Every New Year, I say I’m going to stop saying swear words and drink more water. Fucking lies, I know. So, this year, instead, I’m going to tell you what I wish for myself, how I’m going to try to represent myself daily, and I hope you make a similar pledge, something you write true to yourself, something that makes you ready for 2017. And obvious disclaimer, I’m not perfect, not even close. I’m pretty awful most days. But, every new year is a time to do something new, bold, memorable and FUCKING AMAZING. And if nothing else, I’ll try to do that. Anyone with me?
Here we go, Happy 2017!!–
Remember a name, and never forget someone’s story. They told it to you for a reason.
Hug everyone who looks like they need it, and maybe, those who don’t. A hug holds far more magic than you could ever imagine. And hugs are free. And sometimes, they save a soul.
A cheers to celebrate a drink is a universal sign of acceptance and friendship. Never be afraid to cheers a new friend–you’re probably making one for a lifetime.
Smiles are as free as hugs, though, don’t ask the Germans because they say the reason they never smile is BECAUSE SMILES ARE NOT FREE. This is why we don’t listen to Germans. However, smiles ARE FREE, and, sometimes, someone has been waiting for one for a very long time. Give them freely and honestly, and with love. You’d think they are carelessly tossed away, but for some, they’re not, and they’re the difference in the world.
If you love someone, right or wrong timing, tell them–drunk OR sober. 🙂 There’s only one exact time in life for love, and it is always now, right now. Once you’ve blinked, it may be too late, and no one, no one ever, has been worse off in this life for being loved too hard or too much.
Forgive. Maybe most important and least used lesson each year. I don’t know what YOU need to do, what you need to forgive or forget. So I’ll give you the short list of what I need to forgive, and maybe you’ll see something along my spewing that makes you think maybe you should do the same. What would I forgive? Myself, for all of these: Being so very imperfect, for not giving a fuck, for expecting people to order respectable beers, for not toning it down, for expecting the world to make sense, for hating people who ask for steaks well done, for expecting people to not act like back woods idiots during an election year, for not asking for an apology for my life, for not giving the apologies I should have and meant to but never got around to, for not saving lives, for not using my inside voice, for not being a perfect parent, for not writing enough, for not listening enough, for not napping enough, for not eating chips and cookies and butter every last chance I ever had, for not caring if my jean size was smaller than my shoe size, for swimming in public w no clothes on, for not drinking more gin because I know gin is just awful for me but actually magic but seriously awful for everyone involved, for not learning how not to give non verbal cues in the workplace and public where people don’t appreciate the accidental looks that I can’t (or don’t try to) control w my face, for not learning how to clean a house, for not learning how to cook meals like chicken finger salad or grilled cheese which APPARENTLY DO NOT COUNT, for singing too loudly and off-key because I think Adele and I basically have the same talent but I’m just not discovered yet, for wearing my jeans unwashed for 12 days at a time or just sweatpants 217 days a year because seriously, FUCK PANTS. For pretty much everything I do on a daily basis, so let’s be real, it’s The Year 2017, and I’m probably close to being a lost cause already and it’s Day One.
Second worst day is his birthday, which he loved so much. The third is my birthday, which he loved to celebrate with me.
The last is Christmas. I don’t even know if it’s 4th on the list of misery, but it’s shit all the same. Jesus and the whole holiday can fuck itself. I try to be happy, but it was his favorite holiday, he was like a child in his celebrations, and without him, I wish everyone would choke and die and get to New Years and then die via firework. Very festive, I’m aware.
In case anyone wants to know what a waste of time and money is, I found something new: gymnastics for toddlers. So I decided to send the boys to a gymnastics class bc 1. We should all be so flexible. 2. They are monkeys. 3. Pay your own way to college, kids. But instead of what I envisioned, which was obviously dancing and moving swiftly and gracefully, tumbling to the extreme, young men owning this class, I get the following for $120 for an hour (for 5 weeks):
Sawyer, running in fucking circles around the gym like he’s been let out of a pen. He only stopped to shove some kid wearing socks on a gym floor which was humorous and irresponsible at the same time.
Sully, refusing to stand like he’s a legless drunk, eating scarves like I haven’t fed him in a week. The kid is a hangry drunk. I make no excuses for my #2.
Sawyer refusing to do a somersault and end with a proud standing pose w his hands over his head, flat out refusing to yell ta da! Which is confusing because when he slid down the fire pole we awkwardly have in our living room, he easily repeated, I’m a stripper! when I told him how to say it. (You’re welcome, world)
Sully threw up on the mat 3 times probably out of pure excitement.
One of them shit their pants.
Both of them left shoeless and with no fucks to give.
I was the only one sweating and jumping and rolling around like a beached whale begging to be put back into water.
So fuck children’s gymnastics. I don’t have time to take an hour out of my day to be proven my children are terrible at following rules and to highlight I’m not only unfit, but incapable of completing a routine created for 2 year olds.
Back to supporting contact sports like kick ball, cage fighting and full contact wrestling, things my children excel at.
No, you. 100% got that from me.
If you do not put it on, Sawyer, you have to stay the night here by yourself.
Later on in the night, after dinner, on the couch snuggling, he looked up at me and said, Are you looking at me? which for a second made me feel creepy, until he casually leaned over, swept my leg up and down and then told me, Mommy, those are prickeeellllllyyyyy! Then he did it again and screamed when he made contact with the forest growing on my legs.
Every time I come home, I inevitably have to answer the question from someone, what are you running from? And I say all the time, I’m not running from anything, I’d like to think I’m running toward the new. But, if you look at my last decade, you could find enough evidence to prove I should be running from something, but I’ll stand firm always in that I’m not.
But then I come home. I come home and in between the loud and chaotic visits to family, friends, discount stores and seafood huts that sell lobster and clam strips, I begin to find it hard to defend so many things I think I can stand firm on from an ocean away.
I don’t need home.
I don’t miss home.
I have never been absolutely ruined by home.
Home will not swallow me.
Home will not reduce me to a child.
Home will not win.
But it does. It always does.
I ended a night full of family and laughter and food and love the other night with a cigarette on the stairs of the sun porch of my new/old house. I sat alone, in the light of the moon at 3am and I slowly inhaled as I sat quietly and listened, really listened, in silence, for the first time in a very long time. For the first time, I heard the heavy rushing of the mill across the street, and the water soothed me and made me happy to live in such proximity. I saw the faint street lights and I was surrounded by only the sound of rustling leaves and wind blowing against my house and rattling the shutters above me. I could smell the wet and turned leaves, just recently so vibrant, but on their way out, and I closed my eyes, rubbing one small pile within my fingertips, knowing it was the last chance for me AND the leaves, and it was peaceful and sad all at the same time.
I sat quietly, hopeful but defeated. I was back to claim my future, but I was in a place I hadn’t known for twenty years. Twenty years I had been gone, but around every corner, I smelled and relived my childhood, and while it was joyous, it was beyond fucking painful.
I never ran away from anything, but I realized, I avoided coming back.
The sign of the bakery that hung outside my dentist was the place my father took us twice a year to celebrate a lack of cavities, a celebration worthy of whoopie pies and cream filled puffs with flakey crusts that ruined sweaters but caused infectious giggles.
I drove by the electric company my father used to work, the one where the light bulbs hung and swung in the windows at night, the one where the gum ball machine sold salted peanuts and m&ms, where the hallways smelled of men and my father’s office hung a tiny basketball net, a net I never could quite get the ball in.
I drove by the area that once had a tiny dirt road, one 1/10 of a mile from my grandmother’s house, the place we held Thanksgivings, the place next door to my Meme’s house, the place I retreated to when my house was just too much, where I learned to play cards, marbles, the place Pepsi floats never ran dry and oatmeal muffins were always warm and you were put to bed for crying too hard because crying too hard makes you sick and no one likes a child who cries til they’re sick.
I drove to get groceries and passed the store that we bought Slush Puppies from on hot, summer days. Drinks filled with lots of crushed ice and double, triple pumps of raspberry, so pickled, our faces remained sour for the rest of the day. I passed the train tracks where we laid pennies when we couldn’t sleep, because the trains came around the clock and we were too little to understand but if we laid pennies down, it was ok that we never slept because we could race down the hot tracks and find our flattened treasure, tuck it away and go back and try for sleep again.
I saw the florist we used to pass as children, where we’d stop in and trade our change for one rose we never could quite afford, to bring to our mother, who’d light up and smile and behave as though it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. I tasted the clams I’ve waited to eat once a year for ten years, and I unbuttoned my pants and swore at Germany for their lack of produce from the salty waters, promising I’d never return if I could be fed the depths of the sea until the end of time.
I smelled the ocean and closed my eyes and tried not to cry. I watched my children leap in a pile of wet leaves, almost drowning each other in a sea of autumn perfection and only paused to snapshot that moment until the end of time. I came home one night from a long day of adventure, far past bedtime and my son, not yet three said to me, Mommy, can we stay and see the stars? He’s never, ever said that to me across the way, and so I said, yes, of course we can, Sawyer, of course we can.
He looked far up in the sky, put his arms out wide, swung around and around and tripped hard and fell on his back and i gasped. I ran over and expected to cuddle him, bring him inside and tell him it would never happen again.
“Mommy,” he said, without crying.
I held my breath.
“There are just so many stars and I saw them and I fell.”
And my heart broke.
Because no matter how long you’ve been away, no matter how much you’ve endured, no matter what’s in your future, if you take the time to lean back your head, spread your arms, spin round and round and round, you’ll find,
there are just so many stars.
I’m so glad to be home.
So I went to the dentist on Tuesday, because I was having lightning type pain in my face from last week and I waited five days to see him chewing on cloves and hoping I wouldn’t die. I swear to god my mouth has gone to shit and i went there expecting a root canal or a talking to, and yeah, i got all of the above.
After a panoramic X-ray, i was told I needed two more root canals and a surgery on my jaw for a bone infection gone wrong at the hands of another dentist, not entirely shocking but my current dentist told me his current recommendation had nothing to do with the pain I was still feeling on the right side of my mouth.
After yet another stimulating jaw massage, he informed me I was just over stressed again and need muscle relaxers, and did I have any? Like i’m some mother fucking pharmacy because NO, DO I LOOK LIKE I GET MUSCLE RELAXERS ON THE REGULAR? So I was prescribed some, told I’d be spending my entire November with him to fix my face and I was relieved to know I would not have to carve my own teeth out with a spoon to fix the pain I was feeling at bedtime.
Before I left his chair, I paused and thought to ask, hey wait, I’m feeling kind of bad about the lack of enamel on the back on my front teeth.
What are you talking about?, he asked, thinking I’m crazy again.
Well, I carried on, I feel like the back of my front teeth feel rough and I think it’s because i bred two kids in the past 3 years, that’s what I was told, right, that teeth go crazy in pregnancy and I feel like it’s weirdly rough so can you look and tell me what toothpaste to use?
He looked at my teeth and then looked at me and said, Do you drink a lot of orange juice in the morning and then brush your teeth directly after?
No, I said, Is that a thing? Because I drink coffee only in the morning and do not do that and did not know that was a thing in life.
Do you have an abnormal amount of reflux, then? Are you acid-y?, he asked, curiously.
No, no acid, I countered.
And then, thoughtfully, he gave me the once over, looked me up and down and said, and I quote, said flatly, “Well, you’re not anorexic.”
And that was the end of my appointment. My dentist, the one I pay 200 euro an hour to torture me, gave me the once over and reminded me that I have an inner tube tummy and mermaid legs, and that I am, and have never been, anorexic.
So there’s that. It’s going to be a long week.
While the response to my recent posts, first the one where I reacted to a recent rape of a community member, and then where I got belligerent about Donald Trump and Billy Bush promoting rape culture and the sexual assault of women, for the most part were outrageously supportive, but I did receive the sad and expected responses from men who thought my words and experience gave them the right to make fun of women, stand behind their decision to support the most vile Presidential candidate in American history, and not shockingly, question me as a woman and my own sexuality.
I’m only going to make this political to point out a few political and moronic reactions that were left on my page, but then I’m going to leave out Trump for the most part because my post wasn’t just political the other night, it wasn’t about me not voting for Trump and why I think you shouldn’t. It was about sexual assault and rape culture and how the recent actions of a powerful man who wants to rule the world thinks it’s ok to treat me and everyone else with a pussy like a sex object for the taking. But, I’ll try to ignore that for today to make a new point.
To be clear, what I’m not going to do is to continue to stand for mocking women, especially me, about the mistreatment of women, harassment and sexual assault, my sexual assault, and I’m definitely not going to let anyone, male or otherwise, suggest that my sexual assault, or the treatment of me and women in general, is something that can be based on what I choose to do in the bedroom, how I dress, what I look like, or what my perceived behavior may be.
I think we need to take a minute to define a few things.
Sexual assault: illegal sexual contact that usually involves force upon a person without consent or is inflicted upon a person who is incapable of giving consent (as because of age or physical or mental incapacity) or who places the assailant (as a doctor) in a position of trust or authority
Sexual harassment: uninvited and unwelcome verbal or physical behavior of a sexual nature especially by a person in authority toward a subordinate
Slut: a promiscuous woman (which for the record, I’m blaming Websters for generalizing this to women only)
Now that we’re straight on a few of the recent buzz phrases being tossed around the internet and the news, I’d like to go over two disheartening responses I received to my recent writing, because this will set the stage for what I’m about to get into.
First, here is a screen shot of someone who thought the best response to me putting my story out for the public to read, was “I’m voting for Trump,” which is a really interesting and pointed response to why I sat down and wrote Saturday night.
“I’m voting for Trump” is a mindless and negative response to an emotional post and honestly, this person missed the point. The point was that men like Trump don’t care about our women, or me, or the abuses women face every day. “I’m voting for Trump,” as a response to a women’s story means you don’t believe what happened to me matters, you don’t believe it’s dangerous to make someone like Trump President of the United States, a job whose duty it is to protect ALL people under them, and I know it’s hard to fathom, but women are people, too.
That response to my blog, that was from my step-brother. If he doesn’t care about my wellbeing or that of women like me, I find it hard to believe some of the male population I don’t know cares. Does it bother me that he wrote that? No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t because I don’t need people with his priorities and (lack of) morals to care about me. Plenty of others do, and will continue to.
The next response I received a few times was to connect my outrage regarding sexual assault to my lack of outrage, the lack of female outrage, to the book and movie Fifty Shades of Grey. That’s a whole lot of bullshit, first. And while I’m sure it took one minute out of this person’s day to post this on my page, I’d like to say it took me a few hours to find the words to discuss my personal story, and a whole lot of courage to put myself in front of a general public to speak about something I know many people care about.
First of all, that book and movie are terribly written and cast for money. That’s the extent of what I feel about Fifty Shades, nothing more, nothing less. Second, any women’s support of the book or movie are not a reflection of their desire to be mistreated, it’s of personal choosing to like books that focus on sexuality and domination. It’s about sexual fetish, now control and lack of control, make a woman feel. It’s about entertainment, about the bedroom, about personal sexual preference, and supporting Fifty Shades and expecting to live a life as a femal without harassment, sexual assault and the potential to get your pussy grabbed for sport are two different things entirely.
So spend your time posting these idiotic memes to my page, because I’m sure the minute it took a few of you to do that made you feel better at the end of the day looking at your wives and daughters and thinking of your mother, thinking you showed me, an outspoken and belligerent female, who is boss by attaching an image you didn’t even create, to make a point. I applaud you for your bravery and for your well and thought out rebuttal. You are really just making this too easy.
So let’s talk about my sexuality. Let’s do this. Let’s talk about just me, and my preferences and my history, because I’ve got quite the past, and I know a lot of women just like me, and a lot of women very different from me, but I do know that none of us think what we do in the bedroom or what we like to watch or what we like to read, has anything to do with whether or not I deserve to be attacked, to have men try to rape me, to have men try to take away a part of me that is mine alone.
By male standards, I know where I stand, especially in light of the many comments, emails and posts I received in the past day. I’m a bitch, a cunt, an outspoken libtard,a slut who deserves it, a lesbian (really?), and the worst, the absolute worst one can be: a feminist, which let’s go back to definitions, a feminist is one who believes in the equality of women. Yeah, you’re right. I’m a feminist.
Here’s what I want to share about myself. I like sex. I like sex and I like men and I have a past that will send me to the grave with no regrets. I like rough sex. I like porn. I’ve slept with a lot of men. I have fantasies that would get me kicked off Facebook for posting about them. I like to drink a lot. I walk home from bars tipsy, hammered, even. I leave my drink unaccounted for at my seat so I can use the bathroom. I smile and make random conversation with men, and women, and I’d like to think that makes me a social person, not a woman giving an open pass for someone grabbing my crotch or telling me I owe them something because I spent five minutes entertaining a conversation I would have rather passed on in the first place. I like to wear shirts to show off my cleavage. I like red lipstick. I wear fishnets on weekends. I use sex toys. I’ve been choked in bed, and I’ve asked for it. I like to dominate in bed, and I like to be submissive. I’ve taken a free drink from someone who offered. I’ve accepted a walk home from a bar or party and thought it was just a walk home.
Here’s a little word we’re forgetting when you judge me on my sexual assault, or you choose to continue to judge me on what I just shared above. You forgot about consent. CONSENT: to give assent or approval. Consent. The ability for me to choose what I want done to me, for me, by someone else, and what is unacceptable on my terms. CONSENT. It’s a very easy concept.
But, there are some who will take what I’ve just written and run with it, and I’ll hear slut again many times over before I put my kids to bed tonight. I want to ask, though, does what I consent to, do any of the things I have done or will continue to do in my spare time, do any of these things make it ok to harass me, beat me, sexually assault me? No, they don’t. Do any of those things scream that it’s ok to talk down to me, call me sweetie, honey, a slut, or tell me I deserve what I have coming, or that I shouldn’t be a prude because I was attentive but then I said no, or is it acceptable to call me a tease because my supposed mixed signals caused a massive set of blue balls and you’d rather violate me than go jerk off and leave me the fuck alone. Is it ok to tell me I’ll get what I have coming because I said the words, NO, I don’t want that, STOP. Do any of those things make me a woman unworthy of protection, respect or kindness? No, they don’t.
You know what I don’t like? I don’t like the notion that I have to have permission from men to like what men like. I don’t like that I have to fall into a box of what makes a woman acceptable from a male’s perspective, and what makes it ok to make me an object, a lesser human being, someone to discard and mock and treat poorly.
My sexual preferences and my sexual history have nothing to do with the fact that two men tried to rape me, beat me, and leave me on a street bleeding and crying to empower them, to entertain them, to teach me a lesson. My sexual preferences and my sexuality are MY CHOICE, my choice alone, and I don’t owe anyone a fucking apology for what I choose to do behind closed doors, no woman owes anyone an apology.
I’ll leave you with this: if all I do in life before the day I die, is stand for what’s right, and stand up for my women, some who are warriors and some who are the quiet heros, the ones who can’t speak for themselves, and can’t stand up to the men who continue to try to shame them into thinking they are less than equal, if all I do is raise boys into men who treat women with respect, and who protect their women, who love them, raise them up and fight for them, well, that’s enough.
Because at the end of the day, no one remembers you for the memes you post to FB, no one cares about the comments you leave from the shadows degrading and insulting your own.
We are all merely remembered for how you treat people, how you try to change your community, and how, easy or difficult, you stand for what is good, decent, and right.
I was going to give it some time before I wrote something serious about sexual assault and rape culture again, because I know it’s tough for us all to deal with, but jesus fucking Christ. Trump. Fucking Trump. He makes it too fucking easy. So. In light of the recent Trump video, the commentary resulting, the trolls, and more personally, with the outpouring of support for me and women in general recently after I posted last week’s blog post and photo–it was incredible, very humbling and your words make me feel like I have some sort of permission to keep on talking. Because remember, if you don’t talk, you don’t inspire change, and we all have no chance in this big, bad world of fucking weird we’re facing.
So. Obviously, I’m pissed again. I’m pissed because I woke up to watching Trump and Billy Bush talk about how ok it is to grab pussy and kiss people without permission, especially if you’re a magnet, which I assure you, Donald Trump is not a fucking magnet of sexuality that anyone wants to attach to, willingly (doubtful) and most certainly not unwillingly. He’s nothing more than that creepy friend of your other weird family member who says he’s your “Uncle” and then grabs your ass on the way through the Thanksgiving buffet and winks and thinks he’s cute, which he’s not, he’s vile, and he should be put down.
Seriously, though, that’s Trump, really. Nothing more, nothing less. Look at the backlash he’s facing. His own people can’t stand behind him now, and I’m insanely confused about his puppet wife and seemingly braindead daughters. TRUMP EX WIVES WHERE ARE YOU? LADIES, UNITE! NOW IS YOUR TIME! GET YOURS! MARLAAAAAAAA, PLEEEEASE!
Seriously. He’s the scum of the earth, a man who feels that women are objects to be touched, used, violated and used recreationally for entertainment, harassment and sport. He does not need us, want us, care about us, value us, and most certainly, does not consider us his fucking equal. I mean, seriously, the man’s apology was that of a child who bit someone: So I’m sorry if what I did was bad, maybe I was bad, or so I’m told, am I bad? if you think I’m bad, but I was bad a decade ago, and I’m not bad now, and I love women, really, I do, look at all my women, I’m a man of women, look, I’m sorry I said some things about women, but Hillary is a woman and she is a bad woman and Benghazi and cheating husband and weakness via pneumonia and bad, bad women. Women are bad. But I love women, nothing like a woman, I say. AND I SAY, nothing like someone in the wrong who deflects like a mother fucker because well, they’re again, the fucking scum of the earth.
Remember when Obama was in this position, getting ready for his second debate? Do you want me to remind you what the opposing party was ripping him for? His sometimes obsession with ripping a menthol butt in privacy in his spare time. A menthol cigarette. The end of the fucking earth, really, mixing tobacco and menthol and putting it in the mouth of an educated, thoughtful, inspirational, FUCKING RATIONAL AND NOT VILE family man. I mean, how could he, how could he want tobacco of the minty nature? I mean, if we were to go to war, can you fucking imagine if before pressing the red button he sat down thoughtfully, considered his options brought to him by an entire cabinet of educated people, sat back and took the time to say, hey, wait, I need to think about something, and then lit a cigarette so he could get a bit of the calm before he was forced to make the decision to engage with any other country we maybe don’t quite understand, can you just imagine if he sat down on a bench and smoked a cigarette? I can’t. I cannot. I cannot imagine how wrong of a man that made him, considering I will smoke anything in arms reach if my blood pressure rises two points above sedated just so I don’t fucking RUIN SOMEONE.
And now, we have this assbag, who essentially hates anything a real woman stands for, and WE ARE ACTUALLY ENTERTAINING HIS APOLOGY?
WHO THE FUCK HAVE WE BECOME? I’m sorry, I don’t care, anyone who still stands with him after noon today in any time zone in the world, is a fucking TWAT. A self destructive, insensitive, masochistic, vile, scum bag. I’m never, ever going to change my mind on this. And spare me the, Isn’t it great we all get to live in a country where differences of opinion are welcome and I can love Trump and you can love common sense and decency and reason but we can be friends and all get along?
No. No we can’t. No, I can’t. You support Trump from today until the end of the election and I honestly, swear to God, I can’t have anything to do with you. Nothing. I can’t. I don’t need your bullshit, I don’t want my children to know you, I’m embarrassed for you, and consider this our breakup. Again, I’m not even supporting Hillary. I’m only supportive of not being a low life, discriminatory, judgmental, elitist supporting, democracy jeopardizing, country ruining, immoral, sexist, deceitful, boldface FEAR INCITING, troll; someone the Founding Fathers, the revolutionaries from all sides of the aisle in this country, the real people who strove to make this country great, those people, the ones who deserve to have used the tag line, MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, those people would never support this man or what he stands for.
Now back to my original rant, because dear god, I am more a candidate for blood pressure medicine tonight than I ever was when the Sox were in the playoffs in 2004.
First, Trump, you small and lowly coward, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU give us an apology so bullshit, with your stupid sprayed orange duck face. How dare you sit in front of a camera and try to hide behind your, I’d just grab a pussy and then they’d like it, bullshit? Grab a pussy? You’d just grab a pussy? Because you’re famous? That’s a pussy grabbing thing? Pussies be grabbed if you’re famous, disregarding the fact that you legit look like a squinty eyed, low life trust fund bitch, hanging outside Smith Point Georgetown, eye brows unkept like a bunch of mother fucking garden weeds, hair thinned and combed over like you’re too poor to get plugs or a good fucking grown man hair cut, duck face worse than any 13 year old on Insta, orange substance bleeding from your face onto your tacky suits. And by the way, tacking an American flag to your shirt doesn’t make you classy or more American, it just means someone on your team was smart enough to try to pin you with something respectable that might distract middle America watching from your smug and despicable face, so they could all the next day be like, Did ya see that bitch didn’t wear tha goddamned American flag? That bitch doesn’t even like the flag, I like flags, did you see his flag? That means he’s a real American. FLAGS MOTHERFUCKER. AMERICAN FLAG PINS! FUCK YEA! WHERE IS WALMART I BET THEY HAVE A PIN FLAG FOR ME.
Fuck off. No flag pin makes you any more American than jamming hot dogs and keg beer down your throat while you alternate between holding a microphone you swear doesn’t work on purpose and a swinging around a mother fucking sparkler in the other. Dick.
Today is a sad day for women, when we actually have to listen to the other candidate for President talk about how ok it is to grab our pussies with no permission, to kiss us if you’re magnetic, because I mean, we’ll probably want it right after we get sexually assaulted.
Which brings me really back to the point I wanted to make.
I wrote last week about two men who tried to rape me. Two men who saw me walk past them while they were drunk on a Saturday night, and I bet they thought, look at her, that girl paying no attention to us in her frumpy mom wear, that one, I bet she wants her pussy grabbed.
Because I’m sure my jeans and hoodie wearing, lack of eye contact, straight walking path to my house shouted, COME ONE, COME ALL, I’VE GOT A VAGINA AND I WANT MY PUSSY GRABBED.
Because you know what? Those two men behaved no better than Trump detailed. When I walked past them, I ignored their sidewalk beer drinking social. I kept my head down in my hoodie, my purse close to me, my eyes focused on the pavement, just wanting to go home and go to bed.
But something about me, something from the hair pulled tight in a bun inside my baggy sweatshirt, something in the way I wore those jeans that just fit my body, something about my 7 year old sneakers or my studious glasses I wear to just fucking see, something must have just screamed, THIS BITCH WANTS TO BE FUCKED.
I mean, because that’s what happened. I passed them and didn’t acknowledge them. I kept walking when they got up to walk fast behind me. I kept trying to walk as they yanked my purse back. I tried to run when they shoved me to the ground on my face, one pushing me down until my glasses smashed and my face burst with blood. I tried to scream as one put his foot hard on my back and stomped, while the other covered my mouth. Something about the way I kicked and screamed and tried to bite and wriggle out from under two grown men who outweighed me by 200 pounds and who thought it was hysterical that I couldn’t fight my way out, these awful men I’ve never met in my life, with the morals of fucking lowlifes, it seriously must have come across as, SHE IS HERE FOR THE TAKING, GRAB HER PUSSY.
Because they tried. They both tried to rip my pants off, one holding me down and the other pulling, and then taking turns. I laid there stunned, and then helpless, and then lucky for me, fucking angry, angry because I am more fight than I am flight and NO ONE is going to ruin me without a fucking fight. So then, like the Dick Wolf fan I am, I channeled every last episode of Law and Order I ever watched in the last two decades and went fucking Olivia Benson batshit. I screamed, I kicked, I bit and then a light came on. A light came on and they shoved my face in the ground and kicked me and ran. And I got up, and ran into the darkness towards my house faster than I’ve ever run in my life. I ran so fast that when I made it to my stairs, my hands were shaking so badly in trying to get my keys, and my sobs were so hard and uncontrollable that I tripped and I fell on my face again, into my stairs, and I just laid there because it was ok, because I was home.
I crawled into bed that night alone on the couch, because I didn’t want my husband or family to see me, and I didn’t know what to do. And I slept alone until they found me, and then I relived it again the next day, and the next ten days I called out of work, and the rest of the days, every day I have to hear about this type of bullshit about why it’s ok for women to be treated poorly by a man, any man, but in this case, a man so dangerous, and in such a position of power, that I refuse to shut up until 9 November when this fucking nightmare is hopefully fucking over.
Tell me we’re friends, that you care about me, care about any woman who has ever been violated, hurt, abused, harassed, treated poorly in ANY FUCKING WAY, then look at this picture again, because I AM NOT ASHAMED, and tell me to my face why you support Trump. Tell me he will protect, and fight, and be the champion for our women.
And for anyone who thinks my personal story has nothing to do with Donald Trump, presidential candidate of the United States of America, you are fucking wrong. He is rape culture. He is what makes it ok. He is what will ruin us.
Don’t be someone who lets him perpetuate the demise of our women. If nothing else, respect your women, at any cost, this November.
One day my children are going to wake up and understand the internet and google my name and hopefully find me and not the porn star that shares the same name. Well, that’s the only part to be hopeful about. My husband eye rolls every time someone new discovers my bullshit (like his two coworkers recently, which I think is fantastic because someone should fuck with him at the office when I can’t) and he for one is going to be PISSED when the boys find out what Mommy is really like. And then they will be pissed when they realize they ever listened to me, especially since I spent their young years still behaving like a moron but acting like I should have an influence over their future and well-being. Ahhh, parenthood. A journey full of smoke, mirrors, tricks and lies. I love it.
So last Friday I went to a brand new chiropractor for the first time in ten years because I think I fucked up my back somehow and there are times where I’m more comfortable walking around at a 45 degree angle like a fucking protractor and it’s got me deathly afraid that I am going to be that old woman who walks around looking like a candy cane. For decades. So I go to this place, knowing he is American, which has me very excited that for once in 7 years I’ll deal with a doctor that isn’t a complete dick by nature and actual expresses some concern and doesn’t tell me flat out that I’m fat or lazy or impossible to deal with, or at the very least he’ll lie about those things.
Well first of all, I must have walked in to the best looking damned chiropractor office on earth. My doctor is easy on the eyes and the physiotherapist on the floor below who discusses your x-rays with you? Florian? He’s so fucking easy on the eyes that I just wanted to ask if I could lay on a couch in his office and stare at him for the rest of the day. I know that is creepy and I don’t care. This man is delicious and I’ll go to that office every day for the rest of my life or until Florian quits. I told the Mr. this when I got home and he just shook his head and was like, you’re an idiot, but if I could trade one of my celebrity passes for a German Florian pass, I fucking would.
Anyway, I’m telling the new chiropractor friend why I’m there and I quickly point out all the things I know I do wrong to contribute to my poor posture and body issues, which is basically everything in his THINGS NOT TO DO TO YOUR BODY book, which I’m sure is what he was pulling from during our conversation. Then he’s massaging me and cracking my back, doing a few moves where it would appear he’s wrestling me on a table, twisting me around like a pretzel and basically details my problems are sleeping on my stomach, poor posture, being generally lazy, lacking muscles of any kind, something I think about standing and walking funny which I already knew, and just did a lot of nodding at me and eye squinting, I think because in his head he was trying to figure out whether or not to take me seriously.
Near the end of the session I put my shirt back on and said something that made sense to me but I guess not to him, “So it was when I was in Paris and the break dancer tried to align my back that I knew I had to come to one of you because it instantly made me feel like magic.”
He looked at me like, no, I absolutely don’t have to take her seriously now. “What break dancer in Paris did something to your back?”
I carried on like he gets a lot of these stories, forgetting that I have to stop doing shit like this when I meet someone for the first time.
“So I took my friend’s daughter to Paris and she’s 15 but I thought it was a good idea to take her somewhere worldy and then I thought it would be nice to take her down by the river to get drinks and let her try drinks because that’s how nice of a person I am. (in very little consumption for anyone judging me, thanks) So we’re there having a gin by the water when this break dancer approaches us about something (being pretty, which might have worked on her but at this stage of my life, coming at me with, do you want me to buy you french fries is an easier get me in bed tactic than you are beautiful) and tells us he’s in a break dancing troop or whatever they go by. He shows us a FB page to back his qualifications because I was staring at him and probably said NO YOU AREN’T because it’s been a life long dream of mine to be friends with a break dancer who will teach me The Freeze or how to pop and lock but no one is ever willing and so I’m judging him because I don’t need some stranger to go get my fucking hopes up and then break my heart all in five minutes. So she’s convinced but I’m not until he says, the group dances down by the river every night, want to go? So of course I fucking want to go, I LIVE TO FUCKING GO, and I ignore the fact that its me, my friend’s daughter and a random Parisian break dancer who wants to bring us to water, under a covered bridge in the shadows of Notre Dame.
LIFE IS ABOUT MAKING MEMORIES, PEOPLE. STAY WITH ME AND STOP BEING SCARED FOR ME, MOM.
So we get down there and shocking, there are no other dancers. But, true to his promise, he does all of the moves i Love the most in life and I’m beyond Christmas excited and I’m flailing around and clapping and so happy that I am wearing my new Parisian hammer pants which are suited for break dancing and he’s giving me a lesson that involves letting me try to put my weight on my hands and he’s holding my legs over my head, letting me pretend I’m doing The Freeze. Now I know I lack coordination, muscle tone and sobriety but he seems to think I’m just not understanding that “if you put your weight on the right parts of your hands, your legs will go up and stay easy.” Listen, fancy French accented dancer, it doesn’t matter where I try to drop 140 pounds of ALL WOMAN on my tiny hands, these little tree trunk legs of mine aren’t going up or staying unless there’s fucking magic involved.
“Maybe you need work on your back”, he says, and my friend with me is now Snapchatting this whole incident so I feel happy that we’ll have evidence of my success as a break dancer or our murder by the river. He tells me to sit between his legs and he starts massaging me and cracking me in a way that reduced me to the wordless, drooling state I get in when my girl Olga washes my hair at the salon. He’s informing me that he can tell I don’t drink any water and that I don’t stand up straight and then with no permission outside of the drunken sexual noises I was probably making, he took both cheeks and cracked my neck in the manner that makes you fearful of paralysis but then super happy and relaxed when you released you indeed did not become paralyzed and you are just not fucking sore anymore. It was truly magical, honestly, and I’ve considered going back to find him and ask if I can bring him home to live in our spare room as our nanny doctor for Mommy. Anyway.
Then he made me try break dancing again which was not one ounce more successful now that my back was cracked. Now, I was even more relaxed and so I fell on my head more easily and finally he was just like, ok, no more trying for today, you were great.”
I took a breath.
“So that’s how I knew I had to start coming to get regular treatment.”
He surely thought I was insane.
Then this weekend, I went to Oktoberfest in Munich and drank 16 beers and came in and out of slow face about 63 times and decided around 11pm after a solid 12 hours of drinking would be the appropriate time to ride the fastest rides ever. Well you know what you forget when you’re drunk on rides after 12 hours of drinking? Neck control. You forget to hold your fucking neck up, which is why my head was like a bobble head on that octopus looking ride that whips you back and forth doing like 60mph on a fair ground, making you fear death every two seconds. So my head is just flopping in the wind, slamming against the ride and then I got to my hotel at 3am and drunk slept on it and then woke up thinking I was paralyzed and spent the next two days unable to walk, lift my head or generally function in life. So I email the new chiropractor friend and explain to him what has happened and then he informs me I gave myself whiplash, a normal outcome of Fest for a mother of two who is nearing 40 years of age, and that yes, he will see me because he’s positive I need help in life.
And so I saw him again, and to thank him for seeing me twice in one week about two completely unrelated self-induced personal injuries, I told him the story about my German landlord getting the strange from someone that resulted in two kids and a divorce from his wife, which then resulted in him telling me I need to get out of his house.
But that’s a whole other story.