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hErDIng sQUirReLs
24Jun/10Off

Looking up

I looked up and saw a soothing waterfall cascading over moss-laden stones. It's not often I see waterfalls above me as I lay on my back, but at least it was better than the two kittens and the ball of yarn.

Why would I want to see two kittens playing with yarn? There was nothing calming about that. And the kittens weren't at all cute; in fact, they were kind of scraggly looking.

The stirrups were cold. They put little socks over them to keep the metal from icing your feet, but it's really just a small comfort. Warm the KY, or warm the speculum. Those are HUGE comforts.

The poster is for pretending you're somewhere else, or to keep you entertained and your mind otherwise occupied while some person you see maybe once a year pokes and prods at your most sensitive areas with an overlarge and alien looking Q-tip.

You know, if they can put a man on the moon, why can't they take away the horrific discomfort of this cavity search? I hate the pap smear. It's so undignified. Laying there in a paper gown, then that gooey gel gets slogged on followed by the cold hard prodding of that invasive instrument and scccwwwwwAHHHH-- suddenly I feel like I'm a tent that's being aired out.

I scrunch my face and I'm immediately told to relax. Apparently scrunching your face also scrunches the not-your-face. I breathe. I stare up at the ceiling, at the glistening, new poster and I'm grateful it's not kittens anymore. Feeling like this, I'd associate the experience and end up resenting the kittens. It's hard to resent a waterfall.

Still, a little Enya might have been nice.








5Apr/10Off

Me: Au naturel

I ran into an old acquaintance the other day at the grocery store. We made idle chit chat until we reached the passably polite point, and then, just as I turned and we made our goodbyes, she lobbed a conversational egg at my head and blurted: “What did you do to your hair?”

The yolk of this query drips down the sides of my head, coloring me embarrassed. Mortification wreaks havoc on my person, changing the sound and intent of the question into something much more shrill. The questioner’s face darkens and morphs to fit the now-harpy-like quality of the rude question that echoes through my brain:  “WHAT,” she squawks, “did you DO to your HAIR?!?”

Her now-tiny bird-like eyes pierce into my soul as her head cocks to one side, staring me down while awaiting my answer. And I am stunned.

You know, for a witty person, I really suck in these situations. When startled, I’m like a cow in the middle of the freeway: shocked into stillness, mouth chewing about wordlessly, completely out of my element. Instead of humor or snark, my shocked self merely pushes forth blatant, boring honesty. And while, YES, honesty is always the best policy, my lack of cleverness always leaves me with a nagging, almost feverish desire to redo the whole moment over again. I ache with the knowledge of what I could have said or what I should have done or how much better the whole moment could have felt if only I had just…

On the face of it, I realize the situation didn’t call for a snappy comeback. It was just a simple question based in curiosity and posited in what I took to be a brusque, almost rude, way. The simple form of the question embarrassed me because, frankly, this was the first indication I’ve had that perhaps my hairstyle isn’t liked by everyone. THE NERVE!

And here, dear reader, let me sate your curiosity: my hair is plain. It is not exciting. It is not painted with otherwise bright colors nor filled with feathers nor beads nor anything interesting nor beautifying nor exotic.

In point of fact, instead of my formerly long, blond-highlighted tresses gracing my delicate features, I have grown my natural color out and cut my hair shoulder length; now, shorter, mousy brown and naturally silver strands flop about my head. It’s a relatively bland, mom-like haircut.

I don’t miss the long blond hair; I’m 40. I don’t want to color my hair anymore. I earned my gray strands, one hair at a time. I like my Lily Munster stripes. I look my age now and, shock though it may be? I like looking my age. (Except the wrinkles.)

Still, thrown by the question, I eventually stammer that I simply stopped highlighting my hair. “I’m going with natural gray highlights now, instead of chemical blonde,” I smile. The quirky bird smiles back. “Welcome to the club,” she chirps, and walks on.

And for the first time, I realize her hair is completely white.




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4Dec/09Off

Welcome to frustration; Population: Me

I’ve been stewing for the last few days, letting my anger simmer. I know this is a bad thing for me to do, because all it does is hurt me and my teeth (as I gnash them together). But even with steady mantras, such as “I am filled with the love and light of the Universe” and “People are not as stupid as they appear,” I can’t seem to get over the brunt of my hurt.

Case in point: Last week my stepson had an asthma attack at school. We had discovered that he was out of Albuterol just the day before, but upon attempting refill, was told we needed to wait two more days before they would refill the prescription. (He had gone through his last puffer too quickly. I’m thinking he lost it, but whatever.) So, there I am, the very next day, picking up my sweet little gasping fish from school, and come face to face with a school nurse who is amazingly patient and helpful.

…Until she finds out I am the stepmom.

Screeeeeching halt.

Nevermind that I am the primary female parent in all my kids’ lives—bio, step, and guardian, included. Nevermind that I am the one there, in the office, petting his head and ready to shuttle him home. Apparently, neither having my name and contact information loudly and proudly displayed in bold print on the emergency card, nor the fact that I have three forms of identification in my purse to prove who I am, are even pertinent.

The very fact that I identified myself as stepmom knocked me out of the running for filling out a new, or amending the old, emergency card.

The exact words were (in a patronizing, preschool-teacheresque voice): “We need dad to do this. It’s not that stepmoms aren’t important. (insert helpful nod.) I’m sure Stepmoms do lots of things.”

I could actually taste the bile in my throat.

Yes, I can do lots of things. Though I’ve never tried removing someone’s head with my bare hands, my mind flits over the possibility. I then restrain myself from screaming all the things I can do, and always do; like feed my non-biological children. (I do that many times daily) And love them. (Constantly.) And clothe them (check) and care for them (check) and make doctor’s appointments for them (yep) and hold them when they cry (yessir) and laugh at their jokes (of course) and even pick them up from school when they are sick (HELLO??) and frankly, I’m generally competent in every parenting function possible…

…except, apparently, changing information on an emergency card. Even one that already has my name on it, listing me as legal guardian.

Thank you, evil stepmother myth, for following me around like a cloud of stinkbugs. Thank you for casting aspersions on my character the moment I identify myself as such, and for minimizing the public’s view of any role I have in my children’s lives.

You are, dear myth, a constant, nagging reminder from society, one that belittles who I am and my capabilities and intentions; and are based on some outmoded and ridiculous stereotype. Because of you, I—and my brethren—are thus able to help rejuvenate the American economy by bolstering the psychotherapy and antidepressant pharmaceutical industry.

Thank you, indeed.








7Oct/09Off

AWESOME.








2Oct/09Off

She’s the victim

I have no idea how it happened. I don’t know the lead in, or how they arrived at that fateful moment. Instead, my mind draws pictures using the stories of thousands of girls like her, whose aggressors were nowhere near the public eye. I see the stereotype of a starry-eyed girl, quietly swooning over the handsome man. I see him paying attention to her, making her feel attractive and special. Perhaps they flirted. They definitely drank. In my imagination, she figured out what was happening, her mind becoming a swirling blend of fear and excitement and anxiety and desire.

Perhaps as their lips touched, there was that feeling that something was wrong. Perhaps she pulled away and tried to tell him that things were moving too fast, but he was fixated on his goal. Perhaps she couldn’t move away. Perhaps she said no and kept saying no and he didn’t listen.

But wait. Maybe it didn’t happen like that at all. Maybe it was a set up. Maybe someone placed this delicate child in front of him, and the booze and pills that made her mind go fuzzy and the drugs made him act in a way he never would have otherwise.

In fact, maybe she really wanted to have sex with him—he was the prey, and she forced it to happen.

In any case, what does it matter that he was in his 40s and she was just 13? He’s completely famous. It’s not rape if he's an important person, is it? How can it be rape if she wanted it? And it’s definitely not rape if they were both drinking. Is it?

Nobody knows exactly what happened that night except the victim and her aggressor. But as a mother to four beautiful, wonderful, perfect-in-every-way-imaginable daughters, I don’t care about details. The news of Roman Polanski’s arrest was like a salve on a long-aching burn. For decades I’ve questioned how this fugitive could so publicly tromp through life and still evade justice.

The fact is, a devastating crime was perpetrated upon the body of a young girl, and this man was long overdue in taking responsibility for his horrendous actions.

And all the people that don’t like how his arrest was handled, those who are vocally against his extradition and those who think he has suffered enough: Seriously?? What the hell are you thinking?

Lest anyone is unclear, the statutory definitions of rape in the state of California specifically state that unlawful sexual intercourse has occurred in situations “where the victim is unable to resist because of an intoxicating, narcotic… that the accused has responsibility for administering.” It further states, “any person 21 years of age or older who engages in an act of unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor who is under 16 years of age is guilty of either a misdemeanor or a felony.”

It doesn’t matter if she wanted it, if she begged for it, if she was sober (she was not), if she stalked him, if he felt pressured, if he was set up, if the sky caved in and turned green and aliens landed and...

FACT: She was 13-years-young.
ASSOCIATED GROSS FACT: He was IN HIS FORTIES, admitted to plying her with booze and having sex with her.

She was, by any measure or stretch of the imagination, just a child: some mother’s sweet, emotionally innocent, barely-facing-puberty child. My heart aches for that poor girl, now a woman and mother in her own right, for the pain that this one terrible incident has caused and all that has played out over the years in the media. Her name was made public. She wasn’t even afforded the courtesy of anonymity.

For her sake and those of all who love her, I can only hope that this chapter comes to a swift close.

If you or someone you know has been victimized by sexual assault, visit the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (or RAINN) online. There is free, anonymous chat available 24/7 and the site links to local chapters in cities across the United States.




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