Monday, September 05, 2016
I don't know much about football. Go ahead, say it. It's because I'm a girl. Pfffffft. I know that I have a team I've rooted for since 1986 that I loyally hold onto, even though they suck. I know that I like to look at football pants. I know enough about the rules to get by, and I know team colors and mascots... Hell, I even like watching it! But what I don't know is the necessary information for competitive play in a fantasy league. Is that because I'm a girl? Maybe. Boys seem to have this innate ability to remember stats and positions and who's injured and who got traded...and I just don't. I could tell you what I remember, but then I'd get sidetracked talking about Odell Beckham's tattoos, and that's just... not productive right now. But I'm not sure if it's due to the male/female brain thing, or if it's about the learned skills that society has drilled into our brains.
So, why, then, did I want to play? Simple. Because I wasn't asked. The guy running the thing invited every dude he ran into to play, and treated me like chopped liver. He said it was because I didn't know anything about football....although he never bothered to ask, and we'd never discussed it. But he didn't ask those guys either...he just assumed they did. Not because of football knowledge...but because of different...equipment. Grrrrrrrrrr.
I don't know why I got my panties in a wad over gender inequality for such a trivial topic. I mean, who really CARES about points in an imaginary league with no real bragging rights for a win? But it seemed like the more I was denied the opportunity, the more I wanted it. And the more I was denied that opportunity, the more I wanted to argue about other instances of gender inequality that got me fired up...all of them stupid, and trivial, but somehow really meaningful at the same time. Like being in a room full of guys and the host asking only the MEN if they'd like a shot of bourbon. I frigging LOVE bourbon, and I'm RIGHT HERE! Somehow my skirt, or my boobs, disqualified me.
I was fired up over dress codes last week, too. Reading articles such as this one and this one and seeing comments from friends who have daughters really made me thankful to have a boy (the responsibility just changes a bit). I remember being fussed at, shamed, for not wearing a bra in my own house frequently in my adolescent years, and how bad that felt, like it was my fault I had boobs. Like I was supposed to remember to stop to put a bra on under my pajamas before I went to eat my Fruity Pebbles and watch The Smurfs. Hell no. Flagrant issues...by all means, I'll address those. But otherwise, kids are doing the work I assigned and not bothering me or each other, so I don't care. If the boys are distracted, give them more to do and whack them over the metaphorical head with a good case of "act like you have some sense." It might seem like it's about spaghetti straps, but it's not.
It's human to look and appreciate. That's not lost on me, as a mere girl. After all, Odell and his ink, and those football pants...well, golly. I do a lot of looking and appreciating, but it stops there. Anyone who says "boys can't help it" is risking a fight with me, though, because boys CAN help it. They can help making girls feel bad because her boobs are bigger than the other girls'. They can help not choosing girls to play on their teams...or in their leagues...because they "don't know shit about football. " They can help assuming that girls don't drink bourbon, and that girls are there to sit and be pretty, but not be distracting, mind you! There's that double effing standard that means that we can NEVER win, no matter what we do. They CAN help it, and they need to be taught to, and so help me, if anyone ever says about MY son, "He can't help it, he's a boy," I'll teach everyone in the room how to help it.
I actually started this post with the idea of writing about how I prefer the company of men to women. About how it's easier for me to be comfortable when I only have to worry about witty banter and not the conversation at a "hen party." About how I'd rather be clueless and at a fantasy draft than on level ground and at a Lularoe party...or Pampered Chef...or any of those other approved "girl" things. About how that comes from being raised with a pack of wolves...I mean, boys...as an only girl, and from watching the men in my family retreat to the dining room to discuss important family issues while the women did the dishes. Clearly, they couldn't be trusted with input, but Saran Wrap? Yeah, we can let them handle that. It's all of the above, and more. And I'm just a girl in the world, giving props to Gwen Stefani for today's soundtrack. (Just press play and turn up your volume, girls.)
Saturday, August 27, 2016
I'm a terrible girlfriend. I have put my own needs ahead of yours for the last time. You see, you have been there for me on oh-so-many occasions. You've never let me down. You've been on time for our dates throughout the years, and the words you've said to me have meant so, so much. You've given me hugs when I needed them, and shared your soul. But I suck. At the first sign of inconvenience, I bailed on you. Stood you up. Left you hanging.
I blame it on old age. Years ago, pre-kid, the eight-hour drive to Myrtle Beach on a Friday night for a Saturday night show didn't even cause me to blink twice. And that one paid off, in spades. You wrapped your arm around me like an old friend while I tried not to pass out. And it was a great night.
But I'm sure you understand. You'd understand that the last couple of weeks have been very trying for me. You'd understand the need to recharge and just exist for a little while. You'd probably even understand that it was a really tough choice for me, one that I'm second-guessing even now, knowing there's no way I could jump in the car right now and drive really fast and still make it to the show tonight. I don't know if you'd understand the tears I stupidly shed (or that I'm shedding now) when I made that final decision, but then again, that wasn't really about you. It wasn't even about the waste of the money I spent on Gold Circle seats months ago, when it seemed like Myrtle Beach was the closest you'd come to me. That was about being stuck, straddling a decision like an ever-widening gap, then having to make a quick, final attempt to get both legs on solid ground. And maybe, just maybe, about knowing you'd been closer and I missed those opportunities, too.
But, Rick...you see...I don't think I can explain it. My priorities are just different right now. It's not that I'm forsaking you for another. That would never happen. It's just that I need to focus on myself a little, not in a narcissistic kind of way, but in a hold-myself-together kind of way. Too many changes in too short a time requiring too much of my physical and emotional energy have just left nothing else. And I couldn't do it.
So, have a great show tonight. You'll be on my mind. I'll be wishing I were center stage for "Human Touch." I'll be jealous of other women getting Rick-sweated upon. I'll be wondering if we'd have had a chance to talk before the show, and if Andrew would have gotten to talk to you again and tell you how much he loves "If Wishes Were Fishes" because you drop a couple of F-bombs. But I'll also be braless in my jammies by about ten o'clock, and my feet will be recovering from wearing dressy shoes to school all week. I'll be snuggled up with the blankets pulled up to my chin and a glass of the red wine we love so much on my nightstand...and if I want, I can YouTube you from the comfort of my air-conditioned room without worrying about drunks pissing me off, or traffic, or anything else.
And I know you'd understand.
Friday, July 29, 2016
You see, he watched the DNC with me all week (the RNC last week, too, because we believe in being well-informed and listening to all sides, and checking facts, even when we don't agree with the opinion), and he stayed up with me last night as well.
He humored me while I told him that someday he will be able to tell his kids that he remembers seeing our first black President speak on the soccer field at JMU after freezing to death for hours and then being disappointed when we didn't get into the official speech in the Convo.
|Barack Obama at JMU October 28, 2008|
He also humored me while I told him to look around and remember what was happening while Hillary made her acceptance speech as the first female presidential nominee--his father asleep and snoring in the chair, the "porch kitties" chasing moths attracted to the light shining through the window behind the couch, and his sentimental old mom, who was moved to tears and applause, first by Mr. Khizr Khan, then by Hillary's speech. Don't jump to conclusions, this isn't about Hillary, per se, but because it's been too long in the making. The fact that I even have to celebrate the nomination of a woman as groundbreaking in 2016 should be cause for dismay.
Save your political comments of disgust or whatever...this isn't about whom I've voted for, or for whom I intend to vote. This is about moments in history, and I want to make sure he can say, "I remember when..."
Sunday, June 26, 2016
|Unalome tattoos. If it matters, mine is most like the far left image.|
I have this...problem. Significant dates in my life, usually traumas of some sort, get tagged in my brain and remembered. I have trouble remembering when the good things happen, but things that rip my guts out pop up in their little anniversary outfits and kick me in the teeth on a pretty consistent basis. Sometimes the teeth-kicking is based on a calendar date, but other times, it's just the "oh, the last time I was here" thoughts that get me. So, this was one of those things. The last time we did this, Edna was still with us. The last time we did this, things were very different. The last time we did this, I was a different person than I am now. But again, not the focus of the post, just the backstory.
Anyway, it was the same week seven years ago that we did this last. To oversimplify, it's also a time of transition for me professionally and personally, and I also had some other "anniversaries" in my head rolling around, when I happened to come across an image of a tattoo that really called my name. I've wanted a tattoo for a couple of years. In fact, it was supposed to be my birthday present in 2014, but I just never got around to it. No, that's not entirely true--I had plenty of time to get one, but I didn't know HOW. The same fear, if you will, stops me from going to get a pedicure without backup from my girls. I don't know how things are done, so I just don't do them. Easy solution, but also the wussy way out. So this tattoo yelled my name, and my ever-courageous (and sometimes slightly scary) baby sister made the appointment.
I could have chosen an ankle or a thigh or a shoulder for my first ink...but I rarely do things the easy way, and I chose my sternum instead. Worrying about the pain a little, I had ONE cocktail before we left, and chose undergarments and a shirt that I thought would provide easy and modest access to the area. I had the distraction of a ceiling fan accident (another story) to distract me just before departure, and I was feeling pretty good, pretty decisive about the whole thing. A rarity for me, so it had to be acted upon. Not even learning that I'd have to disrobe before the procedure really slowed me down much--it increased the anxiety level, of course, but after all--these people are professionals!
Turns out, one is required to show ID before a tattoo, even if you're clearly over the age of consent, and when the artist read out my small town name as if he recognized it, warning signs went off in my head. Nobody knows where this town is unless you've lived here, and if that's true, you've usually tried to forget. But he knew it, and then elaborated by saying he grew up around here and...Went. To. My. School. You know, the one where I teach? Oh, and, "You were my 7th grade English teacher!" And here are those band-aids to satisfy your modesty. Band-aids. The little teeny ones. Which makes them the only little teeny things on my body, if you catch my drift. I avoid the grocery store at home in order to avoid students and former students, and you're telling me I'm five hours away from home and about to set the girls free...and, eeeek!
If I've ever felt like dashing out of a place of business, that was it. But I sucked it up. I was on a mission, the tattoo was calling my name, and I knew if I didn't do it then, I'd never get that one OR any other one. It had to happen. So I sucked it up. I held on to my shirt until the very last possible minute, covered up to the best of my half-naked ability, and counted holes in the ceiling tiles as I anticipated the pain that I hoped would distract me from my psychological discomfort. And it. Was a piece. Of cake. The pain was minimal, the artist was ultra-professional, even when I threatened to time travel and put him in silent lunch, and I love the tattoo itself. (Shout-out to AJ at Wicked Parrot Tattoos in Kill Devil Hills, should you be looking for a vacation tattoo.)
Symbolically, it represents the path to enlightenment. The curves and spirals are the difficulties of life, the challenges, the times we don't know where our paths are headed. The top, the straight part, is where we figure our proverbial shit out, become "enlightened," if you will. The dots at the top allegedly represent death, the end of the journey. As I write that, I realize that it's like punctuation, and you know I LOVE that connection to the grammar queen in me. I have dots at the bottom, too, which to me, mean that everything comes full circle. Emotionally, it is even more significant. It marks a time when I faced not one fear, but SEVERAL, and came out on the other end better for it. It also marks this time of transition, a connection that I will always make when I look at it. And it replaces some memories, or signifies them, in a way that I could never have done on my own. Those are all my "squiggles," and my getting through them and coming out better and stronger on the other end is my straight line, my goal in life...and it's closer all the time.