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July 26th, 2010
First Published on Owning Pink 7/13/2010
Have you ever noticed how a high level of gratitude reinforces the very thing you are thankful for? In this shifting economy it is easy to be thankful for an income, the roof over your four supportive walls, a job that feeds AND inspires you, happy children, and good health. This alone can fill your meditative moments with buckets of gratitude. But what happens when you find heartfelt gratitude for something immeasurable? If a strong dose of inspiration springs into your life, and your consciousness of it triggers gratitude, will this spiral into greater amounts of inspiration?
Finding synchronicity on Craigslist
I’ve been slammed this year by a waterfall of synchronicity. It has become so common that I wake each day expecting to find a “coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related.” Expecting may be a big piece in this mysterious cycle. Now I’ve found it in the most unlikely of spots; synchronicity is pulling some serious strings on Craigslist, particularly within the free section. You assume you’ve signed onto the site in an effort of ditching your “unwanted” items in the easiest fashion known to man. What you’re really doing it putting in a calling card to fill another’s need. Tell me if it’s not so…
The first time I noticed it was two years ago when we were giving away an antique kids kitchen. It had been in my mother’s kindergarten classroom for eighteen years before she gifted it to my daughter. But my daughter (and son) had outgrown it and now it was time to find another child who would find charm in its wooden pulls and red painted burners. A child who would not feel jipped out of the modern, plastic, ringing contraption they sell at Costco.
If you’ve never sold anything on Craigslist you’re missing out on a social phenomenon. There’s an acceptable behavior surrounding this site that you will not find anywhere else. The motto of the free section is “Your Trash, My Treasure.” It doesn’t matter what you are discarding: a kid’s bike, a broken mower, a pile of sand — there are people driving small pickups waiting for it. It’s perfectly legit for these buyers to promise you that they are in their car, driving, on their way to pick up this thing they can no longer live without… and then never show. It is also perfectly acceptable for the seller to give their item to the first person who pulls into their driveway, even if they promised it to you yesterday. It’s free, so the expectations on both parties are low; kind of like a blind date at a food bank. It may take six or seven people “promising to come” before someone actually knocks on your door, but it’s the person who knocks you want to open your mind to.
And so arrives the day care owner
Leslie finally knocked on my door to relieve us of our 1970’s play kitchen. As we stuffed the thing into the back seat of her Corolla, she mentioned how much her “kids” are going to love it. Apparently her daughter has medical problems that prevent her from being accepted into a day care, so Leslie decided to start her own day care. She can’t afford to fill her living room with toys, so she’s living off of the “kindness” of Craigslist. We were so touched, a year later we brought her the matching table and chairs to the kitchen when our kids outgrew them.
The college roommates
The next item we posted on the site was an old desk that had lived long past its life expectancy, plus four years. I happen to spot Committed Buyer Twelve pulling into my driveway from my den window. She walked toward my open garage, saw the desk, than promptly turned to run, and I mean sprint, back to her car, threw it into gear and tore down the street. I guess she had higher expectations of FREE. But then Committed Caller Thirteen pulls up: three roommates who are starting their first year at UT. You know the gig — empty apartment, nothing but a card table, a mattress, a laptop and a crate of Ramon noodles. They couldn’t have been happier to have an oak desk, with a chair on rollers. So Synchro-intuitous Dude!
The Vietnamese interpreter
Now that I’m moving, I can really dedicate some time to Craigslist. Yesterday I gave away our pile of scraps: mismatched wood, leftover fencing, dowels, some PVC pipe. A family shows up with a pickup full of carpet pieces and other “goodies.” They’ve brought their nine year old son to interpret English to his Vietnamese parents. As they joyfully load the stuff we’ve been piling in the corner of our garage for seven years, I offer them the craft table I’m trying to sell, some pots I don’t want anymore, and two chairs I won’t need in the new place. I figure anyone who will drive across town for wood scraps will put a nice country table and chairs to use.
The foster parent verses the good Samaritan
Today I’m driving my heavy park bench to the corner of Shoal Creek and Hancock St. My first committed caller, Don, wanted to come get it but couldn’t make it (he’s adopting his two foster kids) while the second caller, Henry, is doing a “beautifying Austin” project for the city on his dollar and thought my park bench would be a great addition. So a foster parent and a good Samaritan are juggling to put my junk to a higher purpose. Luckily, I happen to be in a predicament where I have more than enough to give away. So now I’m taking — and this is not the way this is supposed to work, by the way — a box of outgrown toys to Don’s house and my old bench will become a seat for those who have biked one too many blocks. Synchronicity, how beautiful is thy name!
Gratitude for the mighty string pullers
I can’t help giggling as the events play out. Would it be fortuitous of me to post that love seat I’m tired of, the filing cabinet I’m too lazy to empty, my child’s hamster? I could wait to see who will end up knocking at my door needing something I no longer care for, with their perfect story and a car that is impossibly too small.
As I send my gratitude to the mighty string pullers above I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I became conscious of the beauty in my life, or kindness, or truth. What would I like to draw more of into my day? Do you think the Universe is much like mankind in that it appreciates being appreciated? That it will preen for those who have the eyes to take it in? What immeasurable quality are you drawing into your day? Would you mind if you had even more of it?
Tags: Craigslist, Femme Tales, gratitude, Monica Wilcox, Owning Pink
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July 19th, 2010
First Published on Owning Pink 7/15/2010
I would not call myself a sports enthusiast. My limited participation involves cold Sunday afternoons when I turn on a football game so that I can take a nap. It’s a comfort thing. There’s usually roast beast simmering in a fruity Pinot Noir in the oven, flakes of snow tumbling down outside the window, and me curled up on the couch. I turn the volume down low and doze to the sounds of whistles and that same cadence of the commentator’s voice that I’ve been hearing for the past thirty-some years (with the exception of Howard Cosell, of course).
“The Decision”
However, Thursday night I consciously tuned into ESPN (with the volume up) to watch (and hear) LeBron James make “The Decision.” You see, I’m from Cleveland, which is a city that has been on more Forbes.com “Worst Cities” lists than you can fathom: America’s Fastest-Dying City, America’s Most Miserable City, America’s Worst Winter Weather City… While I may not watch LeBron break records or win games each time he plays, I do have a vested interest in what he means to our city. Well, apparently… what he meant to our city.
For the first time, despite the opinions of Forbes.com, despite the biting chill of Lake Erie in winter time, I’m not happy to call Cleveland my home. Thursday night, as King James announced he would be heading to Miami, many Clevelanders sunk to an all-time low. Groups of “fans” burned his jersey, sent him messages on Facebook wishing for him to tear his ACL, break his legs, never win a championship — even (do I dare utter it) to die.
Fans?
A random smattering on LeBron’s Facebook page includes stuff like this:
“Burn in hell Lebron..hope your plane crashes…”
“lebron is a punk ass faggot good luck ever coming home you piece of shit…”
“HEIL HITLER.”
Awful, horrible stuff. And what could be worse than the words of hate? For me, it’s the misspelled words of hate. Apparently he’s a “trader” rather than a “traitor.” Or there’s this little gem:
“Wtf His Name Aint Lebron its LeBum Lmao & Yo Momma Only Wantedd To Go To Miami So Wade Kan Hit Dumb Ass JUs Like Delonte !! and Yall Dumb Wade Aint Bouta Let Dis Poop Ass Niqqa Take Ova His City Kum on now Be Forreal Dhat Shidd Krazyy !! no Lonqerr a Fan! f-ck yuh lol.”
English and grammar aside, even Dan Gilbert (owner of the Cavs) is shaming our city:
“The self-declared former ‘King’ will be taking the ‘curse’ with him down south. And until he does ‘right’ by Cleveland and Ohio, James (and the town where he plays) will unfortunately own this dreaded spell and bad karma.”
What is this an off-off-off Broadway version of The Color Purple? I can picture Dan Gilbert in the back of a yellow 1935 Studebaker with his fingers raised in a sort of curse toward the King.
I’ve been there
The thing is, I relate to LeBron. Not because I can play basketball (though I played a mean game of H-O-R-S-E in the hot summer sun with my step-father when I was twelve), but because on a very minuscule level I’ve experienced this same thing; I once left my home, my family, and my “fans” to follow my dream. While there wasn’t a picture of me the size of a large building in my hometown, I experienced a couple of folks wishing me well but the majority of my “fans” were hurt, and some even hated my guts. Most just couldn’t understand why I would leave a good marriage, my family, them.
I wholeheartedly admit I did have a good life there. I was married to a wonderful guy for ten years. I was surrounded by family and we spent most holidays and weekends playing cards, barbequing, and enjoying each other. I had finally positioned myself so that I could work on my novel full time and not have to work. I had friends, some of whom I’d stayed in contact with since high school. The rub: I was completely unhappy and unfulfilled.
Cleveland rocks
I belonged to an online book club community and we set up a reunion in Ohio. I had been to Cleveland in 1997 to meet these lovely ladies but for some reason I hadn’t fallen in love with the city. In 2002 I did. I felt so alive here, like all signs were pointing me to this place. Never before had I met a city so full of life, so full of fun, and so full of friendly people. I remember the exact moment that this love overtook me. I was in the bathroom at a bar, “Hang on Sloopy” blaring from the speakers, and three girls were standing in front of the mirror primping and having a typical girl’s bathroom conversation. I chimed in at some point and was instantly embraced into their chat. We exchanged phone numbers and I left the bathroom dazed. Growing up in the Western United States this sort of thing just didn’t happen, or at least not to me. Western girls are more reserved, and frankly not very friendly, and if I had piped up to a group of girls in a bar restroom in Utah (assuming there are girls in the bars in Utah) I would have been met with glaring stares. But it wasn’t just this one incident. I felt alive in this city, I felt a pull that I’d never felt before.
In listening to my heart, and my gut, I devastated a lot of people. I hurt my husband (though he is happy and understands now how he never would have met his current wife and had two beautiful children had he stayed with me). I hurt my family. I hurt my friends. But had I chosen to ignore the signs and stay in my unhappy existence, I imagine a part of me would have died. I don’t mean that in the melodramatic way, like I would have lost a limb to gangrene. What I mean is that to give up the calling which I had felt so strongly, to give up my dreams, a piece of my insides would have had to languish and I would have chosen a life of merely existing, rather than fully living.
Mirror, Mirror
This city’s anger toward LeBron causes me to wonder if all of these fans are really just angry with themselves. Pissed because they’ve never had the courage to do whatever it takes to follow their dreams. They’ve never had to disappoint someone in order to be true to themselves. In an interview with Kate Northrup, Owning Pink’s very own Lissa Rankin said something that really struck a chord in me: whether folks like you or hate you, it doesn’t matter — you’re holding up a mirror to them in which they see their own reflection. If someone doesn’t like you or your decisions then what’s really going on is they don’t like what they see in themselves when they look in your mirror.
For all of the hundreds of people I know who have uttered the phrase to me, “I need to get the f-ck out of Cleveland” – I wonder if they are some of the folks hating on LeBron. I wonder if the reflection they see in King James’s mirror is one of themselves not following their own dreams and giving in to what everyone else demands from them.
The Break-Up
Or maybe it’s just simply that it feels like breaking up with your first true love. I relate to this too. I remember my first love. Shortly after we broke up he drove past my house over and over for days until finally he threw all of “our stuff” onto the side of the road. I was so much more mature than he was and went out to gather prom pictures, love notes, and all those little “first love” gifts which littered the road, crying so hard I could barely see… then promptly drove these cherished items two towns over to his house and littered his lawn with our sullied momentos. As they take down the larger-than-life sign of LeBron, that’s what I imagine — a city that has lost its first love.
Tags: Cleveland, Femme Tales, Following Dreams, LeBron James, Melanie Bates, Owning Pink
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July 12th, 2010
This spring I was diagnosed with skin cancer. This was not a big surprise since I’ve been financially supporting my dermatologist throughout the recession. Three years ago I asked her if I was one of those just asking for a case of skin cancer, she looked at me with that ‘some questions are too dumb to ask’ look and said, “Pretty much.” I’d love to blame it on exotic weekends climbing the worlds peaks, or a college stint as a beach lifeguard in that infamous red swimsuit, or the green glow of a tanning bed in my guest bedroom. But alas, the fault lies in my Irish genes, a few nasty childhood burns, and parents who thought sunscreen was applied after you were fried through.
It’s a regular summer day in Texas; hot enough to burn the calluses off your feet, humid enough to curl dandelion stems. I should be thrilled to be “medically restricted” indoors with the hum of my air conditioner, the shade of my roof, and piles of paperwork on my desk. Instead, I’m eyeing my fellow creatures with a new set of eyes.
My fuzzy beagle is stretched across the carpet in the long rectangle of sunlight pouring through the window. Apparently four hours of direct sunlight in the backyard this morning wasn’t enough for her. Outside I watch a squirrel lying across my railing, belly to the wood, sunning. Beyond it, off in the background, are four turtles clustered on a rock near the pond; sunning. My neighbors have beached their winter white bellies at the edge of their pool; sunning.
If you want a challenge, try staying “out of the sun” when your child is a member of a year-round swim team. Try avoiding the rays at the neighborhood pool while attempting to look sociable. Nothing says “sit and chat with me” like a woman huddled in the shade, lounging in a tightly-woven full sleeve shirt, pants, and an oversized hat. Why I’m wearing enough sunscreen I could be blocking for the Saints. I no longer need a swimsuit, I need a full bodysuit.
Now that I am sentenced to lifelong pastiness, I can’t help envying every creature lounging long hours in the light without a concern for oddly shaped moles. Is there something more to this than a “warming of the blood”? Am I missing more than ultraviolet damage to my genetic code?
Obviously my beagle doesn’t need Einstein to tell her sunlight has energy. What if “sunning” triggers a transfer of energy beyond heating and the creation of vitamin D? Could it be a chemical or spiritual recharge of some sort? After thousands of years in the light doesn’t it make sense that mankind needs the light more than he needs a cave?
What would fifteen minutes of sun a day do for our health? We fall out of bed and into our “solar spa”. As we lay back in, close our eyes and put our face to the sun (yes, that great glowing enemy to flawless skin) to soak in energy, to luxuriate in the feeling of cholesterol being transformed into vitamin D, would we ease into a smoother, less stressful day. Would we still crave caffeine, chocolate, sugar, hot freshly-baked baguettes? Maybe I’d find myself needing less sleep, less food, less hassle, less yelling. If time spent in the sun is so unhealthy why is every living creature within sight doing it?
Interestingly enough recent research has come out saying sun exposure helps fight seventeen different types of cancer. How crazy would that be to find that a lack of sun is actually contributing to my body’s inability to control sick skin cells? Shouldn’t we consider how the removal of any natural element may impact our mind and spirit? Maybe what I need is some wise maintenance versus all out avoidance. Maybe I should spend my afternoon curled up with my beagle enjoying an afternoon sun-nap.
Tags: Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, skin cancer, sun, sun tanning
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July 5th, 2010
Photo “Rebirth” Leslie Jackson
First Published on Owning Pink 6/28/2010
Also Published on BlogHer 7/5/2010
Before you go running for the antibacterial wipes I just want to let you know that I’m not contagious. What I have is not catching. What I’m about to relay will not travel through your computer’s innards as a deadly Trojan virus or spread through the air like an uncovered sneeze. It’s called stage IV endometriosis and according to the information traffic jam, over 70 million women around the world live with it every day and, I’m guessing another 50 million or so women don’t even know they have it. Those women are probably lying on the bathroom floor right now, gritting their teeth, clutching their wombs while saying, “What the Fuck!?” and praying for the strength to live through the next couple of days.
So what is endometriosis?
I usually tell people, strictly out of exhaustion, that it’s a “girlie” disease. This comes from being raised in a household where you don’t talk about stuff like this. If by some circumstance of extreme horror a particularly cute boy asks, I worry that he thinks I have funky bacteria of the hoo-ha and imagine him running home to Google. A medical professional might say something resembling a foreign language like, “endometriosis is a disease in which the lining of the uterus grows outside of the uterus so that when one menstruates this displaced tissue bleeds as well, but has nowhere to go, thereby causing pain, infertility and various other problems.”
That is, when it’s been diagnosed. Unfortunately there is no diagnosis without actually opening ‘er up and going in by laser, chunky dagger, or perhaps heading up there with an extraordinarily long tube the length and width of an elephant’s trunk. Those of us who have been diagnosed would describe it by asking you to imagine the worst pain you’ve ever felt multiplied by 108. We sufferers would not say, “endometrium lining has moved into our bowels.” We would say, “I think I might shit my pants at any moment,” or, “my anus is falling out.” Those of us “blessed” by it would NOT say, “endometriosis causes painful intercourse.” Rather we would calmly ask our partners to “put that thing back immediately,” or say, “I’ve made up the bed in the guest room.”
For me, endometriosis pain is the kind of pain that hunches you over, makes you nauseous, causes sweat to bead on your upper lip, and forces you to bed. Frankly, pain is difficult to describe, and when people ask what it feels like, I tell them to imagine a three inch tall Benihana griddle chef. Yeah, that’s right, and this knife wielding guru is standing there at the prep station in his white toque, with a red kerchief tied around his neck, and he has my ovary, fallopian tube, uterus, <insert pained womanly part here> pulsating in front of him and he’s poking, stabbing, slicing, dicing, said part before squeezing it dry and placing it on the scalding hot grill where it proceeds to sizzle and pop. To say one suffers from endometriosis is to say “Oh, I stubbed my toe.” So let’s just say I’ve been stubbing my toe for the past twelve years.
Broaching the topic
Before we venture further, I think it’s important to address the fact that few people want to hear that you’re sick, period. It makes people extremely uncomfortable and I’ve seen people act against their normal compassionate nature when talking about illness of any kind. Some folks gloss over it and pretend they didn’t hear you, others rapidly change the subject, and still others will actually cut you off and physically step away. I’ve come to the realization that we’re not so far removed from animals in this regard. Weed out the weakest, the sick, leave them to die, hunt them down and put them out of their misery. Not to mention that our society doesn’t look kindly upon weakness of any kind. So imagine adding the terms: vagina, blood, uterus, and cramps to the equation, you’re pretty much pushing people beyond their limits to cope. It’s better that I don’t say a word, or that I just pretend that I have the H1N1 virus.
I find that most people with disease-riddled organs aren’t keen on talking about them anyway. I know that I’m not constantly talking about my illness either, there aren’t many people who know I have it, and I certainly don’t enjoy sharing the details. Though, with head dipped in shame, I admit that once in a great while it would be nice to have someone understand and listen without performing the fifty mile dash in twenty seconds.
Salt in the gaping wound
With the bitterest of irony all of the fun events in my life seem to fall on the days I’m in the most severe pain. I’ve missed countless birthday parties, concerts, dinners with friends, you name it. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I want to say (but can’t), “I’m massed up in a ball with a 700 Kelvin heating pad on my shriveled ovary popping a combo of Aleve, Excedrin, and Bayer.”
Oh, and that’s right, I said “ovary,” not “ovaries.” I’ve already lost one along with what I imagine was quite a beautiful little fallopian tube. I wonder where they are now? Did the nurse flush them like I flushed my first beloved deceased African Dwarf Frog? Were there any words uttered? Or did they end up in a lab somewhere floating in formaldehyde with a bunch of pre-med students sitting around munching bags of Cheetos and analyzing the state of my diseased organs? I can hear the professor now, as she pushes her glasses up past the bridge of her nose, saying, “this specimen belonged to a thirty-year-old Caucasian. Notice the massive amounts of endometriosis covering the ovary. Both the ovary and fallopian tube were encased in a 12 cm cyst and these organs were attached to the patient’s pelvic wall when the cyst ruptured. In other words, what we have class, is a big mess.”
Hope?
All hope is not lost, however, there are options for someone like me. When I lived in Utah (or what I like to call “The Land of Seven Million Children Riding in Mini-Vans”), I was advised by one family doctor to become pregnant in order to treat my endometriosis. He explained that after giving birth I would need to breast feed in order to continue ceasing my menses, and that if I quickly became pregnant again after my bout of breast feeding, I could continue this cycle of birth, feeding, birth, feeding and, twenty-six children later, I would be in menopause (or the grave), and I would have won my battle with endometriosis (but not my sanity)!
Then there was the doctor at the Cleveland Clinic who did not examine me, but rather stood back and chatted with me as I sat in a crinkled paper robe with a draft tickling my ass. She advised me to take Lupron, explaining that it’s only $500 per month, per shot, and that there is a possibility it may help. She also reassured me that I may gain forty plus pounds, and, as I read about Lupron later while fully clothed, there’s a high probability that it might cause in me a fervent desire to commit suicide.
Another person leavened my hope by telling me I could just have the whole she-bang blown up. Ablation, I think it’s called. Doesn’t that sound awesome? Total annihilation! I imagine it’s like an atomic bomb going off in my uterus, the mushroom cloud billowing and turning everything to dust. I can’t help but wonder where that dust goes. Do they sweep it out before they close you up or does it turn to a mantle of sedentary mud steps leading out of my vagina?
Let’s not forget the beloved hysterectomy – a procedure some two-thirds of the female population undergoes, even when it’s not necessary. Lastly, there are the two laparotomies I’ve already had which, as you can plainly see, did wonders. I’ve convinced myself that cesearan section scars are all the rage during bikini season – and the scarring is totally worth the fact that I was pain free for three whole months.
The creative center?
I do realize that sooner or later something needs to be done and frankly I’m torn. If I go for the Atomic Womb Bomb would they be cremating the center of my creative energy? And since I consider the womb to be the center of creativity will I still be able to write? To create? Or will I be an empty shell that has just obliterated her mojo walking around hollow and listless, not quite a woman?
I’ve resolved myself to the fact that I can’t have kids. This condition’s “symptom” is infertility. I’m fine with that. I’ve just always figured that because God decided I couldn’t create a child He figured He’d give me the ability to create in my writing. I happen to believe that there is a connection between mind, body, and spirit, and ponder whether these organs are vital to my ability to create, to birth my best seller. If I rip them out, blow them up — if I gain forty plus pounds and try to hang myself in my walk-in closet — am I then ripping up the pages I’d write on, blowing up the words inside me that are waiting to be born? And maybe, just maybe, I’m semi-attached to my shriveled lone ovary that works so diligently to keep on trucking those hormones down the line so I don’t become a raving-low-on-estrogen-Converse-wearing-serial-killer.
The latest chapter
Though my decision went unmade and my thought process went on jumbled, I recently went in for a vaginal ultrasound, and a shiny new doctor. One outpatient laparoscopy, a hospital stay, four incisions and the loss of about a Coke can’s worth of blood later, it turned out that my loverly little fallopian tube was the culprit this time – instead of being the size of a string of spaghetti, it was the size of a large naval orange.
I’m tubeless now and coming down from a heavy bout with narcotics (which is another article in itself), but I’m on the mend and praying every day that my spring cleaned uterus and lone right ovary will be enough for me to create.
Tags: creating, endometriosis, Femme Tales, Melanie Bates
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June 29th, 2010
 When we came across their huddled masses a second time we knew a natural ritual was at hand. Each spring the daddy longlegs in the hill country forest of Central Texas cluster under man-made benches and rock ledges; a gathering of stringy legs and wee bodies. They gently sway, as one, to a song we could not hear.
My daughter convinces one to scurry onto her palm before she transfers it to my shirt. She knows I was terrified of spiders as a child, except for the daddy longlegs who clung to the black bricks on the outside of my house. This one climbs into my armpit looking for another shaded place to gather with its buddies.
“Can we take it home mom? I’ll hold him the whole way.” She promises. The drive is a little more than an hour…in a mini-van…with more nooks and crannies than an antique shop.
“And if you lose it you know it will die.” I say obviously excited by the idea of finding skeletal spider remains in the glove box.
“Aaaah Mom! I’ll find it if I drop him.”
“And how would you feel if some giant came along, grabbed you up, and hauled you away in a rag tag Mazda spaceship? How would you like to be snatched up at your reunion?”
My son pipes in, “Well that’s what you’re doing to us. You’re moving us away from our friends to the other side of the world (the far, far away land of California).” He’d make an exceptional color commentator when he grows up since he’s learned the fine art of filling the conversation with his vast personal experience. He’s a regular expert at refocusing my “educational moments” to the injustices of being seven.
I attempt to lighten the conversation with parental humor. “The difference is no one will suck your dead, curled up body off the car mat with a shop vac once we arrive.”
My daughter shares a look of deep empathy with her brother. “Let’s leave him. At least he’ll always be with his friends,” she says, gently returning him back to his arachnid social. She’s been struggling for three years to strip the southern slang from her spelling (thay, manee, shur ) but she’s getting pretty good at smothering her parent’s conscience with a thick layer of guilt frosting.
Taking a risk in life is always difficult for an individual. It’s a steeper slope when you’re a couple trying to balance what is best for two people pursuing their own dreams. But where do you begin with a family of four; two of which are arguably too young to vote?
My husband and I learned early in our marriage that if one of us was unhappy in some aspect of our personal life it was very difficult for the marriage to be happy. How do you know if a major change that looks ideal for one person will be positive for the other? If one person’s joy comes at the cost of another’s misery will we end up in a different city but on the same unsteady ground?
While we’re making this move for my husband’s career (therefore our family’s security and livelihood) our children may be thrown into a school that is not as successful, a community that is not as welcoming. Maybe three of us will find a more fulfilling life while the fourth will be thrown into melancholy. What if the unhappy one turned out to be my husband? How could we feel true glee as a unit? Unintentional pain can be a difficult outcome to live with.
Barbara Winter says, “Faith is knowing one of two things will happen: there will be something solid to stand on or you will be taught how to fly.” Taking personal risk is an act of faith. When the scope of life stretches beyond the horizon, into places I can not fathom, my best option is to turn it over to a higher power; trusting in where we are being drawn, that our family bond is strong enough to support one another through the difficult periods (which will come no matter where we reside), that our relationships will be stronger for having done this move together. I would rather teach my kids that it is possible to survive a risky change which will allow them to swap out their fear of change for a solid dose of confidence.
My children are too wise and don’t mind me dancing around the truth, “Okay, we can take Mr. Longlegs on a minivan adventure. He might like our deck as much as this bench, maybe even better, or he may hate it, but I think he’d like it better if you took a few of his friends along. It’s always easier to do something new if you’re not alone…if you get to do it together.”
“Alright,” My son concedes, “but then I’m taking this cactus home too? It’s loaded with a pack of ants. That way if we do lose the spiders we can sick the ants on them.” Looks like I’ll be putting my shop vac to good use anyway.
Tags: Femme Tales, leap of faith, Monica Wilcox, moving your family
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June 25th, 2010
This morning, just like every morning, I stumbled to my coffee pot to prepare a large carafe of caffeine. I laid my head on the counter for seven minutes as it brewed, poured myself a large cup, threw in a couple heaping spoons of hot cocoa mix, and walked back to my computer to peruse my social media – the only thing I can handle before at least two cups of my brown solace. The first thing I read went something like this, “I was late for work again, FML.”
“FML.” Really? Over being late you’re going to tell the universe to F*)# your life? I’ve been seeing this phrase a lot lately and I have to say I take serious issue with it. I’m just fine with a bit of WTF? I WTF? all over the place. But IMHO saying FML is causing some serious damage when our thoughts create our reality.
What’s worse is that this little code phrase is usually uttered over the most trivial things. “I got a speeding ticket, FML,” or, “It’s raining, FML,” Or… “my pinkie toe is too small to paint, FML.” There’s even a website called FmyLife.com. A place where people tell the universe to royally screw their lives every day because they forgot to buy milk or they dropped their razor in the shower.
Admittedly, some of these are funny: “Today, I brought my son to work with me. I wasn’t paying attention until I heard my boss tell me to get my child. Turns out my sneaky son likes to take my tampons and play the drums with them on my boss’s desk… during a meeting. FML.” These little snippets are all categorized under the heading, “I agree, your life sucks.” Personally I don’t think I’d want to jinx my future existence over a few plastic tampon applicators. In a related incident I did something similar as a toddler during one of my mom’s dinner parties. I came out with ten Tampax cardboard applicators fixed over my fingers and asked her guests to, “look at my bootiful fingernails.” Somehow I don’t imagine my mom saying FML over it, and TG (Thank God) because her life might have turned out a whole lot different.
Do you suppose these folks think the universe doesn’t understand this coded language? Do they think they’re being sneaky? I don’t think so. I imagine, on any given day, when you start out with a small FML you end up having a whole lot of instances where that acronym might actually apply. And I must say I’d hate to meet the person who first coined that little tidbit as I imagine there’s a MSC (Major Shit Cloud) floating above his/her head.
There is, however, a website I’d rather visit regularly. It’s called LmyLife.com. Here’s a site I can get behind with it’s tag line, “Because life is awesome.” That’s the kind of message I want to send out to a Universe that is listening intently.
I have yet to wrap my head around all of these new fangled abbreviations. ”FTW” – with all it’s ambiguity can either mean, “For the win” or “F(#^ the World.” Which would you rather say? I’d prefer the former. In fact, after writing this article, I feel the need to wash my brain out with soap, just in case.
Tags: Femme Tales, FML, FTW, LML, Melanie Bates, WTF?
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June 13th, 2010
 Can you be married and still be considered independent? If you were at a cocktail party and someone said, “Her husband is so independent,” would you consider it a compliment or would you think something must be missing in the marriage? What if the same reference was made about the wife?
Throughout my marriage I’ve made it a point to maintain my independence. I do a solid chunk of the mowing, edging, trimming, cooking, cleaning, laundry and all of the Christmas decorating. I’ve done the bills often enough to know where the money is going, fought the tax assessors office on our property value, and planned our vacations. I strive to NEED my husband as little as possible so I have plenty of room to WANT him.
This is well and good until the DVR breaks. I’ve struggled enough with broken computers and cable boxes to appreciate that there are a number of areas in our household that are better left to my husband. I don’t need him to manage the hardware and software in our home, but doing so has saved us regular visits from the Geek Squad. But after seventeen years of marriage, no matter how I fight it, I still can’t walk into an auto mechanic shop without my independence sliding off my shoulders onto their greasy door mat.
Do mechanics feel a moral obligation to swindle every woman who enters their shop? This behavior is so chronic I’m beginning to suspect it’s been written into the by-laws of their union, “Thou shall reap the leather clutch with doctored numbers and falsifications.” In twenty years of car ownership (and a greater number of working garages) I have yet to get a basic oil change without an extensive list of “recommendations”. Who knew my van had all this crap stashed under the hood: cylinoide, flywheels, rockers, manifolds, tie rods, pitman arm, ball joints, sway bars and thrust arms. (The auto parts list sounds as if it should be rated R! Obviously a woman was never asked to name these vital mechanical organs.) They assure me if I don’t act now my van may explode into a ball of fire as I drive home from soccer practice.
This sexual discrimination has become so standard that my husband and I no longer mind being scammed; we’ve adapted our own little system around it. I get the extensive list (funny how they never call my husband’s cell first) so I can call him to go over the $3200 tally, he scoffs, rants on about being robbed for a few moments, then calls the mechanic to discuss the “recommendations”. Suddenly these numbers start fading off the paper in smoke and colored lights. “Oh you’re right, Mr. Wilcox! We did replace that second bank just last fall. Well I suppose you could get by another year with the water hose you have. I’m not even sure why we put that catalytic converter on there; must have been a typo.” With a little testosterone magic, our bill comes down to $330, plus tax.
I’ve tried to find somewhere in our society where I could switch the tables. I’d like to send Mr. Wilcox in to do some of the “family business” only to return completely belittled and taken advantage of in his masculine naivety. The closest I can come, sorry to say, would be a trip into Victoria’s Secret for the purchase of my under things, because as every woman knows there’s more to a bra than cup and circumference. The bra market has got a few vital material organs of its own; “Honey, could you pick me up a 32 D, demi, slightly padded, razorback with full support, underwire and a thick strap?” I imagine him helplessly lost in racks of delicates before an associate swoops in for the kill. He won’t get out of the store without an armful of pretty-little-some-things wrapped up in pink tissue and gold seals. It won’t run him $3000 but he may lose a few hundred.
My amusement in this scenario only lasts until I remember the men I’ve seen stepping into Victoria’s Secret. They don’t strike me as unfortunate souls being stripped of their independence, more like blessed creatures stumbling into a lacy fantasy. Some of them stand in the entryway debating if they should start howling or exit for the closest confessional? It appears there’s nowhere a man can experience the sexual belittling I’m continually subjected to by the local mechanic.
If I want to feel independent in the maintenance of our autos, I’m going to have to get some professional training so when the next guy tells me the lines to the gasket are stripped I’ll give him my girlish smile and ask “When’s the last time you looked under a hood? Since when did they put lines to the gasket?” Or…maybe I’ll admit to needing my husband on this one.
Tags: Auto Mechanics, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, scams, Victoria's Secret
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June 9th, 2010
I’m a storyteller. I tell stories. Recently, however, I’ve been thinking about a different type of tale; the one I’m telling myself daily about me and my life. This got me to thinking. Am I in a comedy or a tragedy; a fairy tale or a mystery? And like my fiction writing, do I have some semblance of control over setting, plot, characterization, pacing, and theme?
First of all, let’s meet the protagonist of my story: me. After the required number of years of self-doubt I’m finally coming into myself and have discovered that I’m a pretty great character. I’m compassionate and caring. I’m fiercely loyal. I’m an avid listener. While a bit of a loner, I do shower every so often and leave my apartment to forage for food. I try to pay attention to the universe and when attacked by a red-winged blackbird I try to figure out what it’s trying to tell me. I can be selfish when it comes to living my best life and I’ve learned to say no – to disappoint others in an effort to be true to myself. I’m a girl who will leave her home and her family to move three thousand miles away when I feel the nudge from my Creator. I hate broccoli. I enjoyed diving out of a plane.
There are antagonists in my story as well, though I’ve realized that every great read must have well developed villains and, in fact, in order to fully develop a villain they must be well-rounded – meaning they are never completely evil. (Though my dealings with the folks at Time Warner Cable tell me otherwise.) These antagonists make my story interesting, they challenge me. We spar. Like all good writers I try to see the story from their vantage point. Sometimes I fail.
Somewhere in my story there is a love interest, though he hasn’t introduced himself yet. I imagine he’s in China, perhaps reading in a pagoda or climbing thousands of steps to visit a beautiful shrine. He’s an adventurer, loves to travel, is rather breathtakingly handsome, and aside from his wonderful sense of humor, his best quality is his loyalty. I’m not sure when he’ll be trekking to Cleveland but hopefully it will be before my breasts have taken up residency under my armpits and I’m continually waxing my upper lip.
My story is set in Cleveland, Ohio, a place which has appeared on numerous Forbes.com lists, including: America’s Fastest-Dying Cities, America’s Most Miserable Cities, and America’s Worst Winter Weather Cities. What Forbes can not fathom is that, while these are indeed tough times in the Midwest, and, yes, it’s colder than Sam McGee’s icy tomb in the winter, we have some of the friendliest and most hearty people in all of the states – adversity builds character. Alas, the opinion of Forbes.com is an essay for another time, suffice it to say that since Forbes isn’t housed here they’re not particularly well-equipped to write Cleveland, but for me this city is just another well-rounded and interesting character in my story.
I’ve just recently closed a chapter on a three year relationship. With all of the ups and downs inherent in every partnering you expend a certain amount of energy giving to that significant other and many of my friends have assumed that I’m now suffering from depression. For a few days I wrote that tragedy. I put pen to paper in my mind and looked at my symptoms, thought about my actions, or in-action, and mentally continued along that plot line. Then it hit me; I can’t let other people write my story. There are some really bad writers out there, there are folks that couldn’t weave a plot line to save their lives. I realized that I’m not depressed. Rather I imagine that I’m like a tanker-truck, docked at the refinery, being re-fueled, washed, pressures gauged; you get the picture. Does this mean I need a scrip for Prozac? I don’t think so. While it might make for an interesting storyline – me on anti-depressants, I can imagine much better story arcs than that one. And… this is my story, I’m writing it.
We are all storytellers and I’m curious, what kind of story are you telling yourself?
Published as “The Stories We Tell About Ourselves” on Owning Pink 6/10/2010
Tags: Femme Tales, Forbes.com, Melanie Bates, Storytellers
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May 31st, 2010
When I was 10, the best day of my life was the first day of summer. I woke that day to the foreign silence of parental distance. I’d never experienced a morning without someone yelling “Breakfast!” or “Do you know what a comb is?” much less “Feed your rabbits before I make dinner plans outta them.” My mother finally showed up at my bedroom door to offer some guidance, “Get your breakfast whenever you feel like it, honey.”
The sweet taste of liberation smothered the metallic morning breath of my braces. I had a banana seat bike to roam my ten mile home turf, a sewage creek running to the east, busy train tracks to the south, Peppy’s Junk Yard to the west and a Tasty Freeze up top. It was 1980, over-scheduling was done in doctor’s offices, camps were for criminals pounding rocks, and playdate was a word that had not been compounded yet. My mission: work myself into a grand state of boredom and discover how delicious it was.
All of that ended on the first day of summer in my 15th year. My alarm clock went off and I realized “I’m employed now!” Schweet-o-rama?!? But putting on that orange striped Speedy’s Pizza uniform felt like I’d scrubbed the color out of my lazy summer dreams. As I grieved the passing of my first summer love, Mr. Boredom, my mind offered up this little tidbit; don’t worry; you’ll doze through a summer again, in 2040. But instead of riding your bike through musky culverts, you’ll sit on some porch with your waistband around your nipples and contemplate the state of the weather. That’s pretty dark material for any 15 year old to swallow. From then on, my summers were air conditioned days of labor, wishing I was outside charging the neighbor kids a quarter to watch my pet crawdad have it out with a bucket load of garter snakes.
Now I’m a mother with two school age kids whose school year is as booked as a mammogram clinic. Last year my nine year old woke on that first summer day at 7 a.m., her freedom cycle full upon her, and asked when our carpooling would commence. “I’m seriously BORED!” she cried, as if “nothing to do” equaled mental illness. Great! The highlights of my childhood are boomeranging back to me now with morphed teeth and a pair of Freddy Krueger claws.
For 93 days I played Summer Entertainment Booking Agent for these two unimaginative creatures, who’d take to rolling around on my carpet, begging for a straight shot of Ambien. I couldn’t help it! That “B” word was a calling card to my spastic-Mom-mode; “Isn’t your generation supposed to be the great exterminator of boredom? You’ve got more gadgets than MacGyver. Lock yourself in your bedroom with your I-phone, I-pad, I-touch, I-pod or I’m going to show you my I-scream! Go bike your two streets of independence! Go scooter until you find another kid foolish enough to brave this 100 degree heat! I don’t care if you’ve never been formally introduced to them for a playdate! You will play with that child until a police squad hunts you down…AND you will like it!”
This year I started anticipating Mr. Boredom on Martin Luther King Day. Since the techniques of blowing, wasting, fiddling and pissing away time are beyond my children’s capabilities, I brought out the big guns; a bold Sharpie, the phone and the Summer Camp Guide. I’ve booked playdates, gobbled up every last available camp slot (“Not till August? Will I get a refund if my son gets tossed over our deck by his sister before then?”), and elbowed my way through the other desperate moms in the student activity book aisle of Barnes & Noble.
Yet I will admit, like all hot summer romances, I’ve got a bit of nostalgia for old Mr. B. So on this, my 40th first-day-of-summer, I plan to snuggle my early birds back into their beds as the birds sing to the rising sun. “Hey, did you know there are these really smart guys called Snow Patrol? They came up with this great game. All we do is waste time… chasing cars… around our heads.”
Okay, so maybe I won’t have to wait until 2040 to doze through another summer again.
Tags: Boredom, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, Surviving Summer Break
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May 26th, 2010
I don’t know if I’m prepared for motherhood. In fact, I think it’s safe to say I’m fairly freaked out. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve had a wee one romping around the house and let me tell you, it’s a whole new world in the realm of puppy parenting.
My first indication of unpreparedness came when I visited PetSmart for the first time in a decade. I walked into the fluorescent lit store, the white tiles stained yellow from those pups that came before me, and went in search of dog food. It was insane – three thousand square feet of choice. Never before had I seen so many varieties, sizes, and flavors of pup food: organic, all natural, made with real chicken, real beef, real liver, hormone-free, gluten-free. I was overwhelmed. I don’t have this many options when I go to my local grocer looking for a frozen pizza or a bag of lettuce. What would I buy? Things had definitely changed from the days when I went in to a pet store and had the one choice of Purina Puppy Chow. Four hundred dollars later I left the store with “all-natural” kibble, organic pet treats, gluten free chews, and toys made out of “safe plastic”, whatever that is. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was buying.
My ineptitude is also apparent in my constant worrying. Is he getting enough play time, is he bored, is he socializing enough – with people, with other dogs? Is his water bowl slimy? I even fret over whether he’s smart enough. He’s already learned to use his potty pads 99.9% of the time, to sit, to lay, and to leave it. But just when I think he might possibly be the most brilliant pup in the land he tries to hide his bones. It’s my belief that he loves these bones the way that I love buttery mashed potatoes heaped with creamy gravy. Every night at dinner time, as I set my plate on the table, I tell him to sit and I place an all-natural bacon chew at his feet. He immediately picks it up and runs. The first time he hid it in his crate underneath the wooly pad. “Pretty good, pretty good,” I said, beaming with pride as I found it. However, finding it was a mistake and he’s never hidden it there again. It was the next time that concerned me as he dug at the corner of the carpet and deftly hid the bone in the hallway where a blind man could see it.
Like most mothers my calendar is filling up quickly as well. We have haircuts, Revolution days, shot appointments, and play dates. While I don’t own a minivan it seems I’ve become a Kennel Mom. When I’m not in my Beetle hauling my best friend to his various “activities” I’m spending countless hours researching doggie day cares with dog cams and doggie spas with pet-icures. I’m anguishing over photographs of different Yorkie haircuts trying to decide what kind of son I have. Is he the loveable “puppy cut” kind of dog or he is the “traditional cut” Yale boy with flowing hair, sweaters, and a manly bow? In my research I’ve discovered that there are things that can kill your pup. Along with the more well-known culprits such as chocolate, avocado, garlic, onion, grapes, raisins, and macadamia nuts, there are the things you think are safe bets like Greenies or Bully Sticks, but when left with your dog unsupervised, can actually kill them. It’s not the products themselves that hurt your dog, I learned from my new friend Lawrence, (more on him later) but leaving them unsupervised and allowing them to swallow big hunks of said treats. The list goes on and the fear increases.
And like all parents at some point in their new role I have had a meltdown. It happened the other day when I visited Trader Joes and purchased an all natural chew stick as I was grabbing myself some groceries. I didn’t want my boy to feel left out as I stuffed my cart with precooked turkey, enchiladas, and various other forms of snacky goodness. I got home with my recyclable bag full of food and pulled out his bone. Though the front of the package had said “all-natural” I wanted to be doubly sure and turned over the tag to look at the ingredients. It simply read, “Steer Pizzle.”
“Steer Pizzle,” I repeated out loud. “Hmmm… what is that? Is that like bull piss? Is that like bovine urine?”
I wasn’t sure but I grabbed a paper towel, just in case, picked it up, and placed it on the ground for So-kr8z’ puppy chewing pleasure. A few hours later, after talking with my friend Lucas, I discovered the truth about this curious ingredient. Steer Pizzle = Steer Penis. That’s right, my adorable little baby bundle of puppy has been chewing on a penis. What’s worse is that when my sweet, innocent pup chews on things he really likes to be near me. For example, he will place his bone, or whatever it is he’s currently gnawing, on my feet or in my lap and proceed to exercise his jaws for hours. Just so we’re on the same page and you understand my full horror, So-kr8z had not only been chewing on a penis but he had been chewing on a penis which was lying across my feet, my belly, my hand. Hence, I was covered in bull penis germs. After a long, hot shower with a heavy-duty loofah, I walked to the kitchen, tore a paper towel off the roller, wrapped it in cellophane and grabbed the offensive chew treat and threw it away.
I’m adjusting slowly. I’m no longer so crabby in the morning when I’m yanked out of my slumber by two furry paws on my forehead and sharp tiny teeth caught in my hair. I’ve accepted that I don’t get my cup of coffee before I play with So-kr8z and Elvis the Rubber Chicken. However, I do have some advice, a little nugget I gleaned after my first few hectic months. Every new Mom or Dad needs a few fellow parent friends; ones who are more knowledgeable, ones who have been there and have lost the look of terror that comes with being a new parent. I found mine in Lawrence and Kevin from Pet-Tique. I’m no longer roaming the dirty aisles of PetSmart wondering, although it says all-natural, if it was actually made in China. I’ve found my place, my support team, in these two men who actually know what’s good for my little guy and what isn’t. They’ve turned me on to healthy puppy treats such as Elk Tendon and Deer Antlers, which are not only kind to the environment and the animals they come from, but are good for So-kr8z as well. (Though I have to admit my apartment is now a veritable Animal Farm meets *Silence of the Lambs* with all of the Elk, Deer, Steer, and Pig parts littering my floor.) It also doesn’t hurt that So-kr8z gets play time in their immaculate store with their three adorable pugs and is made to feel like “King for the Day” every time we go in there. I guess to be a parent these days one must have a few parent friends and carry a big heart, a strong nerve, and a dictionary; along with a large quantity of anti-bacterial wipes.
Tags: Femme Tales, Kennel mom, Melanie Bates, motherhood, Pet-Tique, puppies, Yorkies
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Zade 
Jeri 
Mick 
Julie 
Lawrence 
A beauty once again, Monica! And your generosity of giving away Applesauce has brought many happy moments to my kiddos as well!
Yet another synchronistic event but over a longer period of time. We were so happy to have a home and kids who would appreciate having her.