Unequal Equality: We Have A Long Way To Go

I wonder if 6.26.13 will become one of those dates, where people 50 years from now will ask, ‘Do you remember?’ and ‘Where were you when you heard the news?’

In case it isn’t, I guess I will answer those questions now.

I was sitting in the passenger seat of my 2004 Honda Element (of the burnt orange variety, in case you were wondering) at a gas station in some random back-hills town about 2 hours inside the border of Pennsylvania. My fiancé and I had just spent one hell of a harrowing extended-weekend “vacation” in the Boston area apartment hunting. We were tired, grouchy and beyond ready to be done with the driving and just in our own home already. Given the rate of rent, the cost of realtor fees and the general stress of fearing every decent, affordable and safe-looking apartment in the city was already rented, we hadn’t exactly been keeping up-to-date with the goings-on in Washington.

So, back to the passenger seat, at a gas station. A quick glance through Facebook on my super-duper smart phone, and I saw that Proposition 8 had been overturned! It cannot be stressed enough how wonderful this moment was for so many people, couples and families. But, it felt like mere seconds before there was a whirr of social media activity and suddenly a text from my mother, “Marriage!!! Yay!!!”
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Hey, Jealousy!

As a kid, there are easy lessons and the hard lessons.  For me, the simplest of principles was empathy.  The golden rule made more sense to me than phonics, which is saying a lot, because HI! spelling bee champ all the way.  I was so into equality that I played public defender and prosecutor on the playground like I was getting paid.  I meted out justice in schoolyards across the country like I was Julio if Paul Simon was actually singing about a crazy case of third grade gossip stemming from your pal’s half-tried attempt at a spin-the-bottle game after the track meet.  I LOVE EQUALITY.  Do unto others, at a very early age, resonated with me as a deeper recognition that it is our responsibility to keep things even.  And I wanted everything to be even.  Always.

Unfortunately, this love for fairness came (as all great things do) with a price.  My fatal flaw, even during my campaign of childhood rights-fighting?  Jealousy. Continue reading

Am I Not Worrying Enough?

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So, today on the ol’ Facespace, a friend of mine posted that she’d witnessed at Target a woman who left her 8-ish-year-old-daughter alone in the girls’ department while she went to go, presumably, take a leak. My friend posed a question essentially asking if she was paranoid, or was there a crack in the woman’s judgment? After reading the comments responding to this post, I have to ask: What the fuck is wrong with people? The majority of people commenting said something to the effect of, “No! You’re not paranoid! I never let my children out of my sight ever because bad people!” Which, okay. I don’t agree, but you do you, and you know your kids better than I do! BUT! One person responded that he thought the mother should have her “uterus revoked” for committing such a heinous act of terrible parenting, clearly on par with Joan Crawford or Michael Lohan. This poor woman who NONE OF US KNOW at Target is now being judged, like, way harsh, Tai. Clearly, I don’t think this was my friend’s intent in posing this question on Facebook. Sometimes parents like to gauge where they stand. And, for the record, I don’t think my friend is paranoid for not considering this sort of thing whilst shopping for facewash, Oxiclean, a dvd copy of Meatballs, and a new sundress. If someone doesn’t feel that his or her child is ready to be alone in Target, then that’s that. But was the woman who went pee really deserving of all this bullshit? (Hint: NO.)

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Baby Dreams

The other night I had a dream that I was pregnant. We were so happy, so uncontrollably excited. We had just found out and had gathered my family to share the news. I can still feel the nerves and joy fighting in my stomach. I woke up and disappointment flooded me; it’s still lingering. The next day I started my period. It felt like a defeat, expected but crushing nonetheless.

I know that if I was pregnant, part of me would be ecstatic, but I’d mostly be freaking out. Money, space, time, money, money, money – all of the usual practicalities of expanding a family. But there’s also the boys to worry about, how would they react, adapt. And me. I have some health issues, both physically and mentally. I’d probably have to go off of several of my medications. I can’t imagine that would end well for anyone. My biggest (to this date irrational) fear is post-partum psychosis – that step past depression that ends with something very very very bad happening. It’s terrifying to know you have that potential locked in your mind.

I get asked if we’re planning on having a baby at some point. I never know how to answer. I say no because it’s easier. The long answer is: I probably can’t, at least without medical intervention of some sort. That was a horrible thing to hear from a doctor years ago, when I knew I didn’t want children. Now? It rolls around my mind continually. And I can’t take birth control. We’ve lived together for a year, not trying, but not not trying and it hasn’t happened, so I’ve dropped that “probably.” It makes every period a reminder that I’m broken in some way, which is a whole other bag of crazy that doesn’t need to be opened right now.
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Losing Baby Weight Is A Bullshit Endeavor Sometimes

So, when I was in the middle of pregnancy and had finally gotten to the point where I had to put away all of my regular clothes and exist solely in Target and H&M’s approximation of semi-attractive maternity clothes, I convinced myself that a few short weeks after giving birth would find me sliding my skinny jeans back on and wearing all those cute tiny tops and adorable dresses that I lived in before I got knocked up. Never mind that there was an entire month where I ate nothing but candy. Never mind that my only weird pregnancy cravings was the giant soft pretzels covered in butter and salt. Never mind reality. Continue reading

Your Morning Mixtape – Punk Rock Love Letter

It’s been a long time since I made a legitimately sappy mix CD for someone. You know, the kind that has intentions? YOU KNOW. Sadly, now that I’m married, the time to make mix CDs for boys with the express intention of inviting them over to “watch a movie” are loooooong gone. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, it was fun to have that breathless excitement and hopeful expectation that something awesome was going to happen. Even if it ended up being terrible with a capital T. The anticipation was heady. On the other hand, dating is THE WORST and I was terrible at it. There’s a good chance I have incredibly thick rose-colored glasses about the whole thing.

ANYWAYS.

Ross and I have a wedding to attend this afternoon. Some good friends are saying good-bye to the swinging single life and tying the knot. To each other. I’m so excited for them to try out this whole marriage thing, and I wish them the very best in their new adventure. (blah blah blah wedding blah blah blah) I got them an actual gift and wrapped it up really pretty, but the whole event got me thinking about punk rock love songs, and how much I love them. So, in honor of Tony and Jodi’s wedding, I created the Punk Rock Love Letter mix. It wasn’t easy. There are about as many songs about love as there are sub-genres of punk. I had the hardest time not putting a bunch of ska or emo-y stuff on there. I think what made it is pretty solid, though. Some songs are obvious, some aren’t so much.

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Guest Post: My Own Feminist Killjoy

I’m glad to announce this will be Callie’s final guest post for us because she’s not gonna be a guest anymore! She’s joining the Damn Pants crew – we’re showing her the secret handshake and everything.

So, have you heard of this thing called ‘a feminist killjoy’? I have been hearing it a lot lately. Hell, I have even being saying it. “That’s right babe, I’m being a feminist killjoy.”

What? What is that?

In case you, like me up until a couple weeks ago, have not heard of this phrase, a feminist killjoy is someone who will notice and call attention to instances of sexism, racism, privilege, what-have-you, in a given conversation, particularly when everyone else is having a grand old time. I picture some girl with thick glasses, crazy hair and bright red lipstick repeating “killjoy, killjoy, killjoy,” over and over again while smoking a cigarette. I know, it makes no sense; Just like the phrase, ‘feminist killjoy.’

I have kind of a problem with this phrase, though, because killjoy implies that … it’s kinda wrong to point out instances of sexism, racism, homophobia … etc… It makes it seem like being worried about those things makes you kind of an uptight arse. It makes it seem like we are inadvertently supporting the idea that there are times when that kind of stuff is ok, you know?

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Feminist Friday: Everyone should have a Plan B

Being a mother of girls I have been told this Plan B thing should worry me. …but it doesn’t. I mean why should I be worried that my girls will be given an option. Period. Yep, that’s how I feel about it, it’s a choice just like eating McDonald’s is a choice. As a parent I feel it is my job to help my girls make wise choices for their health and well being. Not just physically but mentally prepare them to make the best choices for them. That means a myriad of things. How to dress to keep warm on a December Sunday at Cleveland Browns game, how to not fill their bodies with just junk food and eat a balanced diet, that caring for others is almost as important as caring for themselves , how to deal with puberty and how to practice safe sex.

Now as a woman I understand that sometimes things happen. Sometimes you’re caught off guard by a freak snow storm, or you just really really need large greasy fries and a pound of M&M’s, sometimes you can’t care for people that don’t want to be cared for, and sometimes with sex, accidents happen. Bad things happen. But that doesn’t mean your world has to come crashing down around you. That means that you are in charge of you’re own health and body. And the CHOICE is yours and yours alone.

Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is a poor way of looking at this hot button issue but here is the thing, I am the parent. I get to choose what values I instill in my children, and my girls should get to choose how they handle situations in their own life. I hope to educate them enough so that if ever faced with a tough decision they are informed enough to know all of the options available to them. I hope to teach my girls to read labels and know exactly what they are and aren’t putting into their bodies whether that is medication or foods. I want them to value the full weight of human life, while at the same time valuing their own minds and bodies.

With everything girls have to worry about I want mine to know that I am with them every step of the way. They can ask me anything and come to me with any questions or problems they may have. In that I also want them to have every option available to them. Just because I wouldn’t doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be able to. Every choice should be an educated one. Does that make me a bad mother? I don’t think so. Wanting options and choices for our kids is what every parent wants.

“Maybe I’m Not Cut Out for This Gig” and Other Thoughts After Having a Fight with My Kid

My son is 6. I like it because he can tell me when things are wrong with him or what he wants to eat or about his favorite Avengers. I don’t like it because he can also tell fibs and ignore me and also sometimes act like a giant dick. And it’s times like those when I think, “I’m really bad at this. Like…BAD.” I’m not, say, Dina Lohan bad. But I know that he’ll be in therapy one day talking about how that one morning before school, Mom lost her shit and threw his bookbag across the room. Or dropped the f-bomb 34 times in a tirade about him not listening. Or. Or. Or. Continue reading