Can You Even Dye My Eyes to Match My Gown?

I totally forgot on Retrobruxist Friday that I was going to implement a new feature to help me get over the idea that I might look repulsive on the internet: Embarrassing Photo of the Week.

Well, I’m here to remedy that situation right now. I was going to take another jacked-up pic of myself with Photo Booth, but! I jogged up to Boone this weekend to visit The Land of Oz with my dad and brother/fam, an annual debacle of a trip about which I will have to write one of these days, and I ended up in the family room, sifting through old photo albums and taking pictures of pictures.

Let me preface this photo by saying that my mom is an excellent seamstress. Growing up, whatever I asked for, she made, including the 7th grade prom dress you’re about to see. She would take me to the fabric store, and we would flop through giant McCall’s and Simplicity pattern books together. I’d point to The Dress, whereupon we would wind through the stacks of bolts until I zeroed in on the exact right fabric.

Some notes about this magnum opus:

  • Yes, that is a double bubble-skirt. Shut up. It was very much the fashion at the time.
  • If you click the photo and see it bigger, you might think that the white fabric has tiny black polka dots on it, but you’d be wrong — those are tiny hearts.
  • No, it’s not the lighting; my legs are indeed seven shades darker than my arms. That’s because I’m wearing dancers’ tights. I didn’t own panty hose, and these were in the days before one went bare-legged to such occasions.
  • Yes, that pony-tail holder is made of the same fabric as the giant bow on my ass. (I told you my mom would do whatever I asked of her.)
  • But most importantly, really, seriously,
look at my hand.

Hahahaha. I can’t believe I didn’t take up modeling.

On a sober note, I’ve always said/thought that I’ve been a fatty since forever. It’s clear from this picture that I was not fat in 7th grade. I really did start putting on weight in 8th grade and gained 50 pounds by the end of my year in Italy, but what’s interesting is, I truly thought of myself at the time as a fat girl.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it was the thing to do for middle school girls. Maybe it’s because I had been binge-eating for so long that I just assumed.

Anyway, back to important things:

(a) This dress is still in the closet upstairs in case anybody wants to borrow it.

(b) Next week: 8th grade prom dress.

Retrobruxist Friday 10/5/12

I love, love, love teaching in a year-round school. Nine weeks on, three weeks off (two and a half weeks for teachers); five weeks in the summer (four for teachers). It’s good for kids. It’s good for their bodies; it’s good for their retention of material and, therefore, academic achievement. It’s good for teachers, or at least this one. Strict nine-week timelines help focus instruction and light a fire under my ass, and frequent breaks from the kids are good for my sanity/affection for them. This calendar also allows me to go to Costa Rica for a week, and then still have ten days off in which to sleep, do house projects, visit family, and whatnot.

That being said, unstructured time is Bad for Amy Scott’s Psyche. Next intersession, I need to make sure I create a schedule for myself so as not to swirl into existential despair and this weird version of agoraphobia I seem to have conjured this time.

So the alarm went off this morning. I hate the alarm. I have it set to that marimba tone on my iPhone, and it makes me dry-heave a little when it goes off. Or when someone else has it set as their ringtone. (If you ever see me out and I’m retching for no apparent reason — probably somebody just got a call, and I’m having flashbacks. To that morning.)

But I have to be at work, and that’s probably a good thing.

I put up my first OKCupid profile three years ago. So glad that worked out for me! :/

Two years ago, I started watching my gay husband Paul from afar at CrossFit.

My particular brand of crazy really revs up in the nighttime, as it did a year ago.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Cooking for Dumbs: Edible Collard Greens

Simple Collard Greens Recipe with Lots of Pretty Pictures

Ingredients: bunch of collards, 2 tbsp butter, 2 tbsp olive oil, fresh garlic, salt, lemon juice

Step 1: Think about looking up that collards recipe you think you might have found on Epicurious?, when was it?, maybe a year or two ago. Have confidence that you don’t need to; you remember it.

Step 2:

Fill a pot about twice the size of your head halfway with water.

Step 3:

Cover it with a lid and turn the burner on Hi. That’s the notch above 9.

Step 4:

Using a knife about the size of your forearm, cut the leaves of the collards off the stems.

Step 5:

Stack the leaves in a pile and slice them into 5/8-inch pieces. It’s real important that they’re exactly 5/8 of an inch.

Step 6:

When the water boils, dump the collard greens into the water, and give ’em a lil stir.

Step 7: While they’re boiling for, I don’t know, like, 5 minutes?,

look how cute your dog is being.
Also, dice up some garlic. I prefer to be single forever, so I use three cloves.

Step 8:

Using these guys to pick up the pot, and not your bare hands because you will hurt yourself, drain the collards in the basket of
a salad spinner, and salad-spin the shit out of them.

Step 9:

Put butter and olive oil in the pot over Med heat (that’s between 4 and 6) until it gets all foamy and then the foam starts to subside, but before it gets brown, i.e., don’t go check your Facebook feed while this is happening.

Step 10:

Throw in the collards and garlic and toss around until heated through.

Step 11:

Leave the remaining collards on the counter,
and put the knife in the fridge. With the butter. Wonder where the knife got to.

Step 12:

Salt the crap out of the collards, and sprinkle with lemon juice. Eat them — they’re not terrible.

Step 13:

Remember to put the remaining collards in the fridge where they will wilt for two weeks before you throw them away.

Step 14:

Eat some of this stuff for protein, since you don’t know how to cook meat.

Step 15:

Go to your friend Craig’s house for dinner. He knows how to cook and you’re gonna be really hungry because all you’ve had today was collards and trail mix.

Twofer: A Real Post PLUS Retrobruxist Friday 9/28/12

A few words before we Retro it up here. My point with yesterday’s post was not that I think I’m an ogre… an ogra… what’s the feminine of ogre? I don’t think I’m an ogress. I think I’m aight.

And this next part is weird, because from what they tell me, a lot of women experience the opposite, but many times, I’m reassured by what I see in the mirror. [Oh, god, am I going to go here? Shit, might as well.] I generally walk around in my life kind of thinking of myself as a slightly greasy, chubby, waddling Oompa-Loompa with temperamental skin, and when I catch my look in the mirror, I almost always go, “Hey, that’s not so bad!” I mean, I definitely have times when my reflection makes me cringe, but more often than not, it’s a relief. Photos too. I’m weirdly photogenic, which is nice.

I don’t actually look like this.

Thing is, I want to be the kind of person who sees the above photo and the one of the fat, ugly, stoned skeptic that Jeff took and says, “Psh, neither is reality.”

But the fact is—OH THIS IS SO PATHETIC—I don’t. I look at the above and think maybe someone could love that person, and I look at Jeff’s picture and say, good god,

it’s gonna be me and 15 dogs.

What I wanted to get across in yesterday’s post was not “Please, everybody, reassure me that I’m beautiful”; it was “I need to stop caring about this superficial bullshit which is not who I am”.

I want to care MORE that I can live through difficulty, write a meaningful story about it, have the courage to get onstage and tell it to 200 strangers, and do it well enough that the audience is moved and the judges think it’s the best story of the night, and LESS about the fact that Jeff took a picture of me from a weird angle, which made it look like I had some sort of growth on my neck, while I was probably crying and definitely squinting into the bright lights. I can’t control every image that makes it to the internet and every perception that every person has of me. I need to let that go.

Here was my big plan to pull off this caring-about-appropriate-things thing: I asked Jeff for the photo, and I was going to post it on this very blog on the World Wide Web. Alas, he felt so bad about contributing to my distress* that he not only deleted the photo from Facebook; he deleted it completely.

So. The best I can do is try to re-create it for you. It looked a little something like

this.
Or maybe like this.
Those of you who saw it, how’d I do?

*Two things: (1) I used those iMessage screenshots without his permission. I am an asshole, and I won’t do that again (sorry, Jeff!); (2) he was nothing but lovely during the whole situation and really believed that he was honoring me and my story with the photo; and—OK, three things—(3) just so we’re clear, as depressed as I’ve been in my life, I’ve never, ever contemplated suicide. The whole bit about offing myself was pure histrionics for comedy purposes, but suicide is not funny, and I won’t joke about it anymore.

On to the Retro!

Three years ago, I was trying to teach my students show-don’t-tell. It’s still the hardest thing in the world to teach.

Redford was already 18 months old two years ago, but he was my baby. Still is.

Sleepy high-five.

I hosted the Monti StorySLAM for the first time one year ago. Crazypants. I can’t believe that was a year ago.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

37

So

One of these days, I’ll stop measuring my self-worth in Facebook Likes.

The irony (or not) is that my story had to do with being less than sanguine about turning 37, and being single, and having what I have, and not having what I don’t have. People keep asking me if they can read it, but—and this is weird because I told the story to 200 strangers on Monday night—I don’t feel ready to share it here yet. It was hard, and I cried, and apparently they cried, and I was hoping that it would be this big catharsis and I’d be Healed, and Filled with Optimism. But I’m not.

My birthday was great: My friends did it up for me; my writing teacher said nice things about my homework; I won the SLAM.

But two things: (1) I still seem to be in the midst of this 3/8-life crisis, and (2) Jeff, the director of the Monti, posted the absolute worst picture of me on Facebook on Tuesday to announce my victory.

And I flipped out.

Maybe a little histrionic.
Perhaps more than a little.

I concluded by saying, “If that’s what I look like, then the question ‘Why am I still single?’ has been answered.”

He deleted the photo, but I really did let it ruin my day. Which feels dumb. Letting one bad picture negate all the happy. Especially, since I’ve been trying to be more accepting of my appearance, and most especially in the face of the Sikh woman’s righteous badassery that’s been floating around the internet for the last few days.

How do I get to be more like her? I don’t believe that my body is a gift from a divine being, genderless or otherwise, but I do believe that not focusing on my appearance would leave more time to think about my attitudes and actions.

In the past month or so, when I’ve found myself sliding into egocentrism, I’ve stopped, gotten on Facebook, and acknowledged a friend’s particular brand of awesomeness. It has helped.

But I like gettin my hur did. :(

The Relationship I’m Not In

I’ll start by saying a few words about Dan NJ’s post: I agree.

That was a very few words. In fact, I have no more words because he used up all the good ones on the topic in his treatise. So. Moving on. Now I’m going to say a few words about amy a’s post, maybe more than a few, because she used all kinds of good words in hers, but I have feelings about her thesis. So many feelings.

The premise of the post is that amy a is not necessarily/is not as-yet/might never be “happiest and a better person“ when in a relationship. And I will go ahead and say that neither have I been “happiest” in a relationship, except when I was 15 but it was the 15-year-old kind of happiness: equal parts giddy lust and petrifying insecurity.

The fact is, I have been in precious few relationships since then. Some fourth dates, a couple of six-month stints, and that’s about it. I keep friends around for decades, but I’ve never found anybody who I wanted to sleep in the same bed with for years. Who also wanted to sleep in the same bed with me. For years.

But I’ve always assumed that, should I find that multi-year-bed-sharing person, I would be happier. Maybe even happiest.

Not that every day would be wine and roses, and not that being in a relationship solves all your life’s problems, but there’s got to be something comforting/contenting about knowing that through those problems, you’ll have at least that one person on your team.

As far as the second part goes, I think I have been a better person whilst in my (albeit limited) relationships. I’m a really good girlfriend.

  • I’m really nice to my partner;
  • I’m considerate—I think about his needs, provide for them when possible, and encourage him to seek fulfillment of other needs with his bros or whatever;
  • I’m employed/financially independent;
  • I’m responsible;
  • I’m GGG; and
  • I’m fucking fun to have around.

In short, I’m good to my guy. So yes, if being a better person means thinking more of others, sacrificing, compromising, pulling your weight, etc., then I’m a better person in a relationship.

A couple other lines of the post jumped out at me.

“The pressure as each year has passed in my 30’s to Find Him has been at times not at all fun, but exhausting, humiliating, and unhealthy.”

Truer words were never written.

“It can be kind of lonely, not because I don’t have those types of relationships [spouse & children], but because I find myself being unable to relate firsthand to my siblings and some of my friends on those levels.”

My version of this would be: It can be kind of lonely. Period. Both for the reasons amy a mentioned but also because I’m alone. I wouldn’t consider myself an extrovert. But I like the people I like. Everywhere I lived in New York (Prospect Heights, Hell’s Kitchen, and two different places in Astoria), I could look up and see a window to the apartment from the street. And coming home, I always did look up, because if there was a light on, that meant at least one of my roommates was home, and I’d think, “Yay!”

I’ve lived by myself for six years now, and I can’t imagine having a roommate. I don’t want a roommate. Unless that roommate is sharing my bed. (Or that roommate is canine, in which case I’ll take 15 kthxbye.) But I imagine that, if I had a bed-sharing roommate, I would pull into the driveway and, seeing his car, think, “Yay!”

And finally, the big’n:

“I may never have that Great Relationship, but it never happening is no longer a fear of mine. If it happens, I welcome the addition of it, but I am truly happy in the relationship I’m in already.”

Would that it were so for me.

Now, I’m pretty proud of who I’ve become in the last ten years.

  • I need a job, I get a job;
  • I get a job, I work my ass off to get good at the job;
  • I want a house, I buy the house;
  • I buy a house, I fix it up;
  • I want a different house, I sell the first house and buy a different one;
  • I find dog, I do my damnedest to help the dog;
  • I make and keep a lot of friends;
  • I deadlift 250;
  • I throw bitchin parties;
  • I host the Monti StorySLAM;
  • I actively work on overcoming my character flaws;
  • I post on this blog four times a week (and have for three years).

I’m doing all right. There’s a lot I like about my life. But a relationship is a big Missing for me. I wish I could be like amy a—I really do—but I just can’t say I am truly happy alone.

“Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat.” -Joanne Woodward, on being married to Paul Newman

Yes, that.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Epilogue

Don’t know Tulip? Her story begins here.

Tulip settles into her new home while I’m on vacation in Central America. Her mom, “Ann”, sends me messages periodically updating me on her progress: Tulip took a walk with her adoptive sister (I’ll call her Ridley); Ridley keeps barking at her but Tulip’s being great; Ann, Ridley, and Tulip all slept in the same room without incident (albeit with Tulip in the crate).

Ann is taking it slow, which is necessary, and seems smitten with Tulip. It makes my heart happy.

Every day in Costa Rica, I see dogs with no collars running down streets and roads. Why are they all running? I want to pick them up, but then what? It makes my heart heavy.

My friends keep telling me that I’m to take a break from fostering—I loved Tulip, yes, they say, but it’s been too stressful. And they’re right. I know they’re right. I need to decompress. I need to snuggle with Violet and Redford.

But it’s a struggle. Carolina Care Bullies needs fosters all the time. And adoptive families. They post about this dog:

Her name is Pumpkin Patch.

She is three to six months old. And a tripod.

Her right rear leg had to be amputated after she was hit by a car.

And I want her. I don’t just want to foster her—I want her to be mine mine mine.

But even though I want to say yes, I think I have to say no this time. For my dogs. For my friends’ dogs, who I want to be able to babysit. For my finances. For my sanity. For the sake of other things I want to do and pursue. So I can say yes to those things.

So when CCB asks if I’ll foster again, which I’m sure they will, I will tell them regretfully no.

I hope I can say no.

Retrobruxist Friday 9/21/12

It makes me super-sad that I could post this same post from three years ago and only change that 34 to a 37.

:(((((((((((((((

Two years ago, I did my best Principal Richard Vernon impression. But it was kinda justified.

A mere year ago, I had a giant temper tantrum at the gym because, amongst other things, I couldn’t string any double-unders together. Well, a few weeks ago, I did FIFTY in a row during a WOD. I am a temple of rad.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

I’ll Take This Tequila and a Pack of Camels–It’s OK, I Was Bar Mitzvahed in June

Still sunbathing here, so I asked my good friend Dan New Jersey to guest-blog today. I’m calling him Dan NJ because I actually have two friends named Dan who have the same last initial, and both read the blog. One is a born-again Christian who lives in Texas; he and I stomped around the same section (trumpet) of the Watauga High School Marching Pioneers. The other is an irreverent Jew who I met when we sat next to each other in a seminar in New York City back in 2002ish; he, his Akita (Zeke), and I were roomies my last year in Astoria, and now he lives in NJ.

Dan NJ is the best at playing Devil’s Advocate with me.

He will tell me straight to my face when I’m being lily-livered. When I wanted to share my feelings with a man I had fallen for, but was convinced that email was the only way I’d have the courage to do it, Dan NJ said,

Sack up and tell the guy you fancy him in person, or don’t.  Choose powerfully, and be satisfied with your choice.  But should you email him, don’t be surprised if, after you can’t be bothered to take him seriously enough to engage him, he doesn’t take you seriously in return. 

Be AMY SCOTT.  Not amy scott.

But the opposite is also true. He builds me up when I’m broken, as I was after I “sacked up” and confessed my affections to the guy, who told me in the gentlest terms possible that my feelings were not reciprocated. Dan NJ blew it off:

…any man who doesn’t want you is gay, stupid, or dead for 72 hours or longer. I’m just saying.  Even mostly dead can’t withstand your awesomeness.

Based on all the advice and coaching he gave me during Summer 2012, my girlfriends with whom I shared snippets are convinced he needs his own radio talk show. His opinions are always strong, informed, empowering, and persuasive. And this guest-blog post is exactly that. As with yesterday´s post from amy a, I have thoughts and feelings, but I’d love to hear from you first.

Without further ado, I give you the inimitable Dan NJ.

P.S. Dan TX, let me know if you want to take a guest spot sometime!

I’m just a few weeks away from my second wedding anniversary, and I’m reminded of how wonderful my wedding experience was for my wife and me. In particular our cantor, who is gay, married us in a beautiful ceremony and in attendance were a great many gay friends and family, some married, others not yet allowed to do so by the State.  During our wedding my wife and I made a point of showing our support for the opportunity for all people in America to have a similar chance to express their commitment, but I was being a bit of a hypocrite.

I’m not actually in favor of marriage equality. I do believe, fervently, that non-traditional couples should be recognized by the State and afforded all the same rights and privileges that traditional married couples presently receive, but to embiggen the definition of marriage to allow same-sex unions will not address the fundamental violation of the separation of Church and State inherent in our current system.  The problem that wants addressing is not that same-sex marriages are not universally recognized, but rather that the State recognizes any religious marriages at all, including and especially “traditional” ones.

When I turned 13, I had a bar mitzvah.  At this gala event, I was acknowledged as an adult by the established hierarchy of the reform Jewish movement.  Without regard to my pre-pubescent testicles, under-developed sense of responsibility and obligation, and total financial dependence on my family, as far as the elders of the church were concerned I was a man.  My majority was not recognized by the United States of America, however, as I was not suddenly eligible to vote, drink, be drafted, or legally have sex with one of my teachers, which didn’t actually come up, but it could have. Seriously, it could have. 

I mention this as just one example of the many religiously significant but civilly insignificant events that occur throughout the nation every day, to people of all faiths.  These events lack secular impact and civil status for several reasons, but the original source of the State’s blindness to religious events is the Establishment Clause of the first amendment which states:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

Constitutionally, it is no more appropriate for Congress to formally support (through financial or legislative means) any particular religion or religious act than it is for congress to impede those religions from practicing as they see fit, within the law.  Yet in the case of marriage, Congress does both.

The outsourcing of this particular civic activity to religious authorities is inconsistent with the spirit of the Establishment Clause, and it’s that very outsourcing which is at the heart of what I see as both the problem and the solution.  The contentious issue that we face today is a result of the State allowing religious marriage to afford civil status, and that conflict will not be resolved by expanding the definition of marriage to include same-sex couples. Rather, we should reserve the benefits of civil status for a solely secular civil union, and bring integrity back to the separation of Church and State.

I suggest that the nation promote a national civil union contract between tax-paying consenting adults, with clearly defined creation and dissolution procedures, in order to promote the general welfare of the nation’s citizenry.  These contracts would be governed by the secular laws of the nation, and would not tolerate any civil rights preferences or violations.  Anyone and everyone who wishes to be considered legally joined to one another in America, whether hetero- or homosexual, would need to register their civil union accordingly.  And with universal civil unions, the State can get out of the marriage business, leaving it to religious institutions to include in their roster of meaningful but legally irrelevant activities. I contend there is no need for a broader definition of marriage to include same-sex couples, or for the creation of a separate but equal civil union alternative aimed solely at same-sex couples. I believe the need is for marriage to become a separate and unequal religious event, and secular civil unions to become the standard by which inheritance, taxation, insurance, custody, visitation, and the entire menu of items impacted by marital status is considered.

And then if Roman Catholics wish to exclude homosexuals from marrying, frankly that’s their business. If Mormons wish to allow marriage to multiple wives, similarly, that’s their business.  Neither of those unions should have any more significance legally than my bar mitzvah, and if any particular demographic feels aggrieved, they should feel free to take it up with their religious leadership rather than the President. It is no more appropriate for the State to force a civil definition of marriage on Roman Catholics than it is for Roman Catholics to force their religious definition on our secular authority.

The fight for same sex couples to achieve marriage equality via having their marriages recognized is a symbolic, but Pyrrhic victory.  The true civil rights victory would be the disenfranchisement of religious authorities of their ability to confer or withhold preferred status on American citizens based on a particular interpretation of a particular mythology.

Now, you may argue that my idea would then require an effort to ensure our civil authorities will universally recognize sexual orientation as a protected-class, which is not presently the case.  Yet I would counter that same-sex marriage is already covered under gender-discrimination laws, though for the life of me I can’t fathom why it isn’t being argued that way.  I don’t know about you, but if I were a woman and was being actively barred from legally receiving the same rights and privileges that a similarly qualified man was able to enjoy, I’d frickin’ sue.