Love Letters to Feminism: New Call For Submissions: (note the 'I' here is Carolyn Jervis, not me!)
"I am pleased to announce that I am now accepting submissions for the latest incarnation of Love Letters to Feminism. The text and word art received, along with the existing Love Letters from its three previous exhibitions, will be exhibited at Women's Worlds 2011 in Ottawa.
Have an expression of your relationship with feminism shared with over 2,000 conference participants from across the world. Here's how:
We want to know what kind of relationship you have with feminism:
Are you in a long-term relationship?
Is it unrequited love?
A love triangle?
Do you have a crush on feminism?
Perhaps you are having a lovers’ quarrel?
Submissions to the exhibition should include:
An artwork/letter that has a maximum size of 8.5x11 inches.
Your name, mailing address, email address, and a short bio on a
separate page.
*Please include the appropriate extra postage inside your envelope if you want your work returned.
Maximum 3 works per person.
Deadline: June 30 2011
Work will be exhibited at Women’s Worlds 2011 Conference, Ottawa, July 3-7, 2011, and will join the Love Letters Collection for future and online exhibitions (unless you indicate otherwise)
Mail your love notes to:
Love Letters to Feminism
c/o Carolyn Jervis
10433 – 85 Avenue
Edmonton, AB, Canada
T6E 2K2
..."
Saturday, April 30, 2011
These are a few of my favourite things....
A totally brainless post for a totally brainless day -
1. Book (okay, had to separate this one up, b/c that's just too hard!)
fiction: Sula - Toni Morrison (with too many runner-ups to even mention)
nonfiction: Revolting Bodies - Kathleen Lebesco or maybe Brazen Femme - Chloe Brushwood Rose and Anna Camilleri
parenting: Bad Mother - Ayelet Waldeman
2. Poem
'Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing' - Margaret Atwood (from morning in the burned house)
3. Colour
Purple, maybe? Or Red. And sometimes pink. (Decisiveness has never ever been my strong suit).
4. Song (again - too hard. Favourite song this second ;)
'Locked Up' - Ingrid Michaelson
5. Car
Suzuki Sx4...but only in baby blue
6. Movie
The Princess Bride (followed closely by The Sound of Music, as this post's title will attest :)
7. Drink
Pinot Grigio's with pretty labels (yes, I'm a simple, simple girl)
8. Article of clothing (can't just have one. and have to include coordinating footwear. Issues).
Toss up between sundresses and flip flops, and well-fitting jeans paired with heels. Happy making.
9. Place
Tough one. Probably Halifax.
10. Place in Edmonton
Yet to be determined....open to suggestions for contenders ;)
11. Latte
London Fog or Vanilla Bean (very mood dependant, caffeine is)
12. Album (Too hard. Must have 2)
Everybody - Ingrid Michaelson
Hymns from the 49th Parallel - k.d. lang
13. Comfort food
Chocolate. Unequivocally.
1. Book (okay, had to separate this one up, b/c that's just too hard!)
fiction: Sula - Toni Morrison (with too many runner-ups to even mention)
nonfiction: Revolting Bodies - Kathleen Lebesco or maybe Brazen Femme - Chloe Brushwood Rose and Anna Camilleri
parenting: Bad Mother - Ayelet Waldeman
2. Poem
'Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing' - Margaret Atwood (from morning in the burned house)
3. Colour
Purple, maybe? Or Red. And sometimes pink. (Decisiveness has never ever been my strong suit).
4. Song (again - too hard. Favourite song this second ;)
'Locked Up' - Ingrid Michaelson
5. Car
Suzuki Sx4...but only in baby blue
6. Movie
The Princess Bride (followed closely by The Sound of Music, as this post's title will attest :)
7. Drink
Pinot Grigio's with pretty labels (yes, I'm a simple, simple girl)
8. Article of clothing (can't just have one. and have to include coordinating footwear. Issues).
Toss up between sundresses and flip flops, and well-fitting jeans paired with heels. Happy making.
9. Place
Tough one. Probably Halifax.
10. Place in Edmonton
Yet to be determined....open to suggestions for contenders ;)
11. Latte
London Fog or Vanilla Bean (very mood dependant, caffeine is)
12. Album (Too hard. Must have 2)
Everybody - Ingrid Michaelson
Hymns from the 49th Parallel - k.d. lang
13. Comfort food
Chocolate. Unequivocally.
Friday, April 29, 2011
I'm shrinking Gilbert...
Okay. So the 'blog for another day' in a nutshell. I'm used to being a fat person. I wrote a very wordy thesis full of fat-bodied, frisky theory about fat-bodied, frisky performers and the complexities and contradictions that arise between living and performing in fat bodies in a fat-loathing world. Being fat, presenting as an unruly, fat, frisky, fashion-lovin' girl and giving ye olde finger to the fat-hating world has been a big part of my identity for a significant chunk of my life.
Thing is, I'm not so fat anymore. I'm not thin and I'm not fat. (Fat-ish??) And to be clear from the outset, I am not (not, not, not) seeking or desiring of congratulations for this fact. The congratulations make me feel weird. And uncomfortable. I've lost 30 pounds in just under four months. For all kinds of good and all kinds of bad reasons (Yes. Bad reasons. Contrary to popular belief, weight loss doesn't necessarily equal goodness. Wild, right?) And if I knew someone who lost a big whack of weight in a short amount of time, my first response would be something along the lines of: Are you okay? What's going on?
I'm putting this out there for a few reasons. The first is this - out of habit- I keep referring to myself as 'fat'. And though lots of fat-phobes would still label me enormous, at my current size, I can access all kinds of things many fat-bodied folks cannot (like reasonably priced clothes and reasonably comfortable plane rides and not have to worry about fitting into seats in movie theatres and restaurants or losing out on jobs solely based on my body size.) I am less likely to have abuse hurled at me on the street because of my size. My doctor's likely still gonna hassle me (and right in the middle of the old pap test, just to make me feel extra comfy and bee-ooo-teee-fullll), but the fact remains that I have at my fingertips some of the business of thin-privilege. Uncharted waters for me. Very. But given that in my thesis, I gave someone a scolding for getting much thinner and still referring to herself as 'fat', I guess I'd better walk the walk. (Cause fat is a little bit contextual, and also a lotta bit about lived experiences of very visible otherness, often which lead to discrimination). So - whether or not my brain comprehends it or not, at the moment, this old body of mine isn't exactly 'fat'. (I'm sure it probably will be again - but for now - and again for a whole host of reasons, that would be both boring and extraneous to discuss, it's not).
And the other reason is: holy cow, are people ever talking about my body all of the sudden. All over the place. It is seriously weirding me out. I can't remember the last time I felt so on display. It's one thing to talk about this stuff with family and close friends, but even people I don't know are offering their two cents. Like a grandma of someone from Boy-o's class, who announced across the crowded room full of other parents: "You've lost SO MUCH weight! I've been watching you." Ack! And then my neighbour (good old drunk Joanie) passes by walking her dog, and whilst gardening with my ass unceremoniously in the air, similarly announces something about my smaller body size and how good it looks now. Sweet Jesus and Holy Crap that shit is some creepy. Why are you watching my body? Why? Why are you telling me you're watching my body? It's weird and creepy and all kinds of creepy-weird.
Now I'm not saying I'm against a little bit of gratifying objectification in the right context. (And um, preferably from my peers). You think I have a great ass? Fabulous. Tell me. Probably make my day. But in the context of a weight loss discussion, the body admiration just leaves me cold, cold, cold. (You'll get no love from me.) Partiularly because such bodily admirations in the aforementioned context do the backhanded compliment-y thing that I hate, hate, hate with a blood-curdling passion. There's an implicit (maybe even explicit) insinuation that I looked like shite before. I was hot before, goddamit. Fat-saucy-me-kinda hot. Moreover, the more weight comments I get, the more worried about my body I get, and the less hot I feel.
So. I guess what I'm trying to say is this - I'm shrinking. I know I'm shrinking. If you do happen to be watching my body, for whatever reason (with the noted exceptions above, naturally ;) - please don't stop me on the street to tell me about it.
Because it makes me feel like grade A Alberta beef.
And because no matter what my body looks like at a given time, I'm still gonna be flipping the birdy at, and being real mouthy about the ridiculousness of our fat-hating, body obsessed world.
Thing is, I'm not so fat anymore. I'm not thin and I'm not fat. (Fat-ish??) And to be clear from the outset, I am not (not, not, not) seeking or desiring of congratulations for this fact. The congratulations make me feel weird. And uncomfortable. I've lost 30 pounds in just under four months. For all kinds of good and all kinds of bad reasons (Yes. Bad reasons. Contrary to popular belief, weight loss doesn't necessarily equal goodness. Wild, right?) And if I knew someone who lost a big whack of weight in a short amount of time, my first response would be something along the lines of: Are you okay? What's going on?
I'm putting this out there for a few reasons. The first is this - out of habit- I keep referring to myself as 'fat'. And though lots of fat-phobes would still label me enormous, at my current size, I can access all kinds of things many fat-bodied folks cannot (like reasonably priced clothes and reasonably comfortable plane rides and not have to worry about fitting into seats in movie theatres and restaurants or losing out on jobs solely based on my body size.) I am less likely to have abuse hurled at me on the street because of my size. My doctor's likely still gonna hassle me (and right in the middle of the old pap test, just to make me feel extra comfy and bee-ooo-teee-fullll), but the fact remains that I have at my fingertips some of the business of thin-privilege. Uncharted waters for me. Very. But given that in my thesis, I gave someone a scolding for getting much thinner and still referring to herself as 'fat', I guess I'd better walk the walk. (Cause fat is a little bit contextual, and also a lotta bit about lived experiences of very visible otherness, often which lead to discrimination). So - whether or not my brain comprehends it or not, at the moment, this old body of mine isn't exactly 'fat'. (I'm sure it probably will be again - but for now - and again for a whole host of reasons, that would be both boring and extraneous to discuss, it's not).
And the other reason is: holy cow, are people ever talking about my body all of the sudden. All over the place. It is seriously weirding me out. I can't remember the last time I felt so on display. It's one thing to talk about this stuff with family and close friends, but even people I don't know are offering their two cents. Like a grandma of someone from Boy-o's class, who announced across the crowded room full of other parents: "You've lost SO MUCH weight! I've been watching you." Ack! And then my neighbour (good old drunk Joanie) passes by walking her dog, and whilst gardening with my ass unceremoniously in the air, similarly announces something about my smaller body size and how good it looks now. Sweet Jesus and Holy Crap that shit is some creepy. Why are you watching my body? Why? Why are you telling me you're watching my body? It's weird and creepy and all kinds of creepy-weird.
Now I'm not saying I'm against a little bit of gratifying objectification in the right context. (And um, preferably from my peers). You think I have a great ass? Fabulous. Tell me. Probably make my day. But in the context of a weight loss discussion, the body admiration just leaves me cold, cold, cold. (You'll get no love from me.) Partiularly because such bodily admirations in the aforementioned context do the backhanded compliment-y thing that I hate, hate, hate with a blood-curdling passion. There's an implicit (maybe even explicit) insinuation that I looked like shite before. I was hot before, goddamit. Fat-saucy-me-kinda hot. Moreover, the more weight comments I get, the more worried about my body I get, and the less hot I feel.
So. I guess what I'm trying to say is this - I'm shrinking. I know I'm shrinking. If you do happen to be watching my body, for whatever reason (with the noted exceptions above, naturally ;) - please don't stop me on the street to tell me about it.
Because it makes me feel like grade A Alberta beef.
And because no matter what my body looks like at a given time, I'm still gonna be flipping the birdy at, and being real mouthy about the ridiculousness of our fat-hating, body obsessed world.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Don't you know how lucky you are?
Oh I do. I really do. I really, really do.
Maybe, to some folks, it might sound as though I'm a whiner because when I'm having a hard time I put it out there, and because I'm kinda critical of the mothering machine. And I talk about the hard stuff. Okay - I talk about the hard stuff a lot. Possibly ad nauseum. Maybe I'm even a one trick pony. Anyhoo...
From time to time, someone actually finds the kahunas to ask me if I'm aware of how lucky I am to have these beautiful, amazing tots of mine. Not too often mind you, and generally in a sideways sort of manner, but the jist of the question remains. But more often than this (thankfully), I hear folks make insinuations and judgements that all kinds of other folks must just not appreciate how blessed they are to have children. (Do they even like children? They just complain so much, etc. etc.)
These questions and insinuations are 1. unfair, and 2. meant to silence. They are a part of a larger cultural atmosphere that makes it unacceptable for parents, and I'm talking mothers in particular here, to talk about the ambivalence, the anger, the dark and twisty bits (yes, I stole that directly from Grey's Anatomy) of parenthood. Because we are supposed to at all times present a script which proclaims 'I am so blessed to have procreated so marvelously and fabulously and am so darned fulfilled by it all.' (Or else keep our mouths shut). And should we deviate even for a moment from said script, a prompt (and often gooey) verbal atonement re-proclaiming our commitment to that script is required.
Now - as you may or may not already know - I'm fairly lousy at the business of shutting up. I'm mouthy. As Gaga would say (and Lord I hate that song) - I was born this a-way. And I'm apparently not so good at maintaining 'the good mother script' either. But, all things being equal, neither am I immune to the considerable and sometimes unrelenting pressure to atone for one's mothering transgressions and deviations from the script.
So here's the thing:
I am hugely aware of how lucky I am to have these little beings in my life.
Being a mother is the only thing I have ever been certain of wanting. And way back about another lifetime ago, when L. and I got together, (at the age of 23 years old - was I ever that young?), I let her know in no uncertain terms that children were a deal breaker for me. No babies, no me. Fortunately for both of us, she hopped on board. (I'm told I can be pretty persuasive :)
It took us a long, long, agonizingly long time to get pregnant with Boy-o. Two years of rollercoaster. Two years of hope. Two years of agony. Two years of living life in two week intervals, vascillating between hope and increasing desperation, sometimes despair. Two years of wanting to be happy for friends who started trying after and got pregnant before me, but not really being able to. Two years of fertility clinics and doctors poking at me and in me and fertility drugs and stupid acupuncturists who poked me with needles and gave me strange shit to drink and said things like: "Why plant the seed if the garden is barren?" (Oh yes. Yes, she did say that. And yes, yes I did cry all the way home.) Two years of listening to songs like this, that turned me into a mess of tears every time and yet totally unable to stop myself. Two years of waiting and hoping and imagining and making all kinds of bargains with the universe. Girlio's conception was half of that time, and more bearable, perhaps because we knew we'd been able to struggle through it once. But our desire for her, our wanting and hoping for her no less intense.
So yes. Yup. Uh-huh. I am acutely aware of how blessed I am. It is the awareness of how lucky I am, of how amazing the gifts are that my children bring to this world, and to me, that make me so hard on myself, so fearful of failing them, so reluctant to put myself first, so ashamed to admit that I need more.
And it is the combination of my awareness of how lucky I am, and of how damaging the script of 'good mothering is,' that make the aforementioned questions and insinuations so insanely frustrating. The 'script', and the cultural insistance on maternal perfection, is damaging. Like really, actually damaging. And when we hold ourselves up to the ideal mother, who does not exist; and correspondingly, when we hold others up to the ideal mother, we participate in the very thing that negates our real experiences and the complications and intricacies of our lives. We hold ourselves to ever increasingly impossible ideals and when we fail them (when, not if, because they are not, in fact, possible), our frustrations mount, our anxiety grows, we lose our shit a bit, and our parenting actually gets worse because of it. Enter vicious cycle.
So - I'm a bad mama. Possibly also a bad-ass mama. I'm a whiner and a complainer and besides all that - this shit continues to be hard. The most difficult, most challenging, most emotionally charged thing I've ever, ever done. Probably the most difficult, most emotionally charged thing I will ever do. Maybe it's this hard because I'm not cut out for it. Maybe it's this hard because it's actually just this hard. Doesn't matter. I'm gonna keep talking about that. And while I'm sharing with the world (read: my fab 48 followers ;) just how much of a stir-crazy, frazzled, emotionally-wonky, train-wreck this mama is sometimes - I'll stand firm in my belief that none of that will ever negate the fact that I am so fucking lucky to have these little people in my world.
Maybe, to some folks, it might sound as though I'm a whiner because when I'm having a hard time I put it out there, and because I'm kinda critical of the mothering machine. And I talk about the hard stuff. Okay - I talk about the hard stuff a lot. Possibly ad nauseum. Maybe I'm even a one trick pony. Anyhoo...
From time to time, someone actually finds the kahunas to ask me if I'm aware of how lucky I am to have these beautiful, amazing tots of mine. Not too often mind you, and generally in a sideways sort of manner, but the jist of the question remains. But more often than this (thankfully), I hear folks make insinuations and judgements that all kinds of other folks must just not appreciate how blessed they are to have children. (Do they even like children? They just complain so much, etc. etc.)
These questions and insinuations are 1. unfair, and 2. meant to silence. They are a part of a larger cultural atmosphere that makes it unacceptable for parents, and I'm talking mothers in particular here, to talk about the ambivalence, the anger, the dark and twisty bits (yes, I stole that directly from Grey's Anatomy) of parenthood. Because we are supposed to at all times present a script which proclaims 'I am so blessed to have procreated so marvelously and fabulously and am so darned fulfilled by it all.' (Or else keep our mouths shut). And should we deviate even for a moment from said script, a prompt (and often gooey) verbal atonement re-proclaiming our commitment to that script is required.
Now - as you may or may not already know - I'm fairly lousy at the business of shutting up. I'm mouthy. As Gaga would say (and Lord I hate that song) - I was born this a-way. And I'm apparently not so good at maintaining 'the good mother script' either. But, all things being equal, neither am I immune to the considerable and sometimes unrelenting pressure to atone for one's mothering transgressions and deviations from the script.
So here's the thing:
I am hugely aware of how lucky I am to have these little beings in my life.
Being a mother is the only thing I have ever been certain of wanting. And way back about another lifetime ago, when L. and I got together, (at the age of 23 years old - was I ever that young?), I let her know in no uncertain terms that children were a deal breaker for me. No babies, no me. Fortunately for both of us, she hopped on board. (I'm told I can be pretty persuasive :)
It took us a long, long, agonizingly long time to get pregnant with Boy-o. Two years of rollercoaster. Two years of hope. Two years of agony. Two years of living life in two week intervals, vascillating between hope and increasing desperation, sometimes despair. Two years of wanting to be happy for friends who started trying after and got pregnant before me, but not really being able to. Two years of fertility clinics and doctors poking at me and in me and fertility drugs and stupid acupuncturists who poked me with needles and gave me strange shit to drink and said things like: "Why plant the seed if the garden is barren?" (Oh yes. Yes, she did say that. And yes, yes I did cry all the way home.) Two years of listening to songs like this, that turned me into a mess of tears every time and yet totally unable to stop myself. Two years of waiting and hoping and imagining and making all kinds of bargains with the universe. Girlio's conception was half of that time, and more bearable, perhaps because we knew we'd been able to struggle through it once. But our desire for her, our wanting and hoping for her no less intense.
So yes. Yup. Uh-huh. I am acutely aware of how blessed I am. It is the awareness of how lucky I am, of how amazing the gifts are that my children bring to this world, and to me, that make me so hard on myself, so fearful of failing them, so reluctant to put myself first, so ashamed to admit that I need more.
And it is the combination of my awareness of how lucky I am, and of how damaging the script of 'good mothering is,' that make the aforementioned questions and insinuations so insanely frustrating. The 'script', and the cultural insistance on maternal perfection, is damaging. Like really, actually damaging. And when we hold ourselves up to the ideal mother, who does not exist; and correspondingly, when we hold others up to the ideal mother, we participate in the very thing that negates our real experiences and the complications and intricacies of our lives. We hold ourselves to ever increasingly impossible ideals and when we fail them (when, not if, because they are not, in fact, possible), our frustrations mount, our anxiety grows, we lose our shit a bit, and our parenting actually gets worse because of it. Enter vicious cycle.
So - I'm a bad mama. Possibly also a bad-ass mama. I'm a whiner and a complainer and besides all that - this shit continues to be hard. The most difficult, most challenging, most emotionally charged thing I've ever, ever done. Probably the most difficult, most emotionally charged thing I will ever do. Maybe it's this hard because I'm not cut out for it. Maybe it's this hard because it's actually just this hard. Doesn't matter. I'm gonna keep talking about that. And while I'm sharing with the world (read: my fab 48 followers ;) just how much of a stir-crazy, frazzled, emotionally-wonky, train-wreck this mama is sometimes - I'll stand firm in my belief that none of that will ever negate the fact that I am so fucking lucky to have these little people in my world.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
My blog, the musical - Part II: Songs that make me think of mothering
These songs are different in tenor than the last set. My feelings about my job as a mama are very different than my feelings about my gorgeous and amazing tots, I suppose. Anyhow - these are my mama songs. Some dark, some not.
House of Gold - Andy Stochansky
Joyful Girl - Ani Difranco
Mountain and the Sea - Ingrid Michaelson
Landslide - (any version, this one's Fleetwood) (Yes - I know this one is terribly predictable and makes it sound like I think I'm ancient. But it's a mama song through and through. And I love it. A lot.)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
House of Gold - Andy Stochansky
Joyful Girl - Ani Difranco
Mountain and the Sea - Ingrid Michaelson
Landslide - (any version, this one's Fleetwood) (Yes - I know this one is terribly predictable and makes it sound like I think I'm ancient. But it's a mama song through and through. And I love it. A lot.)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
My blog, the musical Part I... songs for my babies
Okay- so I'm departing slightly from my voice and rambling for a few days and doing a few musical numbers.... Be sure to stay tuned for tomorrow's edition - My Blog, the musical part II - The parenting songs, which are, um slightly less upbeat ;)
These are my top five songs that make my heart swell in kid love/mama pride.
Love is Simple - k.d. Lang
The Littlest Birds - The Be Good Tanya's
All This Beauty - The Weepies
Fix You - Coldplay
Fuckin' Perfect - P!nk
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
These are my top five songs that make my heart swell in kid love/mama pride.
Love is Simple - k.d. Lang
The Littlest Birds - The Be Good Tanya's
All This Beauty - The Weepies
Fix You - Coldplay
Fuckin' Perfect - P!nk
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
TODAYMoms - Want another bedtime story, sweetie? Here's one: 'Go the F@#k to Sleep'
http://moms.today.com/_news/2011/04/26/6534646-want-another-bedtime-story-sweetie-heres-one-go-the-fk-to-sleep?GT1=43001
Aha! Ahahaha!
I wonder if he could write a sequel entitled, "And stay asleep," followed close on the heels of "and stay in your own f#cking bed!"
Too good.
Aha! Ahahaha!
I wonder if he could write a sequel entitled, "And stay asleep," followed close on the heels of "and stay in your own f#cking bed!"
Too good.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Dear Universe
I am putting it out there. Out there, out there. No, I haven't been reading 'The Secret.' I'm just sort of hoping that if I put it out there (yes, out there, out there), I will squish all the insecurities that make me stay put and really get going to make it happen.
So - here it is. I want out. Well - a little bit out, anyways. Just enough to reclaim some of the formerly me of me.
I want - hmmmm - I think I want that old PhD. But because I didn't figure that out in time to actually apply for this year, it seems that I will have to chill for a year and want something a little different. (Insert repeated ass-kicking here).
So, dear Universe. How about a part-time job? Preferably sometime late this summer. One that lets me use my brain. And my skills which are of the general nerd/researcher/writer/project coordinator/sex-health educator/social service-y type variety. (Yes - I am aware that this is an odd variety. Anyhoo). And yes, one that pays me. And then I want a daycare. A wicked cool (accredited!) daycare that has amazing programming for Girlio, and possibly Boy-o, depending on the hours of said job.
And I want to go out more. (And not in that insipid 'mom's night out' business. What is with that term, anways Universe? We schlep shit and do shit-work and laundry and dishes and wipe noses and asses and for this get granted the occasional outing, dubbed 'moms' night out'? I freaking hate that term. Makes me twitchy.) Anyways, as I was discussing prior to losing myself in rant, I'd like to talk to my wife more (about topics sometimes of the non-child-rearing-variety). Talk to friends more (about topics sometimes of the non-child-rearing variety). Go to gallery opennings and bookstores and coffee shops and bars and river valley walks. This will require the discovery of a golden, reliable, lovely babysitter (who does not come up on the criminal record or child abuse registry checks, please!) for my beautiful, delightful (and sometimes exhausted) babes.
I know I'm asking a lot, Universe. I'm not asking for it to fall into my lap. I'm not asking for all at once. I'm not asking for perfection. I'll work for it. I've already started. I was just wondering if maybe you'd, you know, be willing to partner with me on a few things.
Because I think I might be worth it. It's just sometimes a little difficult to think of the reasons why these days.
Yours in gratitude,
Mama T
So - here it is. I want out. Well - a little bit out, anyways. Just enough to reclaim some of the formerly me of me.
I want - hmmmm - I think I want that old PhD. But because I didn't figure that out in time to actually apply for this year, it seems that I will have to chill for a year and want something a little different. (Insert repeated ass-kicking here).
So, dear Universe. How about a part-time job? Preferably sometime late this summer. One that lets me use my brain. And my skills which are of the general nerd/researcher/writer/project coordinator/sex-health educator/social service-y type variety. (Yes - I am aware that this is an odd variety. Anyhoo). And yes, one that pays me. And then I want a daycare. A wicked cool (accredited!) daycare that has amazing programming for Girlio, and possibly Boy-o, depending on the hours of said job.
And I want to go out more. (And not in that insipid 'mom's night out' business. What is with that term, anways Universe? We schlep shit and do shit-work and laundry and dishes and wipe noses and asses and for this get granted the occasional outing, dubbed 'moms' night out'? I freaking hate that term. Makes me twitchy.) Anyways, as I was discussing prior to losing myself in rant, I'd like to talk to my wife more (about topics sometimes of the non-child-rearing-variety). Talk to friends more (about topics sometimes of the non-child-rearing variety). Go to gallery opennings and bookstores and coffee shops and bars and river valley walks. This will require the discovery of a golden, reliable, lovely babysitter (who does not come up on the criminal record or child abuse registry checks, please!) for my beautiful, delightful (and sometimes exhausted) babes.
I know I'm asking a lot, Universe. I'm not asking for it to fall into my lap. I'm not asking for all at once. I'm not asking for perfection. I'll work for it. I've already started. I was just wondering if maybe you'd, you know, be willing to partner with me on a few things.
Because I think I might be worth it. It's just sometimes a little difficult to think of the reasons why these days.
Yours in gratitude,
Mama T
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A Clever Religion Post in honour of Easter
Now, you didn't think this post was going to be written by me, did you? Nope - religion isn't my strong suit. But I did stumble across this article on CNN.net by Michael Coogan, author of God and Sex: What the Bible Really Says, about the Bible and 'family values.' It was a refreshing take, I thought.
http://edition.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/10/26/coogan.bible.family.values/index.html?iref=obinsite
So - Happy Easter all (and I mean this in the most secular, cute-little-Easter-bunny-and-chocolate-kind-of-way).
http://edition.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/10/26/coogan.bible.family.values/index.html?iref=obinsite
So - Happy Easter all (and I mean this in the most secular, cute-little-Easter-bunny-and-chocolate-kind-of-way).
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Blog-xieties
What if:
...no one is reading?
...what if people are reading?
...I don't say the right things and the smart things?
...I really am alone out there?
...people think I'm a total idiot?
...people think I'm a total basketcase?
...I say too much?
...I don't say enough?
...I'm not political enough?
...I'm too political?
...I'm too queer?
...I'm not queer enough?
...someone gets mad?
...I have nothing to say?
...I have lots of things to say but I'm too chicken to say it?
...people think I'm the worst mother in the world?
What if ....
...no one is reading?
...what if people are reading?
...I don't say the right things and the smart things?
...I really am alone out there?
...people think I'm a total idiot?
...people think I'm a total basketcase?
...I say too much?
...I don't say enough?
...I'm not political enough?
...I'm too political?
...I'm too queer?
...I'm not queer enough?
...someone gets mad?
...I have nothing to say?
...I have lots of things to say but I'm too chicken to say it?
...people think I'm the worst mother in the world?
What if ....
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