Joys of Snack Size

A year ago, I wrote about the Dissolution of Snacks and its somewhat surprising mark on my journey through grief and the loss of my marriage. Today I want to talk about the joys of snack size.

I moved, you see. Downsized from 2400 square feet to 900 square feet, with all the attendant miniaturization of appliances one would expect. My plates don’t fit in the surprisingly tiny cupboards so the door never completely closes. It’s annoying. Peek-a-boo, I see you snarky little reminder of a once bigger life. I keep giving it side eye, like the cupboard is suddenly going to feel shame and quietly swallow the back of my plates so the door can shut completely. (If that happens, the nature of this blog is going to change drastically.)

The refrigerator is tiny. I can see the top without standing on tip-toe and it lacks a meat drawer. I thought I’d feel bad about that, because I’ve spent so long filling up a family-sized fridge that even after the family was downsized, I was still trying to fill it up. Like the refrigerator itself was making my shopping list based on its capacity. But here’s the thing – I don’t feel bad at all. Right now apartment-fridge holds a bag of pre-chopped salad, a 6 pack of flavored water, a bottle of wine and the smallest size sour cream you can buy. I honestly didn’t know they made sour cream containers that small. It’s adorable. It’s me-sized. It won’t get gobbled up by my housemate because somehow I raised a person who doesn’t care for sour cream. It is mine all mine. This is notable because two years ago I would open up the fridge to use a spoonful of sour cream out of the GIANT ASS TUB I bought three days prior only to find it gone, sacrificed to the lunch nachos my ex-husband was so fond of. I would buy industrial sized vats of sour cream and there would NEVER BE ANY when I wanted some.

Today, I had sour cream. A small amount, out of a tiny cup that I bought four days ago and that nobody has touched in the interim. I felt like the star of a commercial that plays during Gray’s Anatomy – some ideal of a single adult woman who delicately spoons out a condiment and never once wonders where it could disappear to if she’s not guarding it.

Likewise I find myself hanging pictures in my bedroom without regard for how they’ll be accepted by my bedmate – a sixty pound mutt of dubious artistic taste and even less preference. Pens go where they are most convenient for me, as do batteries and wash cloths. A brief survey of the other members of this household revealed that they don’t particularly care where I put my shoes, so long as three of them can stick their snouts in the really stinky ones and the fourth need not trip over them. I share my closet with no living thing, and even better, no ghosts.

After years of anxiously verifying my choices with another person (especially when that person had opinions but only reticently shared them – preferring the more quixotic option of silent resentment when I couldn’t read minds), the peacefulness of feathering my own nest can’t be overstated. The delight in single serving anything will never be taken for granted by me again. It’s mine all mine, and ghosts don’t eat sour cream.

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Drinking Beers and Smashing Bottles

Where does one draw the line between reasonable conversation and the end of compromise?

This is a question that has been on my mind a lot lately. I recently ended contact with some people who’d been in my life a long time because I had reached the end of compromise on certain issues. But then I turned around on social media and advocated for diplomatic solutions to diametrically opposed political and social stances. How do these thoughts coexist? Can they?

My answer is yes, but with caveats that require unpacking privilege and identifying context.

In defense of bad advertisements

Social beverages, like soft drinks and beers, have recently decided to enter into the public conversation of social discourse, with mixed results. Pepsi and Heineken have both received a lot of free publicity by both enraging and encouraging the consuming public with recent advertisements. Pepsi with a cringe-worthy, tone-deaf, white-washed ad of stunning incompetence meant solely to cash in on the lives of victims. It was universally regarded as awful. Heineken followed suit with an ad that ostensibly posed the question about whether or not people with diametrically opposed political views could enjoy a beer and talk about their differences. While met with different responses, it has been (rightfully, in my view, but more on that later) criticized for also being tone deaf and irresponsible towards victims.

Full disclosure: I liked the Heineken advert. It spoke to that place within me that yearns for diplomatic responses to seemingly insurmountable differences and wishes very much I could be the kind of person who engages people in reasonable conversation and (if I’m being honest) emerges the hero by changing minds with my wit and charm and ability to connect with other humans.

It’s important to note, however, that I’m not particularly victimized by opposition to my ideological stances. I’m a white, middle-aged, straight, (nearly) middle-class, able-bodied, (mostly) neurotypical, English speaking, American cisgender woman. I mentioned in my original analysis on the commercial that people who are victimized or even marginalized by their social/economic/biological position are under no obligations to respond diplomatically to their oppressors. I believe that strongly. As a woman who has been silenced most of her life by patriarchal views on my “place” in society, I am in favor lashing out when backed into a corner.

On wielding a sword 

In my personal life, I recently reached the end of my rope trying to deal with relatives who hold opposing ideological views and insist that we share reasonable and “respectful” conversations about it. I’d had about as many quiet, diplomatic conversations as I could have with someone who used those conversations as a tool to further their agenda without actually listening to mine. Who brow-beat me with the idea of “respect” where respect meant I couldn’t express my anger or hurt or disappointment that they would espouse – and more importantly vote – for policies that actively threatened my loved ones.

So I got angry. I yelled (or at least used the caps-lock equivalent), I stopped validating their perspective, and I definitely stopped sandwiching my criticism between affirmations and compromise. I pulled out my firebrand persona and let loose with the sort of vitriol that I felt was absolutely called for when facing viewpoints that maintained a status quo of oppression and bigotry. In the end, they offered to never communicate with me again, and I gratefully accepted. I was and am convinced of both the rightness and appropriateness of my response. A response that is about as far from discussing our problems over a friendly beer as one can get.

The cognitive dissonance dance

The most conspicuous criticism I’ve seen against the Heineken ad was that the premise gave equal credence to unequal premises. In other words, the sort of false neutrality that the alt-right is famous for advocating, and, not coincidentally, why I recently cut off family members.

So, why did I advocate for representation of a diplomatic response? And a clumsy, ill equipped one, at that? Context, for one answer, and privilege, for another:

I’m not disadvantaged in the way that so many of my friends and family are. I’m not going to be immediately, physically threatened by the presence of an anti-trans bigot, or a climate change denier. Given my numerous other privileges, I’m not even particularly threatened by an anti-feminist blow hard. When I superimpose myself onto those positions by giving in to the manipulations of a 3 minute advertisement, it creates a context that makes it easier to imagine being able to talk about it.  It lightens my burden of self-examination and transports me to setting where real danger isn’t happening to real people.

The problem, of course, is obvious. And while the commercial may have been targeting people like me, it was speaking for people who are regularly victimized by their ideological opponents. The result was a statement on the irrelevancy of those victims, and it stung those who recognized it right away. It should have done the same for me. As a friend put it, a company with the economic resources of a multinational beer distributor had the ability to not make that statement (intentional or not) and should have done better. The fact that so many people find themselves analyzing the content (and, I dearly hope, their response to it) should be a strong indicator that if a company with that sort of reach wants to weigh in on social issues, it had better get it right the first time. The idea isn’t enough. The execution matters. Context matters. Privilege matters.

Speaking for myself only, I am privileged to be in a position where I can talk to dissenting people with a reasonable expectation of safety. A better context for Heineken’s intention would have been to put someone like me in a room with the anti-trans person and let us drink and talk. Those are ideological differences. An actual transperson or feminist woman of color is not going to feel safe in real life sitting across from someone who denies their right to exist and who is also diminishing their inhibitions with alcohol. (That part was weird to me from the start.)

I vehemently disagree with the assertion I’ve seen circulated that it’s “stupid” to like the Heineken ad. It’s not stupid to advocate for diplomatic solutions to ideological differences. It’s how politics work, it’s how we manage to not murder our neighbors, and how we keep from becoming totalitarian societies. Taking the ad at face value, however, is imperceptive at best, as I hope I’ve demonstrated here. Diplomacy doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Criticizing Heineken’s failure to acknowledge the real dangers inherent in some of our differences is appropriate and necessary, as is identifying the dangers of promoting solutions that begin on false equivalency. But since progressive liberals don’t seem poised to unleash a violent revolution, a framework for discussing tenable, peaceful solutions to resolving those differences also seems appropriate and necessary. At the very least, Heineken’s wishful thinking advertisement pointed out that the lack of such leaves a void many of us would like to see filled.

 

 

Things That I’m Over

An abbreviated list:

The idea that selfies are narcissistic, especially for women. Firstly, so what if they are? Like the mental masturbation that you do to feel superior isn’t? Secondly, no they aren’t. Women putting themselves front and center with their own agenda is simply weird because they’ve never been allowed to do it before. Welcome to the future. It has filters.

Purity progressives. Fuck those guys. Guess what? We’re nowhere near a revolution, guys. And policy making equals compromise since the founding fathers. Who were no saints, by the way, but it WAS their lives on line at the time. It’s so great that you can pontificate from metropolitan cities where your wi-fi is fast, your food is slow, and your activism is a giant circle jerk with other pasty white people who try on “bi-curious” for size. How’s the air up there? Some people do real work. You might want to try it some time.

Getting older. I pulled a muscle in my sleep the other night. How the fuck does that happen??

“Devil’s Advocates”. Shut up. Just shut up. The devil is his own best advocate, okay? He gets around making his argument JUST FINE all on his own. It’s called life. You’re not an advocate, you’re a stinky troll. Go back under your rock.

People who don’t understand privilege. Really? C’mon, it’s part of the vernacular now and if you still don’t get it, it’s because you don’t want to get it. Privilege does NOT equal wealth or fame. Privilege DOES equal certain unearned “free passes” from daily struggles not shared by everyone. Privilege does NOT mean you’ve never had it rough. Privilege DOES mean that you could’ve had it rougher. Privilege does not mean you can’t vent, privilege does mean you might not want to vent about Starbucks being out of your favorite flavor to a single working mom drinking yesterday’s Folgers. Use some sense. Then use your privilege to speak up for those who don’t share it.

Women’s clothing industry sizing. SERIOUSLY GET IT TOGETHER GUYS!! MY WAIST HAS A MEASUREMENT AND SO DOES MY INSEAM. YOUR “12” IS BULLSHIT AND SO IS YOUR METHOD FOR SEWING ON BUTTONS.

Commercials. I’ve lived so long without network television that I forget how offensive they can be. And then Pepsi invades my internet news feed.

Divorce. FML, I really, really want to be over this. Hurry up already.

Selling things on Facebook. Nope. People are entitled, pushy assholes. Over it.

Living in “rural America”. Where the church folk are terrorists and anti-intellectualism reigns supreme. Look, hillbillies and rednecks, I’m sorry you are constantly picked on and made fun of by “liberal elites”. MAYBE STOP GIVING THEM SO MUCH MATERIAL TO WORK WITH, MMMMKAY?

Listicles. These things suck, don’t they??

Fuck this.

Jesus fucking christ when is this going to be over. For a year I’ve been waiting for the right time to move on. Trying to do what is best for everyone, trying to hold on to the things that matter. My marriage has been dead for a long while now, and we’re just now starting the process of burying it. Life, man. It was full of complications. Helpless things I made promises to, plans that look right in any equation.

They are right, you know. Let the child finish school, pick the program that has the likeliest outcome of success, move and file and do all the things according to the right schedule. I checked all the boxes. I made the right decisions.

And now, here I am, in the midst of plans that were made a long time ago, and my body refuses to move forward. I can’t breathe. I weight two tons. There is an ocean of pressure in my ears and every cell struggles through its function. Fuuuuuuck me. It’s not even the loss of the husband. That blew away in ashes months and months ago. It’s all this STUFF. Papers, boxes, printers, dishes – all this stuff has to be packed and organized and sold and I am just. So. Very. Fucking. Tired.

Tomorrow I have to get the oil changed in my car and take a test in anatomy and I want to cry. The idea of maintaining an upright, hominid position makes me want to sob, except that would take energy I just don’t have. My ears are constantly ringing, my chest is constantly tight, my legs feel like articulated lead bricks.

This was supposed to be MY time. Finally, my time for moving forward, for cleansing, for changing and reclaiming. And all I want to do is crawl in a hole until its over. How the hell did I do this when I was in my 20s and chasing better ideas over state lines and jobs and all of that nonsense?? Where is THAT person? I need her to go through my filing cabinet. I need her to google how to start a fire in a burn barrel. I need her to do the dishes. And pack them. And take the dogs for a walk. And cry, because I’m too tired for any of that. I can’t breathe. I literally can’t take those deep, calming breaths everyone is always saying work the best. My lungs are full of cement.

Did that 20 something whine this much? Or is that a “fun” thing about my 40s, too? How early is too early to go to bed?

On letting go

When something awful happens, particularly emotional trauma, it feels like the world suddenly wants to give you advice on how to handle it. If it’s not typewriter text overlaid on a seascape with a vintage filter, it’s platitudes from well-meaning friends, or the ever-not-helpful Facebook parables. The common thread is that you’ll feel better once you do it, and everyone wants to see you do it (if for no other reason than you’ve been a giant downer for the last 18 months and for god’s sake, can’t you just please wash your hair??), but the actual process is more of a mystery. Bookstores have devoted entire shelving units to “self-help” titles, and a quick search on Amazon for same brings back over 650 thousand returns (which should in itself tell you that nobody has this shit figured out, but hope springs eternal). Letting go: it’s all “good”.

I’m here to tell you it’s not. It sucks dirty canal water off of hairy donkey balls.

Listen, first of all, letting go does not happen on a schedule. You can’t time it according to the 7 stages of grief, you can’t force it by following someone else’s plan. It’s an ongoing process with hills and valleys. No, scratch that. It’s an ongoing process with spikes and pits. And the pits have spikes. There are days when you’re balanced precariously on a spike looking down and days when you’re impaled on a spike staring at the sky above. And it’s raining. Grief, pain – these happen in their own time and they will just take what you don’t give them, so you might as well put your life on hold while they shake you like a terrier with a rat. That is an accurate description of how much dignity you’ll have in the process, by the way: limp and covered with dog spit.

Secondly, the prevailing opinion is that letting go leads to some serene, blissed out state where the lotus position comes naturally and the grocery store being out of your favorite ice cream during PMS no longer makes you want to go on a rampage. Also false. There is no reason, ever, for the store to be out of Ben&Jerry’s Coffee Toffee Bar Crunch at any time. But more importantly, letting go doesn’t leave you happy, it leaves you empty. Hollow. Drained. Here’s the thing about grief: it was once happiness. Of course it was, or you wouldn’t feel so awful. You don’t start at base zero and go down. Grief pulls you down off your happy little platform into a giant, steaming pile of shit. You can’t just watch your pain blow away in whatever F5 tornado tore through your life and expect the happiness to be there waiting when the dust settles. It’s all gone. Everything. Now you’re at base zero.

Oh, and here’s a little addendum to that second point: anger. Hoo boy. Anger is the carpetbagger who rides into town right after the tornado and is all, “We will rebuild!” but just goes around kicking your stuff while you’re trying to pick it up. Not that it can’t be helpful. In my case, anger led to some productive changes, like shutting down toxic relationships and to stop apologizing for being myself. So, to continue the metaphor, carpetbagging anger kicked over some dry rot and let the bugs out. But being forced to watch that, to participate in taking down the rotted, crumbling foundation of my former happiness? Gross. So gross.

Okay, so far, letting go happens on its own (often inconvenient) schedule, and it leaves you empty (after pissing you off). What’s the appeal again??

Could be simply the relief from the agony of grief. Emptiness is way better than constant anxiety, stomach problems, endless fatigue and a full set of luggage under each eye. Could be the promise of new beginnings – the idea that something better is waiting to be discovered. Both of these are valid, but they don’t really describe my experience.

For me, the end result of letting go is that I never have to do it again. Not for that particular pain. I’ve let it run its course and chase through every chamber of my metaphorical heart, and it will never come back as anything but a memory. Sometimes the memory smarts a bit, maybe it nips at my feels with sharp little teeth, but it will never, ever strangle and suffocate me again. I’ll never be sucked into that tornado, never be subjected to that storm, never have to rebuild that house. The emptiness is a relief, and the hope of a new happiness is a possibility, but the lesson of never going back is my greatest reward. I will never make those same mistakes, I will never be vulnerable in that same way again.

Letting go makes me stronger, but I couldn’t have told you that, let alone imagined it a year and a half ago. The process is a mystery, a non-linear jumble of fucked up parts that kicks over your foundations and impales you and shakes the life out of you. And if you survive it, you’ve lost an integral part to your former happiness. Letting go is not “all good”. No wonder so many people never get around to it.  I should probably close this out by saying something optimistic like, “But it’s worth it!” The truth is messier than that. I don’t know yet if it’s worth it. It’s been a helluva process. Maybe being stronger will have its own consequences that I can’t see yet. Emotions are weirdly entangled like that.

I’d be happy with a popular message that gives a truer picture of what letting go is actually like. On letting go

 

 

Mine

There are many ways to measure milestones in personal growth. My favorite is the one where you stop caring about other people’s expectations. It’s then that you truly find yourself, that you truly realize what it is you care about.

It’s hard to do that when you don’t feel safe. That’s why it’s so important to cultivate your family if you’re not lucky enough to be born into one that fits just right. I’ve cultivated my herd – we’re a mismatched lot, with baggage and foibles and handicaps and little glimpses of greatness. But we know how to build support. We know how to dump outside the circle. We know how to be honest. And we know how to love. Some of us took the circuitous route to get here, but being in this place with these people… it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. For the first time in my life I feel safe. Safe.

Letting go of old expectations was hard, but ultimately the most beautiful gift I’ve ever given myself. I am responsible only to me. I carry no one’s weight but my own. It only took me half my life to reach this particular milestone, but I am determined to hang onto it with all the stubbornness I’ve developed, too.

Bitches Get Stuff Done.

But marches don’t. This article explains why in terms that are easy to understand, and it uses examples to support its view. (That’s a step in something called “logic” kids!) I marched anyway, along with an estimated 4.7 million people from every continent (yup, even Antarctica) because while marches don’t make lasting change they are a great starting point.

womens march square.jpg
Park Central Square in Springfield, MO, facing the stage. I walked through a crowd just to get to this point, the edge of the square.

I marched in Springfield, MO with approximately 2,000 people – a huge number for a city of only 160,000 firmly settled on the bible belt. Almost dead last in a march that stretched at least a quarter mile, the positive energy was palpable all the way back there. I had goosebumps. That’s a physiological effect of being part of a mob, by the way, even a friendly mob. It wasn’t spiritual, but it was deeply affecting. I felt proud to be there, and proud to be marching with women and men. Unable to stay and listen to all the speakers, I drove home considering what it all meant.

There were no news cameras, though the local station says they had a photographer there and would present a segment in the evening. I never saw anyone doing any kind of coverage, and I was disappointed that the media wasn’t more visible. It felt silencing, and like a deliberate tactic to make us seem unimportant. I don’t like conspiracy theories so I won’t say that’s the absolute truth, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some truth to it. Pardon my cynicism, it comes with 41 years of being a woman on this planet.

Since I didn’t stay and see them personally, I can’t form an opinion on the speakers, but I did listen to our MO house representative, Crystal Quade, talk about the diversity of the speakers coming after her, and how important it was to remember that women of color and the LGBTQ community of women need to have a prominent place at the table. That we wouldn’t be successful without them. I was proud of that.

white-women-listen
“TERF” is an acronym for trans-exclusionary radical feminist, in case you didn’t know. We don’t like those. All women are welcome in feminism. It’s called intersectional feminism and we recognize that different backgrounds have different experiences and we must not only value and protect all of them, but hand them the bullhorn equally.

I wondered what to do next, and one of my (numerous, wonderful) friends posted a link to this:

100-days
www.womensmarch.com/100

which is a plan for 10 actions for Trump’s first 100 days in office. It’s simple, linear, and includes step-by-step instructions for the first action. It’s not overwhelming, even for the busiest among us, and I encourage everyone to participate. Especially if you couldn’t march – these are steps you can take with us. We can’t lose momentum, either out of ignorance or from hopelessness. This is a marathon, not a sprint.

That being said, I’ve also been thinking about causes I want to drill down to and focus on. So much is at risk, if I apply the same level of energy to everything, I will burn out in a matter of days. I don’t want to admit to caring more about some causes than others, but I simply have to prioritize because I’m human and have limits and I don’t want to give up. To that end, I think I’m going to focus on state-level legislation, and women’s issues. Women’s issues covers a lot, but I will probably be tackling health care and poverty mostly. I’m passionate about education, LGBTQ equality and dismantling racism, but honestly there are more qualified people out there to harp on those subjects. I’m not giving up on those ideas, I just won’t be devoting my precious free time to being a watchdog over those issues. I’m making a promise right now that when I post about an issue, it will be because I’ve done my homework on it, and you can trust me as a source. (With the obvious caveat that nothing replaces personal research, but I’ll not be posting anything without reading it completely and verifying with at least one source that is not the first return on a Google search.)

My year is off to an incredible start, and I mean that almost literally. It’s almost impossible to believe that I am a full time student, will make a drive halfway across the country and back, will move, will watch my daughter graduate college and start her career, and will become an activist for real. And that’s just the first six months.

It might be a roller coaster, but at least I volunteered to get on this one.