Topless Rockstars

but I can make an absolute OATH that I will never, EVER scream racial slurs on my front lawn at another person while all the neighborhood kids are outside playing after school.

I will never tell my child to get inside by referring to them as a “fucking little asshole”… again, loud enough for the entire damn neighborhood to hear.

Nor will I scream a stream of cusses at a neighbor across the street while my 4ish year old child is playing in the yard next to me.

People disgust me.

It looks just as ridiculous when a woman does it as when a man does it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0QNEZTzENU

Joe and I were in Saratoga Springs in July, and we were in a dark and kind of dusty pharmacy scanning up and down the racks for gifts for my Mother.  I’m not one for those MOTHER picture frames or tiles that say inspirational quotes by “Anonymous”. But I always spin the rack around quickly in hopes that one day something will apply to the relationship I have with someone or the feelings I have towards another human being.

I saw a blue book with a beautiful brown script font that read “from you to me” with BROTHER in giant letters at the bottom.  I picked it up, opened to a random page that read “What is your favourite memory of Mom?” with a series of lines underneath for an answer.  My heart felt like it tied in a knot.  I flipped to another random page. “What do you like most about me?” it asked.  Tears started to fill my eyes.  I flipped to another page… “Describe a time you took the blame for something that I did”.  My mind became a cluster of images involving swimming pools, wood paneling, pop cans, scraped knees, broken bowls, and empty cartons of milk left in the fridge.

By this point my husband was looking over my shoulder and tears were very clearly running down my cheeks.  “You give this to your brother and he writes about his own memories….and he gives it back to you when he’s done.” I whispered.  I gently shut the book and carefully put it back in its place on the squeaky rack of other sentimental products.

We continued shopping, and about two rows later Joe could tell that I was still silently crying.  “It makes me sad because I know that if I gave that to him he’d never fill it out.  And even if he tried to, he wouldn’t remember half his answers, anyway.”  He gave me the look he always gives me when I talk about my brother… a face that expresses sadness, sympathy, awkwardness, and ‘I’m just going to rub your back now, ok?’.  Then he rubbed my back.

That was the last it was mentioned - and we went out in the rain, down the road to a Mexican restaurant for dinner.

That night, Joe wasn’t feeling well so I went out to explore the town on my own.  And like I was born with it programmed into me, the first place I went to was the dark, dusty pharmacy.  I went straight for the book and spun the brown wire rack with desperation while it yelped its squeaky cry.  When I returned back to the bed and breakfast I slipped the brown paper shopping bag into my suitcase without Joe seeing.

Later on I laid there in bed while Joe slept beside me.  “I can’t believe I bought that.  What the hell am I going to do with that stupid thing.  What a waste of sixteen dollars. What the fuck other brother am I going to give this to.  I can’t give it to anyone. What a stupid idea.”

Time passed as I laid there in silence.  My thoughts changed.  “Maybe I’ll give it to him at his place when no one’s around.  Maybe I’ll just leave it on his kitchen counter and see what happens.  Even if he only reads a few pages and never tells a soul what he thinks, let alone write it down… yeah. I’d like that.”

After a few more minutes it changed again.  “Maybe I’ll just keep it.  It’s a nice thing.  Maybe one day he’ll clean up and I’ll be able to give it to him and he’ll write in it.  Yeah.  I’ll just keep it.  Maybe write my answers in the first half of the page and save it for if he ever cleans up.”

—

That night I dreamed I was sent back in time.  I was sent back in time and I KNEW I was sent back in time. But I didn’t know where, when, or why.  And the why was a major issue to me.  I knew there was a reason, a purpose…and some element of fate or destiny (which I normally don’t even believe in) was behind this placement and wanted me to understand the purpose of me being sent to that place and time.  And I had incredible anxiety and desperation to figure it out.

But before I knew it I was sitting in a white room with all faux fur furniture and a teenage Stella McCartney. And she was beautiful.  All in white with her hair a beautiful auburn colour and her brown eyes sparkling like her Father’s.  “Come check this out,” she said, and opened the door to another room.  It was 1997, that I knew.  I suddenly knew the fact that it was 1997 with as much confidence as I know that my feet are a size 10 and I fucking hate the taste of bananas.

And there was Paul McCartney, dressed in all black, with big studio headphones on and a curled cable leading from a red guitar to an amp.  He was singing and playing along to a song I can’t remember now, but at a time made me feel the way I feel when I listen to the Long Winters.  When I finally could break free of the hypnosis and look away from Paul I saw Michael Jackson…1997 Michael Jackson, with the shiny, curly, wet hair… dressed all in black with the sequins and fedora and aviator sunglasses.  And he was singing along and working on dance moves… and he was BRILLIANT.

“Katie, hello!” Paul said to me, and continued that he and Michael were working on an album together.  “What do you think?”, he asked.

I yammered something about it being great and it sounding really solid, but in my head I was nearly dying with excitement.  “This is it.  This is what I was sent back in time to do.  I was sent back in time to save Michael Jackson.  I know everything bad that’s going to happen, and I can stop it all.  I know all the drugs he’s going to take.  I can stop him now before he does any more.  I can get him away from all the negative influences.  I can clean him up.  This is what I was MEANT TO DO.  This is my PURPOSE.”

I watched Paul and Michael in silence.  It turned into a black and white slow motion cut scene that would have happened if my life were the dramatic film that I sometime mistake it as being.  Stella was beautiful and smiling.  Paul was grinning and raising his eyebrows and his shoulders along with the beat he was playing.  Michael had amazing rhythm and the movement of his body stole the scene.  And something in me changed.

“I’m not meant to save him, I’m meant to watch him,” I thought.  “It’s not my job to save him…it’s not up to me to decide how this man will live or how this man will die.  I was sent here as a blessing.  I am the only person who will witness this room as it is, knowing what I know.  I’m the only person who will be able to see this, hear this, experience this.  This is a blessing.  And this is what I am meant to do.  I am meant to experience and appreciate it, not change it.”

I woke up unable to breathe because my nose was so stuffed up and my cheeks and eyelids were covered in a warm, wet stream of tears.  I sat right up, got out of bed, and walked over to my suitcase.  I carelessly unzipped the “hidden” pocket and pulled out the empty memory book.  I put shoes on and quietly slipped out of the room, down the bed and breakfast stairs, out the front door, and straight down the hill for my third visit to the Ballston Spa pharmacy.

The same girl who was working the night before when I made my purchase (without eye contact or audible responses) was behind the counter with freshly braided brown pigtails and her blue polo shirt.  “Yeah, I’m returning, this, sorry” I said as I slid the book across the counter and out of my hands for the last time.  “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said with a gentle shrug.  As she handed me my money back she asked why I was returning it.

“I know that if I gave that to him he’d never fill it out. …And even if he tried to, he wouldn’t remember half his answers, anyway.”

She looked me right in the eyes and laughed.  And so did I.

Today at work I thought “I should tell Joe to kill off toplessrockstars.  Neither of us use it.” Then as soon as I got home I thought “I should write a blog!”

I’m either stubborn or horribly indecisive, write that one down in your opinion diary, kids.

The whole car ride home I thought about my “progress”. Really, I don’t want that to be the one thing I blog about, but it seems I take to twitter for rants and clever two-sentence jokes and the blog is where I be either serious or run with a super elaborate joke.

I’m taking 25% of the medication dosage I took 8 months ago and have stopped my “chill pills” (my “cute” nickname for the downers I desperately reach for when I feel an attack coming on) entirely. I also went to a 3 day music festival that was a constant crowd and didn’t feel scared for a single moment.  Hell, it wasn’t until the end of the second day that I even REMEMBERED that that was the sort of thing I previously would rather die than participate in (no exaggeration).

I’m getting better with my friends, too.  My anxieties with crowds were built on the idea of proximity, personal space, and being unable to get away or out of range.  With my friends it’s more of a fear of being judged.

Not that I am friends with people who judge me (or judge the people I love most) or make me feel bad about myself…I’ve gotten rid of all my toxic contacts in the past year and a half.  The people I keep close are genuine, wonderful, positive people.  And to my nerves and my self image, that’s a problem on its own.  If I’m not feeling good or my hair is dirty or I am fat and bloated, I don’t want them to see me.  I don’t want them to look at me I don’t want them to maybe accidentally smell my armpits when I hug them… I consider them too good for that.  And with the women I know that are gorgeous and 100% polished every time I see them… I almost feel like I make them look worse just because I’m standing next to them.

This is RIDICULOUS. I know it’s ridiculous. And it’s easy for me to say now, at home, by myself and from the other side of the computer. But if you called me right now and asked me to come over..as I’m typing this, seriously, call me up.. it’ll be a whole different story.  Fear and selfworthlessness will kick in and the only thing that cures it is staying the hell away from anyone whose opinion I value.

My cynicism makes it really hard for me to believe in any exercises or campaigns meant to raise my self-esteem and self image.  And I get the ‘feminist guilt’ when I realize the only way I feel worthy of being seen by others is when I have makeup and nice clothes on.

But the whole “I KNOW THIS IS WRONG AND I AM GOING TO CHANGE AND IT’S GOING TO START TODAY. HERE IS A LIST OF THINGS I WILL CHANGE” method doesn’t work with me.  I have countless lists of everything wrong and how to make it right.  All the power to people who can do something like that and work with it.

My method I guess is just to pay close attention and realize when I’ve done something positive (in the sense of healing) and just kind of work with it.  I wouldn’t have had a wedding reception had I not done those things since April 5th.  Working with Dr. Pierce to make a dosage-lowering schedule came out of the fact that it’s not recommended for me to get pregnant while on the medication.  I can’t (in good conscience) allow myself to get pregnant if I am taking ANY of this medication at all.  And we want to start a family within a year.  And it is a long, slow process of a lot of likely problems to work your way off such a heavy dose of the stuff.  But I want a house and a baby and God damn I’m going to figure out whatever it is I have to do in order to do it.

I’m not even a mother yet and my children have already changed my life for the better.

it’s almost like going back to school after a summer off. Except I’m the teacher and I’m teaching XML to students who barely know how to check their email.

But with that being said, my stress level will be at about 1/75 of what an average day was at my old job.

I’m so so so grateful for the job that I have now. I mean, the fact that there is basically 0 challenge has slowly been grinding on me… knowing what needs to be done and knowing that it will be relatively easiy for every single piece of work I am handed has more positives than negatives on my mental health, but at the same time I know I could be doing so much more… and not be bored out of my mind all the time.

I also have a coworker with OCD, and to see the way she is treated by management and coworkers is incredibly positive. Every once in a while I will see something done right and become irate at my previous employers just because they were too stupid to think to do the same thing. I also can’t believe they ask my husband about me… like what I’m up to and stuff. After driving me to a breaking point, treating me like a fragile baby, and then having the nerve to tell me when I resigned that they were glad I quit because they were “scared” of me… If I was in a place where I could have dealt with them for another day (which I wasn’t) I would have gone to the labour board.

<insert some ‘inspirational’ quote about hindsight here>

Anyway, things are as good as you choose to make them, I guess. How’s that?

Getting used to being a wife has been both insanely easy and hard at the same time.  It really is all about finding the balance of being together without losing the voice of yourself. Yeah, we’re a partnership, a union. But the two of us are what makes it up.

This balance is especially hard to find when you are projecting the image of your marriage on to other people. My “don’t give no fuck and I’ll straight up tell you so” attitude can’t always apply because now I really am part of something bigger than myself.

I started realizing that about a week after I got married.  It was terrifying.  I didn’t know what the hell I had gotten myself into.

But after a brief period of panic we had the first ‘real’ steps in our marriage. Mind you, we’re still steppin’ and we’re gonna be steppin’ for the next fifty years or so. With a few stumbles and stomps thrown in, of course. But I have no regrets with this man or any of the choices I have ever made with him, and I never will.

And there will be no issues in projecting that image of our marriage onto other people.

Hello all!

We, Las Lopezistas (Erika and Kamala Lopez as well as any of you who want to join our new Monster Girl Movement), are really excited to launch an underground campaign to ratify the ERA after 86 YEARS (are you fucking kidding me???!) since Alice Paul wrote the damn thing.

Last week Congresswoman Carolyn Maloney (D-NY) asked for my help when we were both given awards by the National Women’s Political Caucus in DC for Exceptional Merit in Media. I produced the film “A Single Woman” about first US Congresswoman Jeannette Rankin as well as a viral campaign called “Speechless Without Writers” during the WGA strike that was very effective in ending the strike and turning public opinion against the AMPTP and pro writer.

We need to do the same for the ERA - well, not the same because it’s a matter of RE-EDUCATING women - letting them know (most apparently don’t) that the ERA was not passed and that they do not have equal rights under the law.
The Congresswoman put the legislation back on the table yesterday - now we have to crank up the heat so she can use it to shame anyone thinking they are going to get away with voting against it.

We need genius advertising slogans and ideas.
We need some seed money to make posters, fliers, stickers, stencils, videos and then some big donors to buy billboards for us across America.
We need to throw our bras over the phone wires like sneakers in every town across this country and then somehow have people find out that all these mysterious bras are reflective of unified support for the ERA ratification.
We need troops to carry out our masterplan…

Let’s kick some ass and get it done - the time has come.

—-Kamala Lopez

you’d like to conference me in on a call with an important dude?  That’s cool, thanks for doing that.

But next time, could you let me know his name/job title in advance before you do so?

…maybe, not get get me on the phone and say “I’d like to introduce you to our Master of Seamen”

Because this is the response I will give
“er… uh… hello?”

…because I thought she was talking about ME.

And this is pretty much just a test to see if I can blog on the go. We’ll see how this works.

First I stop writing. Then I upgrade and screw up WordPress really bad. Then I let the domain expire.

I should be flogged in a public square.

Anyways, the site’s back up, and I’m sure Katie will be blogging sometime soon. As for me, I’m out for a few more months/years.

A bold claim. And I feel like a 12 year old girl for even embracing the idea, but it’s actually true.  Character restrictions make you think and interrupts your flow. How you combat that is kind of a big thing.  Seeing how other people deal with the restrictions is also pretty neat.

But mostly because I found Erika.  I bought one of her books at the shack of a bookstore here in FE and thought “hey, I wonder if she’s on twitter”.. she is, and she’s the kind of person that is genuinely interested in people who take an interest in her. I mean, I read her book and I LOVED it. That means we have to be similar in at least a few ways, right?

And she’s a real artist. Like, she does that for a living. She’s not trying to get into it or does something between her 9-5 job. She is capable of illustrating and writing on a regular basis and can eat her dinner with the money she makes. This concept is pretty much foreign to me.

But she reads what I say. She asks me questions. She relays what I say to her friends. She’ll send me emails and thank me for the stories I tell her. She’ll ask me a simple question and I’ll write her an essay of responses.  And she loves it. And she’s inspired to get together people for a zine style project and tour it. And she wants me to be involved! And I want to be involved! WHAT THE HELL

I love asking her things and seeing what she has to say. I love it when her friends see our “conversation” and get in on it. I feel no fear, no anxiety, no shame. And not because I’m protected by a computer and a certain level of anonymity… I genuinely don’t fear that these people will judge me, and I don’t fear that I won’t be able to handle anything they’d have to say about me or the decisions I’ve made. And that is fucking NEW.