Mama Pop

Boundaries...My moms ain't got them.

That is what I am discovering in therapy, well, one of the big things. And of course, figuring out how to set my own since I was not raised around them. Awesome fun I tell you, paying a near stranger $120 an hour to tell you that you need to not let your mother run her emotional battlement tank all over you. Sometimes the obvious isn't obvious to everyone(ie. me). Though it is helping and I am learning all sorts of fun techniques to move me forward and help me stop my brain from taking a kernel of anger and turning it into an three-day rumination on why my mom sucks(that list is a post in itself)when I should be sleeping.

In fact I have come up with my own mental device to disengage when I start fixating on thoughts about her. I picture her face stretched across a balloon, and then I take a long sharp needle, all glinty and menacing looking, and I pop her. It's just violent enough to satisfy me in some small way but kind of funny and shuts off the train of thought. Anyhow, a story...

I was a virgin until I was twenty-one. I wasn't the girl with the perfect, bouncy blonde ponytail with my 10-carat gold chastity ring and pristine white-knee highs. I was what is now called goth but then was just theatre chick, smoking, swearing, furiously masturbating, curious, slutty, kiss a new boy at a different party every weekend kind of girl. I was the girl who found the Joy of Sex book on our bookshelf at ten and then secreted it away for me to peruse at my leisure. I would sit on the concrete curbs of my street, far enough away from the windows and ears of our parents and I would entertain and educate my friends with descriptions of things like premature ejaculation and cunnilingus.

I made the choice early on not to have sex in high school for a handful of well-reasoned reasons. First, because I had moved schools after my first year of high school, the group of friends I landed with were mostly a year ahead of me. They did everything first from driving to fucking. I saw my best friends get their seventeen year old hearts broken in the wake of teenage intercourse. What do you mean you are breaking up with me, I thought we were going to be together forever kind of stuff. Second, my mom had birthed me at the tender age of seventeen and I saw that this was not in fact the easy path so many needy teenagers seem to imagine it is. I was resolute not to put myself even remotely near to the path of teenage motherhood. Third, I was keenly interested in sex and boys but I had enough information to understand that a sixteen or seventeen year old boy was unlikely to have the know how to make sex nice for me. So I decided pretty early on that I would save myself for college and a smarter set of boys or maybe even later. Until then I could play the ballgame to third base with no regret.

Being a kids who was, in hindsight, remarkable comfortable with certain parts of herself, I was not secretive about my decision not to have sex. I didn't wear it like a badge of superiority or some pledge to my future self, I was just open and comfortable with not being ready. My mother, probably in some part shamed by her Catholic upbringing and own unwed pregnancy, took my virginity as a sign of her successful parenting and my obvious(to her) virtue. It also became, sadly, a selling point.

Thankfully she waited until I was a freshman in college to dangle me in front of guys like a shiny new piece of unkinked tinsel. My mom met most of these would-be suitors at a dive bar a block from our house that she frequented after an arrest and DUI made it more important for a short drive home after a night of knocking them back.

"He was real nice and I gave him your number."

"You what?" I said.

"I said I gave him your number," she repeated through a mouthful of lasagna she had brought home with her, lasagna I was pretty sure she was going to be throwing up in an hour or so.

"Eew, why would I want to date some guy hanging out drinking at that shithole?"

"He was really nice, I showed him your picture, played pool with him."

"Even better." I said, sorry that my sarcasm didn't register with her when she was loaded.

"I told him you were in college and that you were, you know, you were a virgin."

This is when I would usually walk out of the room, afraid I was going to punch her in the face. How about blonde? How about interested in law or likes to read or has a cat or swims real fast or sings pretty or wants to learn how to drive stick or likes movies or listens to Peter Gabriel or anything besides whether some guy had poked my hymen like a hungry chimp shoving a stick into a busy ant hole.

I never, ever invited my mom in any way to find me a boyfriend or was ever remotely receptive to her thinly veiled attempts to pimp me out to some guy sharing the stool next to her. What did she get out of this, attention? The idea of dating some stooge my mom liked through a really solid pair of rum and coke goggles was revolting. That my mom would even say this or do this was proof to me that she didn't understand me at all. She didn't understand that I hated that she drank. She didn't understand that I would never regard her or an idea openly or warmly when she was drunk, that it would never be funny or silly or anything other than sad for me. She didn't understand that bringing one gross, inappropriate man into our house had been one more than I had ever needed. She didn't understand that although I hadn't had sex, I would never be with anyone who thought it was important that his girlfriend or wife be a virgin. These were not guys that had saved themselves for marriage, these were guys that made judgments about women and probably wanted a virgin so she wouldn't know how hard they sucked in the sack. My mom didn't understand that being a virgin wasn't part of my identity, it was just a choice and mostly a choice born out of not wanting to be like her.

These are the thoughts that keep me up at night. These are the memories(and they seem infinite) that make me so angry that I think I will crack my teeth from clenching my jaw. These are the reasons it took me almost fifteen, adult years to figure out how to trust and love someone, certain that they would not hurt me in ways that would make me lose all faith in them. These are things I think of that make me think of my own daughters that then make me furiously add up all the ways I am not like her until I can see it like a hand in front of my face. These are the things that clog my brain at two in the morning until I remember my balloon trick and that imaginary menacing needle.

Excuses

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because of the demands of my three children and husband.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I am lazy and spend more time playing Plants Versus Zombies on my Ipod then doing any real work that will further my goals.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I have only a modicum of talent, like a person who can carry a tune in the church choir versus Annie Lennox.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I get so wrapped up in perfecting something that I lose momentum.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I lose momentum because I have no self-discpline.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I am also afraid of success and maybe if I do it once, I will never be able to do it again and it will be disappointing.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I spend too much time thinking about my motives to be a highly acclaimed published author, the obstacles inherent in trying to be a highly acclaimed published author and it makes me too mentally tired to try to be said highly acclaimed published author.

The reason I am not a highly acclaimed published author is because I make silly, pointless lists detailing why I'll never be a highly acclaimed published author.

Moral of the Story, Always Walk a Lady to Her Car

It was 1999 and I was 26 years old. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of two years. Well, not so much broken up with as I accepted a job offer two thousand miles away. I'm pretty sure he got the picture. I didn't want to marry him and though I liked him, it wasn't enough to stay. I wasn't about to pass up a chance at a good job and an opportunity to move to California on someone else's dime. Still, ending the relationship smarted in it's own way.

I knew I was moving in a few weeks away, I was ready to jump ship, fly the coop, seize the day, whatever. I sat home one Friday night, packing boxes and sorting through my accumulated shit when a barfly of a girlfriend called begging me to go out with her and her friend. I don't drink much and I don't particularly like drunk people so I opted out as usual. But she begged and guilted me with pleas that she wouldn't be able to hang out with me much longer. I think she just wanted more man bait but I relented and met her out. I stubbornly refused to redo my makeup, put on something nice or even brush my hair. I hated their desperate man-trolling. Fuck it, it's not like I want to meet anyone at this point anyhow.

So I met them out, nursed a gin and tonic and promptly moved to seltzer with lime like always while I watched my friends get happy. I verbally volleyed with the stupid meathead bartender, making my friends laugh. I was so antithetical about boys that night, totally disinterested which is usually when they zero in.

I became aware of a guy watching me. Every time I looked in his general direction, he was staring at me and would smile if I actually looked at him. He was cute, dumb cute like a puppy, a mess of sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, a slightly unkempt Ken Doll. Not at all my type. But he was cute and he wouldn't stop looking at me, smiling my way while he ignored his friend's conversation. Someone ignoring everyone else to pay attention to me seriously feeds into my needs as an only child. My friend Lynn, a professional networker, noticed the looky-lous back and forth and finally went over to him and said, would you like me to introduce you to my friend. So I met him and he met me, and I won't even pretend to remember his name because I think I forgot it about 5 minutes later.

We chit chatted and he was sweet. Not bad sweet but like a handful of gummy bears, colorful, tasty but hardly a meal, not really even a snack just a sugary diversion until you get to the real food. He was clearly enamored and as a girl, a cute boy who thinks you're great is sometimes all it takes to spike a momentary crush, a fleeting affection.

So we talked and talked and finally, I told him that I needed to get going. He asked for my number, said that he would like to take me to dinner. I said I wouldn't mind giving it to him but I was moving to California in a few weeks.

"Well, you still have to eat between now and then don't you," he asked.

"Yes," I replied "but I'll probably be busy seeing the circuit of family and friends before I take off, it's not exactly a good time for me to start dating."

"I understand," he said, "can I at least walk you to your car?"

It was late and while Milwaukee's eastside wasn't exactly dangerous, I had parked pretty far.

"Sure," I said, "why not."

So I got my coat and said goodbye to my friends who were just getting started. Mr. Ken Doll held the door and took my arm as I led him in the direction of my car.

"It's cold," he said and he pulled me closer to him. It wasn't cold but whatever.

"This is me," I said, standing by my car. I knew he would kiss me and predictably he did. Unpredictable was the fact that his kiss would curl my toes, reminding me that until very recently, I had been getting it regularly but now I hadn't been kissed or otherwise in weeks. I was lusty, I was lonely, I was in serious rebound mode.

We kissed leaning up against my car for a long time.

"You know, I really shouldn't be driving, I've had way too much to drink," I said. He squinted his eyes and looked at me quizzically. He knew I hadn't been drinking since my first drink.

"Oh, he said," the light bulb finally going off, "yes, you are way too intoxicated to drive yourself, I think it's better if I take you home."

"Yes, that would be the right thing to do, but my cousin is staying at my place an I wouldn't want to wake her so perhaps you should take me to your place?"

"Yes, that is also a very good idea, we will go there now."

So we did, he pushed his key into the lobby of his building and we kissed and groped from the entry to the elevator to his front door. He pushed the door in and led me to an uncomfortbale loveseat(why do they call them that since they are way too small for any proper making out) where we made out for about five minutes before I said, this couch is stupid, where's your bed? It's there he said and pointed in the other room. I got up and as I walked to his bedroom I took my clothes off, leaving the pieces like a trail of bread crumbs to eventually find my way out. He happily followed suit looking at me with eyes as wide as saucers and the giant grin of a man who just won the pretty horny slutty rebound girl lottery.

He was as happy as a Make-A-Wish kid at a Justin Bieber concert. We made out for hours, my face was scrapped raw from kissing. Our legs tangled, we rubbed every part of ourselves over each other. He went downtown and then I went downtown but they were still appetizers rather than entrees. In my head I reasoned that our conversation in the bar had been date one, our kissing by the car date two and so technically, we were at date three, well within my ever-lowering standards for sex.

"Do you have a condom?" I asked.

"No, do you?"

"No." I replied.

"You dont?" he asked, somewhat surprised.

"Well I was just meeting some girlfriends for a drink, I didn't think there'd be sex involved."

"Well neither did I."

"I know, but were at your house, I have condoms at my house, just not on me."

"I have an idea," he said getting up and pulling his jeans back on.

His idea was to run to the 24 Hour Mart, just a block away from his building and go procure some prophylactics. I offered to go with him so he didn't need to buy rubbers, at three am, by himself. We hastily dressed, scored our protection and hightailed it back to his place. But as is the case when young people want to use our bodies like amusement parks, fate stepped in. He had left his keys in his apartment door, so while he could get back into his own front door with no problem, we had to actually gain entrance to the building first. He rang the buzzer of a neighbor/friendish for nearly ten minutes and got no reply so he started buzzing everyone until some cranky but kind old lady came and let us in.

We rode the elevator keen on riding each other, got back to his bed and picked up where we left off. Problem was, at this point my lady business was a virtual Sahara, she was partied out.

"Do you have any lubricant?" I asked.

"What?"

"You know, lube?"

"No, I don't, wait I have an idea, I'll be right back."

I heard him in what I guessed was the kitchen, moving stuff around looking for something. He jaunted back to the bedroom with a giant bottle of Wesson oil and a boyscout's grin.

Were not suppossed to use oil with condoms, I thought, oh, fuck it, who cares.

So he tried to pour a little on me but I will fill you in that a little vegetable oil goes a long way and soon I was covered in it, slick and shiny from stem to stern. Within a few minutes, we were both coated with it. It felt like sex on a slip 'n slide, all glide and smoothness. We slid our bodies over each other until dawn.

"I have to go," I told him as he tried to pull me back into bed, "my grandparents are coming to get my washer and dryer at eight."

I slipped out of his grip and slipped on my clothes over my still oily body and slipped out his door. The block back to my car was riddled with early morning rollerbladers, dog walkers, latte getters as I shamelessly slogged the walk of shame. I was raccoon-eyed, bow legged, glisteny with a thick matte of fuck hair on the back of my head and a dumb grin. I never talked with him again but imagine his sheets probably smelled like KFC every time he tried to wash and dry them. I suppose some future girlfriend made him throw them out, suspicious of the oily sheets that suggested his past.

It was the best and therefore the only one nightstand I ever had. It was so perfectly light and fun that I didn't want to tempt fate again. And I recall it with smug satisfaction, knowing that someday when I am old and peeing myself I will smile. My great-grand kids will think oh, Grandma must be thinking about how much she loves us and actually I will be smiling for Wesson oil guy.

Since Abortion is Always a Crowd Pleaser

Several months ago, my internet meandering took me to a great article/response about a young woman contemplating an unplanned pregnancy. It got me thinking about the issue for the first time in a really long time. I am 36, happily married, financially secure, I have health care and a wide family safety net. My husband and I don't want any more children, in spite of the fact that those longings for just one more hit me now and then. For me, abortion is no longer a personal issue. My husband and I have discussed that if I got pregnant accidentally, barring any major complications or my own health risk, we would just have another baby and adjust our plans to fit that decision. It was only a few short years ago that an unplanned pregnancy would have felt catastrophic. I still vote on the issue but this one no longer affects me directly beyond the fear that my two young daughters may not have the reproductive freedom that I did.

When I was in my early twenties, my best friend got pregnant. She was on the verge of a breakup and not only could she not cope with the idea and responsibility of being a parent, she could not get her head around having a lifetime tie to her soon to be ex. Her own family life had been very fractured and it wasn't so much the responsibility of parenting that scared her but the idea that she did not have the skills to be a mother since so many of those critical skills had not been displayed in her own parenting. She was upset, no distraught. She had been on the pill and had gone on a course of antibiotics for something I cannot remember. Her doctor had failed to mention that her birth control would be rendered ineffective for the period she was on the antibiotics and voila, just like that she found herself pregnant.

She needed someone to go with her. She couldn't tell her mother and she didn't want the soon to be ex there. She asked me, knowing that even in the most stressful of situations, I remain level headed, feeling the stress acutely later on when the dust has settled and the smoke has cleared. I need you to come with me, she said, I need you to ask the questions I will forget to, I need someone to hold my hand while I figure out if I can do this or not. We talked into the night. What do you really want I asked. I just want to turn back time she said, I want this to never have happened. Do you think you can go through with it, I asked. I don't think I have a choice she answered. You do I reminded her. If this is something that you feel like you might not be able to be okay with, you do have choices and I'll help you no matter what, doing whatever I can.

The next morning we set out for the clinic. My own doctor was in the same small office building and I remembered the harsh glares of the crowd as I pulled my car into the parking lot. I wanted to tell them, I'm getting my strep throat checked you assholes as they shouted toward my closed car window. Thankfully the day was grey and drizzly keeping the usual handful of regular protesters away. We walked in and I could not help but look at the faces of the other women filling the lobby and wonder what brought them to this moment. No one looked happy or carefree or even ambivalent. The air was heavy with regret and fear and uncertainty and desperation. I stupidly wanted to tell people, I'm not here for an abortion, she is. If I didn't judge the act, why did I want no one to mistake that I was the patient?

After a few minutes a counselor called my friend in and we went into a small office where she spent a long time going over every possible alternative option. She talked at length about adoption. She talked about resources that were available to my friend if she wanted to have a child but feared that she could not afford it or lacked an adequate safety net. It made me think a little that if pro-lifers are so adamant about stopping abortions, why don't they adopt or donate money to organizations that would provide options for women who find themselves pregnant rather than hold up signs of fetuses and throw bags of urine at cars.

She went through the entire procedure with us. She made it seem neither easy peasy nor a horrendous ordeal. She very matter of factly explained what to expect and what would happen. She told me that I was allowed to be with my friend through all of it except the few minutes they would actually be doing the procedure. That's what they called it, the procedure, rarely the abortion. I was silently grateful that I would be absent during this part. I would have stayed and held her hand through it all but the part of me that wrestled with her choice didn't want to be there.

My friend had the abortion. It was the opposite of nice. I will never forget the quilted fabric cosy that covered the cylinder that collected the material from the abortion. I held her hand in the recovery room as she came back from the light sedative they gave her and waited to make certain she didn't hemorrhage. How do you feel I asked her.

Relieved was all she said.

That day was the best birth control I could have ever had. It was sad, it stuck with me. I supported my friend through word and deed but I promised myself that day that I would do anything and everything to make sure I didn't ever have to make that decision.