This morning’s version of David & I’s usual text routine. I’ve been sick and have a hard time sleeping in, so he’s been pushing the whole don’t-wake-up-early thing.
Me: Good morning! I turned of all my alarms but then a crow sat outside my window and squawked for a solid ten minutes, I shit you not. For Christmas I want a pellet gun.
David: Maybe I’ll just get you a super soaker. Happy Friday!
So I’ve been this horrible combination of super busy and over extended and sick all week, and I legitimately forgot it was Thursday. Right. Back to the prompt–spring dresses–I have a fear of white fabric. I’m mostly sure I’ve written about how I don’t believe in ever getting married and will never wear a white wedding dress. No? Maybe touched on, at least? Anyway, my fear of white fabric is way less esoteric than that. The truth is I’m super clumsy and spill drinks often. Seriously, get David started on a why I need lids to my drinks and he’ll talk for the rest of the day. But when I found this dress at Value Village I literally could not resist. You can’t tell but it’s actualy pretty old, made of linen, with a full silk liner. And appliqué white linen flowers. Love.
Oh these photos are in black and white because I thought that would best accent the whiteness of my dress. Yes? No? Too much? Okay so they turned out super blue since my camera’s white balance wasn’t manually readjusted for outdoors. This was the only way I could save them. David spends way too much time trying to get dorky faces out of me during our photoshoots, and I’ve learned the best way to deal with it is make the grossest, weirdest faces I can make. Welcome to the madness of our lives…?
I promise this space isn’t going to turn into a food blog, or a healthy-eating blog. After all, how can it, when I forget to eat most days but still have ice cream on like a daily basis? That being said, a few tips and tricks I figure out may sneak into the blog on occasion. Up first? A recipe book that led me to amazing gluten free, egg free, blueberry muffins.
In the world of food allergies, it’s basically impossible to find a cookbook that fits perfectly, particularly if you’re trying to avoid more than one food. I looked at one gluten free, vegan recipe book but the whole thing was written so pretentiously it was off putting. My mom and I spent a couple hours at a bookstore, pouring through and comparing all the different gluten free and vegan cookbooks we could find. In the end I stuck with gluten free-based books, since taking egg out is really simple once you know how to. For the record, I don’t actually know how to. I just know it exists is all.
So finding this book was basically like finding the jackpot. It’s gluten free, yes, and it also tells you the best way to mix your own all-purpose flour. The reason it instantly founds a play on the top of my take-home pile was that at the end of the first recipe I looked at, the muffins, it had a segment for how to take the diary out, and how to take the egg out. So it’s a super adaptable cookbook–my favorite kind!
I didn’t actually cook them in this, I just don’t own a cooling rack. Shameful, I know, but for the record, I’m one of the most anti-baking and anti-cooking ladies you’ll meet.
So I spent a year living in this tiny basement apartment that was adorable and nearly picture perfect except that it wasn’t properly sealed*. Which meant it slowly evolved into the perfect habitat for Hobo spiders. Don’t click that link unless you’re very fucking brave. The following is an almost entirely true account**. It is only one of many.
I was sitting on my futon in my standard position–back leaning against the arm rest, feet up, coffee table pulled up the edge of the cushions–as I worked my way through a political science paper. It was slow but very steady work and I finally arrived at a tea break. I set one foot on the floor as I reached across the messy spread of papers and textbooks for my mug when it happened. A spider who’s body was the size of the quarter ran out from under my couch, blitzing down the hardwood and passing within an inch of my foot. I screamed, grabbed my flipflops and ran outside. I dialed one of my besties, a great guy who conveniently lived half a block away.
“Paul! Paul! I know it’s ridiculous but oh my god my apartment has a spider and please just come over and take care of it? I’ll owe you the biggest favor ever.”
To be fair, I wasn’t at my most articulate. The spider had jump started my adrenaline and was getting to me way more than was reasonable. Like I said, though, he’s one of the nicest guys I know, and came over no questions asked. While I’m waiting for him I venture inside. I move slowly, cautiously, more like a trained spy sneaking up on a target than a college student facing down a spider. I retrieve my skillet, the closest handy hard object and returned to my front stoop to wait. Paul showed up, puzzlement painted across his face. He held his arms out for a hug without looking away from my apartment.
“What’s going on? Your apartment looks fine.”
I looked up at him, confused.
“No, the spider is still in there, in front of the bookshelf…”
His face changed from shocked to confused to exasperated in under a second.
“I thought you said your apartment was on fire! You called me over here for a spider?”
“Oh gosh! No, no fire! I’m so sorry! It’s just… it’s a really big spider!”
He looks at my face, at the skillet, and signs in resignation. He holds out his hand for the skillet, which I gladly offer up. I start to thank him but he just rolls his eyes, a smile just barely visible, and walks into my apartment. I wait.
“Holy shit! That thing is fucking huge!”
I can hear him scream that out through the closed door, and feel instantly vindicated. I knew that spider was enormous. Paul is silent through the closed doors and I hear nothing for a several beats.
BAM. It is the sound of my skillet hitting the floor
BAM BAM BAM. It is the sound of my skillet hitting the floor several more times, noises that surprise me but also further advance my feelings of vindication.
“It just won’t frickin’ die!” I hear Paul shout in exasperation. I get over my embarrassment about asking for help quickly and am glad Paul is here. He was the best person to call. David and I have only just started dating and I don’t want to test our bond by asking him to head over in the middle of the night. Also, as I will learn in a different story, David’s fear of spiders rivals my own.
Paul walks out of my tiny home, skillet in hand. He walks calmly over to the grass, wipes the skillet off a few times, and walks back in the apartment. He even washes my skillet again in the sink for me. I thank him, multiple times, and confirms my suspicions–that spider was enormous and terrifying and fought with enormous will to live. He did a quick walkthrough with me to insure no further spiders before leaving me alone with the political science paper.
*Also the shower flooded no matter how many times they tried to reseal it. Oh and the walls were full of bees. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the greatest apartment.
**The parts that aren’t true are likely the boring parts. Promise.
I was fourteen and outing myself to her. Mom, I told her, I’m bisexual. The semantics aren’t that important as bi would turn to gay would turn back to bi would turn to I’m tired of definitions and I like who I like. The attitude with which she responded, though, speaks leaps and bounds about the person she is and the person she raised me to be.
You are a lot of things. Don’t let one thing define who you are at the expense of others.
There’s this thing in the queer community concerning the evolution of coming out–after you go public, there is more often than not a mild explosion of rainbows that trail behind you for a while as you figured out how to mold your identity around this new shiny facet. I was no exception–my girlfriend indulged my every rainbow whim, I went to pride parades and was obnoxiously loud, I was aggressive to gawkers and would launch into expletives whenever someone shouted a slur at me. Etc. Etc. Etc. I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with any of that, especially since I was a teenager figuring out who I was, but my mom’s words sunk deep into my brain. I might be gay, but that is not all that I am. I am a million and one things, and that’s a good thing.
This advice comes in handy every single day I’m alive, and it’s kept me from getting lost. In college I thought that I was going to be a reporter, that I was going to go through the journalism program. Long story short, that route almost killed me. My mom’s words rang true again– I am a writer, but it is not all that I am. I may be bipolar, but that is not all that I am.
In a deep way, it rescued me from losing myself to the worst of who I can be at times. In a lighter way, those words have kept me from pigeonholing my interests. I am a writer. I am an artist. I am a reader. I don’t have to be any one of those things. Even now, in a full circle, I am the life partner to a man, but that is not all that I am. I am still largely gay. I am in love with David. I paint. I play video games. I write. No one thing will sum up my life experiences, and that’s a great gift to be given.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day and I had my mom over to play a game of Scrabble. I lost to her and David by an embarrassing margin. David lost to her by a hair. A week earlier my sister, brother in law, partner and I all took my mom out for a picnic for an early celebration. Today my mom and I are going to the grocery store together. I think it shows on this blog, particularly if you read between the lines closely, but my mom is my best friend. I know that’s not the case for everyone and to those people I say I’m sorry, and all I can offer you is my mom. She’s taken in any and all of my sister’s and I’s friends growing up. She’s taken in our boyfriends, our girlfriends, our best friends, our frenemies. She has an open heart that leaves me awed most times Other times it leaves me fiercely protective, willing to scream down anyone who takes advantage of her kindness.
My sister and my mom form the core of my family unit. We’ve added some amazing people into that unit, like David and my brother in law. Nothing makes me happier than knowing that the five of us can sit down on a park bench for three hours, joking and laughing and making each other roll their eyes, and still not be sick of each other. My mom is the key piece of glue in that equation and I’m just lucky to have her.
I’m including the last pictures of David with my mom on our trip to Hawaii because it best sums up how we all feel about each other. There is silliness, there is refusing to pose for the camer seriously, but most importantly there is love and family.
I’m rambling. It’s hard not to, if you knew her. She’s my best friend and I love her. She’s always given me her whole heart and I hope she knows (I’m pretty sure she knows) she has my whole heart as well.
Mushy stuff about my mom aside? I think The Bloggess wrote a beautiful piece about Mother’s Day that I whole heartedly concur with, and SIF shared some really great words as well. I love using this day to celebrate my mom, but I have too many women in my life who find this an isolating and heartbreaking holiday. I want to echo the words of others to them–You are not a lesser person if this is not your holiday.
Pun is courtesy of David after I asked him what breed Lyra looks like. I’ve stopped seeing her as a dog, or as a breed, a long time ago–happens when you’ve had a dog for the dog’s entire life, I suppose. I feel like I’ve slept through this entire week which is ironic, since I’m about twenty hours of sleep short on my weekly quota. Thursday’s post only happened because I wrote it last week, and I’m sorry for the heavy-on-the-rants schedule from this week. I’ll try to space them out next time. I think Lyra and I are going to go squeeze in a nap (she just walked up to me and started yawning in the middle of that sentence) but in the meantime….
What breed does she look like? Or is she just solidly a mutt?
The thing about changing the color of your hair is that you can’t pretend that old photos are anything but. Still, I found these photos buried away and realized I never posted them (right?! because being wrong would be so embarrassing…) This outfit is one of the easy outfits in my closet, and by easy, I mean I can wear it without triggering my anxiety. Have I mentioned? Getting dressed in the morning is always a battle, because somehow it’s one of the things that triggers my anxiety. We’re not talking fashion-diva-anxiety, but full on panic-attack-anxiety. Ask anyone who’s had to deal with me getting dressed in the morning. David told me during the photo shoot that he was having fun playing with angles, and he used that same excuse when I asked him why there was no full body shot to show off my shoes. They were comfy black wedges, for those who were curious.
My friend Alicia posted a brilliantly honest piece on her blog this morning that I can not encourage you strongly enough to read. The online world, which is usually a fair echo of the real world, seems to constantly flow back and forth between body shame and overly confident body pride. I’m all about loving yourself, but it seems like an unrealistic expectation to expect constant acceptance at a constant rate. I’ve spent years hating my body and how it looks, and I remember feeling so ashamed that I couldn’t be proud of my body the way others are. I’ve come a long way since then, but I still struggle. There are days where I hate my stretch marks and days where I feel like my skin fits me perfectly. Side note? I’ve felt a huge surge of confidence with my own body since cutting my allergens out. It’s not that I’ve lost any weight, but I didn’t realize the full extent of how bloated and swollen I was.
Anyway–I loved the honesty in Alicia’s post, so I figured I’d echo it in support, as uncomfortaable as it makes me. The whole point is that it shouldn’t be uncomfortable, that I am a beautiful work in progress (unfinished & perfect, amiright?).
I weight approximately 170 lbs.
I stand at 5’3”
I wear a 32D
My core measurements are 38″ 32″ 42″
I wear anything from a size 8 to a size 12, depending on the cut. When I was in college my range as a 6 – 10 range, although I pretended that I couldn’t wear anything bigger than an 8, since I was sure that being in the double digits of size was this unforgivable line I couldn’t let myself cross. Fortunately I realized wearing clothes that fit is way more comfortable.
I like that I have curves. I love the indent of my waist, which is something finally reappeared again after I cut out wheat and eggs. I love my calves–they may not fit tall boots but they have some curvey muscle on them from all my bike riding. I’m excited about my arms again, which has a lot more to do with my pterodactyl than anything else, but I’ll take what I can get. I’m a big fan of my eyes and my eyelashes. I love my hands, too, and I love my long fingers and that I can grow long healthy nails (when I’m not busy biting them). I love the mole on my upper left cheek–even if it means people occasionally wipe their spit on me. No joke! It hasn’t happened for years, but all the way up to early high school I would have strangers do the spit wipe, telling me I had a smudge of something on my face. So gross and so awkward.
I struggle with my stomach, although not-swollen belly is easier to love. I used to be incredibly self conscious because the way I would bloat after eating made it look like I was several months pregnant. My family joked about it, and I know it was all lighthearted, but it’s still something that makes me incredibly self conscious. The funny thing about egg- and wheat-free eating is that I don’t look like I’m in my second trimester after meals anymore. Yay!
I also struggle with my chin and jawline. Ever since I had jaw surgery (orthodontic based, they broke my jaw in the mid and on the sides and reset it) I feel like I have no chin. My face seems to have just enough fat to create a smooth gradient from chin to neck that makes me afraid of my side profile. While we’re on the subject of my face silhouette, I’ve been a little self conscious about how sharp my nose looks, especially coupled with round eyes.
My thighs aren’t something I think about, but whenever I read about the new ‘trend’ of ‘keyhole thighs’ I get a little self conscious–mine definitely rub together without tights, and they have stretch marks. Rachele from Nearsighted Owl definitely made me feel a million times better about the “chub rub”, and I resonated with one of the commenters who wrote that she used to think her thighs rubbing together was a natural punishment. It’s not a punishment–it’s called biker shorts, and they’re a godsend.
My summary? I’ve spent years struggling with my body image and accepting how I look. I’m at the point where I refuse to talk about needing to lose weight–I refuse to tell myself I need to lose weight. I’ve been drilling the new philosophy that my lifestyle is what matters. Developing and maintaining a healthy relationship with food–eating healthy, indulging in treats, avoiding my allergens is my priority. Keeping my physical activities in check, bike on a weekly basis, walk Lyra plenty. If I do those things, if I live a moderately healthy life, there is nothing for me to worry about when it comes to how I look.
I’ve had this secret that I’ve been hanging onto, guys, and I’ve been clutching to it pretty tightly. I figured it didn’t matter, and no one needed to know and I could just ignore it forever. Then I had a medical thing crop up that turned out to be, although rather mild overall, the straw that broke the camel’s back. My mom talked me off the ledge of hysteria with some well-placed reminders that a lot of the problem could be the result of, or at least exacerbated by my deeply ignored….
food allergies.
There, I said it. Kels is rolling her eyes and laughing sympathetically, but the thing is I know I’m allergic to two things. Eggs make me throat feel like I tried to snort a cheese grater and wheat isn’t that nice to my body either.
So why on earth have I spent the past five (I know, I know!) years in denial about it? Well–have you ever tried to cut those two things out of your diet? Particularly when you also don’t eat meat? And are the life partner of a bonafide carb-a-holic? Yeah, it’s pretty tough. Technically dairy should probably also be on that list, but a girl has her limits.
Take away cookies, and I sigh despondently.
Take away my eggs for breakfast and I’ll pout for a while but live.
Take away milkshakes? Ice cream? Chocolate? I will cut you.
It’s definitely hard but worth it, at this point. I’ve been meal planning like crazy and figuring out which foods I can easily keep in my apartment to munch on throughout the day. It’s only been a few days and already I feel better. I forgot that it was possible for my stomach to be in a state of not-hyper-extended-bloat. It feels really good and it’s also been unexpectedly exciting to get back into cooking! I don’t want to be one more blogger who posts gluten- and egg-free recipes, but if you guys want to know the hundreds of way I cook quinoa, just let me know and I’ll post a recipe or two.
Update: So I realized I made it sound like I’m still a vegetarian, when I stopped being one a while ago. I don’t particularly like meat but when I cut two main staples out of my diet I stop limiting myself in other ways. Also, I’ve done the gluten free thing before, which is partially how I know what it’s like and that I do better without wheat. I definitely appreciate the support, but I’m also very much not fumbling around in the dark–I’m grateful I’ve already done this before, because it means I already have the cookbooks and a general sense of what I like to eat when bread is a no go 
Hey readers–I figure you don’t want to hear my rant for the next couple hundred words about shitty dog owners and obnoxious people, so let’s take a detour back to the beginnings of this blog.
*Oh that awkwardly extended pause after I mention my dad? Him and I are on good terms too, but for several reasons I just choose to not talk about him on the blog.
