A Minivan Is Not The Definition of Success

I was at a recent family function. As my sister packed her kids away in her new minivan, I admired the vehicle politely. “And it has drop down video screens, and seven seats and lots of storage space and doors on both sides…”

“Oh, cool, nice score,” (yawn!).

My sister and I have both had car trouble lately. My car broke down in January and I haven’t had a freelance cheque big enough to fix it yet. Not too big a deal since we live in a pretty big city with decent transit. We ask for help with errands every few weeks, but mostly the lack of car hasn’t been too big a burden. And we have saved hundreds by not being at the whim of those spiraling gas prices.

My sister’s car died a few weeks ago. When her beer guzzling husband finally got a job after a few months of being laid off, they used what he didn’t drink of his severance to purchase a nearly new minivan. Great for them! And a minivan! It goes so well with my sister’s image of what a middle class family is supposed to be like.

Unlike me and my family.

I started my own business a few years ago. It’s slow. It’s hard getting the word out. I also write freelance, and while my steady freelance gig gives me a certain amount of celebrity locally, it doesn’t pay much. But, though finances are incredibly tight, we are a mostly happy family.

We just aren’t normal.

So, about that minivan…

I made an offhand remark, after my sister finished bragging about her new vehicle, about how I’ll be buying a minivan right after I win the lottery.

And my sister looked me in the eye and said, “You could buy one too IF YOU GOT A REAL JOB LIKE THE REST OF US.” (emphasis mine)

I was stunned. How does a person go through life thinking it’s OK to say things like that to another person?

Oh, sure, if I worked in a factory, or a cubicle farm, or a kitchen somewhere (all of which and more I have done and the final cubicle farm drove me into a serious depression) I could afford to take vacations to Spain if I so desired. I could afford to let gay men cut and colour my hair! I could afford to eat at restaurant for lunch every day and clothe my kids in designer clothes.

But instead I work at what I love to do. The pay is terrible. And starting a business is fucking hard! But I love my jobs.

Then, of course, there is that unpaid full-time job from which I never get a day off called MOTHERING! Maybe she meant that job. Maybe if I stopped being a full-time at-home mom I could afford to buy gas guzzling, environment fucking, suburban status symbol so that I’ll fit in with all the other suburban moms. Because, lord knows, unless you are mortgaged up the ass and are choking on credit debt you aren’t a real adult.

Maybe she’s jealous of my freedom from conformity?

Like Father, Like Daughter

My dad and my sister have something in common: they both work really hard to make an experience really wonderful and then, just when you let your guard down and relax into the good feeling they pull out their knives and go in for the kill. You know, just so you don’t spend the entire day happy.

When I was layed off from a cushy office job, I decided that cubicle life wasn’t for me. A life that involved some sort of manual labour was also not for me. I found my passion, got some training and started a business.

The I got pregnant and the business had to be put on hold for a while. But, now I’m back and while not booming yet, I’ve had a few customers come through the door. And I’m hard at work developing new products to increase my earning potential. While that happens, however, and I’m in the “building my business” phase of development, things are understandably tight at home on what is essentially a single, not that big, income.

Of course, for the likes of my dad and my sister, that’s not enough. No, they are uncomfortable that I took a different path. And God forbid I should ever mention that we are low on funds, that we good naturedly covet something we cannot presently afford or quip about winning the lottery. That elicits snide comments about “if you’d just get a real job like the rest of us”.

Because the work that I do is not “real”. The freelance writing I do isn’t “real”. The contracted work I do with my clients isn’t “real”. The reputation I am building in my field through my media presence (and I’m becoming a bit of a local celebrity in my field) isn’t “real”.

I don’t own a house, my car is sitting in the driveway waiting until a big enough freelance cheque comes in the mail to overhaul the breaks, I don’t keep up with the Jones’ and therefore I’m different, I’m less and I’m lazy.

My sister says that is why my father doesn’t spend more time with my kids, his first born grandchildren.

Oh, and the other reason is that he doesn’t like what I write on my website. Do you read Dooce? Yeah, my little mom blog isn’t nearly as rawly honest about my family as hers. I don’t talk about my husband grabbing my tits the way she does, but apparently my sister and my dad are shocked by what I write.

When I was 20 I stopped communicating with my father completely. I didn’t have anything to do with him for about 6 years. It never bothered me. My dad was the stealth abuser and I had no regrets about cutting that out of my life.

I’m starting to get fatigued with pretending I like and respect him. I do it for the sake of my kids, but he doesn’t notice them much. His attempts to connect with my older child aren’t really about my child, but about my dad. He tries to buy my child’s affections by giving him all his old castoffs – old collectibles and magazines that are almost immediately destroyed and often have no connection to my child’s interests. He once forgot my son was standing next to him at a hockey game when my son was 4 and walked away from him

My sister is already kept at arm’s length, but I’m very close to severing ties with my dad again. Should I? Should I maintain a relationship for the sake of my kids, even though I feel like my kids aren’t treated well? Even though I feel emotionally abused by this person?

Human Trafficking

I just watched a documentary about kidnapping and human trafficking in China. It was disgusting and frightening.

Now I can’t look at adopted Asian babies without thinking they’re parents are greedy white Westerners stealing babies from third (2nd?) world countries.

On Being Desired

A really awesome writer wrote this today about the effect of being desired on a woman’s pysche and how that affects her entire life.

I totally agree with everything she says. Knowing my husband thinks I’m sexy and hearing it regularly makes me a way happier person. It makes mothering easier, it helps keep the depression at bay and it makes me feel invigorated. Why?

Maybe it’s because it is a clear sign that my husband in engaged with me as a person as opposed to co-parenting with me.

Whatever it is, it’s powerful.

Last night, as the baby lay in bed sweating salt stains into my sheets, my husband convinced me to have sex on the living room floor. (Dude, I was TIRED! I needed serious coaxing.)

As I sat against the sofa, legs akimbo, arms thrown back on the cushions, fat, floppy belly drooping into my crotch, breasts sliding into my armpits (mmmm! old people sex is so appealing, isn’t it?), my husband sat back from kissing me and said, “you look so sexy right now.”

And today, I feel like I can accomplish almost anything. Just that little remark sort of made my whole week. The kids aren’t so annoying, my husband feels more like my best friend instead of the man I survive children and marriage beside and the fact that other things in my life are freakishly stressful right now seems manageable.

Feeling desired is important.

Why do you think it’s important?

Retro Day Dreams

I don’t know why, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about a particular guy in my past. I can’t seem to get him out of my head.

Now, I’ve got kids and have been happily married for a long time. Right now, though, we’re in one of those post baby ruts where my husband and I keep getting on each other’s nerves and both are feeling overwrought and under appreciated. I know this, but in the moment, I seem powerless to be nicer. And so I day dream about an old boyfriend.

And, he was hardly a boyfriend, even.

I first met him when I was 19. He was a friend of a friend and we suddenly seemed to be at all the same parties. Eventually we fell into being together all the time. But, we didn’t really do a lot of talking. I lived on my own – well, with a roommate – and so we spent a lot of time hanging out between the sheets. We’d put The Clash on really loudly and spend an afternoon in bed.

After a while I got really bored.

And, he was so skinny, I was getting painful bruises on the insides of my thighs.

I stopped calling him and the relationship fizzled.

A couple years later I was at a bar seeing a band and he happened to be there. I played it cool and chatted with him for a few minutes. Suddenly, he threw his arms around me – knocking my drink out of my hand in the process – dipped me backwards and planted a big old kiss on my lips. And something inside my switched a gear and suddenly I was smitten again.

This time we talked more. We talked on the phone a lot, in fact. He turned me onto The X-Files halfway through the first season. We had a few chaste meetings of hanging out and walking around, but there was a problem.

I was seeing someone.

That relationship would soon implode, but I couldn’t bring myself to really cheat. Again, our relationship fizzled out in a few weeks.

Another few years goes by and we see each other again. It was New Year’s and we were at the same club celebrating and watching a cool band. I was there sort of alone. The manager of the club was a friend of mine. A friend with benefits. Instead of being single for New Year’s, we decided to enjoy the benefits.

So, when the old boyfriend was there with our mutual friend, I didn’t think of anything and we just hung out. It had been so many years since the initial relationship, I was over it. But he wasn’t. At the end of the night he asked to go home with me. He suspected what I really had planned and was unhappy, to say the least, about the situation.

Even though I was rebuffing him, I can remember looking into his eyes and feeling like I could get pulled back in. What was it about him? He was this beautiful, sad, tall, thin punk from a time when punk was punk. He was kind of shy with an adorable smile and an intense look in his eye.

Man!  That look in his eyes! So sad and pleading. They were like deep dark pools begging me to come drown in them.

I didn’t go home with him that night.

A few years later I tried calling him at his mother’s house, the last place I knew he lived. She was very cold on the phone. I wanted to apologise to him for never treating him as well as he should have been treated, but he wasn’t there and his mother wasn’t about to give me his information.

I ran into him and his friends near a pub one night. I stopped to chat, but I could feel that he had finally gotten well over me. Or at least had moved from wanting to be with me to wanting nothing to do with me. I can’t say I blamed him. Over and over he offered himself to me and I’d taken what I’d wanted and then disappeared.

I saw him a year ago, from the car, and my heart clutched. I recently met someone who had hung out at the same pub he was a regular at and who would’ve known him. It was all I could do not to ask about him. I think about him from time to time. Now is one of those times.

Maybe it’s because things are kinda shitty at home. There is a new baby old enough not to need constant attention but new enough to be putting a strain on domestic harmony. I may have a little PPD that waxes and wanes with my menstrual cycle that is making me a little moody and melancholic. Maybe having known this guy for almost 20 years has made him so familiar, such a fixture in my life that it feels safe to day dream about him. Maybe it was the fact that he pursued me over and over again that appeals to me when it feels like my husband isn’t terribly interested.

Whatever it is, I can’t get him out of my head. Maybe I’ll go listen to The Clash for old times sake. There’s a skip through Train In Vain. Maybe I’ll teach the kids to skank to Rudie Can’t Fail.

Hot Cycles?

Am I the only woman who gets her period and thinks, “Gawd, I really want to have sex!”

What is up with that?!

Not for the Faint of Heart

I just refreshed my flagging creative energy with a ritual I developed as a teenager (then totally forgot until today.) Because secrets like this should be shared, I give you my formula:

Xanna’s Drug-Free Energy Upper

1. Take a hot shower. (Alternate instructions for bathtub usage to follow.)
2. Get clean and relaxed, and add whatever makes you feel yummy- a vigorous scalp massage, shaving your legs and junk if that’s your kink;)
3. Is the bathroom really sauna like and your muscles are all jelly? Good. Cool the water to a temperature that won’t burn your delicates.
4. Use that showerhead the way God intended- masturbate like you mean it.
5. Revel for a moment in your orgasm and the warmth.
6. Now, in a quick and decisive move, turn the water really cold.
7. Hate me for a second, then:
8. Feel the invigoration. Love it. Live it. Love me.

Alternate masturbation scenario for tub users: A friend of mine taught me this method. It’s less intense than the jet stream, eyes rolled back teeth chattering orgasm of the showerhead, but is very good. Lie on your back in the hot bath. Scoot as close as you can to the faucet, and run a warm stream of water. Continue adjusting until the water hits your sweet spot, then ride the wave:)

Dear Husband,

When I break down, for the hundredth time, and tell you that I’m miserable in  my wifely-role, and explain how your hours upon hours of online socializing pair with your unwillingness to even half-ass any communication attempts with me send me into a spiraling, panicky rage wherein I can’t decide if killing you or divorcing you is the better option, the suggestion that I need to be fucking medicated is NOT acceptable.

You are an asshole.

Love, Me

“I think you’re just what I needed…”

This is a love letter to a woman who fills a need I didn’t know I had until I met her. Ba’alit (means little goddess, but she has Big Mojo) and I met online sometime during my pregnancy. We have enjoyed one delicious vegetarian Chinese dinner together in person, and can’t wait to hang out again.

Ba’alit is in an amazing transitional point in her life, and she has interesting, engaging ideas and right now seems to embody radical change as much as I embody nesting rooting energy. She’s been polyamorous (but is bravely addressing concerns she has about polyamory in her life in the now) and is going through a divorce. She reads and thinks and writes about identity, and skepticism, and sexuality, and socio-politics, and is a constant boost of brain food for me.

We have the most interesting and comfortable rapport- we have seamlessly transitioned from discussions about constipation and hemmorhoids to delicious flirtation. The little spark of sweet yumminess I get from her is very light and silly and undemanding, but it’s a thing that uplifts me and reminds me I’m a sexual entity in this cluttered and distracted body.

Her honesty and open discussion with me about her relationships is bringing me insight about my marriage and my sexual growth as well as- I hope- benefiting her with a new dialogue and perspective.

When we started chatting, I told her I was never sure if I wanted to flirt with her or become BFF’s. I love that she’s become such a dear friend, and that our friendship includes such an open and warm sharing of sexuality without being actually sexual. It is amazingly and beautifully devoid of complications or expectations or strangeness. It’s a joy to have the energy it brings into my life.

Introduction, or My Secret Identities Have Secret Identities

Yeah. This feels like a coming out party or the first time at a Twelve Step program. Hi, I’m Xanna, and I’m worn the hell out and I spend half of my marriage hating my husband’s guts and more than half of my waking hours (and all of the ones where I should be sleeping) stuck to a Velcro toddler who is the queen of easy laid back kids for everyone who is not me. I work for peanuts and I try to be an entrepreneur but fail miserably and I eat too much crappy food and exercise never and I would rather walk on hot coals than make the effort to have sex.

I enjoy run-on sentences but loathe preposition abuse.

I have constant tension about openness and honesty on my blog versus boundaries and safety, and it’s fed by my absolute compulsion to tell people every single detail about me. Having a thought unexpressed is just alien, and secrets erode my soul. So here I am with a shiny new blog outlet, a place to vent and muse as I try to reinvest my energy into my marriage and rediscover the spark of wildfire that is my sexy mojo but which is currently sputtering under a deluge of breastmilk, stress, and poor time management.

Do share with me, and send in the posts. I know your husband, coworkers, grandmothers read your blog for the adorable stories about your kids, and you need a place to loose that primal scream. It’ll be great. We can howl like pissed off wolves or archetypal Gorgons or something. No one will say the word “nag.” No one will ask you to put out when all you want to do is have Jack Sparrow fantasies and make sweet love to your vibrator throw in a movie and crash. There are no piles of dirty laundry beyond what you bring- metaphorically, of course, to the table.

Love and kisses, only not- because I am “touched out” for the next decade,
Xanna