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August 29th, 2010
 Photo from David Zeiger’s film ”Displaced in the New South”
First Published on Owning Pink 8/19/2010
While traveling through southern Arizona on Interstate 10 did not provide me an overheated mirage of a tropical spa, I did experience delusions of a 100 MPH speed limit. Why not, since there’s a sandbar every ten feet to slow my runaway minivan? Among the yucca plants and dust devils I noticed the regular presence of border patrol, even 200 miles from the Mexican border in a wide sand bowl where lizards fear to cross.
“Really?” I asked my Samsonite luggage stacked in the passenger seat. “Are illegal immigrants really sneaking into our country through this misery? Anyone who survives a trek like that is a soul we may want on American soil — because that, my trusty traveling companion, is determination with a capital D.”
Drawing Lines
There’s no question Arizona has become overwhelmed by illegal immigrants desperate for a shot at the American dream: a decent living, a good education, medical care. These are the very systems that are being overrun. I understand that the demand made by those who are not contributing taxes is overwhelming those who do. It wasn’t surprising that the Arizona State Government felt the need to draw a line allowing local police, who have made a “lawful stop, detention or arrest” of an individual, to determine that person’s immigration status if there is a “reasonable suspicion” that they may be an illegal alien.
Of course this law carries the taint of racial profiling, which has made it controversial with the rest of the country. My hometown of Austin, 800 miles to the east, responded by drawing a line of their own: they banned travel and all business ties with Arizona. All of this political maneuvering reminded me of Europe — a place that has drawn more lines than a child’s Spirograph.
A History of Borders
My husband and I were very fortunate to live in Germany for three years in the late 90’s. He was in the Air Force, working four days on – four days off, with an outstanding vacation package. We decided to spend as much time and money as two DINKs could traveling the continent. In the end we had visited 26 countries. We loved seeing the red barns in the Swedish country side, the gothic architecture in Prague, the history in Cairo… and then there was Italy. There is very little to dislike about Italy.
But no matter where we visited, from Israel to Ireland, Spain to Russia, the locals always had a negative opinion to share with us about one of their neighbors. Unfortunately, a good deal of it was still being directed toward Germany. WWII may have ended 65 years ago, but the emotional turmoil lingers still. “Oh how sorry we are for you to be in Germany,” said a young Russian man on the Moscow underground. “Germans? We hate the Germans!” shared a French couple in a Strasburg restaurant. “Germany! Why it is no wonder you have come to Brussels to escape,” boasted a Belgium waffle vender. It became depressing for us to listen to these harbored feelings.
If only I could say it were the remnants of the World Wars, but Europe’s history is long and pock-marked with conflict. A Turk bragged that if we were Greek, he would kill us on the spot — while a Greek explained how they are striving to erase Turkey from the world map. The Poles want nothing to do with the Russians, do not insult an Englishman by referring to him as Welsh, and the Swiss — well, how can you hold a grudge against the world’s banker?
The Gift of Living in an Intermeshed Culture
Whenever we ran into this cultural discrimination, we would try to explain how odd it was to grasp the depth of this discrimination as Americans. We are still dealing with race issues and the inequality of the sexes, but you never find hate on the other side of a geographical line in the United States. “I am from the State of Wyoming,” I would explain. “Wyominites do not hate New Yorkers, or Californians, or Vermonters.” We love to ski and camp in Canada and take spring breaks in Mexico. They would wave me away, shaking their head, “Bah! You Americans, your country is still a baby.”
The truth is that our short history has saved us from this cultural discrimination. Why theGerman/French border alone has been moved and fought over for centuries. If the Canadians were constantly invading Minnesota, do you think we’d be nearly as enthusiastic today about their crude oil, low-cost prescriptions and bacon?
One of the greatest gifts we possess in this country is our lack of violent history with our neighbors. And our intermeshed cultural inheritance is a fantastic buffer to discriminate against any single group. Arizona checking the citizenship of its Hispanic population is like California checking the authenticity of its blondes. Look around… then tell me where they plan to begin?
When our country has drawn cultural lines in the past (racial segregation, the Japanese Internment Camps) it has proven to be an embarrassing regret. How many lines marked by massive walls topped with razor wire will it take for humanity to realize these physical divisions only make it more difficult to listen and work out solutions with one another?
Exporting the Dream
These are humans we are trying to keep on the other side of that line; people with the same dreams as our forefathers, people who hold a dream for their parents, spouses and children. They are not entitled to reap from our systems, but does that make it impossible for us to discover safer routes for them to access the human dream thriving in America? Do you think there may be a way to export The Dream across the border into their homeland? Can you envision a future Mexico that we would consider moving into?
Tags: Arizona Immigration Law, border control, Femme Tales, illegal immigrants, Mexican border, Monica Wilcox, Owning Pink
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August 23rd, 2010
I wondered briefly, before settling in to write this, if folks are tired of hearing about my pup; bored with seeing pictures, of hearing tales about steer pizzle, or of listening to my worries and I decided that I really don’t care. For the past twenty some years I’ve been a cheerleader for all of my friend’s little human children, I’ve been a sounding board for their fears in regards to said children, my photo albums are filled with their pictures with missing front teeth, my fridge bears witness to their accomplishments with crayon. I’ve been happy to be there, thrilled to be witness, excited to watch these tiny folks grow and learn, but today is my day.
If you recall I wrote a piece a while back that dealt with the fears and needs of a newbie puppy parent. I am no longer a new mom. I’ve been around the block, (literally about four thousand times), and I’ve learned a thing or two.
Yet, I still have questions. For example, why haven’t my fellow mom friends shared the brief moments of insanity that come with being a new parent? I would have shared that with them had I experienced it sooner. I’ve spent so much time with ‘lil So-kr8z that we have the same bathroom schedule and I find myself talking to him incessantly. I say things that make no sense whatsoever and then question my ability to venture out into the public realm. The other day when he was trying to chew on the bottom of my pant leg as I walked I found myself saying, “Stop it! I don’t chew on your leg while you’re walking.” Even after I said it, and realized how nuts I sounded, this didn’t stop me. In fact, in the past few weeks I’ve uttered some real gems:
“I don’t scratch and climb up on you when you’re peeing.”
“I don’t try to steal your food while you’re eating.”
“Mom doesn’t whine when we play fetch does she?”
“I don’t hump your arm.”
“Can you not take that extra two steps to pee ON your potty patch.”
This sound logic and calm voice of reason may work for the average human variety of child who actually understands the English language but frankly it makes me sound a bit like that nutty pet lady. You know the one.
I also worry that I might turn into one of those hypochondriac moms. So-kr8z sneezes and sleeps for a few extra hours and I’m heading to the vet. In my defense both times I’ve rushed him to the doctor my instincts have been rewarded. The first time he had a fever of 104 and an infection from his neuter surgery. The second time he had a bronchial infection. But as I ply open his jaw and force feed him antibiotics I wonder if these are adversely affecting his immune system and I’m terrified over this constant worry I feel over his well being. Dogs are in our lives for such a short period of time, I want my pup to be healthy, to never suffer and, most of all, to live a happy puppy life.
Lastly, I stress over whether we’re too close. We’ve bonded like gorilla glue. The other day when I decided to head to the grocery store without So-kr8z I heard him crying through the door. It was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard. It sounded like the poor spirits of Darfur had gathered and were lamenting in my kitchen. I was horrified. Will I ever be able to go anywhere without breaking his tiny puppy heart? I do stop myself, every now and again, and think “he’s a dog, feed him, love him, give him a daily dose of affection and plenty of play time and relax” but most of the time I just worry.
Tags: Femme Tales, Kennel mom, Melanie Bates, puppies, puppy parenting, Yorkies
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August 16th, 2010
For the first time in Femme Tales history we are hosting a guest blogger. Please join us in welcoming the fabulous Dr. Lissa Rankin, a woman who is truly made of awesome: Dr. Lissa Rankin is an OB/GYN physician, an author, a nationally-represented professional artist, and the founder of Owning Pink, an online community committed to building authentic community and empowering women to get – and keep – their “mojo”. Owning Pink is all about owning all the facets of what makes you whole – your health, your sexuality, your spirituality, your creativity, your career, your relationships, the planet, and YOU. Dr. Rankin is currently redefining women’s health at the Owning Pink Center, her practice in Mill Valley, California. She is the author of the forthcoming What’s Up Down There? Questions You’d Only Ask Your Gynecologist If She Was Your Best Friend (St. Martin’s Press, September 2010)
First Published on Owning Pink 7/20/2010
The other day, I was hiking with Owning Pink blogger Shana James and we started talking about the purple kangaroo. Say what, you might ask? A purple kangaroo? Let me fill you in first.
A while back, former Editor-in-Pink Joy Mazzola and I were having our weekly meeting, during which we identified what it is we needed and spoke it out loud, serving as witnesses for each other. We try to do this often — getting clear on exactly what we need and setting the intention that the Universe will meet our needs in a timely fashion, if our need aligns with the Master Plan.
I said, “Owning Pink needs a graphic designer.” And a graphic designer showed up.
I said, “I need someone to sponsor my book tour,” and I got an e-mail about becoming a spokesperson for a company.
I said, “I need Dr. Christiane Northrup to write the foreword for my book.” And @DanielleVieth on Twitter tweeted, “I’ve got to introduce you to Dr. Christiane Northrup. You’re two peas in a pod!”
Joy said over the phone, “Damn, girl. You’re this close to saying something out loud and having it just magically appear right in front of you. Say Purple Kangaroo!”
So I said it. “Purple kangaroo.”
Joy said, “Did it work? Is there a purple kangaroo standing in front of you?”
I said, “No, but there’s a deer staring at me from the other side of my window!”
Joy said, “But he’s eating purple flowers! He’s wearing a purple bow around his neck. He’s got purple eyes. Right?”
I giggled.
I shared this story with Pink Goddess Dana, and she said, “You’re not going to believe what I just got as a gag gift. It’s a calendar of toilets. And guess what September is?”
Yup. You guessed it. September 2010 is a Purple Kangaroo toilet. We named him Sebastian Murphy. (And incidentally, September 2010 is when my book What’s Up Down There comes out. Hmmm….sneaky, Universe!)
What do I need?
So Shana and I were talking about Sebastian Murphy, the Purple Kangaroo, and I asked her to speak out loud what she needed. She told me. And then she returned the question. What do I need? Now that I had a sponsor paying a boatload of money to send me on a 30-college book tour, I need someone who can actually book me to do speaking engagements at 30 colleges. I don’t know how to do this! And my publicist, editor, and agent have no clue how to make this happen. Am I just supposed to start calling colleges? Is anyone even there over the summer? If I get someone, will they just say, “Sure! Here’s a lecture hall – go to it.” Or will they need to send it through committee?
I have no idea, and it’s freaking me out. I’ve promised to get 200 butts in seats at 30 events, and time is running out. I’m supposed to do my first event at the end of September.
So when Shana asked me what I needed from the Universe, I said, “Help booking my college tour.” That was 12:32pm.
When Shana and I got back to my house at 2:00pm after our hike, the phone rang just as I opened the door. It was Owning Pink blogger Lakenda Wallace.
She said, “You’re not going to believe this, but I just spoke to a woman who works forBacchus Network, a nonprofit that’s all about educating college students about health and safety. They have a network of 900 campuses and would love to try to help you book your college tour.”
My heart was beating fast when I asked, “What time did you speak to her?”
Lakenda said, “12:45pm. Why?”
I just had to laugh. Damn, Universe. You’re getting speedy. It was a classic Purple Kangaroo moment.
What do YOU need?
What about you? What do you need? Have you gotten very clear on how the Universe can serve you? Have you asked for exactly what you need? Have you said it out loud in front of a witness?
Don’t just say “I need money.” Say, “I need $430 so I can go to this retreat that will help me grow my business.” Or say, “I need help paying the rent” or “I need help paying tuition so I can go back to school.” Get ridiculously specific about exactly what you need and how the Universe can help. Then put it out there. Tell people. Employ disciplined action if you need to. Then BELIEVE. Trust. Have faith. Let go. Surrender. Set goals, but release attachment to outcomes. Remember that the Universe knows better than you what will best serve you.
Tell the Universe what you need. Let us be your witnesses! Share what you need in the comments, and let’s all collectively lift up your request, with Sebastian Murphy as our guide. Now sit back, let go, pay attention to signs, and watch the magic happen. Make sure to report back! Did The Universe provide for you?
Trusting the Universe- and YOU,
Lissa
© Copyright Lissa Rankin 2010
Tags: asking for what you need, Femme Tales, Lissa Rankin MD, Owning Pink, Universe
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August 9th, 2010
 Photo Credit: The Exit Door campaign was developed at Colenso BBDO Auckland by executive creative director Nick Worthington, creative director Karl Fleet, art directors/copywriters Steve Hansen and Paul Kim, account manager Kate Smart, planner Hayley Pardoe, agency producer Phil Newman, designer Lachlan Palmer-Hubbard and retoucher Kevin Hyde.
I’m looking into the face of closure: his name is Ron and I’m paying him good money to close down my life in Austin only to reopen it again in the Bay Area. He’s brought a few of his buddies because wrapping up someone’s life in brown paper, cardboard and shrink wrap takes some time.
My Life on a Truck Bed
It begs the question: do I really need all this stuff to travel with me into the next phase? What would I discard? Everything essential is already packed in my mini-van. I could ask Ron to leave my creature comforts: dishes, mattresses, towels, flip flops, but I’d end up replacing them all within the week. Maybe I should discard my emotional attachments: the things I can not replace, have inherited, or picked up in a dark corner of a mom-and-pop-shop in Santorini. The pinnacle on this mound would be the photo albums; my record of all the beginnings and closures I have experienced over the last forty years.
Seeking Closure
It’s got me asking how we ever achieve full closure with a semi truck of momentos trailing behind us? There is a spiritual push to live in the NOW, to let go of the past while avoiding concerns over the future. I agree the majority of us spend too much time out of the present, but if we were meant to experience only this moment then why have we been blessed with memory and foresight?
The more I move, the more I find that full closure; doors shut, hatches locked and sealed, smothered in a five foot thick cement block, with a five alarm security system, is an illusion of the ego. A perfect example can be found in Suzy- the bitter teenager who did her share of impossibly cruel things to me in junior high school. She had a knack for stealing my favorite things during sleepovers only to strut around school with them for the next six months claiming they were hers. I was thankful the day she exited my life, and have rarely thought of her since. I eventually got over the loss of my personal treasures BUT when something valuable turns up missing in my life my mind instantly concludes someone I trust has taken it. I chide myself; knowing that this is Suzy’s legacy rearing up at an inopportune time. But as long as I have this gut reaction, as long as I remember her name and face, can I claim to have found closure with her or those unpleasant experiences?
The standard of “finding closure” is to close the proverbial door. To achieve this may feel as simple as a two word text message, a luncheon with departing friends, an overly lengthy letter, or curling yourself up into a bawling mess on the floor of your closet. One way or another we must seek the satisfaction of knowing that we have “come to the end” of this present event/person as we scramble to find an open window to the future.
Moving On Consciously
However, this move has been different for me because I’ve consciously tried to bring about positive closure with Austin and the people I have come to know here. It was going pretty well until I was saying good bye to someone I have come to cherish. The door I was attempting to pull closed decided to crumble away instead (along with the protective walls) revealing a large, sun filled open space between the two of us. As if to say, “All is well between the two of you now. There is no need for barriers. As you move on with your lives you will always have the support of the other.” Instead of closure it felt more like… a transformation on the eternal continuum. How beautiful to find uninhibited space at the end versus a wall. Could I find closure this way with everyone? With every situation?
Closure or Continuation
Do you think all relationships carry on? What if the way we end a relationship now is exactly where we pick it up again in the Later? If we walked away from our “Suzys” and our cherished ones knowing we would meet every last one of them again would it change the way we “found closure” now? And if we came to a place of mutual understanding would that bring about final closure or would it be another transformation in an on going relationship? I have no idea but heaven never struck me as a place where grudges and hard feelings are coddled.
Do you think this is why we feel the need to journey through life with a moving van of material goods? Do we know each event, each person, each relationship holds significance and as long as there is significance there is continuation?
Tags: closure, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, moving
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August 2nd, 2010
Who travels to Europe and spends as much time perusing the water closets as they do roaming through the Duomo of Milano? Well, I do. Perhaps it goes back to my nomadic youth traveling across the Western states. It wasn’t that I really couldn’t hold it for another half an hour before visiting the next toilet, and it certainly wasn’t a bladder control problem. Looking back I think it was my way of combating boredom. Breaking up the monotony of staring at the back of the same red leather seat in my folks’ Chrysler, of seeing herd after herd of antelope, of counting license plates from different states, and of fighting ferociously with my older, larger sister for my rightful half of the back seat. Bathrooms were the focal points of my journeys, especially on our twelve hour trips to Utah twice each year. My step-father boasted, often with disdain, that I knew every single bathroom on that twelve hour trek. It was true. There was a certain comfort, and a mile marker all my own, when we would arrive in Evanston, Wyoming and pull up to that dingy Shell station because I knew that inside of that greying building there was housed the only cushy, padded toilet seat of its kind. Or at least it had been my vast toilette knowledge to know. To cleanse
How ironic then that thirty years later, on my second sojourn to Europe, I would find such a perfect analogy for the purpose of my trip. I knew when I boarded that plane in Cleveland en route to New York that my reason for this trip was to cleanse, on every level. At the time I hadn’t realized how difficult that would be. Let’s take my Body Cleansing Plan, for example. I told my travel mate Justin before we left that I wanted to detox, to drink eight glasses of water every day. Simple enough. (Though, at home, I can’t seem to manage to make it to the faucet eight times on any given day.) Vacation is the perfect opportunity to take the time to do these little things for one’s self. Right? Unfortunately I didn’t take into account the scarcity of water in Europe. It isn’t that the well has run dry per se but they are quite stingy with the H20 and it’s certainly more valuable cost-wise than a loaf of bread or a serving of pommes frittes. It’s not readily served at your table with your meal, that much is certain. In Heidelberg, parched with thirst after a brisk walk through the Altstadt, under the watch of hundreds of stoic glances, I found a small pub and ordered a caffe (one cannot cleanse 24-7) along with a gass wasser. I received a four ounce bottle of the precious commodity and paid a dear four Euro for it. I slammed it like a shot of Jagermeister back home and still there was thirst. Four Euro for a belch and the slightest quench. Would I order another? Non. I’m back-packing on a budget – a story for another time. It’s cheaper to order caffe after caffe.
Side Note: Not sleeping well in Europe. Surely due to the time change. What else could it be?
So much for flushing of the body let’s work on the mind then
It seems unfortunate somehow to compare people to commodes but I have discovered that here, in the towns and cities of Europe, there are as many different thrones and ways to flush them as there are people, which just seems so damn appropo considering my purpose. I’ve searched, at times to no avail, for flush handles, levers, buttons, and knobs. I’ve searched on the floor, the walls, the toilets themselves, even the ceiling once or twice. I’ve wondered if I am a Herren or a Damen and I’ve actually asked what I would deem a patron lady of saints because thankfully she did not send me to the wrong john. And nothing is more grounding to the ego than standing at the wash basin frantically waving your hands in front of the motion sensors only to realize that, indeed, there are no motion sensors but rather a metal pedal on the floor.
Damn Americanos!
So you know a little about me. My fascination with the washrooms of the world, the state of my ego at being pushed aside by a nine year old replica of Heidi, complete with hat, as her booted foot turned on the water where my magical hands could not. What you don’t know if that typically I’m not a whiner. I never was one to spew and spill about my current obstacles in life, hiccups, as I like to all them. (Although, out of my fashion, I will say at times they feel more like epileptic fits.) I will say this – Europe, like their toilets, gives you a myriad of ways in which to flush your mind waste. Frankly I came here with a mind not unlike the streets of New York on garbage day. Too much going on in all aspects of my life and a cold that has lasted for a month and a half. Wait, was that me whining?
My point?
I challenge you to visit the Swiss village of Pontresina and walk these quaint streets where the construction crews work, not on their thoroughfares, but rather on gigantic snowmen igloos. Where you walk into any one of their welcoming ristorantes and realize there truly is beauty in simplicity. The decor and the servers greet you with large smiles and “hallos” and, upon realizing that you’re American are actually over-eager to use their vast language prowess with two or three “good-byes” and a few refrains of “have a good day.” Where you walk into your hotel room and see the feather comforters lined in tiny white and blue pin stripes folded neatly into three as is the German way. Your pillow, with the same crisp coverlet, molded into the shape of a Chinese fortune cookie. The walls white and the wood natural knotted pine and all the furniture low to the ground making you feel larger than life in more areas than one. Where you wake in said room and immediately peer through the pristine windows with their half eyelet lace coverings to view the Alps in all of their fir green and snow white glory topped simply with a flawless blue sky interrupted only by the shadow of a waxing gibbous moon. Try not to focus, try not to see the beauty inherent, try not to appreciate your life – despite it’s clutter, at that very moment, try not to put things into their proper perspective. I dare you. You will find the means to flush, you just gotta find the handle. Go ahead and ask that booted brat if that’s what it takes.
Tags: Femme Tales, flush, Melanie Bates, Pontresina, Switzerland, toilets, travel
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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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Jeri 
Yvonne 
Niki 
Jeanne 
anonymous 
Jill 
alison 
It will always be the person squatting down to draw a line in the sand who gets his hand stepped on hardest. The planet belongs to us all. My hope is in the next generation who sees themselves as citizens of the world. Thanks for the eloquent blog.
I hear horror stories from south of the border way too often. Even canceled a trip down there myself. The cartels are in an extreme power struggle, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. The Mexico that Monica asked us to imagine probably existed 25 – 30 years ago, but those days are loooooong gone!
This photo rings with your response Michele. Between the drug traffic and human/sex traffic there are families desperate to find a better life. No one is going to cross a desert in July who isn’t reeking desperation. Instead of building a massive wall, I’d rather see our efforts going to improving the state of Mexico. Yes, it would not be quick, but progress on a massive scale rarely is.
Let’s hope that the tools of the Internet, free trade, and the ease of traveling the globe will enable our kids to find the borders have faded while the people behind them seem only one connection away.
Thanks for sharing you comment.
Hey Alex, Great to hear a perspective from someone who is near the border where this issue is much more heated and impactful. Do you think there would be any possibility of shooting for a Mexico, let’s say 20-30 years down the road, that would be safe and positive enough that we could open the border? The Mexico I like to imagine has never existed (to my knowledge) but I’m not sure anyone imagined China the way it is today either.
Here’s wishing that both of us will visit again someday soon!!!
20 – 30 years down the road would be a fantastic goal, but I don’t see much being done currently to achieve that. To open the border would mean the US would have to take on Mexico’s debt. Providing welfare, health care, etc. would cripple our economy. Not to mention the struggle of power over new turf for the cartels, and new problems at the South American border. Sadly, we need to think about making our border more secure rather than opening it.