On Ranting, as usual

oh there's some hardcore liberal bias here, so don't think I'm trying to represent any position but my own and don't be too upset if we disagree - it's bound to happen:

I'm getting myself super worked up about this whole Komen-defunding-Planned-Parenthood deal. It's not a big deal. It doesn't directly affect me. But seriously? I'm never going to participate in, donate to, or eat another Komen-labeled anything. Not that I actively chose their products in the past (I am not the best eater of yogurt nor the biggest fan of pink), but now I'm consciously going to avoid. And perhaps I can flex my nasty letter writing muscles and do some direct complaining. They also spend a ridiculously low amount of their actual funds on research. 20%-ish?

I'm probably going to get breast cancer some day (from what I know about my medical history - which isn't much - my birth mom, biological grandmother, and several of her sisters have all had it/died of it/have it right now). Of course I want a cure, but we're silly to think that cures come from organizations.
The backlash against the Komen foundation has been insane. Donations to Planned Parenthood are way up. If I wasn't broke as shit, I'd be all over that. I decided many years ago that when I finally get enough money to be generous with it, it's not going to my alma maters, it's going to Planned Parenthood, because they are absolute rock stars at what they do. I'm so sick of hearing about how horrible they are.

I hope that young women everywhere are able to continue to access care that their primary care providers may have denied them; I hope that young women of all colors and religions and income levels can continue to access healthcare including cancer screenings, STI-testing and treatment, and birth control, especially when they don't have access to a primary care provider like I do.

Why? Because it's important. The work that Planned Parenthood does isn't just abortions (do I actually need to repeat myself again? Only 3% of their services go to abortions. That's roughly 300,000 abortions per year. But guess what? That's only about a third of the total number of abortions provided in the US. Where is everyone else having those?).

The reason I bring this up is because I was reading a Catholic website (trying to get all sides' opinions) and they had huge charts about how 96.3% of services provided to pregnant women were abortion-related. Okay, I'll take that. Yes, there is a disparity between abortion numbers and adoption numbers. I'd argue that that's pretty consistent with the rest of the US as well. But does this Catholic website take into account the other forms of adoption such as from government agencies (41% of adoptions in 2008), kinship adoptions, foreign adoptions, etc? Probably not.

And how many un-pregnant women and men and people are using Planned Parenthood to access other resources? 3 million people go to Planned Parenthood every year. 3 million is a lot more than 300,000. By providing resources to the community including contraception, Planned Parenthood is helping to ensure that there will be fewer unintended pregnancies and thus fewer abortions as a result.


Here's why I support Planned Parenthood 100% - and this has absolutely nothing to do with the Komen debacle. It'll all blow over. Komen will continue to be the shining pink face of breast cancer walks everywhere and Planned Parenthood will continue to be the source of so much distress for  conservatives the uninformed everywhere:

[I'm sort of uncomfortable about posting this story online - to be honest, I think I've posted this before but can't find it in the archives, and at the same time, I'm even more uncomfortable knowing that people perceive Planned Parenthood to be this horrible, evil organization that exists solely to kill babies. So this is why I'm putting this out there.]

I wasn't quite 18 yet, which means I was somewhere between 16 and 17. I wanted birth control. When I asked my pediatrician's nurse practitioner for a prescription (without telling her why I wanted it - Was it heavy periods? Was it hormonal reasons? Did I just want to take hormonal birth control because everyone else was doing it? Was I having sex?), she told me that doing so would put her "between a rock and a hard place."

What she was referring to was my father, who has always been overbearing and inappropriate at the most inconvenient times. As soon as I started high school, he became convinced that I was having all sorts of sex (I wasn't. I didn't kiss a boy until I was almost fifteen) and consequently, had been squawking about it to anyone who would listen and making it nearly impossible for me to date (this, of course, backfired horribly and led to me putting myself in dangerous-ish situations on more than one occasion: sneaking out, hanging out with undesirables, etc).

I was well aware that Colorado law allows minors to consent to a prescription for birth control without obtaining parental consent or having to even notify a parent or guardian about it. When she told me that no matter what I said, she wouldn't write me a prescription for birth control, I was furious. I still am. I never went back to that doctor's office, even though I'd been going since birth.

That's why, even to this day, I do not stand for doctors of any sort denying women information or care based on their own personal beliefs or fears. I also do not believe that doctors and providers (including nurses, etc) should be anything but professional. I had a friend go to her gynecologist and ask for routine STI testing only to be asked, "Why? Have you been exposed?" I told her to immediately find a new doctor. Call it overreacting but I call it ridiculous that you should have to answer any sort of seemingly-accusatory questions. I have doctors who I absolutely adore. They respect me; they don't question me when I say, "Hey, throw an HIV test onto my blood work!" They respect that I'm active about my own health - regardless of whether it's ADHD, STI-testing, the sniffles, the cut on my finger that should have had stitches 16 hours ago....(the last one was a joke...that was me not being proactive and facing the consequences).

I went to Planned Parenthood. I did it after school one day when Mike had practice so I knew I had some time. I was terrified. I was not getting the prescription so that I could have reckless, unprotected sex. I was not pregnant. I was just looking for something that my own doctor was unwilling to give me, but something that I knew I had a legal right to obtain and use.

My experience there was absolutely amazing. The staff was so nice to me. I think they absolutely understood how scared I was (I've never been good at hiding my emotions) and I think they went the extra mile to make sure that I had the most positive experience possible. I got my prescription. I got birth control. And it was in a no-stress, no-judgement, no-pressure situation.

My mom eventually found out that I was on birth control. She was furious. But she wasn't mad that I was on it; she was mad that I had gone alone. She was mad that I was paying for it all by myself. She was just as mad at my doctor's office as I was and she helped me to become a part of the practice that I currently attend (do you attend a doctor's office? visit? reluctantly stop by sometimes?). I think that a lot about that experience helped solidify our relationship. It was a little bit rocky during high school - think ages 15-17. She was open and willing to talk about issues that I'd never realized I could talk to her about. She never judged me or criticized my opinions or decisions. She supported me so much then and continues to do so today. I honestly think that without those frank discussions, we wouldn't have the relationship we do now. It's stronger than it's ever been and I'm so grateful to know that I can call her and tell her anything. She may not agree with it (she'll definitely tell me when she doesn't) but she'll listen. And knowing that she respected me enough back then to know that I was making informed decisions about my own health is something that still makes me incredibly happy.

That's why I love Planned Parenthood. I have only been there maybe twice in my life, but those two times were the most positive experiences I could have had. I'm grateful that they were there for me, and even though I hope my children will never have to go behind my back to get access to care, I hope they're still there, just in case.

On Remembering

I found it! I found the poem I was looking for!
It's unedited, exactly as it was when I wrote it.
I just absolutely love love love this poem. It's so apathetic. It's everything that seventeen-year old me was. The ending gets me every time. Pause as you read it. Pause and really let the end sink into your soul. (Maybe it won't work for you; I don't know. But just try it.)

I need to remind readers that this poem has absolutely nothing to do with my current romantic partner situation.

Oh man, now I want to find the "Still Life" poem. I just spent like ten minutes digging through my old journal. It's funny how much I've grown, and funnier still how much remains the same. I became friends with a girl who'd gone to Mullen, although she was much older than me, and she became my biggest supporter during those awkward teenage years. She believed in my writing and I'm so grateful for that, because without her positive input, I may not have had the courage to keep doing it. We keep in touch on facebook now, and I don't know that I've ever been able to really tell her how much it meant to me that she read everything I wrote. She's off getting her doctorate and living a wild and beautiful life in Australia, but it's funny how much we are still able to share even if it's just through "likes" and comments.


"Remember"
originally posted January 11, 2006


I remember you.
I remember the first time
you said "I love you." 
I had forgotten
until today.
Sitting in the park last night, 
on a shadowed log
amidst the winter grass
while she remembered 
memories she should’ve never had
I flashed back. 
I took a picture of the spot
where I was standing
when it hit me
late that summer night
and I first felt the sensations 
roll over me.
but enough
I'd like to leave it there.
Later, not long forgotten
we were side by side
tangled in a sweet release
and you kissed my forehead
in that way 
that you knew drove me crazy 
and you whispered it.
I tensed
as silence filled the room
what was I to say
to someone I didn't love?
I sighed 
and kissed your hand
and rolled over
and let you hold me
until it was over
and I didn't have to say 
anything anymore.

On Friendship

Friendship is a strange and beautiful thing.
It comes and goes in waves of necessity; there's no stopping it. You are, for that singular moment - or perhaps many moments - engulfed by the overwhelming nature of it all. And then it slowly recedes, softly, slowly at first, before there's nothing but a whisper, a soft lapping at your toes. But when you least expect (or by now you should see the patterns), it comes over you again. Quickly. Sweeping over your head without warning, leaving you breathless.
And it goes on like this.
A calculated tide.
A beating heart.
A deep breath, a long sigh.
That's what love is.
True friendship is love.

Last week, after an accidental evening at the PS Lounge, Jacob and I walked through the park. I was overflowing with respect, with gratitude, with contentment, with love. Some of my favorite times are my walks with him. We find ourselves in City Park after dark, wandering, staying close to the edge. I never expected to know him. I certainly never expected to be able to call him one of my closest friends. But he is and has been. It was instantaneous. It's as though he's been a part of my life forever. And I would like to have him in my life forever. I value his honesty, his opinions, his thoughtfulness, his vision.

Katie is the same way. I met her my first day of high school. I remember thinking, "One of the cool kids just said hi to me!" I had no idea that I had just met my other. We've been through ups and downs (more ups than downs, obviously), but there is no one that I would rather have near me than her. Last Friday, she came over and it was like all the stress was melting away from me. It's unconditional. It's not difficult. I can tell her anything; confide my deepest secrets, hopes, and dreams. She will still love me. And I will still love her. I still get those butterflies sometimes, the kind you feel when you've got a new crush (do people still get those feelings?). I will never marry someone who doesn't make me feel the same way. She's funny and beautiful and so incredibly smart. I love her.

Heidi and I had dinner last night. After sushi and sake and some sort of delicious pineapple dessert creation, I felt sated. Her presence alone was enough to lift me out of the funk. It's funny to me how intertwined life can become. I was sixteen and working at Dairy Queen. We were sent out to work another store when they went out for the day and I was carpooling with this gorgeous blond college girl (talk about intimidation!). Then it happened: we were in the car and a man cut us off. All of the windows were down, and without even thinking, both of us reacted the same way. We screamed a choice expletive at him and flipped him the double bird. Looking at each other, shocked, we both started laughing. And we've been friends ever since. She told me last night that she will love me, flaws and all, forever. God, doesn't that just feel great?

I was talking to Kevin last night about a situation that has recently developed. Someone who I've been friends with for a long time said something that really offended me. And suddenly, I was done. My tolerance is quite high for these things. You can push me pretty far before I break, but once I'm broken, may someone have mercy on your soul because my anger can be quite a terrifying thing. I stopped trying to mend our friendship and started analyzing it. I realized that it was not a friendship built on mutual trust and love, and was instead built on passive aggressive behavior and my various attempts to deal with that behavior, but my underlying inability to tell her the truth about her behavior and assumptions. As I've concluded, I've realized that I'm not angry. I'm not mad. I'm just frustrated. And all I need for that friendship to begin again is an apology and an admission.

I told him that no matter what happens to a friendship, I need closure. I would much prefer to have a friendship die of natural causes than a friendship that ends in anger. Tension stresses me out. It happens, of course. It's a part of life. But I would like to minimize it as much as possible. I very much dislike having people hate me/dislike me after really knowing me. I find that a lot of it stems from misinformation and untruths. That's really how conflict begins and grows, anyway. I could care less about people who don't know me. If you don't really know me, you can't really love me.

I'm very excited: my roommate in college and I did not end on the best of terms. But time has passed. We've re-friended each other on facebook (monumental, of course) and are planning to meet for a drink when I'm in Chicago. I'm thrilled. I can't wait to pick up and continue. It may never be the friendship that it once was, but it can still be what it needs to be. It can still be good.

On Future Plans

What do I do when things get weird? Well, there are a few responses, but most of them include a serious increase in wild adventures and questionable decisions.

I always think of Mike whenever these things happen. He'd tell me one of two things (they both come from our favorite movies):
      -When life gives you lemons, say "Fuck the Lemons!" and bail.
      -or... Rule #72: No excuses, play like a champion.

I have a feeling this is one of those Rule #72 moments.

So, in keeping with those traditions of panic and drastic life-altering adventures, I made plane reservations. Be glad that I can't afford tickets to Kenya; my roommate from South Africa, Margaret, is turning 50 this year and spending it doing work with women there. She invited me along! Perhaps I'll start pinching pennies and try to make the trip out there before she leaves her year-long post.

I'm going to Chicago in February to spend a weekend with my old friends. Swisher will have just had ACL surgery, so he'll be needing some care. (Not that I'm going to be proficient in providing any sort of care. I'm more of an errand-runner.) I haven't seen Anne's face since I was out there in July. And I would love to be able to snuggle with Maddie and Patrick. (Patrick remains my all-time-number-one-wingman for the incident of the Irish and the whiskey. I will love him until I die.)

The best one, though?
March. New York City. The Katies.
Katie has an interview out there and wanted someone to go along. So I am lucky enough to be her traveling companion. I am beyond thrilled. I am so grateful for this opportunity. I can't even begin to tell you how bright this spot is in my otherwise complicated life-situation. We are going to spend four days being wonderful and wild all over New York. I dug around in my purse for my thank-you notes to send to her father, who graciously picked up my plane tickets, but found them to be covered in blush and the envelopes unusable. So I still sent him one - minus the blush - (in my excitement, I just want to say "Thank-You!" right away!) but included a note apologizing for the janky nature of the packaging (regular envelopes, not the cute ones). He'll understand.

There are still adventures to be had. Life isn't over yet. It never is. One thing that I do love about my workplace is the support. We're mostly women, and since I'm the baby, I get the coddling that I sometimes really need. Today, I needed it. My lady boss, who I respect like nobody else, told me that I was going to be fine and that life is just one set of ups and downs after another. I realize that you can hear that said twenty times, but for some reason, I'm always ready to listen to her advice. So I'm letting it stick. This is just a down. There will be other ups.

On Upward Mobility, at 23.

[this is a really pathetic post. If you're not in the mood for serious self-pity, please don't read any further...]

It has been a rough few days. Right now, I feel like the part of me that feels anything but that strange apathetic misery has disappeared.
I've been prone to bouts of tears. They come at random times.
Last night, Kevin brought home Chinese food (I'd been camping out on his couch, feeling sorry for myself and watching Mission Impossible) and I cried. So that was awkward. For a man who has no idea how to deal with the waves of feminine emotions, it might have been too much to handle.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked.
Well. About that.

But let's rewind.
5pm Friday.
I was seriously excited to see Katie, who was in town for the weekend. We were going to meet up, grab drinks, and meet up with her/our friend Mark after he got off work.
I'm driving home. 6th and Colorado (I always get held up at the light.) One of my Gmail accounts dings. Mail. I open it.
UCD rejects me swiftly, before the light changes.
I catch my breath. Humiliation sinks in. Shame.
I had considered many scenarios. Many. None of them included being rejected. Flippantly, I'd been saying that if I didn't get into grad school, I'd have no idea what to do with my life. But those statements were made with the underlying assumption that I'd get in.
What?!?!? The email said that while they couldn't tell me why, blah blah blah, something about recommendation letters. I may have ignored one of their requirements that I have two letters of recommendation from former professors. I had one. It was a beautiful letter, but I neglected to get the second, and instead used a family that I babysit for.
Idiotic move, in hindsight.
But regardless of my disregard for the stated process, I am still not good enough for UCD. So, wow.
Of course, I handled it incredibly maturely and proceeded to get absolutely, ridiculously drunk. Classy, I know. Sloppy. And to make matters so much worse, I wore heels.
Now, if you'll remember the incident in Chicago in mid-2010...the one where upon being denied entry to a club due to my status as a "liability", I told the bouncer that I wasn't drunk, I just had double-jointed ankles that prevented me from walking straight. (I actually do have double-jointed ankles, for the record. Should probably stay away from heels any time my BAC is above .08.) It was basically like that.

I'm now a walking failure. Just completely lost. Doomed to pull a tiny salary for the rest of my life. I'm so upset. I can't even tell you the last time I felt this lack of optimism. (Actually, I can. The last time this happened, I got a cat. So about two years ago. But don't worry, I have enough cats [one is always enough cats] and I don't have the cash for anything wild.)

I know that life is a funny place.
I get that.
But watching everyone else around me find contentment and success professionally, personally, romantically, academically...it's all just too much.

I'm just in a position in my life where nothing is going right. When Heidi Klum and Seal announced their divorce last week, I was uncharacteristically shaken. If they can't do it, who can? My own relationship is shaky, at best. It's not meeting my needs, and it's frustrating. I so badly want it to work. I don't think he's willing to meet me halfway. I don't think he quite understands what I need and I'm not sure how to tell him. My job is fine. I love my company, I really do. But it's hard to see a future where I still only pull $1800 month after taxes. It's hard to make a life like that. I want to own a home. My future is uncertain. I hate that uncertainty. That's the worst part.

And don't start with the "but you're young" bullshit. I'm almost 24. I get that I'm young. But when you were 24, did that seem so young? No. It's that precarious time where the shedding of our adolescent predilections is finalized and our adulthood settles in. I was out with a friend and he started in with the "you're young" business. Well, I'm not young enough that you can't take me home with you, so don't patronize me. I can and will play ball on your level. You just need to realize that your level is the same as everybody else's.

I get that I'm foolish and full of thoughts. But I don't think that those stem from my youth. I think that some of us are eternally doomed to steep in our emotions, in our thoughts, in our heads. There are plenty of people at all ages who are just as lost as I am right now. And there are plenty of people at all ages who will never have the qualities that I have. At my core, I am a beautiful person. I know that I'm fiercely intelligent. I'm open to new experiences; I'm polite (situationally, of course); I'm beautiful; I'm funny; I'm kind-hearted; I'm sarcastic; I'm an excellent maker of French toast; yes, I'm hyper-aware of my emotions - it's the greatest gift and ultimate worst curse. I'm constantly growing and changing, becoming more and more the person that I want to be. But at my core, I'll always be a little wild. And I like that.

I've been making a list of things that I can be instead of a therapist, because the door just got slammed hard on that one. But I won't list them here, because they're basically the primetime lineup for A&E and History channel: logger, pawn shop owner, swamp person, etc. (I'm way too much of a girl to be a swamp person, just for the record. And I refuse to eat squirrel.)

And please don't think that I'm not grateful. I may be wallowing (I need a few days to really embrace the depths of the sadness before I can kick my way out), but I'm still aware of the blessings in my life. Sort of. Mostly. Maybe.

On Mr. Beast in the Morning

I'm way too busy at work right now to even think about posting something legitimate. But I've been having some serious thoughts, so be excited.

Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, my son Carlos.
Dear lord, I love him. February 10th will mark our two-year adoption anniversary!

On Pictures of the Past

Because Jacob just emailed me some OLD pictures from his phone:

Denver Pride 2011 - and I didn't even get sunburned! 

us, at some point. I say February 2011. We're adorable. 

and because I found this while going through some stuff at Mom's:

My family. 2006? Judging by hair color and completely over-plucked eyebrows, I was probably between the ages of 16-18. 

On Jumbles of Thoughts.

Today is one of those days where I'm just going to throw random thoughts at you. And then you'll read them. Or you won't.

-Kevin is amazing. Just wonderful. It snowed a bit today, so he gave me his key and told me to take his car to work. Now that I'm used to it, I really like driving his SUV. And the four-wheel drive really comes in handy. I'm glad I get to keep him. The only thing left to do is have him meet Mom. I don't anticipate any problems there.

-I mailed my application. I started holding my breath, then realized that was a dumb idea and stopped. (That didn't actually happen, just so we're clear.) We'll know in about a month. Keep your fingers crossed. I really want this. I'm trying not to get too excited, just in case there's a letdown coming, but I'm not going to lie, I'm hoping that this is the beginning of the best adventure of my life. I'm going to rock as a sex therapist. I'm going to rock as a marriage therapist. I'm going to rock as a family therapist. I'm just going to rock.

-Shopping for nice boots is nasty business. I bought two pairs from Nordstrom online (their customer service is SO good). Now that I've received them, returned one pair, and received a replacement, I'm not sure that I like either pair. (Kevin said that one of the pairs looked like rain boots, which I think is the worst criticism you could ever give a pair of boots - I hate rain boots because they just swallow up my legs.) So now I'm thinking about returning all of them and not buying any boots. Or just keeping the cheap pair I have now. And to think of all the jeans I could buy for the money I spent on boots! (Not that many, actually, but still, new jeans are new jeans.)

-I'm a terrible mother: after two years of owning the beast, I had neglected to register his microchip. (I swear, I thought I had!) The microchip people had a completely different idea of where the microchip was, so I'm glad it's all taken care of now. We took him to the Dumb Friends League on Saturday to get his microchip scanned to make sure it was working. We also took the opportunity to look at dogs. It was really sad - we were waiting in the intake room to get Carlos scanned and there were so many people giving up their pets. The woman's relief was palpable when I told her that I just wanted to check his chip. I'm sure she thought that we were there to sign him over. Of course, he wouldn't come out of his carrier (you have to fight to get him in, fight to get him out...it's a whole mess), so she just reached in to scan him. He was such a trooper. After that errand, we ended up at Costco, so he stayed in the car while we shopped. The poor little guy was so happy to be home, he ran out of the carrier as soon as I set him down. I think he thinks he's going to get returned to the shelter every time we get in the car.

-Dave Logan isn't going to be the coach of Mullen anymore. Interesting. I'm curious to find out why he's out. I'm even more curious to find out what direction they're planning on taking the football program.

-The Broncos game on Sunday was amazing! I was starting to panic and then all of a sudden, it was over. We'd won. Hugs all around and even a high five from the Steelers fan next to me. I'm looking forward to seeing the game on Saturday - I'm hoping (although not confident) that we will win. Kevin took me with him to the Nuggets game on Monday night. (So much sports crammed into so little time!) I really like watching basketball - I need to start doing more of it. It was a really good game, even though we lost.

...well, this was an eloquent post. Here's hoping for something more coherent tomorrow.

On Death, Eventually

I fear greatly the answers to the questions surrounding death. It pains me to think too much about any of it. Rather than the belief in something after, I believe solely in attempting to make the best of these precious earth-bound moments. And yet, usually catching me entirely unaware, the thoughts creep back into my brain. What lies after? How can we succinctly tie our own spiritualities with the scientific, with the known, with the cold reality of it all?

I remember the immensity that was the moment - that singular moment - when we put down our beloved golden retriever. His head coming to rest for the last time on my shoe. My jerky response as I stood, smashing into the paper towel dispenser. The nurse (nurse? vet tech? lady in scrubs?) attempting to comfort me and me pushing her away because the tears were coming too fast and I couldn't wait to break away and be alone, where no one would see me crying. I realize that this is in no way comparable to the deaths of those humans we come to love so much, but then again, I think perhaps that even those mammalian deaths hold the keys to true humanity. The singularity that ties us all together: love.

No matter how it happens, death holds some sort of quiet whisper, a moment in which time stops rushing and instead, lingers for the exhale. It's not something that will ever leave you. (I do not speak as one wizened by so many experiences, thankfully, although the few that I have had with death have been personally profound.)

I was reading in the bathtub (now that I'm taking baths again, my reading material has multiplied immensely) and I found myself falling in love with the protagonist of the book I'd just started - it's been languishing in one of my book suitcases (yes, I have those) for ages and I've just now gotten around to picking it up. She embodies, for the moment, everything I find wonderful: strength, intelligence, determination, the juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, beauty, courage. And yet, I found myself terrified that she'd die before the end of the book. In that moment, I was certain of her death. I flipped to the last page (a terrible habit, but one I take great comfort in - I even do it with romance novels, and you know from the third page how those are going to end) and sure enough, she dies. It's a beautiful death, really, her soul personified by birds. But now I'm happier to read about her life. I can take comfort in the fact that I already know how she dies, yet I've not at all ruined the book for myself.

This is the point of all of this, I guess: even though you can not know the exactness of your own death, you know that at a certain point, it must come. I look at those yellow feline eyes that I love so much and realize that I can't keep them forever. I push away the melancholy thoughts, realizing that loving him now is so much better than focusing on the pain I'll feel when he's gone. I circle back, from time to time, working myself up thinking about the emptiness that the deaths of those I love will leave. I think it stems from the knowledge that one day, I will be without my mother. In my attempts to soothe myself, I have begun to steel myself against the void I know will exist. Void is inadequate. It will be like a roaring vacuum. It will pull at the edges of my soul.

But it is natural. (I remember this book they got us to teach us about death. I'll never forget how incredibly mystified I was when I read it. I hated the book and yet something drew me to it. It calmly taught children that everything must die, and yet it horrified me. I hated connecting dead leaves to people. Something resonated somewhere deep inside of me. I often think of that book and wonder what it would be like to read it again now. I wonder if it's in a box somewhere in a basement.)

Death and taxes, they say. But they're not wrong. To know the eventuality of it before it happens is to hope that one will be able to fully embrace everything that is life knowing the finality of it all. The chance to struggle and create, to learn and understand, to think, to feel, to be, to love passionately and freely is a gift. Those moments are the footprints we leave behind. To love deeply and live fully are my only goals. If at my funeral, people don't laugh and tell horrifyingly embarrassing yet endearing stories, I will be incredibly bummed.  Life is a wild adventure. It's beautiful and bittersweet.

Either way, it is certain. It's comforting, in a way, to know that everyone has to do it. Someone's doing it right now. Someone did it yesterday and someone will do it tomorrow. We are all born and we will all die, but what we do in between belongs solely to us. That's the best part.

Mom, Don't Read This, You'll Gag.

I sincerely hope that parenthood is as satisfying as pet ownership.

Everyone I know makes fun of me for loving Carlos so much. I understand. Cats are weird. Black cats are weirder. People who own cats are obviously incapable of any sort of normal social interaction. We spend all day locked in our houses, knitting or just rocking back in forth in creaking rocking chairs tapping our nails, occasionally reaching for the remote because the Price is Right has ended but Judge Judy has not yet begun and we need to watch some Cops to fill the time.

Okay, so it's not quite like that.

After Africa, Carlos didn't speak to me for the better part of a month. I am still not sure if he didn't remember me or if he was that mad at me. Even now, whenever I pack a bag or something, he wants to get in and inspect it. He'll crawl right into my backpack or jump into a suitcase, determined not to be left behind.

So after being gone for six days, I was worried I'd be hearing some complaints from him, or at the very least, the silent treatment. (Mike sent me a picture of him and the cat snuggling. I was worried that the cat had switched sides - Carlos usually avoids Mike, even though Mike wants to be friends with him. This is tentative proof of Carlos' food-for-love program in which he switches allegiances strategically depending on who's in charge of feeding him.)

I got home. I was checking email and Carlos came over to sit on me, so I moved the laptop off my stomach and let him knead himself into a ball. His soft cat sigh as he fell asleep on me was all the assurance I needed. Last night, I could tell he was feeling particularly possessive: I woke up several times during the night to find him curled on my stomach, on my back, across my feet.

There's something oddly wonderful about this sort of love. Of course he's stressful. Cat AIDS is a running joke now, but I'm sure that when he gets sick at some point, I'll be a giant ball of stress and worry. Of course people think I'm an idiot for owning a cat. (I will argue that this cat has all the perks of a dog - minus the walking and fetching bit - without the 8 hour time limit. I can leave Carlos alone for a day or so and he'll manage by himself just fine. I don't have to worry about being home to feed and walk him at 6pm sharp. I don't have to worry that he'll make a mess in my living room if I'm not home to let him out. I consider that winning.) But it feels good knowing I have something that really loves me waiting for me when I get home.

On the Celebration of Life

It's days like Saturday that make me realize that the human capacity for emotion is much deeper than we could possibly even realize. Necessities like food, water, and shelter are nothing without love.

Brian and I are standing by his golf clubs. I'm asking what the difference between a wood and an iron is. He tells me that woods are made out of wood. Then he pulls out a club. "So that's an iron?" I ask. (The club is not made of wood.) No, he tells me, it's a wood. We laugh. I understand the difference now. If you can imagine that it might be made of wood, it's a wood, even if it's made of metal. Irons are more like fireplace instruments. Heavier. Deadlier.

Brian is fiddling with the cover. "Grandpa never had the right covers for his clubs," he says. And that's when I feel it. His loss is so palpable in that moment. The fact that everything Brian knows and loves about golf, he got from Marshall. The fact that Marshall and Brian used to go golfing and then go get lunch. It was his childhood. He and his grandpa were inseparable, even at the end.

I don't know how to say I'm sorry. I do know how to learn about something that they both loved, so I ask more golf questions.

"I'm only telling you this because I know you'll appreciate it," said Juanita, leaning into me. She introduces me as her adopted granddaughter. I am so happy in that moment. She didn't want them to bring that picture, she says, but she's glad they did because it's one of her favorites. She tells me that on their wedding day 63 years ago, there's a picture of him looking at her exactly the same way. My eyes were on her sweater, rhinestones at the wrists. I didn't dare look up. My eyes were already full. She tells me that even though he was a quiet man, he always reminded her that he loved her. "And he really did love me," she says. I smile. I mean, I really smile. My heart is full of love and a little bit of hurt - the pull of the sadness of a great loss.

(I couldn't get a picture of the picture without the glare! I'm sorry for the poor quality!)

The speeches are beautiful. There is nothing better than honest memories. Laughter fills the space. When one of my cousins gets up to say something, I feel my eyes start to fill up again. Even though this is sort of the worst part of life, the saying goodbye, it's also the best. It reminds you how much love you have surrounding you. It reminds you how much every single person can mean to you, how much they can impact you.

My adopted grandparents. My other grandparents. My spare grandparents. My not grandparents. We never could figure out just what to call them. So we threw terms out and tried them on. They mean just as much to me as my actual grandparents. And I mean just as much to them as their grandchildren. Mom tells me that when I was little, we were leaving Grandma Mary's house and I asked her, "Who are those people?" They've been a part of my life since I was little, since before I could figure out how they fit into the scheme of things.

And I'm so grateful for that.

Marshall was a wonderful father, a wonderful husband, and a wonderful grandfather. I am so happy that I got to be a part of it. And I promise to help take good care of Juanita.

On my toes

Life goes on, whether or not you're ready to go with it.

The past few weeks have been a blur of wonderful newness, of comfort and bliss. They've also been full of stress, cancer, death, uncertainty, and pain. But that's how life goes. Sometimes it throws everything at you at once, just to make sure you're on your toes. So that's where I've been. On my toes.

The first funeral was on Friday. I put on the black dress only to find that I had shrunk (or it had somehow stretched two sizes) and it wouldn't be suitable. So instead, I found another black dress. This one still fits. (I really do need to start with this eating business. I'm a little bit bony.) I wasn't going to go, and I didn't tell Dad that I was going until I was on 6th Avenue, headed west, but I feel like I was in some ways obligated to go. It was good. Merrilee was such a funny person, and the last time I saw her was at Jeanie's graduation party earlier this summer. It was good to meet the people who meant so much to her. They had pairs of nose glasses that she used to wear on a board, along with pictures of people wearing the nose glasses. It was good that I went because that meant that I got to chat with Jeanie while Dad talked to everyone else. On a nearly irrelevant note, they had mini quiches. I am such a fan of any party that has mini quiches.

But mini quiches aren't the point. (Unless they are? Wouldn't it be so nice if the entire meaning of life could be reduced to mini quiches? I could get down with that.)

Life doesn't last forever.

Marshall died late Thursday night. He is now listening to the harp music at the great golf course in the sky. (What? It could totally happen. Maybe my personal heaven is bubble baths and wine.)
I sat next to him at Thanksgiving and watched as Juanita fussed with him about whether or not he was happy and comfortable. I was really touched by the fact that after so many years together, they were still taking care of each other. He was constantly aware of her presence and she always made sure that he had what he needed - although there was that one time when someone was missing a cup of coffee and she just grabbed his and said, "Here, have this one." That's the kind of love that everyone should be looking for. It might not always be the most effective, but at least it's real.  They are seriously the best non-grandparents I could have had. (Although, now it's our turn to make Juanita cookies just because.)

Cancer cancer cancer cancer. I've not got a lot to say about this one. Seriously, every time I turn around, someone else has it. We've got two at work, two on one side of the family. I was talking to Mom about this and she reminded me that this is just a bad spell. I warned her that she wasn't allowed to get any more cancer just because everyone else was doing it. So we go on. I come from a family of tough people, particularly the women. We've got this. We'll tackle it like we tackle anything else. Everyone will help where they're needed. We'll cover the gaps and everyone will emerge alright. I promise. And if anyone wants a healing animal, they're welcome to borrow Carlos for a few weeks. Nothing will make you want to heal like having the very grumpy Carlos around. (He's currently at the bottom of my bed with his his paws wrapped around my foot. I love him so much. Best worst decision ever.)

Got an email from the other side of the family today. God, I hate holidays so much. When I am ruler of the universe, there will be no family obligations unless, of course, you want to. I am already stressed at the thought of them cornering me. I'm already imagining it happen. And I'm already tense and terrified. Gross.

The grad school application is limping along, coming together bit by bit.

The giant proposal due at work remains unfinished. Tomorrow will be the ultimate race to the finish line.

But those things don't really matter. I mean, of course they do. I'd be an idiot not to get my application in, since I still have a month left. And I'd be an idiot if I didn't bust my ass to get that proposal done. But in the larger scope of things, there is so much more that matters, well, so much more.

On the brighter side, guess what's awesome?

We went up to Keystone yesterday. Day 5 of snowboarding this season. I'm starting to get it. I did a Blue run with the boys then headed back up to find Emily. Spent the rest of the day on some long greens. It was good. Kevin and his brother came down from Vail to meet up with the group. The boys that we went up with are fun - one of them is in town from Boston, and he'll be on our New Year's trip. I'm starting to be able to do my toe side stuff, which means I'm actually able to snowboard properly. Pretty soon I'll be doing sweet jumps! (That's actually what I dream about.) Mom, best Christmas present ever. Without your insistence, I'd never be doing this. And I think it's pretty rad. Also, pass is officially paid for now. Be stoked on that.

I have a boyfriend-thing going on. That was unexpected. I blame the Real World for making me question our relationship situation. So I asked him if we were dating. He said yes. Apparently, that was enough of an exclusivity conversation for him. (We later discussed all of this and figured everything out. It was very reminiscent of our first date.)
I am so ridiculously happy. He's wonderful. He's smart, funny, sarcastic, sweet. We are different enough that it will continue to be interesting for me. But we are similar enough that we just mesh well. He takes good care of me. The thing that I think I like the most is that he's up for anything. When I'm like, let's go to this concert (I've done that twice so far), he's always open to it. He likes the random adventures that I like, which is good.

Broncos game today. I realize that the tickets came to us in the midst of sadness, but on the plus side, Mike and I are sort of going on a double date. I am bringing Kevin, who is awesome and driving back from family vacation in Vail in time for this. Mike's bringing a girl! I think I'm probably more excited for this than I am anything else.

This is not one of those "live every day like it's your last" posts, because those are dumb. But seriously, if you're not doing something awesome, or something that you love, or something that's wonderful, what are you doing with your life? After babysitting, I slept for nearly twelve hours last night. (that's the something wonderful I was talking about.) That was exactly what I needed to do after being an idiot and going out with Katie before I went snowboarding. So today is marching forward and if I don't hurry, I'm going to miss all the excitement.

I almost forgot: I started writing about being on your toes and life and then I looked down and remembered all the bandages on my toes. Yesterday morning, sometime in the pre-dawn hours, while I was frantically searching for snowboard gear in my room, I somehow managed to step into the side of a laundry basket, taking skin off of two of my toes. I didn't think anything of it until I saw little bloody toe-prints. As it turns out, sometimes being on your toes doesn't quite work out the way you'd planned.

Have a beautiful day, world, you deserve it.

On the "Love Hormone" Gene - from Time Magazine

Telltale Signs You've Got the 'Love Hormone' Gene?

By Maia Szalavitz Thursday, November 17, 2011 

Can you tell at first glance if someone is likely to be a good partner or parent? New research suggests that observers can identify the most nurturing and socially sensitive people, just by watching their behavior for 20 seconds — and that these highly empathetic people are more likely to have a gene variation associated with trust and caring.

The genetic variation affects the receptor for oxytocin, often referred to as the "love hormone" or "cuddle chemical" because it plays a role in social bonding, trust, empathy and generosity. Levels of oxytocin increase during orgasm and childbirth, and it helps the formation of bonds between friends, lovers, and parents and children.

Research has shown that people with two G variants of the gene are more empathetic and "prosocial," showing more compassion, cooperation and positive emotion. In contrast, those with the at least one A version of the gene tend to be less empathetic, may have worse mental health and are more likely to be autistic.

MORE: 'Love Hormone' Oxytocin Enhances Men's Memories of Mom — Good or Bad

In the new study, researchers videotaped 23 romantic couples while one person listened to his or her significant other describe a time of personal suffering. Then, 116 strangers were asked to watch silent 20-second clips of the videos and rate the listeners on how supportive and trustworthy they seemed.

People who were rated as most empathetic based on their body language and behavior — things like keeping eye contact, smiling and nodding while their partner spoke, and having open body posture — were also more likely to have the GG genotype, researchers found. Of the 10 people rated the most trustworthy, six had the GG variant; of the 10 rated lowest on trust, nine had two copies of the A gene variation.

"We were floored by how strongly significant the results were by genotype for such a small number of people evaluated," says Sarina Rodrigues Saturn, assistant professor of psychology at Oregon State University and an author of the study.

Men who carried the GG genotype were also more easily identified as being sensitive, compared with the women.

Read more:http://healthland.time.com/2011/11/17/telltale-signs-youve-got-the-love-hormone-gene/#ixzz1f771xSk5

On Everything

The Broncos won last night!! Such a good game to be at! The fourth quarter was lovely! And the weather was nice. I'm still not on the Tebow bandwagon, but at least I'm feeling a bit more proud of our team. Uncle Mike wins awesome Uncle of the Year award for hauling us back to the Light Rail station at DU, and also because his commentary during the game always makes me smile. He's the best to sit by.  (Also, Mom and I were reminiscing about the drive to Chicago all those years ago. And he still wins for that.)



Tomorrow is National Adoption Day. Did you know that there are over 107,000 kids in foster care waiting to be adopted? A lot of them won't ever be, which is really sad. Every child deserves a family.
I hope that when I grow up (a little more), I am able to be a foster parent or at least get involved in helping foster kids find good adoptive homes.

http://www.ccainstitute.org/our-programs/national-adoption-day.html

Also, Mike just finished writing a big paper for his psychology class about adoptions and success in life. If you're interested, you might email him and ask for a copy. I know that he spent a lot of time working on it and considering all of the factors that can affect people who've been adopted.

My boss (who has four adopted children of his own) always says that kids who are adopted only want to know two things: why they were given up and who their birth parents are. He's so right. I know why I'm where I am today and I know half of who my birth parents are, but I find that as I get older, the desire to know just what my biological father looked like grows stronger. Where is this nose from?!

I'm stoked to procreate the regular way one day and have kids who look like me, but I think that should I run into conception challenges - I'd absolutely consider adoption over other fertility stuff. (Not knocking all the IVF and surrogacy stuff, just saying.)





Today is Grandpa George's birthday (he would have been 86) and my half-birthday. Mom always sends me a text on my half birthday, and every year, I have no idea that it's today until I get it. (This is also just another piece of evidence that she loves me more than Mike - he doesn't get half-birthday texts or facebook wall posts.)

Happy Birthday Grandpa George! I emailed Grandma to say that this would have been the age we would have started to tease him about being very elderly.




Pretending that you're not as poor as you are is getting to be really stressful. I know that I make a lot of lifestyle choices, including my adventures, but each of those choices involve a lot of careful planning and sacrifice. I am so grateful for all of the support systems I have in my life - I know that if I was desperate, I could call Mom, but at the same time, I'm so determined to be completely independent that I won't dare. There's no need. I won't rely on anyone to take care of me. Not now, or ever.
Once bills and rent and loan payments are made, the daily budget sits somewhere around $15 (give or take) - which sounds like it's good enough until you realize that filling your car up with gas is two days worth of life expenses. Everything comes down to "how many days do I lose?" if I do or eat or buy this or that or the other thing. That said, I refuse to let experiences pass me by. I will not stay home and let life go on without me.  There are so many things I'd like to do (like get Simon a new bumper, one month of life expenses) that fall by the wayside. I spend a lot of time stressing out about this (and retirement), especially since I feel like so many of my friends (all of them) are making more than me.
I realize I shouldn't complain. I'm really lucky. I'm happy at work; I'm learning a lot; it's a laid-back environment (which I need and thrive in).
But it makes me feel like I'm not good enough, not as smart, not as talented, not as driven, not as successful, not as goal oriented, not as focused, utterly lacking potential for growth. (There's a lot of NOTs in there, and I'd like to be able to focus more of my energy on being less NOT and more BE - as in I AM successful, I AM goal oriented, I AM focused, driven, etc.) It's just overwhelmingly frustrating and really scary. I would like just one month where I could buy a new pair of jeans (a week or so out of my budget). Or boots that didn't come from Target (3x the daily budget). Or eat three meals a day. Maybe next year. Maybe I just need to find another weekend job. Or start babysitting more. I've been eating the same damn baguette (1/7 of the daily budget) for three days now, and I'm getting about as annoyed as it is stale.

Sorry, that was ridiculous and completely self-pitying, but it needed to come out. I need to remind myself that I'm wallowing sometimes. It helps when it's public - it makes you think twice before having any self-depreciating moments. It also enhances the wince and the inner shame. Both are great character builders.
:-)




Tonight, one of my favorite bands is in town. I didn't even know they were coming (what does that say about me?) until yesterday when I saw that they had tweeted from Colorado Springs. But they're going to be here! And I have tickets! And I'm beyond excited! Between this concert and the one in two weeks (Mickey Avalon), I am crossing two bands off my bucket list. It's going to be a productive end to 2011.
Shwayze - Get U Home
Shwayze - Crazy For You
Shwayze - Drunk Off Your Love




Tomorrow is up in the air. I'm either going to take Mike's car and go up to the mountains before babysitting, or I'm going to write my personal statement for grad school and get the mountain of laundry done before it threatens to eat both me and Carlos.
I'm secretly hoping that laundry wins this battle. I have just wanted to get rid of everything I own lately. I just want to pare down my clothes pile so that I'm only keeping what I'll actually wear. I would also like to clean the entire apartment from top to bottom.




It's been one of those really long weeks. I'm physically and mentally exhausted. I've done a lot of stuff, though. Boulder, Broncos game, Suite 200 - never again, whatever it was that I did on Monday night. I'm in a great mood and I'd like to channel this positive energy into something useful, like a clean apartment.

Also, because I haven't subjected you to the torture that is looking at cat pictures lately, here's Carlos just waking up. Notice how annoyed he looks to be bothered. I love him so very much. And I'd like to think that he loves me too. I think he does. 

On Them and You.

J always makes me smile:
We are talking about the communication. It was not odd, just out of the blue.
"I mean, I just don't get it," I'm saying. "She's way out of my league. She's beautiful." I draw out the beautiful, lingering on each syllable.
J agrees. "She's gorgeous!" He says. He extolls her physical virtues for way too long.
"Seriously, J," I snap good-naturedly (I rarely snap good-naturedly. I'm in a great mood.) "Enough! I know how much better looking than me she is."
"Oh," he says, pausing. "Sorry."
We laugh.
"Do you think he fell in love with you?" he asks.
My turn to laugh alone. "No," I say, certain.
Our conversations now revolve around the usual things. Work. School, when I'm thinking about it. My inability to find a suitable mate; his ability to find the best ones. It's a good pattern. We used to meet for platonic margaritas. I miss that.
I wish girlfriends were more lenient. But I get that too. I always hated when H would let his ex get weird around me, which always happened. There's nothing worse than the awkward run in with an ex. She and I faked a good friendship for so long that eventually it started to become real.

But it's gotten me thinking. Can you really be friends with an ex? Should you be?

R(2) invited me to climb Kilimanjaro with him a few weeks ago. Then he invited me to the Bahamas. Such a tease - he knew I couldn't take time off work. I would have gone in a heartbeat. He texts me to comment on my horrible date blogs. He thought the one about him was especially hilarious - he found it when we were still dating. It was all about how to talk to someone sixteen years older than you, the high suicide rate of CPAs, and the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. I loved that post. I would later come to adore the man. We still meet for dinners, drinks, whatever. He still beats me at Scrabble every time. I still love that we drank a bottle of wine from the year I was born. (I love that about men - that they actually have wine from the year you were born.) He always teases me about the bookshelf. He built the first one, I still need him to come and build the second one - it's been nine months. I'll never get around to it.
I still see his friends sometimes. They're great people. Sometimes I'm with him when we all hang out, sometimes I run in to them at bars. We always exchange pleasantries. It's all good on the surface.

You date. You separate. You re-acclimate. Then your relationship becomes something new and beautiful.

E and I have been trying to meet up to hang out for the longest time, going on months now. We should have gone out tonight, but I begged off, still sick and tired. I never want to have fun when I'm sick-grumpy. I wanted to take him to the 1Up, since he's never been, and I think the nerd in him will geek out so hard over life-size Jenga. We're excited to be friends with each other. We had a long conversation a few weeks ago. He'd just run another marathon (gross) and rocked it. I love this. I love that even though we have literally nothing in common (except our love for his dog), we can still sit there and be fun people. Next week. I've entered it into my calendar, to make it real.

My boyfriends always hate that I'm still friends with most of my exes. I don't get why. I think that's a good sign.

I keep bringing up Portland in front of K, for some reason. It stemmed first from public transportation (theirs is so much like ours), then it was the homeless youth, then it was the spiders (HUGE!). He finally asked me what it was about Portland and I had to explain. College, I told him, for a year I did the long distance hell with a kid from Denver who went to school out there.

It was the first time I'd brought up any of the past. I was nervous. I haven't felt the way I do since my junior year of college. I want to keep him. Therefore, I can't just let anything slip out my mouth like it usually does. I want to tread carefully with the past. I have nothing to hide, but, still... I want this exploration of each other to be organic (and USDA approved).

I'm talking to E about it today.
"I can't read him," I say, frustrated.
"You're hard to read, too," she says.

For now, it's wonderful. I'd like for it to stay like this. Nothing's official - it's still in those weird tingly stages. (That was a really gross adjective, I apologize. But I'm sticking with it.) But I like where it's going. I like what it is. I like that he likes me for who I am - awesome.

(Also, and seriously never tell him this because it comes out so creepy unless I explain it properly, he totally fits into my life plan of having my last name hyphenated to B-S. I think it's so badass. Today, my favorite professor from college was telling me to go get my doctorate instead of just my masters and I had the sign in my head: Dr. Barry-Something. And it was beautiful. I will only date people whose last name begins with S from now on. I'm already on my third "S" of the year. This may be a strange 2011 trend, though. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.)

Now that I sound absolutely insane, I'm off to bed.
Work is crazy this week, and I have a half-completed marketing plan that's due by like 10am. Oh great, deadlines. Yay.

On the first snow

I've felt that feeling of glorious beginning only a few times in my life, but I can still remember the first moment for all of them.
It's never a complete memory, just a glimpse, a snapshot.
You will never feel the way you do in that moment ever again. There will be highs, lows, the muddling about in between, but there is never anything so pure as the singular realization of possibility.

Today, I was too busy to write about how I feel about fall. About the way the light looks different now than it did a month ago, how the sun shines on crisp leaves. I wanted to show you the leaves blowing across the road, skipping along and settling. I wanted you to feel what I felt. Color set against the gray light. Beauty in the beginning of the end. (The beginning of anything is always the beginning of the end.)

It is one of those glimpses, a moment slipping away before the barren winter arrives.

Tonight is that feeling. Tonight is full of possibilities. Tonight, you don't see it coming; you can't; you're too excited. It'll stay like that forever.

The first snow is the best snow. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it and covers you before you have a chance to take it in. You sit by the window. You stare. You watch the flakes fall. You could watch for hours, you're enamored. You want it to last forever - your childhood is calling. You see snowball fights and snow forts, your yellow kitchen table and mugs of hot chocolate.

You forget the frostbitten toes and pink cheeks. You forget the feeling of wet wool socks. Now, all you can see is the glittering, the snow falling through the eyes of the street lights. You forget that you've forgotten to pull you windshield wipers away from your car; that your winter jacket hasn't been to the cleaners; that you're going to be late for work.

The snow will turn black, eventually. It will melt away until the misshapen clumps become eyesores. You'll ache for fresh flowers. You'll hate how empty the trees are. Autumn fades before you know it, giving way to the endless winter. Just as you think you're about to go mad with want of life, spring arrives to save you.

You feel the rush all over again. Love is the first day you run barefoot outside, only to realize the ground is still frozen underneath the spreading warmth.

Potential.

Either that, or six more weeks of winter.

On Romance Novels

I swear I'll get back to work after this....but....

I love historical romance novels. 

When I write one, Evan Stone (below) shall grace the cover. I'm sure he'll say yes when I ask him....

Romance Novels, Hairless Chests, And 

'Everything I Know About Love'

by LINDA HOLMES

(published 10/3/2011 on NPR)

Sarah Wendell undoubtedly knows exactly what you're thinking when you hear the title of her new book,Everything I Know About Love I Learned From Romance Novels.

She's been working at the web site Smart Bitches, Trashy Books for years now, and she's heard everything you care to say about what kind of a woman would actually learn everything she knows about love from romance novels. You're thinking: This is how people develop unrealistic expectations and cannot form healthy relationships, and what's the deal with the bosoms and bodices and pecs and roses and OH RIGHT, LADY, I GUESS EVERYONE IS SUPPOSED TO BE FABIO.

(It's always Fabio in comments of this kind. Fabio is to romance novels as eating bugs is to reality shows.)

She knows. She's over it. I've been reading Sarah for a long time — and, in the interests of full disclosure, we chatter back and forth on Twitter now and then about Downton Abbey and what books I should read next — and I can tell you, you have nothing snide to say that she hasn't already been told. Probably many times. But she remains, as I said she was back in late 2009, one of the best explorers I know of the interesting aspects of things typically deemed lowbrow and unimportant, and this book is a great example.

 

Collecting comments from her readers and from authors, as well as drawing on her own experience as a reader and a blogger, she sets out to explore the relationship between what romance readers get from novels and what they experience in their own lives. She talks about the kinds of men you meet on the page, the kinds of conflicts that arise between couples, and the qualities that separate healthy relationships from unhealthy ones.

What Sarah ultimately identifies is not a one-way transfer in which books teach women (because it is mostly women) about romance. It's more of a feedback loop. That's the trick to the book's title. If it were entirely, totally accurate, it would beEverything I Know About What I Already Think About Love, I Learned From Romance Novels. While her thesis is not that a romance novel indoctrinates readers into believing in certain kinds of relationships — that would be creepy — there's a strong argument here that the genre helps readers identify and articulate needs and feelings they already have, as they notice what kinds of books and heroes they gravitate toward.

This is one of the interesting points about genre entertainment in general: when there are elements of formula, identifying which versions of that formula appeal to you is surprisingly enlightening. Which iteration of a hero, for instance, do you choose, and what does it mean when you do? Everything from personality to chest hair tends to be specified in great detail; you can pretty much take your pick.

I'll give you an example. (You knew I would.) I'm a romance reader myself, but I almost never read historical romances, which are probably more numerous than any other kind. I don't read the ones with the voluminous skirts and Lord Whomever and Lady Anne Blah Blah Blah whose father is the Duke or whatever happens in those books. (I don't know. I think they mostly drink sherry?)

Instead, I am almost entirely devoted to contemporaries, which are books set in the approximate here and now, in approximately the culture and world I live in. I had never given a whole lot of thought to why that is, until I read this book and realized that for me, freestyle back-and-forth banter is so fundamental to any remotely affecting flirtation that the courtly love stuff — people who cannot speak of their feelings because IT IS TABOO — is too restricting. I am what I am, and nothing charms me like a good zinger. I don't like status and manners interfering with everybody yammering a mile a minute. (See above: I am what I am.)

Other people are the opposite: they're charmed by the restriction, and they find the unspoken things to be the most romantic. Corsets, in that way of seeing the world, are sexy precisely because they're an obstacle. I prefer for the obstacle to be stubbornness and never shutting up. Potato, po-tah-to. But the fact that I feel this way is something I arguably learned and noticed from reading and then reflecting on these books. (None of which contain Fabio, I'll just have you know.)

There are plenty of variations on the theme. Some people find possessive, aggressive partners (within reason) to be alluring, and some find them terrifying. Some people like a lot of overt reassurances that they're loved, and other people like things to go unspoken. When you really, really love a book that does, in fact, have a lot in common with other books like it, it's a kind of spelunking into your own tastes, not only in reading, but in reality. Not because you actually expect anything to go as it does in a book, but because individual elements jump out and make one book up your alley while another isn't. Why ... well, why does your brain see the book and say, "This one"? It's not necessarily the book you learn from as much as it is the fact that you picked it.

The sex chapter, incidentally, works basically the same way. It's less about "I read this in a book, so this is how you do this particular thing," and it's more about ... well, let's make it about handholding, just to keep things on the up and up. The analogy would be that the book would allow readers an insight like, "When I read about having my right hand held, that's not sexy, but when I read about having my left hand held, that's very sexy, so maybe I'll ask the next guy to hold my left hand instead of my right hand." There you go; you've learned something. Not about handholding, but about you.

Lest you conclude the book is entirely analytical, I will assure you that it contains Sarah's trademark snappy, funny writing, as well as her tireless defense of the readers she's met. One example:

Ironically, many people who disdain the romance genre and look down on the women who read it presume that reading about courtship, emotional fulfillment, and rather fantastic orgasms leads to an unrealistic expectation of real life. If we romance readers are filling our own heads with romantic fantasies, real men and real life won't and cannot possibly measure up to our fairy-tale expectations, right? Wrong. Wrongity wrong wrong wrong. That accusation implies that we don't know the difference between fantasy and real life, and frankly, it's sexist as well. You don't see adult gamers being accused of an inability to discern when one is a human driving a real car and when one is a yellow dinosaur driving a Mario Kart, but romance readers hear about their unrealistic expectations of men almost constantly.

It's always refreshing when anybody cares about anything enough to put a title on a book that is guaranteed to draw the same angry snorts she's been hearing for the last ... oh, five or ten years. I am inspired to write a book called I Am Made Of Television, Slapstick And Jackie Collins Books. I owe no less.

Read an excerpt of Everything I Know About Love I Learned from Romance Novels