Day 68: Shooting Blanks

When I was younger I wanted a large family, I thought five kids would be a good number. I like odd numbers and three seemed too few, although doable if I had to. The older I got, the more certain I was that I wanted children, but time began to run low on my fertile years. So as the clock ticked faster and faster and my living circumstances stayed rather unfriendly to the familial structure my mindset began to evolve. New York City is not an easy place to raise children, and though I very much admire those who do it, I never really wanted to. Then I fell in love with my husband and heard the ticking of the inevitable biological clock even louder. I was not ready, but my body didn’t care, it was now or never. Except . . . it turns out the man I love and married is sterile.

This should be my cue to panic. I want children, I have always wanted them and now you tell me after I’m in love with you that it is not an option? What the hell am I supposed to do now, is there a sperm bank nearby? Should I break up with you and . . . wait a minute . . . I’m feeling . . . sigh. I am feeling relief. Huh, didn’t see that coming. For the first time in a couple of years I don’t need to worry about my body clock or societal expectations of family. It turns out that having a reason to not breed was just what I needed to stop stressing over it. What I have realized in the intervening years is that I really don’t think I want kids after all. I love them, but I’d really rather just visit the zoo than live there.

What is the most interesting thing for me during the transition from desperate to breed to no chance in hell, is that I feel relieved and okay about it. Society and our families put so much pressure on us to have kids that often I don’t think we actually take the time to decide for ourselves if that is what we want. That pressure added to the biological time bomb of being a woman equals an almost hysterical feeling that you are somehow failing yourself, nature, and everyone else that populates the Earth by not contributing a zygote of your own. When choice is taken away from you sometimes the result is different than what you might expect.

Today I am a relatively happy, healthy, slightly crazy 36-year old woman who is living with the fact that I will likely never be a Mom. This wouldn’t even be so shocking to me on its own if it were not for the fact that I am adopted. I do not know one single person that is blood related to me. I have never looked in the face of another person and seen a resemblance. For all intents and purposes I am a bit of an iceberg, adrift and barren. I cannot now look to my own biological children to save me, so I’m learning to do that for myself.

So often people have children to give them purpose or a connection, I have neither on my own and no chance of that happening through Motherhood. I guess it’s time to woman up, dig deep and create one for myself. I still have days when I think I might like a baby, then I spend time with one and realize I am always glad when I get to go home. Children are wonderful and I look forward to years of getting to know my niece and my honorary niece, but I think I’m okay on my own. The crucial thing I keep reminding myself is that I have been on my own for so long, that it is about time I learn how to do it right. Jeff’s sterility gave me that chance. I’m not entirely alone anymore, I have him, but I’ve also been given back a piece of myself. It’s a new chance to get me right without the promise of distractions or the infinite love of my child. It’s funny how my husband’s shooting blanks actually hit exactly the right target.

Day 67: Sure, I Keep on the News, I Watch TMZ on TV

Do you remember the days when the news actually made news? Big stories around the world would actually make it into mainstream newscasts and papers. I feel like I used to be so much more well informed than I am now. Have I simply stopped paying attention, or has the news itself changed? I might be tempted to lay the blame on myself, after all, I have not watched the Daily Show in weeks (isn’t that where everyone gets their news?) but after the Michael Jackson debacle I’m pointing my finger at the media outlets themselves. When celebrity sightings, actions, and arrests make the headlines more often than politics, the war, or global unrest I think it’s pretty clear that our priorities are a bit skewed.

Weeks after MJ’s death and just when I hoped to finally get some peace we are still plagued with continuing stories about custody of his children (and can I just ask again, BLANKET?!? Really, you name your stupid kid Blanket? I always thought that was a joke), an unreleased song, old home movies, secret burial, fate of Neverland, the Beatles song catalog, etc., etc., etc. Add to that the Jessica Simpson – Tony Romo break-up which really shouldn’t have been a surprise given Ms. Simpson’s romantic track record, Jon and Kate’s continuing saga, the Bachelorette finale, Kim K. and Reggie Bush’s implosion, sentencing of Chris Brown . . . you get the picture. Is there any damn news in the news anymore?

I have a husband and friends in the military and I cannot find even a simple story when we suffer a casualty in Iraq. I am convinced that the only reason the release of the US journalists from N. Korea was covered so broadly is because it was Bubba who brought them home. Bill Clinton is still treated like a rock star (and I am one of the swooning fans I heartily admit), but if it were someone less media sexy it likely would have run as a single column feature three four pages in. I miss the days when getting an update on the Iranian protests did not necessitate an all-out web search across three news outlets and four TV channels.

True, it is partly my fault in that I no longer subscribe to a print newspaper. The NY Times is my great love when it comes to news, but I cannot abide the amount of paper it requires just to satisfy my lust for the printed word. Instead, I look to online news and the NY Times site is pretty good, though online news still seems to operate on a “news lite” format. The only truly good thing to come out of this is that I no longer need worry that I will be the least informed one at the party. Since we’re all getting our news from the same sources, there is a good chance they are just as dumb as me. If anyone brings up the latest on the on again, off again status of Megan Fox and Brian Austin Green though, I am so in the know!

Day 66: Today is a Good Day to Dye

I am a big talker. I like to talk about or plan out what I would like to do. I will volunteer for this charity, I will learn to play this instrument, I will finally finish studying French. I talk a big game, but find that in the end, I suck on the follow through. Today I got my first tattoo. It is not something I necessarily had not planned on, I knew the design and where I wanted it, but I’ve wanted one for 20 years so to suddenly decide today was the day took even me by surprise. So why do we do that? What makes one day a good day for going through with something we’ve long held at bay compared to any other day when it may simply be on your horizon, but not your immediate future? Why, after 20 years was today the day I decided to forever change my body?

I suppose I could ask why not today, but that’s just philosophical posturing. I have never actually been scared of getting a tattoo for the pain factor, but I have spent a great deal of time ruminating over the implication of putting something on my body that is permanent and that speaks about me to the world. For one thing, I don’t have much difficulty expressing myself on my own. If I want to speak I just open my big mouth and have at it. A tattoo, however, speaks in a very condensed form. You cannot possibly write the story you want your tattoo tell in words, well I suppose you could try, but depending on your size you’d likely run out of room before you ran out story. No, a tattoo needs to tell the story in a more metaphysical way.

Some people get tattoos of things they just like the look of. I think they are dumbasses for doing so, but who am I to judge? Well, of course I’m going to judge, but that’s not the point. Those people choose a design of something that is pretty, or badass, or emblematic and that does speak to who they are as a person. Maybe you really did want that ridiculous fairy tattoo on the inside of your wrist. While I’m going to have to judge for it, I also recognize that it says something significant about you are as a person. That alone, is reason enough to respect the choice I suppose. For me, the tattoo and the placement had to speak more about my life philosophy, because while I think one thing is pretty one day that can change. Who I am as a person, the way that I choose to live my life, after 36 years I can promise that is not going to change.

My tattoo is meant to say something about who I am, and that is a choice I made. I want it to reflect a part of me and there is no way I could live with something the rest of my life that didn’t. I’m just not a small talk or pretty tattoo kind of girl. So I woke this morning and after telling myself for years that I will one day get a tattoo I decided that today is one day and tomorrow would be one day too many. The funny thing is, this event that I had built up in my mind was simply another hour of work for some guy at a tattoo shop. He didn’t even ask what my Chinese lettering meant. He did the work, explained how to care for it, and sent me on my way. It seemed a bit anti-climatic at the time, but now it feels just the way it should have been.

I made a big enough deal out of this tattoo thing in my own mind. I wrestled with where and what and then for years waited on the when. I didn’t go with a bunch of friends, I didn’t even tell anyone I was doing it. I just went and got it done. In less than an hour I am forever changed and no one even knew. Sometimes change is about the inside and while the way we appear to the world might reflect our changing attitudes or beliefs, the reality is all the tattoos in the world will not reflect what my motivation is. I am on a journey. This crazy ride to find myself and to be truthful to that fucked up girl is taking me to some places I didn’t even know I was ready for, and to still others for which I’ve been waiting a lifetime. So maybe you won’t know that my tattoo is about embracing my life philosophy, about acting rather than talking, and experiencing rather than wishing. All you know is that Ame got inked. Quite honestly, I think that’s really the point anyway. I’m sick of talking about the person I want to be, instead I’m just going to be, just let myself unfold.

Day 65: I'm Not in a Giving Mood

Recently, I caught a rerun of Sex in the City and it struck a chord with me. We go through our lives basically bouncing from one gift giving occasion to the next and those of us not keen on big weddings and large families kinda get screwed. Add to that the unplanned expenses like pet bills, car breakdowns, sudden illnesses and a myriad of other cash depleting events and your savings becomes your outbox. Bills are an expected part of our financial landscape, even the ones that you don’t see coming, but no matter how you might try to cut back on expenses, we are all still expected to join the gift-givers for every conceivable occasion.

When did gifts stop being gifts and start being obligations? Personally, I have always loved to give people gifts. I’m genuinely one of those people that like shopping for someone else and hoping that maybe my gift will put a smile on their face or at least let them know I made an effort instead of taking the easy road. Lately, however, with our household income down to one and the economy in the toilet, it seems like every week there is something or someone needing more. And we don’t just give gifts to celebrate a single occasion. There is the congratulatory announcement gift, the party to celebrate the upcoming event, then the event itself. If we’re talking about a baby, forget it. The entire first year is one gift giving occasion after another.

So what do you do if you don’t have the money, the time or simply the will? I barely have the energy to get through Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and in-laws birthdays let alone all the friends, their kids, etc. I don’t think I’m so horrible because I’m running out of the will to spend all my money and free time shopping for gifts, maybe I’m just feeling the burden our parents felt and I’ve been hiding from. You have national holidays, birthdays and everything in between and I’m just done. Also, why should I get you an engagement gift, shower gift, and a wedding gift. Is getting engaged or married such an accomplishment that you need to be rewarded . . . thrice? It’s not hard to get married, hell I did it, so it can’t be that miraculous.

Maybe I’m just becoming a little Grinch-like or maybe I’m simply tired of the message of gifts going so far the other way from their original intention. When did gift giving become a necessity and one for which we are judged. If you don’t spend enough, shop at the right store or deliver in a timely fashion you have somehow failed gift-giving etiquette. To this I would reply that if it is truly giving, there should not be a set of rules, it should be a personal decision based on desire and not preconceived standards.

I do still love to give gifts, but only when they are really gifts. I’m better at spontaneously picking out something that reminds me of a friend or loved one rather than shopping for a purpose. We all like to receive gifts and they can be fun, but if I’m buying your vast collection of children gifts it’s because I adore them and not simply because you popped them out. As the episode of Sex in the City pointed out, maybe those of us without children or who do not get married deserve gifts. The singletons are one less divorce waiting to happen, the childless are one less couple overpopulating our already overburdened school system. Either way, I just want a little breathing room. I won’t ask you to stop getting married or having children, but man, I’m spending more money on gifts than rent and that’s a steep price to pay.

Day 64: Rock Out With Your Id Out

Music. I don’t think I know a single person that has not been influenced by music in one way or another. We listen when we’re happy, sad, angry, and fired up. Music is like a friend who supports us no matter how we feel about the world. I grew up with heavy metal at one end of the house and country at the other so my musical tastes are far and wide. I love blues, jazz, rock, country, chick rock, big band, rap, classic rock and my secret love: show tunes. I like it all and can pretty much find a mood to match every song. That’s one of the benefits of being a moody bitch, I have lots of moods to match lots of music styles. So what does music say about us as people and particularly why do we choose certain genres to represent who we are?

While I like it all, at heart I am a rock chick. I like percussion, probably from my years of playing the drums so if a song doesn’t have good beat I have a hard time getting into it. For years I was an angry, lonely girl so Ani DiFranco was the epitome of what I listened to. She never let me down or made me feel any lonelier than I was. Then I got happy and shit had to change. These days I’ve settled into a pretty steady diet of rock. I actually like Kid Rock, Nickelback, Seether, Kings of Leon, Katy Perry, The Donnas, Veronicas, etc. I like to rock out old school and Night Ranger will forever be on my playlist.

I’m not too happy or too sad these days, I’m just trying to be. And while I’m . . . um, “being” I like to rock it out old school in my convertible. That’s right, I’m the girl with my top down (on the car anyway) with the stereo turned up and I’m singing every word at the top of my voice without caring who might see me. I do like the storytellers and music with a message, but I take a page from my brother these days and I listen to more music that just simply pumps me up and makes me feel good. Life is full of hardships and there is no shortage of hard luck stories out there, but it doesn’t mean we have to live them every moment. I never forget the other half of the glass, but these days I am trying to focus more on what is positive than the negative and music is a great vessel for that.

As a literary girl, I sometimes downplay the role that other artistic forums play in life. Actors speak of their “craft” and I laugh, abstract artists don’t always reach me, and rock bands are entertainment, not life lessons, but I’m mellowing. Today, I see the wisdom and the beauty in simply having a glass of whatever is cold, American Honey perhaps, and listening to something that makes me feel good rather than music that forces me to think. Because the truth is, I’m always thinking and I don’t need a song to remind me that people are starving or dying or suffering. What I need from music is the motivation to keep living. The hope these days is that while I’m living I will want to spend a little time helping others and giving back.

Sad songs don’t make me a good person, my actions do. So while I will always love Pearl Jam and Tracy Chapman, I’m going to defer to something that makes me appreciate the beauty of life and the blessings I have and maybe through the positive I will be more effective at helping to wipe out some of the negative. I’m still going to listen to sad songs now and again and they never fail to strike a chord, but they don’t make me want to go out into the world and make a difference, they just make me want to have another drink and wallow. Billy Holiday I love you, but I’m not building any schools with you as my backing vocals. I’ll take Night Ranger any day and probably get a hell of a lot more done in the process.

Day 63: I Still Have Self-respect When You Don't Hit on Me

This is sort of a follow up to yesterday’s blog about routine. Tonight was my regular night to visit a bar named Mac’s near my condo. It is a perfectly fine, divey sort of bar with awesome BBQ and friendly staff. The two bartenders that work on Sundays are my favorite, a girl and a guy who are always great and remember me every week. So there I was, sitting at Mac’s, having my usual Jack and diet with lime when I started to ponder this little routine of mine. Why here, why Sundays, why at night? The answers came, but so did more questions. It wasn’t long before a whole new thought process started and now I’m wondering if a bar and its patrons can legitimately affect my self-esteem. If so, what the hell does that say about me?

I go to Mac’s on Sundays because Sunday is a sad day for me. Without my husband, without a job and without football it’s like the lost day and I never quite know what to do with it. I get by okay during the day. There is always laundry, or dishes, or errands to do, but at night when things slow down I just feel a little lonely and I begin to crave other people and distractions. Mac’s became my chosen place because it is both a bar and restaurant. Great food, lots of bar stools, an outdoor patio with a Sunday night band, it’s perfect. It’s also close to home, so if I ever do over indulge I can walk back.

Everything seems great, right? But then tonight this nagging feeling I’ve had for weeks began to assert itself a little more aggressively until I could no longer ignore it. The thing I think I like most about Mac’s without realizing it is also the thing that disturbs my self-esteem. No one has ever hit on me at Mac’s. What the hell is that about? As a woman, you get used to guys hitting on you from time to time. As a woman that is used to hanging out alone at bars, you get used to it a lot. Sometimes it’s annoying and crosses a line, but mostly it’s kind of like flys and mosquitoes – you don’t like them, but if you’re going to be outside, you’re going to have to swat a few away. Sunday nights at Mac’s means I never swat, so I’m wondering does that also mean I’m not fly worthy? Am I too old, ugly, out of shape, or whatever else to lead men not to want to hit on me when I am alone at a bar?

Worse than being unattractive is the thought that I have suddenly become this old woman who instinctively gravitates to a place that I know I will be ignored. I’m still relatively young, I don’t want to be unattractive to men – or hot chicks for that matter. I mean, I’m also not looking, but it’s nice to have a little validation sometimes. So if I am out, on my own, and cannot get a guy to hit on me what does that mean? Normally, if girls are out in a group you may not get hit on because men find lots of women intimidating. So what does it mean when you are alone? Shit, maybe I should have washed my hair today after all. Then again, I don’t want anyone to hit on me, the peaceful drink is kind of why I come here in the first place.

Oh man! So now I am stuck debating the merits of the unwanted advance vs. being ignored on how it affects my self-esteem? Men never do this shit. Can’t I just go to my local pub for a drink and a little random conversation without it equally a judgment on my attractiveness or conversational technique? Am I a bad person because I want to be able to tell a hot guy no thanks, I’m married? Worse still, am I an old lady because more than wanting a hot guy to think I’m hot, I want all guys to just leave me be? I guess the only real win-win in this situation is for my husband who is in Iraq worrying that his flirtatious wife is trolling bars for entertaining conversation. I do that too now and again, but my Sunday night routine is all about me and I guess I never realized it until tonight. I like that no hits on me. I talk to plenty of people while I am there. Interesting tidbits of conversation between drinks with whomever happens to sit down beside me. Male or female, the talk is pleasant and short-lived, and that’s really how I like it. It never occurred to me to miss being treated like some walking advertisement for loneliness until tonight.

It is nice sometimes to get the affirmation that you are attractive via the random pick up lines, but maybe it’s age or marriage or just being real that makes me not care so much anymore. I’m happy to discuss any topic from the weather to politics to religion, but I’m not going to buy you a drink and I don’t need you to buy me one either. Let’s just be bar friends for 15-20 minutes and leave it at that, okay? It’s kind of nice feeling this way, freeing I guess. I go to the bar alone, I make small talk with randoms while I’m there, and I expect to go home alone at a relatively early hour. I don’t when I grew up, but I like it and I’m guessing my husband kind of likes too. Fear not, husband, I couldn’t get picked up at Mac’s if I tried – but for the record, I’m not trying.

Day 62: Esoteric "Routine" Ramblings

I get up, I have two cups of coffee with half a gallon of soy milk in them, I eat a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats with Strawberries, I read news online at CNN and the NY Times. I pad around the house in my robe and slippers my wife bought me . . . oh, wait, this isn’t me, this is the husband: The King of Routine. I don’t have a morning routine, I barely know how to spell routine. Jeff and I couldn’t be more different in this one respect. Whereas he is more easygoing, he’s also the guy that will do things the exact same way at the same time every day. I on the other hand, live on instinct and shy away from plans because I never know what I’m going to feel like doing or eating at any given moment. Why are some people naturally geared towards a regimented and structured day, while others wander through it, stumbling into the events of their day?

I actually never knew Jeff was a routine guy until a few years in. Stupid on my part I suppose, as I knew he was a Army lifer and they aren’t exactly known for spontaneity. Still, when we met, Jeff was a grad student and a pretty notorious hell-raiser. At that time I was the one with the steady job to get to and normal hours to keep. Together we were fairly unpredictable and that life suits me best. Of course, after over five years together reality has set in and while there are days when his love of routine makes me want to throw a live toaster into the shower with him, for the most part we’re managing to find a balance. A balance that started wobbling after our conversation this evening.

I still think of myself as the wild child. I am raw emotion and instinct and tend to be less than predictable. In my heart and head I’m sort of gypsy and I like that about me. In reality however, I’m just an aging, irresponsible woman who plans the minute details of everything because I’m a control freak and then freaks out about feeling trapped and controlled and throws it all to hell. So today when I was discussing my weekend with Jeff I mentioned that I just hadn’t felt much like going out recently and planned to spend another Saturday home watching a movie and doing stuff around the condo. Then I said the thing that caused him to say the thing that then started me thinking about things, I said: “The only night I really like to go out is Sunday now, I pretty much go to Mac’s every Sunday night.” To which he replied: “Why?”

Hmmm. Why indeed? One, that was a stupid question on his part. Because I do, that’s all. Does a woman have to have a damn reason for everything? Secondly, shut up! Shit, now I have a routine and I didn’t even realize it. Why do I go to the same place every Sunday? It’s not like I have a bunch of friends there or that I’m a huge fan of BBQ, although to be fair it is the best BBQ in town. I go there every Sunday night because . . . well, because I want to dammit! Now get off my back about it. Is it possible that I have developed an affinity for routines without ever realizing it? And if so, does that mean I’m not a free-spirited gypsy anymore? Oh man, next thing you know I’m going to start driving responsibly, and keep more than moldy leftover takeout and Jello pudding cups in my fridge.

More than that, this brief and seemingly pointless exchange made me wander at the overall dynamic of our relationship. Why would the guy who craves routine the way I crave mashed potatoes ask why I do something routinely? Duh. Why do you eat the same thing for breakfast and lunch every day for years on end? Because you do. Because you like it. Because shit happens. Why does there have to be a better answer than that and why am I now obsessed with worrying over my possible spiral into a creature of habit. I think routine behavior comforts people and gives them a sense of purpose and order to an otherwise unremarkable day. Jeff has been a creature of habit his entire life aside from a brief break when his routine consisted of drinking every night until 4am, passing out, going to class and then drinking again. Even that had a certain structure to it. So what about me? What’s my story?

I am terrified of living an ordinary life, of normalcy, of routine, and of being trapped. Should I stop going to Mac’s on Sunday out of fear that suddenly I might just become Habitual Hannah? I like Mac’s and I like going there on Sundays. Maybe by suddenly having a routine I am actually being less habitual. I mean, it stands to reason that if my routine is not having a routine, then suddenly developing a routine means I am no longer routinely following a lifestyle of no routine. Know what I mean?

I think maybe that in trying to just “be” in life instead of constantly dictating who I must be or how I must act I’ve naturally developed some habits I didn’t know I’d want. It’s hard work to constantly go against the grain. I’m going to just flow for a while and see what other habits might develop. Who knows, maybe I’ll become even more unpredictable or maybe I’ll discover that constancy has its merits. Either way, at least it will be real and that is precisely what I am trying to be, just now maybe I’ll “be” without the trying part.