Between Night and Day

We met years ago when he looked after me for a few days as I recovered from a heat stroke at a Summer event.  We bonded and went to a Celtic music concert.  Later, we kept in touch and spent time together at the next year's Summer event.  That Fall, when I was having suicidal thoughts, he was the one I reached out to, who talked me through some of it.  This past Summer, at the same event, we fell in love.  We spent as many evenings as possible walking through the forest and the tent city just to get some time to talk alone.  We went to the same concert we'd been two the past two years.  We said "see you soon" instead of "goodbye".

I live in Boston with my cat and my roommates.  He lives in St. Louis with his other girlfriend.  I made the decision to give this a shot.  Knowing the distance, knowing that I was putting my own needs as a monoamouros person on hold for the sake of exploring something I haven't felt this strongly in a long time.  I had decided before we started dating that I would never ask him to change.  I told him from the beginning that I didn't know how long I could stand to put my values, preferences, needs aside.  He said that he loved me, and hoped it would work out.  He said that he's flattered that I would be happy with just him, but that he doesn't even know how to not be poly.  It was a given that if he'd asked me to be poly for him, I would have washed my hands of the whole thing.  Somehow, I came to him instead, and chose to compromise myself.
We text frequently and send emails.  Phone calls are weekly at best.  When I ask him what he wants out of our relationship, he can't answer me.  He barely knows what he wants for his own future.  He is working on moving to Connecticut (separating from his other girlfriend for a few months, until she moves as well), but the moving day was postponed due to work - he must stay in St. Louis until at least the 24th of October.  He'd been planning for the 15th.

Maybe it doesn't seem like much time, but 1,192 miles makes every day a little longer.

When I returned home from the Summer event, I had decided to continue my single and dating lifestyle.  I was not happy about it.  But it seemed unfair to myself to be exclusive to him if he could not do so for me.  There were a few of the usual failed dates and sweet men who wanted more than the friendship I could give them.

Then I was nearly dropped during a lift-dip at blues.  My dance partner suggested we practice the move and I agreed.  We met the next evening at my apartment, and the same day every week after that to practice dance moves, talk about philosophy, and watch YouTube videos.

Much like this, except where we may have whacked some other dancers.
Fixed it in practice.

One of these dance nights, I was upset over a drawn-out argument with my boyfriend, and my dance partner brought dinner with him.  I told him everything over dinner.  He commiserated, and said that he was disappointed; he was planning to ask me for a date that night.
We practiced our dance steps after dinner and I walked him down to let him out of the garage with his bicycle.  He paused and hugged me, and asked me out anyway.  I asked him if he was sure.  He was also monoamorous, and Roman Catholic to my practicing Pagan.  He was sure.  We went on our first date that Friday.  The next day I dropped everything and asked him to come out hiking with me.  We spent the whole afternoon walking and getting lost in the autumn woods.

Dogtown in Gloucester, MA

That was two weeks ago.  I've been seeing my dance partner steadily since then.  He says that he loves me, but doesn't want to call it a relationship because of the other man in St. Louis.  He talks about what he wants for his future; either to be a writer and die at thirty-five of excessive art, or to have seven children he can raise Catholic.

I'm musical, but not that musical.

I don't think he realizes how terrifying that second scenario sounds in a week-old relationship.
To a Pagan Feminist, with dreams of her own career, her own business, her own creations,  it is a grab-the-cat-and-run-for-the-hills signal.

Before we started seeing each other romantically, he seemed fine with my religion.  He has shared that the idea of witchcraft makes him nervous; but he is very respectful of me.  Lately, such as when he talks about his life, his religion, his future, I get the feeling he doesn't see my religion as a real thing.  But it's only been a week, and I haven't had the chance to address it with him specifically.

There's that darn "expectation vs. reality" again...

I've always had my own plans.  I don't know if I'll ever find a real partner for life and love.  What I want is to pursue my own goals, develop a steady enough income and lifestyle that I can adopt an older child, and perhaps go through one or two pregnancies at most, if I do find that partner.  The adoption I will go through with, whether I become a single parent or not.  It's been something I have wanted to do for my whole life.

I do not want a partner who tells me that I am enough for him, yet pursues other women for love and sex.

I do not want to be a stay-at-home mom worn out by too many pregnancies, whose children are raised with rigid religious ideas.

One seems to want too much of me.  The other does not want enough of me.

These issues may clear up with more communication.  But I can't shake the feeling that staying with either of them would be untrue to myself.  I am more unhappy with two men than I ever was single.  I think it is better to feel lonely for being alone rather than to feel lonely because those you love cannot love all of you.

The Breeder vs Shelter Debate

To begin, I will always advocate getting a shelter dog, always. You will literally save a life by doing so. However, I know not all people are comfortable with the shelter decision, so I wanted to touch upon all of the options out there, when someone is considering adding a family member to the pack. This is for anyone who may not be educated on how some of these options work.

The biggest questions to begin with is, are you ready to have the dog anywhere from 8-16 years? They live a long time, and would like to spend all of that time with you. Do not drop them at the shelter when they turn gray because you just can't stand to see them deteriorate in their old age. It's not fair, and is heartbreakingly confusing to them. Do you have time to walk them several times a day? They are living animals. They need their exercise and stimulants just like you and I do. Plus, they live to spend time with you. You have your whole life, friends, work to occupy you. Your dog only has you. Be their friend. Are you financially stable enough to get them their yearly shots and checkups at the vet? Or buy their dog food every month? Every little thing adds up, and I think a lot of first time dog owners don't fully understand the cost of keeping your dog in the best health they can be in. If even one of these things doesn't work for you, then now is not the time to be looking for a dog.

If you are ready to get a dog after all of the considerations, then it is now time to figure out where to get them from. First, don't ever buy from pet stores. This only fuels their revenue, and keeps puppy mills in business. The puppy mills will continue to pump out puppies in poor health due to the torture of the poor parents that are tightly caged to breed them. The same can go for irresponsible, smaller breeders. Don't keep those kinds in business. It's a tough enough task to find loving homes for all of these "unwanted," unhealthy dogs as it is. We don't need them churning out any more. And when you purchase from them directly, you just fuel their business and continue the torture for those poor dogs that are stuck in that system.

The unfortunate reality of most puppy mills.

Now, I don't disagree with breeding entirely, but there is a huge difference between a puppy mill and a responsible breeder. And I understand that there actually are responsible, smart breeders out there, and I commend them for raising litters the right way. After all, we can't stop breeding dogs entirely. Without responsible breeders, there would be no more dogs. However, even if they are raised the right way, it does not guarantee that the new owners will do the same. There is a common misconception that any shelter dog has issues. It obviously is unwanted by the previous owner because it has a defect, or is aggressive, or it just "doesn't want to listen," right? I mean, why else would a perfectly healthy dog be in the shelter then? (Heavy sarcasm.) Well, in most cases, the cute puppy the couple bought for their kid got too big, and they don't want to deal with it anymore. Or, they are moving and their new residence doesn't allow dogs, or dogs of a certain weight, or dogs of a certain breed. Or, a couple bought the dog together, and now they broke up and neither wants to keep it on their own. Or, they have a baby and assume that the dog won't be safe around them. NONE of these reasons are due to any defect or attitude of the dog itself. The dog was just unwanted by a family they loved. And this goes for all types... Purebreds and mutts alike. It's amazing how many purebreds are found within rescues and shelters. It's an unfortunate misconception that only mutts are in shelters. (Although mutts are my favorite kind!)

**Here is a link to the AKC website for a list of RESPONSIBLE breeders**

https://www.akc.org/press_center/facts_stats.cfm?page=responsible_breeder

So the next time you think of purchasing from a breeder, do your homework. Are they responsible? Do they have any complaints? When you go see the puppies, do the conditions look healthy and safe? Really do your research.

But even before all of that... Please consider a shelter dog. Breeders will always find homes for their puppies, that I assure you. If you don't take them, someone else will, trust me. Not to mention, they are already in a home, and do not face the risk of being euthanized at any moment.

**Pet Finder is a wonderfully easy website to find dogs in your area by breed, sex, age, etc**

http://www.petfinder.com/

And if you just don't think you want to "risk it" with a shelter dog, consider going to a rescue at the very least, where the dog has been in a foster home and they can report more accurately on the dog's behavior and condition, if that is what worries you. When you pull a dog from a rescue, it frees up a spot for another dog in the shelter, to go to a loving, foster family environment until they find their forever home.

OH MY GOODNESS how can you say no to this face?!

But all of that aside... We rescued our Tiger boy from a shelter. He was picked up as a stray and went unnoticed in the shelter for THREE MONTHS before we came across him. We met him once, and he actually didn't want anything to do with us. (Don't expect an instant connection at the first meeting. Pay attention to volunteer notes from the shelter. The dog may just be shy, since this is their first time meeting you.) Fast forward two years later and he is currently curled up by my feet as I type this. He is always at my heel, so much so that I joke that we should've named him Shadow. The vet compliments him every time we go in, because he is in picture perfect health. He is the best, most mellow dog I have ever owned.

This is the actual photo of Tiger we saw on Pet Finder that made us go meet him!

I understand that Tiger's story may not be the same for every shelter dog out there. But I can tell you with certain confidence that a shelter dog will always, always love you. And isn't that the point of getting a dog anyways? To love something, and to be loved, unconditionally? I really believe a shelter dog knows they got a second chance... And they will love you until their last breath if you let them.

If there is any point to my crazy dog lady rambling, it's that I hope you make a smart choice when you purchase your new family member... whichever avenue you choose to go. And I would hope that you wouldn't turn your nose up to any of these options, as I truly hope that most of us are in for the common goal... To give a dog a loving home.

And if you are a huge softie, like I plan to be someday, open your home to those dogs who are less fortunate. An old face doesn't mean an old heart. No sight doesn't mean they can't see right through to your soul. Less legs doesn't mean that they won't run to you with all of their might when you come home. And no hearing doesn't mean they don't listen to what you say. These dogs need homes and love just as much, if you are willing to give it.

This is Emma, from "Everything Emma" on Facebook. She is unable to use her back legs, but have you seen her viral video on youtube when she dragged herself so excitedly across the hallway to see her daddy who just got home from Afghanistan?! Grab some tissues.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2317357/The-heartwarming-moment-disabled-dog-finds-special-burst-energy-drag-greet-Air-Force-owner-returning-Afghanistan.html

All in all, love can come in all forms from all different places. Please consider saving a life before you decide to go to a breeder. And if you still decide to go to a breeder, just please be smart about it.

Two Weeks

It's been a strange two weeks.

Ten days ago, I was excitedly getting ready for a first date, with a cute guy I'd met online. I felt nervous, a little nauseous even, but I'd been feeling under the weather all week. I brushed it off as pre-date jitters and got on my bike to meet him in the city. We met in the park, and left our bikes outside a cafe as we strolled around, talking music, movies, work, and about our friends and families. The time flew by, and as I raced home on my bike, I couldn't wait to see him again. I couldn't stop smiling, and, for the first time in almost a year, I had butterflies.

* * *

Later, as I sat in my home office typing an email, I started to suspect the butterflies had given way to PMS. As I fidgeted in my chair trying to find a comfortable position, I thought back to my earlier nausea, and how I'd been feeling a little off all week. Was I coming down with something? Or was it just the monthly trials of womanhood? My period should be starting any day now, right? I glanced at the calendar, counting back the weeks. I counted again.

I'm late.

* * *

It's 4 p.m. The pharmacy doesn't close until 7 p.m., but I have a team meeting via video conference at 5 p.m. For the next hour I sit there, a slow panic rising, as I try to trace back over the last four, five, six weeks.

    Before my vacation. That guy I'd been seeing. The condom that broke.

    But he'd realized right away; he didn't finish inside me. I know the chances of being pregnant are slim to none, but my periods have always come like clockwork. If I am pregnant, that's when it happened.

    I log in to the video conferencing suite, smiling at my colleagues. Working remotely, we rarely all see each other, and under normal circumstances I'd welcome the chance to see everyone's faces. But all I can think about is peeing on a stick.

* * *

I've always been a list-maker. To-do lists, shopping lists, packing lists . . . living a life as unpredictable as mine equipped me with not only the desire for order, but the ability to soothe any anxieties or upheaval with lists.

    My eyes are glazing over as my colleagues nod along to what our boss is saying. I pull my notebook towards me, the same notebook I'm writing this in now, and flip it open, drawing a line down the middle of the blank page. At the top of the left column, I write PROS, on the right, CONS. 

    Forever linked to a guy I don't want to date, I wrote in the right-hand column. I knew from my brief time in childcare how hard co-parenting was when you loved someone, and how impossible it could be when you didn't share any of the common values and beliefs child development depends on. I knew I didn't want to raise a baby with someone I didn't want to be with.

    In the left column, without thinking about why, I write But it's a baby, reminding myself of the famous List in Friends, when Ross realizes that though Julie was a great woman, she wasn't the right woman for him, because she wasn't Rachel (or, you know. Rachem. Oh, typos and the trouble they cause!)

    Costs a lot of money, under CONS. Then, under PROS, but I make a lot of money. A new category is drawn up at the bottom of the page: QUESTIONS.

    How would work and having a baby . . . work? I ask myself. Back up to the CONS: mom isn't here, and I don't want to raise children in the UK. Another PRO: My friends here are wonderful mothers, and would be an incredible support system. Also: I can make really good baby food, a nod, I think, to my general sense of feeling better prepared for family life after my time in childcare. I have no illusions about knowing everything I need to, but I know I have a better idea than many single women my age.

    Last question: How would having a baby affect my application for immigration to the US?

* * *

 

Finally, my team meeting is over. I grab my phone, keys and jacket, pull my shoes on, and race downstairs, pushing my bike out the door. I weave through the dark streets to the pharmacy and pull up outside. Deep breath.

    Silently cursing the condoms as I walk past them, I scan the shelves, looking at the many options in front of me. Some boxes have three tests, others only two. Some come with ovulation tests, or tell you how far along you are. I figure this isn't the time for thriftiness, and grab the box of three, the most highly recommended - and most expensive - brand, and turn in the direction of the check-outs. Waiting in line, I see a basket of caramel-filled chocolate eggs, and (thinking they'd probably help no matter what the results of the test are) I grab three.

    The young guy at the register picks up the box, turning it over in his hands.

    "These don't have security tags, do they? Don't want them setting off the alarms."

    "No," I say evenly. "Because that would be embarrassing."

    He looks up, mortified, and I smirk at him, letting him know I'm just busting his chops. I don't want to be a cliché, I want to be the woman who can buy a pregnancy test as if it's no big deal, a big joke.

    He bags the test and chocolate and I walk out, stuffing one of the eggs in my mouth whole. If I'm about to give up drinking, my body's going to have to get used to me mainlining chocolate as a coping mechanism.

* * *

I'd heard people say those three minutes can be some of the longest minutes we experience as women. I plugged my iPod into my stereo and hit play. At the end of this song, I'll go back into the bathroom and check, I tell myself. Another chocolate egg disappears.

* * *

There it is, then.

    Not Pregnant.

    The instructions say to take another test in three days if I still haven't gotten my period. I tidy the box away, throw out the stick, wash my hands. I make a cup of tea, and take it upstairs with the last chocolate egg, sitting back down at my desk, where my PROS and CONS list still sits.

    I smile, breathe, flip the page, and start a new list for tomorrow. FRIDAY TO-DO LIST....

* * *

 3 days later and still nothing.

    It's Sunday morning. I've pretty much forgotten Thursday's events; I'd been on another date with the cutie from the park, seen a great live concert, made plans for a weeknight dinner date. I'm getting dressed for a long walk on the beach, packing a picnic, pulling my walking boots on. I'm enjoying the weekend, with last week's drama far from my mind.

    As the pebbles crunch and shift beneath my feet and the wind whips my scarf about my head, my thoughts drift back to the moment I walked back into the bathroom. In that moment, I knew which outcome would disappoint me, and it was right there, glaring at me from the sink.

    All the logic and reasoning I had couldn't take away the sadness that softly washed over me when I saw the single blue line. Not even a hint of that second line that would have turned my life upside down. No lists could tell me how I felt better than that fleeting, painfully authentic moment.

    I was relieved, of course I was. I was glad I didn't have to think about the money, whether I'd need to move, the conversation I'd need to have with the guy. I was glad I didn't have to call him and turn his life upside down too, or figure out how to raise a child with someone I didn't want to be with.

    But when I looked inside myself, I saw how much I'd wanted the test to read positive. And now . . . now I had to find a way to un-see it.

    By the time I get home that evening, my period has started. Again, expecting relief, I am hit with another wave of sadness. No excitement, no thanking God for my freedom. Just a gaping 'what if?' in my apparently empty womb.

* * *

I spend the next week focusing on other things. I work, I flirt with the guy, go on two more dates. I start to really like him. We share so many core values, appreciate similar things in life, want the same things out of life. He has a great smile, and although there are no big fireworks, I am definitely attracted to him. I've learned to value the fireworks much less in recent years, and our compatibility speaks to me much louder than sexual chemistry. There's definitely something between us, though I know he's not in a place where he wants a serious relationship, so I try to move slowly, hoping I don't scare him off.

    It doesn't make a difference. After only ten days, he tells me as I'm walking through the park where we first met that he doesn't feel the necessary spark, or perhaps just isn't ready to date at all. "Still broken" he says. Either way, it's over. I cry, just a handful of tears that were as surprised to find themselves on my cheeks as I was to feel them there.

    I look out at the river, gazing at the blue skies, thankful for such a beautiful day when the forecast said rain. I wrap my scarf around my neck a little tighter, dig my hands deeper into my pockets, and walk away.

We Accept The Love We Think We Deserve

Though this was originally written as my annual Facebook note reflecting on the year, I thought this would be a good place to share it too.

What a year.

My mind struggles to grasp the year in its entirety: there has been so much change and growth that it's hard for me to step back and really see what this year has brought.

Let's think about where I was at the end of 2012: in Amsterdam, reaching for my independent self as I prepared to transition yet again, from Italy to London, one au pair job to another. In the months leading up to that trip, I had been dumped, discovered the power of Don Miguel Ruiz and, through his words, found my own power and sense of self, which I had freely given to those I had loved for too many years.

I made commitments to myself for 2013, the content of which were not as important, I found, as the act of committing to myself instead of others. I found comfort and strength in my promises, not because I kept them in the ways I'd initially set out to, but because of their greater underlying principle: that 2013 was going to be the year I put myself first, and stopped diminishing who I was through compromises made in, and for, relationships that did not serve me in the same ways I was willing to serve them.

No more would I, Jade Forester, serial monogamist and Queen of the Rebound, get myself into a codependent, dysfunctional relationship. No more would I choose saving others above saving myself.

2013 has been the year I learned how to save me - from myself, mostly, but also from those who would seek to de-rail the progress I'd made at the end of 2012. By the end of last year, I'd thought the thoughts and was talking the talk. In 2013 I walked the walk.

As with every path I've started down in my life, it didn't go quite according to plan - I didn't completely swear off dating, or sex, and whether that was the right choice is of course moot at this point. The goal was the find out who I am when I'm not being defined by my relationships with men. Not only to find out who I am, but to figure out if I even liked that person - and if not, take positive steps towards becoming the woman I want to be, a woman I can respect and love more than I loved being in love or planning my future. I had to start living in the present and be happy doing so.

Though I wouldn't be so arrogant as to sit back at this point and say "I'm done," as if a person's growth is something that is ever complete, I can say that I achieved my goals for 2013. I found out who I am when I'm not busy being a girlfriend. I found out that I'm pretty awesome on my own, and that I have the most amazing family around me - and I mean not only those that I'm related to, but those who came into my life along the way, and stayed. I found out that I don't need to go looking for love; I am surrounded by so much I can hardly breathe, I am so overwhelmed with gratitude at the blessings I have been given.

I realized I didn't know myself well enough in the past to have patience with those who fell short of my high expectations, or the clarity to realize the depth and breadth of the ways I contributed to others' unhappiness. I am working towards being more self-aware and to change old habits and assumptions, and am quietly optimistic about the future.

I have never been so humbled by any year as I have this one, though I'm sure many of my closest can think of others that my have been more outwardly momentous. But the journey from child to adult isn't always greatest in the milestone moments: the distance between student and graduate, or Maine and the UK, was not so great as the miles I travelled within myself this year, as I searched to discover and redefine who I am and what I want.

I am exhausted, yes, but exhilarated. I have never felt so ready to take on whatever life throws at me. Never have I had so much to be thankful for, or as many reasons to smile throughout my day. Never have I felt so fully my capacity for good, or my strength for change, or my ability to achieve my goals.

I don't have any resolutions as I move into 2014 beyond this: keep it up, Jade. Remind yourself of how far you've come, and what you are capable of when you open your eyes, your mind, your heart, to what you need.

Show yourself every day that are worthy of love - and that means loving yourself. Remember Stephen Chbosky's words from The Perks of Being a Wallflower: 'We accept the love we think we deserve.'

Show those who support you how much they mean to you whenever you have the opportunity to do so. Remember how much they've done for you, and don't forget it or take them for granted. Remember how it felt when you withdrew yourself from them, and don't let it happen again!

Open yourself up to falling in love again, even if it doesn't look or feel like it used to. If you don't want the next relationship to end like all the others, you probably don't want it starting like all the others. Take your time. Breathe. Hold on to yourself without holding yourself back.

Remember the four agreements:

1. Be impeccable with your word
2. Don't take anything personally
3. Don't make assumptions
4. Always do your best

All My Friends Are Getting Married and I Love It (And Them!)

I’ve spent about $2000 in the last three years on weddings. I’ve been a bridesmaid three times, and there’s a fourth coming up in December. I’m not even a bridesmaid in that one — they just want me to run the show.

My engaged friends really dig my organizational skills. They like how I make schedules, they love how I ask questions, boss people around, and generally get shit done so they don’t have to worry about it. Where’s your phone? Erin’s had it since 8 o’clock this morning so you could have a champagne breakfast, not deal with your almost in-laws. The florist is supposed to be here at 2:00? I’m on the phone at 2:02 and expect updates every 90 seconds until she’s on the floor. Where’s the man party? Room 228 — you hold her train, you carry these flowers, I’ll get the boys. I liaise. I delegate.

I have a finger in every part of the wedding day pie and it is really sexy. You know why?

I’m smiling. I love weddings.I love being in the thick of making the day go well. It is the most important thing to me, the most joyous part of the occasion. The timing of the day is intimate in itself, and I make things run smoothly. It’s what I am best at, and that my friends see it, appreciate it, and rely on it makes me feel loved and appreciated.

Of course, being the coordinating bridesmaid means I miss out on a lot of the “Ooh!” moments. I’m missing from most of the reception pictures. I did not lace up my dear friend’s wedding dress, nor help another with her petticoat, or buckle the other one’s shoes. But the moments I do get are really precious: being the first one up and ready to dress meant I painted my best friend’s toenails while the stylist started her hair. I found a quick fix for a too-dark eye. I made a bouquet and boutonniere for a courthouse ceremony.

I’m not asked to be a bridesmaid because I’m the fun one, the pretty one, or the friend since childhood. I am both fun and pretty, but I’m also introverted and can be quite-to-the-point. It makes socialization a little difficult, and I’ve been told (by people who don’t know me very well) that I lack tact. I’m working on it.

Ideally, if I ever left publishing, I’d like to do this for a living — a day-of event coordinator extraordinaire. But how does one become a professional bridesmaid? Is that a thing?

I’d like to make it a thing.

Did They Send Me Daughters When I Asked for Sons?* (Spoiler alert: Yes!)

I read the New York Times Room for Debate on “Are Modern Men Manly Enough?” the other day, and it infuriated me. The current trajectory of deciding to attack men and masculinity because it’s no longer PC to attack women and femininity is really frustrating. Gender roles are frustrating and problematic, and I’m going to leave it right there.

Yup, right there.

I did not find any persuasive arguments in that particular RFD: I agreed with the common sense authors, and found those stuck in Leave it to Beaver, well, stuck in Leave it to Beaver.

It did, however, get me thinking about what I think a good man is, and subsequently, my father and his father. My grandfather died earlier this year, leaving behind a legacy of gentle faith, natural living, and beautiful carpentry. All his sons learned woodworking from him, though my father is probably the best at it because he uses it the most often. (Don’t worry, uncles, you’re both very talented also!)

My grandad built me a dollhouse when I was six, and a carved pen and pencil set when I was twenty-three. My dad completely restored the house I grew up in. It’s not for me to say whether or not we should always follow in our parents footsteps, but reading that RFD made me realise how much the builder’s aspect looks like love to me, to my family.

Love also looks a lot like this. That's my granddad. And a wild fawn.

So, I’m going to learn woodworking from my dad. I’ve always wanted to, but never had the wherewithal to just go down to his woodshop and start helping him. Like me, my father is an introvert, and the shop is very much his space.

But it’s not just about love and family tradition. It’s also about practicality. The other half of modern culture where I live (and who I’m friends with) is “throw money at the problem until it goes away”. I am firmly entrenched in this camp. My brother can reshingle a roof. My mom can fix and replace pipes. My dad can… do everything. I can write blog posts, make cookies, and make you a mean martini when you get home from your hard day. If something breaks, I wail into my candy-striped apron until Lennon fixes it.**

I have some basics down. You don’t grow up in a family like mine without getting excited about sawzalls (my parents each have their own) and tablesaws and knowing to watch your fingers while you’re cutting that plank because that’s how pop-pop lost the top of his. That led me to tech theater in college. I can build a set. But, I couldn’t build you a chair. Or a cabinet. Or a door. I can’t install a doorknob. Or sand a floor. Or put up real walls.

Ultimately, I’m hoping the tutelage will turn to finishing the master bathroom - the very last room to be done in the house my parents bought twenty years ago. I learn by doing. I should have all the practical DIY skills I need by next year.

And next Christmas, everyone gets reindeer made of pipe sockets and copper tubing.

*To clarify my title, my father was tickled pink at having a daughter. I am the only girl child in my family. 

**To clarify that entire paragraph.

First World Problems: We Got Cable, and Suddenly My Three-Bed Is Too Small

I’m an introvert. I know the internet is currently on tail-end of its “WTF IS AN INTROVERT” phase, but it’s relevant. I much prefer quiet and solitude. I need personal space. Lots of it. It's hard to come by when a) you work in an open plan office, b) live with your boyfriend, and c) do not have a personal space in your own apartment. Right now it’s causing a lot of emotional distance problems in my relationship. I'm not checked in, I admit it.

When we were finally forced to get our own internet and stop mooching off the landlord, Lennon put the account in his name, and got us some goddamn fancy FIOS. The kind that has cable. I have never owned a television, and the last house I lived in that had some form of TV entertainment (besides my parents') was in my sophomore year of college. His television was old, and not flat. We have limited space. You can see where this is going.

Not here, though.

Enter his (he paid for it) new television. I like putting on pilates, yoga, or watching Netflix via the XBOX. I could do all this with my laptop, but TV is bigger and nicer and the sound isn’t coming out of a three-year-old Macbook’s blown-out speakers. The rest of the time, it drives me a little crazy.

Did you know TV still has ads?

Lennon is a media junkie with ADD. He’s an multi-concentrator. Last night when we got home from dinner, he started watching Family Guy on television, and a nerd-stuff webseries. At the same time. With audible volume on both. I have a thing where if there’s more than one type of noise going on at a particular volume, I can’t concentrate on anything but getting out of there as fast as possible.

I took my Kindle into the bedroom to read, just like every night since we got the television. At the end of the day I am desperate for quiet. Lennon is desperate for distraction. We don’t spend time together in the late evening anymore. I know we don’t have to watch television: he can turn it off and read comics, or play on his phone, or any number of other things.

But the television asks the least of him, and he needs that recharge too.

It's not a total wash; the quiet downtime is necessary for me to continue functioning. But, relegated to the bedroom because of the TV... there is no space left in the apartment to be mine.

I’d love the solution to be setting aside another room, so he can be comfortable owning spaces in the rest of the apartment. Unfortunately, everything I would use to furnish it is needed elsewhere, and I don’t want to take anything away for fear I will say he can use the room for a specific purpose and suddenly it will "belong" to him... which is what tends to happen.

I'm very good about respecting other people's spaces. I don't like disturbing the energy, or otherwise changing the feel of it. I try to keep my own energy small if I'm in there. It's why Lennon now has the whole office and I generally don't go in there except to get a book from a shelf, or if I need to work from home. I don't go into his dressing room (the second bedroom) unless I need the iron, or a towel from the closet. The kitchen is common space. The living room is common space. The front bedroom is big closet storage and the rabbit's space, because she's destructive, and pulls books off the shelf.

And she will eat them.

Houston, we have a problem. We have a three-bedroom apartment, and I don't even fit in it.

Babies, babies and more babies

I was in Texas with my boyfriend for Labor Day weekend and after the excessive summer heat of the south I am so happy to be back in New York where fall has decided to grace us with her lovely presence.  I am also appreciating my life as I always do when I return from a trip; my perfectly soft bed, my conveniently located closet full of dresses and shoes, and the ability to do pretty much what I want to do when I want to do it.  I love traveling and seeing new places, but I also always love to return home and revel in the things that I had been taking for granted before I left.

The reason I am extra pleased to be back in New York after my latest trip is because we were in Austin, Texas to visit my boyfriend's brother, his wife and their three month old son.  Now before I get myself into trouble here let me make the disclaimer that I thoroughly enjoyed myself and had a lovely time hanging out and getting to know my boyfriend's family.  They are really chill, sweet people and the baby is about as cute and well behaved as you could possibly imagine, which is pretty darn cute.  But we stayed at their place and worked on their schedule, which is always a little stressful.

But the heat was easily escapable with central air and swimming in the creek and the house was immaculately kept and my boyfriend's family were excellent hosts keeping us as comfortable and as entertained as possible.  What really ruffled my feathers that weekend was the sheer amount of time that we spent with the baby.  The baby was cute and barely cried and is practically my nephew, but I just don't like babies that much and a five day vacation that revolved around a three month old was just more than I could handle.

I don't really know what it is about babies or myself that makes me want to leave the room instead of coo over them, but I have never really had any interest in small children.  Sure I had baby dolls as a kid and I did a decent amount of babysitting and teaching children various activities at summer camps, but I always preferred working with kids closer to the age of ten where they could articulate themselves and have something interesting to say about the world.  And for all my capabilities and motherly instincts and experience working with children of all ages I still would rather go to a museum than gawk over a baby's smile.

They kind of smell funny to be honest and I mean they smell funny when their clean; they smell horrifying when they are dirty and soiled.  And they are pretty boring too, all they do is sit there and stare at whatever you put in front of them; I just don't see what is so entertaining about a baby making random sounds that have nothing to do with anything.  And as soon as the baby isn't happy things get really ugly.  Messes are made, screaming ensues, and no one can focus on anything but the kid and no rest is to be had until the baby is pacified.

Maybe I'm selfish, maybe I'm just young (I'm only 24!) or maybe I'm a product of my generation and am just an independent woman and a confused college graduate more concerned with what I am doing with my life than if a baby can hold it's head up by itself.  I do think that it is strange that I feel the need to explain myself to everyone who asks about my relationship with kids that I am not some monster of a person or a disgrace to the human race I just don't like babies and whatever the reason may be I don't think that is such a crime.

Of course it really isn't a crime and I suppose no one is really judging me too harshly based on my reaction to babies.  I'm actually pretty fortunate that my family is more concerned with my career and my well being then having grand-kids.  But I guess my concern stems from the only person's opinion that I am truly concerned about.  As where I have no interest in babies or having kids at all for that matter, my boyfriend gets a doe eyed look when he watches his nephew squirm in his car-seat and I guess there is the dramatic, irrational part of me that worries he is going to leave me if he realizes how I really feel about babies.  The reason this is a ridiculous notion is because we have talked about kids before and I have told him all the plethora of reason I don't want to have children and he has so far shown no signs of dumping me or even pressuring me to change my mind (because he is amazing!)  But my dramatic side is not governed by the silly rules of reason and I worry that there is something wrong with me, I worry that my boyfriend will find someone who is ready to settle down with him, and I worry that I will decide to settle down myself one day and miss out on so many amazing experiences.

I suppose at 24 no one (except for myself since I often feel more like I'm 80) really expects me to have a baby of my own (or my life "together") and no one really cares if I want to hold the baby for an hour or only a minute, but sometimes life challenges you with experiences that you are not ready for.  And during the hours that I find myself unwillingly in charge of a tiny human I have to trust that the 80 year old in me will know how to handle the situation as gracefully as possible.  And so my weekend in Texas, while long and more stressful than I prefer my vacations, is over and was really quite nice now that I look back on it.  And while I'm not home free from babies since my boyfriend's other brother lives much closer than Texas and also has a small baby in tow, I am for the moment relieved to be baby free.

But I want to!

My significant other and I are both journalists. That means we're really in-tune with observing emotions and are aces when it comes to open communication. Right? Nah.

Today I tried something new. Mountain biking. He thought I didn't want to. I did. He was happily surprised. It was great. I got muddy. Like, really muddy. Now we have a new “couple hobby.”

It's strange how perceptions are often – okay almost always – so wrong. I like being in the woods, I like getting covered in dirt on very rare occasion. In the end he was very proud of my awesome biking skills too. Seriously, I was pretty surprised.

And that's the other thing – I was terrified of trying it at first. It seems like such a “dude” sport. I like to throw around a ball or stretch my body in seemingly unimaginable ways, but the idea of hurdling around trees on a hunk of metal didn't seem like the greatest of ideas. Hearing the man talk of bumps and bruises, branches and bugs (there were a TON of those. Ick) didn't help either. I was really unsure. I'm admittedly quite chick-y, so there's that, and wasn't sure how my bosses would respond to me trying to type with a broken arm. But all was well, I stuck to the easy trails, a great decision because, you know, the whole broken arm thing.

It was fun. I'm glad I tried something new and that he wanted me to. Opening the door to even tiny things like this can be a great couple accomplishment.

Safety first kids