metoo.

Both times I found out I was pregnant, I wanted a girl. Both times I gave birth, they were to boys. And anyone that knows me knows that I'm head over my exhausted and frazzled pee stained heels for them both. Without the slightest idea it was coming, I'm now 35 and a boy mom. We play cars. We 'pew pew' swords, kitchen spoons and light sabers. We also play dress up, ponies, and make up. In a way, I'm not your stereotypical 'boy mom' but a mom who gave birth to boys that are being raised to appreciate boy and girl things. Or whatever. This isn't about that, but sort of.

Today, I'm so incredibly grateful I gave birth to boys, and not the daughters I was pining for. Up until 2016, I've never been a very political person. I'm not even sure I'm very morally driven. I like to think I have my own internal compass of what's good and bad, or right and wrong, and I give myself a pass when the needle points more towards the questionable decision areas every now and then, but I pride myself on being humane enough to know when I'm being a shit or fucking up. So this isn't really a politics driven rant, or morally driven rant, but just a mess of anger, hurt and confusion, likely stemming from a lack of one in the other.  

The thing is, I've been depressed. And anxious. Life is hard. I completely understand that all of my issues, minus those of family health, are completely first world problems coming from a person of privilege. I understand my place of privilege. My skin tone, my financial class, my education, it's all to my benefit. My husband and I happen to work our asses off for everything that we have, and we've come to grips that we'll very likely never be within the financial means or discipline to be homeowners and afford luxurious vacations (outside of the bi-annual weekend 'family trips' to Wisconsin). But food is on the table, we have a reliable vehicle that's under a decade old, we somehow found ourselves in the right place at the right time to stumble on the perfect rental unit in the ideal neighborhood for our family, and we can still afford the weekly amazon impulse buy when our stress levels soar.

Knowing that we're comfortable, and doing quite ok, and having two young happy and healthy children, it's hard for me to admit I’m depressed. and anxious. but I am, and it's the reality. and I'm sure, with the vast majority of the 'millennial' or 'xenial' or whatever the generation i belong to as a 35-year-old tech savvy individual who also grew up with a rotary phone using the card catalog at the local library, I’m not the only conflicted adult torn between societal expectations and realities. hell, anyone born between 1980 and 1990 are likely single handedly keeping the pharma industries of Zoloft and Lexapro in business with all the shit going on, am i right?

but i digress. I’ll likely keep doing that within this jumble of text.

i am a woman. and today, a woman is testifying in front of the entire world, in efforts of trying to keep other women, and girls who will someday become women, from having to endure similar traumas she herself suffered at age 15, at the hands of a man pushing to become one of the country's leaders and rulers. a supreme court justice, who would decide whether or not the brock turners of the world are just 'boys being boys' or entitled privileged wanna be rapists. because he himself is being accused of a similar situation.

and all the horror of that brave woman, and this sickening excuse of a man, and all the other victims coming forward in protest. the dialogue of 'what kids don’t do this' and accusations of opportunists, and that's not really rape or sexual assault. 'get over it.' why didn't she speak up, etc.

the stats. every person knows at least one woman who's been the victim of sexual assault. what is sexual assault? the grayed and blurred lines of the metoo movement. the Asia Argentos playing both sides. the 'but she was drinking'. the 'well look what she’s wearing'. the rape culture. the all of it.

it's. just. so. fucking. exhausting. and everyone can say it more eloquently, clearer, better than i. on both sides, sure. I’m not here to make a point. I’m not trying to push someone from side A to side B (but let's be honest, if you're reading this at any point it means two huge things: 1) i was brave enough to say fuck it and finally put this out there - somewhere and way to go me!; and 2) good bye. for real. if you're side B - the 'boys will be boys,' questionable type? you're the reason I’m exhausted. and anxious. and depressed. and whathaveyou. i don't care if you're my aunt, cousin, childhood best friend, whatever - good bye. I’m done. i need to save my energy for survival, not to argue why everything in this world is a fucking shitshow and blaming sexual victims is terrible). but yeah, tired.

the first time i was assaulted i was 12. I’m not even sure if my first recollection is indeed my first assault, but it's the first time i woke up and realized something wasn't right. i was wearing a Santa Claus night gown from Wal-Mart. it was a 'family friend' who i had known my entire life. my mom would let him watch me and stay with me while she frequently left town for arts and crafts show, how she made a living at the time. he was divorced and had two of his own children, who he was not allowed to see or contact. i was twelve, i didn't know that was weird or question it. he smoked pot and drank with my mom and her friends. he was always around. I’d stay at his house and he'd take me to the mall. buy me whatever i wanted. clothes, CDs, toys, you name it. he always had calendars or images of naked women around. he'd talk openly about sex, or how much he liked going down on women, to which I’d respond, 'ew that’s gross.' 'you'd be surprised how good it could feel.' appropriate, right? he'd play porno movies when i stayed over. on repeat. he'd promise to buy me the new cd i wanted, if i had another drink (but don't tell your mom). i chose red dog beer, b/c the marketing was cool and i thought it made me cool by association. or those nasty wine coolers because they tasted like candy. I’d get drunk, he'd smoke pot, we'd watch porn and whatever horror movies i picked out at family video. it was normal. I’d come home with tons of new clothes and goodies. my mom just figured, cool, free babysitter and the kid's got shit i don't need to buy her myself.

then one night, i woke up with his hands in my underwear. i pretended to sleep and tossed and turned to get him to move his hands away. i moaned as if waking up and rolled over. after what felt like forever, he finally left the room. i shook and shuddered and had no idea what happened or why. he came back and told me he dreamed he did something, and he didn't really do anything did he??? i cried and hid under my blankets. ran out of the room. hopped on my bicycle in the pouring rain and rode to my grandparents’ home at 4 am on the other side of town. didn't even bother putting pants on, i was still wearing my Santa Claus Walmart nightgown and underwear that were still stretched out from invasive fingers. i fell off my bike twice, cutting my leg. i pounded on my grandparents' door at 4 in the morning crying and couldn't bring myself to say anything. they stared at me shocked, until i whimpered 'he touched me.' 

my grandparents took care of me that night. my mother asked me how i wanted to handle it. i was 12. in 7th grade. in a town of 800, with a class of under 30. have you ever been a girl in junior high? bitches are damn vicious at that age. you can't do anything without being judged and ridiculed, especially with an eye prescription as sorry as mine and an unknown last name. the last thing i wanted was to have myself exposed as the white trash girl. i told my mother i never wanted to hear his name mentioned ever again. i just wanted it all to go away. forgotten, so it would never have happened.

my mom started a new job working third shift the very same night of my abuse. our house front door didn't lock. the size of my hometown, it didn't matter if you locked your doors. even when you left town. so i very clearly remember this being the first time in my life i a) realized our door didn't lock, and b) was terrified of who could come in. she left me by myself overnight, and i laid in fear he would return. he didn't - not that night anyway. but i did leave school early one day a bit later (months, years? i don't know) and saw his fire engine red truck parked outside our house, and when i did come home an hour or so later, the kitchen smelled of marijuana. so i know they remained in touch. and this is why my relationship with my mother will permanently be strained. why I’ll always be distant, no matter how hard i try to forgive and forget, put myself in her shoes. and this is why i never touched an ounce of alcohol in high school. everyone thought i thought of myself as so high and mighty, but i figured, even then, even though i wasn't even drinking the night in question when this occurred, that by accepting his offers of clothing, CDs and having 'just one more drink and I’ll get you xyzzy at the mall,' it was my fault. and the idea of drinking, letting a drop of red dog or wine coolers hit my lips would bring it all back. i was victim shaming myself. at 12 years old. 

and that was just the first time. throughout college and my early 20s, i drank heavily. because, it's Wisconsin culture, right? and i partied. and i was always craving male attention. i was 'liberated' if you will. that's not saying i didn’t have a slutty phase or three, but i still can recall more than i can count on 10 fingers of other questionable experiences i had that never did and still don't sit well with me to this date. 

waking up to a man on top of me, who i did not invite into my home, unaware i had been followed. (three times). telling a man mid-act, 'stop,' which was ignored. (twice). pretending to sleep while 'friends' took advantage of me thinking i was conked out. getting so belligerently drunk and waking up from a 'brown out', unaware of my surroundings, to being taken advantage of (Jesus Christ i don't even want to admit how many times i can remember this occurring). and others. the whole metoo movement has highlighted the culture of how women are treated. and if they dress a certain way, flirt, or drink and put themselves in certain situations, it's just what comes with the territory. it's your fault. it's my fault. it's always been my fault. and even typing this out - i still believe that it is and was my fault. still. 

so if it's my fault, was it even assault? or is it just a consequence? 

if i had a daughter, i know damn well how i'd respond. or a friend confiding the instances i outlined above. IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. so why is it mine? because of the brett kavanaughs. because of the brainwashed men and women who support him. because of the 'christian' relatives on facebook, who share memes supporting donald trump.

this self doubt. 

it hurts. and it's conflicting. and i hate myself for it. and i wish i could go back to me as a child, a teenager, a young 20 something. and shake myself viciously and make myself swear to abstain from all sex and alcohol and to dress in bib overalls and long sleeves and throw out my makeup and stay away from assholes, and. . . . 

why does our culture do this to women? why can't i be proud of my past and my accomplishments and how my hardships have strengthened me to get where i am today? 

i have a beautiful family and amazing friends. 

but not a day goes by that i don't feel the pit in my stomach. of the ridicule and regret. and filthiness and trauma and mixed up feelings towards myself, individuals I’ve encountered, and my mother.

so, this woman, who is standing up so bravely today. believe her. no person in their right mind would come forward with all of this. i can't even type this, let alone speak it to the world without sobbing face first in a bucket of alcohol. 

this is why I’m grateful i don't have daughters. a mother wants to protect her young. and i don't know how i could protect a daughter. the world is not kind to women. 

so for those of you who do have daughters, i vow to help protect yours the best way i know how - to raise my sons to be respectful, genuine and kind men. while it's a trying process currently at ages 2.5 and 4.5 and i can't even manage to get them to quit bopping each other or their parents on the head, i still drive in terms such as 'consent,' 'personal space,' and 'respect' on a daily basis. 

we gotta fix this. it's gotta end. 

#metoo

anxiety x anxiety

breathe in, breathe out. daily. repeat. and so on.

anxiety is really fun, you guys. sometimes, it's your period. sometimes, it's work, or work/life balance. sometimes, it's money. sometimes, it's family. sometimes, it's everything and absolutely nothing. all of the times, it sucks. it's consuming. it's difficult to capture with words. to explain to those you interact (or don't) with why you're suddenly ghosting everyone. or why you have perma bitchface. or why you are overreacting or not reacting to every and anything.

and all of the millions of things in your head. what if. . .i can't. . . i don't want to. . . can i?

it's been a rollercoaster of a month/week/day, you guys.

my family and i moved into a long overdue upgrade of an apartment. we have every and anything we could ever want or need. a backyard, private garage, giant park behind our home, a dishwasher, free laundry, a playroom! happy kids, happy mom and dad. i bike four miles a day now! (well, on work days, anyway). so there's exercise. and sunshine.

i just saw all of my favorite people in the world last week. i turned 35. we had a barbecue and two of my long distance girlfriends went out of their way to make it to chicago to celebrate and that meant more than the world to me. we went out for drinks on 'mom time' (aka super early on a sunday evening) at one of my favorite establishments. i was able to temporarily play social jodi and see some friendly faces i haven't seen in forever. it was nice, it really, really was. and is. i'm so lucky to have these people in my life.

i had almost a whole week off with my kids. i got to play house with my husband over an extended weekend. we grilled out twice! it was the best. it is the best.

and still, my heart feels like it is constantly palpitating and my shoulders are tense and i can't seem to answer my phone or talk to people. and sure, it's about to be 'that time of the month,' but do normal people have breakdowns when they are faced with talking to family members? because i did.

let me give you guys all a friendly tip. if you have someone you love or even just kinda like, or just have to get along with, who has anxiety, guilt trips don't really work. in fact, they have a tendency to trigger anxiety and all the fun shebang symptoms that come along with it, into hyperdrive. so i'm a bad aunt. i'm going to miss my niece's graduation party. and yes, i feel bad. but i also feel bad that i'm being made to feel bad because it would be a major stressor to upheave my family's routine and the thought of driving in traffic on a graduation weekend to the suburbs alone, right this moment, is terrifying and i can't breathe right.

i mean, seriously? i can't really say why or what or how i'm feeling, because i can't justify it. i can't explain it. sure, i met with my friends last weekend. but that was  a good week. and quite frankly, i think it may have exhausted my 'regular' energy to just be me for a minute. and now i'm not having a regular moment and i'm just - - - tense?

it doesn't always make sense, you know. and what really gets me, is the pressure and expectation to just 'suck it up' and swallow a pill and blah blah blah to make yourself normal. i do take pills, actually. daily. but they don't always work like a magic wand, to my dismay. you don't always know where the other person is coming from, especially if you don't know where they've been.

where i am. where i've been. where i'm going.

i'm so incredibly lucky and grateful for my support system. my husband. my friends. my kids.

my friend sarah got my boys matching t-shirts. it melted my heart faster than a nuked cheese curd.

there's no real point or punchline, here. just trying to see if getting it 'out there' maybe helps the pain in my neck.

if not, there's always a sixer of spotted cow waiting in my garage tonight. and some two and four year old boy snuggles.

-x

TRUTH. (gimme the chips)

25 days, 24 nights

until we move. this july, i will have been a chicagoan (or at least a wisconsin transplant in chicago) for 12 years. crazy. and april 30, my family and i embark upon what will be my 7th residence/move in the past dozen years. while i think about it, it does sound like a lot, but my whole life has been a nomadic lifestyle from the day i turned 18 years and got the hell out of argyle.

if i try to count, can i even pinpoint my different addresses?

argyle: 2
river falls: 3
wisconsin dells: 5
oshkosh: 6
chicago: 7

so - 23 places in my 34.almost 35 years? eesh.

but i'm SO ready to move. between the sketch pad bums that infest the third floor of my building and the frat party bros directly above us and the seasonal cockroaches and gangbangers in our basement - i. am. so. done. we had to call our landlord to report police/security issues eleven times in two years. i mean, c'mon. that's not even bitching about the gross/annoying stuff, that's just 'oh there was a gunshot in our building two floors up and we have little kids, so uh, yeah,' or 'our storage unit was broken into by the gangbangers who got pissed when we ratted them out for letting their buddies sleep/live in our basement where we keep our stroller, so uh, yeah,' or 'there's a homeless dude sleeping outside our unit on the stairwell, anything you can do about that?'

UGH.

moving is expensive. you have to a) pay to get out of your lease at said slum; b) pay moving application fees, background check fees, move-in fees, mover fees, extra babysitting hours so your kids don't drive you even more crazy than you already are when packing your million boxes (that you had to pay for on amazon), and alllllll the random shit that type A crazy OCD people like me insist is necessary for making a new house a 'home' (see: random impulse buys at marshall's - new oven mitts, kitchen towels, cupboard/cabinet thingy for cats to shit in, new rugs, blah blah blahhh).

but you guys i am so excited. for real.

for the first time in my adult life (i dont count the college years bc i had no identity and listened to good charlotte and newfound glory and wore plaid pants and boyscout shirts), i will have a BACKYARD. like, a real one. fenced in. ON THE PARK. with not one, but two playgrounds within our line of sight. a two car garage! remember that time my car got completely totaled just by being parked in front of my apartment last year? because some dumb bitchass kid didn't know how to parallel park and it ate 12k out of my savings that i still haven't rebounded from? well at least that won't happen in our private secured garage. and we can buy a picnic table! a kiddie pool! a grill! mama can have beers in her backyard! lounge in my mom swimsuit with spotted cows while the kids run around. holy hell. with all of this, you'd think we're just living in someone else's backyard. but nope. we have private free laundry too! what the what??? it's a lovely bottom unit of a two flat in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, but that's besides the point. it's a really lovely family friendly quiet residential street. sure, my commute to the office will be 20 minutes more inconvenient, and i'll prob end up putting some kid who's dad is an uber driver through college, but - no more gunshots! no more break-ins! NO MORE PARTY BROS LISTENING TO THE BACKSTREET BOYS. (i mean what, why even?)

it's more space. it's safe. it has all the comforts we need. with a dishwasher! as a mom to little kids who never even has time to use the restroom without company barging in, dishwashers and laundry onsite is like a halleeffinglullah. and we got sunrooms.

and the best part? it's only a couple hundro more than our current rent. i feel like an ass for not getting out of our squalor earlier. and it's a good school zone!

so yeah. 25 days. 24 nights. and then, we move.

it's not out of the city like i initially envisioned. turns out, it really does take a village to raise a fam with lil kiddos. so we're not going anywhere until the boys are big enough to not need grandparents and nanny help. i keep saying 'minnesota 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019. . . .' yeah. we're in chicago.

even with this umpteenth winter wave (i mean snow? in april? gimme a goddamn break), i'm still super stoked for summer time, even if it means we completely skip over spring.

you can catch me sipping pbr's with a straw in a sexy fashionable mom swimsuit in a kiddie pool (maybe or maybe not sporting bright blue brand new oven mitts, b/c they are so fly). i'll be the freckly whale just off the river park, bumping some moana and frozen songs on the bluetooth speaker - with or without kids.

here's to life dealing you a shitty hand and karma doubling down to make it up to you. let's hope there's no 24th move before year 15 as a sconnie transplant.

parenting is not being able to laugh when your kid tells it like it is.

and here i thought we had until at least kindergarten until the kid lived up to his namesake.

treinta y cinco

i'm turning 35 this year. in two months, actually. even though each day seems to drag on slowly, i'm somewhat appalled at how quickly the years manage to be ticking by. i mean, i still feel like i'm 26 or 27. that cute young thing, who always seemed to have so much energy and be so interested in the next big thing. music, friends, activities. fun. and now i'm all like, wait, wut. 35? really, guys? i mean, yeah. 35.

and i'm cool with it! i'm all bout it bout it. my kids are finally old enough where independence is slowly becoming a thing with me again. after a hard blurry four years of survival, ooey gooey love, physical pains, stressors, tears, snot and lack of identity - i'm like, almost me again. but a grown up version. i mean 35? whoa.

somewhat intentionally, somewhat not, 2018 is turning into the year of self care. or at least awareness. i'm a redhead again (kinda). i fixed and added to some tattoos. i wear makeup again. sunscreen, omg! my skincare regime game is STRONG son, albeit expensive. whoever made up all these stupid creams, lotions, and serums targeting 30 something yuppie women is a genius. i fall for all of it. YES PLEASE. FIX MY DISCOLORATION. erase my freckles. hide my eye luggage. my recklessness of self care the first 34 years, all resolved with some magic goop! more more more. (raises hand).

i mean, last night. the kids went to bed at their newer later bedtime much to my chagrin. daylight savings is a mother fucker, i tell you. the almost four year old is getting smarter 'it's not bedtime yet mom it's still sunny outside!' GO TO BED. but i digress. the kids fiiiiinally passed out. and dad offered me a glass (or three) of rose, despite my usual aversion to weeknight drinking. and mom went buckwild on an online shopping spree! among the many purchases, an icecream scoop (oh man i am so sick of bending our regular spoons with hard ass icecream! no more!). three new pairs of thinx! (if you don't know - well, you're about to. they're period panties. PANTIES FOR WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR PERIOD. YOU DON'T HAVE TO WEAR A TAMPON. bye bye diva cup! just freeball it. or freebleed it. whatever, modern conveniences are awesome). but these mother fuckers are like 35 bucks a pop, so naturally i had to get krunk to buy my second set (because mama wanted some back ups!). but always the savvy shopper, i made my husband buy them so i could get an extra $10 off referral code. i bought some other garbage, too. on top of going wild and springing on some new threads (see i'm a hip mom, using slang. threads means clothes!) at target, i've got some buyer's remorse this morning. but i also had buyer's guilt after splurging $120 on three new sofa cushion sag relief supporting blocks - and now it's like we have a brand new couch! so sometimes it's smart and not compulsive!!!

it's like money. retail therapy. whether it be to 'better' my home. or my appearance. or spoil my kids with damn frozen barbie dolls. i can control these things. i can bring temporary happiness and joy into my family's life. so i do it.

2018 is the year of self care.

in addition to buying home goods and facial serum, i also have made myself read again. so far, nothing great or to write home about. i joined this online book club thing, where you get a new book every month. i kept falling into a rut not knowing what to read because i usually rip through everything an author puts out after discovering one, and i've exhausted all my usuals. so it's mostly been trashy contemporary housewife fiction. it's pretty bad. but fun. so i'm at the very least meeting my one book a month goal, actually slightly exceeding it.

i also fully plan on running again, now that it's starting to warm up again. signed up for my usual ravenswood 5k in april. that'll be nice. it'd be nice to have a running buddy, but i'm pretty damn slow, so would be too self conscious to even bother trying to recruit one.

and concerts! i realized i haven't seen a 'real' show in years. i discount my experience at ravinia last summer or any of the street festivals, because those shows don't have the same experience. i'm old and crabby. i want to sit down and hear the music. not be squished in some hipster dude's smelly armpit, barely able to keep my eyes open. so i've rediscovered all ages shows. they begin at 7:30 pm!!!! and one of the shows i bought tickets to has RESERVED SEATING. whoamygod. so yeah. sylvan esso and beach house should be solid jams. yeah yeah yeahs are playing 3 days after my birthday. and it's all ages so it's early. aaaaand i have the majority of the last week of may off work. but i don't know if i can justify the pricetag, and even if i can, if anyone else can to accompany me. but we'll see. the fact is that i'm making efforts to do things i used to enjoy for me. it's funny, i don't put a second thought into shelling out the same amount of money (nearly 60 bucks, cough cough), on this hunk of garbage for my kid's upcoming birthday. but for myself? ahhhhhhh. queue internal debate.

i'm trying to write again. i kinda flip flop between blogs. between unpolished and mom vomit heart rambles. i should probably just consolidate. i didn't want to get too personal on the former music one, but too late. it's not like i write anymore so it's definitely not like people will even read any of it. but that's not why i do this. i do this to get my brain flowing again. so i'm not humming 'do you want to build a snowman' for the 30th time to myself in my office like a creeper. (i am a creeper tho). NOTE: i tried to update this post on the unpolished domain, as i realized i hadn't posted there since DECEMBER 2015 HOLYSHIT, but the formatting is all jacked and i'm too lazy to figure it out. ok, this blog wins, i guess.

overall, 2018 is shaping out a-ok. my kids are amazing human beings. the little one is such a fireball. so stubborn and mean. but so beautiful and sweet (sometimes). the big one is really something. always accusing us of 'lying' if we tease. screaming 'I WANT TO CUDDLE YOU MOM' and begging to wear my clothes and makeup. they're my little bears. and things are good.

the housing situation sucks, so we're looking to move as soon as we can. i don't have the energy to document all that bs, but i'm looking forward to moving somewhere where i don't have to operate my 'meth lab' (aka portable washer and dryer, funnels, buckets, tubes and all) just to get clean clothes on my back.

i'm ok with 35. i'm actually pretty excited for it. i can't drink like i used to, nor do i want to. but this may be an excuse to throw some back and just live in the summer. these cold ass winter months have been brutal and i'm all too prepared to get my kids running around the playground again. go out for icecream. be a cool mom. i was jamming to some lil wayne on the radio in my car the other day with my kids. that's a cool mom thing to do, right? or is it just awkward. we ended up switching to 'PLAY MOANA MOM' immediately after anyway.

even though i can't seem to come up with a clever blog post title, or a cutesy closing to this long winded pile of words, it feels good to kindasorta write again. i may just challenge myself to checking in on the reg a bit more this year. a blog a month or week or something. you know, mental health. because 2018 is the whole year of self-care and whatnot.