I Didn’t Tell You So You Don’t Know

I was hiding in the bathroom from him because it was the only room with a locking door. I was sitting on the toilet while I cried and stared at the hole he had punched in the wall days earlier—a punch thrown directly beside my head. I remembered that instead of being terrified of how out-of-control he was, I was grateful he was in control enough to punch the wall instead of me.

Through the door he called me a cunt. He called me a cunt because he knew it is the word I find most offensive of all. I filled a glass with water, opened the door, and threw the water in his face. You could call this “instigating.” You could call this “the role I played in the incident.” But I was enraged and it’s all I could think to do to express it.

The next thing I knew I was shoved up against a wall and his enormous hand was around my throat. My toes were barely touching the carpet. He had 8 inches of height on me. I don’t know how much weight he had on me, because he always told me I was getting too fat and I didn’t like to think about my weight.

What I was thinking was which scarf would be the best to cover up the bruises he would leave on my neck.

I don’t know what made him stop, but I think it was because I was begging and telling him that my best friend would be arriving at any moment—fear of being caught, fear of a “private moment” becoming public. When she arrived, I was crying. Again, still, whatever. When was the last time I wasn’t crying? But it wasn’t because I was scared or upset about the fight. I was crying because I was so despondent and ashamed that I had let it come to this. I didn’t think I was the type of woman who would let a man put his hands on her. I thought I was stronger than that. I thought I would have fought back. I thought I would have called the cops, kicked his ass to the curb, shouted through a megaphone what a prize piece of shit this guy was. I didn’t do any of that. Over the next weeks, that humiliation forced me into a huddled crying mass on the floor many times until I finally got onto antidepressants, and eventually got him to move out.

I told my friend we’d had a fight, and we went to see some movie I can’t even remember.

You probably don’t know this about me, because this is a story I’ve told to only a handful of people. I withheld it because of the shame. I withheld it because I was raised not to say bad things about people. People might think less of him if they knew. (Yes, the internalized politeness that affects so many women can extend to an abusive boyfriend.) But I also thought people might think less of me for saying bad things about a person, even if they were true. I withheld it because I was able to get out before anything worse happened, and I guess I didn’t think it was a story worth telling when so many women have faced so much worse. And I withheld it because I thought some people would probably think I deserved it, just a little, because he’s such a chill guy who wouldn’t do something like that unless I really pushed him.

I am fucking sick to death of reading people defend Ray Rice, the Ravens, and the NFL—or worse, chastise them for doing “too much.” I am sick to death of hearing people say “But she didn’t press charges” and “But she married him.” I am sick of people convinced that this was a one-time incident. As if being psychologically capable of punching a woman in the face hard enough to knock her unconscious can possibly be anything close to an isolated incident, instead of one point on an escalating line. As if being drunk is an excuse. If you’ve ever been drunk you know that it lowers your inhibitions, giving you the mental wherewithal to say and do the things you’ve only been secretly fantasizing about. Being drunk doesn’t make you a different person; it magnifies what’s already inside of you.

Yesterday, I was frustrated and upset and didn’t know who to talk to, so I tweeted out into the void:

• Yes of COURSE he was a "good guy." The fact that abusers are not 100% cloven-footed monsters is what fuels the apologists & victim blamers.
• While wearing the charming persona of affability & do-gooderness, they take their darkness home to unleash on those closest, most vulnerable
• You're insane to think the person you know from work or church or (LORD) the media is exactly the same behind closed doors.
• We don't judge morality, ethics, legality by calculating the ratio of a person's good versus bad actions. We judge each action.
• Each action--THAT WE KNOW ABOUT
• If you know of a person's condemnable action and still choose to focus instead on his "good", you only truly care about his value TO YOU.
• This is a time for issues to be black and white. Condemn the action. Offer aid and comfort to the victim. Period.

But today I realized I have a lot more to say than fits into 140 characters, tagged with #WhyIStayed or #HowILeft.

Every time I read someone defending any of the horrible decisions that have been made throughout this case, or talking about the part Janay played in any of it as if she were acting and speaking of her own free, unintimidated will, I feel like I’m back up against that wall with a hand on my throat. My experience is only a shadow compared to what other women have gone through and my empathy is brimming. But so is my anger and pain.

I firmly believe that the NFL and representatives from the Ravens saw the video before TMZ released it. But that doesn’t even matter. It’s not the point. We all saw the video of Rice’s callous disregard for his partner’s unconscious body. But THAT doesn’t even matter. We knew what happened. I don’t care if she called his mother a whore and told him his dick was inside out. I don’t care if she spit on him. I don’t even care if she hit him. I am disgusted by these “wait for the evidence” trolls who contemplated elaborate scenarios wherein he drunkenly teetered into her and the elevator door knocked her unconscious, and still, even now with the evidence in plain sight, assert that their skepticism puts them on the right side of history because "how could we have known."

We knew.

A man who is demanded to be in peak physical condition punched a woman in her face so hard that she lost consciousness. And most people weren’t horrified by this until they literally saw it with their own eyes.

The thing with domestic abuse is that people don’t get to see it with their own eyes because it happens in "the privacy of the home." You definitely won’t see it; it's a secret. And you know what? You probably won’t hear about it because of fear and humiliation faced by victims, who are attacked over and over again in their own minds whenever they feel obligated to silence.

I can’t boycott or walk away from law enforcement, but I am first and foremost angry that not only is Rice not in jail—he never even went to trial. I am angered that the existence of this video was obfuscated. I am angered that celebrities and the rich are protected classes in our justice system.

I’m done with the NFL for their too little too late policies and their godawful excuse for an investigation. (And for so many reasons unrelated to this case specifically.) I'm done with the lies and the pandering to calm down an outraged public.

I’m done with the Ravens for the same reasons, and also particularly for Harbaugh’s comments that he hopes the couple can “make it work,” with its implication that an abused woman is party to her abuse, and that staying with an abuser is a good and right thing to do. I’m furious no one in the Ravens organization ever made Ray Rice apologize to Janay Rice in public or express regret at anything other than getting caught and punished.

None of this matters, of course, because no one in the NFL or the Ravens is going to notice my absence from their legion of fans. I’m not going to affect anything. The games are still going to be on in my household. It doesn’t matter because no one in the NFL actually cares about women, unless we are buying up their pink jerseys and keeping their male demographic happy. I just returned from the supermarket where I saw Ravens logos on everything from flags to chips to cakes. I’ve seen two women today wearing purple Ravens shirts, one of them in my office. I just want to yell, “Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?” The logo is everywhere, and now it feels not only pervasive, but insidious. It serves as a brand to show membership in this giant machine, a machine that steamrolls everything in its path with a very clear message that “if you are not a part of us, you will be alone.”

It hurts to feel like you don’t matter, just like it hurts to feel your back against that wall, with that hand around your throat. But for some, perhaps many, the fear of being alone against something so big is the greater of two evils.

I’m not sure what else to say except that my heart is open to anyone who wants to feel listened to and understood. If you need help, please ask for it. You can reach the domestic abuse hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), 1-800-787-3224 (TDD) or at www.thehotline.org. If you are in immediate danger, you can call 911 and they will help you. Read #WhyIStayed and #HowILeft on Twitter and Tumblr; it will give you strength and hope. Realize that alone is the last thing you are, and help, comfort, and empathy ARE available.

You are not alone.

You don’t have to be ashamed. You don’t have to be silent.

Bali Day One

My fiance and I just spent a week in Bali, Indonesia. This is from the travelogue that I did not keep past the first day:

After 30+ hours of travel, we arrived on Sunday night to the Bali airport in Denpasar to broken ATM machines and difficult decisions about whether to declare Gabe's oranges. For brief moments I was terrified we would spend the week in Bali without a way to get cash. But we found a working ATM and for probably the only time in our lives, we got to view bank balances in the tens of millions. After an hour and a half drive to Candidasa, we did little more than pick at the delicious traditional Balinese meal, then fell into a hard bed in sticky heat with only a single three-blade fan to cool us, and had the best sleep of our lives.

Ryan warned us we would wake with the sun, around 6:30am, and his prediction was vindicated, for me at least. Gabe was still deeply asleep beside me as I rose, found the villa's promised yoga mats, and padded outside to the postage stamp lawn. The sun rising to my left, I faced the ocean and practiced five rounds of sun salutations. It was the most peaceful and beautiful I have felt in so long.

It is impossible to write about the events of today without overshadowing them with our accident. John, Ryan, and Gabe rented scooters. I was too afraid, as is usual for me, but rather than stay at home, my compromise was to wrap my arms around Gabe's belly and ride on the scooter behind him. I was terrified at first, but seeing Gabe's pleasure and exhilaration at driving gave me pleasure and exhilaration. Driving in Bali is nerve-racking for so many reasons, and the rain--which I assume we will face daily (as it is the rainy season)--exacerbates them all. After riding many hours to visit the Taman Ujung Water Palace and the Water Temple at Tirtagangga,  we were mere meters from home, when, having missed what we thought was our turn, Gabe attempted a turnaround on a slick incline out of a parking lot. The bike slipped out from beneath us and sent us skidding over the gravel.

Immediately, we were surrounded by people who wanted to help. They got us to our feet and aimed hoses at the dirt that stuck in our wounds. Gabe had landed squarely on his shoulder and suffered a deep contusion, but thankfully no dislocation or breakage. He had a deep, large scrape on his elbow and is already proud of the scars he will undoubtedly grow. I was not as injured: a big scrape on my knee and cuts on my right hand, with minor scrapes on my elbow, arm, and shoulder. Gabe seemed to have a tear in his eye when he told me how thankful he was that I wasn't badly hurt. I knew the feeling.

The Australian owner of the Bayside Bungalows took good care of us, strangers. He sent one of his staff for iodine at a nearby "dokter," then sent two more to see us home: one to drive us in a van and a second to follow with the fateful rented scooter. Our brains mush from the accident, we mumbled apologies to the driver as we stared desperately, trying to remember where we were staying in this new town that had not even known us 24 hours. Finally, we were relieved to find our road, which Gabe will attribute to me, but what was really a lucky accident of our driver. We paid the scooter owner 100,000 rupia for the damaged bike (about $9USD), then limped home to Villa Nilaya.

This was our first day in Bali.

One Year; Year One

It’s been a long time since I’ve written something very personal on this blog. I feel the urge today. Perhaps it’s because I’ve developed a recent addiction to reading personal essays by women. Perhaps it’s because I’ve always had an affinity for dates and anniversaries. Perhaps it’s because autumn makes me introspective. Perhaps it's because September 17th, 2012 was the beginning of the rest of my life.

One year ago today, a significant aspect of my life was flipped upside down. I know it was today because I wrote it down in my writing journal. “September 17th, 2012, ----- --------- broke up with me.” It was a single line in the margins between notes about the book projects I had in progress at the time.

My “partner” of 6½ years, with whom I had been living for almost 2 years, unceremoniously broke off our relationship one Monday morning. It was the first day of a week I had taken off work to dedicate to my writing. We'd had a fight the previous night when he came home too late and lied about who he was with. He woke up in the morning, showered and dressed for work, came out to the living room where I was lounging in my pajamas with a book, leaned against a piece of furniture, and told me it was over. He didn’t even sit down to tell me this.

I put “partner” in quotes because that’s never truly what he was to me. It was only what I called him. I started using that term in our sixth year together, when “boyfriend” was too young an expression and “husband” was something we agreed he would never be. (One of many compromises I made was that marriage and children were off the table.) We had a formal domestic partnership in place so that he could be on my health insurance. I had replaced romance with paperwork, thinking I would take what semblance of permanence and commitment I could get. He never used the term. I’m not sure what word he used to refer to me. I’m not sure he ever referred to me at all. I found out several months ago that his boss at a job he’s been at for years didn’t know I had written a book. He was a photographer who only took my picture a few times, an apt metaphor for our relationship. But despite the many problems, it's hard to overstate the effects being in a near 7-year relationship can have on a person, and even harder to overstate the effects of its sudden end. 

We lived passively together for the next 5 weeks, while we worked with our landlord to find someone to take over the apartment, and I tried to find a new place to live. Our life together was shockingly similar to the way it was before the breakup, a fact that made it easier to swallow the reality and the necessity of the situation.

The immediate effect of the breakup, aside from the traditional cycle of grief (which seemed to spin on an endless loop those first few weeks), was a deep introspection and a consuming need for intense self-care, which I had let lapse for years. I planned a trip to Colorado in an effort to reconnect with my semi-estranged sister, my relationship with whom had been strained in large part because of my ex. I emailed another friend with whom I had been estranged for years; he was ecstatic to hear from me, and we forgave each other for past wrongs. I wrote love letters to my friends. I called everyone I loved and made plans with them. I scheduled every day for a solid month to do something, anything. I dedicated myself to a new [semi]-minimalist lifestyle and gave away, sold, or trashed a significant portion of my possessions. I found a beautiful studio apartment in a neighborhood that scared me; I knew living there would make me grow. Moreover, it was somewhere I couldn’t live with another person, so I knew I would have 18 months of living alone—and that was essential for me.

In the midst of all this, as well as being sad and angry and confused, I reconnected with someone else from my past. He was a would-be suitor from a foray into online dating 7 years earlier. We’d run into each other on Facebook in December 2011, when my book came out, and had been “friends” since then, but one or the other of us had been involved. This was the first time we were both single, and to say I began to notice him is a gross understatement. By the time I was in Colorado, we were texting with each other every day, for almost the entire day. We had our first date on November 3. I threw up that morning because I was so in love with him, and we hadn’t even met yet. That date lasted 2 days. Today, we already have plans for a weekend away for our 1-year anniversary, and are planning a trip to Asia. I could write a book about what meeting this man has done to my heart, soul, and mind. We agree it’s a blessing we never went out those 8 years ago; we needed these years to become the people we are, the people who were meant to be together. I lamented the time “wasted” with my ex and he the time wasted on his own dating foibles, but we reminded each other that we are who we are because of what—and who—has happened to us. It truly feels like my whole life was spent in a run-up to meeting him, again, and having him meet me, and then falling in love with each other.

To spend time thinking about what else the past year has brought is not to minimize my new relationship. It is by far the most important thing to happen. But there has been so much more. Indulge me while I take inventory, in no particular order. 

• I attempted—and failed—to learn French. Relatedly, I learned that learning is harder when you’re older, and that I am not, in fact, good at everything.
• I turned 31 and threw myself a rager of a birthday party to make up for the failed 30^th birthday that had gone forgotten.
• I gained—and subsequently lost—18 pounds.
• My football team won the Super Bowl.
• I put out the second edition of my novel, finished the booktrailer, and threw the most glorious book reading for the best of my best friends and family.
• I gave away almost all my art supplies in a conscious decision to focus my free time on my writing.
• I bought more art supplies so I could draw my first comic. I drew my first comic.
• I decided one day to stop texting my ex first, just to see if he would ever contact me. He never did and we haven’t spoken in 7 months. I deleted his number from my phone. I’ve seen him once, across the street at a festival. I don’t think he saw me.
• I learned to love my body, instead of feeling like it is always a work-in-progress. I started to feel truly beautiful for the first time in years.
• I cut out sugar and grains and have subsequently learned to cook some really interesting foods, like greenola and spaghetti squash.

• I started practicing yoga at a studio.
• I allowed myself to grow out my hair because I like it that way.
• I started wearing more makeup because I want to.
• I tried on bikinis instead of one-pieces. (I did not, however, buy one.) I started wearing shorts on the regular for the first time since childhood.
• I decided that I would like to be heavily tattooed, and scheduled 9 hours of tattooing over the next 3 months. I hired an artist to design a tattoo to commemorate my first book.
• I put over 20,000 miles on my car.
• I took my bassoon out of its case, put it together, and attempted to play it for the first time since June 1999. It belongs to my nephew now.
• I reconnected with my sister and spent excellent quality time with my niece, who is becoming an adult faster than I can bear.
• I started spending my money on things that make me—and my loved ones—happy, instead of squirreling it away in paranoia and anxiety. I bought art. I bought pretty dresses. I donated to Kickstarters. I bought plane tickets to Bali.
• I remembered how much I love to walk. I climbed a mountain. I regularly hike through Baltimore just to be sure I am truly noticing all the people and the things there are to see. I replaced driving with walking whenever possible.
• I started bicycling. I am terrible at it, but getting better.
• I took up feminism.
• I realized I DO want to get married and I DO want children, and that I had deluded myself out of those desires because of a man, and fuck that forever.
• I neglected this blog, but I started tweeting like crazy.
• I started listening to more music and less news. I listen to hip-hop without feeling embarrassed about it. In fact, I listen to whatever I want without feeling embarrassed about it. I pretty much stopped feeling embarrassed, because people who make me feel embarrassed don’t count.
• I took a class in religion. I discovered Buddhism and Unitarian Universalism, and started going to church sometimes. These may very well be the answers to the spiritual questions that have been haunting me for a decade.
• I realized I might still like to be a minister some day, and I started looking into it in earnest.
• I decided I don’t need a Master’s degree to feel like a whole person.
• I cut down on drinking alcohol from nightly to once per week, or none at all.
• I finally got over my fear of the dentist and got my teeth fixed. I FUCKING FLOSS NOW.
• I learned that I can’t do everything myself. I learned to let people help me. I learned that the way it makes me feel really awesome to help people is the way it feels for other people when they help me, and it’s only fair that everyone gets to feel that.
• I tried to smile and say hello to everyone I saw on the street. That ended when I realized how much street harassment I was facing. I realized I don’t owe it to anyone to smile at them, so I stopped. I feel very ambivalent about this, but I have become very outspoken against street harassment.
• I went to my 10-year college reunion.
• I networked. Like an adult.
• I go out to eat or to concerts by myself sometimes—not because I can’t find someone to go with me, but because I realized I am friends with myself.
• I Instagram my meals and my cats with abandon because fuck the haters.
• I have more, better sex than ever, and I realized I am no less than one half of that equation.
• I make a concerted effort to see at least one of my friends every week. Depending on your personality, this may not seem like a lot, but it’s a significant change from the way I used to live my life.
• I remembered what it’s like to enjoy things with abandon. I remembered what real happiness feels like. I stopped thinking it was cool to be aloof or critical. I stopped giving energy to people or situations that make me feel bad.
• I’ve made new friends. My boyfriend has made friends with my friends. I’ve made old friends into new friends. I’ve made acquaintances into best friends. I’ve made best friends into family. I got rid of friends-in-name-only. I will never again neglect the people who will never leave me.
• I fell into a deeper, truer, more perfect love than I could have dreamed possible.

There’s more. So much more. What a year it’s been. 13’s always been my lucky number. I guess it figures that I’d be age 31 in the year ’13, and it would be the best fucking year of my life. It took a major shaking up to wake me out of the fog I was living in. It felt like a knife at the time. Now it feels like a gift. 

Pictures From the Release Party

Thank you again to everyone who made this a success. Please do yourself a big favor and check out the work by my amazing readers, Laura Bogart and Matthew Kabik. Laura read from her novel-in-progress, and Matt read from his story "The Long Waiting Noise," recently published by Cease Cows. 

This Is Joy

I told everyone last night I had only one goal for the evening: to not cry.

More or less, the goal was met. I choked up for a moment at the beginning, but it quickly subsided, laughed off in jocular self-awareness. This evening, however, as I lay on my couch and stared across the long length of my apartment, I began to weep.

Last night was the celebration I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to have. I published The War Master's Daughter in December 2011, right before my 30th birthday. In the whirlwind of getting the book out, then celebrating my birthday, getting through the holidays, and everything else that life throws one's way, I never got around to having a book release party. It is one of the milestones on every aspiring author's mental wish list: holding the first copy in your hands, getting your first royalty check, getting reviewed, signing copies . . . sipping wine and eating stinky cheese at your release party. Last night, I finally threw the party, pinning my tardiness conveniently on the release of the second edition of the book and the debut of the book trailer, on which my friends and I have been working for over a year.

The party was slated to start at 7pm. At 6:30, my chores complete, I stood aimless in the middle of my apartment, fully dressed, fully made-up, full of anxiety. Would there be enough chairs? Were people going to buy books; would there be enough? Baltimore has been facing a brutal heat wave; would my tiny A/C unit be able to keep 35 people cool in my old, drafty apartment? Was the excerpt I chose too long? Could these people--even though they are my friends and family--stand 17 minutes of my voice, of my own crazy ideas writ down in my own crazy vernacular? I wondered if I was being self-indulgent, grandiose, throwing myself another party. I worried my dress was too tight, my lipstick the wrong color. I worried I hadn't written a proper thank you speech. Oddly, I didn't really worry about fucking up the reading, because that's the kind of thing I'm pretty good at.

But I did worry I would cry.

Last night, I was surrounded by my family and the best of my best friends. These are the people I love the absolute most in this world. They were here with me, in the home I had built for myself after my life was unexpectedly flipped upside down last autumn, and they were giving me the opportunity to thank them for things I can barely put into words. I thanked everyone for being there, of course. I thanked them for the wine and hors d'oeuvres they brought, asked them if they had any trouble parking. I thanked my friends who made the book trailer by reading from the Acknowledgments of the new edition because I didn't trust my emotions to an off-the-cuff speech. I thanked the intimidatingly talented Laura Bogart and Matthew Kabik for sharing their incredible work with my audience. However--and I'm sure no one knows this, because I hardly knew it myself, as full as I was of anxiety and adrenaline and wine--but what I was really thanking them for was for loving me, for allowing me to be a part of their lives, for being my safety net when I thought I would fall forever, for being proud and never jealous, for being there at that moment instead of somewhere else, and for being there at all moments when I needed them. For letting me love them back.

Tonight, I lay on my couch, stripped near bare on this steamy July day. All the furniture is still pushed out of the way, and an echo hangs on the rare words I speak aloud. I look at this space I created, this home that's mine, and I can feel the love that has filled it up. It lingers on the air like the smell of Sunday brunch in the kitchen, or honeysuckle near the mailbox of the house I grew up in. I felt it wash over me and I began to sob tears of joy. I am overwhelmed.

I am overjoyed.

This is joy. This is happiness. This is what you've given to me. If I can give back just the tiniest fraction of this feeling, it will be the only thing I hope ever to accomplish in my life.  

The Child-Free Question

I typically focus on writing and publishing in this space, but every once in a while something important comes up that demands a forum here. Recently, one of my favorite online magazines, Slate, began running a series of articles about women who choose not to have children. They invited readers to "submit your testimonies on why you are child free and happy."

From Slate:

Recently, Slate columnist Katie Roiphe raised the possibility that the choice not to have children remains a taboo, that no matter what we say to our childless friends at dinner parties—that we envy them, that we wish we, too, could go out every night and wake up at 11 on Sundays—we “secretly feel sorry for or condescend to or fail to understand women who don’t have children.” Not that the child-free owe us any explanation, but we are asking for one. More like a full and proud defense. Our aim here is to clear the taboo once and for all.

I submitted my answer to their request, but it was not published (in my opinion because it wasn't a cutesty, happy, inspiring story like they wanted). So I am printing it here, because I think it is an important part of the conversation. 

***

You’re right. I don’t owe you any explanation. I appreciate the chance at a forum, but the questions that live in people’s hearts about this “taboo” are not ones I have answers for. For me, this issue is not a taboo. It’s not that I can’t talk about it; it’s that I don’t want to.


It’s so difficult for child-free men and women (but women especially) to provide a “full and proud defense” because, when we vocalize the very reasons that have led us to this decision, the reasons sound more like judgments and condemnations of those who make the opposite choice. Can a mother hear me say, “I am not having children because [insert any reason at all]” and not hear, even just a little, “I am not having children because I’m better than you”? Whether parents feel sorry for us or feel jealous of us, we’re still on the receiving end of some very negative emotions. Bad juju.


Let me make an analogy: I was a religious person for a very long time. Several years ago, I stopped being religious and stopped believing in God. I “came out” in an essay published on an atheism website, but my non-belief is not something I talk about much in public because I don’t want to answer the questions that inevitably follow. I don’t want to “defend my choice.” I also don’t want to convert you. I just want to be. And many people feel that way about religion, so it’s socially accepted as one of those hot potatoes not up for discussion—a taboo. Like politics and many social issues, it’s hardly ever a polite discussion because the questions people typically ask are not borne of curiosity. They are borne of antagonism. People are itching for a fight. People want to know if you’re with them or against them.

This battle has been foisted on the child-free by a society with little intention other than to judge us, or to examine us as cultural curiosities. There are sides now. I never wanted to be on a side. I don’t want to judge your choice. I don’t want to convert you. I just want to be.

But this child-choice issue is different from religion and politics in that you can’t easily check a box and affiliate yourself. If you have a child, you are firmly in the camp of “parent.” If you do not have a child, however, there’s this weird other camp I like to call, “But.”

“But you two would make such wonderful parents.”

“But you’ll change your mind when your biological clock starts ticking.”

“But I want grandkids.”

The expectation is that if you are without children, you are in a “pre-” state of parenthood, rather than a “non-” state of parenthood. I could write you a lovely little essay about “why I am child-free and happy,” but declaring my intentions does little good, because there’s always the “but.” I don’t know how many times I’ve told my own mother I’m not having children; she still thinks I will, eventually.

And so the child-free seem unbearably difficult to pin down, even though we’re vocally and adamantly self-pinned. We don’t want to offer up the “full and proud defense” because it always devolves into a waiting game that everyone is playing without us. At what point do I “win” this argument that I don’t even want to have? How many avowals do I have to make? How old do I have to get?

I will never be able to give anyone a reason why I’m child-free that will make them say “aha” and move, satisfied, to another topic. You seek enlightenment where there is none to be had, because you are not really seeking enlightenment at all; you are seeking a mirror in which to validate your own choices. Either I will validate those choices or I will not, but it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you.

The Best Year Ever?

I was originally going to post this on New Year's Eve, but got caught up, unsurprisingly, in the festivities that come with that celebration, and subsequently with a bizarrely busy beginning of the year at work. Due to a large project being taken off my hands, I've finally gotten a chance to breathe and ruminate about 2010.

I have come to the not-so-light conclusion that it was my best year ever. I do feel like I should qualify this: obviously this was not a good year as a whole--for the country, for the world, etc. But it was wonderful for me, personally, as a personal person, as an individual. I achieved some of my greatest lifelong accomplishments in the past year. Here's a quick rundown of what made this year so good, in no particular order:

• Romantic accomplishment: I moved in with my best friend, love-of-my-life, and partner, Chris, and our three cats, to a really beautiful apartment in Mount Vernon. We're kind of sloppy, but other than that I simply adore living with him. It's pretty darn blissful. Also, we have a working fireplace and TWO bathrooms.
• Athletic accomplishment: I began and completed a running training program and subsequently ran a 5k race. Never having been athletically inclined (or able), and being exceptionally lazy, this was a huge accomplishment. I didn't come in last, or even close to last.
• Intellectual accomplishment: I finished writing my novel. I actually finished. The whole thing is written, front to back, and I wrote "the end." I honestly never thought it would happen. Some weird, psychological "fear of failure/success" often keeps me from finishing ANYTHING.
• Geographical accomplishment: I finally made it to Europe! Ireland counts, right? Next stop: the Continent.
• Professional accomplishment: I trained, studied, took an exam, and became professionally certified in my field. I am better at my job and got a raise.
• Financial accomplishment: In addition to increasing both my 401(k) and Roth contributions, I have began putting money regularly into the stock market and am becoming much more educated on how to make my money work. My portfolio has made returns of 55% and I should have a $25,000 down payment for a house in advance of my 5-year goal. I'm not debt-free (still have that dang car payment) but I will be within a year (the possibility of student loans notwithstanding)
• Educational accomplishment-in-progress: I've chosen a graduate school and program, and have finished 90% of my application. The accomplishment of actually applying will have to go on 2011's list.
• Artistic accomplishmentette (a little accomplishment): I've continued to draw and paint, and I attended multiple--not single--multiple--art sessions with artistically inclined friends.
• Philanthropic accomplishment: I began donating to charities in earnest, with planned purpose. I've succeeded in getting at least some of my friends/family to donate to charity instead of giving me presents for birthdays/holidays.

Of course not EVERYTHING was an accomplishment. My partner went through some significantly rough professional times that has added a lot of stress to our otherwise blissful romance. I had a falling out with some family members that has created a rift wider than I like to think about. I still find myself scattered among too many desires and pleasures, and still don't know exactly how to spend my time and energy. I am still struggling with spiritual and religious questions.

But I know that 2010 was a stepping stone for even better things to come. This is my last year as a 20-something, and I feel like I have the whole world to look forward to.

Call Me Hurley

I don't believe in luck. But I'm starting to believe in bad luck.

1. Sunday, arrive at MoMA to discover Tim Burton exhibit--the reason for the trip--is sold out.
2. Sunday evening, realize we are short $2 for our cash-only tab at Katz's.
3. Their ATM is broken.
4. The line for the credit card check-out is enormous. Lady in front of Chris is apparently buying Sunday dinner for a family of 45. Slowly.
5. Miss bus home by 2 minutes. Watch it pull away.
6. Blessedly catch next bus. Can't sit with Chris. Overhead light is broken, so I have to sit in the dark for 4 hours with no one to talk to.
7. Arrive in Baltimore and realize we have to walk home because I forgot my parking garage ticket.
8. Monday, 8am, go to move my car from garage by 9am deadline and the battery is dead.
9. Monday night, Chris comes to jump my car; cables are too short. Luckily (!) a stranger arrives on the scene just in time.
10. Tuesday morning, battery has died again. Chris has already left for work. Stuck working from home for the sixth time in a row.
11. Wednesday morning, Chris comes to jump my car. He connects his battery to mine, and my doors lock automatically--with my keys inside.
12. Go back to Chris' for the spare key. Go to leave, but a car is stalled at the end of his alley, blocking our exit.
13. Finally make it back to my car, get it started. Realize I have almost no gas left.
14. Chris follows me to the gas station in case I need another jump. Rush hour: it takes 10 minutes to go the 2 blocks. We are both now officially late for work.
15. I phone in for my 9am conference call. Phone dies 20 minutes into the conversation.

That brings us to about now. Boy I hope it's over.

Mixed Blessing at MoMA

After I heard about the Tim Burton exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art a few weeks back, I planned a trip with Chris to go to NYC this past weekend. I had earned a free hotel night from Choice Hotels after spending so much time in Houston this fall, and I found a hotel in SoHo, Manhattan where I could use my points. Chris suggested we take the Bolt Bus, which turns out to be less expensive than driving when you factor in gas and tolls. We never drive in NYC, so the bus really was the perfect option. And I would get to do a lot of sewing on the way up! The fact that it was Valentine's Day weekend was only incidental (we don't celebrate the commercialization of our relationship), but I completely forgot that it was also President's Day weekend. It didn't occur to me just how crowded the city--and MoMA--would be.

It turned out that Tim Burton was sold out for the weekend. Even after doing light research on the MoMA website, it was not obvious to me that we would need separate tickets to get in. There was no additional charge, so I thought we could just show up and go. Not so much.

I admit to crying for roughly 18 seconds when I saw the sign outside the museum that said, "Tim Burton exhibit is sold out for the day."

We decided to visit the museum anyway, since I had never been, and this turned out to be a mixed blessing. I was sad at missing the work of one of my major influences, but I do not regret getting to spend the time with some of the greatest pieces of modern art the world has to offer.

The greatest moments were seeing the major Rothko and Pollock works. They are simply astounding and breathtaking, especially if you stand close enough to them so that you can't see anything else in your field of vision. Seeing just two of these paintings was worth more than any number of pieces by anyone else--including the whole of the Burton exhibit.

However, the MoMA experience was a harrowing one; the museum is beyond crowded. Moreover, it is crowded with people who would rather have someone take a picture of them with a painting than actually look at it. It is crowded with people who think it is a good idea to snap a photo of Starry Night with their iPhone. It is crowded with people who are updating their Facebook status instead of capturing a sculpture on a sketch pad. The crowd at large made me feel sad for the state of humanity. Seriously, haven't these people heard of the internet? What were they trying to prove? It really is the epitome of narcissism if you think the only thing that can improve a photograph of a great work of art is you.

I admit to purposely walking in front of several people trying to take photographs. I also admit to purposely bumping several people, including the guy who stuck his blackberry in front of my face as I was trying to view The Persistence of Memory.

MoMA may have some of the greatest works available for viewing in the U.S., but I don't think the works on display are the singular experience a museum has to offer. I won't be going back anytime soon. I'll stick to the cavernous, relaxed, beautiful quiet of my neighborhood Walters Art Museum (which, incidentally, is free). I may have seen everything in it multiple times over, but I can walk to it and it is my favorite place in the city to just be.

From a Hole to a Hill

I've written before about my struggles with debt and credit, and my attempts to remedy a screwed-up financial past. In a nutshell, at a bad point in my life, I got in over my head with debt. I once had my phone turned off and once had my ATM card eaten because I was so overdrawn on my bank account. I used to be ashamed to put those things out there for all to see, but I think more and more people are coming out of the "debt closet." And I see myself as a lesson others can learn.



I am proud and ecstatic to say that I have once and for all paid off all my unsecured debt.



While I still have a car loan (which I would label acceptable, typical debt), last month I wrote the last check to pay off the personal loan I had taken out to consolidate my credit card debt. The debt had been five figures. And it's all gone now!



I've been steadily paying on this loan for several years now. In the meantime, I got rid of all my credit cards, and got a new one with a tiny limit ($300) so I could work to rebuild my credit. I pay it off every month. I've also done a number of other things that years ago I never imagined I could accomplish:

1. I put 6% of my salary into a 401(k) plan.


2. I put an additional 3% of my take-home pay into a Roth IRA.


3. I put 10% of my take-home pay into an emergency fund.


4. I invested around a thousand dollars in the stock market shortly after the "crash" and have seen my money grow by 70%.

The best thing about having my debt paid off is that, instead of filling in a hole, I can start building up. I ran some numbers a little while ago. I do that when I'm either extremely worried about money or extremely excited. This time I am excited. This is what I realized:

• If I take the monthly payment I had been making on my personal loan and now put it towards my car, I will pay off my car four years early. The interest I'll save is in the thousands.


• When I pay off my car, I can put the combined loan-car payment into the bank each month (it's not like I'll miss the money; I've been writing it off for years). If I do that for three years after the car is paid off, I'll have enough money for the down payment on a house.

The down payment on a house. By myself. In the next five years. And I'm not talking about some 3% down payment for an FHA loan. I'm talking about 20%.

It's an almost unbelievable thought for me. I just want everyone who reads this (all four of you) that it can be done, with patience, dedication, and discipline. The rewards--financially, emotionally, spiritually--are great.

...And boy are my arms tired!

I just spent about an hour and a half digging my car out of the snow. I had not planned that. I went outside to mail off an Etsy purchase and noticed that the building snow shovel was available. (Living in an apartment in a city in the mid-Atlantic, I don't own a snow shovel. It would have been nice this year to have one of my own, instead of sharing one with seven floors of people....) I quickly nabbed it and thought I would put, oh say, 20 or so minutes of shoveling in--chipping away at the mess, so to speak. I'd done quite a bit of shoveling before the most recent blizzard, and figured 2 or 3 more stints would get me dug out.

As I was digging, a tow truck driver drove by, car in tow, and yelled out that he was towing all the cars on my street. Well, that's motivation for you. I started digging more sincerely, and with more of a plan. This relevation that Baltimore City was actually towing--and not just threatening it (as so many of us believed)--seemed really to freak people out and cause them to act somewhat irrationally. One woman was yelling and cussing at all the tow truck drivers who came by, as if it was there idea, as if the fact that she "got a baby" would make her exempt. One guy started digging out his car with what looked like an IKEA wastepaper can. I was somewhat crazy as well: thinking I'd only be out there for a bit, I was 1) not wearing a coat, and 2) not wearing waterproof boots.

Shoveling is hard work, so the coat part wasn't a problem--I warmed up quickly. But my feet got soaking wet. And once I dug my car out, I realized...I had to move it...to a garage...about 6 blocks away. So I got to walk quite a ways, sloshing with each step, and without a coat. I am so glad to be back inside, and be warm. And someone is going to get a piece of my mind if they try to charge me for parking in that garage.

Anyway, in light of my frozen tootsies, here are a few of my random thoughts and conclusions following the Double Blizzard of 2010:

1) Just because it is not 1996 anymore, do not forget that Dr. Martens are the best shoes. My trusty Docs were warmer, stayed drier, and had better traction than the stupid $60 knock-off-Ugg fur-lined mocassin boot things I bought for wearing in the snow this winter. These are the boots that just today left my feet completely soaking wet.

2) Apparently, there is piss EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME. It really shows up quite boldly after a blizzard. I've never seen with my naked eye so much urine as I have the past two days. However, just because you can't see the yellow snow in the spring, that doesn't mean the pee isn't there.

3) The Federal Government does not have an adequate telework plan in place. My company--a small government contractor of about 150 people--has had its headquarter offices closed all week, and we have remained 100% functional because we have a sound emergency infrastructure. Apparently, the Government does not. They've been closed all week and they are not really doing anything. Also, they pay themselves, but they do not pay contractors. The whole time they've been closed, we have to eat the costs of paying our on-site employees.

4) People are different when it snows. They are friendlier, they work harder, and they are more communal than they are on a regular day. I was always surprised when I moved to the city that I would see so many people all the time, but no one ever said hello or acknowledged one another. So many alone people living altogether. The snow brought a senses of solidarity to the neighborhood. People helped one another, did kindnesses without recompense or even acknowledgement. It was kind of beautiful.

5) It's weird turning on a national radio station and remembering that it's not snowing everywhere else--only where you are. You realize how myopic weather can make you. Not only are you physically snowed in, but you can become mentally snowed in as well.

6) Don't put your rubber-soled boots on the radiator to dry them out. They will melt into the shape of the radiator. (Isn't that sort of how the Waffle Trainer was invented?)

7) If businesses in your neighborhood have endeavored to open despite the weather, you should patronize them if you can. Thank you, Brewer's Art, for delivering me the best burger in Baltimore after the chicken we had planned for dinner went bad and we couldn't get to a store. Don't forget the businesses that are not only there when you want them--but when you need them, too.

8) Snow can make you feel like a kid again. Nothing can compare with the nostalgic rush you get from jumping into a 4-foot drift of snow (even if a little does get inside your pants because you didn't have your mom to properly dress you).

9) Plastic bags inside your shoes are still not cool, but they still work as good as ever. Thanks, Mom.

10) When you're walking through knee-high snow having all sorts of deep thoughts about the weather, write them down, or your blog will prematurely end.

How You Like Me Now

I only watched the SuperBowl for the commercials. How trite, right? Hey, whatever. Once the Ravens were out of it, I mostly tuned out of NFL and back into LOST. There was, of course, half-hearted rooting for the Saints (it WAS a feel-good moment for the country at large, I think), more than half-hearted rooting against the Colts, and that still lingering bittersweet tugging on the heart strings whenever I see that cutie-kicker-gone-bye-bye, Mr. Automatic Matt Stover. But mostly I focused on my craft project at hand during the game, and tuned my attention in only for the commercials.

And I was rewarded for my ad-centric focus, ironically, by mass misogyny, sexism, and male stereotyping so blatant that it made my boyfriend and I simul-cringe. Thanks, NFL, for alienating women even more, while alienating men as well.

Anyway, a few notes: The Google ad gave me a little lump in my throat, and my eyes did glisten a bit. BF pretended not to see. The Trebow ad was completely innocuous, which proved to be brilliant for their campaign. I had been mad--for good reason--at the idea of it, but I found the execution A-OK. And finally, the Kia Sorento ad was hands-down best in my book. And not only because of the sock monkey getting a tattoo sewn-on (which made me squee like a true stuffie-maker).

SnowMFG

I will resist the term "Snowpocalypse" as long as I can. It's not terrifying. It's not the end of the world. But it is pretty freaking annoying. I was out trying to shovel my car out, but the jerk who parked in front of me shoveled out first, left, then came back...parking only inches from my bumper. So I would have to shovel out the back of my car, and back up before I could even know where I could pull out. The second annoyance was where to put the snow. It seems no matter where you shovel it, you know you're just going to be shoveling that same snow again later. You're basically just moving the same snow around to different places. The third pain-in-the-youknowwhat is knowing that once you get your car relatively clear, the snow plow is going to come down the road and block you in again. The only real solution is just to wait for it to melt. Thankfully I'm parked on the sunny side of the street....

I've been holed up at my boyfriend's apartment, watching movies and working on my Big Bad Wolf project. It's coming along quite nicely, and I might even finish it before the weekend ends.

Oh yeah, and there's that Superbowl thing tonight. I can't wait for the commercials.

Feng Sew

New View of My Work Area
Originally uploaded by Elly Zee

I’ve never put much stock in the whole Feng Shui thing, but I am now a believer that the arrangement of your room can affect your energy. Since I moved into my apartment in August of 08, my bedroom has been arranged exactly the same way. Sometime in 2009 (probably around NaNoWriMo time), I bought myself a desk, so I could really hunker down on my writing.

The desk promptly became a dumping ground for all manner of mail, clothes, paperwork, and anything I needed to get out of the way. My cats also liked to lay on it, so it was usually covered in fur, too.

Meanwhile, my dining room table had my sewing machine on it. Every time I wanted to dine on the table, I had to take down the sewing machine and set up the placemats and settings. Every time I wanted to sew, I had to move all the dining accoutrement (usually onto the desk…). It was becoming annoying. I stopped sewing so much. I started eating at the coffee table.

One day a few weeks ago, right after I’d scheduled the Stitch ‘n’ Bitch, I started thinking hard about how my apartment would look to a strange—especially to a stranger of the crafty mindset. And I realized it was set up all wrong for my needs.

The desk was in the darkest corner of my room, against a wall, with nothing pretty to look at. It was too close to the bedroom door, which could never fully open, and also too close to the front door, where I would enter looking to plop down my mail, laundry, or purchase on the nearest flat surface.

My bed was in the middle of the room, sticking out into the biggest space I have in the whole apartment, cutting it in half, and making either side of the room basically useless.

By the bedroom window, in the sunniest, prettiest area of the whole room, was a loveseat that I never sit on. It looks nice aesthetically (except when it’s covered in laundry), but I don’t sit around in my bedroom; I sit in my living room.

Because my desk was all but useless, my dining room table had become the only place to sit and sew or sit and type. But it, too, was in a dark area facing a wall. Nice for a romantic dinner; not pleasant for sewing curtains.

None of this made sense. Thankfully, the answers were all simple.

I moved the loveseat to the living room. It effectively “cuts off” my living room from my dining room. They are really the same room, but with the visual barrier of the loveseat, it’s like I now have a living room AND a dining room. It also gave me more seating for having lots of guests over (like the 11 people I was expecting for Stitch n Bitch).

I moved the desk to where the loveseat had been. Now I had the sun streaming in through the window and it immediately increased the energy level around the desk—as well as my desire to sit at it for long periods of time. I arranged a table behind it that could hold my printer when I was printing, or hold the new light box I had constructed for taking photographs. The light box needed to be near the window to catch the sunlight, and this was the perfect place. The desk was also now too far away to be a convenient place to stash any odds or ends. It now only holds crafting supplies and papers having to do with my creative writing.

Then, I moved my bed to where my desk used to be. The dark corner of a room is the best place for a bed—the place you want the darkest. I’m also loathe to stash anything on my bed, so it’s okay that it’s near the front door. It also leaves the middle of my room wide open. This makes me feel less cramped, but also provides a lot of floor space for laying out large pieces of material. I was also prompted to call my landlord and have her fix the light fixture in the middle of the room that had been broken for the better part of 2009—I suddenly needed it.

Since I’ve done this rearrangement, I’ve done more sewing, crafting, marketing, writing, and work than I ever had. I’m not drawn to the couch because I don’t feel like cleaning off the desk. I’m drawn to the sunny, organized creative nook I’ve made for myself.

There are additional notes on Flickr.

Paper Work

This morning, I had an interesting run-in with Kamal, a cashier at my local 7-eleven. I was getting my coffee and doughnut (I know, bad Elly), and a gatorade to counteract the t00-much-wine last night, and he asked me, "Are you going to work?" Still wearing my heels and nylons from last night, yes, it probably looked as though I was going to work. I said, "I am working from home today." He laughed and said, "Free, right?"

This is where the conversation proceeded to break down. I thought "working from home" was self-evident. I work in an office, and one day a week (most weeks), I get to work from home. I have a long commute (26 miles each way), so working from home saves me a bit of money and saves the planet a tiny bit.

"Free, right?" Well, no, I'm not free. I have to work. So I say, "No, not today. I have to work."

"Work at home is free, right?"

"No, I get paid," I say cautiously...

"It's not free?"

"Well, freer than ususal"... meaning I get to wear my pajamas all day and can turn on a movie in the background--I'm not free to do that at the office. I still can't parse where he's going with this--what was probably meant to be lighthearded cashier banter.

Kamal gives me a strange look. "Two free days to work at home."

Ooooh, I get it. He means the weekend. I think? "No, I work in an office, but they let me work at home one day a week. They pay me, but I have to work."

He looks VERY confused, then says, "Paperwork?"

I'm not about to try to explain my job to him, so I just nod and say, "Yes, paperwork. I write." I thank him for the coffee and head home.

During the rest of my walk, I start to think about our conversation. This is not the first time I've had a conversation with Kamal during which we were both talking about different things. I finally concluded that when I said work at home, he must have thought I mean housework, which is, of course, unpaid.

When he said paperwork, I suppose that is how he differentiates labor work from office work. It's kind of funny (or pathetic) how so many of us folks with office jobs complain about the "work." It's not work, really. It's certainly not breaking rocks or digging ditches (which I spent 10 days doing over the summer...more on that later). It's not standing on your feet all day dealing with assholes at the 7-eleven. It's shuffling papers. It's paperwork.

It's thin, it's flimsy, it's light. It's paper work.

Stitch 'n' Bitch

I hosted my first Stitch 'n' Bitch last night, and it was a total success! It all started when an old high school acquaintance asked me for a how-to-knit book recommendation. I realized that it's so much easier to learn from a person than a book, so I decided why not get some ladies together for a knitting circle type thing?

Turned out that a lot more friends than I knew were into "thread- and yarn-based arts." A total of 11 people RSVPed for the event (I was afraid I'd run out of chairs!), and 5 people showed up to my place last night. The coolest thing about it was that everyone was doing something different. Stef was cross-stitching, Meg was needlepointing, Kelly was crocheting, Jes was knitting, Jesse was pinning patterns, and I was sewing. To me, that means we all have a unique "specialty" so we have something to teach each other, and lots of people to learn from. I got to demonstrate needlefelting and spinning, as well as show off some of my final products.

To me, this was such a great event because I got to socialize (with wine!) with a bunch of great ladies--but also be productive at the same time. No wonder knitting circles and quilting bees are such a longstanding tradition!