Three dirty secrets

I'm not ignorant. Just lazy, thank you.

I care about our planet. I really do. I would like to live a nice long life that does not involve a floating house (unless it's the one pictured). I’d also like my kid to be able to stay here and not be one of those losers heading to Mars.

But sometimes I do stuff that I know I shouldn't. These three are the worst.

I don’t use recycled toilet paper

I know. I'm awful. And I can't even blame it on my parents. I grew up in a recycled TP household, back when people barely knew what it was. My mother special-ordered it, from a catalog, in bulk. So that should give you some idea of the kind of household I grew up in. Maybe you even feel sorry for me now. I'll take it.

So why do I wipe my ass with bleached-white virgin-timber-sourced quilted  two-ply, when I can easily find the recycled stuff at our neighborhood store? Because I like it. Specifically, I like the puppy brand. It’s like the bear kind, but a little cheaper.

I drive an SUV

This one really tickles my mother, who likes to remind me of my plan to bumper-sticker SUV drivers in the Mollie Stone parking lot, back in my idealistic and somewhat destructive youth. But that was then. I've since sold my ideals to pay for premium toilet paper.

Then two years ago I drove my mother in law’s Honda CRV, and it was really fun, and I’ve never had a nice car ever, and besides we hardly even drive it. I bike practically everywhere, except to work and to the store and stuff.

I throw out ziplock bags

There was a time when I would lovingly turn each soiled baggie inside-out and scrub until it squeaked, then prop them one by one on the counter to dry.

Then one day I found myself in a filthy house, wearing a puke-stained shirt, comforting a crying baby in one hand and washing a used Ziploc bag in the other. I may or may not have been crying myself. And it suddenly occurred to me that I could simply turn around and place the dirty bag in the garbage. People did that, didn’t they? Yes, they did. And now so do I.

And these aren’t all

I’ve been known to eat McDonalds, buy stuff at chain stores, and when our tub gets really nasty I use bleach. Or actually I make my husband do it because it’s really bad for you.

I KNOW these are unsustainable practices, but here’s the thing: I reason our planet is fucked anyway, and I’m not willing to spend our last good years hand-washing plastic bags and wiping my butt with sandpaper.

Is that so wrong?

Out of Tragedy—Hyperbole?

While millions of Americans offer solutions to what happened on Friday, over news outlets, Facebook, Twitter, across coffee tables at holiday parties… I've been silent. I have no solutions, because I don’t understand the problem.

I get that there is a problem. In fact, with hundreds dead in mass shootings over the past few years, we've gone beyond problem status— we've got an epidemic.

But what happens when we treat an epidemic before truly understanding it? Before we have a scientific approach? Usually the solutions are guided by superstition and emotion, and while some may have limited success, they are too localized to make a lasting difference.  Over time, science and reason catch up and we’re able to address the problem far more effectively.

Comprehending the Incomprehensible

It’s my job to understand people. As a copywriter, I get into people’s heads on a daily basis to figure out what motivates them toward certain actions (or inactions) using psychology and philosophy, a lot of research, and natural instinct and empathy. Usually I’m pretty good at it.

When it comes to mass shootings, though, I’m at a loss. I can’t even begin to understand the shooter’s motivations. Can you?

There’s a trend in social media right now that asks us to stop talking about the killer and focus instead on the victims; and while I appreciate the sentiment behind it and agree that they need to be mourned, when it comes to actually understanding this problem and looking for a solution, we’re not going to find an answer in any of the victims because they are not the problem.

Another trend of the moment—vehemently promoting specific solutions: Gun control, increased mental health services, even prayer in schools have all been offered up, and while I’m not going to say any of these are wrong, how do we know that they’ll work? As far as I've seen there’s no substantial body of research to suggest that any one of these is the answer.

We Can Do Better

Anecdotal information about what happens in Canada or how poorly the war on drugs is going are no doubt important pieces to look at, but taken on their own they wouldn't be enough to form the basis for a marketing campaign (too insubstantial—too much room for cultural variance and misinterpretation), and they shouldn't form the basis for a federal policy shift, either. We can, and should, do better.

We are facing a horrific new disease. Something strange has happened in our evolution, and we don’t yet understand what it is. So yes: Let’s not forget the victims, and let’s allow ourselves to feel sad and angry and horrified, but let’s also take a measured approach here and look for a rational solution, because nothing is going to change until we find it.

My husband says this represents my fertility strength, or something like that.  I thought it was more like an androgynous martyr. 

Some drawings inspired by the movie, The Red Shoes.

What You Expect

From the moment of your first positive test, you’re a mother. The moment that faint little line turns the minus to a plus, you are filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions - from glee to fear, and thousands in between.

You take your daily vitamin with orange or even prune juice plus fish oil pills because you’re a mother now. These after the soon-as-you-open-your-eyes saltine, of course, because the nausea kicks in like a sonofabitch if you skip it. Each morning you wake feeling hungover - nauseous, achy, and totally out of it. It would seem unfair, considering your clean living, but you're happy all the time. Maybe it's the hormones.

You will pull out your copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and read with new fervor.

What to expect at 5 weeks.

You tell family, but keep from sharing the news with friends. They say to wait for three months. So you wait.

You visit the midwives, and are thrilled to have them on board. They tell you take your vitamins and don't worry about the rest. Your body knows what it's doing.

What to expect at 6 weeks

You’re tired. All the time. Also, you worry about what kind of mother you’ll be. Will you be loving, no matter what? Will you remember to pick your kid up every day after school? And what will your daughter be like, or your son? Will she be healthy? Will he be autistic? Will she/he be gender-confused?

You begin talking to her inside your head, and in a journal. You’re bonding.

What to expect at 7 weeks

You go to the Bodies exhibit and spend half your time in the baby section – peering through the jars of tiny specimens. You point out the rice-sized baby to your husband, crying. Isn’t she beautiful? Maybe it’s the hormones.

You have two sips of wine in Montreal and feel guilty. What kind of a mother are you? You’ve already cut out deli meat, chevre, brie, hot dogs… how is it that every one of your favorite food or beverages is now outlawed? You eat spinach, kale, chard… and still those damn fish pills.

What to expect at 8 weeks

You go for a routine teeth cleaning and tell the dentist, hygeinist, even the secretary that you’re expecting. You pretend to have to tell them, in case they wanted x-rays. They smile. Pay special attention to your gums now, they say. You won’t have time to brush your teeth once the baby is here.

At work people are starting to stare at your chest, almost a full cup size larger. You know they suspect, and smile, giving nothing away. A few more weeks, and you’ll tell them. Not quite yet.

What to expect at 9 weeks

You have to drop out of photography class; you’re so tired these days. Work is about the most strenuous thing you can handle. But there are important things happening inside you. Cartilage is turning into bone, the book tells you. Fingers and toes are just beginning to form.

What to expect at 10 weeks

You have to set certain bras aside because suddenly your nipples are hard all day. This wasn’t in the book, but you find it wonderfully ridiculous.

You set an ultrasound appointment for the following week.

What to expect at 11 weeks

You start spotting. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all – this is totally expected at times. But you keep spotting, or no now it’s actually bleeding. You must look pale because your coworker offers to drive you home and you gratefully accept, strategically slipping your jacket between your bum and their seat cushion for the ride.

You get home just in time. The bleeding caries clots with it, and you’re starting to cramp. You call the clinic and – to the horror of the woman who answers – begin sobbing over the phone. She makes an appointment for the next day and tells you if it’s happening, it’s happening. There’s nothing to do about it now.

After hours of bleeding and cramping, you expel what could only be one thing. You place it gently in a jar to show the doctor – a tip from the chapter on miscarriages. You cry yourself to sleep.

What to expect the next day

The cramps are over, though some bleeding continues. You buck up and go to work. Nobody is the wiser, and it's a relief. Work is work.

The ultrasound confirms what you already know, but you still cry. The doctor waves away your jar of baby. These things happen he says. Nothing to worry about.

You bury the baby in the yard.

What to expect the next day

You inform the family, and everyone is is kind.

You cry during your morning shower, so hard you have to sit down in the tub. You used to talk-think to the baby in there, and now it feels so alone. You can expect this for the next 1 – 2 weeks.

What to expect in the months to come

You feel shame, guilt, fear - that you won’t get pregnant again. That you will.

You continue to grieve for the child you never met but already loved. You feel isolated from the friends you never told.

You begin to talk. You go in for a bikini wax and tell the waxer. Turns out – she’s had two miscarriages (and two healthy little girls). You tell friends over wine (wine again!) and one of them has had three.

You visit your family. Turns out your mother has had two as well. Your Grandmother doesn’t say, but her unexpected gentleness makes you wonder.

You eat lots of unpasteurized cheese, deli sandwiches, and sushi. You drink good wine.

You hike with your sister through the Point Reyes wilderness, eat too many mushrooms, and have your first bad trip since high school. You are afraid of everything.

You wrap yourself around a boulder and listen to the waves until you come down a little. You huddle with your sister under a gigantic eucalyptus tree and talk about the meaning of life. The inevitibility, and inevitible sadness, of death. The two of you drink brown rice tea on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; the stars are amazing, which you hadn’t expected, so close to the city. You should have skipped the shrooms earlier – this place is magical on its own.

You fly home on mother’s day, expecting to feel sad.

But you don’t. At least, not too much.

You are grateful. You write a final letter to your baby, thanking her for the lesson she left behind. That death and fear are inevitable; and living, talking, loving… these are your choice.

And time goes on.

Stuff I'd post on Facebook if I were brave enough:

can't believe how evil my boss is. Fortunately, she's also an idiot.

thinks that it doesn't count as a whole bottle of wine, if you opened it to cook with.

is tired of posts like "baby Charity just turned 3 and a half months today!" and "my cat turned nine today!". This is not news. Not even on Facebook.

thinks that too many people wear too much perfume. If I can smell you from two feet away - that's too much. And if I can smell you from my car as I drive by - that's way too much.

doesn't get Glee.

wouldn't mind some sex, but isn't up for shaving her legs.

just saw the news about a ten year old girl being offed by her parents. Is is weird that I worry about becoming the person capable of such an act?

does not like joggers. Oh, sure - there are exceptions here and there. But for the most part I don't like them.

just realized I've been using my coworker's toothbrush for the last 3 months. (I actually did post this one. But I'm not sure that was wise).

is tired of people complaining on Facebook. Get a life, for chrissakes.

has a box of thank you notes from 3 birthdays ago that never got posted and sent. (actually - I will post this one. It might relieve my guilt).

has had to pee for like ten minutes, but feeling too lazy to get up.

wonders if going batshit crazy and getting committed would be that bad, really. Free room and board, arts & crafts, outdoor time. Sounds a hell of a lot better than work. Not to mention laundry.

Liking this one.