Storytelling about Faith, Feminism, and even a bit of Cleavage – by Ronna Detrick

guest post by Ronna Detrick

There is a space in which I live, think, wonder, rage, and hope. It’s an in-between place. Sometimes a threatening chasm, other times a sheltering cleft, it’s unnerving and welcoming, frightening and beautiful all at once. It is home.

Faith and Feminism.

Neither word is benign; both conjure up images, thoughts, and emotions nearly immediately. And for me, each is laden with story.

Story #1: Faith.

Images of myself as a girl – in Sunday School, memorizing verses, singing hymns, playing the piano, going to summer camps complete with fireside chats. Later, attending a Christian college; later still, moving overseas to work for a missionary organization. Not soon after, becoming a pastor’s wife. (I know…it’s just too much. Clearly my story agreed because…) 15 years later I ended my marriage. I left his church. I abandoned my tradition.

Faith, understood as a non-negotiable of my spiritual worth, had been my heritage and the formative lens of my development, my ethics, my relational codes as a woman.

A possible sub-text to this story: Faith cannot abide strong, outspoken women. We are counterintuitive to its patriarchy and sometimes even unwelcome in the context of a church or religious structure that still holds to (and text-proofs) our silence and subservience. There’s no room for feminism.

Story #2: Feminism.

I was already in my 40s by the time I experienced my first real brush with feminism – aware for the first time in palpable, acutely felt ways the objectification of my gender, its harm, and the preponderance of misogyny. Re-reading age-old texts with a new lens, I couldn’t not see thousands of years of interpretation that had slighted, if not blatantly ignored the perspective, voice, and experience of my sex.

Feminism now became my religion; a new formative lens for my ongoing development, my ethics, my relational codes as a woman.

A possible sub-text to this story: Feminism necessitates a profound pragmatism, a critical eye watching acutely for insipid, unenlightened perspectives or unjust, ignorant words/behaviors. It is action-oriented, justice-focused, advocacy based. There’s little room for faith.

These two stories create a seeming binary; one that for myself and many women results in significant tension, angst, and forced choice. Can they coexist? At first blush (and in light of repetitively validated experiences with one subtext or the other) the answer feels like a definitive “no.” But I wonder.

Here’s what I have faith in: No story (or dogma, philosophy, theology, even Text) stands as sacred, holy writ; definitive and concrete, unmovable or un-editable. It is influenced by others’. It is constantly being written and re-written. There’s dialogue and banter that shifts and shapes the ever-forming narrative. Sometimes it’s full of compliment and other times just contradiction. Usually both.

Faith and feminism are having that dialogue – and sometimes that argument – in my head and heart. I can’t get them to shut up. They are perfectly content to keep talking and, in the process, convincing me that there might just be more story yet to tell; one that allows these seemingly odd bedfellows to be wed (with all the relational complexity therein…though not as complex or odd as me married to the pastor. Another story for another time).

This is a new story. Not yet completely formed within the texts of my own life, but definitely being crafted – themes developing, plot thickening, dialogue chattering away. No hard lines. Lots of blurred categories. Significant intrigue. It is a story that needs to be told and allowed to reside in an in-between space. Hmmm. Maybe it’s a story of cleavage.

Cleavage in which a feminist’s experiences of harm by structures and/or individuals of institutionalized faith could be healed.

Cleavage in which a woman’s faith could actually be strengthened and enhanced through the tenets of feminism.

Cleavage in which women (and men) could rest, reason, and wonder about the mutuality, compliment, and sustenance found in these seemingly polarizing perspectives.

Story #3: Faith and Feminism combined.

This is the story I’m currently telling, writing, living. Big time cleavage. Bold. Low-cut. Sassy. Generous. Potent. Powerful. Passionate. Life-giving to those who have lived exclusively with only one text or the other. Telling the truth, all the time, no matter what. Definitely not the faith of my mother’s (or father’s…to make a bad allusion to an old hymn). A hybrid feminism that invites much.

It’s also dangerous and provocative – this talking back to years of history and interpretation, talking back to my own heritage, my own upbringing, my own story. But I’m good with that.

This new story has a voice of its own. It calls to me – enticing, seducing, inviting. And as such, it requires increasingly more faith: a belief in something I can’t yet see, a trust in something not yet known. Full circle.

Faith informed and shaped by feminism. Feminism informed and shaped by faith. The space in which I live, think, wonder, rage, and hope. The space in which story, yes, even sacred text, continues to be written and told. A story, yes, a cleavage that’s seductive enough to be pursued and ample enough to be shared. I’m totally there. (Maybe I could find someone to design and sell the T-shirt.)

We women can move culture forward and create a future beyond patriarchy…This would be a new expression of the feminine, and given how essential it is for transforming our world, such an endeavor is nothing less than sacred. (Elizabeth Debold, The Divine Feminine Unveiled)

________________________

Ronna Detrick is a writer, feminist, scholar, mama, friend, renegade, and conversation-sparker (and sustainer). She wrestles faith and feminism. She leaps tall buildings in a single bound. She does it with grace. You can find her at Renegade Conversations.

November 18, 2009 | filed under: Love, Meaning, Power | tweet it, baby

5 people have we need you too.

Prostituting My Cleavage. Unpaid. (Apparently I’m Very Bad At This.)

We're total fucking bad asses

It’s been two weeks. My newer, hotter, more authentically me’er blog is suddenly making me uncomfortable. It’s all sex sex sex sensual massage cleavage lookit me I’m so trampy I HEART THE PATRIARCHY blah blah blah.

Ewwwwww. Who chose this brand? Who’s brilliant idea was this? I’m going to fire my people. That agency sucks. ass.

I have no people. I have a genius graphic designer, but I don’t really “have” her because we’re both pretty clear that arrangements like that aren’t legal OR ethical.

So it is me. This brand is alllllllll me.

And I’m getting lots of feedback on my approach.

For example, when I posted a picture of my actual – not existential – cleavage, some weird gorgeous degenerate with great cleavage and a wardrobe full of skimpy shirts (I know because I may or may not see them daily because she may or may not live downstairs) emailed me (instead of coming upstairs?) to lovingly, gently, stridently encourage/command me to stop “prostituting your cleavage”.

(Definitional problem. I am not getting PAID. Does that make it better or worse? And hello, pot.)

About the site redesign and sexy new brand, though, mostly I get a belly laugh and “YES! It is so you!”

Yeah, it is.  No word of a lie.

I’m all about The Cleavage and The Sex and The Money and The Thinking (usually about The Cleavage and The Sex and The Money…hence the accusation of virtual prostitution?).

My brand is therefore authentic, and authentically problematic.

I want to tell you why, complete with case studies, but I’m getting irritated cautioned by an inner dialogue with my imaginary Gretchen Rubin.

In case you missed it, the real Gretchen Rubin reminded me not to be snarky critical of other writers and bloggers (but not Chris Brown, it is totally okay to criticize him because he’s not even a real person and I might be putting words in her mouth) because one day I’m going to go to Blogher and be wildly snubbed by all my imaginary friends (again, words in mouth, maybe).  Also it is just wrong.

Gretchen Rubin is my Jiminy Cricket.

Hold on while I put Gretchen/Jiminy in the bell jar. I mean s/he’s right, I know s/he’s right, but there is a point here that needs to be made.

The Bloggess (Jenny Agita) and Dooce (Heather Armstrong) and the (former) Childless Whore (Heather Havrilesky) and all of us pretty solidly* middle class white women bloggers use our hot-stuffishness as window dressing. It gives us an edge. You think I’m so surburban soccer mom-ish but really I’m a whore! I can call myself a whore because no one else would dare, ever! Because I’m fucking respectable, y’all!

See, that’s it.

If I wasn’t a good girl, I couldn’t be an unrepentant bad girl.

Like, if I was an actual sex worker – or just less privileged – this blog would be getting a different kind of feedback.

  • Which means I’m appropriating scandal to give myself ‘edge’ while insulating myself from the real consequences and criticism that would be directed at me if I were anything other than who I am: white, white collared, and middle class.
  • Which also means, quite possibly, that I am rhetorically reinforcing the “middle class white mothers, good” and “sex workers and/or non-middle class un-white mothers, bad” thing.

(Imaginary) Gretchen Rubin/Jiminy Cricket has a few pressingly urgent things to say:

GR/JC: You might want to make it clear that you don’t think Dooce and the Bloggess and (former) Childless Whore are willfully contributing to the marginalization of sex workers and that they just run around calling themselves offensive, sexist names and that’s the extent of their contribution to the world. For one thing, you fucking love them. Also there’s a whole school of thought/action about reclaiming  slurs to reduce their power. And these women are ridiculously funny and imaginative, creative writers. And, if you’re not going to say so on principle, be pragmatic. They have cult followings. Someone will HURT you. And please please please leave Naomi Dunford out of this discussion. She has a shaved head.

GR/JC: You should also mention that Heather Armstrong writes about post-partum depression (up yours, Mr. Cruise!) and brushes with cancer. She is a (anti?) cancer ambassador. She writes about real, messy life and all the scary points and makes it amusing. In short, she’s an uberbitchy public service announcement.

GR/JC: Heather Havrilesky -

[Kelly interjects: my formerly slutty married friend Heather is frank and bitchy and pro-alcohol and in shock that she has two kids too! It’s a trend. Raw, funny, sexy, begrudgingly domestic women are always called Heather! Did you guys go to Catholic school, too? OMG there was a MOVIE about the three of them when they were teenagers! Except in the movie they were bitches. OMG IT WAS ABOUT THEM!]

GR/JC: (Sighs)  - Heather Havrilesky makes TV intelligent. If that’s not a PSA, I don’t know what is.

GR/JC: Jenny Agita wrote about attending a Planned Parenthood press conference which implicitly means she is a gender rights revolutionary, worships Joan Walsh, makes fun of republicans/her husband, all while living in Texas. She’s bravery incarnate. She’s a fucking hero.

(The mouth on my imaginary Gretchen Rubin! She’s such a bad ass!)

(After just typing JC repeatedly, I realized that Jiminy Cricket, an official conscience – the blue fairy dubbed him so! – has the same initials as Jesus Christ.

As does John Chow.

I digress.)

To recap: I’m not entirely comfortable about copping a little cachet and fleshing out my online identity based on a sexist, pandering-to-the-patriarchy, lady in the street/freak in the bed formulation.

And, sometimes, I think this is what the mommy/drinking/blogging/whoring thing is about. We use alcohol and sex as short hand for youth and freedom.  We use it to indicate that suburban, middle-class mommydom hasn’t paved over our multifaceted identities. We use it to say, I’m still a person, dammit.

I worry about this.

I even worry about being unapologetically, publicly sexual herein (how unapologetic is that, really?) because maybe one day there will be a child custody battle and my blog will be used as evidence as to my unrepentant sluttery and my very bad children will be taken from me. Unlikely, because who would want them?** but you know, I worry.

Also: I’m not married so my adventures don’t have “acceptable” stamped all over them.  Like, it is okay to be pretend to be trampy within the context of a heterosexual, legally-binding union, but not okay to ACTUALLY be trampy (ie unmarried, or even worse, DIVORCED, aka me).

Take, for example, The Bloggess and heroin. She can write about heroin pantsuits (and I’m sooooo glad she did) but I’m a little more careful about this sort of thing because I’m not married. Seriously. It is not a huge leap, in our cultural imagination, from selfish-don’t-need-a-man-manhating single mama to unrestrained intravenous drug user and probable cleavage-prostituter. So I’m careful about the pharmaceutical thing.

To recap: I am off the meds. Entirely.

To recap, again:  I’m worried that my blog/brand has strayed a little from my noble intentions. I was kind of aiming for Mae West with a graduate degree, if she had kids, remorselessly gained a lot of weight and lived in the suburbs. Sexxxxxy.

Instead, I’m wondering: is mommy blogging – and my brand? – about acceptable, respectable, middle-class, grown up girls gone wild?

Gawd, I hope not.

But if it is, I hope it makes money.

It probably will. I’ve heard there is a successful franchise dedicated to this very idea. Less the ‘grown up’ bit.

__________________________

* I’m  tenuously, nail-breakingly, clutching-at-branches-whilst-falling-off-the-socioeconomic-cliff middle class.

** I didn’t really mean that. I’m sure lots of people would want them. Their father, for example, feels quite strongly about them. I do too. I even want another one, to replace the bad one. There is an exchange policy, yes?


November 17, 2009 | filed under: Family, Meaning, Money, People, Sex, Work | tweet it, baby

17 people have we need you too.

How Blogging is Like Sex – Guest Post by Nathan Hangen, whom I Now Officially Have A Crush On

guest post by Nathan Hangen

Anticipation, the anxiety about wanting to get it right, and then exhaustion – this is what it feels like every time I channel the writing gods in order to crank out a blog post worthy of an audience.

The experience is sometimes pleasant, often awkward, but most of the time good enough to want to do it all over again the next night.

And then they say no

The dark side of the experience though is that there will be times when you face rejection. There will be times when someone tells you that you aren’t good enough. We’ve all been there, and it’s not pretty.

But you know what? It’s those misfortunes that help you to right your ship and work your way towards the true object of your desire. And that’s what makes this journey…all of the ups and downs…the bumps and bruises…worthwhile.

Find your true love

And so, blogging is a lot like sex in that regard. Meaning, that it’s one of those things that no one understands except your partner or the people that just “get” you.

It’s the exhilaration of baring it all and of finally being comfortable in your own skin – that’s the true beauty of the connection. And depending on the topic, the relationship is often just as intimate and sometimes more rewarding.

Sure, the experience of connecting with a post is fleeting, but there’s always tomorrow.

No faking

I really believe that when you catch someone’s eye…when they really connect with what you have to say, then you are sharing something special. The blogger is pouring his or her heart into the experience, hoping that the person on the other side feels the same way as they do, and when you hear that “oh yeah,” that’s when you know you got it right.

As a blogger, that’s the experience you are investing in. You are giving a piece of your soul away each and every time you write a post. If you are lucky, you are blessed with a healthy child, if not…rejection.

Regardless of what the other person thinks, you’re committed, and that’s scary.

The more the merrier

But that’s what makes this world of blogging and sex so exciting. It’s exhilarating to throw yourself at someone and hope that they share your passion. It feels good to throw yourself to the wolves. And it’s fun to connect and hear that positive reinforcement, that yeah, you were good baby.

When you make that connection…when you foster a relationship…that’s when you know that you’re on your game. And when you’re on your game…well…that’s when you’ll have to ask for permission to bring another one home. Hey, it never hurts to ask…right?

_________________

Nathan Hangen writes about web entrepreneurship at NathanHangen.com, and about how to use social media to fuel your brand at Making It Social. Follow him on Twitter @nhangen.
November 16, 2009 | filed under: Meaning, Sex, Work | tweet it, baby

2 people have we need you too.

Existential Cleavage: How much do you love me? And who’s in charge?

I wrote many a word about what Cleavage is all about but I think two people captured it even better than I did.

Aidan Donnelly Rowley gushed a little about Lindsey‘s piece on Meaning (well-warranted gushing. Beautiful, thinky piece) and contemplated our  ”existential cleavage“.

Gawd, I love a smart, overeducated woman with ivy league insecurities.

And the lines Jenny cited this week from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love captured it, concisely, briefly, simply:

There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history.

How much do you love me? And who’s in charge?

That’s it, exactly.

Sex, money, meaning. The lines that shape us.

Sex: how much do you love me?

Money: Who’s in charge?

Meaning: What does love mean? What is power? Who’s got it? Why? Why not?

Elizabeth Gilbert made that point, all entertaining-like, in two lines. I wrote an entire essay and only barely sorta got in the neighbourhood near it.

This is why Elizabeth Gilbert is a bestseller and I am not. Well that, and I haven’t written a book. (Mmmm, sure, that’s EXACTLY the problem…)

Existential Cleavage, The Wannabe Narrative

Speaking of books, and authors, (nice segue, yes?) Gretchen Rubin told me (in an interview for forthcoming piece that is absolutely kicking my ass and refusing to be corralled into a tidy essay) that despite all the blog-to-book hoopla, publishers are a bit wary of bloggers and narrative.  In the context of a book deal, and in publishing circles,  she thinks that

there is some skepticism about bloggers. Books and blogs are very different mediums. Can a blogger write a book that hangs together as a narrative?

The narrative. The journey. The frame. It is something I’ve been turning over in my mind, without the frame of framing up a book. I’ve been thinking about writing, and blogging, and storytelling and narrative.

It is the occasion for this post (a check-in: where are we in the story?) and related to my teeth-gnashing about being called a blogger.

Gretchen and I talked about this, too. Or maybe I did. I told her that my inner-print snob had to go lie down on the sofa with a damp cloth pressed to my brow every time someone calls me a blogger. Which I am, of course, but…

I’m a writer, dammit. (The blog is just a medium!)

I think, possibly, that I’m having a social media-induced identity crisis.

I love blogging, I frickin’ adore my readers, blogging has been really, REALLY good to me – even life saving – but I might not believe that I’m a Writer (even though people pay me to write for them) until I have a book published.

In short: I probably wouldn’t mind if someone referred to me as a ‘novelist’ or a ‘memoirist’ or a ‘feminist’.

I digress.

In addition to her official, seriously useful advice to All Future Authors (I promise, I WILL finish this bastard piece soon), Gretchen also told me to avoid being snarky.

This was good advice, and tricky advice because I fancy myself a social critic. It forced me to think about people I might criticize even though I love them madly. These are people I really respect. They’re part of the grand social project and when I think through those social outlines it is inevitable that I’ll question them, and their actions.

And then that led to my shortlist of people who are just too easy to criticize. It was also the occasion for my second Tyler Perry piece. I’m sorry, Tyler.

Some of you thought I was waffling and liked my snarky razor sharp critique better. I’m sorry, dearest readers.

Do You Love My Cleavage? How Much?

And did you read Josh Hanagarne’s piece, I Don’t Need You, A Love Story?

This piece hooked me, or gutted me, if I’m going to use fishing metaphors (why am I using fishing metaphors???), because in the past I have, maybe, possibly, perhaps, very definitely railed against exactly this idea:

I’m amazed at how tentatively mid-life adults approach relationships; at how we compulsively risk-manage and look for red flags (and invent them); how we’re supposed to be finished products who’ve worked on themselves and are ready for a relationship (that would be the most boring person on earth, and I’m totally not sleeping with him)….[and]how we’re supposed to be so self-contained that we want a relationship but don’t need one…

(Did I just quote myself, at length? Note to Self of a few paragraphs ago: A person with enough ego to do that is clearly NOT having an identity crisis.)

But that – meeting as finished products and being the most boring man alive -wasn’t what Josh was talking about.

Josh wrote that when he got married he was a fixer-upper and he’s only gotten his shit together in the last year and now that he has started the renovations the house is a sexy, sexy place to be (I’m paraphrasing wildly). So there is a space where Josh and I are talking about the same thing, I think. That space might be called maturity. Maybe a Venn diagram would help.

I really do learn things from my guest post authors. Jenny, for example, also makes killer bell curves. You should check them out.

And oh yes, the Hundredaire shirt was a raging success. This week my imaginary t-shirt business with Jenny sold TWO tshirts, one to me (I really, really do not understand business) and one to our Twitter buddy, Charles, who said the shirt has magical powers and as soon as he put it on, he could feel the hundreds.

Dearest Readers, are you listening? This shirt will attract hundred dollar bills to you and they will stick to it like it is covered in invisible velcro! In fact it IS covered in invisible money velcro! Charles said so! It is basic Law of Attraction theory! The Law of Attraction is bullshit! FYI!

Getting richer by the second...

Charles, getting richer by the wear...

So that’s our gratuitous shot of  cutie millionaire (or will be, now that he has the right attire) of the week, Charles.

And now I’ll show you a photo of Mr. Stephen Kelly of London, UK, who bought a Porn t-shirt and sent me this picture to document the extent of my “fashion influence on homosexual residents of Britain”.

So, basically, to paraphrase Stephen’s words in the most offensive, fun way possible, I’m now Queen of the Gays, UK.

I’m so excited! I hope Cher won’t be mad.

More Cleavage(s)…

And so, in related developments, as I mull on sex, money and meaning and essential, universal (hahahahaha) life conundrums, here’s what’s coming next week:

  • Faith, feminism and cleavage. Obviously.
  • Toggling as a theory and practice in blogging and possibly life.
  • Blogging and sex.
  • My thoughts on some essential conundrums of North American, middle class family life (ie mine so therefore essential but probably not universal. Universal is like objective. Be wary.).
  • My faux midlife crisis.
  • And an interview with Bryce Widom on money, art, courage and all-around wonderfulness (that’s him. I can’t gush enough).

This last is really urgently interesting to me (and hopefully to you), because ’tis the pending season of my discontent.

That’s a fancy way of saying I’m contemplating new career ventures, prone to seasonal depression, and I’m Queen of the gays/non-sequiturs.

My place in the world (aka ‘my blog’) just feels different right now. Although my statistics thingy was broken/unplugged this month, which means I can’t tell for sure if my new brand

- and of COURSE I’ve already got ISSUES with my brand, and I’ll tell you more, later, in approximately 2000 quick words -

and brilliant site redesign (by Amanda Farough) are capturing more traffic, my intuitive sense is that my blog has – to borrow inimitably weird language from the loopy Havi Brooks whom I absolutely need as my business mentor – biggified.

(And this sense is augmented by very important empirical evidence. The Bloggess commented on my blog! Twice! And John Chow turned down/ignored my implied marriage proposal because he’s got moral issues with bigamy, apparently, which means I’m FAMOUS!)

All of this is FANTASTIC.

In the last several weeks, I’ve received more offers to do interesting work with more interesting people than I have the capacity to accept. It isn’t stopping me from saying yes yes yes RIGHT THERE YES, but it means I probably (definitely) have to redesign my life to make space for all this juicy opportunity.

That’s exciting. It is almost scary, but not really, because I have an unwavering faith that it will all be okay and that even if it is not okay it will still be okay.

Given this weird zone I’m walking through right now, walking with and talking to people who’ve meandered purposively down this path a little further than me is necessary, and revealing. And inspiring. I have questions. Hence, interviews. And more questions.

Cleavage, Cracks, The Cosmos, and Questions

On questions, big and little, mundane and cosmic: A twitter friend told me something that I think is true.

The answer to every question is yes.

Do you want coffee? Do you want fries with that? Are you ready to go? Have you seen my car keys? Did you bring your backpack? Did you make your bed? Is the project on schedule? Does this look okay? Shall we have a baby? Want to have sex? How ’bout a sensual massage? Was I speeding? Will you let me off, anyway? Can I have a raise? Do you love me?

Yes.

That’s the answer to pretty much any question and that’s why we ask questions. Affirmation. Social lubricant. We need it.

That’s why I’m talking to (and writing about) artists and creatives about making leaps into innerpreneurship. I want to know that it is possible. That I will be able to pay for my kids’ swimming lessons (and food, and shelter) if I scrap the salaried thing.

Yes?

November 14, 2009 | filed under: Love, Meaning, Money, People, Purpose | tweet it, baby

14 people have we need you too.

It May Be Gray Skies, But Baby I Feel Alive – by Jenny

guest post by Jenny

“I met an old lady once, almost a hundred years old, and she told me, ‘There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. How much do you love me? And who’s in charge?’” – Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

I read Eat, Pray, Love as a newly single 22-year-old.

I was folding envelopes to pay for a grad degree I wasn’t sure I wanted and I had just returned from a trip with a surprise final scene that left me sitting in an airport lobby drinking beers alone. If Coldplay has a marketing team, it missed an opportunity in that Charlotte airport.

venn diagram of search for meaning, alcohol and cold play

But with one line, Elizabeth Gilbert kneaded a simple message into my brain: you’re not the first and you’re not the last, baby. Sure, the melody varies, Mr. Darcy goes by a different name, but the struggle to find meaningful, lasting love has always had a seat at the head table in the lives of women.

And with Ms. Gilbert’s glimpse of perspective, the uncertainty made a little more sense. It seemed a little more human and a little less like a problem that needed to be solved. What time will the trains pass each other? Who fucking cares?

I mean, imagine a world where Bubba gets the promotion and Bobby Jean never breaks his heart. Can’t happen. Dancehalls across the U.S. would be filled with flesh-covered robots aimlessly kicking and turning in circles to steel guitar instrumentals.

So with humanity as a foothold, why do we still hop from pad to pad to avoid the marsh?

Why Is It So Difficult to…

  • Realize that without the gray it’s much more difficult to appreciate the 70 degrees and sunny?
  • Appreciate that our wavering about, our travels through the gray skies are some of the most defining days of our lives? That these days are what separate us from the chips and processors that threaten to take our jobs?
  • Be thankful the Tin Man is just a phenomenal idea for a Halloween costume, not reality?
  • Remember which way you spell gray if you’re talking about skies (seriously, I mean, shit!)

Yes, I prefer purely positive emotion.

I’m no masochist, but there’s something refreshingly humiliating and awesome about the memory of a 19-year-old version of me performing the world’s worst rendition of Dido’s “White Flag” for my dorm roommate after some stupid guy decided to lose my phone number because I awkwardly gave one word answers throughout our entire date at Steak ‘n’ Shake.

There’s something refreshingly freeing about the memory of hiccupping through “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” on the ride home from a night out at the bars with my go-to grad school wing girl.

And there’s something refreshing about adopting a Pat Green-esque philosophy* during gray skies:

“Sometimes I sleep with all the lights on,
It helps me to appreciate the night,
I hear people talk about life all the time
All they remember are times so sad,
Don’t you thing that life would be awfully boring,
If the good time were all that we had.” – Pat Green, Crazy

I didn’t have it all together then, but I’m glad I took in the scenery. I think it’ll help me appreciate clear skies in the future.

What do you think?

Are you in the gray? Just make it back to the solid ground? What did you learn along the way?

Or are you hiding on the lily pads?

*Kelly, I so just introduced Texas country to your blogging community.

_________________________________

Jenny believes The Bloggess to be her mother and is mildly/aggressively angry about the abandonment, neglect and shit-ton of imaginary child support owed or would be if she didn’t want to follow her mother/lover around like a puppy dog/dog in heat when she’s not stalking Hugh McLeod by Twitter. True story.

I mean, that is what Jenny’s (not The Bloggess Jenny, her abandoned daughter Jenny, do you see how they have the same name? Not a coincidence, methinks) blog is all about, right?

Workinonaramp is code for “I LOVE THE BLOGGESS SO MUCH even though she abandons children and puppy dogs and ignores my weird tweets but gives William Shatner shit for doing the same thing to her”.

Jenny (the daughter one who wrote this post, not The Bloggess) did not send me a bio.  This is what happens when you do not include a bio with your guest post. PEOPLE TOTALLY MAKE ONE UP.

Jenny and I have an imaginary t-shirt business together. Mostly we buy the t-shirts ourselves, but you’re welcome to play, too.

November 13, 2009 | filed under: Love, Meaning, Purpose, Sex | tweet it, baby

19 people have we need you too.

People I ABSO(INSERTBADWORD)LUTELY Intend To Criticize, But Am So Far Too Lazy To Do So

Yesterday I wrote a list of people I didn’t mean to criticize, who are stellar individuals and social beacons, but whom I sometimes accidentally on purpose do criticize because they are social beacons, but I feel really badly about it because they are stellar individuals.

Still with me?  I’ll stop writing sentences that are paragraphs that make your head explode. I’m sorry. I have trouble killing my darlings.

Today’s list:

People I ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY intend to criticize,

  • AND I think they are probably bad people, too,
  • but haven’t gotten around to it yet

This list is ordered by magnitude of evil, by which I mean that #7 is the least evil:

  1. Rush Limbaugh
  2. Glen Beck
  3. Christian Carter*
  4. David De’Angelo*
  5. Roman Polanski
  6. Mobutu
  7. The Devil

* I suspect #3 and #4 are in fact the same person.

* Same with #1 and #2.

November 12, 2009 | filed under: People | tweet it, baby

2 people have we need you too.

People I Don’t Mean to Criticize (But Might, Accidentally, Just Because They’re So Awesome)

This is a list of people I don’t mean to criticize but might, accidentally, because

  • they are the establishment, or
  • I think they are wonderful on both cellular and cosmic levels but even wonderful people make mistakes and I’m so anguished about it that I HAVE to say something, or
  • I really, really like them but sometimes they piss me off but even when they piss me off, I like it (and them), or
  • they criticize the establishment or conventional, repressive ideas but not always to my satisfaction, or
  • they are the establishment and as such are often conflated with or espouse certain unquestioned conventions and really the idea is my target, or
  • they are the establishment, or
  • in fact I will never, ever criticise them because I love them unreservedly, or,
  • if I criticize them, please know that I love them, violently, unconditionally, right through the criticism. (For example: my kids. Oprah. Jay-z. You get the picture.)

*note: some people on this list fall into more than one of these categories. The people who do ARE SO AWESOME.

  1. My mother (also, please note that if I criticize my mother, I criticize myself and all women. Mother-bashing is misogyny in action. Even/except if she really deserves it.)
  2. Malcolm Gladwell (this will NEVER happen)
  3. Tyler Perry (this already happened and it caused me many nights of lost sleep. I am also bemoaning our engagement party which will now never happen. Malcolm, it is all on you, now.)
  4. Penelope Trunk
  5. Barack Obama (blasphemy!)
  6. Michelle Obama (heresy!)
  7. Oprah (if I EVER criticize Oprah, please know that I am on some kind of hallucinogen and/or my blog has been hacked by terrorists. Or she consulted Suzanne Somers on medication.)

(WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME? DID I JUST CRITICIZE OPRAH?????)

(OMG I THINK MY BLOG JUST GOT HACKED BY TERRORISTS WHO DON’T FERVENTLY LOVE OPRAH. THEY’RE EXTRA SCARY. I’M FIGHTING THEM OFF, RIGHT NOW, VIGOROUSLY, WITH A THIGH MASTER.)

We now return to our regularly scheduled “Accidental and Passionately Loved Targets of Hedged Criticism” list.
  1. Jesus* (while I’m heresying…)
  2. Mohammed* (more blaspheming…)
  3. The numbered list function in Wordpress. WTF, WordPress? I love you so much, and you casually, remorselessly, viciously betray me.
  4. Christopher Hitchens. He’s possibly a jerk, but wow, can he write. He made an observation that is so lemon-suckingly fantastic that even though he thinks women are evolutionarily incapable of humour, I bend my knee and give him props. (I am a bad humourless but forgiving feminist.) Here it is: “The four most overrated things in life are champagne, lobster, anal sex and picnics.”
  5. John Cusack
  6. Kate Harding
  7. Beyonce
  8. Jay-Z
  9. Any future Beyonce/Jay-Z offspring. Can you imagine????
  10. Child #1
  11. Child #2
  12. Imaginary child #3

*I don’t have any problems with prophets. I think we need more prophets, but maybe less sheep.

November 11, 2009 | filed under: Family, People, Power | tweet it, baby

3 people have we need you too.

Sensual Massage and The Art of RSS

Do you know what I think about sex? Do you want to?

I think that sex is healing and restorative. The power and pull of sex goes beyond gonzo porn sex. That’s for amateurs.

There have been times in my life when the physical connections and experiences created between me and a partner have been so profound that I have felt healed. Transformed. Lightened. Nourished. Inspired. Like my muse came to visit – and stayed.

It is not just sex that can do that. So can massage. Sexual Touch. Communion.

Sensual massage, say hey!

I’m not the only one who thinks so. There is a whole sector of healers who do this kind of work. I googled it. I love Google, but not in a sexual way.

Okay, maybe a little. But it is complicated because Google is only my virtual lover.

Turns out there are people who are sexologists and others who give sensual massage

- just massage, no actual penetrative sex, and the happy ending is not the point. Apparently. But I can tell you if I was spending hundreds of dollars for a massage, I EXPECT some sort of guarantee –

who operate under exactly this theoretical umbrella. That sex can be healing. That sometimes people need sexual healing. Marvin Gaye, say hey!

My gentleman caller is a masseuse. (Not that kind, but yes, I am a very happy/lucky/healed woman.) I thought he would be interested in this information. It is his field, after all. Sort of. Massage is. Not the other part.

So I called him to share my googled adventures and insights into his profession.

Kelly: Baby, do you do sensual massage?

Gentleman Caller: Do you want me to come over?

Kelly: Not me. Well yes, me, go get in the car, but I mean have you ever? Is that a service you offer? Putting your fingers in orifices that don’t belong to me, for pay? Have you ever considered it?

Gentleman Caller: No.  One time a guy grabbed my hand but that’s not what I do.

Kelly: He grabbed your hand? That’s it? I think you don’t understand the concept of sensual massage.

Gentleman Caller: I understand. I don’t do that.

Kelly: Would you get paid more if you did?

Gentleman Caller: I should fucking hope so.

Kelly: Like how much?

Gentleman Caller: I don’t know. I’ve never looked into it because I DON’T DO THAT.

Kelly: Oh I’m great at market research. Hold on, I’ll google it.

Kelly: (Shrieks out loud) HOLY SHIT baby you should totally do this! You could be a six figure masseuse! I’ll write you a testimonial!

Gentleman Caller: Are you recording this? Again? Is this going to end up on your blog? Because my mother might read your blog and I’m not up for that phone call. This stuff is private.

Kelly: You might want to talk to her about that. My mother stopped reading after I wrote that you and I have OUTRAGEOUS SEX so by the time I got to the PORN shirt, she was out.

And just so you know, your mom’s not on my email list and that’s how I feel good about myself so if she cares about you and you care about me then you should ask her to sign up so that I can feel good about myself.

Maybe she’s on my RSS feed.  Can you ask her what RSS reader she uses?

And that sounds like water running, not a car engine. Are you in the bathroom?  Whatever goes on in the bathroom does not make appropriate background noises for phone calls. Have you no sense of privacy or propriety?

And don’t be so persnickety about my blog. I’m promoting you!

Gentleman Caller: You’re pimping me.

Kelly: Well, that too.

___________________________________

Note to The Bloggess: I’m copping your style. I love you so much.

Note to Gentleman Caller’s clients: He does give sensual massage, but only to me. So he says.

Note to Gentleman Caller’s mom: Your son is not a sex worker. Your son is a virgin. I don’t know how his son got here. Magic?

Note to YOU, my dearest reader:  I ain’t too proud to beg. One of the ways I measure my self-image, which is notoriously wobbly and externally-based, is by how many people sign up to receive my posts by email.

So if you like my work or pity me or are in any way worried about my fragile flowerishness, then please sign up. Thank you. I’ll love you long time.

Or, my Gentleman Caller will. I’m working on his new business model and I’ll be sure to send email updates about that.

See? You should totally sign up. There might be coupons.


November 10, 2009 | filed under: Bodies, Love, Money, Sex, Work | tweet it, baby

12 people have we need you too.

I Don’t Need You: A Love Story – by Josh Hanagarne

I recently celebrated my 8th anniversary with the love of my life. After putting our son to bed, we held hands and talked about profound things. The stars were out. It’s always easier to get profound when the stars are out.

We looked deep into each other’s eyes and talked about the good, the bad, and the ugly of the last 2,400 plus days together. Specifically, we wondered why this most recent year has been so good.  Our very best.

The answer was obvious, but it shocked us each to say the words:

“I don’t need you.”

Courtly Love

Most of what I knew of love as a teenager, I learned from Don Quixote and Chaucer. I know, I know, what sort of teenager reads The Canterbury Tales?

Pipe down.

Courtly love is its own character in tales of chivalry. When a knight experiences courtly love, it is devastating. His lady sits in a tower somewhere, or maybe on an island in the middle of an enchanted lagoon, and all he can do is pine for her and complete quests and tasks for her approval.

While they are apart, the knight is sick. Absence not only makes the heart grow fonder, it makes the stomach grow nauseous while the skin grows pale and the bones grow brittle. It is a sadistic, catastrophic euphoria that was everything I thought I wanted.

Maybe you don’t read Cervantes or Chaucer, but if you’ve heard of Hollywood and a little invention called the “moving picture,” you’ve seen courtly love in action.  It is the idea that there is one person for everyone.  There is one person who will make you happy.  One person to make you whole.

The dénouement of every sappy romance where the guy rushes to the airport with his tie untied and his hair in a dither is our modern day equivalent of Don Quixote fighting giants to please his exquisite Dulcinea.

When the hero gets to the airport and stops her from flying away with the rich Eurotrash guy, all is well.  The two have become one, and now they can be happy.

The implication is that if they never got together, they would have remained unhappy as long as they were apart.

This sounds sort of romantic, but it’s insidious and weakening.

Real Strength

I could make it without Janette.  She could make it without me.  We are, capable, able-bodied and intelligent individivuals. We could both be happy (eventually) without the other, and it is very likely that there are thousands of other people that we could each be happy with.

It wasn’t always this way. I was a fixer-upper when we got married and she was handy and tender with stray kittens and lost causes.  We spent seven years needing each other and acting like we couldn’t possibly make it on our own.

Once I became the man who didn’t need her in order to be happy, I was able to make her happy. I became the man she thought she was marrying Back In The Day.  Once she realized she couldn’t occupy her time and effort with fixing my problems, she had to figure out who she was.

Two strong people who would not be lost on their own decide to throw in together, and suddenly they are each stronger than they ever could be alone.

We can’t get enough of each other in all the ways that matter, but we let ourselves breath enough to remember that we are individuals who each have identify outside of being part of a couple.

We do not need each other, and that is why we continue to want each other.

____________________

Josh Hanagarne

Get Stronger, Get Smarter, Live Better…Every Day

About the Author: Josh Hanagarne is the twitchy giant behind World’s Strongest Librarian, a blog with advice about living with Tourette’s Syndrome, kettlebells, book recommendations, buying pants when you’re 6’8”, old-time strongman training, and much more. Please subscribe to Josh’s RSS Updates to stay in touch.

November 9, 2009 | filed under: Family, Love, Meaning | tweet it, baby

8 people have we need you too.

Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems Mo’ Babies. Yes Please.

I have three not-so-tawdry secrets:

  1. I love hip-hop.  Good hip hop, bad hip hop, hip hop that used to be called rap, highbrow, lowbrow, gangsta, spoken word, hip hop appropriated by suburban white boys with chips on their shoulders (shout out to Beastie Boys and Eminem, and I swear you haven’t lived until you’ve heard the BareNaked Ladies perform NWA’s Fight the Power), inspirational, political, even the stuff that is hand-wringingly misogynist (hi fiddy) – all of it. Almost. Apparently not everyone knows this. I told my gentleman caller this, recently, and he was surprised.  He said “That’s something I didn’t know about you.” Really? The gratuitous Tupac references and dogged defense of Kanye‘s jackassery didn’t give it away? Don’t even get me started on Jay Z or Missy Elliot and the force and methods with which I love them (obscenely, preferably naked). And Common? Mos Def? Desdamona? The Roots? I die. D.I.E.
  2. I paint. My gentleman caller did not know this, either. Really? My paintings are EVERYWHERE in my house.  How could you miss it?  He said “I think it was because I was looking at your ass.” That makes sense. All is forgiven.
  3. I like money. I’m not terribly materialistic, except that I am.

I admit it. I like money. This is a bit of a surprise to me. I like to think that I don’t like money.

For example, I am a bit of a minimalist. I have four dinner plates because if I have any more, they will end up dirty, in the sink, even though I have a dishwasher. It is probably full. Don’t judge.

All I really need is four dinner plates.  If more people come over for dinner, they will have to not come over for dinner. This is okay, even optimal, because I don’t do parties.

Yet somehow it has transpired that I am hosting a party in two weeks and someone has been assigned martini-making duties, and this is a problem. I own but two Martini glasses, mostly because that is as many as I can hold in my hands (I have two) at any given time.  This means I do not have enough martini glasses for my martini-making, martini-drinking guests, especially if they want to use both hands. I think we will have to take turns drinking martinis.  What would Leo Babauta do?

(I’m going to have a bracelet made to reference whenever I have a minimalist dilemma like this: “What would Leo Babauta do?”)

(I just posed the question to him via three-part tweet. If our guru sends word down the mountain/Guam, I will keep you informed.)

Back to my point. I don’t like to have lots of crap in my house. It makes my head explode. Sometimes I even take down all my paintings just to gaze upon uninterrupted swaths of wall. It gives me peace.

This minimalist philosophy coincides nicely with not having a lot of disposable income. I don’t want to buy a lot of stuff, which is great, because I don’t have a lot of money to buy a lot of stuff.

(I like what just happened there – it is all very theoretically and practically cohesive. No cognitive dissonance there, at all. This is rare, for me, so let’s take a moment to observe/celebrate.)

Thank you. Onward.

Yesterday I had an epiphany about money.

Two, actually.

Last night, driving home from work, I heard a song by K-Naan, who is a Canadian, sometimes hip-hop but mostly pop artist I really like. I’ve been following him FOREVA and he’s just starting to get some serious commercial traction.

(See what I did there: I just established a lil’ artistic snobbery/authenticity. I don’t like K-Naan just ‘cuz they’re playing him on The Beat. Noooooo, I liked him when he was unknown, unpopular, and starving! I can pick talent even before it is mass-sanctioned! I must know about music! But let’s be honest: I know nothing about music. I am a music mutt. Listen to it all. Like most of it. Indiscriminate. Will hump anyone’s leg. Are we still talking about music?)

The song is called Wavin’ Flag and the chorus landed with me:

When I get older

I will be stronger

They’ll call me Freedom

Just like a wavin’ flag

Those simple lyrics ear-wormed me and made me remember my hypothetical baby.

I once had a boyfriend (I know, you’re SHOCKED). We talked about getting married and having a baby. We would name our imaginary baby Justice.

Justice would probably be a girl, but she could be a boy, if she wants to be because Justice is a profound, beautiful, aspirational and gender-indeterminate name.

And then people started naming their kids Apple and Moses and Blanket and I decided that Arthur and Gertrude were the way to go.

(My children are so lucky they have a father who talked me out of that. Also, note to my father: Arthur is a beautiful, bad-ass name worn by only the chosen.)

And that boyfriend and I broke up, babyless, anyway. He is married now and has a new baby named Prince Magic My Dad is Hot but Not Very Nice To Women Zuma.

Back to my epiphany.

For the last 1-3 years, I have been trying, mightily, to make peace with a dream. I have been trying, more than mightily, to let that dream go. To breathe it into a balloon and release it into the sky. To let that dream fly away.

That dream is a baby.

Recently, a psychic friend (a real, in-person, unpaid psychic friend, not the 1-800 kind) told me that I have two unborn babies waiting for me. One is a dark-skinned, dark eyed, short little boy who is very energetic and mischievious. The other is a light-skinned, tall, skinny, quiet, shy girl.

Tears rushed my eyes and tracked my cheeks.

Here are my deets: I have two actual kids and one is only school age by minutes. If I had a third child, and, after a reasonable amount of maternity/parental leave

[We Interrupt This Sentence for a Digressive, Sarcastic Political Rant]

In Canada, maternity/parental leave is paid at 55% of your income for ONE YEAR. I love Canada, but not as much as Sweden, where it is 80% for sixteen months. In the US, I believe, maternity leave is 5 minutes and six seconds at 0% of your income – I could be wrong –  and then, after you leap out of the delivery room to rush back to your job,  you can get fired for expressing milk in the bathroom on an unauthorized break. But oh, don’t forget, breast is best, you bad working fired mommy you.

[We Now Return to Your Regularly Scheduled Sentence]

returned to work (because I have to AND I choose to), after paying for daycare for three  kids (two real and one imaginary) and our house, I would have negative five million dollars left for food and other discretionary expenses like heat and electricity.

So – setting aside all ethical dilemmas about being a single mama, raising a kid without a father, and having kids when you don’t intend to raise them because daycare is the devil but school, which is just institutionalized, government-funded daycare, is just fine – it is just not financially possible for me to have another baby. Dream or no dream.

Heart’s desire and soul’s yearning, please shuttie.

Doesn’t that suck? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all make our dearest, secret dreams come true?

I imagine this is a decision-point faced by many. It is not only me.  I imagine lots of women and families confront the finances/dream dilemma.

So I’m trying to let it go.  It is pressingly urgent that I let it go, because I’m thirty-sex. I mean thirty-six. If I don’t let it go, then I have to do something about it (like, say, find someone who loves me and wants to be a family with me and lure him into impregnating me, and I think my gentleman caller just un-called) pretty quick. Like in the next five minutes to three years quick.

So I was listening to K-naan and hearing how they call him Freedom, much like my imaginary baby would be called Justice, and thinking, for the millionth time, that it is really important for my sanity and my bank account and my career plans that I let that dream go.

Because it hangs me up.

  • It makes me worry about things not in my immediate control.
  • It is simply not up to me, only, if I find an appropriate partner and fall in love and get married and landscape imaginary back yards and structure my life to be conducive to pregnancy and babies and so on.
  • It forces me to date and be date-able.
  • It distracts me from the the things I can actually work at and have a “energy/talent in = success out” formula. Like writing. Like my career. Like vacuuming.

And then I was thinking: I should write about this. I should write my way through this. I should publicly let my third-baby-dream go.

Then I talked about it with my gentleman caller. I was thinking out loud. I was working my way to letting it go. I was claiming to let it go.

And as I was doing that, epiphany!

I am not letting it go.

I am holding on to this dream. The partner and the infrastructure may not be there. The finances certainly aren’t. But it is my dream and my imaginary baby and I am going to cradle it a little longer.

I betcha Madonna didn’t have this issue. She’s got loads of cash so she can just go around adopting un-0rphans willy nilly at any old age.

And as I thought this, epipany #2!

I am a good mama. My kids are happy and well-loved. I want to have another baby and that baby would be lucky to have me, and us. I simply need to have, and make, more money.

So I will.

Which is why I hereby admit I like money and want a whole lot more of it.

Because, let’s be honest, the point of money is ecstatic, meaningful survival and dream-realizing. The point of having lots of money isn’t so you can have loads of dinner plates or martini glasses.

Leo Babauta knows that intimately, personally, deeply, which is why Zen Habits is so popular, and, in a related development, Leo Babauta has SIX MILLION kids. I mean six.

The joy of money is that it allows you to live, happily, sufficiently, and well with the family of your heart and your choosing. That’s the gift of money.

And I’m going to go get some.

Justice, I’m coming.

November 7, 2009 | filed under: Bodies, Family, Love, Meaning, Money, People, Work | tweet it, baby

19 people have we need you too.

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