Despite my car being at school, my parents came to pick me up. They were right; I probably couldn’t have driven. I probably would have careened into the Kroger if it were up to me. I sometimes wonder “What If?…” Desperate to process the shit that I hoped was nothing more than a nightmare, I was sent to the mall to find something to wear to the funeral – by myself. I searched for more signature black and he was dead by dinner. Just like that.

That night, without telling anyone in my house, I went to Numbers with two acquaintances I was sure would get me in trouble. I danced to Fascination Street. Old guys bought us drinks. I got as fucked up as I could handle at sixteen and road home in the tiny backseat of a truck, not revealing to them what happened either, like an affair we never talked about. The next night, I hooked up with my neighbor and all that was fairly early in the string of bad decisions to follow.

January’s always fucking sucked.

Thirteen years after all of this, I was sitting around, filled with worry and anxiety over a pregnancy I’d been warned about, being thankful for every day longer I lasted, hoping tiny lungs were developing early, as the steroids promised they would.

A few days later, my daughter was born. Most days I think she’s the only good thing I’ve ever done with my life.

When I think of that, it makes January suck a little less.

As anyone knows — the older you get, the more introspective you become. I think about myself in the terms that normal people would think of a soap opera star. I write my own bio in my head and I’m more concerned with personal growth than things that I should be.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been reciting monologues in the mirror and thinking of myself as a celebrity tossing someone an interview. I’ve probably reached some point where mental illness is inevitable. When does narcissism turn into something diagnosable?

I’ve been thinking of writing more prompted by a conversation with a friend. I have an audience problem, though. My readability is lacking. I like writing in first person rather than third person (narcissism problem again.) And I can’t help but only write non-fiction. I don’t know why I feel like my stories are the most important things going on in the world.

I tried to create a list of the life-changing events and the things that have happened to me that really made me the person who I am (as if I’m a celebrity.) My crush on myself needs to dissolve if I am to be successful. And I’m preoccupied. I don’t know where these things go. 

Yeah, security. Yeah, growing old with someone. Yeah, family. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

It’s kind of like dressing up for a red carpet event. Everyone knows you don’t look like that normally – that your face is caked in make-up, that you’re dressed to the nines and even shaved your legs, that you’re on your best behavior and that you had your hair done so the night goes perfectly. But I don’t care. That’s what I want – all. of. the. fucking. time.

I am not interested in the mundane, the day-to-day bullshit. I’m not interested in what’s underneath. I just want the exciting part: Getting to know someone. Too much sex. Lots of booze. Actually giving a shit if they call.

And the worst part about marriage is ignoring all of the above when it happens to show up again in favor of being … in a very un-fun, boring, taxing relationship. If it ever shows up again.

And don’t tell me the ‘new’ wears off. It never does. I can feel that in the pit of my stomach – so long as it always remains on the same level, the not knowing, the butterflies, my interest – it will all remain.

Growing up sucks.

Bryan Fischer is Director of the American Family Association, the Christian evangelical organization that sponsored the Perry Prayer Rally last Saturday. Though he does preface with a disclaimer that he isn’t speaking for his organization, I can’t find a better example of socially accepted sexism in 2011.

I watched this video several times, more stunned each time. I equate it to watching the film reel of the Holocaust when you’re in social studies in elementary school for the first time. (Film reel. Yeah, OK, I’m old.) I just can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe someone has the balls to spew this drivel.

This Rick Perry thing has had me on edge all day. Yes, it’s perfectly characteristic of me to get all worked up about things I can’t do anything about. I lose sleep over political power moves. I make myself sick over bullshit work politics. I understand this, but if this keeps going and I keep losing my appetite over what’s going to happen to our country, the future of civil and social rights and the economy anymore I won’t even have to renew my subscription to Weight Watchers online. Thanks, asshole, for saving me money. I realize I have more important things in my personal life I should be concerned about right now. I get it.

But Jesus, really?

Do women act stereotypically by choice or because they’ve been conned by the 1950s revival that’s been going on of late to stay home with your kids, make your man dinner and clean the house like you haven’t been given your forty acres and a mule quite yet?

I’ve seen it all too often lately, especially on the social experiment I participate in otherwise known as facebook. The idea, even when both spouses work, that you have to “take care of” a man makes me sick to my stomach. First of all, you didn’t sign up to be their Mommy. They’re an adult, as are you. Handle your shit. If you can’t wash your own clothes, you don’t deserve to wear any. Period.
I’ve seen some disgusting displays of “Whew! Just got home from work and I have to make biscuits and gravy for my boo before I can relax” more than I have ever cared to.

The idea of “taking care of” a man is a ridiculously antiquated practice that ended when women stopped acting like June Cleaver and got a fucking job. Don’t you realize that by constantly “taking care” of someone, you’re not doing them any favors. You’re just perpetuating the stereotype that all women (your mother included) will kiss your boo-boos and fix everything for the rest of your life. We are creating a society of men who can’t wipe their own ass — or truly believe that they shouldn’t … and they don’t have to.

I know I’ll be met with some criticism. You know – the people who claim that “want” to take care of their boyfriends and husbands, etc. Bullshit. You’re probably so desperate to feel wanted, to feel love, affection or even attention that you’ll do anything. If that means playing Aunt Bea, you’ll go for it.

If you’re both working and your responsibilities outside of the home are equal, don’t you think he should kick in every once in a while? I get it, once you’re married, you get conned into it more often than you realize. It’s masked in the name of favors, for the sake of “being busy,” etc. But to knowingly do twice as much work as someone else just so you’ll fit the mold of some rerun you saw on TV? That’s the definition of pathetic to me.

This ain’t Mayberry, sister.

Call me a bitch but all I know is that if my husband runs out of underwear because he doesn’t wash his clothes with the expectation that the house fairy will pick up those duties — he’ll be free ballin’ for the week. Maybe for life.

Recently there’s been a great deal of controversy over gay marriage. Proponents think that everyone should have equal rights to be married in the eyes of the law. Detractors think marriage is a sacred institution, despite the high levels of infidelity, divorce and general unhappiness.

In order to keep both sides happy I propose that we do away with the institution that is marriage. In the 21st century, it’s difficult enough to define love. When people attempt to define it based in religious beliefs, tradition and the fears they’re running from – it becomes even more difficult.

Rather, I propose that if you (gay, straight, poly-amorous, whatever) choose to be joined in the eyes of the law (for piece of mind, insurance purposes, taxes, etc.) it be considered a civil union. (Thanks, facebook, for giving me this great idea.) If then you choose that you want to be joined in the eyes of God, Allah, whoever – you get “married,” but it’s merely a religious ceremony and comes with no more rights and responsibilities aside from the ones that are attached to your own theological beliefs.

No marriages would be invalidated. Rather, they would be grandfathered is as civil unions. It would be up to the individual church or religion whether your union would also be recognized as a marriage in the eyes of said believers.

Why is this not a satisfactory answer to the issue of marriage? Because really – a piece of paper that you must apply and pay for, in no way, insures that a higher being is smiling on your unholy union.

The possibilities seem endless. Projects get bigger, the stakes get higher and my husband continues to make more money. He recently had a conversation with the company’s owner in which, for some reason, he conveyed that his love affair with IT would be easier on me if I were a Stay At Home Mother. The weeks out of town, the late nights up and the constant communication with coworkers would be easier to swallow, he believes, if I didn’t leave the house. I’ll give you a minute to swallow that one.

True story: When I was going to be induced to have my daughter, I spent the night (which turned into two nights) in a hospital bed on Pitocin. My husband spent the night next to me … working on a laptop at a makeshift desk he set up involving my hospital tray, a guest chair and a serious electrical outlet. The day they finally decided I was having a c-section, he spent the morning arguing (loudly) with a coworker about a decision for a client’s network. Yes, seriously.

I am used to being the other woman when it comes to his job but what’s difficult for me to swallow is that I didn’t sign up to be a single parent. When you’re out of town all week for several months at a time, I am the only parent. When Dad comes in on the weekends, it’s to take my daughter to cool places and have fun. I’m the one trying to do the potty training, the disciplining and the mid-Target trip spankings. I … didn’t sign up for that.

I suppose if the money keeps rolling in (and it is) that I should just shut my mouth and smile but I am floored that he thinks I would be able to “handle” his career better if I stayed home all day. And he knows me. He’s known me for a long time. What about me has ever led him to believe that I wanted to be a Stay At Home Mom? I get nauseous just thinking about it.

I want him to go back and revise everything he said in that conversation. I want him to correct himself immediately for my sanity’s sake. I want to work. I want to do what I love. I want to make money. I want to get ahead. I want to be more than just a mother. It’s not that parenting is the most terrible job in the world, but it sure as hell isn’t what I ever imagined would be my only one. I would go absolutely crazy if my only purpose in life was to feed, change and entertain my kid. And frankly, I’m not sure how that can be anyone’s sole purpose.

So rather, the only thing that keeps me sane being “the other woman” is working. Frankly, I can’t imagine how anyone does it any differently.

The problem with education for me is a problem most people won’t ever experience. Like some others, I was involved another industry before education. Journalism will always be my first love. It’s like your first real relationship. Nothing will ever compare to the thrill, the first time you heard words you longed to hear, the first intimate moment you had…

There’s no getting over it. On an idle Tuesday when I’m having lunch I’ll stare out the window and reminisce about it being midnight and still waiting on some stupid football game to end to get the story in the next day’s paper. I’ll always compare everything about the industry I’ve been involved in the past five years to journalism.

The pay was shit. The abuse was non-stop but I worked on what I was passionate about. I followed stories I felt people would connect to. Writing is something that truly is difficult work. You’re conjuring up thoughts and ideas sprinkled with facts and quotes (or complete bullshit) and working hard. One plus in that industry is that the harder you work, the further up the ladder you can climb.

I guess I am a ladder climber. I expect that if I work hard and care about my job I will eventually get ahead. I expect that I will earn the respect of others and I will eventually reach management.
Lately the term (ladder climber) has been gaining negative connotation because some people don’t care who they step to get ahead. That’s unfortunate but should we all grow complacent because there’s one bitch in the crowd?

The problem I’ve found with education is that there is nowhere to go. There’s no way to get ahead, despite doing your job well and caring about the quality of work you produce. Unless you want to venture into Administration (which is a totally different ballgame and total bullshit in and of itself) there’s no other position that you can earn. Sure, there are curriculum development positions, department chairs, content specialists, etc. The problem is they often don’t earn their positions because they care about their jobs or do them well. They earn their positions by being the oldest bag in the room.

I feel desperate to get ahead. It’s not that I don’t like my job. It’s just that I feel like I have to aim for something. If I don’t have a goal (aside from getting through another year) then what’s the point of it all?

I continue to contemplate whether this is an industry I believe in anymore. Dressed in red tape and crowded with brown-nosers – is education something I do for the next thirty years? I continue to struggle with the problem of where to go from here. What do I aim for? What do I aspire to?
Some would say that I should aspire to be the best teacher I can be. But that’s a given and a bullshit answer that an optimist would come up with. As far as career goals – where does a teacher go?

At least not for me.

From the day my daughter was born everything about it was unnatural. The two days of Pitocin and no contractions. The c-section. The subsequent pain resulting from said c-section that brought tears to my eyes every time I sat down or got up. The falling over ourselves we had to do in order to determine exactly which type of nipple our daughter would drink from. (P.S. It wasn’t the expensive brand we bought pre-baby.) There was nothing natural about that process for me and there’s been nothing natural since.

None of the things that were supposed to come with my keen instinct did. I didn’t know how to change diapers or carry a baby. The nurse had to show me eleventy thousand times how to get her to drink in the hospital and despite knowing her just as long as he had, I never quite mastered swaddling the way my husband did. I wanted to vomit when her gross belly button thing fell off (but please don’t ever tell her that.) This, in no way, reflects my feelings or love for her. Rather, it reflects my feelings of inadequacy as a mother.

I never felt like I had it together like the other mothers I knew or observed, anyway. They had their shit together. Their laundry done. Their dinner made. Their work in order. Their kids happy. The past two years I’ve felt like it’s been a constant struggle to get it even close to where those women are. And I’m still not even halfway there.

There’s nothing natural about negotiating whether I should pick up my daughter or go to happy hour. There’s nothing natural about my deep-seated desire to be single, free and able to move to a foreign country on a whim if I wanted to.

I still wonder “What if?” What if I don’t possess the qualities to raise a kid the right way? What if I’m not maternal enough, as my husband likes to point out? What if I’m not crafty enough? What if I’m not “Family” enough?

But something interesting happened in all of this unnaturalness yesterday that I felt was notable. I’m in the middle of my yearly Spring sickness. It happens every year – most of the time before Spring Break. My upper respiratory system shuts down and I find myself in a week of hell. I mean the kid of sickness where you think to yourself “If my nose just weren’t running and bloody, I could seriously be amazing.” And while laying in bed like an injured manatee with a box of tissues, my antibiotics and a bottle of water, my daughter wakes up, looks at me, smiles and promptly says “Mommy, I want milk.”

It seems strange because her speech has improved by leaps and bounds. In a matter of two weeks, she’s started speaking in complex sentences in which I can almost hear the punctuation – which is more than I can say for most adults I know.

So I turn to her and I said “OK, in just a second. Mama’s sick.” And what does she do?

She looks at me and says “Mommy’s sick?” and puts her tiny hand on my forehead as if to check my temperature. She shoved a used tissue in my face, hugged me and then proceeded to do the next best thing.

She woke her father up by repeatedly smacking him in the face and said “Daddy, I want milk.”

I can probably skip the paragraph where I note that if I were so deficient, my daughter wouldn’t be so sweet and wouldn’t know how to take care of me – but I won’t. Instead, I’ll mention how my resourceful and persistent qualities clearly were not diluted in the gene pool.

When I was young I never suspected that I would be one of the drones that worked all week just to look forward to two days that came and went so fast you hardly knew it. In fact, I pitied those suckers. And now I’m one of them.

I’ve also become much disenchanted with public education. I am doing kids a disservice by telling them that the world will cater to them, that life is always “fair,” and that help will always be available. I feel like a fraud. I feel like the educational buzzphrases included “ensuring all students are successful” have made me want to claw my own fucking eyeballs out.

The truth is – not all students can be successful. The world is full of the haves and the have nots. The CEOs and the burger flippers. There is no fairness. It’s only fortune. Luck. Chance. Most of the time anyway, since most people don’t have the intellect it takes to truly get ahead the right way.

I didn’t sign up to be a cop. I didn’t sign up for all the bureaucracy. I didn’t sign up to blow smoke up anyone’s ass or bend to the whims of some parent that doesn’t yet understand that they can’t wipe their kid’s ass their entire lives. I didn’t sign up to be treated like a burger flipper by my administration because I’m not one. I’m tired of not being supported. I’m tired of people making my job harder than it should be. I’m intelligent. I’m degreed. I’m interested in what I teach. I am a have and I’m sick of being treated as a have not.

Writing doesn’t pay. There are no benefits. No accolades for most of what you do. You work hard for pennies. But you know what? I was a hell of a lot happier struggling than being one of those people who actually sit in meetings, knowing you’ll never be heard. And waiting for the weekend. And having that sinking feeling on Sunday nights knowing I’ll have to pretend all over again. That’s not me. I’m a gypsy at heart. I’m thinking it’s time to move on.