BlackFriday Tears

Behind every door lies potentialcries on way to work thinking-why, when I am wearing mascara, do I do this?

in car alone, Ben Folds Five inducing tears.

“If you do not want to see me again…”, the old suicide song. It always reminds me of September 2001, waiting for soccer practice to start in college, walking around the track, watching planes take off from Logan, where one went awry and collided with the world trade towers in that recent past…but that song makes me think of my sister, in that time, and how

distant I felt from her. I can’t hear that song without crying.


Sometimes I drive and listen to NPR or classical. Other times I drive and look for songs to cry to. What a woman I am. To sing and cry is utterly me.

I also heard Ben Folds’ “abortion song”, and the line “can’t you see? It’s not me you’re dying for” always makes me think of the small moment when I reconsidered my abortion 13 years ago, but my boyfriend shut the idea down quickly (mercifully? Mercilessly? The memory spins)

I heard, I found-rather, Pearl Jam’s “Don’t call me, Daughter…the picture, it will remind me”…which gave me new tears to cry, as this song does, because it reminds me that I have a father I will never see again, someone who might have a picture of me in his hands or in his heart but will never know me know, and how much I want to be known as a man’s daughter. Thanksgiving being yesterday makes me mourn this noun-less state, this fatherless-ness. I think that being a child of a divorce and not ever being raised with a father is one of the most profound emotional wounds I have. I’d love to come to peace with my paternal orphanage. I’d love to feel “not less than”, and “less loved”. I wish more people loved me. I wish my dad loved me (maybe he does), but I wish I had a dad that could love me and be my cliche…but it’s too late for me to have that. I’ve lived my whole life as a fatherless child.


Just because there are so many of us paternally abandoned, does not mean it’s easier for us by ourselves.

i remember in catholic school as a kid, I’d go to meetings for children of divorce. It was called The Rainbow Club. I’m glad I did. It’s funny how there is no support group for those of us with abandonment issues as adults. Maybe AA, OA? But nothing specific. Our issues are left to bleed into our lifestyles and pop up at unexpected moments of vulnerability,

or when a certain song comes on the radio

and we are all



State of the Uterus Address

My sister just had a baby this week, her 3rd in 7 years.  I have one “baby” who is almost 12. We visited her in the hospital yesterday and held her baby while she slept and rested. Newborns naturally remind me of my own time with my own one. Sadly, that time passes all too quickly. Although I wept a bit when my daughter went to sleep-away camp for 5 days this summer, I will weep for so long when she leaves for college…

I will be 38 when she leaves for college.

I could start over. Again.

You see, there is nothing that staves off my own death like the preoccupation involved in raising children.  They are so alive that it is impossible to dwell on one’s death.  There is no room for it, it is preposterous, these hips are for carrying babies on and these breasts are for convincing men that I am absolutely full…of potential.

But the feeling of supreme femininity that we ride as we float/claw through early motherhood, when we resemble the entirety of the universe to ur children, it fades.  Our children get old enough and soon we wee our replacements entering the door after school, waking up with rosy cheeks and batting longer eyelashes than you will ever have, with no creases on the sides of their eyes or sadness drooped or clenching in the corners of downturned lips.


This sounds so depressing but it IS November and I am in full custody of a seasonal depression and I’m required to write as often as I can about the lament of the mortal.

What I’m getting at is that as your child gets older, the dread of our own deaths becomes more apparent. When you have your child young…you can tend to look at the possibility of having another child as an escape from the inevitable, a reversal in time.

And not just the physical death, but the cultural death that happens when one’s nest is empty. How frightening? I have sheltered my mothering life with my daughter’s friends, my niece and nephew, children-feeding them, tending to them, entertaining them and being entertained. For them to all go, would leave me pathological, with nothing…

I am being glum. I know I can build a new life in 6 years when my daughter leaves the nest…but it would be soon much easier in some ways to add ore twigs, pad up a few more feathers into the walls, and remain safe in a nest, safe in a motherhood, for a few more years. Just one more time?

These are the thoughts I have when surrounded by others’ fertility in a maternity ward. How lucky! How lucky to be so oblivious, protected from death in that special way that being essential imposes.





A selfish, needed-to-write-post after the Paris Massacre

I went to Paris once, when I visited my cousins who were living abroad in France while their father worked for an American company there. I was going into 6th grade. My favorite memories included the baguettes and cheese, the croissants and chocolate, and walking around Paris to get it, in between trips to historical churches, the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.

Now the news is showing this city, which I only knew as an enamored child, briefly, in a bloody ruin.  Terrorists have done to Paris what was once done to the US, and Madrid, and the shopping mall in Nigeria. I can’t help but thinking that my world is getting very small. I may never have had the urge to go to Nigeria or even Madrid, but Paris? That is on the top of the European list for me. Now, my world feels very small- in fact, ever since the Boston Marathon Bombing, I have dreaded the city, crowds, and especially the marathon, which I often attended as a kid. Yet, even my illusion of safety in my small, suburban town is in doubt. I feel safer here than anywhere else, but at the moment that doesn’t help with the very selfish grief and concern I have that my paranoia and subtle reclusively are being constantly validated, and none more so than yesterday with the multiple slaughters of over a hundred Parisians, most likely hipsters in their 20’s and 30s, people I could have been, if I had a nightlife.

When I was in my latest teens and earliest 20’s, I hung around with a lot of people who were very apocalyptic. to date myself-I was barely 18, in Boston and in my first WEEK of College when the attacks of September 11th happened.  I thus have had absolutely NO iota of a memory of an adulthood not branded by terrorism. I think about how my daughter squeaked into life with a solid 8 years of minimum technology and how different my siblings’ and cousins’ newer-born children are playing on iPads at 2 years old as a solid contrast. My daughter KNOWS the other life that separates the digital and pre digital. She may forget it but that past was hers to claim.

Anyways, I was borne into an adulthood in which the very future of America seemed to be questionable.

I will never forget THAT. And it put a crack in me, to be evacuated from college in the city, shunted back on trains to the suburbs in the midst of a sparkling fall day, surrounded by businessmen who were evacuated from other tall towers, tall targets, in Boston.  So it wasn’t too long after that until I found people that also did not have faith in America’s future, people that were already exploring living off the grid.  People who now live in Thailand, on small farms in California growing medical marijuana and crops in isolated, legal oblivion, people that renounced medicine and chose plants as their path, people who gather in groups of thousands in the middle of national forests, just to be free and uncapitalized.

I hung around homeless musicians, busking on the Red Line, slept over artists’ community houses in Jamaica Plain, and in immigrant basements in Forest Hills. You can see how my life deteriorated as my belief in my future/America’s future was so instantly crushed my first week of adulthood?

I gathered in cuddle-puddles in Amherst. I cooked food with people who I can only describe as my tribe of the time. I got a degree in living off the grid as much as possible without checking out of society.

When that turned abusive and unsustainable, I looked back to reality, the America that was raging, engaging and dying  in a war far away, but seemed to have bandaged itself proximately. It now seemed safer to live in that pack than in the anarchy. I got SIGNIFICANT education, including medical. I cut my dreadlocks off.

I do not refer back to the days of dreads, or topless lounging with friends, eating stir-fry in smokey rooms covered with tapestries and Bread and Puppet posters. I have been trying to reintegrate into the adult world of conformity for the past 8 years, and acknowledging my past is painful, reminds me of our country’s fragility and how convinced I was, at one time, to disconnect, run, hide, from the mainstream. The mainstream was the compliant target of the enemy, were they not? The World Trade, full of successful mainstreamers…to seek that success was to seek out my own victimhood.  That’s how I felt.

Now that I am in the confines of the mainstream and have fought so hard to fit in, with this major, major massacre in Paris I feel the old need to disconnect very strongly.  I want to flee, or barricade.

It is easiest to disassociate. That is what Americans will do, and it is a coping mechanism.  I feel the urge to knock off some of my online Christmas shopping WHILE I feel the urge to move to northern Maine! The survival tactic needed to continue living on the grid requires a commitment to continuity, not changing behavior, and hoping we are safe from harm by the invisible hand of the police and God. And we are always safe until we are not. And Paris is always safe, until it is not.

This is a very selfish post. I am not ignoring the immediate need to respond to the brokenhearted souls who have lost loved ones, who are now instantly a mere speck of eternity. But if I don’t vent about my paranoia I will be worse off for it, and so will those I meet. In fact, I don’t know how ANY of us can just be satisfied with changing our Facebook status’s to an Eiffel tower and vows to pray.

I vow to Process.

Leave her? Or die first?

We have this sick relationship. You know it and I know it and that is what makes it so special. We are lovers, off and on, mostly off, for the better/worse part of a decade. And you are married. And you have cancer. And you’ve knocked her up again. And you miss me, and I miss you.

Things didn’t go as you’d hoped when you found my replacement and married her in a quick and catholic way. She is a school teacher, but unfortunately, that doesn’t translate into the sweet, kind, sexy type, but the anal-retentive, strict bossy type that gets on your son’s nerves and makes him lash out. You tell me no one is able to love your son, and as a dying man, that is what pains you the most.

“How can someone love me, and not my child?”, you ask me. Although you remember that I struggled in this way as well. I had a younger, cuter version of your son to deal with, but he did get on my nerves. But I was drunk then, and am sober now. Sobriety gives me a slight confidence that I would perform better in any situation now as compared to my drinking years.

“How come no-one will take care of me, like I take care of them?”, you ask me. Your wife is at home with your new and growing brood, and you are dying of melanoma and working in a lab to cure sickle-cell disease, some 70 miles away. When will your vision, affected by your ocular tumor, be so impaired  that you can no longer drive? When will they find out that you are automating your processes, so that your strained eyesight is not quite so fallible, as disabled cells fill vials and come into contact with liquid saviors?

“How come no-one will take care of me”…you ask, which is when you really tell me that you still feel unloved, after all this time on earth, by a woman.

“What would be different?”, you ask me, “if we got back together?”.

I would be worried that you would die, I think. I would be worried that I would need to be stable and able to take care of myself and children and you and I don’t know if I can. But this is the love of my life, or one of them. At different times, I would have said, “everything would be different and everything would be ok, because we would be together.”

Have I grown so calculating that your marriage, your cancer, your children…can stop me from loving you, obsessing over you, and crying over you? Or is this a new strength…If it is, does it mean the end of our fantasy of being together, the “I miss you’s” at Christmas, or at 1am, anytime, striking only every so infrequently but very hard, urgent, like tomorrow MUST be the day we see each other and make everything else that’s ever happened go away. Does it mean the end of that?
There is a well-established other dimension in which we are together, You. I don’t know if we’ll ever see it here. But don’t you feel that place exists?

“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, and illuminate the “No’s” on their vacancy signs…If there’s no one beside you, when your soul embarks…then I’ll follow you into the dark.” (Modest Mouse).

As always, to be continued.

Chill that Candy Ghost

If I could offer you any advice after you’ve eaten far too much Halloween candy, it is GET ON THE SCALE!

Without fail, it sobers me up. I work at a facility that uses a fantastic scale (weightloss industry). I VOW to use it every time I work…but sometimes, after, say, a Halloween candy binge, (Nothing impressive, but, still..candy), I get nice and busy at work and almost convince myself not to weight myself in. But the truth is, the damage-control is always in the cold hard numbers on the cold, hard and unflinching scale.

I gained 0.4 lbs in 4 days since Halloween. You know what that is? A WIN!

Yet I was feeling like a huge pig on my way to work today. I even drank like 4 cups of tea on my way in, thinking that would sabotage my weigh in and that it would convince me not to get on the scale. I so dread getting on the scale after a weekend of totally eating like a 6th grade girl! #ThankYouHalloween

But now that I have, I am full of confidence that my day today will be better. I think in fact I should ramp it up and commit to weighing myself in religiously in the morning at home, too, on the days I don’t work.

I do seem to be at a weight that is hard to budge. Mid to upper 130’s.  I wish I could turn a switch and just think “Wow. A lot of women would kill to rock this body size. A lot of women probably think they’d feel SUPER sexy if their muffin top was just junior-sized like mine”. Really, I better shut up and enjoy myself. But isn’t that easier said than done?

There is so much shame about the way we eat and the foods we eat when we are acting out with food. And lets face it, thats what 50% of my intake is! And probably yours too. What I am REALLY ashamed about is my lack of self-indulgence to do other things besides eat, to nurture myself. I’m getting way better about it, but I really need to therapeutically SIT DOWN and read, or veg out, or take a bath (Note to self: Get a Jacuzzi in the very near future so my life can be changed).

If only lack of self-care were as embarrassing! Maybe that is a problem for the luxury-class, but I think I need to step up my game and start doing more things to self-soothe and unwind. Maybe I need to work on my diet even more, at the same time, get that process really into an order-I think that the “Eating When Hungry Diet” is really the “See-Food Diet”. I could be hungry all the time! I need to be more prescriptive with my meal times. Totally. It is so much pressure taken off me when I know whats happening now, later and last.

We are heading into extreme-darkness and that is always when I gain weight. I need to think seriously about this, and it may result in several more narcissistic seeming posts that all reflect on my self-image…but that is why I am blogging in the first place. Blogging is calorie-free and a high-impact mental workout!

When Dick Hits the Fan. Or, When Reeses is Not an Orgasm

My mom is in Hospital. I think it sounds better to say “In Hospital” then the American “In the hospital”. It doesn’t matter which “THE” the hospital is…BI, B&W,MG,Insert acronym HRE…she is IN HOSPITAL. She is going to be ok, but it produced in my a heightened state of anxiety.

This being Halloween weekend, the only options are to eat vigorously to speed up the impending winter blues, while stifling the current generalized anxiety about my mom. Halloween candy, an apple, regular food. Just MORE.

And my other longing, which I have NOT succumbed to: Texting the Ex. Exes for that matter. I could do a coin flip and take either one.

It dawned on me as I took a walk, literally eating a (HIGHLY OVERRATED) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup whilst waiting for my dog to take a piss on an unlucky lawn, that I really need to get back to fucking. It is calorie free, and when I am in my “Fuck mode” I do prefer to barely eat. That empty feeling is so sexy. I realized, on this walk, that if I am not careful, I am bound to behave and to appear to be behaving…as an unfucked woman.

How to describe? I don’t know I haven’t thought of the character type in ages, but I’d conjure up my current negatives towards the profile: a bit too much harping, overcautiousness (Because after all, if one is not fucking, one is not creating little embryonic “Back up children” on the monthly..and those you do have are all the more precious), the eating of things that a dainty girl entangled in love could not dare allow herself to eat on a regular basis. That means YOU, kale.

I AM starting to date. But I have found someone that I am eager to jump into a brunch-date with, but not in bed with, yet. I’m trying to go slow. Be someone who doesn’t give the “Girl Milk” for free. And not turning into a cow at the same time 🙂

So there are the fantasies of the exes. You haven’t really lived until you’ve lost. And oh, the dicks I have lost. Most of you also have this sexual catalogue of what has been available to you, and where you would locate the file if you needed it again. I am probably not the only one with my favorite ex’s cellphone number religiously catalogued between my daughter’s social security number and my birth date. #NeverForget. But I really shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.


How was your Halloween (Binge)?

With just 20 minutes left in the Halloween Night, I thought I’d check in with my “scorecard” for Halloween Binging.
Play along at home, folks!


1.) I pre-binged on healthy food like yogurt in the morning. I brought 2 small apples with me while we trick or treated, a pack of 9 girls, me, and one dad. The apples themselves are an “Off Limits High Carb” Food that I usually try to avoid. But tonight I figured they’d be a treat with less fat compared to candy.

2) Meanwhile, I did get offered candy during the halloween festivities. I ate, lets see…probably 3 snickers and 1 receese. I feel that is not of a bingeworthy note. But when we came home and the girls poured out their candy, I went and ate 2 protein bars that taste like candy, in order to let myself enjoy the premise of Halloween, which is, of course, binging on candy.

The real trick for me will be in the morning. I will probably make the girls some pancakes and I will have to be very careful not to be tempted into eating chocolate chips. Also, the threat of rifling through my daughter’s candy bag, which she so h=generously offers to share with me.

The Halloween Binge is OVER! And tomorrow, on the Day of the Dead, I will strive to make the best choices I can while I am alive! After all, I really did enjoy myself tonight! That means, NO MORE TOMORROW!!!