Current luxuries.

I dunno why but my memory is a real dickwad. It always picks the angriest/mopiest tracks to play on my Greatest Hits album, which is what plays on repeat in my brain when my insomnia peaks at 3am.

For example. When I think back to those first few months after my son was born, I get mostly horrifying visions: a closet-sized Brooklyn apartment filled with shitty expensive infant equipment I will only ever use once; a tiny human who I have to try to keep alive except he’s TOO SMALL and I HAVE ZERO EXPERIENCE and THERE IS NO OWNER’S MANUAL and how the fuck did they let me out of the hospital with a BABY and etc.; the dread in my husband’s eyes at 9pm as we coordinate our iPhone alarms for the staggered night feedings; tiny mushy cold unidentifiable bits of things (food? poo? other?) in the most startling places (fingernails, eyelashes, various body cracks, the floor/wall/ceiling); trying to calculate how to carry a stroller, an infant, multiple shopping bags, and the mail up two narrow flights of stairs once a day while covered in wet snow; and etc.

Like I could go on forever. Those images are pristine.

The others, the joyful moments, are fuzzier.


Does fear encode more strongly than joy?

Is that what gives us our life force?

When we work harder to amplify our softer moments, do we value them more?

Is a dickwad memory something that can be fixed?

At any rate.

Thank god I have these janky basement tapes from my kid’s early days to remind myself that sometimes I’m more than just a sonic boom of pure terror. 😬

(Originally published on September 27th, 2008 at 11:12am.)

Current luxuries include: Sleeping. Cooking. Bathing properly and regularly. Seeing plays. [Note: I’m sorry if I am about to miss your show or have already missed it. I still love you very much and support you fully.] Laundry. Writing.

I am doing all these things, but doing them badly. Though I never really did them all that well before… I am a restless sleeper, a boring cook, a reluctant bather, and a grumpy audience member. I rarely do my own laundry, and my writing– well, I’m never happy with my pace and I have putrid work habits.

What else do you want to know? How my near-paralyzing fear of motherhood is playing out? Okay… while nothing could have adequately prepared me for the transition, like any other monumental life change you just go with it and it comes to you. But I don’t need to tell you that.

What DO I need to tell you? How blindingly in love with my baby I am? Do you really need to hear that? Isn’t it a given? Shouldn’t I just complain incessantly about how tired I am, how little time I have for writing, how I am constantly covered in breast milk, how I am terrified of dropping/scalding/humiliating the tiny new human who lives in the Pack-n-Play at the foot of our bed?

Well, these are of course true. And of course I am a member of that lucky breed of Perpetually Dissatisfied whose heart-ache is like a skin rash that never quite vanishes, even when the itching isn’t so bad.

But I have to tell you… I was also not prepared for the pretty calm that has settled into my pulse. Lying in bed in the morning with the wee one curled up on my chest drooling onto my T-shirt feels like nothing else in the world, except maybe a slow long kiss on the forehead from someone most deeply loved.

So yeah, that’s how it’s going. I am floating on a bamboo raft on an ocean of chill. It won’t last. But I’m going to close my eyes and enjoy it for a little while…

Boss lady.

Dumb rhetorical(ish) question. In our current cultural climate, is it cool to strive for forthright femininity AND a Nietzschean-level of achievement?

Hey! Why not.

But is it realistic? Can we dodge the qualifiers, judgements, contingencies? (You know the answer to that.)

“Lady Boss.” That term makes me wanna bash my head with a rusty shovel. Not only does it demote women to a subcategory of bosshood which is lesser than its root, but it often unwittingly ascribes traditional feminine characteristics to the job of bosshood.

I guess in a practical sense this isn’t a tragedy. Many of those qualities are helpful for people in management positions. And you know, I have maternal instincts and empathy and all that. I will happily bake you cupcakes. I also like mascara and manicures and shoes that click when I walk. But if I decide to not act like your mommy-wife, I’m not a shitty boss. I’m a regular one.

Slate’s The Waves podcast unpacked “Lady Boss” as a concept a few weeks ago. I dropped a little audio excerpt of it here (95 seconds) because I’m like, goddamn it.


…um… the “Boss Lady” is totally in command of her emotions, and she’s better than you at everything and she’s not apologizing for it, she’s not feeling bad about being… you know sort of leaving anyone in her wake, she’s, she’s not… um… she doesn’t need to read like management guides… ah… on like, how to, you know how to get a raise at work, she was—

Right, she might write one—

She writes them, yeah exactly—

Exactly. Is that, do you think that’s a fair assessment of the “Boss Lady?”


Ughk. I hate women. I don’t wanna be a woman anymore.

Teen angst.

Is it possible to be born with teen angst? And when does it go away? Seriously. ‘Cause I’m still waiting.

I mean there’s a lot to be angry about right now, and sometimes I will discover a new pocket of rage that lives in my body and be like, oh, you aren’t mine, you belong to all the women who were sexually abused and are unable to talk about it, and then I feel ok rutting around in there until I have a enough of a grasp to yank it out and set it on fire and scream, “Everyone to go look at that fucking fire!”

Stuff like that.

But this morning… I dunno. I’ve been taking thyroid meds since I had my son ’cause sometimes the ol’ hormones don’t snap back. You’re supposed to wake up every morning and take one first thing, then wait 30-60 min before you eat.  This morning I got so angry and righteous about it. “Fuck YOU, asshole, I’m not waiting!” And I took my pill with some cold coffee and shoved three sprouted grain mini-muffins into my face.

Like, who wakes up and gets angry at medicine?  I wasn’t even hungry! I was just pissed that someone was telling me what to do before I even got out of bed.

And anyway, fuck who? Who am I fucking here, besides myself? The pharmaceutical companies for not making pills that can be taken with food? My kid for messing up my hormones when he came out? The Universe for giving women’s bodies the power to produce life and then punishing them for it at every turn?

It feels like the kind of hair-trigger rage that is typical in teenagers, in that it immediately becomes global without provocation. Like when your parents give you a curfew and your older sibling doesn’t get one, and you feel the Grand Inequity of it like a boulder in your heart– which, along with your cystic acne and the bitch at lunch who makes fun of your clothes and your choir director who gave you a shitty part in Guys And Dolls, acts as solid confirmation that the world is like, SO UNFAIR.

The entire world.

I remember as a kid feeling so distraught whenever I didn’t feel fairly treated. Adult Me can imagine Baby Me writhing around my crib at night thinking “Why am I behind bars here? I haven’t committed any crimes. I’m three months old!”

And as an adult, I can get propulsively furious at pretty much anything. At my fitness tracker for telling me I didn’t hit my goals for the day. At the lap desk I bought from Amazon that fell apart after a week. At my “Stand Up!” iPhone app for telling me to stand up. Never mind that I set my own fitness goals, bought myself the cheapest desk, and programmed the app to ding every hour.

I get angry about real things too, like social injustice and the environment and endemic misogyny and my own privilege. Especially that last one. I’ll get angry at getting angry. “The hell are you whining about, you dumb baby? Go on, pretend you aren’t lucky to have a crib with bars and a house with a roof and sprouted grain muffins when you’re hungry.”

That’s productive.

Obviously the world is not a “fair” place. But not because I have to take medication without food. It’s because of human greed / people with enlarged amygdalae controlling shit / the way we inherit abuse / normative economics / systemic racism / Choose Your Own Grand Inequity.

And it’s easy to get pissed at the carpet for tripping you. It’s harder to fix the carpet so no one else will trip. For me, the dilemma is this: I whiplash endlessly between “fuck you, carpet” and “fuck me, I tried to fix the carpet but people are still tripping.”

Maybe the carpet isn’t fixable?

Maybe that’s not a reason to stop trying?

Maybe righteous anger is a pre-disposition that is not always circumstantial?

Or… maybe if I dragged every pocket of rage out of my body and set them all on fire at once, women would stop getting assaulted?

In that case…

What if I have an infinite number of pockets?

(I guess we’ll find out… heh.)