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[4emfox]

"Have a nice break!"

There was a light knock on the door. My senses were in Mom Mode since the birth of my daughter less than 12 hours earlier so I immediately opened my eyes and let out a groggy, “come in” — my daughter still sleeping peacefully beside me.

The night shift nurse stepped into my room and asked if I’d prefer to have my catheter removed at midnight (in a few minutes) or 4am.

“Let’s wait until 4am. I’m not quite ready to sit up,” I said as I felt the heaviness in my abdomen from just having multiple layers sliced open to welcome my precious daughter into the world.

Knowing my daughter was waking up every 1.5–2 hours to eat, the nurse came in a little later around 4:30am to give me a pinch of extra time to sleep after her last feeding.

“Ok, this is going to hurt a little but it’s quick. Take a deep breath in…” I obeyed as she pulled the catheter tube out of my body — the sensation made it feel as though I had a urinary tract infection.

“Ok, now I need you to sit up and we’ll try to walk to the bathroom.” The bathroom was almost within arm’s length of where I was laying but I was dreading the journey to get there. First, sitting up…then standing…then walking…

The nurse bore down and gave me her arm to help me sit up. I gripped her hard as I tried to lift my broken body. My husband, who had been sleeping soundly in a chair next to me, began to sit up protectively as he saw me struggle. “Can I help?”

“Maybe. But let me try first,” I said as I clung to the nurse with my right arm and used my left arm to push off the bed behind me in an attempt to use as little abdominal strength as possible.

It felt like 10 minutes, but I was finally sitting up on the edge of my hospital bed with my feet on the floor — grateful that I hadn’t ripped open during my journey to get this far.

“You ready to walk?”

Still holding onto the nurse, I began to stand and said, “I think so.”

I slowly moved one foot in front of the other, and in what felt like another 10 minutes, I had shuffled to the bathroom, hunched over from the pulling in my internal and external sutures.

The nurse then instructed me to try to use the bathroom to make sure everything was working correctly. She gave me a water bottle to squirt myself off to ensure I was staying clean and mitigating the risk of infection. The toilet filled with blood. Glamorous — and this was normal.

With my IV still in, I finished what seemed like an impossible task then gripped the bar next to the toilet to help me stand. Slowly but surely, I was on my feet and shuffling back to bed, still hunched.

The whole ordeal felt like 30 minutes — but I had done it. And I was proud that I had moved much sooner after this c-section than after my first c-section with my son.

My husband had watched in horror the whole time. The extra help from the nurse, the struggle to rise, the struggle to walk, the blood-filled toilet, then the walk back to my bed…and then finally, the struggle to lay down without using too much abdominal strength. Was it really that bad?? Was all that extra help really necessary?? Yes — and then some.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“Have a nice break.” The phrase left a sting in my ear as my head finally hit the pillow. I was exhausted, out of breath, nauseous, and felt completely broken and helpless. But, to some, I was on a “break”. A “nice” one, even.

I know they mean well. I know they are trying to tell me to enjoy the time with my daughter, uninterrupted by work. But words are powerful. Words also reveal the perceptions and belief narratives of the people speaking them. Calling this a break is akin to calling a car accident with multiple injuries a party. Apples and oranges — er, mai tais and sutures. So starkly different, they can’t be compared. Referring to maternity leave as a break minimizes what is actually happening during this time (which further undermines what women go through and how they are treated in this country and in the workforce…a conversation for another day — but think unequal pay, less women in management, and the overturning of Roe V. Wade). Calling this a break fills me with resentment. And that’s an understatement. I mean, when in any other circumstance is someone who has just undergone major medical trauma told to “enjoy” their “break”??

For fuck’s sake…I’m paying more than $5k for out of pocket medical expenses right now. On top of paying for my insurance premiums because I’ve chosen to take all 12 weeks of FMLA when my company only provides 6 weeks of paid leave — so they’re no longer paying my premiums until I get back to work. AND THAT’S CONSIDERED PROGRESSIVE (ahem, in the United States). All while trying daily for several weeks since my daughter has been born to put her to sleep when she has acid in her esophagus from reflux. No one is sleeping — while I’m healing from medical trauma…on my “break”. My experience isn’t uncommon; in fact, it’s very much the norm.

I’d love to be drinking umbrella drinks on the beach, doing yoga daily, reading all the books — fuck, I’d love to be able to take my daughter on daily walks but she hates the car seat/stroller. But here we are — scarred, engorged, stressed, and exhausted.

The framing of words is important and helps us understand — at a subconscious level — the world around us. Call maternity leave what it is — not a break — but one of the most significant life-altering adjustments that anyone will go through during their lifetime. With or without medical trauma.

According to the government, women should be ready to roll after 12 weeks of job protection and no pay (and believe fathers don’t need to go through this adjustment… Perpetuating old ideas about mothers being the caregivers and fathers being the providers. Traditional families — think Leave it to Beaver — are a thing of the past. Most of us don’t live like that anymore and fathers are going through the same adjustment — sans any acceptable time away from the office. And what happens when TWO fathers are involved?? But I digress…)

And employers* can be worse.

*For example, given what I did to take 12 weeks with my daughter, I have no available time to take a break or get sick for the next 6 months when my vacation and sick time will renew — because I had a baby.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

We were released from the hospital two days later, though I would have liked the help of the nurses at least one more day. Ahem, but healthcare in our country is too expensive for that (another conversation for another time).

The panic for the first two weeks after we got home was intense for two reasons.

Firstly, my daughter would wake to eat…and I would struggle to quickly sit up due to the urgency of her cries while trying to manage the pain and lack of strength in my abdomen. Often, my husband would wake up and try to help me up or hand her to me. One night in particular, I really struggled to rise (with his help). I felt the sense of failure bubble up from a dark place. I felt unable to care for my daughter in the way I had wanted to — expected to. Falling back on the pillow, I had to take a deep breath to keep from crying. I was embarrassed. A failure. A bad mom. (Of course that wasn’t true…but you try telling that to a new mom at 2 in the morning one week postpartum).

The second reason, postpartum hormones are a bitch. With my son, I felt the baby blues for about a week and a half — feeling sad, depressed, and inadequate as a mom with a colicky baby. This time around, my anxiety was off the charts. I couldn’t relax. Everything was a threat to her and my thoughts about her safety made me think of very ugly worst case scenarios. These thoughts were intrusive and graphic, bordering on obsessive.

My “break” consisted of organizing my daughter’s room, getting the older kids ready for the new school year, breastfeeding around the clock, waking up for feeds in the middle of the night (still happens but I gotta go back to work), panicking when we couldn’t figure out why she was crying when all of her needs had been met (still happens), healing from a c-section (still happening), finding out she had reflux (she still has reflux), and all of us (myself, husband, son, and stepdaughter) adjusting to new schedules, routines, and shifts in relationships — that we’re supposed to magically adjust to in a mere 6–12 weeks — and for some folks, even less time is available. Pffft.

Lemme say it again — maternity leave is not a break. But one of the most significant life-altering adjustments that anyone will go through. We. Need. More. (PAID, WORK-PROTECTED) Time.

What does this look like??

This looks like giving new PARENTS at least 14 weeks of PAID leave with the guarantee that their job will be waiting for them when they return. Wanna be even more progressive? Provide at least 6 months. Not only does this make temp hiring easier (due to more longevity in the role), it gives parents more time to heal (when applicable) and adjust/reset before returning to work. This benefits parents, the baby(ies), AND the company. Do you want your employees to be more refreshed? More engaged? More grateful for you and therefore, more loyal?? Take care of ‘em.

This looks like providing flexible schedules to those who are breastfeeding. Maybe that means a slower return to work (working part time at first, for example) or time blocks on calendars (completely uninterrupted) to sustain the life of a child, or a better place to pump (a REAL Nursing Room — not a closet) while at work. And let’s not expect them to travel for more than 1–2 days so they can continue to breastfeed their child and not have to pump and dump on the road. AND…be understanding when they have to leave a long meeting or training to pump.

This looks like NOT requiring parents to use up extra sick leave and vacation time during their leave. (Providing ample time for leave will mitigate this problem).

This looks like HR ensuring that the company continues to pay for insurance premiums even if the parent’s paid time is up (ahem…but if the company is providing ample time, this shouldn’t be a problem).

This looks like planning in advance for temp work, if needed. (Our UK and European counterparts have figured this out… Why can’t we??)

This looks like being understanding and supportive of new parents when their kids are home due to vacation or illness.

This looks like ensuring that the employee’s promotability and potential salary are not impacted by a short leave of absence. If their work output stays the same, why should a small gap in their work determine their promotability or salary??

This looks like providing ALL NEW PARENTS with EQUAL family leave time. Maternity/Paternity Leave are officially outdated. It’s time to provide a blanket FAMILY LEAVE to be inclusive of all types of families. This ensures that old ideals aren’t perpetuated and is inclusive of non-traditional families. Do you know what would have really helped me during my leave? If my husband had leave so we could both focus on and bond with the baby. Instead, he has assumed the role of “employee” and I have assumed the role of “caregiver”. This naturally puts the pressure on me as the caregiver EVEN WHEN I AM BACK AT WORK. Even though I make twice his salary. That’s a lot of pressure and I am currently trying to groom him into being a Stay At Home Dad.

We were all children once. We all have parents (guardians). A lot of us ARE parents. It’s time to give parents the respect they deserve — because this is a position in society that ALL of us understand and have substantial experience with. Hilarious that we all started jobs then were like, “Fuck parents!” despite our experience.

Ready for me to say it again? Family Leave is not a break. It’s a significant life-altering adjustment. Let’s treat it like it is and provide new parents with actual, tangible support.

And for those of you who are saying, “then don’t have children” — this is capitalism, bro. We’re creating more people for the workforce [shrugs shoulders]…

[4emfox]

I’d Like My Boobs Back

Now that I have your attention…

Let’s go back to the early 1900s. Ivan Pavlov wants to learn a little something about conditioning the brain so he organizes an experiment where he rings a bell before giving dogs their food. In response to the food, the dogs would salivate. But by pairing the two stimuli of the food and the bell close together, the dogs began to salivate just at the sound of the bell, whether or not they were fed. The bell is neutral…but it makes the dogs think of their food, causing them to salivate.

Media Giants (production companies, networks, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc) are the new Pavlov and female bodies are the bell. Making human beings the dogs and sex the reward.

We need a new bell…the bell of context.

Bodies are sexual in the right context (i.e. between horny consenting adults). But sexualization is purely about body parts - while sexuality is about the totality of a person and context.

Let me say that a little differently. Healthy sexuality is all about respecting and understanding context.

Female bodies (nude or clothed) should be neutral...unless the context is sexual.

I’m looking at you Media Giants — you have a moral obligation to provide women with the courtesy of context. The same courtesy you already provide to men.

Our culture has conditioned us into thinking that women's bodies are only sexual...even when the context is not sexual. From less overt things like men gawking at a woman for wearing yoga pants or a swimsuit to the darker side of sexualization like rape culture. It doesn’t matter — if she has a body, it must be sexual — because that is what our sexualized society has taught us. Nevermind that a woman in yoga pants might actually be working out or just grabbing coffee. Or that a woman in a swimsuit is enjoying the beach with her kids. Or that a woman who is drunk doesn’t have the capacity to consent.

Media Giants have blurred the lines between sexualization and sexuality, obstructing our understanding. Our brains don’t decipher the difference. This means that when we see attractive female bodies in movies where men are the main characters and the women’s bodies (clothed or unclothed) are on display to enhance the “aesthetics” and sexiness of the scene, the audience gets “WOMEN=SEX” (think Tarzan voice) stamped on their brains. The bell has been rung…the audience will continue to salivate every time they see too much of the female body — offending some and arousing others. This conditioning starts happening when we are children. *And to children*

The sexualization of women is a social illness and it impacts everyone. It is conditioning young girls to misunderstand that their value in our society is in their sexual attractiveness, while training young boys to see girls as sexual objects that they are entitled to exploit. This is bad for both boys and girls, but it’s especially bad for girls because sexualization is just another form of dehumanization — depriving them of human qualities or attributes; stripping women of individuality.

As a result of this conditioning, a woman’s worth — perceived by her and others — depends on her sexual viability. A fallacy that Media Giants are complicit in promoting. Media Giants put those titties on display for no other purpose than for the heterosexual, cisgender male gaze (and dollar$ becau$e tit$ make movie$ better — where’s that Sponge Bob meme?)

At their simplest, human beings are just bags of meat with lazy think-tanks. Our brains like rules and routines. We follow what’s conventional and don’t question it…because that’s what everyone else does. It’s “normal”. The media/culture/religion told me that this is how it is, so it must be true.

Thus, the misconception that a woman’s body is sexual is a common one. Impacting everyone from well-intentioned people to perverts who feel entitled to female bodies (at any age — staring or touching), women who feel that their bodies aren’t sexy enough, and even the conservative church-goer who is afraid of sex and wants everyone to cover the fuck up (while secretly watching a shit-ton of dark-web porn). “WOMEN=SEX” is officially a part of the narrative we understand.

This shitty narrative has even infiltrated our schools — girls are told not to wear comfortable yoga pants, or v-neck shirts, or wear shorts or skirts that are “too short”, or show their shoulders! “The context must be sexual, because I can see too much of her body. And the media told me that female bodies are for sex…”

Continued thought option 1: “…Therefore, anything too revealing is obscene.”

Continued thought option 2: “…Therefore, she’s not attractive enough to be showing that much of her body.”

Continued thought option 3: “…Therefore, I bet she’d have sex with me.”

Continued thought option 4: “…Therefore, I *deserve* to have sex with her.”

Regardless of which way you spin it, it comes from the same misconception: The female body can only BE in a sexual context.

This applies to women we deem attractive or unattractive. The attractive woman is sexual. The unattractive woman is not sexual; an unfortunate dichotomy that has been built around women. And a good majority of women don’t think they’re sexy because their boobs are too big or too small, or their butts are too big or too small, or they’re too fat or too thin, or their lips need to be puffier (blow job lips), and their eyes need to be foxier (blow job eyes).

Women can’t win in this society. Trends in sexualization change all the time. So once a woman jumps on one trend, a new one comes along and now she’s washed up and out of date. After all, the 45th president of the United States said that women peak at 35…because their sexual value is apparently dependent on youth, too.

Due to the stamp of “WOMEN=SEX”, we cannot disassociate female bodies with sexuality. Hence, projecting our sexual hang-ups onto women has become a product of the sexualized culture we live in. Take J-Lo and Shakira’s Super Bowl performance, for instance. WE COULD SEE TOO MUCH OF THEIR BODIES. So the performance was sexy to some and obscene to others. But…the context was sexually neutral and historic: two Latina women owning the Half Time show for the first time ever. Why were so many offended? Because they were taken out of context.

Despite the context that a woman is quite literally in, our culture has conditioned us to project sexualization onto them — so, when a woman at an airport is wearing a crop top, workers tell her to “cover up or get off” — even though the true context is that she’s taking a flight. A woman breastfeeding is told she’s being obscene — even though she’s feeding her baby. Women at the gym are filmed for men to get-off on their sexual jollies later — EVEN THOUGH THEY’RE JUST TRYING TO WORKOUT IN PEACE. Show me an example where a man has been kicked off a flight for what he was wearing. Or an example of a man who felt unsafe or disrespected at the gym or on social media. What this really reveals is that our society is sick, infected with the wrong stimulus to sex.

Media Giants, you already provide men with the right situational context. We could see a fully nude male from head to toe getting out of the shower in a movie…and the context is, “He’s done showering”. Which is the appropriate context. We can see a man's bum or penis in a movie and interpret it as sexual...or funny...or neutral, based on the context of the scene.  

So let’s get more specific about context when it comes to women. Below is a list of sexual and non-sexual things. Note that when I say something is not sexual, I mean that it doesn’t fall anywhere on the spectrum of “sexy” or “obscene” — it is 100% neutral when it comes to sex. Ready?

Woman in workout gear— not sexual. Context: just working out

Woman in a swimsuit — not sexual. Context: likely swimming. Maybe tanning. You are smart enough to figure this out

Fully nude woman in bath /shower — not sexual. Context: getting clean

Fully nude female friends skinny-dipping — not sexual. Context: friendship and freedom

Woman not wearing a bra — not sexual. Context: bras are restrictive and extremely uncomfortable

Woman in short shorts/tank top — not sexual. Context: hot outside

Woman breastfeeding a baby — not sexual. Context: life-giving

Woman topless on a beach — not sexual. Context: living life the way a man would (check out that link because men used to have to hide their nips, too)

Fully naked woman saying no to sex — not sexual. Context: she found her voice and said “no”. Deal.

Fully naked drunk woman — not sexual. Context: she cannot consent. Consider getting her some water and a burrito

Woman taking off her workout gear while telling you she wants to have sex with you — sexual. Context: she wants to have sex

Woman taking off her swimsuit while telling you she wants to have sex with you — sexual. Context: she wants to have sex

Fully naked women in porn having sex — sexual. Context: porn is for sexual pleasure. YAY! (*note: find porn that is not exploiting the people in it. Porn Hub just deleted millions of videos for that reason)

Threesome between consenting adults — sexual. Context: adults consented to a sexual kink

Orgy between consenting adults — sexual. Context: adults consented to sexual kink

*THIS IS NOT AN EXHAUSTIVE LIST*

Women, we’re taking our power back. We need to hold Media Giants accountable for helping to teach our girls that their value is in their sex. The culture they are perpetuating is teaching them to only understand their bodies when it comes to their sexual allure. When does that become unethical? (Ahem…it’s already unethical).

I’m fuckin’ angry, man.

At what point does the media have an ethical obligation to women who are unable to breastfeed in publish because of the sexual context projected onto her breasts on a consistent basis? At what point do we teach our boys and men to leave women alone at the gym (or Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, etc) when the context is sexually neutral? At what point are we going to take action because women who are especially busty are told to cover up their “obscene” cleavage when they can’t help it? This does not happen to men. John Hamm has never been told to tape down his bulge.

At what point is the media partially to blame for teenage boys repeatedly sexually assaulting a drunk teenage girl because they felt entitled to her unconscious body? What about a man who murdered multiple people, targeting women, because he was a virgin and felt he deserved sex? This narrative — this context skew —was birthed from patriarchal and misogynistic religions and the media perpetuates it.

Media Giants, our lazy think-tanks are too dumb to figure this out on our own. We need your help in changing the narrative. You helped create and perpetuate it — it’s on you to help us fix it.

I’m not saying to put less nudity in television or movies — I’m saying to put it in the right context and ensure that there is an equal amount of male/female nudity. Be realistic with your nudity by showing real life situations and all body types. A body should never be on display. Use this question as your North Star: would I put a male in a similar situation? If the answer is “no”, don’t put a woman in the situation.

Media Giants, I am not consenting to your sexualization of bodies like mine. Where do I press charges for that? I’ll be the one who will tell you when I want to be sexy and express my sexuality — because your portrayal of it isn’t just wrong — it’s dangerous.

When healthy sexuality is portrayed in the right context, I’m gonna guess that that’s gonna lead to more orgasms for everyone — making everyone the winners.

It's time to provide women with the same courtesy that our culture provides to men - the courtesy of contenxt.

Your move, Media Giants.

[4emfox]

Baggage

Everyone has baggage.

Trauma; weird ideas passed on from parents; cultural norms and expectations; delusions about ourselves… Call it what you want, we all have it. We all carry something — many of us not even knowing what we carry.

Packed in Kaye’s mental luggage among dusty values, emotional damage, and both new and old ideas, sits the mangled belief that god is always watching. Despite having made a dramatic exit from Christianity two years prior, it left a residue — a worn out concept leaving its stench on the other things sloppily packed into this space in her mind.

*BEEP BEEP BEEP*

The alarm sounded, interrupting her dreams and offensively announcing the official end of the weekend. Though tempted by the snooze button, Kaye rolled over, threw off her sheets and planted her feet on the floor.

She yawned and stretched while sleepily walking to the bathroom to get the shower going.

“Uuuggghhh” she drowsily grunted as the sting of freezing cold water hit her arm and face. Living in a cheap apartment just outside of Columbus, Ohio, she knew this came with the territory.

Kaye painted a thick line of toothpaste onto her toothbrush and began groggily brushing her teeth as the water heated and the bathroom filled with steam.

A flash of white caught her eye in the mirror’s reflection.

Kaye’s eyes widened. Fuck. Not again.

Turning quickly to see behind her, toothbrush hanging from her drooling mouth, she saw nothing but opaque steam. Meh. I’m just tired.

She undressed lazily, stalling the process of getting ready for work but also knowing she had to be there at a certain time. Always five minutes late…a minor rebellion against work.

Stepping into the shower, she relaxed as comforting hot water engulfed her body. She closed her eyes and reached her arms to her head to encourage the drenching of her hair.

Once her hair was washed and conditioned, she reached for the soap. Washing under her armpits, her shoulders, her chest, her stomach — FWIP — clang.

The slippery bar of soap had escaped her fingers and was now sliding to the opposite end of the fiberglass tub.

Slowly sliding…sliding…until the soap nestled itself right next to big, hairy toes. Not hers.

Fuck. I knew I’d seen him.

God is always watching. And there he was in his white robe — this piece of a tattered Christian concept had personified itself into the form of Jesus Christ himself. Watching her shower.

“Ohoho my god! Can you not??” she yelled while turning off the water and wrapping herself in a towel.

Jesus smirked and shrugged then walked into a different room. Always dipping out when things were less interesting.

Kaye — now wide awake and feeling irritable — finished getting ready for work, brewed and poured coffee, then dashed out the door with her still-wet hair.

Work was as usual. A whole lot of babysitting adults (mostly executives — old white males with old white ideas), telling people how to treat and not treat their employees, and answering a seemingly endless stream of emails.

Kaye was distracting herself from the mundane with the anticipation of a Happy Hour with her friends after work.

A new brewery had just opened up in the Short North part of downtown with promotional Happy Hour rates and Kaye was perusing the menu of appetizers and beers.

Oooh. $10 for a mini flight and my choice of app? Oh! They have a non-cidery sour? I’ll definitely add that to my flight.

It was just approaching Work Limbo time. That time between 4 and 5pm when employees want to look busy but don’t want to start anything too complicated that will keep them in the office after 5. So Kaye started to half-ass plan her work for the next day at 3:59.

4:03— still adding to her list of to-dos for tomorrow

4:11 — going to the bathroom to peruse Instagram in peace

4:27 — adding notes to her list of to-dos

4:33 — doodling on her list of to-dos

4:48 — checking email one more time

4:57 — cleaning up her cube and packing up her purse

5:01 — saying goodbye and leaving the office not exactly at 5pm so as not to look too eager to leave.

Kaye effectively battled traffic on her way to the brewery and made it just in time to order a flight and app before 6pm when the promotional prices would end.

Kaye’s friend Shannon said she was bringing her newly single and very attractive guy friend, Colin. But while Shannon was there, there was no Colin.

Gah dammit! Kaye was excited about Colin. He was cute, funny, volunteered at the food bank on the weekends, successful. Seemed like the full package. Kaye couldn’t understand why his ex-girlfriend had dumped him.

“Fuck, Shannon! I thought you said Colin was coming,” Kaye playfully whined.

“Oh he’s on his way. Just got stuck on a work project.”

Clearly Colin had played Work Limbo wrong.

Sure enough, Colin walked in the door about 10 minutes later. Light brown, wavy shoulder-length hair tickled his olive green canvas jacket sitting on top of a red and black plaid shirt. Smile beaming with his perfect teeth peering through a full beard.

GAWD, he’s so hot!

Sitting down at the table a few seats across from her, Colin made quick, shy eyes at Kaye.

“Hey! You missed Happy Hour prices! Take my last two mini beers and feel free to try some of these soft pretzels and beer cheese.” Kaye said, foot officially in the Flirt Door.

“Are you sure?? These look great!” Colin said, already reaching for the pretzels.

“Absolutely! Just buy the next round.” Kaye winked. New flirting level in the game reached.

Drinks, apps, and friends came and went. Kaye and Colin were sitting closer together now, his hand on her knee.

And drinks came. And came. And came.

Kaye was no stranger to sex after drinks. And she knew this is where the night was going.

Various one night stands (ahem…and religion mixed with sexism and sexualization) made the used-to-be Christian feel cheap and dirty. But logic told her she wasn’t bad. Or guilty of anything. Logic made her feel strong and empowered. The true owner of her sexuality. Not god. Not her partner. Not society. But the baggage she carried oozed its residue onto each experience, despite her logic.

She ordered an Old Fashioned as she and Colin continued to flirt. He ordered an IPA. The more alcohol in both of their systems, the harder they flirted. The more they wanted it.

A flash of white brushed the corner of her eye. No no no! Not right now!

“God, I swear I’m not that guy, but yer sexy as hell. And smart!” Colin had to throw that in there. “You wanna git outta here?” His words starting to slur.

God?

“Where are we going?” Kaye tried to play stupid but wasn’t so naïve.

“I have a place not far from here.”

“YES!!! Yes let’s go!” Kaye could hardly contain herself.

Her “slutty” side (the sexual side that had always been there but had been repressed by her upbringing) was past due and ready to erupt.

“I live four blocks up. You good to walk?”

Absolutely.

They walked. And flirted. And skipped like 6 year olds. Colin grabbed her by both arms, pushed her into a brick wall, asked for consent like a gentleman, then kissed her hard. His hands everywhere they shouldn’t be.

“Is this ok?” he whispered heavily.

“Oh my god, yes. Please don’t stop.” Kaye’s body was aching with anticipation.

Then she saw that same familiar silhouette out of the corner of her eye.

KAYE — YOU’RE DRUNK. Stop thinking about it.

By the time they reached his apartment, they were running. Man, Colin must be overdue, too, thought Kaye.

Once in his apartment, it was raining clothes. Kaye was sure she ripped her blouse but didn’t care.

Like the pro she wasn’t, she stopped when she got to her bra and panties. “These are for you to take off.”

The only coherent thing to come out of Colin’s mouth as he happily obliged was, “You’re so sexy.” The rest was a jumble of “ooha mauhn. Imma makeyoukhum…sho herd.”

Before he could make another move, Kaye was on him like a comment from a devout Christian mom to a sinner on the internet— wait, what?

Let’s try this again.

Ahem…before he could make another move, Kaye was on him like a lion on a gazelle.

Meh. Better, but her sexy analogies still needed work.

Kaye had always been taught that sex should be special and between two people who love each other. But this was not that. Just pure, instinctual, beautiful sex. The foreplay, his stamina. All sexy things happening at that moment were so, so good to Kaye.

A familiar and incredible sensation started building up inside her. Radiating from her sacred parts and extending to her entire body. She thought she might explode. Involuntarily, she arched her back. The sensation at the cusp, she now found herself wanting to burst. As her eyes rolled, she noticed something. Him. Again. Oh, God. No. No. No.

She opened her eyes.

“Fuuuuuck!”

There he was again. On cue, as soon as things got interesting.

Jesus Christ.

The same god who had watched her grow up and watched her in the shower this morning was now there. In the bedroom. While she was naked with a man. Crinkling his nose in a smirk at her while twiddling his fingers as if to say, “I see you, Kaye. I see you in your sin.”

She closed her eyes tight! Tried to find the sensation again. There it is. Yes! Filled with relief, she was so close coming. So. Close.

Her back arched involuntarily again. YES. YES. There it is! YES! As her eyes rolled…

“Goddammit!!”

Jesus Christ. Again. Same smug, judgmental look. Same “twiddle” wave. He could see her — what she was doing. Always watching.

“Ouch. That’s, like, super offensive,” said Jesus in response to her blasphemous expletive.

“Hey, is there anything else I can do to help you cum? I’m giving you my best drunk work here,” heaved Colin, his mouth dry and smacking from a night of drinks.

“Ugh, no. You’re doing a good job. Do what you were doing. Keep doing that. Do that again,” rushed Kaye. Desperate to get what she needed.

He continued. Again, the sensation. Again, the back arch. Again, the eye roll. Again…Jesus Christ.

She couldn’t orgasm. Not with Jesus there.

“Look, I must be too drunk for this. This never happens to me.” Kaye lied.

Colin rolled over, clearly internalizing his perceived inability to get Kaye to completion.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve just had too much to drink.” Kaye said guiltily. “But, look. For your efforts, I’d be happy to finish you off.”

“Naaah. You don’t have to do that. Let’s just go to sleep.” Colin retorted.

“I feel terrible. Please let me do this.” Kaye said, unsure of where her guilt was coming from. Was this sexism? Sexualization? Her duty as a woman from religion? Her perceived value as a woman from society?

“I mean, sure, I guess. I could never turn down a blowjob. But…don’t feel pressured. I’m fine either way.”

Kaye moved on top of Colin then began lowering herself closer to his bits. Privates — as she referred to them growing up. Private for everyone else. Except god who was always watching.

The smell of sweaty balls filled her nostrils — the alcohol in her system minimizing the scent.

She licked the shaft…and could taste the smell. Oh. My. God. What was she doing? Why did she feel guilty?? How could she finish?

She tried again…her stomach lurched…

She vomited a night’s worth of drinks and appetizers onto Colin’s exposed gut.

Shit.

“Whaaaarrrgh…??” cried Colin as Kaye wiped the puke from the corner of her mouth.

“Oh my god, I’m so sor…” she lurched again, rolled off the bed, ran to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before she vomited again. She had had too much to drink.

She could hear rustling in the bedroom. Colin was cleaning himself off. And his hotel-like sheets. She finally had some non-sexy, semi-drunk time to look around her.

Colin’s apartment was a fucking museum. At least what she’d seen of it. Clean. Beautiful. Expensive. And she’d just vomited all over him and his beautiful, likely 1200 thread count, Egyptian Cotton sheets. Shit.

She flushed her regrets down the toilet then turned to sit, face in her knees. This was not how she imagined her time with Colin.

She saw some feet walk next to her. Assuming Colin had come to help her, she looked up. And there, standing before her, was Jesus Christ — looking cockily self-satisfied.

“Told ya so.” He smirked. “Fornication never pays off. I don’t believe in Karma…but…Karma.”

Colin had drunkenly invited her to stay over earlier, so she did with the hope she could fix this. Awkwardly, she tossed and turned the whole night. Her mind buried in thoughts of Colin, her shame, Jesus Christ, and unfinished orgasms.

With the same awkward feeling, she woke to the sound of her phone alarm out of a restless, semi-sleep.

“Mmm…” Colin stretched. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great, thanks!” Kaye pushed out her words, ashamed.

“Good! Would you like breakfast before you leave?” Colin asked.

Kaye could only nod, eyes still closed. Too tired and embarrassed to say anything.

Colin sauntered into the kitchen while Kaye moped behind him. She slumped down at a small, round table huddled in the corner between the fridge and a window. Just enough room for three, maybe four people.

Colin pulled down three boxes of cereal from off the fridge. “Alrighty, Kaye. Moment of truth. Cocoa Crisps, Captain Smack, or Rings of Fruit?” Colin still mustering the strength to flirt a little. Maybe Kaye hadn’t fucked this up as much as she thought.

“Oooh! I’ll take the Cocoa Crisps! I haven’t had those since I was a kid!” Awh, the taste of her repressed childhood.

“Excellent choice!”

Colin poured the two of them a bowl of cereal then brewed some coffee — an awful combination.

“Sooo…what’s on your agenda today?” Colin asked, unskillfully trying to keep the conversation going.

It was obvious to Colin that the-usually-chatty Kaye had been quiet all morning. But Kaye was still stuck in the space in her mind occupied by “god is always watching”. That meant lingering guilt…orgasm struggles…thinking errors…

“Meh, same ol’, same ol’. I’d hate to throw out the cliché ‘living the dream’ since we’re all doing the complete opposite.”

“Haha, I get it…” Kaye wasn’t giving Colin much to go on.

Oof. Thinking through their boring, surface-level, small-talky conversation so far this morning, Kaye began to retreat inside herself. More guilt. She was supposed to be entertaining… This was her fault, right? The awkwardness growing with each quiet millisecond. And each millisecond feeling long enough to pour gallons of additional shame and dread into the air.

Feet scuffled in discomfort, spoons clanked ceramic bowls, coffee slurped from the edge of their mugs. Chewing. Chewing. Chewing. All filling up the silence with more awkwardness. Oh my god, this is so awkward! Say something, Kaye!!

Just then she heard the sound of paper crinkling from the other end of the table, right next to the window.

She looked up from her bowl just as Jesus was shifting the morning paper down to look at her, glasses on the bridge of his nose.

Kaye froze while Jesus leaned forward and smugly asked, “So what are we talkin’ about?”

To be continued…

[4emfox]

The String

The first to die was Religion.

At birth I was given the string to a helium filled balloon. I was told this was the safest, best way to navigate life — above all the spiritual dangers of the world. And as an obedient kid, I listened.

Never, ever look down, they said. So, I held tight, didn’t let go. Floating ever higher. Er…maybe just holding ever tighter.

Eventually, my wrist became fatigued. My muscles and joints sore from how tightly I held on. But never, ever looking down. Never feeling safe enough to let go.

As I grew, the persistent ache started to make the thought of plunging to my spiritual death from however high I was seem more and more pleasing.

The same words played obsessively in my mind, “I’m loosening my grip…I’m starting to slip…I’m afraid I’ll shatter like glass!” Immediately my grip would tighten.

Every day.

I’m loosening my grip…I’m starting to slip…

I’m loosening my grip…I’m starting to slip…

I’m loosening my grip…I’m starting to slip…I’m afraid I’ll shatter like glass!”

Tighten.

Until one day….

I loosen my grip,

I start to slip,

Still afraid I’ll shatter like glass.

But I opened my hand, let go of the string and,

GASP!

It was just grass.

The second to die was my marriage.

Through tangled balloon strings, perceived values, and cultural expectations…when I let go of my string and felt the grass between my toes for the first time, a lot of other things — and people — became disentangled.

This was one of the harder parts. Letting go sounds easy…but letting go of something other people value scares them. They take it personally. All of a sudden, I was contagious to everyone who still held tightly to their string.

My marriage was built on the foundation of the string and the balloon. Once I let go, there was nothing else to hold onto.

The third to die were my values.

But my values were fucked. My values taught me that I was exceptionally special. Chosen. That *this string* was only for a few, select people. That floating above them made me better than them.

I didn’t drink coffee. I didn’t drink alcohol. I didn’t engage in sex outside of marriage. I didn’t get tattoos. I didn’t even watch R-rated movies. This made me pure (squee). Which made others who did these things not pure.

My *values* were judgmental by default.

When I let go of my spiritual string, the first value to disentangle from my spiritual web was the R-rated movie…in the form of The 40-Year-Old Virgin. As a 23 year old, it resonated. It was the first time I’d seen that many sexualized tits in a movie. I felt both free and horrified.

Next, I got a tattoo. In the 6th grade I drew a little flower on my hip and proclaimed I would one day get a tattoo. Those around me said I would feel Satan’s Power over me, or at least the lack of the presence of the Holy Ghost if I didn’t adhere to all the rules of The String. And I walked outta that tattoo shop feeling…like myself. Liberated. I tested the cultural norms I had been taught…and I won.

Then, I drank alcohol. But no one had given me any advice about how to drink responsibly — only not to drink at all. So I downed a whole bottle of White Beringer Zinfandel in about 20 mins because being drunk looked fun…

Being that drunk was not fun.

Once I popped the coffee-cherry (which is now incorporated into my morning ritual), I began to engage in extra-marital sex. The last value to fall.

At first the idea of being a “licked cupcake” or a “chewed piece of gum” dominated my mind. I was slutty. I was going against everything I was taught. After all, fornication is the Sin Next to Murder in Mormonism.

Eventually, the imprint from that part of the string had faded. Leaving me to be an almost-normal, coffee drinking, alcohol indulging, rated R movie watching, sexually empowered, full person. With values that serve me and the people around me, regardless of their lifestyle or choices.

But first, I had to die.

I was the fourth death.

I held onto my spiritual string for the better part of 23 years. So tightly that it left imprints that took time to fade. It was my entire identity. Everyone around me — family, friends, people I worked with — validated my beliefs with their own.

Who would I be without my string?

The burden of The String began to cloud my mind and make me sick. I was in despair — and could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. When I learned that there was nothing beneath me but grass, I felt a profound betrayal and sunk into a deep, desperate depression.

As a strong minded, relatively self-aware 23 year old — I no longer knew who I was. I was nothing. I was no one. I used to be exceptionally special. Chosen. And now I wasn’t.

The imprints from the string slowly faded, leaving a faint scar (in the form of anxiety and thinking errors). But when I died…when my worst fear came true and I let go of that string, my death was…gentle…

No fire and brimstone. No thunder and lightning supplemented by the boom of God’s voice damning me. No guilt.

The depression faded, and like the worn out analogy of the phoenix, I was reborn as myself from my own ashes. And I saw that I was exactly the same…but better.

[4emfox]

The Game of the Corporation

Sitting in an international terminal, hunger pangs tugging, his eyes watched as a patron returned a cart to the kiosk which, in turn, spit out 25 cents. Desperate for food, he excitedly began gathering all the neglected carts he could find until he’d received just enough quarters to buy a cheeseburger from Burger King.

Watch the scene here.

This is the Game of the Corporation. Follow the rules and you get a reward. I feel as though I’ve learned to play a complex game of strategy. Simplified, like Tom Hank’s character in the movie The Terminal, if I gather all the proverbial carts and put them back in their place, I get rewarded with money to buy the things I need…and even some of the things I want.

Here are the basic rules (or carts) for your 25 cents:

Jargon Cart. Don’t even think about saying something you’d say in normal life — like to your mom or a friend. Corporations are not *family*. Regardless of what they say, they don’t truly care about you. Individuals at the company probably do. But the Corporate Machine? Forget about it. At the end of the day, they wanna make a profit — even at your expense. So now you have to talk like them with terms and words like, “circle back”, “cadence”, “I don’t have the bandwidth to support that”, “Per our discussion”, “best practice”, “buy-in”, “robust”, and on and on and on.

Culture Cart. Use the branding — including corporate-specific acronyms, terms and words (ahem…or verbiage. See rule 1). Cultures are hard to define. They can be open, candid (corporate word), hierarchical, stuffy… Generally, who cares if the culture doesn’t fit who you are…this is a game — play it. Small tip: if the game is only rewarding you with shitty pay, high deductible insurance, 60% paid maternity leave with little-no paternity leave (ahem…more progressive companies have equitable Parental Leaves for all kinds of parents and situations for 3 months 100% paid, to 2 years 70%–100% paid), no flex-scheduling options, and ~10 days of paid vacation that your company doesn’t want you to take — find a different game…or fight like hell for what’s right. Easier said than done, I know.

Politics Cart. Politics and culture go hand in hand (and all of the above play a part in corporate politics). You can’t have one without the other. And politics are the piece (corporate word) that create the *real* culture. Fuck branding (but also follow that rule…because…politics). If you can figure out business politics, you’ll likely win the game — or at least stay in it. Two examples of corporate politics are below:

Sometimes you gotta kiss ass. But not in a way that compromises your integrity. Do this by framing your words and messaging (two corporate favorites) differently according to the preferences of the person whose ass you’re kissing. For example, I am not the “Decision Maker” where I work. But I do have a lot of expertise. Many of my decision makers want to call all the shots. Let’s say they have a toxic dynamic on their direct team. I’ll say, “We have [insert various programs] available that meet [x] needs and cost [x] dollars. Do you believe any of these could benefit your team?” Then I give them an opportunity to think through the options, they pick one (whether they want to tailor it or not), then I say, “Great idea!” Even though…it wasn’t solely their idea. I’ve just patted them on the back for joint decision-making whether or not they pat me on the back. I’ve kissed a little ass while also pushing my own agenda. This is a strategic relationship…a healthy disrespect for the political game. You know why you’re doing it. This is a cart. Put it back and get your 25 cents.

Perceive feedback differently. Look…however you slice it, feedback can suck. It feels like an attack on your self-concept. I see myself as good at *x, y, z* (corporate term), but someone else sees me as bad at one, two, or all three of those. Ouch. That hurts. PURGE THAT OUTDATED LOOK AT FEEDBACK RIGHT NOW. Feedback is not about you…but how you play the game. Ever noticed how feedback is nuanced (corporate word) from manager to manager, company to company? That’s because feedback is really just a specific key to play the game. If one manager said something that completely contradicts what another manager said…? They just gave you a key to play the game with *them*. This rings true for different company cultures as well. Got some feedback that was different from what another company told you? Well someone just dropped a gold, political nugget in your lap. What if you’re hearing similar themes (corporate word) in the feedback you’re receiving regardless of manager or company? (i.e. everyone is always saying you need to “improve your detail orientation.”) Excellent. You just got a key to better play the game more broadly (corporate term) outside of your organization should you need or want to go somewhere else.

Tip: when receiving “themed” feedback, try to navigate it (corporate word) differently. Listen, I am closer to 40 than I am to 30. The things I’m shittier at are things I’ve always been shittier at and continue to be shitty at. They have gotten incrementally better, at best. You know where I rock?? In my strengths. PLAY TO YOUR STRENGTHS. Either find a way to leverage (corporate word) your strengths to work around your areas of opportunity (favorite overused corporate euphemism), OR…use someone else who has your area of opportunity as a strength. The (ethical) move of quid pro quo in business is a smart one. But I can’t stress ethical enough.

Note: these rules are coming from my experience at a corporate desk job. While they may not always apply to other jobs, the basics of the rules are generally the same. There is always jargon, always a culture — healthy or not — and always politics.

These are just the foundations of the game. The higher you get, the easier they become…because at some point, you become the rule-maker.

As I sit here and sip my coffee at work, I cringe at how “far” I’ve come in the corporate world. From the jargon, to the culture, to the politics, to the identity a “career” gives you. Barf. Big Business owns the narrative — it’s not just a means to an end. It’s a career. This is your identity now. This is how people will see you. This is how they will create the perceived value you have. Your status…(“hueck”…hold on, heaving again). All of it makes me pucker my lips and crinkle my nose in disdain.

Our Western / Developed Corporate Culture is an unhealthy one. The narrative they own — the careers they’ve “given” us — keep us in their control. We are expected to Live to Work. We are expected to be available at all times — even on vacation. Working 60+ hours a week instead of 40? You’re a Corporate Rockstar. That should not be a badge of honor. Are you exhausted but consistently receiving above average performance ratings? I recommend you reevaluate how you play the game.

Your career should not be your identity. I repeat, Your. Career. Should. Not. Be. Your. Identity.

My introduction into the corporate world was an incredibly rough one — maaaaybe even traumatic. I worked for a perfectionistic culture with the worst boss I have ever had while going through a divorce and learning how to be a single parent for the first time. Ahem…while in grad school.

I went from the sexist, outdated idea that my husband would be the main money-maker to…I am the breadwinner. And I was scared. That fear, on top of all the additional stressors I was dealing with, stunted me and my abilities. The stress hormone, cortisol, was in my system on a perpetual basis. Boring scientific stuff approaching — but cortisol quite literally takes energy (in the form of glucose) from your brain. Your brain needs that energy to think clearly. And I couldn’t.

Leaving that job for a less soul-crushing, higher paying job with more opportunities for growth (corporate term) gave me the peek I needed behind the curtain. I saw The Wizard of Inc. And the wizard wasn’t what I thought — this is not my career — not my identity. This is a game. The game I need to play in order to build my job around my life. And not the other way around.

Seeing work as a game, and not an identity, has helped me separate any anxieties I have about work from my life. If this is a game, then it ultimately doesn’t matter. My reward for “returning the carts” is the ability to create the life I want.

Here’s an overused but profoundly accurate phrase…life is short. This idea helped me take my life back. It has helped me set AND frame my boundaries with work. More importantly, it helps me not take work home (unless I’m excited about a project and my creativity is running rampant). It helps me perform better at work AND home. It helps me be present with my family and friends. It helps me create a true work/life balance. It helps me say “Yes” to roles and projects that play to my strengths and interests. It makes me unapologetic about the vacation time I take. It helps me fight for what’s right at work for others (via planting seeds with leadership…another corporate term. But hey, sometimes you gotta lobby. See rule 3, bullet one on framing). It’s helping me Work to LIVE.

My mantra these days as I return carts and tap my heels: “Play the game. Play the game. Play the game.”

Now excuse me while I go create art and eat fruit.

[4emfox]

The Battle Between Authenticity and “Normal”: Part 1

Nature vs. Nurture.

A classic argument I’ve only been aware of since AP Psych in the 11th grade. Which one is it? Are we more our nature? Or are we more formed by our environment and experiences? Or is it a combination of the two; our nature takes over only to interpret the meaning we gather from our environment and experiences? But, wait — is our nature tainted by those environmental and experiential factors so it’s never truly our nature, only nurture and mental mind-fuck interpretations?

Rather than going down the rabbit-hole of the argument and trying to solve or prove that one carries more weight than the other, I’m just going to word-vomit my experience with a dash of narcissism.

In my story, nature and nurture seem to be constantly at battle one with another. One consistently takes over and my authenticity often feels squashed by conventional wisdom and “supposed to be’s”. For example, my authenticity eventually led me to blog under the guise of a stripper alter-ego…as a Mormon. Chicken or the egg? Was I always wild or was my authenticity rebelling against my culture?

As a born weirdo I innately cared about myself and had a strong will to survive — emotionally, mentally, and physically. I needed my authentic self in order to do that. As a kid, I naturally fed that part of me. My Weird. She is why I write. I like her. I like her far better than the person she tries to showcase to others when she rejects her Weird due to cultural norms and conventional wisdom (ahem…and Corporate America). This piece of amateur word-vomit exists for the things I saw growing up that made me hide My Weird — and how she emerged when I needed her. And finally, how I attempt to keep her around.

I caught bits and pieces of what I was “supposed to be” in pop culture, in conversations, in what I was told, and what I observed. It’s what everyone else was doing. It’s the scene in Men In Black when little Tiffany gets shot by Will Smith because it’s more concerning that an 8-year-old girl is holding a book on Quantum Physics in a dark alley, rather than the multitude of aliens that have clearly seen the ugly side of evolution who are just hanging around on our planet — for funsies. Occam’s Razor: Simply put, the more obvious answer is usually the correct one. This leads me to the conclusion that little Tiffany is obviously just a wicked smart kid. And those aliens obviously just want to blow out her power like a flame.

These “bits and pieces” eventually became the puzzle I built around myself — the shell I wore — in order to hide My Weird.

As a kid, I had no idea what it meant to be “pretty” and how truly beautiful that lack of knowledge was — how freeing it was. I was never limited by beauty standards as a young young kid. This Beauty Box limits you. Once I was enclosed in that box (after having the proverbial carrot of “you will be valued” dangled in front of my face to coax me in) I started to feed the beast that was inside it.

I wanted to be a veterinarian (and an obstetrician; and an artist; and a teacher; and Indiana Jones). Badly. But as soon as I entered high school, I was given the assignment to pick my “dream job”, shadow someone who did it, then write about it. And I picked a Cosmetologist.

Fundamentally, there is nothing wrong with cosmetology. I can absolutely appreciate the artistic nature of the work. But it is such a stark difference from what my Weird wanted — this was the beast in the Beauty Box taking over. Weird Erin was curious and smart. But at some point in her childhood, she was taught to fear science. And her inner voice became incredibly loud, “You’re not good enough to do that. You’re not smart enough to be a veterinarian. Do you know how much schooling you’ll have to do? It’s more important to be pretty.”

That voice eventually became the subconscious, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t”. And once the voice is in your subconscious, it has a much stronger hold. It becomes a part of who you are — constantly orbiting your mind. Like an alien invasion, it took over. I didn’t even realize the voice was there until my friend, a psychologist, called it out.

To be continued…

[4emfox]

Statistically Speaking, I'm Not Your Type

It was the evening of July 28, 2016. I’d been sitting in my parked car for two hours, legs against the steering wheel. Staring, thinking. Not hungry, not thirsty — traumatized. There, I found myself a divorced, single parent at 30. Feeling mangled, not by my ex, but by the legal process and the Scarlet Letter of “failed marriage” on my life resume.

I emotionally unraveled from my marriage before it began (but no one teaches you how to back out of a wedding once you send out the Save the Dates). The idea of marriage and what it should look like had been shoved down my throat since infancy. I was raised in the Mormon church and they love marriage (the earlier, the better) and babies (the sooner you start, the better). And they say that marriage takes work. And you stick with the one you choose. And that there’s something wrong with divorced people. And and and…

This led me to marry a Mormon man in the Mormon church due to cultural expectations and perceived need at the tender age of 23. I researched and left the church shortly after (but the “muscle memory” in my brain from making choices and deriving value from the world around me continued to come from Mormon theology for a long time)…

Our relationship was G-rated, at best. We almost never fought…but we also almost never touched.

I had a baby at 26 to fix the emotional distance I was feeling; felt the need to “stay in it for the kid”; decided to go to grad school at 28 — probably in search for that something I felt I was lacking. Then finally, a crack in my brain opened a portal of non-Mormon logic that said, “Your son can’t grow up thinking that this is what a functional relationship looks like.” This led me to make the biggest adult decision I have ever made and ask for divorce at the wee age of 29.

The legal process kept both my ex and myself in Marriage Limbo for more than a year. But I felt divorced the moment I asked for it. In that moment I felt empowered and liberated. Anytime I think about getting into a relationship now, I think of that intense freedom I felt by leaving one and I take eight steps back. I hadn’t felt that way since the moment I left Mormonism. It was my choice, and I was done. I was free. Yet the system said it wasn’t over.

I felt as though I was being dragged through the mud for no reason — a constant wondering about when it’s going to officially end. Like the decision wasn’t mine — this made the finality of my marriage seem very anti-climatic. All the documentation said I was divorced and I went through legal hell to get there. But the long, drawn-out, muddy process made me feel like something bigger and better needed to happen in order for it to be officially officially over.

On the day of our court date, my ex and I cordially sat next to each other and chatted while our attorneys debated for 6 hours. I kept having to cancel work meetings last minute because I truly had no idea it would take that long (ahem…yes, I know many divorce battles can take much, much longer and I’m lucky). I planned to go to work that day — and still showed up at 4pm to save face.

So when it finally came time for us to stand in front of the judge and legally end our union, it felt…unfinished. Like something else needed to happen in order for it to be done done. Like confetti or a balloon drop or trumpets. But none of that happened and I started to process things differently and I felt uncomfortable. I felt the hurt of another person who didn’t want the union to end. I didn’t want the union to end — not because my ex and I were all of a sudden compatible but because no one gets married in hopes that it ends in court. The hope is for the idealized fairy tale ending that doesn’t exist.

There were dozens of other union-endings happening on the same day. My belief around the potential longevity of healthy relationships dying with each gauntlet slam. The weight of it all hit me and I started to tear up…

My attorney noticed, and in a sad gesture to make me feel better after having paid her nearly $10,000 for almost nothing I couldn’t have done myself, she pulled out a pack of orange tic-tacs and said, “Here. Have one. These always make me feel better.”

I felt sick inside. Unimportant. $10k later and an orange tic-tac to show for it.

We approached the stand, the judge quickly scanned our documents. She looked at me and said, “You want to go back to your maiden name?” I said yes. Gauntlet slam. And just like that, I had a new name and the legality of my union was flushed down the toilet.

I didn’t just change my brand. I also shifted away from a toxic Mormon perspective that women are helpmeets to men.

Any meaningful, healthy relationship should be mutually beneficial. Period. And while my ex played video games and intramural sports, I paid bills and grocery shopped and cooked and cleaned and got the oil changed and raised our kid. By the end of our relationship, I was fucking tired.

The outdated adage “woman, make me a sandwich” was gross to me prior to my marriage…but infuriated me after my experience.

Once I’d had a couple of months for some of the failed-relationship PTSD dust to settle, some astute girlfriends of mine decided to throw a divorce party for me — with invites, color coordinated dresses, and everything.

We met at a popular restaurant in our area, ate appetizers, drank, drank some more, then bar-hopped. Alcohol was an unhealthy muse both before and after my divorce. In retrospect, I wish I’d had a Trauma Fairy tell me “do not self-medicate with alcohol” as this added to some mental…discomfort…for a few years.

As I was admiring beautiful men from across the bar, my gay guy-friend and I learned that the two of us had the same taste in men thus he tried to set me up at every bar. After all, I was single. Thankfully Drunk Me still had her wits about her — and she did not see the point of relationships, marriage, or even casual sex (I mean, she was the one cleaning up her own messes and cooking her own meals and saving for her own house. And also owns a piece of Silicon Magic that stays hard and vibrates. Sorry, Mom).

My response was always the same; “You’re probably great but I’m not interested. There are plenty of very beautiful women here — good luck!”

As I continued to drink, I became less aware of my words and tone. And more angered by the notion of “woman, make me a sandwich.”

At the last bar we visited, a culmination of my divorce, gauntlet slams, failed relationships, and douche bags came to a head. Another friend tried to set me up one more time with a friend of hers who was also going through a divorce (because, obvs, divorced people should date divorced people). As much as I hate the overuse of the term, I was triggered. And I wasn’t having it.

I looked at this poor dude and said, “Look. Statistically speaking, I am not your type. I am a liberal, non-religious feminist with stretchmarks and a kid.”

Pause…

“And at the end of the day, I’m not interested unless you can make your own fucking sandwich.”

[4emfox]

Tasteful Was Never My Style

I was born a very free-spirited kid; never a full tomboy, never a full girly girl — though I dabbled in both. However, I was always a tree-huggin’, animal lovin’ hippie. Constantly dirty, always outside, building forts in the woods, and trying my best to connect with the wildlife around me.

As a very free-spirited kindergartner, I saw a beautiful Black woman with teeny, tiny braids in her hair and immediately envisioned myself with the same, little braids — I had never seen anything like them and I was drooling over their uniqueness (context: true diversity was rare where I grew up in Utah). I didn’t just want them. They had become a representation of my authenticity. I had to have them. Needed them.

My mom typically humored my eccentric, harmless requests so she went to the store, bought a bunch of colorful rubber bands, then spent the better part of 2 hours braiding teeny, tiny braids in my hair.

I loved the feeling of power that swelled within me once the braids were complete. Something I had envisioned had come to pass. I couldn’t stop touching them. I was so excited to share my hair with my friends when the carpool came the next morning for kindergarten, I could hardly sleep.

Sleep found me and morning came; I threw on some clothes, packed my backpack, hugged my mom goodbye and shot out the door to hop into the trunk of the station wagon that was waiting for me outside. When I popped into the car, my best friends Teresa and Stephen had already been picked up…and my nemesis, Whitney. Stephen and Teresa were up front which left Whitney and I in the trunk alone (ahem…for those parents who might be freaking out right now, these were open, wagon trunks. Granted, there were no seat belts, but we could breathe — [insert shrug here]).

Upon seeing my hair, Whitney immediately blurted, “I don’t like your hair”. I had never been faced with cattiness before. Ever. For the record, I don’t care if you’re 5 or 95; if you can’t say anything nice (unless it’s completely honest and it’s holding someone accountable for some terrible bullshit they pulled on you and calling them out makes you feel empowered [takes deep breath]), don’t say anything at all. I furrowed my brows and thought for a second — sincerely. I wasn’t angry. Then very honestly and thoughtfully I responded with my squeaky, five-year-old voice, “Well…I like it. My mom likes it. And we don’t really care what you think.”

Right after the Braid Incident, my teachers figured out I couldn’t see shit. I was getting in trouble all the time for chatting to my neighbors because I was nearly legally blind and unable to focus on anything happening at the front of the class. That, and I was going cross-eyed to focus on the board.

My mom took me to a pediatric ophthalmologist, and sure enough, I was severely far-sighted. We started trying on various, tasteful frames — but tasteful was never my style. I then laid my blind eyes upon the most beautiful, weird, exciting sight my eyes had ever “seen”: light opaque pink, Mini-Mouse-themed, thick-as-fuck frames. I had to have them.

I have two words to accurately describe what my intense prescription did to the lenses: coke-bottle. Think Professor Trelawney in the Harry Potter movies. I was a mini version of her. And totally comfortable in those weird-ass shoes.

[4emfox]

We All Have A Dark Side

I can’t help but think of the quote “empowered women, empower women” when I think of this story. Because, I believe that to be true. And if that’s true, the opposite is true — and disempowering anyone is very, very bitchy. The Bitch in anyone’s story is a poor substitute for, what I refer to as, My Wolf. My Wolf is my tough, resilient side — the part of me that can set boundaries and hold others and myself accountable when needed; the part of me that’s brave. But when my authenticity starts to feel suffocated by “supposed to be’s”, whatever’s left of The Wolf can be so wounded that something far uglier emerges to take its place: The Bitch. The Bitch is trying to protect itself in the same way The Wolf would…but she’s superficial, disempowered, and believes that the only way she can heal her wounds is to wound someone else.

My Bitch first emerged when I was 8. I was a 2nd grader at an elementary school in Orem, Utah. I had a crush on a boy named Ian but he liked a girl named Courtney. My Bitch was upset about this…because how dare he?? So I wrote an inappropriate note about how Ian wanted to have sex with Courtney. I swear to god, I threw that mother-fucker in the trash but someone found it.

Listen — I had just learned that “sex” was a thing. I just didn’t know what kind of thing except that it was for adults who were married and wanted babies (I have since learned the parameters are much broader than that). My point: I had no idea what I was talking about — but I almost got caught.

Everyone who was in the note and who sat around me was interviewed. I was interviewed. Who wrote the note?? Like a scene from 12 Angry Men, I imagined a bunch of Mormon elementary school faculty sitting around a conference table over lunch engaged in a full-fledged “whodunit?” investigation.

While I was happy that my denial kept me from being disciplined, I embarrassed a lot of 2nd graders and worried a lot of parents. But that was just mild bitchiness. I did something far worse that year that has stuck with me my entire life. Friends of mine cringe when I tell the story.

In my class was a sweet, soft-spoken girl named Trisha. When Authentic Me was in control, I liked Trisha. We ate lunch together, sat together during class activities, and played together at recess. But the other girls in class didn’t like Trisha. And I let that seep into my skin, marinate my mind. Then my Bitch would take over and I’d be mean to Trisha. I’d decide not only to just avoid playing with her, but to also make fun of her with the other Bitches in the class.

One day, my Bitch must have felt extra wounded… We were all outside on a beautiful Spring day for recess and I decided today was a day I didn’t want to play with Trisha. I wanted to play with the other girls. Trisha wasn’t allowed. I wish the story ended there.

The bell rang and it was time to line up against the warm brick of the building outside our classroom. As we were waiting for other kids to join the ranks, Trisha squeezed in next to me and had the nerve to touch my Bitch’s arm. Aghast, I pulled my arm back, upset. Then a poisonous thought rose up from depths I didn’t know an 8-year-old could have and said, “Her cooties are on you.”

I stepped back even more. Another poisonous thought, “Her cooties are on the wall. Everyone is touching the wall.” Then my Bitch found her toxic voice and yelled, “Everyone! Move away from the wall! Trisha Cooties!!!”

For the rest of the school year, no one (no one) would lean against the wall for fear of Trisha Cooties. Her sweet nature made it so that we still played on days Authentic Me was in control and I liked her. Embarrassed, I said through denial, “Who even started that Trisha Cooties thing anyway?” Her response, still so poignant, “You did.”

Dear Trisha,

I have tried to hunt you down via social media so I could finally tell you I am so so sorry. Because I am. I am sick for that 8-year-old girl. And I hope she’s ok.

E.M.

[4emfox]

Pancakes & Introductions

My earliest memory as a child is of me doing one of my favorite things: eating pancakes.

I was maybe 3 or 4, sitting at a blue and yellow Fisher Price picnic table with my brother. He was teasing me about something. He was always teasing me about something. While I don’t recall the context, I do recall his next move — to exploit my terror of the dark and turn off the kitchen light.

We were living in my aunt’s basement at the time and this kitchen was much like a hallway with a dead-end. Long, skinny, no natural light. Terrifying to a toddler with a massive fear of the dark. I started crying, begging my brother not to turn off the light or at least wait for me while I finished my pancakes. He ignored my pleas, sociopathically turned off the light, and left me alone at the end of the dark hall-kitchen.

I put on my proverbial Big Girl Panties and continued to eat my delicious pancakes that had soaked in all the syrup I had dumped on them like a sponge. I chewed slowly, swallowed — suspicious of every sound. I strategically placed my fork on a pancake to cut a bite-sized piece with the side of my fork and “screeeeech”.

The Quaker Oats man was standing before me. I was convinced he was a pirate. The hat, the old-fashioned garb, the hair; he was the personification of my fear in that dark hall-kitchen. Simultaneously, I dropped my fork, started crying, and booked it out of the kitchen with my chubby toddler legs.

Around the same age, my brother and I were shipped to Chicago from Utah to see my dad and his new girlfriend Carol (names have been changed to protect the seemingly innocent — the plethora of nameless girlfriends of my dad will be named Carol. With variations like Carol 2.0, 3.0, 4.0, New Mexico Carol, etc). But this Carol wanted me to call her…MOM.

In this scenario, I was doing one of my favorite things again: eating pancakes. But this time I was being taught by Carol how to appropriately hold my fork so as not to make the hideous metal-scratching-ceramic sound which produced visions of pirates. I was a very polite and obedient kid by nature. I trusted adults — was told they’d never lead me astray; and I usually trusted them without question... So I was 100% into this fork-holding session and was genuinely grateful for her guidance and spurted, “Thank you, Carol!”

I was immediately corrected by her, my dad, or both (memory fails me) to call her “Mommy” instead. And, listen. I learned at a very young age that obedience came naturally to me…unless it fucked with my authenticity. I was a born heretic. My real mom and I were and are incredibly close. Think Sisterhood. Think Gilmore Girls. And calling someone else “Mommy” felt like full blasphemy.

I crinkled my wee toddler nose at this, took another bite, and with a mouthful of pancake said, “Fanks…Mawm…” The disdain in my tone so palpable, you could nearly eat it.

Unlike the pancakes, this left a bad taste in my mouth. This is my only memory of the first Carol — though I do remember being told that, like a true pirate, she stole my dad’s coin collection.

This protection of my mom and our relationship has been a part of my authenticity my entire life and will come into play more than once in my story. During the same Chicago trip I was sitting in the pool with my body through a donut floatie — my arms dangling over the sides — when my dad’s mom swam up to me and in a gentle, poisonous tone said, “You know the divorce was your mommy’s fault, right?”

I had literally heard nothing about the divorce from my mom. My parents divorced when I was so young I don’t even remember my dad being present at all except when he/we visited. And my mom had the sense to not talk about it with a kid who literally didn’t have the mental capacity to reason and logically identify why some relationships do, in fact, end. In short, I was too fucking young to have this conversation. The only thing the conversation would have taught me was the fact that people who love each other…can UN-love each other…which would have led to the thought that maybe my mom could potentially stop loving me…and that would have inevitably led to my living in a cardboard box on some corner in Salt Lake City, Utah.

But my dad’s mom didn’t seem to care. She just wanted her son to be…not at fault. All this did was make me feel protective of my mom. My authenticity emerged, and I heard myself sassily spew back, “That’s not what I heard!” then I happily swam away. She never brought it up again, but she did now see me as the Literal Satan’s Spawn. There was no going back. I wasn’t “E.M. Fox” anymore; I was “J. Fox’s Daughter”. The pancake eating, rebellious, sass-delivering kid who was to be feared.