Don't Carry It All

For this week's Twisted Mix Tape, I'm sharing the top eleven of my recent playlist.

I know, it sounds boring. But I want to share the fabulous music I've been enjoying day in and day out. And- for the FIRST TIME- most of this is stuff you've probably heard on the radio.

Can you believe it? What's happened to me?

Or maybe, what's happened to the radio? It's like somebody fixed it and it stopped making the obnoxious noises it's been spewing out the last couple of years. (Wow. I'm old.)

And there's some sad news. This is the third to last Mix Tape Tuesday, probably for a long time. So you can bet I'm going to be posting my mixes until the curtain closes on this particular blog hop. I've loved it, I still love it, and I'm going to miss the hell out of it.

So here we are- my current go-to playlist.



First if all, let's be honest. Since the moment the DVD arrived in the mail, Frozen has been on in my house. On a loop. Every minute the children are allowed to sit in front of the TV. And to be honest, I've been letting them sit in front of the TV a lot. Partially because it means my house stays quite a bit cleaner, and partially because... I really like having Frozen on all the time, constantly, in a loop. And while, yes, I've been singing "Let It Go" like it's my job, SI has been going around singing this like it's her job. Which is even awesomer than it sounds.



I *love* Juliana Hatfield. And her last album was absolutely beautiful. And this is my favorite track from it. While the snow has finally melted and the sun has actually shone through my window, this song has seemed really appropriate to me. It's quiet optimism and confidence, especially in that last line... "Patience." It's been the song of March for me.



This song is another one that makes me happy. I've had a lot of ups and downs the last few months, and this song has gotten me through a few of the rough patches. Thanks, Decembrists. You're always there when I need you.



Another gloomy March song. Beautiful, sad, and a little more. Especially with the addition of the absolutely brilliant video. It's all in the last turn of phrase, in the last refrain. And I love songs that turn around and do that to you, GREAT track.



I don't know what suddenly brought this back to the front of my brain, but here it is. And I can't stop singing it, dancing around, and bobbing my head in the car. Maybe it's swapping out my long heavy skirts for shorter ones, and wandering around in my longer jacket. Nah, couldn't be that.



I'm not much of a fan of pop music, in general. But I can't keep myself from liking MS MR. And even more importantly, how can I not love any song with a Harry Potter reference? Plus, the hook has really spoken to me as I've worked day after day on editing my manuscript. "We fear rejection... dream dream dream of perfection." Kind of a writer's mantra, isn't it?



And now for something completely different. Who doesn't like some Toots and the Maytals? (And can somebody please tell me what a Maytal is?)



I could sing along to Adele singing almost unaccompanied all day long. Or rather, I could if my children didn't shush me and tell me they can't hear "Frozen" over my singing of Adele. Either way, recently this song came back up to the top of my playlist, and it's stayed there. And I've very much enjoyed that turn of events.



In the realm of other totally enjoyable earworms, I present Fitz and the Tantrums. And I apologize, now you'll probably be whistling all day.



Last, but the opposite of least. I could listen to this on a loop forever and always be happy about it. I know, loving "Wrecking Ball" was kind of my guilty pleasure. Thank you, Isosine, for totally rocking the mashup and removing any ounce of guilt I had. I can drive around blasting this, singing along, and just feel like a rock star.

Bodily Autonomy- End of the Month Controversy

Having a uterus makes life complicated.

It shouldn't have to. After all, more than half the people on the planet have one. But along with the uterus comes, theoretically, the ability for it to become occupied.

And there is an intense debate raging in this country about who an occupied uterus belongs to.

As a person with a uterus, I think this is pretty clear. I think it's a black and white proposition- the uterus is mine, and I get to do what I want with it. I can donate it to science when I die, I can have it removed if it becomes diseased, I can take medications to regulate how and when it sheds its lining, I can have it surgically altered so that my eggs can't reach it.

This is called "bodily autonomy." It means I have the right to do what I want with my body, uterus included. And we, as a culture, care a lot about bodily autonomy. We care about it so much that we make sure it's protected even after death.

That's why you can't just harvest all the kidneys and livers people on those wait lists need from conveniently dead people. We respect the wishes of the dead, and if before they died a person said, "Please do not cut open my body and give my kidneys, liver, lungs, heart, valves, corneas, or any other parts to other people. I would like to be buried with them, according to my own traditions and customs," we say, "Okay, cool! Keep your organs!" And then we let them take their parts to the ground with them.

I know, this is very morbid. But follow me for a minute here.

There is a small but organized and vocal minority that says all of this bodily autonomy changes the moment a woman decides she wants to control how her uterus works.

See, birth control doesn't just prevent a woman from being pregnant. It's so much more. It allows women to count on a precise 28 day cycle, which begins and ends on the day of her choosing.

I can't tell you how many working women I know who coordinate their birth control with a weekend, so that if their period comes heavy or uncomfortable, or brings with it mood swings or migraines, they know they'll have those symptoms over a weekend- minimizing the impact on their jobs.

I can't tell you how many women I know who neglect the "off week," and simply eliminate their periods from their lives for months and months on end.

Having a period is a tremendous inconvenience, but it is much less so when you know precisely when it's going to happen, or that its associated complaints will be minimized medicinally. I would think, for this reason, that any employer who wanted to get involved in the process or whether or not their female employees had access to birth control would opt for yes.

Who doesn't want to ensure that their employees won't get nauseated or headachey or depressed on a monthly basis?

And considering the notorious "mommy tracking" women experience, being passed over for promotions and opportunities because their employers fear becoming less of a priority to them than their children, the additional protection of ensuring a lack of pregnancy is kind of icing on the cake.

So why on earth would an employer want to deny their employees access to birth control?

It's because of this idea that a woman's bodily autonomy ends where her uterus begins. This small, vocal, organized minority believes that a uterus really only serves one function- to produce more humans.

So if a woman takes a step that might prevent her uterus from producing more humans... they can't have that.

We have a problem in this country, in that this small, vocal, organized minority has a lot of money, and with that a lot of power. And they're using it to promote an agenda that people with uteruses aren't really people, and shouldn't enjoy the same right to bodily autonomy as people without a uterus.

It's because of that vocal minority that women who experience the tragedy of still birth are being charged as murderers.

But it's not just the uterus that's up for legislation and prosecution. More and more, it's any distinguishably female characteristics. A woman in in Arkansas was arrested for drinking a beer while breastfeeding, and charged with child endangerment.

Yes, drinking and breastfeeding is generally bad. But breastfeeding is hard, and many doctors and midwives have advised women for centuries to drink a little beer or wine to ease painful or stressful letdowns. This woman drank two beers over an hour and a half, and as a human being and legal adult, that is her right. But is it child endangerment?

Would somebody have called the police if it was champagne, and she was at a wedding?

More and more, I fear the answer would be yes. Because that small and vocal and organized minority is organized. They are waging a campaign to shame and humiliate women who dare use their uterus, breasts, or ovaries as they please.

Because when you have bodily autonomy, it means you're a person. Like any other person.

And that means you have the right to equal pay. To fair treatment. To privacy between you and your doctor.

Each step this small, vocal, and organized minority takes to remove another organ from a woman's bodily autonomy is another step towards their proof that women aren't human anyway. And once a woman has no right to control her uterus, her breasts, or her ovaries, what's next?

Vaginae? Feet? Brain?

We're not collections of disparate parts, to regulate and control. We're people. With the same rights to control what we do with our parts that corpses enjoy.

And whether or not you agree with abortion, I think we should all be able to agree on that.

Becoming A Hero

I don't like the phrase, "Things happen for a reason." Enough terrible things have happened to me and my family in my short time on Earth to resent the idea.

I much prefer, "Things happen." Because they do. Things happen constantly, and yes, some people experience worse than others. And you can't exactly choose how you respond to these things. You can't control experiencing fear, or sorrow, or anger, but you can conquer it once it's already there.

And once you've done that, you can decide what you want to do with the experiences you've had.

That's why I joined the RAINN Speaker's Bureau.

I've talked about it before on this blog, a couple of times. But let me tell you, that is a far cry from what it's actually like to stand in front of a room full of people and actually tell your story. Not just any story, the events leading up to and including the worst you've ever known.

But it's not just sharing the story. It's giving it a broader context. Using it as a tool to teach.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak at a high school, for 120 high school juniors and seniors. Their teacher is a remarkable educator. He invented an advanced health class that teaches students about health and sexuality, with all the uncomfortable conversations that entails. Students are only allowed in by teacher referral, and only upperclassmen in good standing.

Each year for the last eleven, the students in this class do a mock date rape trial. Students are given roles, from medical examiner to judge to defendant. This class is one of those formative experiences. One of his former students went on to go into law, crediting this experience solely as her motivation.

For the first time in the eleven years this class has existed, all four sections' mock trial juries came back with a "not guilty" verdict.

And for the first time, the teacher reached out to the RAINN Speaker's Bureau to have a survivor, of events nearly exactly like the story he constructed for his students, come to speak to his class. For forty five minutes. For four separate groups of students.

And that person was me.

There's something you experience every time you talk about sexual assault. It's a certainty that somebody is going to call you a liar. To deny your story, to tell you that if events happened as you described, you are still to blame.

Walking into a room of teenagers who found a date-rapist not guilty is that experience under a magnifying glass. Already, this group of teenagers- a notoriously judgmental and self assured group- has decided that the assailant, in a case nearly identical to yours, was not at fault.

What can you possibly say to explain the truth?

The day before the presentation, I lost my voice. Completely lost it. I spent a whole day chugging hot tea, avoiding raising my voice, and swallowing spoonfuls of honey. But when I showed up I was still hoarse and quiet.

As I stood and started to speak, the students stilled themselves to perfect silence. It might have been the only way to hear me. And while I spoke, my hands shook.

But with every word, as they stared and listened, my voice got a little stronger. After twenty minutes, my hands had stopped shaking.

I didn't just tell my story. I told the kids they had been right to choose a not guilty verdict. That rapists nearly always get off scot free, that victims are usually blamed and hushed and ignored or made to disappear. And I told them about the notorious Reddit thread where rapists confessed, and provided us with a rare glimpse into what really goes on in the mind of someone who commits sexual assault.

And I talked about rape culture- I explained that the ideas they had about a girl "asking for it" because she was drinking were wrong. I explained that everything about the way our culture addresses sex and sexual assault comes from the fundamental idea that it's a woman's job to avoid being raped, as though rapists are phantoms, or weather patterns.

I talked about consent, what it is and what it isn't.

The kids asked questions, and I was shocked and impressed by the depth and candor of their questions. I was amazed by their insight. And I answered them as honestly and candidly as I could, no matter how painful.

I spoke for three hours, and it got a little easier as it went on. After each class a few students came by to ask more questions, privately, to say thank you, or to engage in a quick conversation about rape culture.

And I was floored.

By the time I got home my voice was worse than gone, and I felt exhausted in a bone deep, emotional way.

But I felt like maybe, just maybe, I had really done something that made a difference.

I told those kids that what had been missing from their trial, and from all rape trials like it, was somebody who could stand up in court and say, "He knew, without a doubt, the victim didn't consent." I told them that now everyone in that class had the ability to be that person, because everyone in that class could explain to their friends, their siblings, their parents what is and what isn't consent. So everyone in that class had the power within themselves to prevent sexual assaults from happening, by preventing rapists from becoming rapists.

I think it hit home for many of them. I hope it did.

And as for me? I feel empowered. And perversely enough, I feel fortunate. This is something I could do for the rest of my life. With my life.

Things happen. And I'm glad I've found a way to give them meaning.

Hilary Clinton Is Evil, and Other Lessons from #Divergent

Warning! Spoilers ahead!

Last week, I was ridiculously lucky enough to score a pair of tickets to an advance screening of Divergent.

Yes, I know, it's in wide release now and you've probably already seen it. So why bother reviewing it at this point?

Because me and M are STILL arguing over it.

You read that right. My husband and I, who only ever participate in prolonged arguments about the secular v. religious aspects of Christmas, have been arguing for almost a week about a movie.

For those of you unaware, it seems the 20-teens are the decade of the teenaged badass heroine. Which I think is FANTASTIC. And the heroine of Divergent is great. The actress, Shailene Woodley, knocks it out of the park. Generally speaking, when you're watching a movie about a ton of teenagers that involves long, elaborate scenes featuring only ONE actor, and that ONE actor is the teen girl... well... they get pretty insipid.

Not so in Divergent. Shailene Woodley was absolutely captivating. Especially in her solo scenes.

But that's not what M and I have been bickering about. We've been picking at each other over absolutely everything else.

You see, neither of us have read the Divergent books (although you can bet we're going to), but we're both political junkies, and we both love dystopian fantasies.

One of the things we've both always appreciated about dystopias like, say The Hunger Games, is how it plays on current economics. It's a haves versus have nots society. There is no middle class. It's a satire of life pretty much as we're living it now in America- with politicians proposing to cut food subsidies to poor children's families if those children perform poorly in school. Say, because they're hungry. But I digress.

EVERY dystopian fantasy is based on pointing out a flaw or two in the real world and blowing it way out of proportion. The Handmaid's Tale is an excess of religious misogyny, Fahrenheit 451 is an excess of anti-intellectualism, The Hunger Games is an excess of income inequality...

So where is Divergent's theme? What's the bad thing that the heroine is going to fight against?

The Divergent society is divided into five strict castes, with basically no interaction between them. People are lumped together because they're either kind, happy, brave, honest, or smart. and 95% of all people just are whatever they're born into. As teenagers they get one chance, one in their entire lives, to pick a different caste and never see their families again. If you don't have a caste? You get nothing. No job, no food, no home. Nothing.

Sounds kind of like a bad idea, right?

So you have this heroine who is divergent, who is MORE than just one thing. Seems like it's going to be her job to make sure that people are free to BE more than just one thing, right?

Wrong. You see, the smart people? They're bad. They're bad bad bad bad bad. So bad they're going to brainwash the brave people (soldiers) and make them kill the honest people (politicians).

My little abnegation and my little erudite-
both dressed like little amity sprites 

So it's the heroine's job to protect the incredibly segregated society.

Because the strict caste system is good.

So no, this isn't a dystopia, aside from the fact there was a war that trashed Chicago (and let me say, I LOVED watching every shot that included Chicago landmarks), it's a utopian ideal.

Fundamentally, nearly everyone is happy in one single role. Fundamentally, this is a good system.

So says the mechanics of this dystopian universe.

What makes it bad are smart people. Smart people who are to be feared, who are power hungry and paranoid and evil. It's not a cry against anti-intellectualism, it's an anti-intellectual fantasy camp.

To rub a little salt in that wound, the HQ of all the evil bad no-good smart people is the University of Chicago. You know. Obama's school.

And the supervillian of the smarties? She's a thinly veiled Hilary Clinton reference.

There is a lot to like in this movie. It passes the Bechdel test with flying colors. The special effects were SPECTACULAR. The tension was great, it was suspenseful and engaging... but it seemed to me an obvious right wing counterpoint to the left leaning Hunger Games.

Katniss is fighting an oligarchy of both business and government run by the elite, dragged into things against her will.
Tris is fighting FOR a strict caste system, as a volunteer and ring leader.

Katniss lives in a society where the working poor toil in factories and mines with no access to education or social advancement.
Tris lives in a magical society with no manufacturing sector, where people who do nothing but toil all day in the fields are super freakin' happy about it.

The teenagers in Katniss's life who pose the greatest threat are the super militarist kids who buy into the system of the class divide.
The teenagers in Tris's life who pose the greatest threat are the ones who read the newspaper.

Katniss lives in a society full of homeless poor, and sees it as an injustice.
Tris lives in a society where the homeless are cautionary tales, but really no more. They're basically not even human beings.

Katniss thinks the district system is bad and unfair.
Tris thinks the faction system is good and right.


The big crossover is that both of these movies involve teenagers killing each other, and lots of shots of a girl in a leather jacket, running.



...so why are my husband and I fighting about this movie?

For the first time in our relationship, I find myself in the position of telling him to chill out and be moderate. Every few minutes he'll text me with another little detail from the movie, and an explanation of how it's anti-intellectual, anti-woman, or anti-public service. He's nearly panicked over wondering where all the brave children and elderly are (after all, 95% of people are born in their caste, right? And die there.). Every few hours I have to roll my eyes and say, "Dude, not every single shot in the movie is a metaphor for how the Bush family is born to run the United States government forever."

Which is weird for me, as I'm usually the more liberal of the two of us. And also kind of makes me love him even more.

And I keep complaining to him about basic world building. This is Chicago- why is EVERYONE white? And more importantly- WHERE THE HELL ARE THE FACTORIES??? If the only laborers in the entire society are farmers, who's making the guns and unlimited supply of ceramic shooting targets? M keeps telling me to relax, it's just a movie, not every fantasy has to specifically tell you where it gets its toys.

I also have huge problems with the dry, totally forced love story, in which a teacher uses his position of authority to seduce a student. (Doesn't matter if she thinks he's cute- if you're an adult you shouldn't be bringing teenagers to your bed. Period.)

There are so many things about the movie I loved, or wanted to love. I loved Kate Winslet, even if she was portraying bizarro-Clinton. I loved Shailene Woodley, that girl is my new hero, and I can't wait to see her in The Fault In Our Stars. I loved the trippy fear sequences, with nightmare landscapes of my city and gorgeous cinematography dripping with symbolism. I loved the dark aspects of the underbelly of society. I loved the theme of the importance of family despite caste.

I loved the way the pre-release event was handled, everyone in the theater also got a copy of the first six chapters of the book, which is AWESOME. Any movie that encourages people to read is okay by me.

But the climactic action sequence was unbelievable, and you have to shut down your brain during the whole thing, to avoid thinking about the fact that being smart means being evil. And of course, shutting down your brain seems to be what the producers want.

I hope I'm wrong. I hope the next two movies turn the tables on this society, and the brave, kind, AND smart Tris helps take the whole world apart.

Because if you ask me, a society where you're born to be a politician is a bad society. And a society where if you're smart you're also evil is a bad society. And a society where you slave in the fields (or more realistically the factories) all day and never get a voice in your government is a bad society. And a society where your law enforcement is judge, jury, and executioner- accountable to nobody and flooded in a culture of dare-devil hyper-masculinity- is a bad society.

Not an ideal to be upheld by the lucky few mavericks who know how to keep their heads down and fit in.

Review: TwirlyGirl Truly Tankful Dress

SI- My TwirlyGirl

Disclaimer: This is a sponsored post. I was given a dress for free to review, but all the opinions within are my own.


The kind folks over at TwirlyGirl were gracious enough to send my daughters a Truly Tankful Dress, and it took us FOREVER to find a chance for them to wear it! This winter has been bleak, and miserable, and seemingly endless. They have more than a passing obsession with girls party dresses, so you can imagine it caused no end to the confusion of a single dress with no sleeves in the middle of winter between two excited four year olds.

So the first day that the sun shone and we threw open the windows to let in an early spring breeze, and SI donned the dress.

SI is my dancing TwirlyGirl

As I'm now raising three daughters, I consider myself something of an expert on party dresses for girls. I've seen them ruined with a little dirt, I've seen them cause rashes, I've seen them tug in odd places, and I pretty much know when to anticipate all those things.

The TwirlyGirl dress? Perfect. No itchy tags. No itchy seams. As far as girl party dresses go, this one was easily the most comfortable dress they've worn, outside of Grandma's homemade masterpieces.

But that was just SI's opinion. The next day, and a trip through the laundry later, it was DD's turn.

First of all, I'm not sure I've ever seen a girls party dress go through the wash and come out looking as perfect as it went in. No pilling. No staining. No weird stretches. It might as well have been brand new.

DD LOVED IT.

DD twirling in her TwirlyGirl dress
(Nevermind the rainbow on her forehead- that's kind of a long story.)

At first she complained a little that despite being called "TwirlyGirl," it didn't really twirl. But she got over that quickly when I pointed out that the pattern made it look like she was twirling even when she was standing still. That was a pretty huge thrill. Optical illusions- a preschooler's best friend!

What truly shocked me was that both children fit the dress equally well. This is NEVER the case. DD is stockier and shorter, SI is skinny as a beanpole and bony to boot. (You'll note the dress stops at the DD's knee, but sits at about SI's mid-thigh.) But they were both completely comfortable, both perfectly happy, and both delighted with their opportunities to wear it.

I have no idea why the three of them are doing the Care Bear Stare.

I watched both of my children perform contortions, aerobics, acrobatics, and assorted stunts of daring-do in these dresses, and they never once complained about the attire. That something itched, or their skirt was in their way, or anything. And if you've ever had a four year old, you know that there is almost nothing on this earth they can spend a whole day near without coming up with some sort of complaint.

She's a ballerina on a stage.

I had two days where only two children whined that something about their clothing was weird, and you can't put a price on that.

If you'd like to see the whole collection of girls party dresses, you can visit TwirlyGirl. You'll note that, as DD prefers, most of their dresses there ARE quite twirly. Just the thing for Passover or Easter. Best of all? I happen to know that all the cake and candy your kids might eat on those holidays will wash out of these dresses.

Look at that! Good as new!

Happy Spring, everyone!

Know Thyself, or Why You Should Definitely Come See Listen To Your Mother

Photo courtesy of Balee Images

Those of you paying attention to everything I do (Hi Jenn! Hi Laura! Hi Aunt Genocide!) already know that I'm in the Chicago cast for Listen To Your Mother this year.

I have to tell you, I am SO excited! I'm thrilled!

About everything except one teeny tiny thing...

Pictures.

I have unfortunately inherited my mothers total inability to hold still for a photograph. It's not self-loathing or poor self esteem, it's just fact. I take TERRIBLE pictures.

Truly, amazingly bad. My wedding photographers had a HUGE job, and accomplished MIRACLES.

This gets worse every single year, as I'm sure my mother will attest. The two of us understand what happens when a camera comes out. As they say, "Know Thyself." Well, I know myself. And Grandmommy knows herself, too.

My mother is a lovely, charming, beautiful woman. She is not the most graceful person on earth- she did manage to break her wrist pogo-ing into a car once. But in pictures, she looks like either she's a deer caught in headlights, or like she's being chased by a cement mixer.

Likewise, I know that I am an engaging, emotive, and dare I say moving public speaker and performer. But I know myself. I know that in real life, I don't look like somebody standing behind the camera just tore open their chest to reveal that instead of organs, they have a collection of doll shoes.

And I assure you, I do not REALLY look like this when I perform:

You know what? That's not true. I TOTALLY look like that. Pretty much all the time.

Suffice to say, I catch a lot of flies.

I don't just take ridiculous, open mouth photos either. I have an amazing array of really dumb expressions caught on camera.

Okay give me a minute- I'm going to pee my pants laughing.
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Moving on.

At each Listen To Your Mother rehearsal, there are an AMAZING duo of photographers from Balee Images immortalizing the magic. And I assure you, it is magic in the room with these fifteen incredible writers baring their souls together for all to see.

But no amount of talent can make me stop doing things like... well...

Courtesy of Balee Images
I believe the word I'm saying here is "whole," but it could be "beluga," or, "Help me I've choked on my own tongue."

Keep in mind, I was dressed like a pirate gypsy an hour before this picture. So yeah, I'm a delicate flower, yo.

The fact is that I'm a performer. I perform when I read, when I speak, and that means abandoning all sense of self consciousness and just GOING FOR IT. And that means that I look like I'm utterly unhinged when you take still moments of it all out of context.

And it's not just me. I promise you, a google image source for the phrase "actors making ridiculous faces" will have you in stitches for the rest of the day. It's facial aerobics. People who perform, they stand up and they perform, and that means running the risk every single second that somebody is going to snap a picture and make you look like you got a quick lobotomy on your lunch break.

At any rate, I THOUGHT no amount of talent could keep me from looking like every muscle in my face moves independently from each other while I talk. But I was wrong. Those rock stars from Balee Images made some magic happen.

Don't be distracted by the remarkably photogenic brunette with the green glasses.

Really what I'm getting at is this. You do NOT want to rely on pictures alone to experience Listen To Your Mother in Chicago. Because I will foul up those pictures with a vengeance, regardless of the brilliance of our photographers. If you rely on pictures, you'll have a series of funny faces that represent tiny moments of comedic or emotional brilliance, without the context of... say... a gesture.

It's like Ani Difranco says, "It took me too long to realize that I never take good pictures 'cause I have the kind of beauty that moves."

So true, everyone. So true.

I'm incredibly grateful there will be pictures of this process. I will look back on them for years to come, and no doubt feel the same pride and humility to share a space with these women, and tell stories, and experience the family of a cast. I will look back on every goofy face with love and joy. But nothing will convey the experience of being there like being there.

So make sure you buy your tickets soon- don't rely on pictures. Don't trust me, or any performer, to have any ability to convey the humor and honesty and rawness and most importantly beauty of this show in a single moment, frozen in time.

Get your tickets and come see it live. Because live? I rock. And so do the other fourteen ladies in this cast.

Come and feel the magic.

World Water Day #WorldWaterDay #waterstory

I've never gone without water.

I've contemplated it. When you grow up in the great lakes region, talks of climate change matter. They have immediate, real world consequences.

I remember the day I learned about global warming. It was my freshman year in high school, and our teacher did a segment based on a series of studies about the rising global temperature. Being a experimental, holistic learning school, we did more than study the science. We also used the science as a basis for sociological, historical, and literary learning. In Western Civilization, we talked about the history of human beings going to war over access to resources- including fresh water.

"In fifty years," my high school science teacher told me, "it's likely that half the world could be at war over water."

Because rising coastlines don't just drive people inland, they also contaminate fresh water sources with salt water. And de-salination is costly and difficult.

But we lived in Michigan, surrounded on nearly all sides by fresh water. Lake Superior, all by itself, has enough fresh water in it to cover North and South America in a solid foot. Which meant that if you were looking for a good long term investment, real estate in northern Michigan was a decent plan.

I sat on the deck of my parent's house, dipping my toes in the spring fed, potable pond where I swam all summer without having to think twice, thinking about people fighting every day for water.

I looked at the lush, green trees. I thought about the ducks and herons and frogs and turtles and fish and even snakes that shared my lake, and thought about the charts we made in Creative Problem Solving, of what parts of our ecosystem would be destroyed by a raising temperature.

I thought about all the fluorocarbons from the sixties and seventies, still eating up our ozone.

And I sponsored a child in Ethiopia with the last of my bat mitzvah money.

I did it to alleviate my own guilt- because it seemed so unfair that people were already living with drought, and famine, and they couldn't even get water. Water. And I was completely surrounded by the stuff.

In the last fifteen years, not a lot has changed. Those same flurocarbons are still up there, we're still making more, and the global temperature is still rising.

And there are still people all over the world without access to safe, potable water. 768 million of them. A tenth of the world population.

2,000 children die every day from drinking tainted water, the only water available to them.

And, as with nearly every problem in the developing world, it's even worse for women and girls. The lack of access to water also means fewer toilets. In fact, in many regions of the world where water is scarce, schools have no gender segregated bathrooms, and this causes girls to leave school as soon as they start menstruating.

And it falls on girls to provide water for their families. Each day, women in developing countries without adequate wells walk an average of four miles to carry water to their families. Instead of getting educations, they're carrying water.

Only one in three people on our planet has access to a toilet. To a toilet. And lack of access means that women in places like India have to travel through incredibly dangerous areas to find a toilet. Women risk sexual assault just to find a place to relieve their bowels.

So what can you do, right? What can you do to help?

First of all, you can donate. Just $25 is all it takes to provide a person with access to water and sanitation. That's all it takes.

And you can help raise awareness. You can call your congressmen and tell them to support the Water for the World Act. And on Saturday, World Water Day, WaterAid is hosting a social media to raise awareness. On Saturday, take a selfie with a glass of water, and use the hashtag #cheerstoH2O. Share your stories of a time, any time, when you didn't have access to water. When you knew how it felt even just a little to be without.

With awareness, we can start to bring about change. So let's all start there.

Esprit D'Escalier

Yesterday, I lost count of how many people ogled my boobs.

The first 99% of them were at a Purim carnival, and I was in costume. I was a pirate or a gypsy or some mish-mash of the two, and yes, my top was low cut. And I kept bending over because I was herding three very small people all over the place. And yes, I recognize that made my breasts very visible. But only one person said anything to me, and what he said was, "Oh, wow, um, that is one fantastic costume." It was clear that "one fantastic costume" was code for "two really awesome boobies," but I let it go. Because he had the decency to pretend he was gawking at something totally benign. And I can accept that.

So after the carnival was over and I changed out of my pirate or gypsy costume and into a more mundane outfit, I went to dinner with some really spectacular women. We talked about writing and performance and life, and it was a fascinating and delightful time. And as I walked out the door, wearing my coat and my hat, I passed a group of young men waiting to be seated.

One of them ogled my breasts. And I say "ogled," but what I really mean is "craned his neck until his nose was perilously close to diving down my shirt," and I didn't say anything. Because I was walking out the door and had my coat and hat on, and although I wasn't wearing my low cut, blousy white pirate top anymore, I was used to people kind of noticing my breasts all day. And as soon as I was past, he said something.

Not that it matters, but this is the
top I was wearing.

"Damn, those are some nice boobs you got there."

And I stopped.

Because that shit is not cool.

I understand that we all have eyes. I understand that it can be difficult to mask our reactions to things that we see. I understand that the things we see can cause us to have reactions that might be hard to mask, and we are not entirely, 100% responsible for not reacting well.

I understand that sometimes, a fifty year old man will be wrong footed and try to cover up that he was leering at a young mom as she ushers her three small children through a busy carnival, and try to say something basically harmless to cover it up.

This? This was something entirely different.

If it had been a few hours later, or a few beers later, this guy at the pizza parlor probably would have just reached out grabbed one.

So he said, "Damn, those are some nice boobs you got there," and I froze. I turned around, and his three buddies were grinning and nodding. And I walked right back up to him. I didn't smile.

"That was really, really rude. And inappropriate. And offensive."

His three friends looked away, their smiles suddenly very uncomfortable.

He grinned at me, shrugging. "And also cute, right?"

"No. It was rude. And offensive."

"And cute!"

"No." Now his friends started backing off, looking really uncomfortable. He was the only one still smiling, and still standing his ground. "It wasn't cute. It was rude. And inappropriate."

"And cute."

"No, it wasn't. It was really rude."

And as my hackles rose I wanted to say a million things to him. About treating people like people, about common courtesy and acceptable social behavior. About rape culture misogyny. but I knew as he laughed and repeated that what he'd said was actually adorable, there was no getting through to him, so I turned back around and left.

And it's been bothering me ever since.

I wish instead I'd smiled, and asked him for his name and phone number, and then smiled while I picked up my phone and called the police to file a report for sexual harassment.

I wish instead I'd talked to his friends, and asked them if they're okay with this. If they're okay with going around with this super rape-y guy who can't tell the difference between disembodied breasts and a human being, and ask why they're willing to be seen in public with such a pathetic excuse of a human being.

I wish instead I'd stopped the hostess, told her I was a paying patron, and that he was bothering me, and ask them to escort him out.

I wish instead I'd turned around and punched him in the face.

But I didn't do any of those things. Because when you're a woman confronted with bold faced sexism, inappropriate behavior, and a complete lack of empathy, no matter what you do... you lose.

If I'd made a scene, I would have been just another "crazy bitch," and he'd brushed me off that way. If I'd asked him if he'd have harassed me if I was with my children, I'd be playing into the idea that women are somehow only people if they're wives or mothers. If I'd sexually harassed him right back, I might have actually encouraged him.

It really, really bothers me. And not just that it happens, but that I'm still so lost for what to do about it.

I know how to talk to people about sexual harassment and sexual assault. I know how to talk to people about stopping their friends from acting like that, about preventing their kids from turning into that guy. But I don't know what to say, as a woman and the owner of a partially visible pair of breasts.

I'm not going to start going around in a poncho or anything. But I'm under no illusions that this is the last time. Because it's not about being young and hot. I'm almost thirty years old, and unlike many women, this is not my physical prime. It's about a mentality held by somebody else that I am an object. A source of entertainment or pleasure. But not a human being.

And I have no idea what I can do about that.

We're All Mad Here

One of the lunatics who lives with me

It's time for another Mix Tape Tuesday!

This week's theme? Your life's soundtrack.

I'm taking some liberties.

Imagine if you will, my daily life is a movie. And it's not a very good movie, I'm afraid. It's more a series of montages.

Or something. At any rate, this wouldn't be a very good movie. It certainly wouldn't take home any Oscars. But it would have a great soundtrack.

So here it goes. My day as a montage of montages, set to music.




We open on a bleary eyed SuperMommy, walking back and forth down the hall as she wipes butts, changes diapers, finds shoes, packs lunches, finds lunch boxes, finds socks, puts dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and clean dishes away. Then she shifts gears and starts walking circles around the other end of the house, putting coats on small people, finding hats, mittens, scarves, backpacks, sunglasses, boots, etc.


Cut scene to...


From the moment we step into the car this music starts playing. The children bounce with all their might as we idle in the car, waiting for it to warm up. They bounce all the way to preschool. They bounce while I unbuckle RH from her car seat. During the bridge they run up to the preschool, I help them remove all their winter gear and then turn around and go back to the car. During the drive home again, RH throws her hands in the air and bounces in the fashion of her big sisters.



SuperMommy walks back and forth across the house again, lugging laundry or putting away dishes. Directly behind her is RH, running to keep up. "Helping" put away dishes, laundry, books. She dusts the floor where SuperMommy sweeps, scattering the piles. She sits down and plays with a ball, and SuperMommy sits at the computer to write. Repeat.



SuperMommy picks up the kids from school, she drags them screaming to the car. She urges them up the hundreds of miles of stairs back to the apartment. She disrobes them again. She puts them into bed. She finally eats, in bed, watching DS9. She briefly falls asleep.



The children run. They run from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. They run in circles around SuperMommy, who vaguely shoos them towards the TV. They jump on the couch and throw goldfish crackers in the air. SuperMommy shoos them to the playroom, where they remove every single toy from its bin. They dress in tutus and feather boas and resume running. In a desperate ploy to keep them quiet for downstairs neighbors, she urges them to race each other crawling, and all three children bear crawl back and forth down the hall in tutus and feather boas.



SuperMommy boils water while steaming vegetables and making sauce. The children continue running in circles. They take turn covering SuperMommy in necklaces and hats. SuperMommy sets the table, forces the children to sit down and eat. Stands up to get cups of water. Stands up to get a banana. Stands up to clear the table. Puts the kids in the bath. Puts the kids in pajamas. Oversees toothbrushing. There is much screaming as bedtime approaches. Fortunately, all the viewer sees is pantomimed misery set to the cheerful strains of Belle and Sebastian.



The children take turns walking like zombies to and from the bathroom, demanding nails be trimmed and additional hugs, making requests regarding obscure toys never before cared for but now essential. SuperMommy follows in a trance, surrupticiously eating marshmallows and updating Twitter.



M comes home, and in a rush we make dinner, clear the table from the kids' dinner, put our food onto plates, then climb into bed and eat it while watching the previous night's Daily Show and Colbert Report, laughing and poking each other the whole time.


We both pass out with the lights still on, and the movie fades to black.


FIN