Affine White Girl

You know you ought to slow down
You been working too hard
And that's a fact
Sit back and relax a while
Take some time to laugh and smile
Lay your heavy load down
So we can stop and kick back
It seems we never take the time to do
All the things we want to
"Take Your Time"--SOS Band

Hell to the yeah on that one, boys and girls!

I am rocking out to my favorite 12" disco hits this morning, knocking back some strong coffee and grooving like I'm in sequins and lycra instead of baggie sweats and faded Key West t-shirt.  As my friend Antoine used to tell me, I dance like a white girl... but a fine white girl!  Not sure Antoine would find me overly fine covered in Cheerio stains, but what the hell.  I'm sexy and I know it.  Snicker.  (Side note for my mathy friends.  Brenda Fallon: Affine White Girl)

This weekend marks the end of any free time I might have for a while.  I am taking not one... not two... but three online courses this summer.  Stupid?  Probably.  The odds of me holding that 4.0 GPA through the summer are not good.  But I am 43.  I want my Ph.D.  I have to grow a pair of balls, and bust 'em relentlessly, if I'm going to make this work.

It's scary that every single person I've talked to has begged me not to do this.  I can't do it.  It's too much.  I'll never survive.  I'll be miserable.  My health and my sanity will fail me. 

Yeah, they're probably right.  But what have I got to lose?  A couple thousand in tuition and books, and a few points off my average?  Eh.  I've risked less and lost more.  I've lived loud, fast and furiously for a couple of decades now.  This would be a shitty time to turn into a milqetoast.

A small aside: Godspeed, Ms. Donna Summer.  When I was a little girl in rural Washington County, I danced and sang to your music for hours on end, convinced I, too, would one day be a star.  I never won a grammy, but I did trade my hairbrush for a bonafide microphone, and spent ten years as a fairly successful musician.  I owe you much.  Thank you.

Pink or Orange Ain't Black or White

Without the woman I can make it
But I need the girl to stay
Oh don't you let the lady take it
All away
"Turn Your Love Around"--George Benson

I finished my Science Fiction and Fantasy class final with seven minutes to spare last night.  I venerated Helen O'Loy, and compared China Mieville's Avice Brenner Cho to a vibrator.  Can't wait to see that grade!

I'm listening to a lot of EWF and George Benson today.  Thank god I have no idea where I packed my roller skates, I can just see me deciding I'm gonna "groove tonight, share the spice of life, slice it right..." and split my forehead open in the process. 

I like music that makes me feel like a girl.  I LIKE BEING A GIRL!  That was the thrust of my argument against Mieville's work, namely that he created a woman so asexual it was impossible to like her.  I've no idea if this was his politically correct idea of what womanhood is destined to become, or just that, as a man, he royally sucks at writing from the female perspective.  I find myself wondering if Embassytown would have been any more palatable written from a male standpoint.  Hard to say.  It was a struggle just to accept a race of giant, talking grasshoppers.  Eeewwww.

The assignment, and the line from "Turn Your Love Around" have me thinking about what it means to me to be a woman.  Do men really need the girl more than the woman?  Do we become ladies who take the girl away from them? 

I think we need to be all three, honestly.  A mother is a woman, and sometimes our men are sweet boys who need to be held and loved unconditionally.  Other times, they need the lady, who can charm their friends and coworkers, and get the cable guy to run that second cable even though you didn't schedule that at the time you called.  And of course, they need the little girl, who appeals to their basic desire to protect and cherish.  As for which one they need in the bedroom... well, isn't it obvious?  All three.  Sometimes at once :)

In other words, chicka, make sure you have a variety of nail polish on the vanity.  Some days are cotton candy pink, others are whorange. 

Oh, hey, look who's back!

Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead
of everyone
We'd walk behind while you would run...
"Missing"--Everything But the Girl

Crazy, crazy dream last night.  This song was playing, and I was being chased by China Mieville through what I believe to be the streets of Beijing.  I am going to guess this was due, at least in part, to a late night snack of potstickers, which I indulged in while steadfastly avoiding my Science Fiction & Fantasy class final paper on Emabassytown. 

So, I really don't have a damn thing to say today.  Fortunately, that rarely stops me from--you know--saying it.

Did I mention that Mieville's limbs morphed into a hammer and sickel?  It kind of makes me wish I'd practiced that whole lucid dreaming thing.  I would've stopped running, whipped around, and smacked him upside the head with a copy of Road to Serfdom.  Ha--take that!!!

I'm having one of those bad stretches, where I simply cannot bring myself to do all the things I need to do.  Phone calls have gone unmade, as has my bed.  The aforementioned sci fi paper is due in eleven hours, and the closest I've come to working on it is to open a Microsoft Word document and think "Huh, yeah, not happening."  Thank god I enjoy writing on a deadline.  Come 9:30 tonight, I'm going to be freaking out and typing 90 wpm--though god knows what I'll have to say.

I guess I'll make myself a strong pot of coffee and see what I can come up with.  One might say this paper will require Perculean effort.  If one likes bad puns, that is.

Waxing Nostalgic - Part 1

Coast to coast, LA to Chicago
Western male
Across the north
And south to Key Largo
Love for sale
Smooth Operator - Sade

Today's topic: When Boredom Shows in Personal Grooming.

Today we're chatting with Brenda, a 40 year old woman who is currently on bed rest due to a high risk pregnancy.

BOB THE FICTIONAL CORRESPONDENT: Brenda, is it true you've gone insane with nail polish?

BRENDA: Yes, Bob. It's true. I noticed this morning that I have ten toes, and ten different shades of nail polish. I decided this was a sign, and painted each toenail a different color.

BOB: I see. And what about fingernail polish?

BRENDA: Well Bob, I'm a nail biter. Bad habit, I know. So for fingers I've gone somewhat conservative. All 10 nails are done in the same polish - clear with silver, blue and purple sparkly bits.

BOB: A wise choice. Is there anything else you'd like to share?

BRENDA: Well, yesterday I was sorting through an old cosmetics bag, and I found some Brazilian Wax stencils. I'm considering surprising my husband with a Shamrocked girly zone.

BOB: Do you think your husband will appreciate the new look?

BRENDA: The shamrock will amuse him. The fact that I'm dying it green might take him aback.

BOB: Well folks, that's all we have time for today. Tune in tomorrow, when Brenda shares her feelings on Matt Lauer, lava lamps, and the letter "Q".

**********************************************************************************

As the title indicates, this is part 1 of a 2 (or more?) part series on the serious issue of Brazilian waxing. I figure I've been writing about some heavy duty stuff lately, so it's time for a wee break. Stay tuned for Part 2 - Me, Myself and Aiyeeeee!!!!

A Mother of a Day

Zip-a-dee-do-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!
My oh my, what a wonderful day!
"Song of the South", as sung quasi-sarcasticly by yours truly

Another year, another Mother's Day. Ugh.

Don't get me wrong, moms are great and deserve to be celebrated. But the endless commercials, the Hallmark displays, the tear-jerking photos of first-time moms clutching cooing babes - these things are the salt in some very painful wounds if you are a woman who has suffered from pregnancy loss or infertility, or god forbid both.

Disclaimer: I am now blessed with a four year old daughter, and as of this writing am 28 weeks pregnant with a son. I am one of the incredibly lucky ones. But I am haunted by something akin to "Survivor's Guilt", or perhaps more accurately "Succeedor's Guilt". I have my family. I've held my living, breathing, drooling, smiling child in my arms and marveled at the intensity of the bond between us.

And so damned many women have not.

I first began to hate Mother's Day when I was in my mid-twenties. That's when it first became apparent that I was not one of those women who "gets pregnant when a guy smiles at me!" as self-proclaimed "fertile-mertyls" love to pretend-complain.

Publicly, I adopted the persona of the career-and-party girl who abhorred the thought of children. "Me, a mom??? Dear God no! No child should EVER have to call me 'mom'!!!" In reality, I was charting my cycle, buying supplement after supplement, and praying for a miracle. Every month I peed on a stick and felt the crushing blow of watching the one solitary, pathetic line appear in the window. I'd wait twice as long as the instructions said, and turn the damned thing every which way, convinced that maybe there was a faint second line there. But no, there never was.

Eventually I gave up. I didn't have money or the right insurance to pursue aggressive fertility treatments, and emotionally I wasn't prepared to deal with it, either. I decided to concentrate on my music, and to let my songs be my "children". I figured that at least on some level I could create something that would impact others, and live on after me.

At age 33, years after I'd abandoned the dream of having a child, I miraculously discovered I was pregnant. To say I was overjoyed would be gross understatement. I honestly, truly felt that somehow I'd won God's favor, and like some biblical heroine was being rewarded with a child who would be the delight of all.

On December 19, 2003, that child was born at 23 weeks gestation. He was my son, Rory, and he died two hours later in my arms. I buried him in a nearly-frozen grave two days before Christmas, and my heart, my soul, my dreams went into that cold darkness with him.

If I had previousy loathed Mother's Day, I now feared it about all else. How could I do it? How could I possible endure the onslaught of modern-day madonna and child that I would be forced to endure from early April through mid-May?

I consoled myself as best as I could by reminding myself that I was, in fact, a mom. The fact that my child did not survive did not make me any less a mom. Perhaps it made me more of a mom, because I'd epxerienced both the ultimate joy and ultimate sorrow with my son.

My family was my salvation. They bought me cards and jewelry, and reaffirmed my belief that I was, and always would be, mom to a very special little boy. Instead of trying to escape the discomfort of my grief, they opted to share it, embrace it, and help ease the burden. I don't know if I would have survived without them.

In April 2005, I gave birth to my daughter Ciara. That year, for the first time ever, Mother's Day came and I had a beautiful, living, breathing child to hold. I was inundated with gifts and cards from those who understood what this meant to me. And yet... the day was at best bittersweet. Like a child's first Christmas after he discovers the truth about Santa, the material aspect was nice, but my heart was heavy with the knowlege that the magic just wasn't there. Not for everyone.

I'm 40 years old. I'm the mother of one "angel", one daughter, and God willing, a healthy little boy named Matthew who is due to make his appearance in August. My closest friends in the world are women who've shared my journey: beautiful, strong, compassionate women who've fought the same battles I've fought, often in isolation and even shame. We've lifted each other up, and been lifted when we tear ourselves down. We get it. We understand that the day a coworker walks in and says "Oh my GOD, I cannot belive it, I'm pregnant again and Joey is still breastfeeding!" that our reaction will always be "F*** You, you ignorant piece of S***". Not that we really hate this woman, or resent Joey. But when someone plunges a knife in your heart - even if they do it unintentionally - you're going to bleed. Sometimes our chat rooms are more like a battlefield triage; we do our best to patch each other up so that we can continue the fight.

If you've never fought this battle, God bless you. I could lie and say we don't resent you, but the truth is, most of us do, at least a little bit. Hell, my sister is the best thing that ever happened to me, and the best friend I've ever had. And yet, I've resented the hell out of her along the way. Not through any fault of her own, but through the cruelty and suffering that comes with the territory I've been forced to navigate.

It doesn't mean we don't like you or love you. It doesn't mean we want anything bad to happen to you. It's just so hard for us to watch your happiness, when we ourselves struggle daily with bone-crushing sorrow.

If you have a friend who has no children, tread lightly this Mother's Day. Even if she laughs Cruella DeVille style and proclaims her intolerance for all things toothless and drooling. Resist the temptation to say "Oh, I bet at this time next year you'll change your mind and have a set of twins to show for it!" The fact is, many of us are consummate actresses. Not one of my friends ever even suspected I battled infertility for years. And I was completely, totally stunned by the number of friends who came forward after the death of my son and said "I've never shared this with anyone, but I lost a baby who would be 5 years old now" or "Joe and I struggled for years, we finally decided we couldn't afford more fertility treatments, either financially or emotionally."

I hope this post doesn't come across as an attempt to rob anyone of their right to enjoy and celebrate being a mom. By all means, enjoy the breakfast in bed, the homemade cards, the mothers rings, flowers and candy. Snuggle your bundles of joy, be they 6 weeks or 16 years old. "Mom" is the toughest job in the world, and you deserve your day! All we ask is that you spare us a thought, perhaps a prayer, and a kindly gesture. If you know we've had a miscarriage, don't say "Oh heck, by this time next year it'll be your turn!" Because nobody can know that, and even if it's true, it doesn't ease the pain of this year, and this loss.

What you can do for us is to be a compassionate and understanding friend who helps us to feel comfortable in our own, currently-unstretchmarked skin. We know you can't make it better. We just ask that you be there for us when it's at its worst.

God Bless, and Happy May 10th to all my friends.

Peace of Toast

Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take
I said Doctor, to relieve this bellyache
I said Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take
I said Doctor, to relieve this bellyache
Lime in the Coconut - Harry Nilsson

I've gotten less than 10 hours of sleep in the past week. Last night I got zero. My brain is so fried that if eaten by a zombie his triglycerides would immediately go off the charts. Assuming zombies check things like that, of course.

I'm 26 weeks pregnant, and my rock-n-roll dreams were just thrown a big ol' curve. I've been put on total bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy, which we're hoping and praying will go to term (37-40 weeks). Once I hit 37 weeks I can leave my couch, but for the next 11 weeks, here I sit. Or lie, rather. Oy.

Forgive me if this post takes on a stream-of-consciousness rambling tone. Like I said, I'm fried.

The lack of sleep is due to one of the most common pregnancy ailments, GERD - or reflux as we all know it. In my case it's taking on epic proportions. I'm getting it from the regular, run-of-the-mill causes, such as the growing baby and the extra progesterone. But due to my history of pregnancy loss and preterm labor, I'm also required to take weekly progesterone injections. And now I'm being asked to lie down 24/7. If you've ever had reflux, you know how impossible lying down is.

This situation is not without its humorous side though. Thanks to my insomnia, I've posted some interesting things to my pregnancy support group, including the following gems:

"My husband gives it to me in the butt once a week. It hurts going in, and it aches for a day or two after, but it's totally worth it." (Me explaining how I get my progesterone shots to a young expectant mother who will be starting the shots soon and is looking for others who've been there.)

"All I've had today is the peace of toast...." (Me bitching about not being able to eat due to reflux.)

I meant, of course, "piece" of toast. But in retrospect, I like "peace of toast". It sounds like some sort of kabalistic, new-agey type of nirvana. Or a Facebook application.

Would that I could achieve the Peace of Toast at the moment. To be lying here, warm... golden... buttery. Mmmmm. Even the Catholic in me likes the imagery. Jesus-the-wafer is cold, dry and totally unappealing. Jesus Toast is warm, approachable and easier to digest. Him as Comfort Food. I think I'm onto something, folks. Forget music, I'm going where there's real money - Televangelism!

I'm starving. I could sure go for some Host, eggs & coffee right now.

Getting My Laces Back

Do I need someone here to scold me
Or do I need someone who'll grab and pull me
From this four-poster, dull torpor
Pulling downward
For it's such a long time since my better days
I say my prayers nightly this will pass away
Like the Weather - 10,000 Maniacs

In February of this year I checked myself into the "Waldorf-Hysteria" - a/k/a the Mental Health Unit of the local hospital.

It went something like this: for weeks on end, I'd been crying a lot. When I wasn't crying, I was burying myself in a book or TV show trying desperately to distract myself so I wouldn't cry. And while I've suffered from garden-variety depression in the past, this was something much, much worse. This was unrelenting darkness, oppresive and portending violence at any given moment. It was like living with a mean drunk, tip-toeing through a room where they're on their third drink and are starting to get that look in their eye; the one that you know means all hell is about to break loose.

The day I checked myself in started like most others, waking in the morning and feeling the weight of my gloom crush me before I even lifted my head from the pillow. Still, I hit the shower, got dressed and headed to my job as an insurance representative. (Yeah, insurance. No wonder I was depressed.)

I don't remember the next few hours after that, although friends have been kind enough to piece it together for me. By 8 am I was at my desk on the 6th floor. By 9:30 I was at my friend's desk, crying but saying very little. Shortly after noon, another friend found me sitting not at work, but down the street at the public library. I was staring blankly ahead, and if I was seeing anything it all it was residing with Buckaroo Bonzai across the Eighth Dimension.

Somehow this friend got my attention long enough to take me by the hand and walk me to the hospital, where I signed the paperwork that would make me a guest of said facility for a minimum of 48 hours, possibly more.

I "came to" so to speak as the intake staff were eyeing me and discussing my clothing choices as if they were Joan and Melissa Rivers and I was walking the red carpet instead of a white hallway.

"Belt!" said Exquisitely Dressed Male Nurse, snapping his fingers imperiously. Immediately, two other nurses descended on me on removed the apparently offensive item. I'm sure it did offend them, I'd gotten it on sale at K Mart.

"Shoes?" inquired Male Nurse, in a tone that implied that since I was from rural Washington county, I probably wasn't wearing any. Well, ha ha, yes I was! And best of all, they were leather LL Bean slip-ons, and did not have any buckles or laces. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured it out. They were relieving me of any article of clothing I could fashion into an instrument of my own demise should my stay prove, uh, therapeutically unsuccessful. I shudder to think what would have happened had I been wearing my BBW thong.

After several minutes of this ritual undressing, I was led to my room (private - thank god we pay for the good insurance) and left to my own devices.

I'll fast forward through the 4 day blur that was my stay. I don't remember much of it anyway, except that in my brief time there I earned the nick-name "Artsy-Craftsy Girl". I pretty much passed the entire time holed up in the therapy room, painting pre-cast ceramic bunnies, fish and vases with environmentally-and-incarceration-friendly non toxic paints. If I recently gave you a hand-crafted, non-dishwasher safe item as a housewarming or birthday gift, this is where it came from.

Four days after my arrival, I was given the all-clear to return to my normal life. I had a diagnosis: Antepartum Depression. Ever the over-achiever, I am not content to wait until after the baby is born to have a hormonally-induced mental disorder. Nope, I'm part of that less-than-one-percent who plummet off an emotional cliff in the first trimester. Yay, me!

As I was leaving the hospital, relieved and yet scared to go back to "normal", the nurses presented me with my belt, my purse, my cell phone... all the things I'd had to surrender on the way in. As they were waving goodbye and wishing me well, the youngest girl said "Brenda, did you get your laces back?" I looked down at my slip-ons, and smiled my first real smile in weeks. I guess I had gotten them back, so to speak.

Two Months Later...

Signing yourself into a mental hospital is scary. Going home is terrifying.

I was thankful for the little things, like a bathroom door that locked, metal utensils, and a bedroom that smelled like lilacs instead of disinfectant. But the question haunted me for weeks. Had I truly "gotten my laces back"? I greeted each morning skeptically, cautiously. Open one eye, then the other. How does it look? What will today bring?

Fortunately, I responded quickly to treatment. My days began to mirror the ever-changing reality outside my window. Winter gave way to spring. Warmth replaced the chill, and the balance tipped, favoring daylight over darkness. Until yesterday, when my worst fear came to pass and I found myself feeling depressed.

I almost fainted, the dread was that overwhelming. But I took a deep breath, and let the feeling wash through me. And it soon dawned on me that this was my old "garden variety" depression. I wasn't falling off a cliff, I was having a bad day. I hadn't gotten much sleep, and I was so busy I hadn't bothered to eat. After a few calming breaths, I was able to go about my day. I wasn't aglow with joy, but I wasn't sobbing, either. I just.... was.

I woke up this morning feeling my normal, optimistic self. In a little while I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air. I'm going to throw on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. And just as a precaution, I'm going to tie the laces tight... and knot 'em for good measure.

Fascists Killed This Machine

Check out Guitar George
He knows all the chords
Mind he's strictly rhythm
He doesn't want to make it cry or sing
Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits

I bought a guitar today! And like Guitar George, I do not want to make it cry or sing. Nor do I want to make my audience cry, although to hear me play right now that could happen, and it would have nothing to do with the emotional aspect of my songwriting. Right now I make dogs cry. Yeah, I'm seriously out of practice.

Okay, let's be honest. At best, I've always been a poor guitar player. That's why I surround myself with good musicians! But if I'm going to do the duo or even occasional solo thing, I'm going to have to rely on more than a handful of a capella numbers and my stunning good looks. I'm going to have to practice. Gulp.

This afternoon I reclined in my chair and let fly my first-in-a-long-time G/Em/C/D chord progression. Immediately I had blisters on my fingers and a lump in my throat. What was that sound??? It was not good. It was bad. It was very, very bad. It was... me.

Oh my.

Woody Guthrie was famed for the sticker on his guitar which proclaimed "This Machine Kills Fascists". After ten minutes of torturing the strings of my guitar in an effort to produce something that sounded at least a little bit like music, I shook my head sadly and told my husband "Fascists Killed This Machine".

Thank god I look good in black and have a closet full of boots.

In Your Face (not Enya face!)

You... you... talk about just every band
But the names you drop are second-hand
I've heard it all before
Fox on the Run - Sweet

Big, big step today on the musical career front. I designed my "Guitarist Needed" poster and printed out several copies. Tomorrow I hit the music shops and hang 'em up - woohoo! I feel like Jack Black in Hi Fidelity.

Here's the text from the ad:

Me: 10+ years performing experience with Boston-based Celtic rock band. Extensive touring, festival headliner (Fort Lauderdale, East Durham, etc.) Looking to play locally, some touring possible. Songwriter with sense of humor, who prefers Johnny Cash and Bonnie Raitt over whiners like Sarah "Who needs joy when you can cry for 50 minutes per album" McLaughlin. If you like Enya - read no further. Seriously, step away from this flyer.

You: Decent rhythm/lead guitarist. Vocals, multi-instrument & arranging a definite plus. Sense of humor and comfort with pub & festival scene absolutely required. Fondness for Guinness appreciated. Not afraid of "chick singers", especially one who is used to hauling her own gear out of a club at 3 am.

Music: Original, some Irish trad, and a smattering of good cover tunes. Lawyers, Guns and Money? Hell yeah! Anything from "American Idol"? Uh, no thanks.

Other: May look at expanding into full-fledged band mode at some point (fiddle/mandolin, drums, etc). Please note: in over a decade of performing, I have never missed/cancelled a single show. I believe in having a LOT of fun with music, but I don't take my commitments lightly. If you're not dedicated, please call. Someone else, I mean :-)

**********************

Wow, so there it is - it looks like I'm really ready to get back into the fray! I've already got a line on some equipment (small pa system, monitors & mains) and I'm even guitar & mandolin shopping. (I have a guitar at the moment, but it's both borrowed and ungodly hard to play. The action has been adjusted, but to no avail.)

The timing seems a little weird in some ways, but it makes sense. Yeah, I'm 6 months pregnant. But it's going to take several months of serious practicing before anything I put together would be good enough to play out. (I've had experience with rushing into these things, and I don't recommend it!) So I'm thinking that by the time I (a) find someone, and (b) rehearse, it'll be early fall and I will no longer be preggo. And since I've got great babysitters (ie, nana & papa), I'll be good to go. Wow. First time I've had to take THAT into consideration!

Speaking of taking children into consideration, my four year old is bouncing off her bedroom walls. She's such a night owl... I wonder if I can work her xylophone skills into the act?

Jonesing: Howard and Tom!

Don't crack up
Bend your brain
See both sides
Throw off your mental chain
New Song - Howard Jones

I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I am out of control. I have fallen victim to that most insidious of vices.... music downloads!!!!

It started innocently enough. I wanted to make a CD of fun, upbeat zydeco dance tunes for my daughter's upcoming birthday party (we're doing a cajun theme this year). A friend innocently suggested I go online and buy a few 99 cent tunes rather than schlep on out to a store and buy a bunch of $15 CD's I might not like.

So I did it. Call it desperation, call it peer pressure, but there I was, shamelessly and publicly googling Beau Jocque and Buckwheat Zydeco. Before I knew it I was face down in Rhapsody, downloading Clfton Chenier and Boozoo Chavis. Hit after hit, I couldn't stop myself!

Well you know how it goes. First you start downloading for a particular reason. Next thing you know, you're hanging out in your pj's, bored, and you think "maybe I'll try a few 80's tunes, see if they brighten my mood a little." In no time at all you're mainlining Guns 'n Roses and desperately trying to remember what hair band had a hit with "I'm The One Who Wants to Be With You". (Answer: Mr. Big)

I am sick. I am out of control. I am $43 dollars poorer than I was 2 days ago, and I'm furiously checking my account balance to see if I can afford Howard Jones Greatest Hits.

For the love of all that is holy, somebody break my internet connection before I end up with an ipod full of Tom Jones and no memory of how it got there!!!!!

Note: I wrote this earlier today as a post to an online pregnancy support group I belong to. When I re-read it I was amused enough to share it here. -- B.