Uppercase Woman

Working Out

The first time I joined a gym was about five years before I got sober (which was, lord almighty, 17 years ago). There was one right next door to where I worked, and they were offering a discount to the neighbors, and I had a fat friend who wanted to use their pool but was nervous about going by herself. So I agreed to go.

I was actually not in bad shape back then. First off, I was young (which helps, damn it). Working as a veterinary technician I spent my days on my feet, wrestling large dogs and cats (and let me tell you, the strength you get holding down a 140 pound Akita while it gets a nail trim is nothing to sneeze at) all day, not to mention actually hauling the sleeping animals around after surgeries. But the gym was new to me, and it wasn't long before I moved from just using the pool to trying the other equipment. Eventually, I became a serious gym fanatic. I had the bug.

Turns out, the bug I actually had was really an extension of my bulimia. I didn't know I was bulimic (I was unaware that you could be bulimic and still be fat; I always thought bulimics were skinny) until I'd been sober about five months and my sponsor gently pointed out to me that other people did NOT eat entire bags of hot chips, drink a gallon of milk, and then make themselves puke it up (boy was THAT fun coming back up, lemme tell ya). That was my last binge and purge episode using puking, but I was unaware of a little something called exercise bulimia back then. Exercise bulimia is just what it sounds like--you work out and work out and work out so that you can eat and eat and eat, or you eat and eat and eat and then you work out and work out and work out in penance.

Back when I first joined the gym, I thought I was being fit. I was going in to work at 8 am, working until 7 pm, then hitting the gym. At first, I was just swimming. Then I began using the treadmill. Then the stair master (which was all the rage back then). Then weights. Eventually, I was at the gym until it closed at 11pm. After working at a physical job all day. Then I would go home and eat and eat (of course, I'd go to the gym without eating dinner first). I remember standing in the kitchen after my roommates had gone to bed just wolfing down whatever I could fit in my stomach.

To give you an idea of just how much food I was managing to eat, I did NOT lose any weight (bear in mind, I was also still drinking at the time). While I wasn't on any specific diet back then, I was a vegetarian. I did this whole routine at least four or five days a week. It was insanity.

Each time I've joined a gym since then the same pattern has emerged to some extent. I try to limit the amount of time I spend to an hour or so, but eventually it creeps up to two or more hours. It was never worse than when I was doing that world-famous point counting diet--because you got MORE POINTS for exercise. Technically you were supposed to restrict it to only four points more no matter how hard you worked out, but I found some other hard core exercisers online who had a system, damn it, and they knew what they were doing, and they knew just what to do. So I got myself a heart rate monitor and followed their instructions and before I knew it I was working out hard enough to give myself 12 or 15 more points worth of food a day. It was awesome. I was in great shape, I was a size 14/16 (a size I dream of today), and I was totally fucking crazy out of my mind obsessed with point counting.

It was NOT SANE. I know that now.

For the last two weeks that I've been really, really trying to practice this "healthy at every size" mentality, where I am simply not allowing myself to worry about what I'm eating or what I weigh (OK, not doing so well at staying off the scale--I'm trying here). It's going well. It's amazingly freeing. I am simply unwilling to apologize for myself anymore, and I like the freedom I feel having let go of the idea of dieting.

But as part of that plan, I do need to be more physically fit. So I upped my membership at our local YMCA so that I can make full use of their (astonishingly awesome) gym facilities. I managed, without too much effort, to put in twenty minutes each on a recumbent bike and an elliptical machine today. I'm going with a buddy (our friend that's been working on our house, the one that's trying to get sober? Turns out he wants to play baseball this summer and needs to add some bulk, so there you go--an exercise buddy--don't hate me, Liana), and that helps. It also turns out that the Y is a great place to go because for the first time in all my gym going experiences, NO ONE STARED AT ME. I am so used to being gawked at, the fat chick in the gym, that it was rather astonishing and I felt almost disappointed since I'd worked so hard to prepare myself for it (I really have to don my emotional armor the first few gym trips). No one even looked at the tattoos. Sheesh.

The most amazing thing about it was this: while I was idly aware of my heart rate and pace while working out, I did not focus overly much on it. I barely noted the calorie count (which, as you know, is wildly inaccurate on those fucking machines anyway). The grace that the whole "healthy at every size" gives me is that I am working out ONLY to get in shape, not for the sake of ANY FUCKING NUMBERS. Not the numbers on the machine, not the number on the inside of my jeans, and not the numbers on the motherfucking scale.

While I am still not fully willing to let go of the fantasy of being thin (dudes, I am going to keep linking to that damn post until it sinks into my thick fucking skull)--I must confess to wanting a one instead of two in front of the number on the inside of my jeans--I feel like I always do after I exercise. Like I live inside of my body. Like it's mine. Like it's strong. Cause it is. It hold me up every day, after all.

I will be going back. And even more amazing? I can't wait.

Crap

I had a long, lovely post three-quarters written when the power went out and it was all lost. Fucking wind.

Anyway, you shall have to content yourselves with this very short video of Tori playing the blues on the Harmonica. No, really. My favorite part? Where she wrinkles her nose when she plays the wrong note. By the way? This was the VERY FIRST TIME she'd ever played a harmonica.

Enjoy.

Take-the-baby-to-Prison Day, or Why Aren't There Any Rehab Prisons? (and this is the kind of post that will keep me from being elected to anything, ever)

So, on Saturday I was changing Tori's diaper in the bathroom of the visitors waiting room at prison and I got to thinking about this post I've been meaning to write.

Wait. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Recently, we (we being Charlie, Sarah, and I) found out that an old friend of ours had gone down a rocky path. Once sober and happy, he'd hit a bunch of speed bumps--the brutal murder of a friend and business partner, the loss of a fianceé, the theft of his belongings--and it all added up to his choosing to return to using drugs and drinking rather than staying sober. In short order, this led to him being where he is now: behind bars, serving a two-year sentence. We'd lost touch with him over the years and had no idea he was in jail, but after exchanging a few letters decided to go visit him.

Visiting someone is prison is a nightmare in Philadelphia (perhaps it's more fun where you are). We arrived early, took a number, sat for a half-hour, then filled out a form, found out to our dismay that we couldn't take Tori to see our friend because we didn't bring her birth certificate with us (for fuck's sake), and then we waited. And waited. The room we waited in was about 100 degrees, and it took forever for them to allow us our visits (we each got a half-hour with our friend, and we had to wait 45 minutes between our half hours for some unknown reason). Once I was finally permitted to go back to see him, I was required to take off my shoes and shake out my socks, lift my shirt and shake out my bra, lift my hair and let the guard check behind my ears, let her put her hands in all my pockets, look "down" my pants, and also open my mouth and let her look under my tongue.

Our friend is lucky; he's managed to fight to get two years sober again in prison, but not because of any help the system has given him. He's in a special section of the prison dedicated to addicts and alcoholics and he only gets exactly ONE sobriety meeting a week (most folks believe in order to maintain sobriety, particularly early sobriety, you should go every day). He also gets to go to church once a week. Yet he says he could easily obtain drugs in prison, even in his special unit--in fact, he told me during our visit that most of his unit was "zannied out" (meaning they were taking xanax) and it was obvious to me that several of the other prisoners in the visiting room were completely stoned.

According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, 16%-18% of crimes are committed because of individuals either behaving badly while on substances or committing crimes (such as robbery) to get money so they can procure MORE substances.  I think that number is actually insanely low; this Drug-Related Crime Fact sheet put out by the government claims that nearly 75% of criminals tested positive for drugs when they were busted here in Philadelphia (compared to only 42% in Anchorage, Alaska--Philly kicks ass again; Woot!).

Yet drug treatment remains a low priority for our criminal justice system. This fact sheet claims that nearly 75% of the 6.3 million people incarcerated in the United States NEED some form of treatment, but only 11% get it. Of course you can't force people to get help when they don't want it--most of us addicts and alcoholics do NOT, in fact, ever get better--but while this sheet claims that prisons offer extensive treatment, it's simply NOT TRUE.

Here in Philadelphia, sobriety meetings are taken in to prisons by non-prisoners on a regular basis. But it's a challenge (people willing to bring meetings must go through a major certification process, must not be ex-felons themselves, etc, etc). Most prisons allow no more than one meeting a month, at most, and do NOT allow the prisoners to organize their own meetings. Why can't prisoners hold their own meetings if they are supervised by a counselor or drug treatment therapist? Because there AREN'T ANY THERAPISTS OR COUNSELORS AVAILABLE TO THE PRISONERS.

I have wondered for years why there aren't prisons specifically for individuals that have committed crimes but are serious about getting clean and sober. I had a friend in early recovery that went to a sober high school; it was just like regular high school, but they also held daily meetings and had an overall focus on staying away from alcohol and drugs (wish I'd gone to one of those). So why aren't there sober prisons?

I understand that prison is, first and foremost, PUNISHMENT. I am not suggesting that we change the prison experience from typical prison to the luxury spa experience that Brittney Spears and Lindsay Lohan enjoyed during their stints in "Rehab." A rehab prison should still be a prison. But it should offer daily meetings, and have more frequent drug testing, and work harder to keep the drugs OUT (I really think it's despicable that drugs get into prisons so easily--and it's clearly NOT coming from the visitors; I couldn't have sneaked in shit).

If prisoners came out of prison sober, don't you think there is a much better chance of decreased recidivism? If prisoners are used to meetings, they will have a quick and easy way to plug back in to society (by going to meetings OUTSIDE of prison) that can help them find places to live and jobs and keep them out of trouble (people in meetings help their own), as well as making them more willing to utilize the services provided by the prison system (our friend is plugged in to his social worker for help with jobs and housing when he gets out this summer).

Getting sober isn't easy, and it's not fun. Why do you think so many people fail at it? Learning to live without alcohol and drugs for the addict or alcoholic is like learning to walk backwards. It is so much easier, sometimes, to just keep walking forward. Being sober, to the alcoholic/addict, is as unnatural as being drunk all the time is to the non-alcoholic. Being sober feels wrong, bad, awkward, uncomfortable. Like you are naked, or like your skin is on inside out. It sucks, and it take forever--months and months--for that feeling to lessen (it never quite goes away completely). Along with that comes the humiliation of realizing the harm you've caused, the truth of what a shit heel you've been for years, and the hard work you have to do to become a decent human being. IT SUCKS. No one should look at the act of getting sober as a "gift" being given to a prisoner. Getting sober is a nearly impossible struggle and has to be earned and fought for, and is painful and agonizing--don't think it isn't. So I truly do not believe that providing prisoners with a chance to earn their sobriety makes their stay in prison MORE comfortable. Trust me on this one--being high on xanax is a WAY better way to do your time.

I realize this is all fantasy on my part; no one ever wants to view treatment as a way to solve crime instead of punishment; a hammer is always seen as more effective than a hug. But right now, prisons are full to the brim with individuals doing obscene amounts of time for drug crimes thanks to the mandatory sentences that were instituted in the early 1990's; the way the laws were set up, individuals caught with three grams of crack did as much time as dealers caught with 300 grams (thankfully, that rule has been tossed). Eventually all of those individuals are going to get out of prison no better than they were when they went in, and in many cases, much worse. They will commit more crimes, and hurt more people, and end up right back there, costing us more money and filling up more jail cells.

Isn't it time to try something different?

There Aren't Words

Except this could have been me, and please--prayers for the families.

Please educate everyone you know about preeclampsia and HELLP syndrome and the symptoms; when caught earlier, lives can be saved.

I missed blog for choice day on Monday but this story reminds of how grateful I am that Charlie isn't that father, although of course Charlie would have not only buried his wife but both his children when I had my brush with preeclampsia. Instead, we are a happy family of three with two ghost children hovering about us.

I often forget how close I came to dying on that day. How just like the woman in that story I was blindsided by preeclampsia--even though I had all the early symptoms (pregnancy induced hypertension, excessive fluid in my legs, rapid unexplained weight gain, protein in my urine), my doctors and midwives missed it and any chance of early prevention--and the disease was only 24 hours away from being fatal when I was admitted to the hospital. People, that's just too close.

If you are pregnant, please, I beg you: if you suddenly have a huge weight gain, or you feel like your heart is racing, or your legs are suddenly more swollen than just normal pregnancy (I went up two and half shoe sizes) puffiness--bully your doctor into paying attention. Demand a 24 hour urine collection. Buy your own urine sticks and check for protein. Check your blood pressure, lower your salt intake, ask about taking baby aspirin. Maybe none of these things can prevent preeclampsia, but the evidence says that in about 15-20% of the cases they can prevent it or slow down the progression. If I'd known that when I was pregnant with the twins, well... things would be different.

Man. I'm crying now. I'm going to go hug Tori.

Maybe We Should Just Discuss Politics

What a fascinating discussion in the comments in the last post. I'm sorry some folks got their feelings hurt, and I'm leaving that discussion over there. OK then. Moving on.

So, someone said here in a comment a while back that they felt sorry for Tori because they thought I would be ill-equipped to deal with her Princess phase thanks to my rampant and raging feminism. Well, as you can see from the new photo in the side bar over on the left, Tori is already developing Princess qualities and I have to say I am secretly enjoying it immensely. See? Here's proof:

OK, perhaps not QUITE so secretly.

She's clearly enjoying dressing up already; she was given a string of Mardi-Gras beads by a drunken Mummer at the Parade on New Year's Day and she LOVED it until she lost it at morning care (she insisted on wearing it there every time she went), so I finally went and got her a new necklace and the only one they sold came with a tiara. She loves wearing it, and I have no issues with her doing so.

I'd love to live in a world where Sammy, our next door neighbor's son, could also enjoy wearing a tiara without recrimination, but considering the fact that you can't even get "gender neutral" toys with a kid's happy meal, I don't think we're going to get there any time soon. They love me at fast food places because when they ask whether or not I want the boy or girl toy I demand to know WHAT the toys are before telling them I actually need the one for under-three-year-olds (although sometimes we get the boy toy if it's cool). Heh.

Tori's toys are balanced, I'd like to believe. She has a bunch of neutral stuff, a train puzzle, a tiara, books, stuffed animals, a pull wagon with giant lego-type things that was clearly marketed to boys, and one of those cool popper toys that's pink (not because I didn't want to buy the standard primary color one, but the pink one popped much more satisfactorily).

But things I don't want to see in our house are looming on the horizon. Things like this. Or god, worse even--this new line of Barbie dolls (it's like they are competing--who can bring more skank?). I used to think my mom was crazy for not letting me play with Barbie dolls, but man--now I totally fucking get it. If I even go down those aisles at the store with Tori--or god forbid, a fucking rack of the dolls is somewhere you don't expect it (like I came across one at a bookstore for some reason), Tori's face lights up in a most alarming way. I don't want her to feel the same sort of lack and longing that I did--and lord knows, I got a pretty fucking distorted body image without a single Barbie doll in my house--but STILL. Ye GODS.

So what do you do? I don't mind dress up, and letting her be a girl--but I really don't want her to fall prey to all the shit that's out there, you know? Not to mention there are all kinds of other issues such as there aren't enough dolls that look like real people, there aren't dolls of color, etc, etc, etc. There is so much about this gender and toys crap. How do you balance this in your house?

Juno, or why adoption isn't cute

So it seems like every movie I've gone to see lately has been morbidly depressing. I Am Legend was horribly sad (I know, I just didn't expect that); Atonement, of course, I knew would be, but it was so much tougher than I thought (plus now I'm having nightmares about drowning in subway tunnels). I saw P.S. I Love You which was a MUCH better movie than it had a right to be (and a MUCH better movie than book--the book was awful, I couldn't even finish it--) but still--sad (Hilary Swank was horribly miscast, but did ok anyway).

So, when my mom was desperate for some Tori time this weekend and Charlie and I reviewed our movie options, he was excited to see Juno. This isn't shocking--the reviews are crazy good--but I was feeling pretty full of trepidation. I've read a lot about it; between reading about the very interesting woman that wrote it, and reading the stories of women that have been through similar experiences, and the stories of women that have adopted children, I wasn't sure I was up for a comedy about adoption. Because in the last four years that I've been reading blogs by women who were going through the adoption process, the one thing that has been clear to me is that IT IS NOT FUCKING FUNNY.

But we went.

Ten minutes into the movie it was clear that it was going to be cute. And by cute I mean over-the-top aren't we so fucking clever cute. The dialog was witty, snappy, and utterly and completely unbelievable--there is not a single teenager on the planet that talks the way Juno does. But still, I always enjoy hearing words put together well, so I was able to enjoy that aspect of the movie.

It was my understanding that abortion wasn't discussed at all in the movie, but that's not true. In fact, the first thing Juno does is call someone "to procure a hasty abortion." But she changes her mind because the baby has fingernails. For the first couple of days after I saw the movie I did not see this as an anti-choice movie--I thought, basically, that Juno was presented a choice and made a choice (and hey--I am ALL about choice). But now, after a few days away from the cuteness, I feel like it's actually a damned sly anti-choice statement--and that kind of pisses me off. Not only because of the whole "fingernails" thing, but because the whole movie makes the process of adoption look so easy and simple. Ug.

Anyway. Throughout the movie, I couldn't stop thinking about Kateri, a birth mom, and about this post (warning--tough read if you are an adoptive mom), were she talks about being:

"De-mothered. No one’s mother. Hit the reset button, reboot and start again. Motherhood erased. That’s how it was supposed to be."

It wasn't until nearly four years later that she felt the full pain of her choice:

"The anesthetic had worn off, and I was raw, naked, freshly separated. My body unleashed the primal force of loss so that I could not speak, I could not make a sound. I could not sob. I could not think. The hall of mirrors collapsed in shards stained with the blood of my psyche. Within a month I was suicidal."

In the last moments of the movie, this was all I could think about. Juno is happily playing guitar, her life is fine, and the baby is happy. All is well. Right?

I also couldn't help but think about Dawn and her experiences with her daughter and what she refers to as the "primal wound" her daughter suffered from leaving her birth mother. Now, Dawn has one of the best open adoption stories I've heard of, and it's clear that her daughter is wildly loved and loves in return (I know this because I got to meet them), yet she still talks about how much loss her daughter feels:

“When you were a little tiny baby,” I said and her sobbing quieted but she was still choking on the tears that kept running down her face. “When you were first born you stayed with Jessica in the hospital for three days. And then you came home to us and Madison, you were very sad then. Sometimes you cried a lot. I think it’s because you missed Jessica so much.”

It was like … I wish I could show you the look on her face. The floodgates opened back up but she had such … relief on her face. She was still crying, mind you. She cried for more than 45 minutes.

“It must have been scary for you,” I said. “You didn’t know me. You didn’t know Daddy. You didn’t know Noah. And you missed Jessica. You wondered where she was. I know she missed you, too, you have really missed each other.”

So, sure, in the movie the baby was in a good and loving home. I mean, my heart was with Jennifer Garner's character as the infertile mother throughout the movie (oh, she was perfect, I tell you). But I could not set all of my second-hand knowledge aside and just enjoy this movie. I worry, too, that all those teenage girls there in the theater with us, the ones that giggled as I wept when Jennifer Garner's character got down on her hands and knees at the mall to feel the baby move in Juno's belly, that all those girls will now have taken a big old swallow of the "adoption kool-aid" as Kateri calls it. That if they end up pregnant they will think it is just that easy; Juno at one point says she just wants to "squirt the kid out and get on with her life."

If only it were that easy. So, kids, view with caution. For normal people this movie may be light fare. For the rest of us? Not so much.

Television Women

So, the writer's strike continues (go writers!) and television is becoming more and more of a wasteland. But there has been an odd side effect to the strike, I think. Shows that might have normally been canceled after a few episodes are being allowed a slightly longer run, and the interesting theme that ties some of those shows together? Women.

I've just watched the first three episodes of Cashmere Mafia (I had them all DVRed; I no longer watch TV when it actually airs) and while it has some huge, gaping problems I have to say I cannot remember the last time a network television show revolved around four women. Can you? Not only four women, but four women who met in business school and are all wildly successful in their careers. So name me the last time that any show centered on four smart successful women aired on network television.
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Yeah, I can't think of it either. While I find myself wishing that the women were more like, well, anyone normal frankly--they are a singular unique entity, the New York City urban business woman, something that is hardly reflective of the rest of use women--I do think the show manages to escape some traps it could easily fall into, and the acting isn't too bad and the writing is actually pretty good (of course they are all white, with the exception of Lucy Liu, so that's another problem too). If it could just release the Sex & The City chains that are dragging it down I think it could be a really good show. I love watching women making deals, and calling men on their shit, and this show dedicates a lot of time to that. There's also a lot of makeup and fluff--and I find the whining about demanding nannies and incompetent assistants dull--but what can you do. The additional fact that the show is willing to allow a character to explore a lesbian relationship in a shockingly realistic way is pretty cool too.

...

Now, in the "wildly successful" column (as opposed to the 'only on the air because we have nothing else' column) falls the new show based on the Terminator movies, The Sarah Connor Chronicles. I'm sure you saw it if your TV was on when it was on, because some ridiculously astronomical number of people watched the show (I think I heard 34 million). The show basically covers the territory between the second and third movies--when Sarah is free and in hiding and protecting her son John from the machines from the future (we know that she dies eventually thanks to the third movie, and they pull no punches about that in the show).

Now, I freely admit that I am a sci-fiction geek to the extreme (I love the movie the 5th Element--no, I really really do), so I'm pretty easy to please. But they made some truly smart decisions about this show, particularly about the casting. Sarah Connor is played by Lena Heady, a fairly accomplished actress who manages to convey the fragility of her love for her son perfectly, but also manages to be tough and true and strong without the bulked out artificialness of Linda Hamilton in the second movie (which I actually liked). John Connor is played quite well by the young man that played Zach on Heroes.

But by far the best casting choice was the use the lovely and amazing Summer Glau of Firefly/Serenity fame. She's playing the "good" terminator, the one sent back to protect young John. She kicks butt most elegantly, and she manages to look like an actual robot while she does it. It's awesome.

The writing is surprisingly tight and compelling, the show captivated both me and Charlie and it is MUCH HARDER to get Charlie to buy into a sci-fi world than it is me (I'll fall for anything). I really enjoyed it and I am so glad to see it, to see more tough strong women doing what they need to; saving the world. Oh yeah.

The only real issue I have with the show is the truly disgusting and misogynist image they are using to promote the show featuring Summer's armless and topless torso. Ick. Memo to Fox and all other idiots that promote science fiction: WOMEN WATCH TOO. STOP USING SEXIST IMAGES AND YOU WILL SELL MORE/GET MORE VIEWERS.

...

Other than that, I enjoyed watching the first two episodes of American Idol. And if you ever wanted to know why I stopped hosting poetry readings here in Philadelphia? It's because of this; all those crazy people that auditioned? THEY WRITE POEMS TOO.

Mid-Week Mix-Up

Interesting discourse on the last post; but I have to say I find myself bristling about the folks that say "I want a woman to be President, but Hillary is not that woman." I also feel the same way about the folks that say, "I'm not going to vote for her because the Republicans hate her." Why is she the wrong woman? Because she is loud? Strong? Smart? Opinionated? Are we waiting for a more rational woman? A calmer woman, less divisive woman? One, perhaps, who knows her place?

The Republicans hate her, I believe, for two reasons: one, because she's a woman. First and foremost, I truly believe they hate her for that above all else. Secondly, they hate her for calling them on their bullshit when her husband was President and saying that there was a "vast Right wing conspiracy" against her husband. WHICH THERE WAS. Because COME ON. If you can get impeached for blowing married men, I'M FUCKED (technically, Charlie was separated. I promise he had moved out.).

Anyway. I guess I might be more of an idealist than I realized--I'll vote for her in the primary, but I'll be perfectly happy with Obama if he gets the nomination.

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Liz posted this link, proving why Huckabee scares the living fuck out of me:

"I believe it's a lot easier to change the constitution than it would be to change the word of the living God, and that's what we need to do is to amend the Constitution so it's in God's standards rather than try to change God's standards," Huckabee said.

Holy fucking shit people. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. This man cannot win.  Mitt Romney is scary too, and perhaps I'm naive to say so but Mormons have always struck me as a "Mind you own business while we do crazy shit" kind of religion rather than a "crawl up into my uterus and check out what's going on" kind. Sigh.

Please, for the love of God. The only person on the Republican side that looks like a half-way decent person to me, a total outsider, is McCain. Can anyone tell me anything different?

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Tori is fighting off another bad cold. For the three weeks she was not going to morning care, she wasn't sick. By the second day she was at morning care again, she had another cold.

How long does this go on? A year? Really?

By the way, you were all right. She's much, much happier going three days a week than she was going once a week. Now she runs up the stairs and starts playing before I can even get her coat off. She waves goodbye to me without even looking. It's awesome.

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I am totally obsessed with my 40th birthday, which is happening on April 26th this year. As it happens, that's a Saturday night. I'm going to have to have a party, aren't I?

I do not want to be a woman over 40. My boobs are sagging enough with the number 40 attached to them. It's really bothering me. I know I shouldn't care. I know. I suck. But I do.

I've decided in reaction I'm going to get pink streaks in my hair again. After all, I work from home, I never see my clients in person, there's nothing to stop me. I'll probably get another tattoo as well. So take that, 40, in the ass.

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A couple of links!

First of all, Sarah mentioned this awesome love story that she watched happen through her photography group. They have started their own Cafe Press store as a way to see each other since they live on opposite sides of the country. If you need some Gay Gear, buy it from them, would ya? Help make the dreams of a couple of girls come true.

Also, I happened upon this cool lady while masturgoogling (you know, googling myself). We have the same name! And she makes such cool cards, I couldn't help but share her with you all. Course, I thought when I saw "cecily ink" I was gonna get another highly tattooed gal like myself, but you can't have it all. I'm planning on ordering some of her stuff. Like these. And maybe these.

Also, I can't remember if I mentioned it, but I'm gonna do it again: Sarah put out another book of her photographs! This one includes all of her first year of self portraits. Dudes, you HAVE to get it. It's beautiful. You might have to hide it from your husbands though...she's pretty hot in some of 'em.

Lastly, there's a new post at my work blog. Yee ha.

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That's it from me. Any stray thoughts from you guys?

Tactician Vs. Idealist

I had a fascinating conversation recently with my friend Geoffrey. We were talking about voting, and how committed we both are to the process--and how differently we vote. Geoffrey is an idealist; after voting for Ralph Nader in 2000, he felt badly about voting as an idealist and decided to vote for John Kerry in 2004, even though he had great reservations about Kerry's record. He's decided this time to vote his heart and not for the most "viable" candidate. He doesn't much care for any of the front runners; was not a huge fan of Bill Clinton and is not at all enamored of Hillary. He says the only guy he likes remotely is Kucinich.

When I take those online polls to find out which candidate matches my views the most, Kucinich is also the one that rises to the top. I'm not surprised; he's clearly the most liberal and socialist minded candidate running for office this time around. But there is no way in hell I'm voting for him.

(I won't be discussing the Republican nominees today. Because, like, why? That is what it is. Thank God Giuliani is losing so far is all I can say.)

I like Obama. I find him invigorating and inspiring, I love the passion he presents and the way he makes me feel that odd, burning sensation behind my breastbone I identify as hope and optimism and national pride. But I probably won't be voting for him either.

I want to like John Edwards. I love the fact that he continues to discuss the truth about America, and the fact that there are two different nations (one poor, one rich). I admire his wife's courage, and I have to admit that I love the fact that they are most likely our compatriots in assisted reproduction. But I find the idea of his 13,000 square foot house disconcerting (seriously, does anyone other than those people with the 14 children need that much space?), and he's just too... I don't know. Pretty.

I find that I am like a lot of other Democrats that feel on the fence about Hillary Clinton. I'm opposed to the idea of political dynasties. I think Hillary is too perfect as a politician, and maybe a little out of touch with being a normal person.

But damn it, I just love her.

I know all her issues. But I will most likely vote for her for three reasons. One, I believe she might win, and I'm a tactical voter rather than an idealism voter. Two, I want, oh so desperately, to see the light in Tori's eyes when she grows up knowing that she could be president. Three, I want, oh so desperately, to see the light in my eyes when I know, finally, in my heart, that a woman can be president.

For a long time I believed that I wanted a woman president for Tori. But damn it, I want one for me. I want to feel like I belong to this nation, for fuck's sake. And President Hillary? With First Husband Bill? Yeah, that totally works for me.

So how about you? Are you an idealist, or a tactician? Where does your heart lie as we approach Super Tuesday?

Food, Glorious Fucking Food

So I've been making some slow attempts to input the philosophy behind the Healthy at Every Size into my life (this philosophy, of course, was brought to me by the lovely Kate Harding at Shapely Prose). I have been trying to just eat food that tastes good to fuel my body without judging the food or my responses to it.

It is nearly impossible.

The other day I promised myself that I would not, under any circumstances, make any unkind or recriminating remarks to myself about what I was eating--either to myself or to Charlie. By the time I chose what to eat for BREAKFAST, I'd had to stop eleven different negative or judgmental food thoughts. And I wasn't choosing between a pound of bacon or a pound of sausage, either; I was choosing between a bowl of yogurt and granola, oatmeal, or eggs and toast. Nine thoughts were about things like "oh, the yogurt is whole milk yogurt so that's bad" (except of course that whole milk yogurt is so fucking GOOD) or "but if I have toast I'll want to use butter on that bread because the I-can-easily-believe-it's-not-fucking-butter tastes like shit on it." Two of the thoughts were me apologizing to Charlie about what I was eating, prompting him to make a common statement, which is, "I'm not the food police." Which is a truly awful thing to do him, you know--make him feel like he's forced to be my food "confessor."

It's blown me away, how deep this food shit goes.

I've spent so long manipulating, managing, controlling, and just generally fucking with my food that I don't know how to shut my head up and just EAT IT. I really don't. I have realized that after all of these years of dieting and shaming and self hatred what I really want is to just be free of it. If I could, I would stop eating all together--the way I've stopped drinking or doing drugs. IT WOULD BE SO MUCH EASIER. But now, instead, I'm trying to heal a very sick head while I just eat the food that tastes good and fuels my body.

I struggle, too, to find balance. I heard an interview yesterday with Michael Pollan, author of the book In Defense of Food:  An Eater's Manifesto and I found myself fascinated by so much of what he said, especially about how we don't eat food any more, we eat "food like substances." He talked about how we need to stay away from the center part of the grocery store, and stick to the outer edges (produce section, etc). He kept it simple; "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

Which all sounds great, right? But then, twenty minutes later, I'm beating myself up for not cooking enough, for giving Tori goldfish crackers, and BAM! Just like that, I'm back to that place where I'm blaming and shaming myself for something food related.

Honestly, I know I'm repeating myself here, but this is the hardest shit I've ever done. I do not know how to simply eat healthy food without spending a lot of time THINKING about it. How do people just put food in their mouths and go on with their days? I mean, each meal for me requires about three hours. An hour to debate myself about what I'm going to have, a hour to prep it and eat it (or order it and pay for it), and then an hour to either feel self-righteous about what I ate of to feel shitty about it afterwards. And then it's nearly time to begin the process all over again. So that means that FOOD IS MY WHOLE DAY, WHETHER OR NOT I AM DIETING.

Is that some fucked up shit or what? This is what nearly thirty years of dieting and food obsession has done to me. I am fat and fucked.

I have decided that the next thing on my list of things to do is to find a gym I can stomach and join it (please don't suggest I join Curves--and here's why). I have never done the exercise thing--which I actually truly love--without dieting. It will be fascinating to give it a shot. I'm very excited about the prospect, and it fits right into the Healthy at Any Size philosophy.

And good news--there's science saying that it's the right thing to do! A new study states that exercise, not drinking too much, and eating lots of fruits and vegetables can add 14 years to your life--NO MATTER WHAT YOUR SIZE. So take that, size 00 Hollywood. I'm gonna have my carrot cake and walk too.

I hope this gets easier. Because right now? I'd rather get re-addicted to heroin and then try to get off it several times. It would be easier. And I'd be less hungry.

My Head Is A Painful Place To Live

I've had a bunch of post swirling through my migraine-laden head, and I haven't been able to sit down and write a single one. And I have no excuse, because when we recently decided to replace Charlie's doddering four-year old eMac (it couldn't load any web pages with streaming anything, ever) with a new Macbook, we suddenly decided to also buy a used Macbook (it's technically new, but had been rented out a couple times, much like our new minivan) for me as well. This has allowed me the greatest luxuries;  reading blogs in bed, or while sitting on the porch in this weird warm weather, or best of all--the ability to leave the house to work while Tori is in morning care.

This may come as shocking news to many of you. "But, Cecily," you'll all cry, "you left your wonderful, secure, supportive full-time job so you could be home with your daughter! And now you are sticking her in morning care and taking a laptop into the city and cavorting about in the coffee shops like a free woman! For shame!"

And you know what I have to say to that? HA. You try being home every day with not only your highly energetic toddler, but your dearly loved husband. The husband that you love more than life itself, but the one that will, if left unchecked, hover about your desk and share with you every horror story he's read on the internet (on the slow-loading-non-streaming pages). While Charlie and I are one of the most functional couples I know, we still can drive each other bat shit crazy (although, truth be told, he's way more tolerant of me than I am of him--he has the patience of a saint. I would have thrown me out the window of a fast moving car years ago). So we have decided that we now each get one day a week away from the house and each other. For me, that means going far, far away so that I can really let go.

So on Monday, I took my laptop and my camera downtown and took some photos and did some work and sat in the park on the weirdly 60+ degree day and listened to a jazz sax player and got a really fucking awesome pedicure. It was like having a date with myself. It was lovely.

Next Monday, I'm going to try to see my old chiropractor to see if he can help me shake these migraines. Cause I cannot seem to get this last batch to leave me be.

The Topomax worked great for two months. My migraines went from about 18 a month down to about five. I was living in heaven, with a head I could actually hold up. But then a couple days before New Years Eve I got a migraine that was really, really, really bad--the throwing up, lying in the dark, unable to see out of one eye for hours on end--that kind. And I beat it back with medication, but it didn't ever get better than 15-20% (worst being 100%). FOR A WEEK. I finally saw my doctor who gave me narcotics, and in one of those cruel twists of ironic fate, I apparently cannot tolerate narcotics now (the ex-heroin addict can't take narcotics--go figure). The drugs didn't help my head at all, and just made me more sick to my stomach. I ended up tossing my cookies in the middle of the night, which is just a blast with a migraine.

So last Thursday landed me in the ER, where they gave me the right combo to break the stupid migraine. But I'm still having trouble; every day a migraine tries to creep up. It's like I'm not taking the Topomax at all or something, I don't know. But I'm blowing fast through my $400 worth of migraine pills (that was for FIFTEEN pills) for the month, and I'm seriously considering sawing off my head.

Luckily, I FINALLY have an appointment with a headache specialist. One of those that does the botox injections. So I won't be able to cut my head off, but I won't actually feel it anymore. Whatever works, right?

___________________________________________

So today, I was dismayed to realize that Charlie has managed to curb his cursing habit around the baby. I hadn't noticed this was true, but our friend Fred (the guy that is from my church that has been working in our house for the last six weeks) mentioned that he has never heard Charlie curse. I was stunned. Charlie curses all the time! I swear he does? Wait... Shit. Motherfucking shit.

I really have to change my ways. Because it's probably not appropriate to say "Oh, for fuck's sake!" over and over to the baby to make her laugh. Right?

19 Months

My Darling Tori Anne,

You are now 19 months old. You are officially old enough that I can now use numbers for your age in these posts instead of typing it all out. You are growing so fast; it almost makes me sad. It feels like time is speeding up and each month of your life is shorter than the last one.

You got to experience another Christmas this month, and I think it meant a bit more to you this year. You know that Santa says "ho ho ho" now, although you only say "ho ho." You enjoyed your Christmas presents quite a bit, and thought unwrapping them was a blast, but now it's hard to explain why you can't rip ALL the paper in the world. Sigh.

You also got to experience that unique Philadelphia tradition called the Mummer's Parade this month. I hope that I can keep introducing you to one new thing every month. That would be awesome. But I imagine it will get harder as you have more and more preferences, eh? Right now you are happy to do whatever we do, as long as you are not required to do the following: 1. Be in the stroller for too long. 2. Hold Mommy or Daddy's hand when you are walking anywhere. 3. Leave trash on the ground.

You are talking more and more, and the words you say are more distinct. No longer do a dog and a train say the same thing; a train says "choo choo" and a dog says "woof woof." You are also using words we grownups don't, a few of them often enough that Daddy and I spend a lot of time trying to decide what you mean. It's almost become a hobby for us. Perhaps you are just speaking French and we're too stupid to realize it. That's entirely possible.

You are becoming quite adept at some new things. You are great with a fork and a spoon now, which makes us very happy and has allowed us to expand your menu considerably. You love pasta, and at Christmas dinner you discovered the magic that is my sweet potato recipe. Everyone loves those, and you did too.

It's become more and more clear that you are a musical child. We cannot keep you off the piano bench, yet you continue to treat the piano gently and with the respect a musical instrument deserves. I don't know how you know to do that, unless it's genetic. You are clearly tonally gifted, and both sing and play in tune and in key without effort. We hesitate to use words like "musical genius" around you and instead say things like "spooky" and "holy shit" quite often.

You are still nursing, and I'm still loving it. I don't know when we'll stop.

I love you, baby girl. You are my favorite person in the world. But you are an amazingly energetic kid, and we are old, so we've decided to let you spend time with some professionals. You are now doing morning care three days a week, and this is allowing Mommy to take her cool new toy (a laptop!) to the city and sit in the park on an unusually warm day in January while typing up this post (after she got a pedicure). It's restoring Mommy to sanity, and on Wednesday your Daddy is going to take a day too. This doesn't mean we don't love you. It just means that we need to be Cecily and Charlie as well as Mommy and Daddy; this lets Cecily and Charlie be the best Mommy and Daddy they can be.

For Christmas your Godmother gave your parents a video camera. This has already become your favorite thing. You love being filmed, and then you want to watch the movie immediately. The only funny thing is that one time you saw a movie on there that showed you with your Godsister and now you are convinced that she lives in there so every time I pull out the video camera you yell "ARAH!" and try to grab it (you call both you Godmother and her daughter, your Godsister, by the same name). This is adorable and hilarious. But dangerous.

Anyway, I can't stop making movies and posting them here and today is no different. Luckily, for the folks that are reading this one, this movie is just a tiny bit longer than a minute so maybe they will all watch it (plus, it includes a flash of Mommy's boob!). I'm so happy to have the camera so I can try to capture every single moment of how marvelous you are, and then torture the entire internet and make them see it too. Because you are marvelous, and I love you so much that I could just explode sometimes.

Love, Mommy

PS: Feedburner update: re-subscribe. That's all I can suggest. Sorry!

Big Screw Ups Round These Parts

So, if you haven't already noticed, I majorly fucked up my blog. Apparently, it would have been much smarter to just leave it the hell alone, start a new one, or even better, leave it the hell alone. By changing the blog title I've done the following:

• I've now lost every link that was ever made to this blog. In nearly four years. That's hundreds of links, people. Old entries about things that mattered too.
• I've lost the masthead and I can't seem to figure out how to get it back, and the lovely folks at Typepad can't seem to help me.
• I temporarily lost my feedburner so that everyone who subscribed to me through bloglines or google reader or such things lost the feed. This one I managed to correct.
• I set things up so that www.uppercasewoman.com worked, but not http://uppercasewoman. If some of you were having trouble, that might have been why. That's also been corrected.
• I've lost over three quarters of my normal hits, and therefore lost about the same amount of my ad revenue.
• I want to turn back time *insert Cher vocals* and make at least the archives fit the old URL but I cannot find out from the Typepad folks if that's even possible, and if it is, how the fuck to do it.

I just wasn't thinking, folks. My humblest of humble apologies. I am a dumb ass.

PS: I may have fixed it. I republished it under the old name and it's now working again. The old links should now work again (please check, would you, if you linked to me in the past?). Now I'm off to find the dang masthead.

Happy New Year! Maybe that video camera was a bad idea...

Well, I hope everyone is finding their way here. I'm getting a bunch of frantic emails. The new URL is, as you see, www.uppercasewoman.com. I apologize for yet another video post, but I have been battling the same migraine now since Thursday (yes, I'm going to see my doctor this afternoon).

Yesterday we decided to head downtown on the train and indulge in the unique Philadelphia tradition of the Mummers Parade. While other cities slumber on New Year's Day, Philadelphia has an crazy all-day parade that includes much drunken debauchery. No, really. It's a crazy, crazy thing. Mardi Gras in New Orleans has got nothing on the insanity of the Mummers. We not only do it, we do it when it's fucking COLD.

I shot some video, of course. And put together a little movie. By the way, if it looks like it's just a bunch of drunk men dressed as women dancing, it's cause it is. If it also looks a bit like your plumber is wearing a sequined bat costume, it's cause he is. If it looks a bit like the costumes are racist and lacking in political correctness, well, it's because they are. There is really nothing else like the Philadelphia Mummers. Enjoy. Oh, and pay special attention at moment 1:40 when you see the drunken mummer collapse on the street and his buddy trying to get him up. Heh.