Weekend Recap

B was away for the weekend on a motorcycle trip, so I took the opportunity to fill my weekend with other friends and family.

Friday night I had pizza and beer with my little brother while watching World's Dumbest.

Saturday I indulged...a lot. Since B doesn't like to eat junk food and I love it, I tend to go a little overboard when he's away. Ice cream by myself, and then dinner and wine with my girlfriends while we watched wedding shows. We capped off the evening with a cupcake tasting.

Sunday morning I got to have snuggles with my fur babies.

Sunday myself, my brother and one of my cousins took my grandmother out to dinner for her upcoming 75th birthday. 

Party shoes.

In my hometown there's a rather unique restaurant built in an old chicken coop on a farm, and it is THE PLACE to go to celebrate something (it's also one of THE ONLY PLACES to go, but that's beside the point). They serve food family style, and the only thing you choose is your main dish. In the "appetizer" round they bring out cottage cheese and apple butter, coleslaw, fruit and sugar biscuits or "hush puppies". The hush puppies are not the kind you get in the south. They are simply biscuits fried and rolled in sugar, and they are one of the best things you will ever put in your mouth.

Mouth-watering goodness.

We made her sit with a birthday balloon. Thankfully no one sang.

After you are full of fried carbs, they bring you your entree (my cousin and I split fried chicken and eggplant parmesan) along with green beans, corn, french fries and, at our request, more hush puppies. And if you aren't done (which you aren't) they top it off with a dish of ice cream. Afterwards, as tradition dictates, you roll yourself out onto the grounds of the farm to visit the pond and the ducks that live there. If you are in the know, you save some of the non-sugared dinner rolls (since no one eats the non-sugared ones, there are plenty) to feed the little guys.

Such a great weekend, but glad to have B home safely for snuggles.

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One Year Later

2013

2014

As of Sunday, September 7, B and I have officially been married for one year. Time does indeed fly. In many ways the year was the same as the past four (three? four? I don't even know anymore) that we've been together. We already lived together, so we didn't need to merge two households. We already shared a joint bank account. I didn't change my last name. Really, our day to day lives didn't change that much, but there is something intangibly different about being "official". It feels different to be presented to the world as a married couple, even though our commitment to one another was cemented long ago. 

We wanted to mark the occasion with a few days of just enjoying one another's company. Also we just bought a house and aren't in a position to shell out cash for a big splashy trip at the moment. So we took off from work Friday and spent two days at the beach with some good friends.

Sunset over the bay.

 

Ice cream, always.

We went home Saturday night and spent our actual anniversary hanging out at the house, and doing some of our favorite things together:

Eating.

B made me blueberry pancakes for breakfast and I used my favorite Disney "Mrs." mug. We also got Chipotle for dinner and had frozen yogurt for a special treat.

Cuddling.

With both each other and the cats.

And being outside on a beautiful day.

Hiking in the local park.

I personally love to find unique gifts, so I gave B a wallet card to replace the tattered note I wrote to him years ago that he's been keeping in there, and a little book of things I love about him.

A lovely day to cap off a great year, and a great way to launch the next, hopefully-equally-as-great one.

  

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That was some sexism!

Last night at the gym I finished my sets of dead lifts, put away my bar and plates, and was stretching out my back when a guy came up to me and said, “You’re like, the only girl who dead lifts.” I responded that that wasn't true, and that I’d seen a few here at the small gym where we both were. He said, “By a few, you mean like, one. Good for you.” At first I was flattered. I even said thank you to the guy. And then later, just long enough later that it was too late to really say anything else, I was like, wait a minute! That was some sexism!  Worse, that was some of the most insidious kind of sexism, the kind couched in a supposed compliment, the kind that gets into your psyche and even encourages you to think the same way for a minute. I mean, who doesn't want to think that they’re special? Or unique? Or that they do something that others can’t/won’t? It took me a minute to shake off that feeling, and to realize that yes, I was proud of myself, but because I had accomplished a personal goal, not because I was somehow “better” than any other women who may or may not choose to dead lift. I wish I had had the presence of mind to say something along the lines of, “Do you realize that your “compliment” is perpetuating sexism by espousing the idea that women’s achievements are anomalies and not the norm?” or, “I’m guessing it isn't intentional, but your comment is actually incredibly sexist in assuming that, because you haven’t seen them in this very small gym, women (or ‘girls’ as you put it) don’t dead lift.”

Don't tell me women don't dead lift. Via

Let’s not do this, OK? Let’s all make an effort to rethink the things we say so casually, to realize that even if we believe in gender equality, little statements like, “you’re the only girl who dead lifts” or “we have a boy in our ballet class, good for him!” aren't necessarily compliments. They are also an implicit gendering of activities. People will probably say that I am overreacting, or being touchy or even bitchy. But the truth is, it’s these kinds of statements that keep sexism alive. They quietly reinforce gendered ideas before we even realize that they aren't compliments. And if we never realize that they aren't compliments, even if that was how they were intended, then those gendered ideas sink into our brains and slowly become part of who we are. We can’t let that happen. We all have to make an effort to stop. 

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Why I Love Being Married to Him

Via

The other night B was playing with his pocket flashlight, holding it behind Tesla's ears to make a shadow and repeating "It's the Batman!"

And that's why I love being married to him.

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The Lorax

When we bought our house, this was the view out the front window. 

We were pretty pleased with it, considering we live in a rather urban area but are both nature-lovers (maybe one of us more than the other).

Recently, the builders of our complex started cutting down some of those trees to put in an office building. We know builders cut down trees. We know many trees were surely cut down to make the home we so enjoy. Still, we don't really like it. We hoped the builders would at least leave some nice groupings of the original woods, as they had done in other areas.

Last night on my way home B called.  "Babe! They clear-cut everything!" "Oh no!" "I know!" "I'm sad." "Me too."

When I got in the door, we commiserated over losing the trees. The cats meowed at us loudly and B goes, "I think they're upset about the trees too-you know what this feels like? That book The Lorax! Dr. Seuss had it right."

Via

More and more it seems like everything I ever needed to know I could've learned from Dr. Seuss.

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"As though all I had to offer the world...was my fairly nondescript face."

Via

I really am, and I have been trying. I sort of have this idea that since society has conditioned us to be uncomfortable in our skin (I mean, why else would we buy half of the creams and potions they are trying to sell us?) it is my duty to unlearn those traits and accept myself as I am, in the hopes of passing on a better view of self to the next generation.

It's complicated, of course. Baby steps. I try to only wear makeup when I want to do so for myself, not because I feel like it. I try to focus my energies on my quality of life. Reading books. Watching documentaries. Enriching my mind. Going outside, being active. Caring for the health of my body. 

And yet. Two weeks ago, seemingly overnight, the few pimple splotches that are generally ever present on my face spread like wildfire across my jaw and chin. I've conditioned myself to accept a couple blemishes, but not this. It didn't help that that weekend I attended a bridal shower for one of my dearest friends, and one of my other dearest friends confessed that she finds herself bothered by other people's extreme acne, even though she tries not to be. And while I know she was talking about cases that were much worse than mine (and I do recognize that mine is mild compared to many), I felt ashamed under my layers of concealer and powder. Ashamed for what? Why? No one gets acne on purpose. And yet.

I've been coming to work without makeup because a) I get up really early and I don't feel like putting it on and b) I think that its better for my skin when it is acting out and telling me something is wrong. I come to work without makeup all the time. Sometimes this results in people telling me I look "tired," but that's fine. But there is part of me that feels I should be compensating for having more blemishes, like I can only show my bare face when it is clear and healthy and it isn't fit to be seen in any other state. 

Then this morning I was perusing my usual websites and read this article on Jezebel. I skimmed it, blah blah women statistically spend more time worrying about their looks than anything else including their finances blah blah I already knew THAT. I was struck, however, when I read further to the author's personal story of how she felt when her face was bruised after having her wisdom teeth removed: "I would see my face and cry like a child, as though the only thing I had to offer the world before the teeth came out was my fairly nondescript face — really melodramatic, whiny shit. "  

Boom. I had one of those moments where everything becomes clear. I've been behaving as if the only thing I had to offer the world was my face. My regular, plain Jane face. As if somehow my job performance would be affected (I'm not a model or spokesperson, so it isn't except in the usual way of how society perceives you based on attractiveness). I've told my husband this week that "I will be pretty for you again, I promise," as if his love for me is dependent solely on my face. I've worried about going to a wedding this weekend and seeing some of my best friends, who've known me for years, as if my friends won't want be around me and relate to me the same way they have since middle school if they have to be distracted by my less than perfect skin. Well, fuck that.

Via

I can be pretty. I can not be pretty. Just like one day I can be funny and the next day I can not be funny. Just because I am not pretty today does not mean I am also automatically not funny. My qualities are not linked. My prettiness is not linked to my brain, or my job performance, or my ability to be a good friend and wife. I don't have to be happy about the way I look today or tomorrow, but I don't have to let it affect other aspects of my life. 

So I'm tucking the phrase "As though all I had to offer the world...was my fairly nondescript face" into my back pocket for when I feel like hiding to remind myself that whether or not I want or can to offer "pretty" to the world today, I can still offer a whole lot of other things too.

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Unspoken Rules for Commuter Train Riders

I've been riding my local commuter train for over five years now. I've come to the conclusion that SOME people need to be handed a written list of the heretofore unspoken rules of the commuter train that make the ride more pleasant for everyone.

1. If it is before 9 a.m. the train is generally quiet. This is because people are sleeping, or trying to. If you hold a conversation loud enough for all to hear, you are an asshat. You don't want to sleep, fine. You want to hold a conversation, that's fine too, but let's keep it respectfully quiet, ok?

2. Speaking of conversations, here are some guidelines:

• Recognize that there is a time and place for sensitive discussions. If you want to express your political opinions, however dumb they may be, fine. But be aware that if you are speaking loudly and angrily enough that others can hear you and you work in Washington, DC, it is highly likely that you will not only offend someone (not that you care, obviously, or you wouldn't need this list) but also that someone nearby is personally acquainted with the individual you are bashing. Or works for them. Or is them. And they may fight you, or tell your boss unflattering things about you. You just never know.

• For the love of cake please keep your cell phone conversations to a minimum. Yes, we all have times when we need to let someone know we're on our way or to pull the chicken out of the fridge. But why, why do I have to listen to you run through the list of things in your fridge and then dictate how to make grilled cheese all the way home? No one on the train needs to know how your doctor's appointment went. This is a perfect time to bust out the text message.

3. No touching! I can't tell you how many times I've been minding my own business in my seat when I feel a thigh press up against mine. And stay there. Clearly, the person next to me doesn't mind our flesh pressed together. But I do. These people are either have no respect for personal space or, what's worse, know that it's likely that I will scooch further into my already cramped seat to avoid feeling their warm leg, thus giving them more space than they are allotted. Nefarious.

4. You paid for one seat. You use one seat. Now, if it is the middle of the day and the train car is practically empty, sprawl all you want. But when it is rush hour and you are happily sitting next to your backpack while the rest of us are jammed so tightly together we create heat, I'm going to ask you to move your bag so I (or someone, at least) can sit. Don't give me that look. Unless your bag is full of something so precious it can't be jostled, in which case you probably shouldn't have it on public transportation, you can put it on your lap or the floor like the rest of us. Heck, on my train people even put their kids on their laps to make room for others. And they're a lot more precious (not to mention hot and wiggly) than your bag.

5. Please, please stop tempting me with your delicious-smelling McDonald's food. If you must eat on the train, couldn't you choose something that doesn't have a scent? Especially a greasy, fried, delicious scent? I think we all know the pain of sitting next to someone having crispy golden French fries while we have nothing. The scent, which is enviable. The sound of them masticating near your ear, which is disgusting. Please no. How about a nice banana instead?

These are only a few of my many complaints re: the commuter train. Still, it (usually) gets me into the city reliably, relatively cheaply, without my adding driving my car to my environmental imprint for the day. So for that, I am thankful, and will continue to patronize the train despite the behavior of the other passengers.

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