes to friendships. I’m looking forward to the coming years spent in the company of women, learning to trust and love them, and learning to let go of my defenses to be truly reciprocal in their friendship.
Obama to open up Freedom of Information Act
Posted by: | CommentsToday, President Barack Obama said he would make the federal government more transparent by changing the way the Freedom of Information Act is interpreted. Under the Bush administration, our government made every effort to NOT disclose documents that are of public record, or to black out major parts of documents in the name of “national security.”
One of the reasons why Americans are free is because of an open government. Regardless of how you feel about the media, a reporter’s ability to sit in on a government meeting and report on what is said, to inspect and even copy the full text of government documents and records, is essential to a free press, free discourse and plain old freedom.
This declaration by President Obama is the first step in fixing something that Bush and his cronies broke right after 9/11. Everything our government did had a veil of secrecy about it.
“For a long time now, there’s been too much secrecy in this city,” Obama said today. His is directing agencies to err on the side of making information public, according to an AP story by Jennifer Loven. That means agencies should stop looking for reasons to legally keep the information under wraps, which is what was done under Bush.
Loven writes, Just because a government agency has the legal power to keep information private does not mean that it should, Obama said. Reporters and public-interest groups often make use of the law to explore how and why government decisions were made; they are often stymied as agencies claim legal exemptions to the law.
That President Obama would like to make our government incredibly transparent is a critical first step in undoing some of the injury of the previous administration. Do you trust “the government?” I work for the State, and I don’t trust the government.
“But these historic measures do mark the beginning of a new era of openness in our country,” Obama said. “And I will, I hope, do something to make government trustworthy in the eyes of the American people, in the days and weeks, months and years to come.”
I hope so.
Wedding fever: The dress fits
Posted by: | CommentsSteve and I are getting married sometime this summer. We had a date set, and a bunch of plans made, and all of a sudden it all felt like too much. Too much stress. Too much money. Too much trying to make all the people happy who we thought we should make happy. The fact that we weren’t able to save any money over the past year due to economic circumstances beyond our control didn’t help either. So we postponed the wedding.
Maggie Sottero's Libby gown
Two nights ago Steve and I started talking about getting married, and we both came to the same conclusion–it had all felt like too much. Maybe we were having that Mr. Big moment–did we really want all the pomp and circumstance? Maybe we wanted something simpler. We talked, and talked. (That’s something we do exquisitely well.) Steve posed a question: What if we went back to our original idea of just him, me, the kids, a photographer and the officiant? What if we found a beautiful spot somewhere in the Colorado Rockies, in a meadow, near a stream, and got married there in a ceremony filled with ritual and meaning … a ceremony all about us, and no one else? As he was talking, a sense of relief filled me. Neither of us had felt right since we decided to postpone the wedding. In fact, it almost felt like we’d half broken up. His idea wasn’t new; it took us back to where we started, before I turned into a mini-bridezilla.
Even if you’re someone like me, who likes to do things her own way, who loathes society telling her the “right and proper” way to do anything, you can become a bridezilla. I spent many sleepless nights on the Internet, trying to find just the right headpiece for my dress, googling online florist shops to find the best deal on flowers. I started telling, not asking, Steve about how we were going to do this, and that. In the beginning, I was very inclusive, but as he struggled to find a job and dipped lower, he didn’t want to talk about it. I surged ahead of him, and all of a sudden our little wedding had bloomed into a party for 100.
A few things have happened since we decided to postpone. First, he found a job. That solved a lot of problems, but especially it made him feel like a man again, a man who was worth marrying. Also, I embarked on the great Wellbutrin experiment of 2009, and so far, so wonderful. Yesterday, we went shopping for Steve’s wedding band. I think we found the one. Once we have it, all we need is to tell the shaman who is marrying us when and where.
Today, I finally felt OK about getting my dress out to look at it. It’s beautiful, gorgeous. I ordered it in a warm candlelight color. It is incredibly romantic, with its corset back and sweep train. I spent 10 minutes lacing up the corset, then pulled the dress over my head. It was a struggle, but I was able to pull the laces right enough to get the back to close. Much to my surprise, the dress fits. I ordered the size I figured I’d be in May, after 10 months of working out. It will look even better with 10 pounds off of my frame, but that’s a lot less than the 20 pounds I thought I’d have to drop in order to get into it. I put on my hot pink platforms (the dress is long, even on my 5-9 frame) and the beautiful blue and green bracelet I bought on impulse while Christmas shopping. And I got a little teary-eyed looking at myself in the mirror. My dress is beautiful, truly beautiful. And the only person I care who sees me in it is Steve.
Sometime this summer, we’ll elope. I’ll stand before him in my gorgeous dress and pledge to live my life with him and only him. And even though it may not be what makes others happy, it will make us happy. Eloping fits us.
I only do kegels when I hear the word kegels
Posted by: | CommentsLast night, I tuned into Oprah’s webcast with Dr. Laura Berman on sex (This link will take you to the download). It was interesting and hilarious at the same time because Oprah is so obviously uncomfortable talking about sex in detail. I have to say I got some perverse pleasure about watching the poised of the poised squirm a little.
One hilarious moment: Dr. Berman started talking about kegels. And when she said the word, I found myself squeezing those particular muscles, a la Pavlov’s dog. Oprah started making faces because she was doing them too, and I laughed and wondered if I’m not alone in this phenomenon. I mean, all of us women know we’re supposed to do kegels at every traffic light, or during TV commercials. I hope we know that we’re not supposed to do them on the toilet (you want to relax there). The benefits of strong PC muscles range from lack of stress incontinence (ah-choo, oh no I peed) to more intense orgasms. Men should exercise their pelvic muscles too for the same reasons. Dr. Berman said we all should be doing AT LEAST 100 kegels every day.
I’m sorry, what?
In order for me to do kegels, I’m going to have to change the ring tone on my cell phone to the word KEGEL (over and over) so I’ll remember to do them. I’ll have to add another reminder to my Outlook calendar, put a sticky note on the refrigerator, write the word on my hand in Sharpie. Maybe then I’ll get in the prescribed 100 or so every day.
The webcast was also interesting because of the questions that were asked. The discussion included everything from sex toys (girls, check out the Adonis in Dr. Berman’s own sex toy line), to lack of libido in men and women, to helping men hold out longer, to fantasies, to ways to spice up a dull sex life, to (ahem) anal sex. That one really made Oprah squirm.
I loved this series about “Your Best Sex Life.” I am a big believer in the idea that women should embrace their sexuality and should RIGHT NOW stop judging themselves for the things they feel and fantasize about. I spent most of my life believing that there was something fundamentally wrong with me because you know what, I like sex. A lot. Now, I’ve come to terms with who I am as a woman, and this woman is a sexual being. And face it, we all are sexual beings. It’s normal. It’s natural. It is nothing to be ashamed of, ever. I think that the shame and embarrassment many women feel about sex is anti-feminist; it’s a way for our patriarchal society to keep us girls in our places. I believe that when women of all ages take back their sexual power (instead of giving it away, as we’re raised to do for the most part), we grow stronger as mothers, workers, lovers, sisters, friends. Embracing our sexual side means we fully accept every part of ourselves. And that makes us powerful beyond measure.
I want Lauren to grow up believing that her sexual feelings are natural, normal and good. I want her to never feel shamed about this core part of her, as I did. Sure, there’s a time, a place, and a level of emotional security I believe are essential to being healthy–spiritually, emotionally and physically–as a sexual being. I hope that when the time comes, I am brave enough to walk this talk with her. And of course, I’ll tell her about kegels. And maybe she’ll be better about doing them than I am.
Being a girl sucks beyond belief
Posted by: | CommentsFor many of you, especially the boys, this is TMI, so stop reading now. But if you’re morbidly curious, like me, then read on.
So yesterday I wind up in the ER because I got my period. Imagine the flood that Noah survived, and you have my Monday experience. At about 11:30 am I found myself stranded in a stall at work, praying to god that someone would come in soon, because I couldn’t leave without some help. My pants were soaked to the knees, and the bowl had at least two inches of blood in it. Of course, because I am incredibly dramatic, I think I am bleeding to death. The clots the size of my hand (think bloody jellyfish) aren’t helping my near-hysteria. Are those my insides? Am I having a miscarriage? (and how would that be possible?) I have had horrible periods before (don’t get me started), but this was EPIC. I am freaking out, crying, drenched pants and underwear puddled on the floor. Finally someone comes in and I ask for help. I think, had I opened the stall door completely, she would have screamed. Instead she just looked at me strangely and ran to get our administrative assistant. Suzanne fetches my cropped exercise pants from my bottom desk drawer, which I had put there almost two years ago under the feigned belief that one day I would exercise during my lunch hour.
As she goes off to find feminine hygiene products that could possibly stanch a fire hydrant, another coworker comes in and helps me. I am standing at the sink wearing my turquoise blouse, cropped exercise pants, brown knee high socks and sneakers (Stacy and Clinton, I DARE you to fault my fashion ha!), trying to wash the blood from my favorite pair of wool trousers. I am shaking and crying, but also completely stubborn. She insists that I go to the ER. I refuse. She insists. I refuse. She insists. I give in. My friend Jill fetches her car, and Kim walks me out. I cannot walk without assistance because I am shaking and so dizzy. I think it’s called adrenaline.
Almost two hours later, having flooded through four pads the size of a Subway sandwich, I am finally in an ER room. I wait. An EMT trainee (yeah, it’s a teaching hospital) tortures me by starting an IV. They take several vials of blood, which sit there on the table next to the bed for the entire four hours I’m there. Eventually a doctor comes in to give me a pelvic exam. She tells me that she thinks either I’m having an issue with a fibroid or maybe it’s an after-effect of not having my period for 7 years due to the fucking Mirena (oh, darn it, I said it again), or maybe it’s a side effect of the Wellbutrin, which is known to cause some “menstrual changes.” Or maybe it’s just a hormonal imbalance because I’m in perimenopause, and I can either go back on hormones (uh, I don’t think so) or live with it. They give me some fluids, a medication to lessen my dizziness and nausea, check my hematocrit a couple of times to make sure I’m not anemic, then send me home. No answers at all. My final diagnosis: vaginal bleeding. Here’s my $150 copay, thank you very much for that.
Today, I’m still home, partially because really, I don’t feel good and partially because I feel incredibly embarrassed that all of my coworkers witnessed me with blood soaked pants from the crotch down. The only other more embarrassing girl-related moment was in high school, when I was auditioning for the Sound of Music and discovered, as I was singing on stage, that I had bled through the back of my dress.
I have an appointment with the “ER follow-up clinic” on Friday for some tests to see what’s causing this. Today, I’m going to see my wonderful acupuncturist and herbalist, Debra Kuhn, to get some herbs to slow down the bleeding and get some acupunture to calm me down. I know the doctors will immediately say one of the following: endometrial ablation, progesterone, hysterectomy. My answer to all of that is uh-uh, not unless it’s life-or-death. Maybe I’m being stupid, but after being on progestin for more than half of my life, I really want to experience what life has in store for me hormone-supplement free.
My boss is a wonderful human being. When I emailed in sick today, she not only related personal stories about her own womanly history, but also pulled some strings with the administrator of the hospital’s Women’s Services clinic to try to get me an appointment with a real doctor today (the clinic on Friday is with the residents). My coworkers, who refused to leave my side until my parents got there (Steve was in training and could not come for me), are angels sent from above. Really, how many people do you work with who would drag your ass to the ER when you’re being stubborn enough to think that you should just go home to your empty house, and drive yourself there as well? So to Kim and Jill, thank you. I owe you big time.
I hope to god this is not the new normal for me. I think that Debra will fix me up for the time being, and the baby-docs will figure out if this is a more serious issue. All I know is that sometimes, being a girl sucks beyond belief. And this is one of those times.
Yeah, my kids eat crap. So sue me. (yet I'm still ashamed)
Posted by: | CommentsToday I stumbled upon a rant over at the Shapely Prose site about the current parenting guilt theme called “Never Let Your Child Eat a Single Item of Junk Food If You Want to Be Considered a ‘Good’ Parent.”
You’d think it would be easy to feed yourself and your kids. I’m trying to avoid MSG and HFCS and nitrites, but they are EVERYWHERE. I swear to god those things are added to the toothpaste. And the water.
I grew up in a household where there junk food appeared periodically. Because of the feast-or-famine nature of the Coco Puffs and Mother’s Iced Oatmeal Cookies, I’d pig out when the items were in the house. My parents never guilted me about it. I was always an active kid. Today, I think every “good” parent is acutely aware that there is a childhood obesity epidemic going on (or so the media tells us, even though recent studies show that the number of obese children is dropping). I, for one, find myself being very critical of Lauren when she wants a cookie, or a popcicle. I feel horrible if I sit on my couch and eat more than the 22 pieces of Frosted Mini Wheats in a serving. Yet it’s our kids who are marketed to. Just watch Nickelodeon for 20 minutes and you’ll see what I mean.
I try to make Lauren eat healthy, just as I try to make myself eat healthy. The kid doesn’t have genetics behind her being skinny, that’s for sure, as both her father and I have struggled with our weight. I have no idea if I’m protecting her from my food neuroses or passing them on. I’m sure she knows when I’m holding my tongue as she eats the free pink chip cookie at King Soopers. I don’t want her to get a complex about it, but I also don’t want her to make crappy choices all the time. (read: like I feel I do)
Add in the fact that my stepson is special needs with a “feeding disorder,” meaning that there are only about 5 foods he will eat in any given week. Guess what they are? Frozen pancakes or waffles with fake syrup; nuggets and fries, Cheezits and squeeze cheese; and Fizzix, the sugar-added yoplait yogurt sticks. Last weekend, he told me that he discovered that he “kind of likes those mini corn dogs,” and his father and I just about jumped for joy. He won’t drink water, just apple juice or soda. He is not pampered, or spoiled. His parents have had him in a world-class feeding therapy program for his whole life and this is the progress they’ve made. His diet certainly contributes to his poor health, his inability to grow (he’s 11 and weighs 60 lbs), and his severe ADHD. But every day, the goal is to get the kid to eat at least 600 calories. Some days we win, some days we lose.
So here I am, with this kiddo in my house every weekend, and my 7-year-old daughter, who is on the chubby side and has inherited my love for all things sugar. She’s a healthy eater when I present her with healthy food, but she sees R eating crap when I’m trying to make her eat broccoli and salmon, and I get the whole, “It’s not FAIR!!!!” routine. And it’s NOT fair. She’s right.
So I break down and feed them the same thing, and feel like the BAD MOM because my daughter is sitting at the dining room table eating Easy Fries, mini corn dogs and sugar-free lemonade for lunch while watching Sponge Bob. And I feel like the BAD PERSON when I mooch a couple of fries off their plates. Because DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY MINUTES I WILL HAVE TO RUN ON THE TREADMILL to burn off those fries … and the chocolate cake I had for dessert on Thursday night?
There’s only so much we can do, though. I can go broke buying only organic, or I can scrub the crap out of my fruits and veggies with dish soap and hope to god the Honduran farmers didn’t spray my apples with DDT. I can be label conscious, and try to make good choices. I can teach Lauren to make good choices, and hope that Ryan picks up some semblance of “real food” in the near future. But how can I judge their eating, when I’ll never be the perfect eater (and I also feel ashamed about that, because we are taught that, too, by the experts and the media.)
Give a kid a choice, and unless s/he is very unusual, it’ll be Cheetos, Oreos and Coke all day long until the tummy ache sets in. Maybe when they’re 16 and concerned about hooking up with the hotties, they’ll think about eating a salad.
