All Write, Already

Sometimes I write things on paper. Then I share them for ridicule.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

98 Degrees Sold Us Infidelity as Romance & I’m Upset

Raise your hand if you’ve been personally victimized by 98 Degrees. 

Raises hand Raises hand  

I have been #blessed with a free trial of XM Radio that I have used to listen exclusively to 90s on 9 and Aughts on 10 for the last (mumbles embarrassing amount of time). While it has been the most enjoyable part of my commute every day, this quality time spent with beloved jams has pried my eyes open to some startling lyrical cues I missed as an over-sheltered child. 

Some realizations have been gentle – remembering that at 11-years-old, I didn’t know “Too Close” by Next was about a boner, though I do now…I definitely do now. But I certainly did not when it played at school dances or when I sang it in the car to my mom. Others have left me quietly questioning, like when I listened, really listened to the lyrics of Backstreet Boys’ power ballad, “As Long As You Love Me” only to discover it was not the sweet profession of unconditional love I once assumed, but instead, the thirsty plea of a lonely man who doesn’t care literally at all what his woman is about or has done as long as she will love him (the official wedding song for every couple on Married at First Sight). And still some forced me to take a good, hard look at the power of diction. My boss and I recently had a lengthy debate, that captured the attention of the entire office and escalated to Instagram, over the protagonist of Ace of Base’s “All That She Wants.” Is the “baby” she craves another lover? Or an actual baby? (A workplace divided until someone responded to my Instagram poll that it is moot because one of the members of Ace of Base was a Nazi. Forced perspective.) At one point, I even tweeted Craig David #SevenTweetsForSevenDays to question whether “we chilled on Sunday” meant, as I originally thought, they took a break from each other because they had been together all week, or as I have come to associate with Netflix, they hung out at home relaxing together. He hasn’t answered me yet, though it is unclear what he’s so busy with. 

But perhaps the most upsetting awakening to date came March 12, 2019 on my way to work when I paid (some would argue too-) close attention to the lyrics of “The Hardest Thing” by 98 Degrees. This song was sold to us – impressionable preteens – as a romance ballad, a lover’s tribute. We sang the lyrics to our mirrors and slow-danced at bar-mitzvahs thinking the way the song switched between “you” and “she” was simply the poor grammar of young or lazy artists. We empathized with the hero who selflessly pushed his one true love away to protect her – from what we didn’t know nor care – lying that his feelings had changed as the only way to get her to leave for her sake. 

AND YET, what I queried that day (and an Insta poll and Wikipedia confirmed to be true) is that this song is actually the very selfish bemoaning of a trash human who pushed his side piece away because his “hands are tied” by a girlfriend who “loves [him] / And trusts [him] fast asleep.” Jaw drop. 

The protagonist, and in my brain by default each member of 98 Degrees, doesn’t even leave the mistress because he loves his girlfriend and realizes the error of his ways, but merely because that poor gf had “been good to [him].” Another needy boyband tune about loving the one you’re with. 

PSA: you don’t have to stay with someone just because they’re nice to you; part ways and you can both be happy. 

Repeatedly throughout the song, we are told of this man’s agony, having to falsely profess to The Other Woman that he doesn’t love her anymore so she’ll walk away…because apparently having a girlfriend isn’t reason enough. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for them? The only party in this trio that has my allegiance is the asleep-at-home girlfriend, who, he says himself, deserves better than this. It is also important at this point to acknowledge that if you’ve fully fallen in love outside your relationship, the affair has been going on too long and you need to take some time with yourself and think about what you’ve done. 

I am overwhelmed by the fact that I, as a young girl, was brainwashed to believe that this is romance. That when the protagonist has no words left but the overused “got to be cruel to be kind,” we were being manipulated into believing this is some selfless grand gesture. When in fact, it is the bare minimum righting of a ship he himself wronged in the first place. 

I am left with a thousand questions, not least of which: was this song about Jessica Simpson? 

XM Radio has forced me to reconsider so much music and, without being dramatic, pretty much everything I know to be true about my childhood. Sitting in the car lamenting the enlightenment I am putting myself through, “The Call” by Backstreet Boys immediately comes to mind. I will be doing a close reading (thanks English degree) soon.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

For Now, Chicago

November 6th would have been my 10-year anniversary in Chicago. But at the end of October, I moved back to LA, where I grew up, just two weeks shy of this deca-milestone. 

The 6th came and went like it always does: the day passes and some time the following week, I wake up and think, “Oh! My Chicago anniversary.” And suddenly every dolt husband in every sitcom about marriage makes sense to me. 

I moved to Chicago a few months after graduating from the University of Michigan. I didn’t want to be near my immediate family, and I didn’t want to go to New York where almost every single person I knew was moving. New York overwhelmed me and exacerbated my anxiety. The filth. The crowds. A decision I often worry was a mistake. I grew apart from groups of people who all spent their early 20s living in small apartments they couldn’t afford, eating $20 salads they couldn’t afford, and partying like college never ended. They bonded through survival of The City in a way I will never make up for, though I’ve tried. But for me, then, Chicago felt like the right place to be. I liked that Chicago had the central city feel of New York – a business district, skyscrapers, public transportation (I didn’t want to take it, I just liked the character it added to the city), walkups, a bustling downtown where other recent grads were centrally located – but with the sense of space of L.A. – neighborhoods, manageable driving, people who smiled. The best of both worlds. 

I liked the idea of forging my own path and starting over. I had spent long weekends off school in Chicago with my college roommate, enough to decide I liked it there, and I had some family in the suburbs, a safety net I thought. The city was fun and alert (a tempered version of the indescribable Energy people attribute to NY) and I already knew from Ann Arbor that I liked the generally gentle natures of Midwestern people. 

Often, I think back through my ten years in Chicago (that barely feel like two maybe three); it’s usually around my birthday or New Year’s Eve. I try to scroll through the mental montage of how I’ve celebrated each of these occasions (though I still maintain that birthdays should be a celebration of the mother, not the child), then end up spiraling into the broader memory flip-book of how I’ve spent each year, month, day. And every time, I come to the same place: what the fuck have I been doing for the last (four, five, eight, ten) years? 

I don’t have a concrete answer. I don’t have any of the things I thought I’d find in Chicago – a husband or at the very least, a serious boyfriend, children, a lucrative career. That list we’re “supposed” to have checked off by our 30s is mostly if not entirely unmarked. 

I made friends (the day I picked up my keys to my first Chicago apartment) with a group of med students who entirely composed my social circle for two-and-half years and with whom, I’ve since lost touch. I got to spend quality time with cousins and their kids, and I met and got close to my dad’s first cousins (and their kids and grandkids). I lived alone, I lived with roommates, I lived back in LA in 2011 for five weeks before returning to Chicago for a job as an assistant account executive at an ad agency…my first real job. I shifted paths at the same agency and started copywriting in Chicago. I got laid off from my first real job in Chicago. I found doctors I liked and trusted and have recommended to newcomers. I learned to take the El (a greater accomplishment than I wish to admit, but my anxiety makes crowded, enclosed, dirty spaces unbearable). I got sick…a lot – colds, flus, sliced-open foot from a broken bottle at a bar, strep so severe my tonsils swelled until they closed off my airway. (I was in the ER so frequently that when I moved home for those five weeks, it felt like Chicago had gotten what it wanted – rid of me.) I welcomed and housed old friends who were newly making Chicago their home and said goodbye to those who were moving on. I went to parties. I went to therapy. I went to too many Lollapaloozas. I turned 30 in Chicago. I got to watch most of my friends get married and become parents in Chicago. I signed up for Instagram and (resigned to) online dating in Chicago. I had my first (brief) relationship in Chicago. I struggled with my intimacy issues in my first (brief) relationship in Chicago. I became friends with guys I dated and told a good friend I had feelings for him (for the first and only time) in Chicago. I adopted my cat in Chicago. Her name is Phoebe; she’s perfect. I started, but didn’t finish, a double master’s program in special and elementary ed at DePaul. I completed a post-baccalaureate program in creative writing at Northwestern. I found Yolk, my favorite restaurant. I took a million dance classes, hosted college dance team reunions that slept 15 people in my one-bedroom apartment, and refused to admit I wasn’t dancing anymore, even though I wasn’t dancing anymore, in Chicago. I got drunk and saw concerts and argued with friends and made up with friends and took trips that I returned home from to Chicago. I complained about the weather and the traffic and bills in Chicago. I overshared with “work friends” who then became “real friends” in Chicago. I was in a dinner club and a bromance and found my “market buddy” and my “sister wife” (an altered definition in which I marry a bestie’s brother) in Chicago. I tried new restaurants and ate until I felt sick in Chicago. I struggled with depression so deeply in Chicago, I wondered if anybody would even notice if I disappeared. I felt abandoned by people in Chicago. I felt more support than I’ve ever felt before in Chicago. I accepted help when I needed it most in Chicago. I decided to (and went through two cycles trying to) freeze my eggs in Chicago. I faced my OCD in a way I never had before in Chicago. (I didn’t have a choice. The cleaning and thought cycles became so repetitive, they started affecting my functioning, my relationships, my ability to get to work, my ability to hide it from friends. I considered and tried medication for the first time in Chicago.) I decided fall was my favorite season and pumpkin patching was my favorite activity. I poached friends and sang car duets and ate cheese plates and truffle fries and truffle chickpeas and truffle everything and created inside universes. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe, until my eyes watered, until I forgot why I was laughing. I stole clothes from people in Chicago – a bad habit I’ve always had. I asked an immeasurable number of questions in Chicago. I lost my virginity in Chicago. I had my first heartbreak in Chicago. I created an invaluable family of friends for myself in Chicago. 

And I found improv in Chicago. Almost by accident. Entirely by kismet. Improv changed my life. And when I fall upon the feeling of regret I never lived in New York, I remind myself of what I likely would have missed. I would not have found the people and community I found through improv, the tenets of an art form that are, at their most basic elements, a beautiful way in which to live, the belief in myself that I can do what I’ve always wanted to do. I would not have discovered storytelling or my voice. I would not have found this outlet that has become an integral part of my mental health. I would not have been able to experience my last five years in Chicago with the same sense of novelty. I would not have found myself. When I think of that list of things I wish I had by now, I wonder if it remained unfulfilled because I wasn’t who I was meant to be yet. (I do wish I’d found improv earlier, but what can you do?) 

I became a person in Chicago. 

Thank you to the people who shaped me while I was there and who will continue to be part of the story. 

Chicago will always be home. I will forever be grateful for the space it gave me. And I know, when I need to, I can always rest my head on its broad shoulders and breathe.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

How I Was Feeling During Priming

I have been very open about freezing my eggs since before I even started, and the reactions from everyone around me have been interesting and/or insanely supportive – asking how I’m feeling, checking in on my appointments and timelines, and expressing how cool or brave they think it is. Coworkers and friends have lots of questions and I’m happy to answer them. My boss basically told me not to worry about work at all, to focus on this process, and to go to my happy place whenever I need to. (Pretty much everything I could’ve asked for.) For myself, I’ve been eating everything in sight and convincing myself it’s okay because I saw online that a side effect of estrogen is hunger. During a brief period, I was spending $14 on smoothies in the mornings as a treat-myself and because I wanted to make sure I was getting my protein. One morning, waiting for my overpriced blended fruit, a friend Facetimed me after his med school graduation and I started crying because I was so proud of him. I was immediately informed that I can’t blame everything on hormones…but why stop now? 

The most surprising conversations, however, have been with my dad. I don’t have a strong relationship with my dad; we’re not estranged, but he drives me nuts and because both my parents tend to believe their opinions are more valid than mine and must be heard without reproach, I tell my parents very little. It leaves less content on which for them to comment. Obviously, my parents know I’m freezing my eggs; this is too big a process to simply keep from them, but our conversations have been mostly limited to the science and logistics of it (when appointments are, how it works, how my body is reacting to the meds, etc). But I called my dad after one of my many blood work appointments, and as I was regaling him with the very basic and factual information I had received, he simply said, “This must be very painful for you.” (He followed that by noting how bizarre it is really to think about what I’m putting my body through when people can just go out and get laid.) 

It was truly one of the most connected moments I’ve ever had with my dad. 

Yes, I would like to know, as with IVF, that on the other side of the shots there’s the promise of a baby…in a millennial way of needing immediate satisfaction. So I focus on the future. The needles and pills and appointments are a means to an end to get to something that may not be coming as quickly as I want it to, but that can be part of my future now that I’ve been given the gift of pausing biology. 

My boobs hurt and I’ve been gaining weight. And I don’t know how many more dates I can scare away by answering their inquiry as to why I’m not drinking with the truth. Honestly, I can see the light dim in their eyes. (But why? It has absolutely nothing to do with them!) And through it all, I have to keep remind myself how lucky I am to have caught my low reserve numbers when I did and that this physical and emotional rollercoaster is an investment in myself.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Catching Up: Egg Freezing

It has been a while since I caught up on where I’m at in my egg retrieval process. As it goes, the longer I wait to write, the harder it is for me to sit back down and do so. It’s why I’ve never been very good at journaling. I worry that if I document Wednesday without having documented Tuesday, the retelling of my life story becomes inaccurate and in 20 years from now when I definitely, definitely sit down and read through the minute-by-minute breakdown of every single day including what I ate for every meal, I will have a poor portrayal of what really happened, so it’s better I just don’t write it down at all. But, this particular endeavor is too important, so here I am forcing myself to get a grip.

Recap: First met with the fertility doctor on February 19. Went off birth control for two months in hopes that my abnormally low reserve number would go up. In April, I had follow-up blood work and ultrasound. Numbers were still low so they told me to go off birth control for another two months. I reminded them that I just did that. They had an oh-yeah moment and said ok, one more month. Went back beginning of May for blood work and ultrasound. Was cleared to start priming. 

As it was explained to me, priming consists of 15 days of birth control to track ovulation. Once ovulating, I would start 15ish days of stimulation hormone injections to amp follicle production so as to scoop as many as possible. However, because my reserve numbers remained so low, my priming process was a little different. 

On May 9, I started priming for a late June retrieval window. I took estrogen orally once a day then added progesterone vaginally twice a day. The progesterone comes as a hot pink tiny ball which then leaks hot pink into my underwear. I had to wear pad all day and overnight for way too long. Why it was necessary to be hot pink, I will never understand. It also came with no instructions or applicator, so I messaged the nurses through the patient portal to ask if I was missing something. The response I got was to “Use a finger, put up as far as you can. There really isn't a wrong way.”

On May 21, I met with the nurse who is the IVF consult. I signed a bunch of paperwork explaining what would happen to my eggs should something happen to me, she walked me through the list of medications I would be taking, and send me home with an initial injection calendar (that ended up being for naught). I hoped for some version of a hands-on training, but it was instead a brain dump of information. She explained that all the medications had to be ordered from a special pharmacy and would be shipped overnight to me once the pharmacy called to confirm my order. I had the box delivered to my office to ensure someone would sign for it (it ended up being more complicated than just working from home to wait for it). I don’t like ordering things in the mail and on May 30th, when the box was delivered to work, I wrote the below: 

I got my box of drugs today. I had it sent to work and I was intrigued and excited to get it. It was making this whole process, which up to this point felt far away, breezy, and a point of conversation feel real. 

The problem is that it became very real. Unpacking the box - all the liquids and pills and needles and syringes was a reality check of what I’m about to put myself through. What involved process and emotional rollercoaster I was about to embark on over the next couple weeks. Up to this point, I had been talking about it like I had a handle on it. Like I knew exactly what was to come because it had been explained to me and I asked my usual million questions. But opening the box tonight was sobering. 

The hardest part about today was that I did not account for, stupidly, how my OCD was going to factor into freezing my eggs. And I discovered tonight, as I come down from a panic attack in my car, is that it is going to make a hard thing harder. I am still short of breath as I write this. I am still hysterically sobbing. Because when the box came today it was not perfect. And to me, imperfect means tainted. And normally i would take its contents (I’ve had to stop shopping online) and return them. Sometimes I would rebuy at a different store. Usually i would just give up. But with thousands of dollars worth of medication, It is not so simple. 

I called the special pharmacy as soon as I got home. And the man on the phone could not have been nicer. We walked through each item so he could show me that it was sealed. He talked to his shipping department to provide an explanation for why the freezer bag maybe had a hole in it that wasn’t that someone stuck their hands in the box. And I left for class feeling better. But as soon as my classmates and teacher asked me about it, it made me feel like there was reason to worry again. And then I lost it. I’m realizing that every day, instead of simply focusing on injecting myself, facing my fear of needles, remembering the instructional videos, my process will involve checking packages over and over to make sure they’re sealed before I open them. Checking the medication bottles over and over again to make sure they’re sealed before opening them. Checking my calendar and my instructions over and over again even as I’m giving myself the shots. Checking and checking to make sure my disposal container they provided me is sealed and out of the way. Washing my hands over and over again after each injection. 

Maybe part of me thought this process would be bigger than OCD, but it doesn’t seem like that is the case. And I am painfully overwhelmed. 

On June 1, I went in for my baseline appointment – blood work and ultrasound that determine my injection schedule for the coming weeks. What they failed to tell me is that my retrieval is not based off my body’s clock alone, but instead, each month the doctor has a specific retrieval window and they back out patients’ meds from there. What I then discovered (because I asked to speak to a nurse considering I had been given no information and had no idea what to expect) was that the retrieval window for June overlapped with a weekend I was meant to spend in Vegas. The friend who is financing this for me was graduating from US Air Force Weapons School (a black-tie gala at which she was meant to win every award). Before I could catch it, I was hysterically crying in front of the nicest and prettiest nurse devastated by the cruel irony that the thing this person is supporting me to do is stopping me from supporting her. Or might stop me. No originally going to come help with recovery, my mom offered to book a flight so in the chance they retrieved at the beginning of the window – a Wednesday – she could get me to my gate on Friday so I could at least be in Vegas recovering instead of missing the weekend entirely. 

What I also did not know, because they failed to tell me, is this baseline appointment really is to determine whether or not I can begin injections at all…something I perhaps should have assumed, but didn’t. And spoiler alert, I couldn't. 

That night, as I was driving to a friend’s place for a housewarming, I got a voicemail informing me I had developed a cyst on my ovaries that skyrocketed my estrogen (it was in the 50s in May and 200s in June) preventing me from being able to start injections for a June retrieval. And I melted down again. I sobbed in the car and thought I had pulled it together, but as soon as I walked into my friend’s place, I was in hysterics again. It was all very uncertain. And maybe if my numbers weren’t so low, I wouldn’t have been so upset, but with every month that passed, with every period I had, I imagined my last egg dropping. Dramatic maybe, but the original doctor who called (in the fall) with the low reserve numbers said that I should consider doing this within six months. And then it is all the questions: How long will my life be on hold? What if by the time my body agrees with the medicine, I have no eggs left? What if in July, again, my numbers are wrong and another month goes by? How will I survive watching one more friend get pregnant, give birth, post baby pictures to photo streams worrying that my body will just never cooperate? What if I never know what it feels like to be pregnant? 

I listened to that voicemail over and over again and created myself a calendar based on her instructions to go back on my priming meds for another six weeks – estrogen orally once a day and hot pink progesterone up my vag twice a day. Needless to say, during this process, I’ve gotten to know myself very well.  

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

here we go

May 8, 2018 - It’s been three periods (I track my time in periods now) since I first met with the fertility doctor. As I briefly mentioned, my egg reserve numbers were abnormally low, so he suggested I get off birth control for two months to see if my egg reserve returned, which he was fairly certain it would. At my second period, I made an appointment to get blood work and an ultrasound done. Waiting for that “recheck” appointment the following morning was a strange sensation. I felt anticipatory, like something life-changing was about to happen. I know it isn’t the same thing, but it felt akin to what all my new mom friends must have felt when their waters broke. Related only in the sense that egg retrieval and water breaking are both stages of having a baby. I wish I had written about my mood then, but I figured I would wait for my results. (Spoiler alert, my egg reserves were still diminished. And, honestly, I did not have the ability to write or think about it.)

The office messaged that afternoon with those poor results, instructing me to take two months off birth control to allow my reserve to replenish, and I felt incensed. I know they do this every day and, to them, it is just work – and in a way, that is calming – but the other side of that is what felt like flippancy. (I know they are not flippant, I have called and messaged with approximately 1,000 questions and they have been nothing but kind and patient.)  But please, check my chart; the appointment I just finished was my two-months off birth control recheck.  If I were taking another month because it would replenish my reserve, I would wait all the months, but to wait an extra month accidentally?  My life is on hold; there is nothing more important to me than this right now and that is all-consuming.  And with every day that passes, every heavy period I survive, I picture the last few eggs I have leaving my body. 

With most things that stress me out, I ignore them until I feel ready to handle. But this is not something I can ignore until it feels less scary; in fact, ignoring it likely would have made it worse. But this is incredibly draining to face. Alone. When I decided to move forward with freezing my eggs, I was excited. I expected to feel a little relief, to have a backup plan if the meet-marry-make babies naturally plan were to derail, but what I’m looking at now is likely a Plan Only.  Which adds quite a bit of pressure.

The doctor originally said his goal was to harvest 10-15 eggs, but because my numbers are so low, he said he may only get five. Better five young eggs than 15 old eggs, so at least I have that going for me, but there is a panic that sets in when I think about the numbers. You lose eggs at multiple stages of the process and even by the time you have a healthy embryo, there’s no guarantee it will implant. And with only five eggs to start… 

So I shut down. I revisit the part of my brain where everything is fine, where this isn’t real, and if I just exist in a time before I had this information, then that will be so. Because when I settle here in reality, I am overwhelmed. 

Tomorrow, I get started. I picked up my meds today. With a June harvesting window set, so begins the priming. Priming regulates my body, my ovaries, and sets me up best to react to the hormones. I will be taking estrogen (orally) once a day for the next week and then I will add twice a day progesterone (vaginally) through the end of May. My nurse consult to go over post-priming steps - hormones, etc is scheduled.  As it goes, I will get more blood work and an ultrasound at my next period.  And I made the mistake of googling my priming medications and according to a message board, a side effect of the vag one is “worry.” 

I am nervous. I am sad. I am lucky. I am overwhelmed.  I am hopeful. 

I would be remiss not to once again thank the angel-on-Earth who has afforded me this incredible, complicated, beautiful, and timely gift so that I will hopefully one day have the chance to have my own children. Thanking her properly will be my life’s work. 

Here we go. 

Part 1: social preservation

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

“social preservation”

If you’ve ever spent even five minutes with me at any point in my 32 years, you know how obsessed I am with babies. As a preschooler, I would hold babies while sitting in my car seat and I started babysitting when I was only 10. I once picked up elastic-topped jeans by accident so excited by the technology not even knowing what maternity jeans were but my soul did. I came out of the womb this way. I love babies, I want babies. Sometimes, I am a baby. It is all fine by me.

Every so often, as everyone is pairing off and I’m singing songs to my cat about how much I love her, I will think about the prospect of never knowing what it feels like to be pregnant and it makes me break down. (Then my cat walks away because she has no time for my drama.) There is no part of me that thought I would be 32, single, and childless and while I do my best to distract myself, the gravity of that is unavoidable.

I have been thinking about freezing my eggs for an insanely long time, but it is exorbitantly expensive and insurance doesn't cover "social preservation" (which is so gross to me, but that's almost another issue entirely). But this year, an angel I am lucky enough to call one of my best friends offered to pay for me to go through this process. I refused at first because that was a gesture so out-of-this-world kind I had no way to process it. How do you accept something like that?

We had multiple conversations about it and I finally accepted her generosity.  I immediately got my first round of blood work done to learn that my AMH levels (egg reserves) are low. Though that is likely a result of being on birth control, which I am now off so they can retest my blood in a couple months, I have been crying since I got those results because I know that if I weren't doing this now, I likely would not have had the chance. And the timing of that is overwhelming.

Fertility conversations are held in the same hush-hush tones people expected of me when I discussed being an elder virgin. Sex is everywhere, but for some reason, when you want to start a family in an "alternative" way (or are a late bloomer), you are shamed into believing it isn't something to be shared.

Well, I talk about it (fertility, not sex) at work, I talk about it with friends, and now I'm posting it on the internet. The science of this is a gift, not a shame. And it isn’t a secret. I am grateful and scared because I don’t do needles and because apparently the hormones will make me crazier than I already am (so be warned). I will gladly share what I know of the process or pass on any of my research and when the time comes, I will gladly show you my bruising, physical and emotional, if you are interested.

Company benefits should include family planning, and not just when it's already too late eg fertility issues. Insurance companies should cover family planning, and not just when it's already too late eg fertility issues. Women shouldn’t be penalized for being single, nobody should be penalized for starting a family in an “alternative” way. Freezing my eggs isn't "social preservation," it's realistic and proactive.

For me, there will never be words to thank this woman I've known since 7th grade. There are hardly words now to express what an incredible human she is and gift she is giving me and overwhelming sense of indebtedness I am experiencing. To which she has only said “of course.” Timing is everything, they say, and I am [lucky doesn't even begin to describe it] that she has provided me a means to be able to do this this year, and likely at all, because it is truly the one thing I've wanted since I could talk.

Stay tuned.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Men Online vs Men In Person

You walk into a bar with a group of your girlfriends. Posted up by the DJ booth, a man you immediately recognize as attractive approaches and offers to buy you a drink. You accept. He disappears and never comes back. No worries. You see another cute guy sitting with friends in a booth. You walk his way and say hello. He pulls out his phone and shows you a picture of his penis. It is not something he should be so proud of. You remind yourself there are plenty of fish in the sea. You grab a fresh drink and head back to the DJ booth. You hear a whisper and turn around. A man is grinning at you, assuming you heard what he said. He continues, “What kind of panties are you wearing?” You scream, unable to understand what kind of manboy would speak like that to you to your face. Just then, a charming-looking gentleman in a flannel and jeans approaches; he has that Midwestern flair you’ve heard so much about. He says something witty, but unmemorable before you even have a chance to turn your back. You giggle, a breath of fresh air. He continues. “What’s the difference between me and my couch?” You ignore his poor grammar. 

“Nothing?” You ask coyly, thinking you, too, are witty. 

“One is more fun to sit on.” You swallow a polite smile and stand there staring. He started off well, so you give him another chance. 

“The couch, right?” You ask, not so subtly leading him to his second chance.

“Yep. But it’s a sectional not a sofa sleeper. So I’m still the only one of us who pulls out.”

It is remarkable to me the stark contrasts between what men will say to women in person vs. what they think is okay to say to women online. I can speak only from my experience, and the shared experiences of friends, but conversations like the above are not only frequent, but also are usually a lot worse. 

It almost (almost) seems absurd to imagine men behaving so crudely in person – walking away with no warning, asking to touch your boobs or talking dirty with no permission, whipping out their peens, telling you they play professional basketball when you can see they are 5’2 and out of shape. 

But, then, isn’t that bar meeting essentially what online dating is meant to recreate? If the goal is to meet someone – a partner or a lover, all the swipe-swipe-swiping is to mirror the act of seeing someone, feeling attraction, and starting a conversation (or conversely, seeing someone, not getting a vibe, and grabbing another drink until someone catches your eye). So then why does this pitiful, disgusting, and sometimes comically offensive behavior suddenly become so prevalent with the introduction of the written word? The barrier of a screen and miles of distance remove the personality from such a personal endeavor, and it gives these men a sense of security or invincibility they likely, hopefully, would not channel staring at you in-the-flesh. 

So that too begs the question: Are these men debasing themselves and me from the safety of their couches or bedrooms or toilets because the glow of the iPhone screen jumbles their brains? And they’re testing their inner creep just to see what sticks? Or are these the garbage men who would be garbage men no matter what…we just have more access to them and discover it faster online? 

I have been swiping on-and-off for too many years. And the reasons I both get on- and offline are the same every time – I log back on because I’m lonely and I convince myself it only takes one and I immediately give up online dating because everyone is trash. (I once was so horrified by an online suitor, I spent a day trying to track down his mother so I could inform her of her son’s behavior. Half of me wanted her to know how her son was speaking to me, so she could shame him, and half of me wondered if he was raised in an environment that allowed that kind of behavior. I was less adept at the internet then, and I couldn’t find her. Probably for the best.) I get asked out for dinner, but no plan gets made. I get sexted with no indication that’s what I’m looking for. And I get yelled at for declining creepy first date offers, which, if you’re trying to prove you’re a normal guy, yelling at me for not wanting you to pick me up from my HOME when we’ve never met is not the way to do that. Understand my caution.

And I’m not the exception. 

Women put up with so many harassing messages from men online, the needle of when it’s time to laugh, screenshot, and block and when it’s time to report has been pushed far. There is no accountability for online interactions. Men are a first name that may not even be theirs, a series of pictures that may not even be theirs, and information that may not even be true. If something goes awry, they block or get blocked, and digitally skulk away into the ether. In person, it is a lot harder to get rejected or to be disgusting or honestly, just to be vulnerable, because there’s a living, breathing human being there to react. To judge. To respond viscerally. To give an unwanted, but deserved reprimanding without the ability to log off. And that’s always scarier. The control over output versus input is lost in person, but that is so outweighed by the benefits of being a human. 

Tone, intention, facial expressions, body language, eye contact, and sometimes an embarrassed giggle at saying the wrong thing when you don’t have time to edit are all lost in messaging. And in spite of having already gotten too deep with this, I think a lot of the discrepancy in the online personas of men has a lot to do with our generation’s (statistically proven) dwindling ability for old-fashioned talking. 

But the presence of that health-menacing blue light should not allow for the kind of backward-thinking, misogynistic, and harassing messaging women endure. 

With that, I would like to pose some questions to men of the internet. 

Why do you lie on your profile?  Why do you opt not to list your education or career?  Why do you bother having a profile with one or no pictures?  Why do you have a picture of you holding a fish?  Are you all really spider killers?  Why do you list your height, then get mad that you listed it? Eg: 6’0 BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT MATTERS  Why do you all have pictures of you playing golf like I’m supposed to be impressed you have the most boring and time-consuming hobby?  Why do you think it’s okay to invite me over to your house before we’ve even met? Do you think I’m trying to get murdered?  Why are all your pictures selfies; do you have no friends to take those for you? And also, why are all your selfies taken in the bathroom? Toilets are not sexy.  Is the best description you can come up with for yourself an evolution of what cities you’ve lived in? And if it is, what does it say about me that I’m LA > Ann Arbor > Chicago?  Do you really want to know what I’m wearing? A grey sweat suit.  Do you go to the gym just to take pictures of yourself at the gym, because I don’t think you’re using the gym properly?  Why is your “About Me” not a description of who you are, but instead a list of what you expect me to be?  And finally, why do you talk to me like you’re “the bad guy” in a Lifetime movie? 

(for my complete list of questions, please visit Alma) 

We are all out here trying to get by and make connections in a technological age that both benefits and hinders us. Be better. Because I am good at the internet now, and this time, I will find your mother.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Narnia

I am afraid of everything.  I’m afraid of spiders.  I’m afraid of the dark.  I’m afraid my food is poisoned.  I’m afraid of flying.  I’m afraid of being alone.  I’m afraid of rejection.  I’m afraid of failure.  I’m afraid of what people think about me.  I’m afraid if I sneeze alone in my apartment, the murderer who has been hiding and waiting for me will say, “Bless You” before he jumps out and kills me.  I’m afraid of germs and pain and needles and blood and my own brain. I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of intimacy.    

I am 31-years-old and in my first relationship ever.  And I’m afraid it will just never happen for me.

We met on Craigslist…his favorite joke is to let that linger.  We met on Craigslist.  A couple years ago, I was apartment hunting; I had been living alone in River North and felt it was time to minimize costs by changing locations and re-acclimating to having a roommate.  I emailed every normal-sounding post I found.  Hi, my name is Jamie.  I’m a twenty-something female who works and does stuff for fun, blahblahblah.  I was once pulled on stage at a Salt-N-Pepa concert (true, greatest day of my life) and I have a cat; she’s perfect.

He answered.  The ad was for a third room in the Humboldt apartment he shared with his friend, we’ll call her Katie, because that’s her name.  On a Saturday, I met him at the apartment; he toured me around and I think we even got coffee.  He was so hot, I found it difficult to talk to him.  At least, as I recall it.  His version of the story is different.  His version involves a low-angled mirror, which, I apparently pointed out, gave me a good view of my “vag.”  

The next day, we three potential roommates went to breakfast.  It was clear within minutes Katie was in love with him.  (Katie is still in love with him.)  He texted me that night and offered me the room.  “I can’t live with you” I politely informed this stranger.  “I’m too attracted to you.”

“Are you sure?” he responded.  I still think this is a stupid question.

What I could have said was yes, I’m sure and also your friend is in love with you and I cannot be part of this apartment where we both pine for you and then you bring home other girls.  But instead I just said, “yes, I’m sure.  I’m sorry.”  Katie still hates me because of this.  And also, probably, because she’s in love with him.  

I’ve never talked to anyone like that in my life.  Telling someone I thought they were attractive?  Never.  Being excited for dates?  How could I?  Telling someone I liked them?  Desperate.  

Past men have told me that it is impossible to read me, that it took them until after we stopped talking to figure out my way of showing affection was simply by not telling them to go away.  And until, we’ll call him Jordan because that’s his name, I thought that should be enough.  If you’re around, it’s because I want you around.  How exposed and desperate, I thought, to do more. I would watch couples interact with each other.  They kissed in public and held the backs of their partners’ necks.  They put their hands on their partners’ stomachs when taking pictures and held hands as if they knew the other person would want to.  Meanwhile, if I grazed someone’s leg under the table at dinner, it sent a chill of panic down my spine that I was coming on too strong.  Don’t throw yourself at them…be cool.

I had this conversation with a friend recently, and it was comforting to know she too felt this mindset was a residual effect of our all-girls junior and high school.  We focused on grades and not on shaving; we linked arms everywhere we walked and strewn our bodies on top of each other with abandon.  But boys?  They were foreign and you must tread lightly.  

We stayed friends, Jordan and I, after I didn’t move in.  At first, we only texted sporadically – he would keep me up-to-date about a rapper acquaintance of his I became (ironically) obsessed with.  He went to Japan and thought of me when he saw a band playing in the town square.  And when he came back, we started hanging out.  He was flirtatious, but never made a move.  We went on dates, but never kissed.  He traveled across the city to see me, but always went home separately.  When I asked him what was going on, he informed me that while he was attracted to me, he felt like what he really needed were friends.  (He doesn’t have a lot of friends.  He counts them at five total.)  So I dropped it.  I took him places I wanted a handsome companion.  He helped me unpack when I finally left River North and moved in with a roommate to whom I wasn’t too attracted.  And then slept on the couch every time that roommate went out of town – and proudly called himself my babysitter.  He came to a wedding with me in October, after which he texted me he wanted to kiss me but I was too busy complaining how tired I was and invited himself over even though he knew my night creams were already on.  I said no…my night creams are on.  His sister came to town and he wanted me to meet her.  He got sad when our hangouts came to an end and started texting me novels about all the things he liked about me.  He has told me every day since we started dating he was afraid of me then.  I ignored it all; I was over it.  We were friends.  

On January 14, I went to a wedding alone.  There, was we’ll call him Charlie because that’s his name.  Charlie and I make out every time we are together.  We’ve never seen each other with our pants off.  We semi-dated for a while years ago, but he never fails to inform me though he enjoys my company, I drive him crazy and he doesn’t see any long-term potential.  Charlie thinks I am dying to date him.  Charlie wanted to go out after the wedding and make out later, I wanted to go home and make out now.  Charlie went out.  I got mad and texted Jordan, a sure thing, from a cab at 1:30 am, “Come over.”

I’ve never talked to anyone like that in my life.  Inviting someone over at 1:30 in the morning?  Too forward.  Inviting someone over ever?  Desperate.  Forcing myself into someone’s life like this?  Tragic.  

He says he’s never gotten out of bed faster.  He slept over every night that week; we made out with some light finger-banging.  He hates that phrasing.  I told him it would take me longer to be comfortable doing other things.  (I have touched fewer peens than he has friends).  He said he really didn’t care.  The next Monday morning, home sick from work and muted on a conference call, wearing a cat nightgown my aunt had sent me for my birthday, I lost my virginity.  That Friday, he moved to LA.  Depending on whom you ask, we have, more or less, been dating long-distance since then.

With Jordan, I say how I feel.  And how I feel is sexy, for the first time ever, okay in my body for the first time ever, emotionally safe for the first time ever, vulnerable.  I tell him I like him and we talk about our feelings and sometimes I even call him my boyfriend, though the word tastes strange coming out of my mouth.

Sometimes, I cry after sex.  Somewhere between my all-girl school and my overbearing parents, I ended up with messed-up feelings about sex.  Sometimes, I feel shame and embarrassment.  I liked that people knew I was an elder-virgin because there was nothing to be embarrassed about.  I could talk about it endlessly, but it was still somehow private.  Knowing people know I have sex fills me with a nausea I have trouble describing to people.  So, sometimes, after sex, I cry.

I like having sex with Jordan; I like feeling close to him and I like when he cums because it makes me feel like a damn woman, and I like when he touches my stomach.  I’ve never let anyone touch my stomach before.  I like how obsessed with making me cum he is and I like the funny look on his face when he’s thrusting.  I like that he calls my privates Narnia (because nobody else has been there) and that he says I have a Librarian’s Orgasm (I am silent during sex).  But sometimes, sex makes me feel shame.

Sometimes, I feel naïve when I try to enjoy sex, like what do I know?  Like I don’t have enough experience to talk about sex like an adult.  It makes me nervous, like people think it’s “adorable,” not normal.  Like when a little kid learns their first song on the piano and you pat them on the head and tell them good job. That because I am old and it is new, it will never be normal, it will always be juvenile.  But Jordan is patient with me and we talk about sex.  I’ve never talked about sex with a guy like this before.

With other people, if we did anything but make out, I could no longer look them in the eye.  But with Jordan, I look at him before, during, and after.

It’s September now and we fight all the time.  And I’m afraid it will never happen for me.

We fight like we’re trying to save our marriage for the sake of the kids.  I have been on a million dates, I’ve used all the apps, I’ve even “dated” someone for a couple weeks, but I’ve never felt the way I do right now.  And that scares me.  I am 31-years-old and in my first relationship ever.  And I’m afraid it will never happen for me.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Discrepancy

What he said to me was, “That’s better” as he stole our first kiss in the doorjamb of my apartment. What he said to me was, “I really like you. I have for a long time” as he lie in my bed gently kissing my forehead and I scratched his back. What he said to me was, “I don’t know what to do with my feelings for you” as he stared steadily into my eyes. 

What he said to his friends was, “She’s awkward and inexperienced and wacky.” 

What I thought was, "What. The. Fuck" as he took his shirt off and I caught a look at his sculptured body. What I thought was, "This feels nice" as I ran my nails along the deep groove of his spine. What I thought was, "I don't totally trust you, but you're good at making me question that" as he talked to me like we were already in a relationship. 

What I said out loud was, "Please stop complimenting me; I hate it." 

What he said to me was, “I am sorry about the indecisiveness, that is just where things are for me mentally” as we discussed his erratic behavior. What he said to me was, “What, we’re going out!” as I expressed surprise at his offer to pick me up from home for our dinner plans. What he said to me was, “I’ll be the judge of that” as we flirtatiously discussed the effectiveness of our workouts. 

What he said to me was, “Your virginity freaks me out.” 

What I thought was, "Please don't stop" as he slowly ran his fingers just along the upper edge of my underwear. What I thought was, "Are we going to make out?” as we lie side by side, never feeling the weight of each other's bodies. What I thought was," I hope nobody finds out about this" as I rolodex-ed the few people who knew we had been hanging out. 

What I said to my friends was, "This could be mutually beneficial." 

What he said to me was, "I've been avoiding you. I'm not ready to be in another relationship" as my head rest on his chest. 

What I thought was, "Did you ask if I wanted to be in a relationship with you” as my nails traced the precise outline of his muscles. 

What he said to me was, "I like your body" as his hand felt the curves of my imperfect stomach. 

What I thought was, "I hate when people touch my stomach" as I fought to settle into something that was intriguing to me. 

What he said to me was, "Let's go on a proper date sometime" as he sent a series of inebriated text messages. 

What I thought was, "This will likely never happen" as I said to him, "that could be nice." 

What they said to me was, "He thinks you're funny and cute and he wants to get to know you. But also that you’re awkward and inexperienced and wacky." 

What I’ve been thinking to myself is, "I'm embarrassed. And confused. And hurt? A series of rotating questions and mental screen shots of our interactions, wondering what about that one night I’m missing. 

What I’ve been thinking to myself is, “He's known me for two years. What about my personality is different now that we've kissed? What about that night was due to my lack of experience. What about that night felt so genuine, but ended up so disingenuous. What about that night should have gone differently? Do people not like getting their backs scratched? Do people normally react differently to having their foreheads kissed? What about the innocuous activities was awkward? Was it the innocuousness itself?” 

What I’ve been thinking to myself is, “Where is the disconnect and where else in my life am I disconnected?” 

What I’ve been thinking to myself is a lingering series of rotating questions that has held more weight than I care to admit and has since reframed experiences outside of this one and has called to question my sense of self, however unstable it already was…is. 

What I’ve been thinking to myself is, “How self-unaware am I actually?” 

Now, what I think to myself is…maybe, maybe it isn’t me. Maybe it’s him.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

How "Beauty" Governs Society

Aggregated Political Piece for "Journalism: Deconstructing the Blog" 

Beauty is power.  But that's not necessarily always a good thing.  Both being beautiful by societal standards and falling outside those expectations can carry a burden.  

TED Talk: Looks Aren’t Everything.  Believe Me, I’m A Model

Cameron Russell, a model of ten years, discusses how beauty, or rather society’s perception of beauty, is as powerful as it is superficial.  Using herself as an example, she uncovers how a “deck stacked in [her] favor” determines the unfairly uneven field on which society plays.

      Reddit Users Attempt to Shame Sikh Woman, Get Righteously Schooled

A man, overwhelmed with an opportunity to poke fun at a woman’s appearance (which is a whole issue in itself), ignoring all possible religious, cultural, or personal preferences, posts a picture of a Sikh woman at an airport.  The woman, sporting facial hair due to a pious belief that the body “is a gift…given…by the Divine Being…and must keep it intact as a submission to the divine will,” responds to the careless and ill-conceived post.  His unprecedented-in-the-internet-world apology is remarkable, though it speaks mostly to her character, not his.  Her response to his original post isn’t in anger or condescension or of hurt feelings.  It calmly offers explanation and a chance for understanding.  And it is her attitude, her acceptance of the world’s lack of acceptance that will break the cycle and will eventually allow us to learn from, empathize with, and appreciate each other.  

If You Wanna Be Happy – Jimmy Soul

In the reverse of the stereotypical expectations, Jimmy Soul advises his male peers to marry an ugly woman, because though your friends may “say you have no taste,” a pretty woman makes a man look small.  And no guy would ever want to risk that.

The Moth: A Work In Progress

“A child w/ a disability is 4 times more likely to be a victim of chronic violence.” 

“99% of women [with] disabilities living in the developing world are illiterate, many prevented from attending school or holding a job.”

People think they have the permission to decide whether or not you fit their idea of “beauty,” their idea of “normal.”  They don’t.   (See also, the outrageously inspiring Kyle Maynard)

Washington Post This Weekend: Teenage Girls Are Asking to Be Raped

It is sickening and unfortunately all-too-common for rape victims to be marginalized and criminalized for being raped.  The blame is turned from the aggressors, who after all, cannot be expected to control themselves when a woman in a short skirt walks by, to these women who were “asking for it” or worse, “deserved it.”  Here, Amanda Marcotte dismantles the belief that if women didn’t want to be sexually assaulted, they would dress and behave more conservatively.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Couch Cushion Book

Experiment 2 for Creative Nonfiction class; Excerpt 

I went to a wedding last [year] in Florida.  I met a boy.  He was a groomsman; I was a bridesmaid.  We sat on the beach after the after-party and the after-after-party and talked about his girlfriend.  They are both military and she was in Africa.  They dated for a few months before she left and the distance changed something in her.  She became needy and high maintenance and it was unattractive. 

He leaned up against the surfboards hanging from the shack we were sitting near and I leaned into him.  I told him I was high maintenance too; I told him of my neuroses and obsessive compulsions and he seemed shocked.  He told me I seemed so laid-back and carefree.  I felt like he could know me so well, but he didn’t know me at all.

I spoke of the way the bride looked at the groom and he, the way the groom looked at the bride.  It was envy, but not green.  It was not ugly on us.  “You don’t look at your girlfriend that way,” I meant as a question, but I already knew the answer.  “No.  And that’s the problem…I don’t think I ever will.”

The night was cliché and it was beautiful.  Winter had just arrived in Chicago and I was enjoying the warm evening air on our last night in Florida.  We talked until, I assume, his back hurt from supporting my weight.  He stood up silently and grabbed the bags of stuff we had picked up earlier from the bridal suite.  “Let’s go,” he said and started walking.  I followed.

“Where are we going?”  I asked the question, knowing the answer, just to play the game.

Earlier, way before we sat on the beach, when I made him help me collect the bags of stuff from the bridal suite, he tried to kiss me in an elevator.  I told him no, that he had a girlfriend.  Now, I felt an obligation to reiterate my intentions, or lack thereof.  I repeated all the things that would not be happening and he told me he knew and didn’t care.

I followed him back to his room.  I had been sharing a room with my married friends and a single girlfriend.  He had a room to himself.  It felt so grownup.

I found my toothbrush in one of the bags and got ready for bed.  As I crawled under the sheets, I started to take out the 50 plus bobby pins holding my up-do in place.  He stopped me, sat up close, and did it for me.  Slowly and gently. 

We stayed up all night talking.  And spooning.  I recognize my moral compass does not point due north.   

In the morning, I remembered our responsibilities.  The Farewell Brunch was starting soon and he (the best man) and I (a bridesmaid) needed to be on time.  He negotiated some more time in bed.  Every time I tried to get up, he renegotiated the amount of time spent alone.  The blackout curtains made it difficult to argue.  I knew that once I left, it was over.  But really, it was over before it began. 

Earlier in the morning, while he held me in his arms, he asked me, “So, what are you doing here with me, then?”  I laughed and told him he was an idiot, though I knew the answer.  He laughed and we moved on.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Visit Original Link

Ignoring all my instincts, I performed at a storytelling event called The Button Down; the theme was "class."  I'm trying this whole push-yourself-outside-your-comfort-zone thing.  The transitions are weak and I screwed up the ending because I black out when I'm nervous. 

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

And Now, A Message About “A Message to Aaron Sorkin”

If you haven’t seen The Newsroom yet, you should.  It’s Aaron Sorkin’s most recent masterpiece, and it follows the professional and personal lives of the employees of a news network.  What’s particularly brilliant about The Newsroom is that it uses real events (from recent history) and contextualizes them in this made-for-TV world.  Plus, it’s on HBO, so they can curse and stuff which adds a level of authenticity.  It gets a lot of flak from people who “don’t get it” or feel that Sorkin is “condescending," “too liberal,” or too “preachy.” There are also those who compare it to The West Wing and find that the two shows are disappointingly different.  Well, right, they’re literally different shows that happen to share a political undercurrent. 

            The most recent and seemingly most public critique (because it’s a “spoof” video and we, lacking attention span, gobble that stuff up) is “A Message to Aaron Sorkin.”  

            Brought to us from Luke Barnett and Jason Juggard, and starring Mr. Barnett, this video is not so much a spoof as it is an acted representation of how sometimes, I’ll tell my mom things and then later she’ll use those same things against me in an argument. (I actually no longer tell my parents anything because of that, but that’s irrelevant at the moment.)  The opening scene of The Newsroom’s pilot episode shows Will McAvoy (the main character – lead anchor of the news broadcast) on a panel, where he gets baited into a rant about how America isn’t the best country in the world, but it could be.  Barnett and Juggard take this opening scene and use it – its scenery, format, tone, sentiment – to deliver a parallel rant about The Newsroom and its place on television.

            The writing is fine.  Their attempt at mimicking Sorkin’s sharp tongue is not all for naught.  The diction is there, they even have some moments worth chuckling at (“Allison Janney has to cover the ears of her four West Wing Emmys just to watch The Newsroom”), but the poignancy, speed, and dryness is missing.  They even repurpose direct quotes from Sorkin’s script to critique Sorkin’s writing.  How can they possibly expect me to take their commentary on the effectiveness, cleverness, and uniqueness of someone’s writing while not-ironically using that writer’s exact words to do so?

            I will admit, I am weirdly passionate about/protective of The Newsroom.  But, objectively, complaining about the pace of the writing (“you can’t build a show on an actor’s ability to cram as many words into as few seconds as Sorkinly possible”) while talking as quickly as their lips will take them doesn’t help prove that point either.  And I am truly sorry their brains cannot keep up with the pace of the show – they’re missing out – but that isn’t Sorkin’s fault.  It’s genetics’.  Blaming Sorkin for their inability to keep pace with his “whip-smart dialogue” would be like blaming my mother for my lack of social skills.  Well, no wait, those are different.  The latter is definitely her fault.

            I get that it’s the age of DIY and in order to make anything of yourself, you have to just do it and hope it gains traction.  But why would you want to make a name for yourself (and I get the irony in this) by putting down other people’s work?  These are elementary school basics: Putting other people down doesn’t make you look better nor feel better.

            Barnett and Juggard push the point made by some that The Newsroom is “arrogant” and “operatic,” that it “treats anyone that disagrees with it like redneck tea partiers.”  Honestly, I think they aren’t really watching it.  Characters on the show have to stake a position or it would be impossible to trust them, to believe in them as people.  The show is meant to make us think, and the boys do touch on the fact that we need shows like The Newsroom to battle the increasing political ignorance of the American public, but calling it “liberal propaganda” because they don’t agree with the main character’s point of view is as one-sided as they’re claiming the show itself is. 

            Whether or not you agree with everything the characters say, with Sorkin even, the show gets you thinking about the state of our country, about the political system as it stands, about our responsibilities as citizens that we may or may not be upholding, and maybe even most of all, about the media.

            It uses clips from real broadcasts, real interviews; the news stories are real.  It’s what we, the public, learned of those stories and how we learned about them that is under scrutiny on The Newsroom.  The point of the show is not to get you to agree with exactly what the characters’ commentary is, but to recognize the absurdity in that nobody else is commenting at all.

            So, Luke and Jason, you don’t like The Newsroom.  You don’t have to watch it.  Write your own show…your own original show.  Get positive attention from a positive work of art, not from making yourself look clever by tearing down someone else’s work.  (Again, I see the irony.)  Maybe that’s the problem, though; you can’t write a show as well as Sorkin.  If you could write anything as tight, intelligent, and thought-provoking, you would be doing it.  And, quite frankly, that would have been a better use of your time.

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Storytelling

She introduced me and I stood up as the audience applauded.  She could have been miles away and I still would have heard her call my name.  Just minutes earlier, she had asked me how I wanted to be introduced, and despite requesting that they say nothing, I ended up with, “Jamie Bliss is a local blogger and was once peed on by a tiger.” 

            As my head rose above those still seated, I reflected on that fateful moment when I was forced to divulge a fun fact about myself and, for some reason, decided this was the most interesting thing about me.  I now was living in regret of that horrible decision.  If I bombed, I’d be the weird girl who got peed on by a tiger.  If I killed it, I’d be the weird girl who got peed on by a tiger, but who is kind of funny.

            She gave me a look that told me I was safe.  That everything would be okay.  That she supported me. 

            It was an unusually hot day for September in Chicago and the seemingly simple effort of rising from a chair immediately multiplied the already countless beads of sweat dripping down my spine.  The deliberately hipster outfit I had chosen for the occasion – a printed maxi dress that I wore as a skirt and a denim shirt tied over it with the sleeves rolled up– became exponentially more soaked in nervous energy. 

            I glanced back at he whom I refer to as “Sensei” (whose hair was so drenched with sweat, it was as if he were taking sink baths in the bathroom every few minutes) and clumsily climbed over the legs of the person seated next to me, the one person I had invited that night, the receptionist from work.  Her intensity is the reason she was the only person I allowed to come.  It was also the reason I now avoided eye contact with her.

             I stepped over the third and last person in my row and finally entered the aisle.  The absence of air conditioning exaggeratedthe used-bookstore smell.  Or that stench was the amalgam of everyone’s BO.  Hard to say.  I tried not to look at anyone’s face as I began the unforeseeably long trip from my seat to the front of the room.  As I actively talked myself into putting one foot in front of the other, I accidentally looked directly at the girl who just had announced that I once was dripping in tiger urine much like I now was dripping in sweat.

            I clutched my half-page of notes, now damp from my clammy hand, even though no more than ten minutes earlier (I was only the second performer), they had boasted their no-notes rule.  Sorrynotsorry.  As I slowed my stride past her, I mumbled something to acknowledge that I was “taking my notes anyway,” like a rebellious teenager to an ever-supportive mother.  Except she’s not my mother, I ruined everything, and she’ll never love me unconditionally. 

            I didn’t plan on using them, even; they were merely a security blanket.  From helping me organize my thoughts to fanning me in the unwavering heat, I needed them by my side.  Just as they always had been.  (If it were socially acceptable to suck my thumb at that point, I’d probably have been doing that as well.) 

            With each step, I traveled farther outside my comfort zone.  Farther than I had ever been.  Could ever have imagined to be. 

            I turned right and passed directly in front of the first row, my perfectly “low-effort” outfit now completely saturated; it clung to my skin so exactly, you could see the most intimate outline of my belly button.  I might as well have worn a unitard. 

            I placed my security blanket down on the bookshelf that separated the “stage” from the front door and cautiously removed my hand from it.  Stepping away methodically, I centered myself on the rug and finally looked up at the faces that were already fixed on mine.  I took a deep breath.  I made it.

            “Whoa fuck, this is scary.  Okay.  One.  A few years ago…” 

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

I Can't "Just Stop"

Experiment 1 for Creative Nonfiction class; style imitation Seneca, “Sick”

You caught me.

Yes, I just touched the wall.  Why, you ask.  Well sometimes, through the constant torrent of information that floods my brain, a thought ascends that causes a type of elevated stress and the only way to quell it, at least for a brief moment, is to touch the side of my finger to an object.  Preferably wood, usually my leg or paper; paper is made from trees after all.  I’m surprised you haven’t caught me aggressively shaking my head, as I do frequently to loosen a thought from where it has stuck itself.

Is that all, you wonder.  How often does that happen?    

I am in a constant state of uneasiness.  Of worry.  Of mental and physical distress, made worse when a compulsion goes unsatisfied. 

The touching also rears its self-obsessed head as I check.  I check appliances, I check doors, I check windows, I check under the bed.  I check food, I check clothes, I check chairs, I check cleanliness.  And I count.  In twos, fours, and eights.  I hate the number six.  I prefer five to six.

My hand rises almost instinctively.  Then again.  If a touch or checking-look mismatches the one prior, I finish out the original count, ensuring each nuanced touch or glance now happens an equal number of times.  Then I start over.

It, fear I guess, starts in my brain then shoots through my veins, pervading my entire being.  Now my stomach hurts.  Now I’m exhausted.

You might wonder, maybe even aloud, why I don’t just ignore these impulses.  Why don’t I just not have them at all?  Why don’t I just stop having anxiety?

Your ignorance is astounding. 

If it were that simple, if I could make it that simple, I would.

Reactions are corporeal.  “Logic” is nearly irrelevant.  I can more logically work myself up than down. 

This is not a choice.  It is not “curable.”  I manage.

Spelling it out even fills me with angst.  Will the touching still work?

[allwritealreadysaysbliss]

Let That Tongue Hang Out, Miley Cyrus

Miley-

Your dad is right that there are more important things to discuss than your recent lapses in judgment or all together loss of common sense.  The US government shut down, something’s happening in Syria, and Teresa and Joe Guidice may or may not be going to jail.  It is a beautiful thing to see a father support a daughter so deeply that any even conceivably racist, distasteful, or nonsensical demand for attention comes with steadfast encouragement.  In my house growing up, I wasn’t even allowed to watch Friends because it said the word “sex” too many times (once was too many times) and the one time I watched TV before all my homework was finished, I was punished.  My parents were tyrants. 

My mom’s favorite story in her mind’s Parenting Hall of Fame is from the day she took me – a small child – to a store where I asked for a toy she would not buy me, and I threw myself on the ground in a full-fledged temper tantrum.  And the bitch just walked away.  I cried, composed myself, learned my lesson, and never asked for anything when we went shopping again.  As an oppressed human being and reformed brat, I bet it’s super-cool having parents who just let you be you.

I totally get what you’re after, too.  You’re all grown up now and you want to prove it.  To stop being treated like a child.  You were engaged (which, quite frankly, makes no sense to me because you wouldn’t even be able to drink at your wedding, but that’s neither here nor there), you can wear underwear in public without it being illegal, and your tongue is a symbol of your sexual awakening and nonchalant attitude.  If I’m learning anything from you, and I think I am, it’s that rebelling loudly against being seen as a child is the best way to prove your maturity. 

So let that tongue hang out.  It looks good on you.

What’s especially inspiring about your coming-of-age struggle is that it’s almost like you even can’t decide if you’re girl or woman.  You smack asses and “twerk” all while wearing clothes with teddy bears on them.  I feel like we are watching the transformation in real time and one day, the stuffed animals will disappear, the tongue will recoil, and you’ll be all grown.  I put twerk in quotes only because I’m not entirely sure that’s what you were doing.  Twerking is legit and requires a ton of coordination, which you totally have, but what you were doing did not look like what I’ve seen in the music videos.  As a dancer, I would say maybe practice it some more.  You’ll get there.

Now, my one major grievance, Miley.  All I’ve wanted my whole life was to be the first successful female white Jewish rapper and you’ve basically taken that away from me.  I wish you would think about the community-at-large before you go and turn into a triple threat – singing, acting, rapping.  But I guess if anybody were going to take that title from me (minus the Jew thing), I’m glad it’s you; you nailed it.

Don’t listen to the haters, Miley.  No press is bad press, so all this “negative” attention you’re getting for your “downward spiral” is still attention.  And that’s all that matters.  Remember, you can always fall back on your music; you are actually super talented.  Your Backyard Sessions cover of “Jolene” is beautifully haunting and embarrassingly addictive, but focusing on the music would be a lot of work.  Obtaining negative attention is just so much easier, right?

Yeah, stick with the path you’re on…it’s twerkin for ya.