All of Us, Too, Basically

I was seventeen. There was a summer party, hosted by a girl whose parents frequently went out of town, so a bunch of us were planning to spend the night. Someone had brought a case of beer, maybe some wine coolers. There was a bottle of Rumplemintz. There always seemed to be Rumplemintz. I loved that crap – the way the thick, syrupy liquid coated your tongue and how taking a shot of it made your throat feel like it was both on fire and and freezing cold at the same time. My head buzzed with alcohol. It was warm outside and lots of people were drifting in and out of the house. Steve Miller was playing. ‘Jungle Love’, over and over. Christ.

As the party started winding down, people began to crash throughout the house. The upstairs bedrooms were reserved for couples, or people who were hooking up. Since I fit neither category,  I found a cozy spot on a couch downstairs and fell into a hard sleep.

I woke several hours later to feel a hand creeping up my inner thigh, stroking my crotch through my jeans. Groggy and still half-drunk, I looked up and saw an unfamiliar boy curled up next to me, pretending to be sound asleep, save for his wandering hand. I had no idea who this guy was, but assumed he’d been a guest at the party. A friend of a friend of a friend. The house was silent – the kind of stone cold stillness that happens when a bunch of young people collectively pass out drunk in one place. Nobody seemed remotely alive, even. My heart was hammering in my throat, and I felt incredulous and disgusted, but also nervous, because I wasn’t sure what to do. Quietly, I slipped off the couch and wandered upstairs, where I found a safer place to sleep on a carpeted bedroom floor. I still have no idea who the guy was. Never saw him again. Never even mentioned it to anyone.

And why would I? Nothing happened. He didn’t even get my pants undone, right? Whatever, it was no big deal. Just some pervy guy being…well, a pervy guy.

I think I started noticing it in middle school. Suddenly, hormones were coursing through us like river rapids, and we weren’t very good at impulse control yet. The popular boys loved to sneak up behind the girls and either yank on our bra straps, letting them go so they snapped us in the back, or pinch us in the butt. We’d howl with indignation, but secretly, perversely, many of us were pleased by it. After all, we were trained to believe we should want this. If a boy was paying this kind of attention to you, it meant you were pretty. Wanted. Popular. Right?

When I was 21, I was sleeping at a girlfriend’s house, after we went bar-hopping with her boyfriend and one of his friends. Her roommate was away, so when we got back to her apartment, we sat up in the living room, watching movies and drinking beer. I distinctly remember thinking that the boyfriend’s friend was a complete moron, whom I’d never, ever date.

I headed to bed first, falling asleep in the roommate’s bed. I woke to the boyfriend’s friend suddenly crawling in alongside me. He started to kiss me, putting my hand against his erect penis. Jarred awake and feeling more annoyed than anything, I think I said something like, ‘Ugh, give me a break’, and tried to push against him. By then he had his hand inside my pajamas. And the weight of his body was heavy, strong, pressing against me.  And the humiliating truth is, I became aroused. I’d broken up with my boyfriend of three years not long before that. I was lonely. I hadn’t had sex in months. And it seemed easier to just let it happen. So I did.

Was I assaulted? I never really thought so. Of course, the guy was being a complete douchebag and had no right to get in my bed without being asked. But I didn’t stop him, did I? I didn’t call to my friend, who was sleeping with her boyfriend in the next bed. I didn’t say No. I never said No.

There would be more men over the years. More unwanted advances, like the boss who told me I had ‘very nice legs’ and ‘should wear more skirts’, or the landlord who noticed I’d lost weight and asked me if my boyfriend ‘was enjoying my new body’.

There was the distant uncle who, one Christmas eve when I was way too old for cuddling, noticed me yawning and asked me to come lay my head in his lap. The boss who told me I looked prettier when I smiled. Another one who routinely talked about how fat his wife was getting and brought me old clothes of hers, and who took me out to lunch and told me that we’d totally be sleeping together if we weren’t married to other people.

It goes on. I’m sure I can’t even remember every icky interaction. There may even be some I’ve put out of my mind, because, hey, they weren’t really that bad. Right? I know women who’ve been through worse. So goddamned much worse. Women who have been utterly broken by men, so who am I to even complain? I never objected to these come-ons. I never set anyone straight or stood up for myself. I never thought of myself as a victim, because, as women, we’re just expected to put up with a certain amount of  inappropriate behavior from the men around us. It’s part of the job, we’re told. They can’t help themselves. They’re just wired differently. All they think about is sex. We all have to deal with it.

[ And I want to be sure and be clear here: I do not believe that all men are inappropriate, pervy horndogs. I happen to know quite a few who are absolutely NOT. ]

But let’s take a sec and reverse some of these situations. Wait. I can’t, because I would never do any of the things that have been done to me. Sneaking up to an unsuspecting, sleeping drunk guy on a couch and suddenly grabbing his dick? Crawling into bed with a stranger and forcibly putting his hand on my crotch? Or, how about now, at my age, randomly asking a handsome male college student if his girlfriend enjoys his body? What the fuck? When you put it in this context, it seems insane, doesn’t it?

Is it because this behavior is just plain rude and we, women, have been taught to be polite? Or is there something really, inherently wrong with the way men and women interact?

I don’t have an answer. And I’m not sure anything will truly change until there are as many women holding positions of power in this country as there are men. That said, I do believe that we are doing better than we ever have been. We are taking baby steps, starting to tentatively dip our toes into a world that has been largely dominated by dudes. We are brave, sharing more of our experiences, and holding others accountable for behaviors that are just plain wrong. I’d like to think that my daughter, a high school freshman, will be able to say ‘Hey Fucker, You’re Out Of Bounds’ to a man who is harassing her, without the fear of her lifestyle choices, her integrity, her very character being called into question. And I think that she probably will.

But then I remember the statistics. The majority of assaults that never get reported. The women who simply accept inappropriate behavior as the norm, who put up with it because they don’t want to lose their jobs. Or get characterized as complainers. Pot-stirrers. FEMINIST LIBTARDS. And I get sad. But lets keep telling our stories. And, for god’s sake, listen to the women who want to tell theirs. It’s not everything, but it’s a start.




Introverting and Chill

Here’s something I’m learning: The world is fast becoming an introvert’s paradise. And as an infamously greasy fast food chain would say, I’m lovin’ it.

The other day I read an article about how Amazon is ‘revolutionizing the way we do our grocery shopping’. I thought, FINALLY, I can buy all my food from Amazon, the way I buy pretty much everything else, thereby closing the almost-perfect circle of never needing to leave the house, ever.

I was disappointed to find that no, this was not a completely human-free, exclusively online shopping experience, but instead a giant box store in Seattle where you scan a code on a phone app upon entering, then do all of your shopping without the inconvenience of waiting in line and checking out. I guess there’s some new algorithm or scientific GPS for groceries now? Miraculously (but unsurprisingly), Amazon has developed the technology to track every organic banana and box of tampons you take off the shelf, and deduct the cost directly from your bank account.

Uh, Whatever. Let’s get to the point where I’m in the middle of making dinner, realize I need an ingredient, get on my phone and order it, and a drone deposits it into my back yard an hour later. Then I’ll be impressed.

It’s really strange how the events of the last couple of years have basically made me a hermit. What’s stranger is how cool with it I am.

I never used to consider myself to be an introvert. I’m not even sure I am one now. I’ve always been a shy girl, one who’d prefer a cozy evening with a couple good friends as opposed to a rager where I end up in a corner cuddling with the party host’s dog. But I do like people. Well, some people. I guess. Kind of.

Maybe this is just who I am.  Maybe it’s an age thing. But in the last few years, since my work has become exclusively online, and we moved into my boyfriend’s house after mine was swallowed up by floodwater a year and a half ago, I’ve realized that I fucking love being home. I love logging onto my computer in the morning, doing some work, pausing to pop some laundry in the washer, make a pot of coffee, defrost something for dinner. Home is where my dogs are. My kid’s bedroom. Our stocked pantry. The cozy sectional which faces our  flatscreen. Come ON, it’s kinda the shit.

Let’s face it, too. Technology has made it soooo much easier to never leave the house. With Netflix, amazon, HBO, and a million other streaming networks, you can literally watch anything you want, whenever you want. You can pick up a little handheld computer and order from almost any restaurant in the city, then have it delivered within the hour. Having the internet on your phone gives you that little connection to other humans you might be missing. Log onto facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Giggle at someone’s sendup of our idiot president. Catch up with that girl who was mean to you in middle school. Like a photo of someone’s dog. That seems to be all I need these days.

Is this healthy? I guess I should wonder. But I don’t. I love pajamas. I get pissy when I have to put on makeup or do my hair for a meeting. I get actual anxiety when I have to figure out what to wear for an evening out. I feel like, if i want to go out and be around real humans, I can do it whenever I want. I’m lucky that way. I have a car and a license and live in a city with Starbucks-a-plenty.

Last week our internet went down and it was like Chernobyl up in here. But I just  packed up my laptop and went to Community Coffee to work for a few hours. The sound of the industrial-sized espresso machine and chatter of milennials was comforting. I noticed at least 5 other people working on laptops just like I was, sipping coffee, getting shit done, enjoying the smell of fair trade coffee and toasted bagels.

So, is this the new normal? Not sure. What do you think?


Pee Me a River, Part Two (Electric Bugaloo)

When last we left our heroine, she was standing sans pants as rising floodwaters inched toward her front door…

“Don’t worry about where my pants are, that’s not important right now. Please get up! Just…please, please, pleeeeeaaaase. Come. Look.” I gently yanked the covers off Jeremy, pulled on some shorts, and streaked out to Lily’s room.

Somehow I was able to put on a brave face before bursting through her door. I collected my shit and calmly told her that I’d like her to get up please and throw a few things in a suitcase. No, there was nothing to worry about. Yes, do it as fast as you can. Why? Well, because we might have pull off a water evacuation of sorts in a bit, okay? Okay. Cool.

Lil never ceases to amaze me. She sat up and gave me a weird look, then rubbed her eyes, nodded and obeyed without so much as a question. She is the exact opposite of me in a crisis: All business.

I began pacing by the front door. Jeremy came into the kitchen, hair matted and eyes beady from sleep, wearing his summer weekend uniform of torn basketball shorts and an old Richard Pryor tee shirt. He glanced outside, and then set about making coffee.

“What the fuck are you doing??? We’ve got to get out of here! NOW! NOW! Come ON!”

I started pulling him back into the bedroom, yanking  out a suitcase and filling it with random shit.

“Babe. Try and stay calm. I’m not going to be able to do anything about this until I’ve had coffee. Just give me a second to think.”

He popped in a K-cup and we waited in silence for it to brew.  Then he simply opened the front door and walked down the driveway, wading out into the waist-deep water that was fast filling the street. Coffee cup in hand, it was as if he were walking out to the patio for some Sunday morning chill time.

“I need to see if the whole subdivision is flooded. If we can even get out.”

I balked. “But…seriously?”

“Just try and stay calm. Pack a few things, because we obviously can’t stay here. Hopefully my house isn’t flooded, too.”

And off he went, disappearing into the vast brown lagoon that had been my pretty little street just 12 hours before. My mind racing, I envisioned various ghastly scenarios involving giant waves pulling the love of my life down into a watery grave. Or perhaps he’d come upon an alligator, hungry and frustrated that our little neighborhood lake was now indistinguishable from the actual street.

I called Jeremy’s name and the surrounding silence was so thick my voice bounced off the empty houses around me. Apparently everyone but us had evacuated in the night (Good job, me, turning off the alerts on my phone because the flash flood warnings were, like, soooo annoying).

Meanwhile, water was steadily creeping up the driveway. Perversely, it kind of reminded me of childhood vacations at the shore. All day we’d go nuts in the water, until the sun was starting to give way to evening clouds. We’d watch as the tide rolled in, gobbling up the beach while we dragged our chairs and towels higher and higher up the banks of sand to avoid getting our stuff wet. But this was quite different; I couldn’t pick up my fucking house and move it safely away, and this water had people’s furniture floating in it.

After what felt like 3 hours, Jeremy returned safely.  “This is nuts! Did you know that when there is a flood, like a million spiders run all across the water? There were SO MANY SPIDERS!” This was an added horror. “Well, the whole subdivision is flooded and the water has definitely risen since I waded out…If we want to try and go for it, we should do it now.”

“Wait. You mean…try and drive out?” I asked. That seemed insane. The water had to be at least 3 feet high in the road. I remembered a time in college, when I ignored a ‘Road Closed’ sign and drove into an enormous puddle where the river regularly washed onto a rural back road. I’d done it plenty of times before, but this time my engine was tired of my hubris and stalled out, leaving me to walk back to town and call a tow truck from a bar that was closing. There was no way. No way in hell.

But I had to trust Jeremy’s instincts. They tend to be pretty good, generally, and I was unable to think of any better ideas. We could all swim, but there was no way we’d get the dogs to do it. Ted didn’t even like to pee outside when it was raining. The alternative, staying in the house as it filled with water, scrambling up to the roof… in August…in South Louisiana…with two pit bulls… No. No, this was really the only option.

So, we grabbed a few things and tossed them into the trunk of my car. My single and lasting regret is that I didn’t move my photo albums. Being a meticulous memory-keeper, I had an album for practically every year of my life since high school. Of course, keeping those massive, overstuffed monsters at the bottom of my floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made sense because of their weight. And planning for your house to get filled with  water at some point is really not in the forefront of most homeowners’ minds. Still. I wish I had thought of it.

Next, we wrangled our idiot dogs, with their tongues hanging and tails wagging: Car! Car! Car! And we boarded my Hyundai, slowly and carefully inching down the driveway. It felt like launching a small boat into the harbor. I have no earthly idea how we did it. We glided through the neighborhood, past neighbors sitting on the roofs of their cars, shaking their heads at us as if to say, “Stupid. Why you gotta be a cowboy?”

Miraculously, the engine held on. Lil, who was facetiming with her friend Hailey, also stuck in her house a mile away, finally started losing it as the water began seeping into the car through the floor. She pulled her feet up under her and whispered, “Mom…. MOM….There’s water!”

“I know, honey. Just hang in there. We’re almost to higher ground.”

I don’t know if I believed this or not.

We made it to the edge of our subdivision, where a pickup truck stacked high with furniture and human beings was about to venture down the only road that headed out of the neighborhood. We looked ahead, and most of it was submerged. You couldn’t see where the street ended and the water began.

We cracked the window. A kind man, whose face I cannot remember but for whom I will always be grateful, yelled, “Y’all gonna try it?”

“Think so; we’ve made it this far, hopefully O’Neal isn’t flooded, too,” Jeremy answered.

“Well, we’re about to  drive into it…y’all follow us.”

Were it not for that truck, I’m not sure we’d have made it. Having them in front of us pushed the water out of the way so that we basically rode in their wake. They paused frequently and people jumped off, grabbed shit, got back on. But we all made it out. Within an hour, the whole area would be underwater, but we were the last people to make it out by car.

It wasn’t until we reached Jeremy’s neighborhood, and I knew that, for the time being, we were safe, that I finally started to cry.

I cried with gratitude for our survival, mostly. With relief that we’d escaped in one piece. But I also cried for what I knew I had lost. For what everyone around me had lost. It’s just stuff, I told myself. The important things are right here, in this car. And I do know this. I do.

In the almost year and a half since the flood, many communities have rebuilt. Some buildings remain boarded up and closed, but a visitor today would probably never know that, one random summer morning last August, a third of Baton Rouge had been sitting under water.

I still get nervous when heavy rainstorms sit over our city for more than a day, although rain is perfectly normal for southern Louisiana.  I make sure most of the important things I’ve recently accumulated are kept on higher shelves. I’m grateful for the what I have, for what survived. I’d like to say that the flood taught me to ‘let go of the small stuff’, or some sitcom-type lesson like that, but mostly it just reminded me that life is unpredictable. You can’t be ready for most of the crazy stuff that gets thrown your way. But if you’re lucky, you’ll get through it and hopefully be even stronger for when it comes along again.


Pee Me a River

As many of you know, I lost my house a couple of years ago in what later became known in Baton Rouge as ‘The Great Flood of 2016’. ‘Great’, as in ‘Totally Not Great; More Big-Budget-Hollywood-Will-Smith-Apocalypse-Movie’, and ‘Flood’, as in, ‘Yeah, Seriously, Hope Ya Can Swim Because You Could Literally Die Today’. We didn’t die, but I will say there were moments when, as we drove/floated out of my subdivision through 4 feet of floodwater with only handful of belongings, our two doofy pitbulls, and my daughter in the back seat pray-whispering, “Um…Mom…the water is…coming up through the… floor…that can’t be good…Mom?” I wasn’t completely sure.

The flood was the scariest experience of my life (well, of the I-Could-Actually-Die variety), second only to being in lower Manhattan on 9/11. I had spent most of that particular morning curled up in a bathroom stall, smoking cigarettes (Fuck you, Office Smoke Detector! It’s all going to hell!) and taking shots of Jagermeister (I know; it’s got to be a real crisis if you’re drinking Jager) from a clandestine bottle my boss had hidden in his desk for ’emergencies’. I stayed like that for hours, unable to uncoil my body from the tightly wound fearball I had become. I couldn’t go up to the roof with my coworkers and watch the towers burn and crumple in real time;  I was simply too scared. I think that actually bearing witness to the tragedy would have made it too real, and I had to hang on to the small amount of self-preservation I could scrabble together on that bathroom floor. When I tell people I was in New York for 9/11, I usually leave that whole part out. I’m kind of ashamed that, at a time when the fight-or-flight instinct really should have been kicking in for me, I opted for hiding-and-fetal instead.

Still. It’s easier be self-protective when you’re in your mid-twenties and responsible only for yourself. Going to pieces is a luxury you don’t have when you need to figure out how to get your family out of a life-threatening situation, and stat. When you’re a mom, it’s a whole different kind of horror movie.

On the morning of the flood, the first thing I noticed was the quiet. A heavy storm system had been sitting over the city for at least two weeks, bringing with it steady peals of rain, wind and thunder. A relentless gray dampness had moved in, threatening to stay longer than is requisite for your average Louisiana August.

That morning though, it seemed the rain had finally stopped, and the silence surrounding the house was almost eerie. Bright morning light was streaming in through the windows and I opened the door to let some of the sunshine in.

I couldn’t believe what was before me.

My happy little street, where Lil and I had enjoyed endless dog walks, bike rides, and neighborhood playdates, had been completely swallowed up by water. Overnight, a dark, thick, fast-moving river had streamed into the neighborhood, curling around the garden homes across the street, sucking up front lawns, and reaching for the tops of windows. And it was creeping up my driveway. Fast.

Like any brave, fully adulted mother, I opened my mouth to let out a silent scream of horror, then promptly peed my pants.

When staring down a truly unimaginable and overwhelming situation, sometimes my bladder just says ‘Here, let me handle it’. There was absolutely nothing I could do. My entire body went into ice cold shock. My heart blasted up into my throat and clobbered my ear drums. And a warm, humiliating liquid fear cascaded down my legs.

As I remember it, adrenaline finally did it’s fucking job and I went into auto mode for the next twenty minutes. I calmly stepped out of my yoga pants, kicked them out of the way and set about the business of informing my family of our situation.

First I woke up Jeremy, who was peacefully comatose, folded around two 60 lb dogs.

I hoarsely whispered, “Um. Babe? So. Yeah. Looks like the street is flooded. I’m…I’m not sure what to do. Please, please get up.”

He stirred, half-cocked an eye.  Drew back, confused.

“Where the hell are your pants?”


To Be Continued…




The apple apparently falls rather far from the tree.

I’m not a religious person. Like, at all. I may joke about the current state of things in our country, but I’ll be the first person AMERICA, FUCK YEAH-ing because I’m grateful for the freedoms we have in the good ole U.S. Of A. We’re damn lucky that we can subscribe to any dogma we wish without the fear of being stoned or buried alive or thrown in a river to see if we float. I have always tried to respect the belief systems of others, and will consistently defend their right to practice their chosen religions. As long as they don’t pester me to join in.

I was reared in the Catholic church. We went to church every Sunday (“Giving hour a week to Jesus isn’t that much to ask, for Christsakes” – My Mom), attended Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and celebrated the miraculous rising of dead Jesus (and the end of the long New York winter) every Easter Sunday.  I was a ruddy-cheeked child bride in winter white when I made my first holy communion, which was followed by a party where I was gifted with religious jewelry and a Virgin Mary nightlight, and posed with my family in front of a sheet cake emblazoned with a giant buttercream crucifix.

I did Catholic, like many of my middle class Long Island girlfriends, and never stopped to question any of it. In high school I wore a plaid skirt and sat in a classroom of like-minded young ladies, learning theology from a ‘hip’ nun who told us to think of Jesus as a ‘cool, older friend’. I went to confession and the priest told me that I would be forgiven for sassing my mom and stealing my sister’s clothes, as long as I said some Hail Marys and ‘took some time for myself; maybe take a bath or paint my nails’. And so I did.

Then I went to college. My friends were atheists and Women’s Studies majors and hippies. My viewpoints were suddenly being pulled out of shape like silly putty, my worldview widening all the time by new experiences and many different kinds of people.

I started learning things about the Catholicism that absolutely appalled me. By the time I graduated and got my first job, I was stridently Anti-Church. (Mind you, I still hadn’t given up on God. Even at this point, I’m still not sure how I feel about all of that. But that’s another blog post entirely.)

As a newly minted Gen-X working girl, I was totally fine with the absence of a religious ballast in my young, know-it-all life. My parents, on the other hand, well…that was a different story.

It first came up in a phone call home when I was about 23. I was living in upstate New York, and casually mentioned to my mother that I was not planning to attend mass with my family that Christmas Eve.

“But why?” Mom asked, bewildered.

“I…um…well, I just don’t think I’m Catholic anymore.”

Silence. Then,

“What do you MEAN you’re not Catholic anymore?”

Alarmed at my mother’s raised voice (an occurrence that rarely happened), my father grabbed the upstairs extension. My parents then proceeded to try and deprogram me, probably assuming that I’d joined a cult or started practicing black magic or smoking crack.

“Of course you’re Catholic,” my father said. “You were BORN Catholic.”

I considered this. I knew I was born Italian and Irish, those were undeniable qualities given my swarthy complexion, abundance of body hair and penchant for Pabst Blue Ribbon. But born ‘Catholic’? I didn’t think that was actually possible.

So began a series of pushes and pulls that lasted the better part of the following decade. My parents, having grown up in an era where dutiful children carry the traditions and values they were raised with into adulthood (instead of becoming therapy-going,  doubting assholes like me), had always embraced Catholicism and I think felt as if my rejecting of religion was, in a way, a rejection of them, of my childhood, and everything they’d taught me. This wasn’t the case at all. In truth, the respect and gratitude I have for my parents and the things I was given in childhood – tangible and not – is enormous. I had just come to a point in my life where I couldn’t find a place to where religion fit.

When I was 30, I became pregnant with my daughter. Although I tried not to be a dick about it, I was pretty clear with my family that I had no intention of taking my kid to church. When Lily was born and was put on ventilator after accidentally inhaling some of her own poop in my uterus (story for another time), my mother snuck some holy water into the NICU sprinkled it on her sweet newborn head  ‘just in case’.

A year later, in lieu of a baptism, and after I’d spent a shitload of time perusing boho parenting books and websites, we held a ‘naming ceremony’ in a park with family, friends, and potluck vegetarian food.  I’d like to think that Lily’s life has been full of experiences like these: celebrations of life, family, and an abundance of love, despite the presence of that ‘cool, older friend’ in sandals reminding us that he died for our sins.

That’s why I almost had a heart attack when, at the age of 14, my daughter told me that she wanted to get baptized into the Catholic church.

Now, we live in the deep south. The DEEEEP south. You can’t turn a corner without almost hitting a church. Many of Lily’s friends are religious. And she’s utterly, right smack in the middle of pubescence, a time that I remember so desperately wanting to be normal and belong. So, sure. It’s understandable that she wants to feel connected to a community. A system of values of her own making, to try it out. I get that. Even though it’s something I NEVER expected.

So I called my parents. My mother, now retired, still stays very active in her church, giving out communion every week at the local hospital to people in ICU, and teaching religious instruction to a bunch of rowdy teenage infidels.  Needless to say, when I broke the news, she was PSYCHED. “Oh, this is wonderful! I’m so glad she wants to be part of the church! I’m going to call Father Peter in the morning and set everything up!”

Then I heard the sound of the upstairs extension picking up.

HA ha!” came my father (just like that kid on “The Simpsons”).

“What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”

“I just think it’s SOOOO interesting that, despite all your efforts to avoid raising  your daughter Catholic, she’s come back to it on her own anyway.”

And he’s right. It is very interesting. And weird, for me. But as a mother, I have to support it, even applaud her wanting to do something so different. After all, that’s how I raised her to be, right? Independent. Resolute, Self-possessed. So she’s trying out religion now. It’s my hope that she finds a solace in it. Despite my disillusion with Catholicism, it was certainly a large part of my young life. Maybe it even helped define who I was, who I became. Maybe this is the thing that will define her.

And hey, it’s definitely better than crack.

Bye Bye Babies


What’s happening today is that I’m 3 days post-op from a bilateral salpingectomy, which is the removal of my pesky fallopian tubes. I also underwent an endometrial ablation, which is the burning of the inside lining of my uterus (gross) in the hopes that my hideously painful periods will cease trying to murder me, as they have every month for the last 32 years.

32 YEARS, DUDES!! I’ve been bleeding out of my vag for longer than most millennials have been alive.

I decided to have these procedures after my OB/Gyn, who looks and talks exactly like Lorelai Gilmore, suggested it (in truth, her Lorelai-ness may have had more weight in the decision than I realize. But I’m ok with that). Here’s the thing: I love kids. I really do. I just don’t want to birth any more of them. And since I  made this decision several years ago, there doesn’t seem much point in continuing to endure the monthly battle that is my menstrual cycle. I’m tired of all of it. The mood swings, the mindbending cramps, the blood, blood, blood. So after all the research I did (while trying hard not to fall into terrifying, worst-case-scenario Reddit and WebMD rabbit holes), I decided the Novasure Ablation was for me. Done laparoscopically, the simple procedure would slough off my stubborn uterine lining, resulting in lighter, and in many cases, nonexistent periods for several years. To boot, my doctor would also remove my fallopian tubes (“They serve no purpose besides transporting an egg to a uterus”, Lorelai told me), making future me-babies impossible.


I got to the hospital at 5 am on Tuesday, actually kind of looking forward to a few hours of uninterrupted sleep via general anesthesia. However, I woke up several hours later feeling like I’d been socked in the groin. I had two small incisions on either side of my lower stomach, probably the size of a bitten-off fingernail, and another inside my bellybutton. All three were stitched up and covered with medical tape. I was extremely dehydrated and nauseous, despite the anti-nausea patch that sat behind my ear. The nurse gave me some diet coke and something that looked like a plastic sock for me to take in the car, in case I needed to throw up. Jeremy, my perennial rock of ages, who has supported every decision I’ve made, no matter how questionable, fettered me home and into bed, where I popped a Motrin 800 mg and sacked out. Oh, wait. First I tried to pee. Which is really challenging when your lower extremities are basically asleep from heavy narcotics. But I think I managed a little.

Lily came home from school in the late afternoon, bounding in to check on me. She kicked off her Chuck Taylors and climbed into my bed. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” she whispered. At 13, she is so much better at hiding her anxiety about everything that’s scary about the world than I was. I’d had no idea she was even nervous about the procedure until right then. Sometimes I really have my head up my ass.

I was able to get up for a bit and eat dinner with my family, despite the aching in my abdomen. Mostly I was just really, really tired. And my mouth was dry as dust. No amount of water seemed to alleviate that. The bed was calling me back. So I hit the pillow again at about 7 pm and slept the night through.

Day two was similar, with a little less sleepiness. I drank two giant bottles of coconut water, hoping the electrolytes would help with the dehydrated feeling. I think it did, but also, I guess it just takes a while to work anesthesia out of your system. I was able to work (never been so grateful for a home office), to drive a little bit, grab some groceries, and then I passed out early that evening again.

SO, here I am on day three. I’m definitely getting better. My incisions look pretty good. Been slathering them in Vitamin E. I still feel like there are two small weights hanging off my ovaries every time I get up from sitting. And there is a numb spot in the bottom right portion of my abdomen. I am tempted to pinch it or stick myself with a little sewing needle, just because I can. But I haven’t. So far, so good. Peace out for now.