by Elizabeth of Boy Crazy [Clarity-Chaos]

For reasons unknown or unanalyzed, an old friend popped into my mind today.

My friend J was a quiet guy. He was an artist and a musician. In high school, these attributes do not necessarily make you the coolest of kids. But he was smart and sweet and funny and shy, and when I took his arm and played his date at stage right in a musical with a name I can’t recall, I crushed hard for J. I always liked the uncool kids. (They were always the coolest.)

I, a boy crazy sophomore, was the first kiss for this shy senior boy. He, all kindness and blue eyes, was the nicest, sweetest boy I had ever kissed.

But this was highschool, where fickleness and frivolity reign. And after he ended one of our dates with a run through Taco Bell drivethru, sending me shrinking to the far side of his parent’s giant blue station wagon in angst over how bad his breath would be when he walked me to my front door, it was over.

And the next week when I introduced my dad to G, who sat on our livingroom couch, arm slung around my shoulders, my father summed it up just right when he humiliated me in his befuddlement, “G? What happened to J? What is this – boyfriend of the week??!”

And it was. It was how I rolled, nothing personal, J.

But I always felt badly about how abruptly I ended things. The poor guy had no clue it was just about the Taco Bell, no idea about the fickleness, the frivolity of teenage girls. He let it end without drama, and he stepped quietly aside as I finished out the school year as G’s girl.

He was such a nice guy and I was the only girl he ever kissed.

A couple of years later I bumped into J at a summer concert in our hometown. He was home from college, and I was genuinely excited to see him. We laughed that War was headlining the show, twenty years past their peak; and we chatted for a while. After rocking out to Low Rider, I gave him another big hug and told him that it was really, really good to see him again and that I was so glad he was doing well. He stayed at the stage and I ran off with my friends. I turned back and waved goodbye one more time. He was smiling.

One week later J died of an asthma attack. He was 21 years old.

At his funeral, a college friend brought along a letter J had mailed him just that week. In it, J had written how he had bumped into a girl he used to date…

{by Ron Mattocks from Clark Kent’s Lunchbox}

An economic downturn. The loss of a job. The struggles to make ends meet. Sound familiar? I could probably rattle off at least two dozen people living through this right now. It’s miserable. I should know.

In 2006 I was a hotshot real estate executive who was pulling down a ridiculous six figure income while driving a hot car and partying with even hotter women. I lived in a downtown loft, wore designer suits, and pretty much did as I pleased. Okay, I know what’s going through your head, but wait, it gets better. By the end of 2007 I was engaged, laid off and flat broke. Not only that, I was about to gain two stepdaughters and couldn’t afford to visit my three sons who lived several states away.

After spending my entire adult life steadily employed, I suddenly found myself in a strange and unfamiliar place. It was as if I had been sucked up in a wormhole and then plopped down in an alternate dimension where my fiancé (now wife) worked the big corporate job while I oversaw the daily distribution of Goldfish crackers to a five and six year-old like an aid worker at a refugee camp. Everything was all switched around. The hot car with a V8? Now it was a minivan that seated eight. The downtown loft? Replaced by a cruddy apartment in the ‘burbs. Endless free time? I’m sorry, who needs picked up when?

As a result of these drastic changes to my circumstances, I turned into an emotional basket-case, breaking down after watching certain cell phone commercials or at the sight of another empty toilet paper roll no one thought to replace—again. No longer could I rate my identity against annual reviews and performance bonuses; instead, I was being admonished by a kindergartener for my absentmindedness in forgetting to put mustard on her sandwich.

Being denied the external validation I so desperately needed from a five year-old, combined with the barriers keeping me from my own kids, as well as a few other odds and ends sunk me into a depression, one deeper than that to which I am already genetically predisposed. (Thanks Catholic Ukrainian ancestors!)

Yes, life was coming up roses for yours truly, and it was clear I needed to do something about it.

{by Lucrecer Braxton from Art Slam}

There isn’t a worthwhile thing in the world that can’t be accomplished with good hard work.

You’ve got to want something first and then you have to go after it with all your heart and soul. ~ Margaret Rudkin

When I started the Art Slam, it was my fourth “from scratch” blog. I shut the others down knowing full well I was losing huge readerships. Why did I do it? They were no longer me…authentic. I felt lost in a world of scrapbook supplies, moms with cameras and enough online fakeness to make you want to hurl. I had lost my voice. My words did not seem like my own and I spent a couple of years searching for the essence of who I was. It was during this time I moved my journaling past just writing to making art within my journals. It never fails that when a challenging time comes into your life, you either rise to the occasion or you shrink back and allow it to consume you.

Recently, I was introduced to the story of Pepperidge Farm’s founder, Margaret Rudkin. Her youngest son suffered from asthma and severe food allergies. Concerned about his diet, she tried her hand at making bread and failed miserably with her first attempts. She did not give up and despite what skeptics told her about their doubts she could make nutritious bread that tasted good, she proved them wrong. I can not count the times I have had people tell me they doubted me and my ability to do anything meaningful with my love of art. There’s always going to be someone who does not think you can do something because THEY can not imagine your dream becoming reality. Thing is, the dream was placed in you, not them. You can not allow what others think to stop you from dreaming and being all you were meant to be.

Like most of us, Margaret did not set out to start a business, she had to do something to support her family. As a mother, you do what you have to do to support your family. I can remember when I lost my job a few years ago, I relied on what I knew best in order to help support my family in our time of need. I used my graphic design and photography skills to bring in some extra money. I started writing again and discovered a more patient, confident voice. I started this blog knowing it was not about having a huge readership, but about being a real, authentic person who could inspire with my art and words instead of breaking people down. There is enough of that mess going around online without me adding to it. When you stop by here, I hope you leave feeling better about who you are, inspired to live your life fully everyday and wanting to be all that you can be. Blessings to you.

{Originally posted on Bitch Ph.D.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 5, 2008

So here is the biggest, most annoying problem with having a feminist marriage:

No matter what you and your partner have agreed on, other people will cling to their antiquated notions.

It’s the biggest evidence to me that marriage is not just a contract between two people; it’s also a kind of social contact (for better or for worse). Like, if you and your partner decide to reverse conventional gender roles–you work the day job, he stays home with kids and kitchen–and you are perfectly happy with this arrangement (ok, reasonably happy). Lovely! You win! You and your partner have done all the hard work necessary in arriving at this decision, you have had principled discussions about division of labor, you have made sure that neither one of you is feeling coerced, that this is how you both want it to be, blah blah blah and now you can sit back and enjoy your domestic life. WRONG. Because now you have to deal with constantly explaining to everyone around you that, “no, this really is what we both want, no, I am not an emasculating bitch, actually this was his idea, no really you can ask him, no, he isn’t doing it “for” me, no, we’re not doing this to “prove” something, really, we are doing this because it works for both of us, individually and as a couple.”

Of course, you could refuse to explain all this, and then you have the fun of hearing the whispered comments, the second-hand hints from, oh, say, your sisters-in-law: “well, of course it’s none of our business, but we do wonder. . .”or “oh, I think it’s fine,” (gee, how big of you) “but you know, mother-in-law thinks you’re emasculating Mr. B.” And I like my mother in law, but jesus. Or things like snide comments about how little housework you do which make you want to scream about how you did the lion’s share of the housework for TEN YEARS, goddamnit, including while you were writing your dissertation and all that time you were teaching but of course that was always invisible.

It starts when you decide not to change your name, of course. You explain it to everyone, and then they get it wrong on the letters anyway. Which, you know, fine; I realize that people kind of default to the “normal” pattern without thinking. But my own father?!? Dude. It’s the same name I always had. It’s YOUR name. Get it right. And stop acting hurt when I get irritated by it. And then there are the casual acquaintances or new friends who, at some point, you have to tell–“well, actually Mr. B.’s last name is not B.,” and instead of just saying, “oh, okay” (I mean really. It’s unusual but not unheard of.) they say “really? Why did you do that? Did he mind? What did your parents think? What did his parents think? What about the kid? Don’t you think he’ll be confused? Why did you give him the last name you gave him? Isn’t that weird? Isn’t this kind of a weak feminist statement since you just have your dad’s name anyway?” and so on. Most of the time I really don’t mind this stuff. There’s a reason why I teach, and it’s because I love to explain shit. But occasionally I’ll step back and think, lord. Do I really have to explain all of this to every single person who asks? Do they really have the right to ask? Do they have the right to be irked if I’m feeling tired of it that day and just say something snotty like, “why the hell should I change my name?” and try to leave it at that?

{Originally published at Mommy Pie.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on June 26, 2008

I own three bridesmaid dresses. I’ve been to countless wedding ceremonies. I’ve happily purchased hundreds of dollars worth of gifts for my friends’ celebratory passages into traditional family life.

Most of those unions have lasted. Some have not.

With my 40th coming up in just a few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about about time, and fate, and the very different, and sometimes unexpected, paths our lives all take.

However I got here, this is my life. I embrace it wholeheartedly. And I wonder, where’s the ceremony for singles who have found in themselves the one they’ve been looking for all along? What about the ones who, for better or worse, never do marry another?

I’d like to think that someday I will find someone to have and to hold. I do hope so. (Especially after getting to know so many of you married mamas through your blogs.) But, what if I don’t? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Because I’m happy. I actually want what I have. And although occasionally, I do pine for little things here and there, in reality, I know all I need is family. No matter what shape it takes.

Hell, I may just wind up marrying myself.

I’d certainly never be accused of marrying for money. And there’s no one who’d love MP more. I’d never cheat on myself, and I’d never have to worry about divorce. I wouldn’t have a choice but to work through the hard times.

Not only would it symbolically celebrate my love affair with my daughter, it would serve as a reminder of my commitment to giving myself what I would give to a spouse. Love, time and respect.

I’ve got it all worked out.

1. THE PROPOSAL
Executed flawlessly. Because I’m a mind reader, I’d know exactly how I’d always imagined it. Definitely a story worth telling over and over.

And over.

(Originally published on snipHits (or misses))

Wonderwall

By Amy Turn Sharp | November 3rd, 2009 | Category: Amy Turn Sharp, BN Channel Personal, Featured 1, Friday 1 | 2 comments

{Originally Published on Sweetney}

When I made my list of the best 25 songs of the last 25 years a few weeks back, I burned, just for my own private listening enjoyment, a mix CD comprised of those select tracks. Since that time its been on heavy rotation during the 20 minute commute to and from M’s camp each weekday — I’m lucky enough to have a kid who’s tolerant of Mommy’s need to CRANK THAT SHIT UP — and in that time she’s absorbed all the songs and picked her favorites, notable among them the well-aged Oasis tune Wonderwall. It’s a song that for all its obvious magnetism and hookiness I’ve never fully understood. I mean, what’s a Wonderwall, anyway? And what, if anything, does it mean for a person to be that to someone else? Still, questions of signification and metaphor aside, each time the spare guitar strum of that track begins to play on our car stereo I see the joyful recognition wash over M’s face in the rear view mirror, and when the lesser of the brothers Gallagher begins to sing she does too, word for word.
. . . . .

On Sunday, we finally told her about the split.

For those of you who’ve never gone through a separation (and seriously, here’s hoping none of you ever have to), the awful, soul-rending anticipation of having to break this news to your child — the tiny, blameless person who you’ve made it your life’s mission to protect and shield from all hurts and pains — is psychological torture of a magnitude it’s difficult to fully wrap your head around. Over the course of the past few weeks I’ve said to friends, relative to the crushing dread I felt about having to do this, that I now understand why people stay together for the sake of the kids (or, rather, tell themselves that’s what they’re doing — it’s probably closer to the truth to say they’re staying together for the sake of not having to deal with the anguish and guilt of having to tell the kids). It is the worst thing I could ever imagine having to do, and believe me, I can imagine having to do a lot of pretty awful things. Like having to attend a Celine Dion concert, or watch the complete filmography of Paris Hilton, for example. YES, THIS IS EVEN WORSE THAN THAT.

So Jamie came over Sunday morning with the idea in mind that this was the day. No way out but to barrel through it together, however ineptly, and hope to god we don’t have to look back on this as The Day We Shattered Our Daughter’s Identity, Crushed Her Spirit, And Destroyed Her Self Esteem For All Time. I think some of my generalized terror about this event can be traced back to having known a few very seriously broken human beings who pointed to the cataclysm of their parents breaking up when they were a kid as the hot molten core of their volcanic screwed-up-ness. And when I say “human beings” you should read “people I dated.” This is definitely NOT how I want my daughter to turn out.

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