Protesting Life

There's a story about my father floating around my family, which may or may not be true. When I tell it, it goes something like this: The year is 1969. The place is Los Angeles. The image is my father, briefcase in hand, annoyance on face, pushing through some sort of hippie protest on his way to work. This story is supposed to illustrate apathy and general lameness.

Flash forward a bit to year 2010, place: Chicago. There appears to be a protest going on outside my office. I hear some commotion and join a co-worker at the window. We can see people marching with signs in the reflection of the building next door. I Google "chicago protest," but nothing promising comes up. My co-worker searches Twitter and finds a post about a "support rally" in Chicago, but we're not sure what they're supporting... Another co-worker says quietly, "I kind of feel like going down there, but [trails off]." I shrug and go back to my cubicle, insert headphones in ears.

Self promotion lessons from my two-year-old niece

When my niece was born I envisioned myself teaching her a few things – key elements to memorize on your fake ID, the difference between affect and effect – things like that. But during a visit last weekend, I realized the opposite may be true. I think there are a few things I can learn from her – the value and execution of self promotion, for instance.

Lesson #1: Enthusiasm

Even when engaging in the simplest of activities, do so with unbridled enthusiasm. It will spread. My niece is so thrilled with herself while demonstrating talents such as running, jumping and making monkey noises that she convinces everyone around her that they are signs of pure genius. Mile-wide smiles and giggling are infectious. I often find myself exclaiming to those around me, "Is she clapping to the music?? Ohmygosh do you see that?? AMAZING." And it is.

Lesson #2: Vocalization

Don't do any favors without making sure everyone around you knows about it. When my niece isn't in the mood to be social, she ignores friendly people and my sister's requests that she say hi. When she is in the mood, however, she says hi (with enthusiasm) and then announces "I said hi!" You might think it would dilute the message to make this announcement three or four times during the course of, say, a meal out, but it doesn't. The more you repeat your accomplishment, the more memorable it will become (fundamental rule of advertising).

Lesson #3: Looks

You may be thinking excessive self promotion can be annoying... and I agree with that. But not when you look like this:


I see great things in this little lady's future. And she does too.

Thanks for trying to kill me, Mom

Even though it hasn’t been well-received since, hm, college graduation, if ever, my mother still insists on loading me up with the questionably aged contents of the back of her freezer whenever I see her. While I greatly appreciated her braving the drive into the city yesterday, Cubs game be damned, I just couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for the suspicious loaf she shoved my way as soon as I greeted her outside of my apartment. Oh, of course I’ll take this upstairs right away, before I even help you find parking. Would not want to forget this… banana bread? Oh, don’t be concerned if it seems “wet” when I unwrap the cellophane? “Because it was frozen”? Okay, thanks mom. Yummy.

Do I sound like an ungrateful brat? Probably… I put this woman through childbirth and 12-year-old cleavage, nine months of pregnancy and the threat of parties every time she went out of town, or to the grocery store. Perhaps it’s just part of my payback to take these frozen mysteries off of her hands, so she doesn’t have to feel guilty about throwing food away. It’s the least I can do, right?

Or maybe my suspicion is unwarranted. Maybe my lovely mother baked this banana bread especially for me, and put it in the freezer because I’m a horrible daughter and she had no clue when she’d see me next. So this morning I cut a piece of this latest gift for breakfast, but I couldn’t help bending down to inspect before consuming. And it’s a good thing I did because the loaf in question was chock full of walnuts, i.e. POISON.

Perhaps my mother forgot about the walnut salad that sent me to the emergency room last summer. And the mole sauce that swelled up half my face on a date last fall. Perhaps those conversations slipped her mind… But you’d think her memory would have been jogged when, an hour after sending me upstairs with the lethal loaf, I asked the waitress if the pesto that came on the chicken sandwich I ordered for lunch was made with walnuts. Or when the waitress came back from the kitchen and told me the pesto was safe but the sandwich came with a “walnut slaw” so she would make sure to order it without… you’d think that would have triggered some kind of alarm… or when I launched into a rant after the waitress left about how I can’t believe so many restaurants sneak this extremely common allergen into food and don’t warn you on the menu.

But no, I received no warning. So this confirms my suspicion that my mother doesn’t even know what contents lurk under the protective ice she insists on feeding me. Either that, or she’s trying to kill me.

“So, what’s going on between you two??”

If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one there to hear it, does it really make a sound? Well in my opinion, it should be up to the tree to decide. Isn’t the tree more aware of its own actions than any outsider? Do things not actually happen unless they’re recognized by others?

That certainly seems to be the case with relationships. Two people can’t simply enjoy each other’s company—after a while, the others start asking questions—and you’re forced to have The Talk. This usually happens after suffering through one too many awkward silences surrounding introductions to friends of friends, when some oblivious drunk jabs his finger at you and blurts out, “Is this your GIRLFRIEND?”

You’d think you could just introduce people by their names, but apparently you can only avoid the G and B labels for so long. The others must know your status! Ambiguity just won’t do! And if you dodge their questions for too long, refusing labels or playing too long in minor league labels, frustration will mount and pretty soon your relationship as you thought you knew it will cease to exist, either because you or your counterpart has caved, or because the others have given up and completely dismissed it.

Perhaps this is why weddings have turned into such a spectacle. They’re really not about the couple or love or commitment at all. They’re about public declaration. They’re about putting an end to answering nosy questions—so you have a big show of it and then you wear around a band of physical evidence so the others will no longer have to wonder. Of course then they will probably start asking you when you’re going to start procreating…

So if a relationship exists between two people, but their friends and family can’t label it, does it really count? Apparently not. And does a turn under the microscope keep you from grilling your loved ones the next time you’re on the other side? Not so much. We all need the entertainment.

Pigeons & Role Models

When my sister told me she'd bought a book for my niece that I had to read to her, I thought it was just going to be about some fabulous aunt who saves the world with her super shopping powers or something, but The Pigeon Has Feelings, Too! by Mo Willems surpassed all expectations. It stars a sassy pigeon who doesn't appreciate being told to smile by a bus driver. "Why should I?" Pigeon asks, "Do I get on your bus and tell you how to drive?!"

Excessive punctuation and a killer 'tude: I like this Pigeon character! What a great role model for my niece! I have a feeling she doesn't like randos telling her to smile any more than I do. Unfortunately, Pigeon does end up getting outsmarted (sorry to ruin the ending, but the cardboard book is only 10 pages long...)-- now if only I could figure out how to outsmart my niece when I want her to smile for a picture and she's looking at me like she is so over the paparazzi. Fourteen months of being a girl and she's already rebelling against smiling on demand. Maybe she should be my role model.

Reclaiming the tramp stamp

Tonight on LA Ink, a few of the artists were talking about getting tattoos removed. Hannah recently had her first tattoo, a spider, covered up by a new one, Kat regretted getting her ex-husband’s name tattooed to her neck and Pixie went in for a consultation to get a tattoo removed that was um, just plain ugly, I guess.

I’ve had my tattoo for six years, and I’ve never once regretted it. The only thing I regret is someone telling me about a year after I got it that it’s apparently a “tramp stamp.”

I love my tattoo. The artist traced it from a blown-up photocopy of a goddess pendant I wore every day. My sister had the same symbol tattooed inside of a sun on the side of her lower back. She bought me mine for my 19th birthday, and held my hand and made me laugh through the pain. It’s not only a symbol of female empowerment, but of my connection with my sister, who will always be one of the most important people in my life, and with the women in my family, who often sport goddess jewelry, open hearts and unbelievable strength.

But because I chose to put my goddess tattoo in the middle of my lower back, it’s a tramp stamp.

For years I’ve been defending my tattoo by saying, “It’s not really a tramp stamp because it actually means something!” Bored of my speech, when someone asked me the other day what my tattoo meant, I said, “It’s a tramp stamp. It means I’m a tramp.” I thought I was kidding, but now I’m not. Ladies, I think it’s time to reclaim the tramp stamp. I dream of the day when I use the phrase “tramp stamp” with as much joy as I use the word “bitches” to refer to my bestest of friends.

Rather than utilize this one definition Merriam-Webster OnLine gives for “tramp” — “a woman of loose morals; specifically : PROSTITUTE” (Lame.) — let’s embrace its first definition of “tramp,” which includes: “to walk, tread, or step especially heavily,” “to travel about on foot" and “to journey on forcibly and repeatedly."

So rather than a “bull's-eye” for unevolved men, tramp stamps symbolize freedom and strength. We don't tread lightly like quiet little girls. We are loud, unapologetic women, marching through glass ceilings. And we won’t let the door hit us in the tramp stamp as we leave a crappy job for a higher salary or a crappy relationship to be happier on our own.

Fellow tramp stampers, wear ‘em proud. And practice this line: “Yes, it’s a tramp stamp. And no thanks, I can buy my own drink.”

Blog for choice

Today is the 35^th anniversary of Roe v. Wade and Blog for Choice Day! Contrary to the common misconception that pro-choice activists are baby-haters, I do not, in fact, hate babies. Quite the opposite, I just took two days off and two, three-plus-hour bus trips among somewhat creepy strangers to babysit my gorgeous niece. For free. That’s how much I love this particular baby.

I vote pro-choice because I want all babies to be as wanted and well-cared for as she is. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a post-Roe world where I feel I have control over my own body, and want my niece to grow up in that same world — a better one, actually — one in which accurate sex education and safe reproductive health care are accessible to everyone, regardless of geography or socioeconomic status.

Instead of attaching my 18-page senior history seminar paper on the misogyny of the 19^th century anti-abortion movement, which was of course riveting, I'll defer to Erica Jong's fabulous Huffington Post blog.