On Being a Woman

Being a woman is hard work. I think most women would agree with that statement. And, just so we’re clear, I’m not saying that it’s easy to be a man. I just think that sometimes it’s harder to be a woman.

Look at us. I think each of us has earned the title of “Super Woman”.

If having beautiful, well-behaved, kind children, a lovely home, and ethereal beauty are marks of being a Super Woman, then Sister #1 definitely has that title. I ask myself all the time…how does she do it? Has she invented some kind of Super Mommy elixir that makes her so gentle and wonderful with her children? And is there some kind of Patience Potion that she takes so she doesn’t totally freak out when her husband decides to “fix up” a room and it turns into something that should really be showcased on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition? I mean, hello?? Who wouldn’t want to show off that fireplace, right? And blonde hair and porcelain skin are things that I thought only existed in fairy tales. On top of that, Sister #1 has the genes that make her talented and artsy-crafty-scrapbooky-look-at-my-home-isn’t-the-décor-so-perfect. Lucky woman.

Sister #2 (that’s me!) has earned the Super Woman title by being crazy enough to balance a full-time job with being a full-time mom and making baby food (and now healthy toddler food) and making home-cooked dinners almost every night and teaching part-time and now going back to school for a doctorate and cleaning the bathrooms and kitchen 2-3 times per week and managing a painful medical condition that sometimes leads to a strong desire to let out an ear-splitting scream and making curtains for the bedroom because all the curtains in the stores are too ugly and too expensive to go on the windows in my house and…(gasp, gasp, pant, pant, pant)...perhaps it’s not really a Super Woman title, but more of a Crazy Woman title. Hmmmmm.

Sister #3 has earned the Super Woman title, too. Going to school and working in Washington, D.C. is nothing to scoff at. How does she manage the demands of graduate school and work and politics and all kinds of activities and looking for a full-time job for post-graduation and being a good friend to everyone (even people she would sometimes like to strangle) and still manage to hold it together? It must be Super Woman powers. Or, well, wait a minute…how much wine do you keep in your apartment?

And Sister #4, though just embarking on the journey of adult life, is a Super Woman, too. She juggles school, work, friendships, relationships, comes over to baby-sit, helps me plot revenge, deals with the craziness of living at home…all those things that are required as the basic foundation of Super Woman-dom. Good job, kiddo!

We are Super Women. All of us. And I think that most women have no idea how super they are. That hit me today while I was driving to work this morning, and a woman in a minivan pulled up next to me at a stoplight.

She had no hair. None. Zip. Zilch. And I did a double-take. I know it wasn’t polite, but for a brief moment, I stared. She was sitting behind the wheel, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to whatever music she was listening to, occasionally glancing in the backseat and smiling at the two little children sitting back there. And I saw where the seatbelt crossed over her, that there was no division. She had no breasts.

No breasts. No hair. Two things (three, if you count breasts as two separate things) that most women use to define themselves and their femininity…and this woman had neither. And she was driving along, presumably taking her kids to school, smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world, like it didn’t matter that the sun was glinting off her bald head. Like she was thinking, who needs hair when you’ve got fabulous earrings like these?

Even if she was faking the smile for the sake of her children, it doesn’t make her any less of a Super Woman. If anything, it makes her more of a Super Woman. So often, I get all whiny about how chaotic my life is and how I wish I had more time, more money, less work, blah, blah, blah. But this woman…whoever she is…she may not have time. And looking at her face, and finally meeting her eyes when she caught me looking at her, I realized that I can learn from her example. I can smile more often in the face adversity. I don’t have to wait for some kind of crisis to make me appreciate what I have in my life. I can do everything that I’m capable of doing, and at least try things I’m not sure I’m capable of doing. We can all do that. And I see now that we are doing it. We do it every single day. Sure, sometimes we get a little down, but each and every one of us shows the true mark of a Super Woman—hitting the ground when life gives us a swift kick right where it hurts, but never staying on the ground for very long.

We are women. Super Women.

Kitchen Appliances

I think they are the best expression of my feelings on their marriage.

  "I think I'm going to get them a toaster."
  "You can't get them a toaster. You got ME a toaster!"
  "You weren't getting married."
  "I don't care. You can't get them a toaster. Besides, it's too obvious."
  "I didn't know I was going for subtle. --How about a blender then?"
  "No, that seems a little too optimistic."
  "A blender? Really?"
  "What about a waffle iron?!"
  "The waffle iron happens to be one of my favorite kitchen appliances! There's no way I'm getting them one of those!"
  "A regular iron?"
  "No."
[Pause]
  "You could always go with the crock pot..."
  "I thought about that, but one, they probably wouldn't get the hint, and two, it would be way too easy for her to stick it in a cabinet somewhere and forget about it. I don't think the crock pot has enough impact. But it can be a back-up."
  "A wok then."
  "Nope, I'm attached to that one, too."
  "I've never known anyone with so many attachments to kitchen appliances..."
  "This from the man who won't let me get them a toaster!

Cloudscape

Someday...

I want to paint a nighttime cloudscape.

Dreamscape

Sister #1, you may not want to read this. I'm afraid it will creep you out...

There is a forest that I visit several times each year. It’s more than a forest. It’s an entirely different world. A strange, sleepy nether-world…transforming…haunting…

It’s not of this Earth, not of this universe, but strangely part of both…and part of me, as well.

When I think of years past, stretching far back and probing the deepest recesses of my memory, I find that I cannot recall a time when I didn’t visit this place. It’s always the same in appearance, the temperature is always the same, the anticipation always as tingling as it was the very first time I realized I was still asleep, but still magically able to step into the twisting vines.

It’s as familiar to me as the reflection the mirror bounces back to me each morning. The paths, trees, shrubs, the racing river and thick, twisted roots of fallen trees are always in the same spots. The slightly rickety, wooden bridge that yawns across a gaping ravine appears to be so flimsy, yet each time, it holds my weight, never swaying or groaning, the ropes never snapping.

The animals are always there—countless bears, wolves, rabbits and deer…the same chirping of the unseen birds high overhead, masquerading in dense foliage…the same humming of the exotic insects that move too quickly to be seen…the occasional snake slithering across my path.

And yet, the place is different each time. There’s the tree root that shoots high up out of the river—it’s always the same size, always in the same place, but sometimes it’s green, sometimes gray or brown, sometimes rotting and pulsating (odd, like a skin infection, hot fluid straining to break through the surface) with something that’s not quite lifelike. There’s the “Tree of Life”, as I call it, which separates the living half of the forest from the dead half of the forest. That tree sometimes leans in one direction or another, pointing me down the path I’m supposed to follow. I’ve never defied the Tree, though there have been many times when I prayed to wake up so I wouldn’t have to follow where it was leading me. And then there are the curious stones that rise like pillars across the small tributaries of the river. They’re always just large enough for me to step on, but sometimes, they stop just short of the bank I need to be on and I have to make a flying leap toward the soggy earth, knowing that I cannot touch the water. To touch the water would mean death.

Every time, I feel as if I should be afraid. But I’m not. Not ever. I don’t feel fear. I feel a strange ache, a hollow sensation, yearning, longing for something. Something. Or someone. But what? Who? I’m always searching. It’s a mindless search, one that will take as much time as is necessary, to infinity perhaps. There never has been any sense of urgency.

Until now.

Time (is it time? is it something else?) is catching up with me. Something dark and ominous is behind me, its putrid breath on the back of my neck, a silent laugh reverberating in my head, shaking the air of this netherworld with mirthful vibrations.

And this time there was a dog. A large dog, a white, gray and brown spotted body, dark brown ears, cropped tail. He (how do I know it was a he?) was barking, racing back and forth, desperately jumping and howling as he watched me walking across the bridge. And there were people, too. There have never been people in this place before. People waiting for me when I enter the forest or re-emerge later, yes, but never people in the forest. There are many now. Watching me with knowing eyes, waving me forward, shouting words that I cannot hear. The dog continues to bark.

And that’s when I hear it. A small cry, barely a whimper echoing from somewhere in this non-real place. Is it an injured animal? It can’t be. The sound has a human quality to it. Is it my child? Is it someone else’s child? I’m running now, needing to know, hurrying along to find the place where the crying comes from (who would leave a child alone in this strange wilderness?) before darkness falls and I no longer have enough light…before I wake up and the child is lost until the next time my dream takes me to this place.

I look to the Tree. It’s pointing to the North. The cry (I’m coming, little one, whoever you are, wherever you are, I’m on my way.) is coming from the Southwest. Which direction do I choose? The cries are quieter now and I strain to hear (keep crying, little one, keep crying and help me find you) knowing that I can’t be far now…just up ahead, a little bit farther. It’s getting darker. And darker.

And then lighter. Sunshine is pouring through my bedroom window. I’m awake. For the first time, the forest has left me feeling unsettled. I try in vain to go back to sleep, hoping to pick up where I left off, to find the child, to bring it home. It’s useless.

All I can do now is wait. And wait.

Once Upon a Diet

As I get older
I realize
some foods are bad
and reside on my thighs

Yummy doughnuts
and similar fare
end up in my hands
and I refuse to share

So I’m working on a plan
to again be thin
and if I follow my rules
I know I can win!

Chocolate, chocolate
you dirty whore
I shall not eat you
anymore…

Remember that cheese
salsa and chips
pass from my mouth
straight to my hips

I will avoid them
no matter what
because I don’t want them attached
to my bodacious butt

But I stop and I wonder
should I really live this way?
Monitor all food
and be miserable everyday?

The answer is, “No!”
I love to eat
fruit and veggies
and even meat

And junk food is fine
in moderation
and I will learn to manage
my greatest temptations

I can indulge now and then
but still be true to myself
and take responsibility
for my own personal health

I sit and I laugh
as I realize
I love my body…
I’m the perfect size!

So what if my hips
are a little bit wide
and my boobs are too big
to cover and hide?

I’ve got long, sexy legs
and a gorgeous smile
so I’ll forget about my weight
and just be ME for a while!

bam, bitch went down

We all have people on our hit list.

I'm sorry to spill that little secret, but there are some people who we would love to knock out if the chance ever presented itself.
There are two main people on my hit list. Two people who have specifically screwed me over in way or another, either directly or indirectly. One individual has been on the list going on two years. Two. I don't hold grudges very long, so two years is kind of a big deal to me. The other one has been on for a considerably short time in comparison, approximately nine months.
Since I'm spilling secrets, I may as well admit that I've plotted against these people. Oh, have I plotted. I've planned to target their home, their car, those close to them, ruin their supposed career (or lack thereof), sabotage their relationships with others... You name it, I've probably come close to thinking something along those lines.
Now I'm not saying that any of these things are "nice". I mean, they were nice when I was planning them, because, well, I was pissed, and even now they have their moments where I get that far-off look in my eye and the adrenaline boosts a little.
I'm plotting something currently -this is a fact. It's nothing huge. Nothing major. I'd even call it small if it were to be put next to some of my other ideas. But the thing I can't quite understand is why I'm picking the hit list member to act on that I am. It's the newer of the two. The one who didn't even really screw me over, but that they definitely screwed over someone close to me. Maybe it's the maternal mentality taking over. The thought that You can mess with me, but once you bring the loved ones into it... profanity, profanity, et cetera, et cetera, and another profanity for good measure. It's one of those things where you're forced to look after those close to you. You don't necessarily have a responsibility to, you may not even want to, but that stupid little drive inside of you makes you get up and plot revenge for that person (and yourself too, admittedly.)
I'm going to enjoy my little joke. I won't lie. It sounds horrible admitting to it, but it's not just for me, and in my crazy little mind, that gives me a little incentive.

Have YOU Got Talent?

I am so talented. Check out the great stuff I can do.

I’ve learned that my right index finger is a huge part of my life. I’ve also learned that I’m pretty talented when it comes to doing things with my left hand! Here’s what I’ve discovered in the past week:

1. A single broken finger on the dominant hand means it takes twice as long to get ready for work in the morning.

2. Do not use your “dumb” hand to shave any—ahem—sensitive areas before practicing on a non-sensitive area.

3. Public bathroom stalls in my office are clearly designed for right-handed people. My left arm has gotten a workout with all the stretching I’ve been doing.

4. It takes about three times as much toilet paper to get the job done when using the “dumb” hand.

5. I can give my daughter a bath with one hand. Hey! I never said it was a great bath!

6. I can type perfectly well using just my left hand and right ring finger.

7. Little children think a big, metal splint and layers of bandages are fun toys. Never mind the boo-boo underneath.

8. I can still put my daughter’s hair in pigtails, though they are a bit lopsided.

9. Strangers are much nicer if you appear to be in pain.

10. Tying shoes is way over-rated.

11. Don’t carry a nice purse if you have a broken finger. The zipper will get caught in the splint or gauze. Your finger will be fine, but the chic, Burberry plaid purse will be rendered useless. Stupid splint.

12. Putting in contact lenses is way more difficult these days.

And the final thing I learned…

Number 13…

The metal splint WILL absorb heat from the top of the stove and gauze DOES smolder before it burns!