Reality Mom

Good-bye

2011-05-01T18:35:00.000-07:00

It's the end of an era: Reality Mom is closing shop. She's had a lovely, enriching eight year life of simultaneously horrifying and delighting herself and others with tales of Little Dude, Odo, Jason, diapers, divorce, dating, sex (with others and alone), writing, publishing (yea!), friendship, mistakes, vacations (which often are filled with mistakes), and parenting triumphs and woes. And now, she needs to say good-bye and move on to other endeavors.
The print zine will cease to be published and this site will cease to have any new posts. I'll leave it up for it's archive value for a little while longer.
Although Reality Mom is moving on, Corbin the writer is still going strong. Updates on her classes and publishing projects can be found at here and she will continue bi-monthly columns with the Ballard News Tribune as well as the Seattle PI.
Thank you for all of your support
love
Reality Mom

Publishing help

2011-03-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

The Road to Getting Published

Corbin meets with writing groups to demystify the publishing process. Whether you are hoping to have an essay or short story published or an entire manuscript, she will walk you through your options and the various steps needed to achieve your goal. Areas covered will be query letters, how to find an agent, how to write a book proposal and summary, the differences and process for self-publishing, small presses and mid-size presses and how to stay motivated in a very competitive market. Contact her at corbinlew@clearwire.net for availability.

Crafting and Publishing Personal Essays
Instructor: Corbin Lewars
Wednesday, April 06, 2011 - Wednesday, May 11, 2011. 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM
Richard Hugo House
Min: 5 Max: 15

The first half of this class will be devoted to crafting and strengthening students’ personal essays. Using other authors as examples, we will discuss the importance of a strong lead, pacing, voice and other characteristics to consider when writing essays. Time will be devoted to workshop participants’ essays in class. The latter half of class will be spent learning about and identifying suitable publications to submit to. Participants will learn how to position themselves effectively in a query letter and craft an effective pitch. Ideally, by the end of the session everyone will have submitted several queries and/or their complete essay to various publications.

Mentoring Space

2011-03-02T13:09:00.000-08:00

I have recently joined up with several other amazing Ballard professionals in order to have office space to see my writing mentoring clients. We are having a grand opening to celebrate on March 12 from 7-10pm. Please stop by to say hello, have a glass of wine, win a prize, and meet these other amazing individuals.

More information: The time has come and we are thrilled to be announcing the official grand opening of, "Root. Integrative Health!!" We are Ballard's newest edition of collaborative Healthcare bringing you the best in chiropractic, nutrition, massage therapy, acupuncture, naturopathic medicine, mental health counseling and wriitng mentoring! Come meet our practitioners and share in our celebration of health and vitality! Enjoy a glass of fine wine, delectable treats, prize worthy raffles, visual stimulation from our local artist and much more!!! We are proudly located in within the historic Carnegie Library building-- a Ballard landmark you know you have been dying to check out! So, mark your calendars for the evening of March 12th, 2011 from 7P-10P for the event you cannot miss!

Constricted

2011-02-25T14:24:00.000-08:00

It may not be rational, but when I found myself being worried about my lack of money, I came up with ways I could spend some. “Money is merely energy,” I explained to my friend Vivien. “For the past couple of months, I’ve been nervous about every dollar I spent and wouldn’t allow for anything extra for the kids and I.”
“Right, that’s what you’re supposed to do,” she said.
“No! It stopped the flow of energy. If nothing is going out and I’m all bunched up and constricted around it, then there’s no room for anything to come in.”

She rolled her eyes, as she often does when I mention the word “energy.” But I knew I was on to something and I wasn’t going to let her dissuade me.

I am fortunate enough that “being worried about money” doesn’t translate to an immediate threat of being homeless or unable to provide food for my kids. “Being worried about money,” merely means that in the last year, my income was not what it had been. In fact, I made less than I did in the nineties. This was worrisome, but at the same time I believed I was of able mind and body so I would be able to find some ways to bring in more income once I jump started the energy flow.

It started with small things, such as $3.99 flowers from Trader Joes and saying “yes” rather than “no” when my kids asked for donuts at the Ballard Market. I placed “Lakshmi” in my mirror, which to me means “abundance of flow” and waited for the magic to begin. Nothing much changed, so I escalated it to hiring some neighbor contractors to work on my kids’ room. “You’re crazy,” Vivien said. “You don’t have the money for that right now nor do you really need it.”
“Yes I do. It’s time for my kids to have a real room that’s not exposed to every noise in the house, not to mention for them to get out of my room.”

For eight years, glass doors have been the only thing separating me from my children at night. This was great when they were young, but it was time for all of us to grow up. I explained to Vivien how I viewed it not only as an investment in my future adult relationship with a man, but also as a stimulation to the economy. I adored the neighbors I was hiring, they were working with me to get the job done as inexpensively as possible while not jeopardizing quality, and every thing about my interactions with them said yes. Following yeses is another firm belief of mine.

Within a week of the guys starting on my house, two agents asked to read my next manuscript and I heard essays of mine were accepted in two anthologies. The following week, I was offered a catering job without applying. I don’t plan on making a career out of catering, but money is money and the main criteria of the job involved moving so I said yes. Two weeks later, a fellow writer I’ve known for years offered me a contract writing job at the U. When I asked if she needed a writing sample or resume, she said, “No, I know your writing and I want you. Can you come sign the papers today?” They pay me my top tier, I work from home, and best of all, the writing assignments are interesting and have nothing to do with my life. The indulgence of being able to think, write, and analyze my life has started to lose it’s allure and I was more than ready to write about climate control, breast cancer drugs, a research trip to Cambodia, or almost any other topic that occurred outside of my home.

The synchronicities and good fortune continued in more ways than I could have imagined. The same week that I started desiring a place out of my home to meet with clients, a friend told me such a place was available at the Carnegie Library. A few emails later, I agreed to lease a space there for the exact days that I was hoping for. My writing class filled, even though I assumed the time of day it was being offered would be restrictive. Potential new clients began to email me and other abundant people entered my life.

All of this abundance of flow made the areas of my life that were still constricted even more apparent. Currently, that is my work on my next memoir. It may merely be the point in time where it needs to percolate, rather than be written, or I may need to force myself to work though my block, I am not sure. As it stands now, I am avoiding it which appears to be the same as “letting it rest,” but in actually results in expending more energy than is required to actually write it and causes guilt, self-doubt, and a host of other debilitating emotions. Today I moved some of my office furniture around, smudged my office, and otherwise moved energy with the hope that my next step with the memoir will be revealed. If the words start coming to me freely again, great, but even if they don’t, having clarity on the situation is the first step towards becoming unstuck so I can once again be in flow.

Moonlighting

2011-02-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

The thing about being a writer is the money sucks. Therefore, most writers freelance as copywriters, write for Airline magazines, or teach. When the money from teaching wasn’t enough, I asked myself how else I could make a quick buck. The answer came quickly: wait tables.

Sure, leaving a bar or restaurant with a pocket full of cash without robbing it is alluring. And sure, I spent my twenties relying on this medium to supplement my other virtuous work. But even at twenty, I was unable to be kind to assholes. At forty, there’s not a chance that would happen. This means a lucrative career of bartender or waitress was out, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t cater.

The beauty of catering is the customer never knows your name and they never see you again. You’re in and you’re out and you don’t have to smile during it. I called Jason to see if his friend of thirty-five years who is a chef for a large catering company needed any help. Greg set up a meeting with the owners for the same week.
“But I don’t have any resumes with restaurant experience on them,” I told him.
“It doesn’t matter, just send what you have. See you tomorrow.”

If my job search took all of five minutes, the interview took two. The owner looked me up and down and smiled, which told me I passed the first hurdle: no physical deformities. “Are you comfortable bossing people around?” was the second test. To which I passed again, by saying, “Sure, I’m a mom.”
“Great, we can make you a lead then. It pays more. Here’s the paper work. Can you work on the 5th?”
“Sure, but I don’t want to be a lead. I want to move a lot, but not think.”
“Got it. See you in a couple of weeks”
And thus, I landed myself a second job.

A few days later I received a text saying, “Wear all black and see you at 3” which served as my employee training.
“Are you bartending or serving?” Jason asked
“I have no idea.”
“What time will you get done?”
I have no idea”
“Is it a wedding or corporate event or… you have no idea,” he answered his own question. Where this could have made me nervous, I actually enjoyed it. The less details I am given the better, because if I screw up, I can claim I didn’t know. If I have to read or sit through a formal training, I won’t pay attention, so will still screw up, but my “I didn’t know” excuse won’t hold any merit. It’s much better to be ignorant and wing it.

I arrived to the site at three o’clock, was called Shanty, and asked where my button down shirt was. Before I could answer, the owner said, “Shoot, and you look so cute.” She looked grimaced while handing me a red, not black, button down shirt with their logo plastered all over it. How I would have had this shirt in my possession, known that “wear all black” really meant black pants and a red shirt that only they own, or why I was being called Shanty were beyond me, but I didn’t care. Everyone was smiling, they seemed to like Shanty, and were glad she was there.

I hopped into a huge truck with Roberto, who promptly told me he had never driven a car, nonetheless a twenty foot truck full of catering equipment. “Want to drive?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I replied and buckled my seatbelt. The owner called out a series of directions, none of which Roberto nor I listened to nor wrote down. On our way to somewhere, Roberto asked me why I wasn’t rich if I wrote books. “Good question,” I laughed.
“Can you teach me English?” he asked in perfect English. “I don’t understand grammar.”
“Either do I,” I said. “Maybe you can teach it to me.”
“But you have a Master’s degree and write every day, how could you not understand the rules.”
“That is another very good question.”

His confusion about this was derailed by the fact that we somehow had arrived safely to the site. The next two hours were a frenzy of activity where I achieved my career aspiration of moving a lot and not thinking. It was bliss. Catering isn’t rocket science, so it was pretty easy to figure out what was needed without ever asking. The flowers on all of the tables told me it was a wedding, the two people stocking the bars told me I wasn’t bartending, I was serving, and the huge room of tables and lavish spread told me it cost the bride’s family a fortune.

Three hours into the job I asked my first question, “When do we get to eat?”
“Soon,” Roberto responded.
An hour later I asked my second question, “Where’s the bathroom?”
“I don’t know,” the bladder of steel owner responded. I found the beautiful restrooms myself and while visiting it wondered how many of the frisky guests (thanks to the open bar) had had sex in it.
I returned to the party and asked my third question, “Do we ever get to have wine?”
“Do what you have to, but be quiet about it,” the ever knowledgeable Melody answered. “Want to have a smoke with me?”

I joined Melody outside, but amazed myself by not smoking. I didn’t even ask for a drag. Even more shocking, I had been polite to all two hundred and fifty guests for six hours. Sure, it helped that they were polite as well, but under the name Shanty I could have gotten away with murder. As a twenty five year old it would have been impossible to do so sober, especially while working a wedding where everyone is drunk and the champagne pours freely so no one would know the difference.

On my drive home I smiled with the thought, Shanty may have learned a few things in the past years.

Imbolc

2011-01-31T13:23:00.000-08:00

On Friday I was talking to my friend Marcie about where we wanted to go for happy hour. She was leaving the following morning to go to Hawaii for ten days and wanted to start her vacation a day early. I was tempted to hate her for this, but the fact that she had pneumonia curbed my jealousy. “So you’re sure you’re not contagious anymore?” I asked.
“I’ve been on antibiotics for over a week. So, I’m thinking Mexican with margaritas?”

While I pondered my alcohol and food choices, she tended to her son who was crying in the background. She came back on the line to report he had just puked and she’d call me back. Looks as if I’m not going to happy hour, I muttered as I hung up the phone.

Another friend called to ask if I wanted to hang out. I wanted to see her, but knew I would have to endure hearing about the two weeks she had just spent in Hawaii. Even better (or worse, for me), she met a man and had a steamy affair while there. “So you’re tan and freshly fucked? I’m so jealous.” She howled with laughter, texted her man my sentiments, to which he howled about as well, and then stopped her gloating momentarily by saying “I’ll come over around 8 with wine and cheese.”

Conversing with her cured some of my doldrums, but they returned when I woke up the following day. I turned up my heat, plastered my face to the window for the mere five minutes that the sun shone that day, and drank a lot of coffee to ward off the winter blahs. When that stopped working, I crawled into bed to take a nap.

Although it was cozy and warm in my cocoon, I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. I also knew that a ritual was taking place that very evening that could help with my lethargy, dead creativity, and yearnings to escape. Sure, this would require that I be vertical and actually get dressed, but I only needed to drive to the OM center, which was minutes from my house. I pried myself out of bed, splashed water on my face, and got into my car with the heat blasting to attend an evening to celebrate Imbolc, Brigid, creativity, the beginning of spring, fertility, and a variety of other lovely anti-winter blah sentiments.

I had never been to the OM Culture, nor did I know what the ritual was going to be. All I knew was that Judith of Gaia’s Temple was one of the organizers. Judith is one of the most intelligent, charismatic, enlightened, not to mention funny women I know, so I trusted that I would not be disappointed in my experience.

One step into the Center told me I made the right choice. Tapestries hung from the thirty foot ceilings, beautiful maidens slid around the room smiling, wafts of rosemary, rose, and lavender permeated the air, and gorgeous altars representing the four directions adorned the perimeter. I saw several familiar faces, met several new people, and learned that another heroine of mine, Teri from Living Love Revolution, was also a planner of this event.

It feels sacrilegious to describe all that happened in the following hours, but I will say I left with a pouch full of herbs, a collage with Shiva as the focus, and a brightness to my eyes that I hadn’t seen in a week or more. And when I woke up this morning, I wrote for a couple of hours effortlessly. When I stopped to take a break, I noticed the sun was shining and my tulips and daffodils were sprouting through the piles of leaves I mulched them with. I may not be tan or have sand in my orifices, but for now, I am satisfied that the journey I took was the right one for me.

Secrets

2011-01-11T09:46:00.001-08:00

Saturday, February 12 · 7:00pm - 9:00pm
Richard Hugo House
1634 11th Avenue
Seattle, WA

Come hear 10 smart and sassy women bare secrets about life and love in an evening of incandescent prose, poetry and plays.

Featuring writers Corbin Lewars, Lisette Austin, Monica Lemoine, Larissa Min, Jennifer Munro, Deborah Pursifull, Bonnie Rough, Tanya Ruckstuhl-Valenti, Ann Teplick, and Anastacia Tolbert.

Hosted by Seattle writer David Schmader.

The event is free and open to the public. Refreshments available at cafe. A $3 donation is suggested.

(poster design by Larissa Min) ;)

New Year’s Prophecy

2011-01-04T10:18:00.000-08:00

While driving to a friend’s solstice gathering, my friend Vivien mused about the upcoming New Year. “I have a theory,” she said, “that whatever you do on New Years Eve is symbolic to how you’ll spend the rest of the year.” I thought back to how I spent last New Years with a friend, recently turned friend with benefits, and sure enough, that evening foreshadowed the rest of my year. I didn’t have any regrets about last year, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure I needed a repeat performance this year.

After a few whiskeys at the solstice gathering, I found myself in the garage with all of the other moms smoking cigarettes. With Vivien’s prophecy in mind, I claimed I was no longer going to smoke. “You don’t smoke now,” my friends teased.
“I shared one with a friend the other night and after I sucked that baby down, I wanted another one. Then I felt like crap in the morning and decided I was too old to be taking up such bad habits.”

They nodded, continued smoking, and continued to ignore my pleas of, “Isn’t it dangerous for us to be smoking in a garage? I mean, there could be spilled gas on the ground.”

Maybe I was tired of being ignored, or maybe the whiskey altered my reasoning, or maybe Vivien’s prophecy made me nostalgic, but the next thing I knew, I was inviting all of the smoking, drinking moms and their children to my house for New Years. The idea exploded, just as we were all going to do if we didn’t stop lighting matches in that damn garage, and soon enough, the party turned into a sleepover with pancakes in the morning. My gut churned, and it wasn't from the Makers. My first thought when I woke up in the morning was, “I’ve got to renege that invitation as soon as possible.”

It’s true, I love a party, but it’s also true, I don’t love parties with other kids. Eight years into this parenting gig and I still can’t wipe Lord of the Flies images out of my mind whenever I’m forced to be around more than five kids. On their own, my kids listen, sit down when they eat and actually use utensils, speak clearly and relatively calmly, and most of their favorite activities involve sitting on the couch while making up stories. I do not witness anything close to this when I attend “kid friendly” parties. Therefore, I avoid, or highly medicate myself before, these events and leave as soon as possible. But if this chaos was going to be in my house for twenty hours straight, I wouldn’t have any way to escape. Not only did I not want to endure this for an evening, there was no way in hell I was going to have it impact the rest of my year.

I called my friends and told them they were still free to come over as long as they left by 8:00 p.m.. Once they realized I wasn’t kidding, they invited me to their place instead. “I’ll think about it,” I said, “but I don’t really like to drive on New Years.”

I carried on through a very relaxing Christmas and the days afterward without a firm plan for New Years. My suspicion was my kids and I would stay close to home and this was solidified after we attended a party on the 30th where almost everyone I talked to shared my sentiment of, “This is my New Years. Tomorrow I’m staying home.”

My kids were unaware that New Years is something to celebrate and they didn’t know about the six invitations I politely turned down, so were not surprised when I put my pajamas on as soon as we returned home from the aquarium. Their friend’s dad picked his son up at 5:30, invited us again to their house, but stopped once I pointed to my slippers. After dinner, my kids performed a puppet show for me, complete with underwear on their heads and socks on their hands. We each chose cards from various tarot decks, read our prophecies, lit candles, and then crawled into bed to read. Around nine o’clock, I eased my guilt by checking in with a few friends. If they were sad and lonely, I told myself I could stay up for at least one glass of champagne. Fortunately, they were all either heading home or already home as well.

“Do you think we’ll regret this later?” I asked my friend Jill. “I suppose I could rally and invite x over.”
“Do you want him to come over?”
“No.”
“Then stay in your pajamas. I view this as a sign that we’re moving into a different phase; a less manic and more content phase.”
With that in mind, I crawled into bed with a snoring boy and cover-stealing little girl.

I woke up on New Years Day clear and refreshed, but still not certain if I set the right tone for the year. After eating homemade waffles, which in no way resembled Lord of the Flies, I felt a little reassured. While my kids scampered off to gather all of their Christmas presents to “sell” back to me, I checked my emails and learned that one of my essays was accepted into an anthology and another essay made the second round of cuts for a different anthology. This good news, along with the fact that all of my kids’ gifts only cost my fifty five cents the second time around, convinced me that 2011 was going to be a prosperous year.

Is getting published part of your New Year's resolution?

2011-01-02T15:08:00.000-08:00

It should be! And these two classes can help:

Crafting and Publishing Personal Essays
Ballard Neighborhood of Seattle
Saturday, 1-3:00 p.m. for 5 weeks starting January 22 • $150 Register here

The first half of this class will be devoted to crafting and strengthening students’ personal essays. Using other authors as examples, we will discuss the importance of a strong lead, pacing, voice and other characteristics to consider when writing essays. Time will be devoted to workshop participants’ essays in class.
The latter half of class will be spent learning about and identifying suitable publications to submit to. Participants will learn how to position themselves effectively in a query letter and craft an effective pitch. Ideally, by the end of the 5 weeks everyone will have submitted several queries and/or their complete essay to various publications. Sliding scale fee available. For more details contact Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net

Writing Your Nonfiction Book Proposal
Ballard neighborhood of Seattle
Monday evenings, 7-9 p.m. for 6 weeks starting January 24th • $190 Register here

Each class will focus on a particular section of the book proposal. What is required to create a winning book concept, how much information needs to go into the overview, how to research your potential markets and competition, how to sell yourself as an author with a platform (even if you don’t think you have one), and everything else you need to know to complete a book proposal will be covered in class. Outside work will be expected to be done in between classes so we can workshop each section during class. The goal is to have a draft, if not complete book proposal, written by the end of the six weeks. Sliding scale fee available. For more details contact Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net

About the instructor:

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is the author of the memoir Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which has been nominated for the PNBA book award. Her novel Swings is out for submission and she is currently working on another memoir entitled After Glow. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including the Seattle PI, Hip Mama, and Mothering. She was the editor of Verve, a Seattle women's magazine and has been a writing mentor for over ten years. She teaches memoir, personal essay, and publishing classes through Seattle Community Colleges, Richard Hugo House, and privately.

Sneak preview to the winter issue of Reality Mom

2010-12-15T14:51:00.000-08:00

The winter issue will be out soon. Order your subscription today by clicking on the paypal link to the right. Or give a year of laughs and insight to a friend for Christmas. The upcoming issue features poetry by Michelle Cristiani and essays by Nadya Petkova and Kezia Willingham. As well as works by your truly such as the following confession to being a book slut.

What He’s Reading

People usually assume that since I am an author, I am a book snob. They imagine every room in my house being lined with walnut bookshelves holding my leather bound treasures. In reality, my kids’ books occupy our only bookcases. Therefore, many of our treasures are scattered on the floor of every room in the house. They are not expensive leather bound books, but rather free loans from the library.

I could feel guilty about denying those authors their measly 40 cent royalty, but I read anywhere from one to four books a week. Rather than hand over my credit card that many times, I much prefer to leave the library with my armful of books knowing I can read a page or the entire thing without feeling as if I just deprived my kids a pair of shoes.

I am a book slut, not a snob. My interests vary and I can be fickle, but in general my standards are pretty low. As long as a book holds my interest, I’ll sleep with it. My current bedmates are Are you There Vodka? It’s me Chelsea (vacuous, but funny), Salinger’s Nine Stories (one of the only authors I reread and never regret doing so), Last Seen Leaving (fabulous mystery), and Faye Weldon’s Mantrapped (a memoir blended with fiction makes for a nice idea, but at 11 at night, I don’t want to work that hard to understand which is which).

In my current phase of single mom who doesn’t watch television sluthood, women’s contemporary fiction is much more likely to be in bed with me than War and Peace. When I crawl into bed at the end of the day, I want to relax and be entertained. I don’t care how gifted the Russians are, they are not easy nor are they cheerful.

What people are reading says a lot about them. Just because I enjoy some genres more than others, doesn’t mean I don’t sample a wide range of books. As I said, I’ll sleep with almost anyone, but not everyone gets to spend the night a second time.

If I had understood the effectiveness of this possible screening tactic when I was dating actual people rather than books, I could have saved myself a lot of trouble. From now on, “What are you reading?” is no longer a mere conversation starter. It’s the fast track to determining if we’re a match or not.

An old fling told me he was reading Moby Dick. If he had said this while we were getting naked, I would have thought him witty. But we weren’t and he wasn’t. Rather than being impressed by his propensity towards such mammoth novels, and perhaps be intrigued that he had something mammoth himself, I realized he had more in common with Melville than the great whale. He was verbose in a droning sort of way and after enduring too many hour-long monologues, I chose to search the sea once again.

Somehow I managed to stay in a relationship with a man who read comic books. They weren’t arty, clever, or political comics, they were blood and gore. Fortunately, he was very intelligent and well informed about many subjects, so our conversations were almost always interesting events in which I learned something. Unfortunately, whenever emotions were revealed (by me), he retreated back to his adolescent comic book escaping self.

In order to read the rest of this fabulous article, order your copy of Reality Mom today. It's only $3, cheaper and much better for you than a latte. Email Corbin with your address corbinlew@clearwire.net

The Weight of Like

2010-11-29T12:35:00.000-08:00

The first time it occurred, I was riding in the backseat of a car. My mother was fiddling with the radio while my father drove. He likes to smoke while driving and fails to understand why we protest this behavior. “What?” he asks incredulously, “I opened the window.”

Fortunately for us, it was a warm summer day and the drive to the pool wouldn’t take long. Something about being crammed between my two children in the back seat made me feel like a child myself. A flood of memories of rolling around my parent’s station wagon with my sister came to me and I mourned that my children would never experience this freedom. They are always strapped in and harnessed to molded plastic. Rolling around in a moving car is now deemed precarious if not downright lethal. We didn’t worry about these things in the seventies. In fact, in many of these memories I can clearly picture my dad’s highball glass in one hand, the steering wheel in the other.

My reverie was interrupted with a touch of a small hand. I looked at my son and he grinned at me while saying, “Mom, I like you.” The silence that followed was palpable. The fiddling of the radio ceased, the window was rolled up, and I held the gift my son just gave me as if it was a precious treasure. Because it is.

At eight years old, I could still be confident that my son loved me. But that he liked me, was not a given. It can be an age where kids need to pull away from their parents, defy them, and rebel against them. Although I accept this, I do not look forward to it. I have been blessed that neither of my kids have ever told me they hate me, nor that they don’t like me. They rarely show anger towards me, both being more prone to tears than yelling. And when feeling frustrated or sad, their mama’s embrace is the salve they ask for.

They frequently tell me they love me, but to say “I like you” holds even more magnitude. Love can feel obligatory, whereas like only occurs with free will. I love my children because they are part of me. But I like them, because they are funny, compassionate, fascinating individuals who readily share their feelings and love with others.

Several weeks after our visit to the swimming pool, I was riding once again in a car. No cigarette smoke or fiddling of the radio was present this time, just my friend and I driving to the Herbalist. We were chatting about writing, our upcoming readings, and life in general when she said, “My mother never liked me. I believe she loved me, but she didn’t like me.” Again, the weight of those words was worthy of a pause. We needed to let them have a life in the car before we killed them with apologies or excuses.

I touched my friend’s arm as she continued. “I’ve always known this, but it was very apparent when she was dying. People can’t hide things on their deathbed. It’s part of letting go.” Her story crescendoed here, as the immensity of truth often does.
Liking someone is a truthful act. There is no room for dishonesty because it only makes the unliked person feel worse, as with my friend’s story. Years of knowing the truth, yet having her family refute it was an even greater affliction than being the “non-liked” daughter. The only way we can release ourselves from these secretive wounds is to speak them outloud over and over again. My mother didn’t like me. My mother didn’t like me.

My son, and daughter, have gifted me with “I like you” a few more times since our summer swim. It is not something they say daily, or even monthly, for that would cheapen the gift. It is only said while I am connecting deeply with them in a way they enjoy. It is not something they ponder before saying or strategize about or even say for my benefit. It is a feeling in their heart that erupts out of their mouth. It is pure. It is raw. It is honest.

Even if the words change to “I don’t like you,” as they surely will at some point, my only hope is that they too come from this pure and honest place. Not said out of vexation or merely because I won’t purchase something for them, but because they are truly feeling it. Although I am sure this will hurt my feelings, having them not say it, while feeling it, would hurt all of us so much more.

Bacon, snow and gratitude

2010-11-24T21:03:00.000-08:00

On the first snow day I was foolish enough to think I could still work. With one kid at a friend’s and one occupied with a friend, I confidently turned my computer on. I fantasized about the gourmet appetizer I would make for Thanksgiving after I finished a few hours of writing. Fifteen minutes, and twenty interruptions later, I turned the computer off and revised my list to one thing: shower if I feel inspired.

But something about being trapped in a house, or similarly camping, brings out the procurer in me. I stare at a mostly full refrigerator and panic that we’re going to starve to death. I’m obviously not the only one with a hoarder instinct, because there were at least thirty other people ogling raw meat with me at the grocery store. I haven’t eaten red meat in thirty years, but I threw a few t-bones in on top of my overflowing cart and headed to the check out stand.

I triple checked that the kids were strapped in, slowly drove my golf cart over the ice and snow, and breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled into the driveway. The warmth of being home safely with a fire and newly hung Christmas lights was so intoxicating (or perhaps it was the eighth meal I had eaten that day), I called several friends to offer to watch their kids the following day.

Second snow day.
8:00 a.m. I’m woken by my daughter announcing that she is awake and wants to play Club Penguin. “Sure,” I say and roll over, pausing momentarily to wonder if perhaps she hadn’t asked something else, such as “Can we smoke the cigarettes we found behind the black beans?” Although I am not a smoker, my house seems to be the house where all of my supposedly non-smoking friends stash their cigs. Before I can recall how many and whose smokes I have, I fall back asleep.

10:00 I wake again, probably because the house is quiet.

11:00 I’m still in pajamas, still drinking coffee, but hoping the store bought cinnamon rolls baking in the oven will fool my friends into thinking I’ve been up for hours. The first friend drops his son off and immediately says, “Sorry you had to get up so early.” No mention of the wafting cinnamon smell, but also an earnest look on his face that tells me he’s not flipping me shit. I am reminded once again why I love this family.

12:00 All five kids are crashing from their sugar rush so I scour my well-stocked fridge for the solution: bacon. Hot bacon grease and kids high on sugar, yet keen on helping cook, proves to be a bad combination, so I convince them to play outside in the snow.

12:15 First round of bacon burns due to derailment of mitten finding and coat zipping, but no worries I have two pounds of it.

12:30 Second round in jeopardy of burning because my roommate wants my opinion on how to make sure the guy she has spent every day with and invited home for Thanksgiving knows that he is NOT her boyfriend. Before I can give this predicament the ample thought it deserves, she says, “Who’s that streaking in the backyard?”

12:31 I hand my son’s friend, the one with zero percent body fat, his winter coat. “I’m not cold,’ he protests. “It’s twenty degrees out honey, you should wear a coat.” He protests again, but with a grin, so I know he’s teasing me. Sure enough, by the time I return to my burnt bacon, his coat is on.

12:35 The kids return stating they are cold. I lure them back outside by suggesting they go visit our hunky neighbor and ask him if he has any chicken eggs for us. “They’re going to hunky neighbor’s?” my roommate says while grabbing her coat. I consider joining the caravan, but remember I’m still in my pajamas. And I still have a pound of bacon to cook.

1:15 Two pounds of bacon, one bag of popcorn, one bag of tortilla chips, a pound of satsumas and sandwiches for five are inhaled in record speed. The boys run off to do boy things and I start a stained glass project with the girls.

1:20 Girls abandon stained glass and I am left with thousands of tiny glass beads mixed in with popcorn all of which are stuck in residual bacon grease. I try to scoop them up, realize I’ve had too much coffee, and switch to popping vitamins: A to E with some Echinacea and Kava Root for good measure.

2:30 I’m not sure what the kids have been doing, but I sneak off to check my emails.

3:00 My shower curtain is pulled back and all five children have a question or complaint. “The cat scratched me.” “Can we make the volcano now?” “I’m hungry.” “Want to build a snowman with us?” and finally, the one that breaks me out of my stupor, “What’s that?” as a child’s hand, one that was not born from me, moves towards my naked body. I shudder at the inappropriateness, if not unlawfulness, of the situation and tell them I’ll be out in a minute.

3:10 I trip over varied plastic items on the floor of the kids’ room on my way to mine only to find much of the same. It looks like a war zone where, as usual, my bras seem to be the main attraction of play. I tell children there will be no volcano until I can see the carpet once again.

3:30 I ignore all warnings and hazard signs on the volcano kit and start mixing away. When the kids ask to help, I say, “Sure, just wash your hands when you’re done.”

4:00 Unsuspecting father walks in to retrieve son and looks dismayed when I hand him the (unread up to this point) directions for the volcano and put my coat and mittens on. Although I know the answer and now know why she so readily agreed to the deal, I ask unsuspecting father if he is aware that his wife agreed to release me from child watching duties in order to go for a walk when she showed up. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back eventually,” I say as I walk out the door.

5:00 I return to a strangely quiet house. When I find unsuspecting father supine on my couch, I momentarily think the children killed him. He wakes up, says every thing was fine and leaves with his child.

5:15 If I plan it right, the other two kids will get picked up just as their second sugar high kicks in. With that in mind, I make brownies.

5:45 I forgot about the two remaining sugar high kids and look blankly at my offspring when they ask me what we’re going to do now.

6:00 They find a CD to dance to and I cook dinner for eight, although there are only three of us.

8:30 The kids are asleep with their twinkly Christmas lights above them. I give up on working and instead take a moment to rehash the day and be grateful. Not just that it’s over, but that it was spent in such a lovely way. Sure, an obscene amount of pork products and sugar were ingested and sure I flashed children that are not mine, but mixed in with the obscenities were frequent hugs and “I love yous” from my kids and squeals of delight and smiles from all of the kids.

And tomorrow will be spent in much the same way–gorging, playing and laughing with friends. Although it will be even better, because I don’t have to cook and I don’t have to host. And that, is something I am very thankful for.

Writing a nonfiction book proposal class

2010-11-11T12:47:00.000-08:00

I will be offering the following one day publishing workshop in December and then the six-week Writing Your Nonfiction Book Proposal class starting in January. If you attend both, your registration for the one day workshop will be deducted from the 6 week class.
I look forward to working with you
Corbin

The Road to Getting Published
Couth Buzzard Books, Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle, Sunday December 12, 1-3:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 (pre-register here for $35)
Facilitator: Corbin Lewars

In this two-hour workshop, author Corbin Lewars will explain the process of getting published. Whether you are hoping to have an essay or short story published or an entire manuscript, she will walk you through your options and the various steps needed to achieve your goal. Areas covered will be query letters, how to find an agent, how to write a book proposal and summary, the differences and process for self-publishing, small presses, mid-size, and large presses and how to stay motivated in a very competitive market.

Writing Your Nonfiction Book Proposal
Ballard neighborhood of Seattle, Monday evenings, 7-9 pm starting January 10th, $190
Register here

Writing a nonfiction book proposal does not have to be as daunting as it sounds. Each class will focus on a particular section(s) at a time to explain what is required to create a winning book concept, how much information needs to go into the overview, how to research your potential markets and competition and how to sell yourself as an author with a platform (even if you don't think you have one). Outside work will be expected to be done in between classes so we can workshop each section during class. The goal is to have a draft, if not complete book proposal written by the end of the six weeks.

Seeking Submissions

2010-11-09T14:55:00.000-08:00

Reality Mom is now taking submissions for the Winter issue. The theme will be: Celebrations. I, for one, can easily fixate on what I haven't done yet and forget or trivialize what I have. I view this issue being about celebrating our accomplishments, not necessarily how we celebrated the holidays. Send your essay (and ...triumphs) to corbinlew@clearwire.net by December 3rd. I can't guarantee publication, but I do read and get back to everyone who submits something. And you will receive several copies to compensate you if you are published in it. Thank you! xo Corbin

A bit about Reality Mom, it's published four times a year, has an international following and is sold nation wide. If you have an indie bookstore in need of this cool zine, email it to me. And you don't have to be a mom (or dad) to submit something, just a good writer. Thanks!

Fall Issue of Reality Mom

2010-11-08T09:49:00.000-08:00

Isn't it beautiful? Here's a preview of some of the fabulous articles inside. This is from Tomas Moniz, publisher of Rad Dad, father of two and extraordinary individual. It is an excerpt form his novella like hickies, like bruises

Besides writing, I dabble with photos as well. I think I’m not bad. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with junktrucks parked around my neighborhood loaded with the detritus of urban living. I enjoy capturing the weight of the bed, the composition of the rubbish in the back: bikes, furniture, trash bags; the way they all have wooden sides with numbers and names spray painted on them: a ghetto business card. I imagine every city has them. So one day I was developing my rolls in the darkroom on the UC campus and she looked into my tray as she passed me with one of her gigantic prints.
Nice, she humffed. Perhaps a bit obvious, but nice.
What a bitch, I thought, and turned to watch her boyish hips strut by me. It was when we were leaving the darkroom at the same time, entering that small room that separates the inside from the outside, that it started.
What is this room called? I began once we were inside.
She began to answer but stopped. You can tell a lot by a person when they’re faced with a question they don’t know the answer to. If they respond as if they do, be careful. If they say I don’t know, they might be the one.
I have never thought about it. The inbetween room? She confesses.
The baby darkroom? I reply.
The seven minutes in heaven room?
The makeout room? I tease.
We smile together as we move from darkness to light.

To read more, order your copy today.

Beets, Readings and Workshops

2010-10-24T13:13:00.000-07:00

The Beauty of a Beet: Poems from the Bedside
Ann Teplik, Esther Altshul Helfgott, Courtney Putnam and Richard Gold in an evening of new work on the theme of Loss and Grace ~ with a bit of wit, too.

Co-sponsored by Seattle Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs, 4Culture, and Richard Hugo House

Wednesday November 3, 7-9 p.m.
Richard Hugo House (Cabaret)
1634 Eleventh Avenue
Seattle, WA. 98122
Free

And

The Road to Getting Published
Couth Buzzard Books, Sunday December 12, 1-3:00 p.m.
Cost: $40 (pre-register here for $35)
Facilitator: Corbin Lewars www.corbinlewars.com

In this two-hour workshop, author Corbin Lewars will explain the process of getting published. Whether you are hoping to have an essay or short story published or an entire manuscript, she will walk you through your options and the various steps needed to achieve your goal. Areas covered will be query letters, how to find an agent, how to write a book proposal and summary, the differences and process for self-publishing, small presses, mid-size, and large presses and how to stay motivated in a very competitive market.

Love Your Boobies

2010-10-22T11:32:00.000-07:00

I used to think waking up to KUOW was a good way to start the day. In one week, I heard about the study trying to negate the benefits of mammograms in early detection of breast cancer and about how a girl was gang raped in California while her classmates did nothing to stop it. “Women are so fucked,” I grumbled that morning and switched over to KEXP. John in the Morning has yet to depress me.

Although the study seemed inaccurate and enraged me, it also kicked me into gear to get an early mammogram (while my insurance would still pay for it). I was able to make an appointment for the same week and I know it sounds strange, but immensely enjoyed the experience.

Having my breasts smashed didn’t hurt as people told me it would. In fact, I even liked it. (Remember, I’m also the one who liked the feeling of getting tattooed and fell asleep on the table.) Having a beautiful, intelligent woman pressed up behind me only added to the delight. When not holding and pushing against me, she filled me in all that was wrong and misleading about the Preventative Services Task Force study.
You can learn more about the erroneous and subsequent studies by visiting her at Ballard Swedish or read this.

And if that’s not enticing enough, Seattle Cancer Care Alliance is continuing their second annual Make a Mammogram Promise until the end of October. For each promise made, $1 is donated by Safeway towards research that assists women in need to access mammography. Plus, they offer prizes.

Prizes and someone touching your breasts! What else could a girl ask for? So please, love your boobies and go get a mammogram.

Meet 30 Ballard Authors on 10/19

2010-10-08T10:04:00.001-07:00

Captivating and titillating events in October

2010-10-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

October is national Family Sex Education month and who better to glean information about this topic from than Moms in Babeland?

Fortunately for us in Seattle, we can visit the babeland store whenever our heart (or another part of our body) desires. But everyone can check out their blog and read their month-long forum "Talking With Kids About Sex."

Here's some of what will be covered:

How do you talk to your kids about sex? What to say at what age? How much to divulge and when? What words to use?

Read answers to common questions from sex educator Amy Lang, MA, author of Birds + Bees + Your Kids.
Glean helpful “talking to your kids about sex” tips from SIECUS
Read our Mom Bloggers’ sex education anecdotes—from poignant to hilarious
Post a comment or question during October and enter a chance to win Babeland’s popular sex manual Moregasm: Babeland’s Guide to Mind-Blowing Sex

Amy Lang, MA is a Seattle-based sex educator and mom who hosts workshops and events for parents to teach them how to talk to kids about sex. You can read more about Amy, her books and her workshops at Birds + Bees + Your Kids .

Sexuality Information and Education Council of the United States (SIECUS) is a non-profit dedicated to providing education and information about sexuality and sexual and reproductive health. http://www.siecus.org/

Moms in Babeland is edited by Anne Semans, a Babeland mom and author of Sexy Mamas: Keeping Your Sex Life Alive While Raising Kids.

For those of you who don’t know, Babeland is a women-friendly sex toy boutique owned by Rachel Venning and Claire Cavanah (both moms) with a web site and 4 retail stores (in New York and Seattle). At Babeland, we believe that you are entitled to a healthy sex life your whole life long. In other words, just because you had a babe, doesn’t mean you can’t be a babe!

Another fantastic, titillating event for those in Seattle is a reading by Elizabeth Austen (I raved about her The Girl Who Goes Alone poem here a while back)

Elizabeth has published a new chapbook, Where Currents Meet, and will be reading from that as well as from The Girl Who Goes Alone, on Sat., Oct. 23 at 7pm at Elliott Bay Books.

Poet Molly Peacock describes Where Currents Meet as an “intense sequence of poems … written just at the nexus of social obligation and the desire to simply be.” Copies of Sightline can be purchased online from the press, or at one of the readings.

Elizabeth's reading at the Hugo House in May spellbound (and I never use that word) the audience and I assume the same will occur this time around. Join us at Elliott Bay and see for yourself.

Double Shot of Inspiration

2010-10-04T12:54:00.000-07:00

Last week a friend called to say she had a feeling that something new and exciting was happening in my life. When she asked if it was a new book deal, I scoffed and said, “I wish.” I had been wrestling with two months of frustration and at times lack of hope around my ability to stay motivated to be my own self-employed cheer leader. The successes I’ve had were dwarfed and all that loomed ahead as giant mountains were things I had not yet achieved and the fear that I never would. I was tired of giving myself pep talks, I was tired of spending years on books that may or may not ever become an entity off of my computer and I was tired of the constant cycle of putting my work out there (which is akin to my heart) only to hear nothing in response. On the low of low of these days I’d search Craig’s list jobs only to become even more depressed because after nine years of being self-employed, I am unemployable. I shared this with my no-nonsense Buddhist friend and she said, “Dude, but you’re a writer. That’s what you have to do.”
“I know,” I sighed, “I’m just sick of inspiring myself. I inspire other people all day, I wish I had someone who would do that for me.”

And that night, I got my wish. I went to see a viewing of “Who Does She Think She Is?”, produced by Pamela Tanner Boll (Born into Brothels), about five women’s struggle with balancing their creativity and motherhood, independence with partnerships and of course, how to get paid for their work in a society that doesn’t compensate (especially female) artists.

I sat in my uncomfortable folding chair riveted by everything the women said. Chills ran down my back every time I heard them say, “I have to do this. It makes me a better mother and person to be able to create.” I practically floated out of the building, once again feeling inspired to continue telling my story and hoping to motivate others to keep following their dreams as well. Because that’s what I have to do.

The next night I went to see the Cowboy Junkies play with a friend. We got lost along the way, the venue was in an area of Washington that I have never been to and nowhere near Seattle, but I was listening to Margo’s ethereal voice in my car all the while so thoughts of, “Where the hell are we and how am I ever going to find my way home?” merely drifted in and quickly drifted out as I calmly kept driving. We arrived as she was singing her first song, found our seats right up in front, and were mesmerized for the next hour and a half. Not just by her brings tears to my eyes voice, but by her as a person. She humbly chatted with the audience in between songs, poked fun of the other band members and referred to them as “boys” over and over again, and invited us to “stick around and chat” after the show. Really, I thought. She’s going to hang out with us? But she’s so famous?

True to her word, she came out in her pajamas and talked with the audience. She was so friendly and accessible that I hugged her when I approached her. How intimidating can a braless, scrubbed face, pajama-clad woman be? We chatted about our sons, my friend took a blurry picture of us with our arms around one another, and I grasped her hand again as I said good-bye.

The giddy in love feeling stayed with me even while being pulled over by a cop for driving erratically (did I mention I had no idea where I was?), for the hour plus drive back to Seattle (thanks to the cop for drawing me a map and not giving me a ticket) and for days to follow. Not only do I feel levitated and inspired by these fabulous women and their perseverance, amazing accomplishments and non-ego driven attitudes, but I also feel as if I have a few safety nets. The next time I cycle into a ho-hum self-pity party, I’ll listen to Margo’s CD or watch the film again. And if that doesn’t work, I can always give up being a writer and become a roadie for the Cowboy Junkies.

When in doubt, I'll ask my kids

2010-10-01T17:17:00.000-07:00

For over six months now I’ve half-heartedly been thinking about remodeling my kids' room so it’s less attached to mine. In its current loft like state, the kids can run around in circles through both of our rooms, they can see into my room while sleeping and hear me when they’re in bed and I’m downstairs. As you can see, all of these things are delightful for the kids, but not so great for me. Although I yearned for more privacy, my inertia waned every time I remembered my last remodel, the final nail in my marriage and the thing that put my ex over the edge towards antidepressants. Lack of money and the kids’ concern over being “blocked in” caused the remodel to remain more of an idea than a reality.

But the day had come when the contractor was coming over and it would be a good idea if I had more to say than, “Do what you want.” I had a few vague ideas and decided to run them by my four-year-old daughter. “So,” I began, “remember how we might close your room in? Well, I was thinking…” before I could get my idea out, she proceeded to tell me she was ready to have her own room and explained exactly how we could do this to give me more privacy, but allow her and her brother, who are abnormally close, to continue fostering their sure to be co-dependent relationship by being able to see one another while going to sleep, but not hear one another (he snores and wakes up early). The plan was brilliant, it only took her five minutes to explain and I was reassured that it allowed for all sorts of flexibility as they grew and their privacy needs expanded further. “Wow,” I said, still shaking my head in awe, “I guess it’s settled then.”

Her clarity and decisiveness must have worn off on me because the following morning I woke up clear (again, for the first time in months) on how to proceed with my teaching. I had been continually drawn to the idea of going back to adjunct teaching at community colleges, but as soon as I would start to draft the email to previous directors, my stomach would tense. Again, I wasn’t sure why until the night after my daughter’s clarity.

“I figured it out,” I explained to my son. “I only want to teach people who want to be writers, not people who are merely taking a class for credit.” He looked at me expectantly, waiting for the big insight I was going to share. Once he realized that was it, he said, “Of course mama. Why would you teach anyone else but writers?”

With my four months of deliberation once again simplified in minutes by a child a quarter of my age, I ushered them into the car for school. Although we are in our third week of being back to school, I am far from being in the swing of things. I pulled up to my neighbor's house late, with coffee spilled down my shirt and with my kids still eating their breakfast and maybe, maybe not, strapped into their carseats. The friend started to strap in her older daughter, knowing better than to trust me with such a task, and then she and her younger daughter looked at me. I stared back blankly until she said, “Where do you want Clare to sit?”
“Clare?” I asked as thoughts of the beloved, but forgotten, Clare hanging on to the roof of my tiny Prius crossed my mind. “Uhhh,” I stammered until once again my son saved me and said, “I’ll sit in the front. I’m only an inch away from being tall enough.” Thank god someone reads those signs in the doctor’s office and actually remembers them.

We pulled out of her driveway, relatively buckled in, relatively safe and with minimal coffee left to spill when I remembered my friend’s warning about the airbag and how it wasn’t safe to have it on with a child in the front. I groped through my glove box, scanned my manual with one hand while holding my coffee with the other, surely endangering my kids' life more than a damn air bag would, until I finally came to my senses. “Here,” I said to my son. “Skim through this for anything about an air bag or safety.” He read through various chapters and then asked what I was looking for. While explaining it, he pointed to the “airbag off” illuminated sign and said, “mama, it is off.” Even my car is able to figure things out before I am.

Writers Conferences Aren't Necessarily About Writing

2010-09-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

The first week it rained I embraced it. I picked soggy blackberries with the kids and made a pie. While listening to soulful Neko Case and The Cowboy Junkies, I made three different kinds of soup. I busted out the cabernet and baked cookies. But by the end of the week, I knew food, alcohol and love songs (or the usual follow up, songs about broken hearts) were not going to carry me through for the next nine months.
My friend Marcie had been emailing me about cheap tickets to Hawaii all summer long. They usually arrived on a rainy day and usually with the note, “Are you ready to get the hell out of here yet?” attached. By mid-September, I was more than ready. But I was also broke and Hawaii is not a cheap place to stay. I was about to give up on my dream and bust out another depressing CD when I remembered there is a writers conference on Maui in the winter. The thought of a vacation I could write off, and perhaps learn something by or at least make some connections, propelled me back on to the internet.

That almost free vacation vanished when I learned that the Maui Writers conference is defunct. I let go of the dream, until it rained for three more days, then I got back on the internet. “I think I remember there’s a conference in San Diego in February,” I told myself, because what else is a self-employed, going stir-crazy girl supposed to do but talk to herself? Sure enough, I did find an abundance of conferences this winter in semi-warm or at least interesting locales. Just as I was searching for my credit card, I came across this link by Jeseka Long:

Should I apply to the writing retreat? If selected, I’d spend five intense days working on my manuscript and getting feedback. And if I wanted to spend a little more money, I could attempt to get 10-minute meetings with agents and/or editors.
The thought of five days away from everything except one of my writing projects is thrilling. But the practical part of me says I could do the same thing at home, if I just scheduled myself to write for five days.
I’m still torn. So, of course, I turned to the Internet for some feedback. Here’s what a few people had to say.
Agent Betsy Lerner (in her always-blunt fashion), says: There is only one reason to go to a writing workshop and that is to get laid. She also describes those 10-minute agent-meet-writer meetings as drive by shootings.

Jeseka is right, I could probably squirrel away for four days while the kids were at their dad’s and accomplish a lot of writing. But what fun is that? I wasn’t viewing going to a writers conference as a time to be productive, I was viewing it as an escape. Throw in the sunshine, other writers to connect with, editors to schmooze, and the possibility of getting laid by an almost stranger? That was enough to make me pull out the credit card. Even if I can’t write it off.

Memoir writing class starting in September

2010-09-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

The first thing to remember when writing your memoir is it is not an autobiography, which is the story of your life, memoir is a story from your life. We will discuss the importance of theme and how that shapes and provides a backbone to your memoir as well as explore scenes versus summaries, character development, the art of using judgment,forms of memoir, how to weave musings along with plot to keep the story going and that sticky thing called truth. Students will have a solid outline and draft of their memoir by the end of the six week class.

The classes will be held for six sessions on Monday evenings from 7-9 pm starting September 20th in the Ballard Neighborhood of Seattle. Cost: $240. Click here to register or email Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net.

Truth or ?

2010-09-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

Although I write memoirs and a zine called Reality Mom, I never claim that all of my stories are 100% true. Or as friends say, “maybe it’s reality according to you, but that’s not how I remember it.” So when my four-year-old daughter started to tell tall tales, I wasn’t too concerned. I’m all for creative freedom and figured exaggerating was part of being four (or forty).

Soon enough her tall tales no longer resembled creative expression, they were just outright lies.
Me: “Did you brush your teeth?”
Her: “Yes.”

One glance at my son shaking his head and another glance at the dry toothbrush told me otherwise. Not wanting to call her a liar, I tried to give her an out and suggested maybe she thought she brushed her teeth this morning, but in actuality that happened last night.
“No,” she said, “I brushed them this morning before I went downstairs to play ponies. I remember, really.”

Just as I was about to tell her she was wrong, I recalled my son went through a phase of not quite truth telling as well. And a small miracle occurred where I not only remembered what I did about the situation, I remembered that it worked. I stopped asking questions that I knew the answer to. Meaning, when I saw a dry toothbrush I’d say, “Hey, you need to brush your teeth before we leave,” rather than asking him if he already did so and therefore giving him the opportunity to lie to me. I also employed my usual tactic, which was to ignore it and trust that he would grow out of it more quickly if I didn’t make a big stink about it.

This worked for a while with my daughter, but then the tall tales came back with an increase in absurdity as well as frequency. One yarn was about how an almost three year old at her school could read and count to a thousand as well. I deemed this as unlikely, but didn’t protest until she added that the girl lived in Singapore, yet attended school in Seattle.
“That’s impossible honey. Singapore is very far away. I think Sarah was born in Singapore, but she doesn’t live there now.” I said.
“Yes she does, she told me.”
“That’s not true.” A brief lesson from me on the difference between fiction and non-fiction followed. “And it’s all right to make up stories, but you need to make sure that you understand the difference and that you let people know the story is made up.”

She nodded in agreement, I breathed a sigh of relief and as usual, thought the topic was cleared up. A couple of days later she announced that she remembered cutting her own umbilical cord when she was born.
“That’s impossible!” I laughed.
“No, I remember. I came out of you and screamed and screamed and then laid on your belly for a while. Once I was warm, I cut the cord with really sharp scissors.” She was able to accurately describe her phenomenal birth scenario so well, which only took two hours and almost occurred before the midwife arrived, that I almost found myself believing her. If a baby can be born in two hours, lift her head one minute after birth, and then scream non-stop for days on end, that would be the baby that could cut her own umbilical cord.

It wasn’t until I saw the twinkle in her eye that I realized she may have had me fooled, but she didn’t really believe the story herself. She was merely enjoying the telling of it.
My son, the voice of reason in our household said, “I thought papa cut our cords.”
“Hmmm” I said as I winked at my daughter. “I can’t remember exactly. Let’s call him and see who remembers it most clearly.”

When Not Wanting to Shave Means Something

2010-08-25T15:28:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine shared her luke-warm feelings about a man she was dating and his perhaps not so interesting personality. Ambiguity is expected while dating, but once she said, “I just don’t feel like shaving,” I knew that was a deal breaker. When I told her to cancel the date, she said, "Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Now for some women, such as myself, pausing to consider if it is worth my precious five minutes to shave wouldn’t be a cause for alarm. But for this particular friend, who gains joy in dressing up and primping, it’s a clear sign she isn’t into the guy. And seeing as this is date five, and I’ve heard her try to convince herself and me that she’s excited, but haven’t been fully convinced, I had to say it’s time to cut her losses and try someone new.

I don’t necessarily consider myself a dating expert, seeing as I’ve only been dating for a year, but every time I date it’s with a vengeance. Meaning, I’m trying to get over someone. And although I am a firm believer in getting back on the horse after you fall off, I don’t necessarily prescribe getting back on any old horse. Rather, I suggest you study the horses and yourself before riding again.

Because the thing about dating, is we often make allowances that we wouldn't normally. In order to prevent this, a friend and I have made a girlfriend pact. This pact involves applying the same standards we use for our female friends on our dates. On an evening out with a friend I know I am usually intellectually stimulated, I will laugh and I will learn something either about life, myself or her. My friendships usually evolve easily and mutually by us both being honest with one another, even if that means sometimes we have to say things the other one won't want to hear. Now, I know I can't expect such symbiosis on a first or even fourth date, but I can expect to feel ameliorated after the experience. If I feel talked at, or find myself thinking another glass of wine will make him more interesting or attractive, or as if I am working way too hard to get the guy to reveal something about himself, it is not worth another date. I'll call a friend instead.

Sometimes it takes a while to gauge this such as the time I was on a date with a man, who I had thought was very witty, interesting, and attractive. But on the third night together, his stories started to lose their allure and his wit seemed more of an attempt to mask his bitterness. I thought the fire would be ignited again when he started caressing my breasts and nibbling on my ear, a usual surefire turn on, but instead I found myself thinking about the salmon I was going to cook for a dinner party the following evening. Would I marinade it or merely go my traditional route of searing it with a little oil, salt and pepper? Before I made my decision about the salmon, I made my decision about the guy. Clear signs such as this need to be adhered to.

Staying clear once the caressing starts is not always easy. Nibbling is a perk to dating and something your girlfriends may not do for you, but my solution is to not necessarily look to have my physical needs met by a man I'm dating, especially in the beginning. It may sound ironic or at least strange, but the men I sleep with are not necessarily the men I am dating. By leaving my libido out of it and taking care of my physical needs before the date, I have a better chance of discernment. Because as we all know, in the early stages of dating it is very easy to fantasize and project qualities on to the person that they may not actually possess. Throw a raging libido in there, and you may as well take a roofie for how choosy you’ll be.

And being choosy is key to the girlfriend pact. Because the thing about being in bad or even mediocre company is it's actually worse than being alone.

Death of a Pony Fairy

2010-08-09T23:01:00.001-07:00

At relatively young ages, my children have had death and hardship explained to them. When they were two and five years old, their grandmother died. They were perhaps too young to really mourn this loss, but not too young to ask a million questions about it such as, "Where is she now?"

What I wanted to say was, "Right there," and point to the box that held her ashes, but I knew they needed more than that. I gave them abbreviated theories about heaven and reincarnation and ended with, "But no one really knows what happens to us when we die. We just choose to believe what we've learned from church or our parents or what comforts us."

"What do you believe?" they asked. Having agnostic parents and little to no experience in churches, this is a big question for me. I want to believe in something else, but I don't know what. So I told them that. They accepted that answer and ran off to reenact coming back as butterflies and kangaroos.

The next death I had to explain was the death of my marriage. This too was loaded with emotion and quite confusing to explain. Their father and I still loved one another, yet were making each other miserable, so decided to separate.

"Why don't you just take a break for a few minutes and then you guys will feel better?" my son asked. In his world, all conflicts have been resolved in a manner of minutes. If he gets physically hurt while playing, he cries, screams, asks for a kiss, and then resumes playing. If his sister refuses to give him back his beloved animal, he either yells at her, takes it from her, or bribes her with a different toy. Again, the problem is solved quickly and feelings are mended. I wish divorce was that easy.

Once I started dating, they saw me ride the emotional roller coaster, but for the most part were unscathed. I kept my dating life as separate from my kids as possible, meaning they knew of the men I was seeing, but didn't have a relationship with him themselves. I'm not so naïve as to think my emotional highs and lows didn't affect them, I'm just saying they didn't have a series of men entering and exiting their lives.

But then the pony fairy arrived. After seeing a man for about six months, I relaxed my "no mixing" rule. We didn't start having weekly family dinners together, but I did allow him to come over occasionally while the kids were around.

My daughter had recently inherited a "pretty pony" from a friend and a distant great aunt mailed her a knock off "pretty pony." She loved those plastic demons as much as I detested them. Soon enough, she had inherited (OK, probably stole) a few more ponies with disgusting faux manes and had her brother in on the craze.

The man I was dating knew my "no commercial objects, hand me down clothing only, no Disney, no TV, PBS or scholastic videos only, minimal plastic, organic when we can afford it" rules, so he found the presence of the plastic pretty ponies hilarious. So much so, he procured about thirty of them (at Value Village at least, I drew the line at the environmental, not to mention emotional damage buying new ones would cause) and took joy in hiding a few at a time for the kids to find when they returned from their father's.

The kids loved the treasure hunt and surprise appeal of the ponies almost as much as they loved the ponies themselves. Every Tuesday they would ask if the pony fairy came and I'd shrug, "I don't know look around." They'd race around the house and yard, squealing with each found pony.

But eventually, the pony fairy decided to leave. This not only broke my heart, it put me in the awful situation of having to discuss another confusing death to my children. Of course their first concern was about the ponies. "Will he still bring ponies over?" they asked. "No." And in a moment of weakness I added, "But I can find some more ponies for you. "
"Why doesn't he want to come over? Do you not like each other anymore?" were the next questions.

Again, I wish it were that simple. Instead, I had to explain by the time people become adults, they're emotions and hearts are often much more confusing than kids. Meaning, sometimes even when someone loves someone, they feel as if they can't spend time with them anymore. And that liking someone a lot can feel scary rather than good. They said that didn't make sense, I agreed, and then they asked, "Who's going to be your boyfriend now?"

I laughed at the simplicity of the question, but also took comfort in it knowing time and getting out there again are the best cures to a broken heart. That, and maybe a pony or two.

Free wine!

2010-07-04T14:57:00.000-07:00

Three Pacific Northwest mothers/authors will read from their recently-released books at Edmonds Winery's tasting room from 2-4:00PM Saturday, August 14, 2010. Come sample (free!) wine while listening to these fabulous authors.

Corbin Lewars of Seattle is the author of "Creating a Life: The Memoir of a Writer and a Mom in the Making," released in February. The book chronicles Lewars' journey through wanting a baby more than anything, trouble getting pregnant, problems staying pregnant, quitting her job to become the editor of a women's magazine only to have that publication become bankrupt, and, finally, her decision to take control of her body by giving birth at home.

Monica Murphy LeMoine of Seattle is the author of "Knocked Up, Knocked Down: Postcards of Miscarriage and Other Misadventures from the Brink of Parenthood," released in April. A memoir told in postcards, "Knocked up, Knocked Down" is about finding solace in the most surprising places when life knocks you to the ground. Using straight talk and humor, LeMoine navigates a difficult path toward motherhood, and refuses to be overcome by grief. If you have ever lost a loved one, this uplifting story will help you move upward, too.

Christina-Marie Wright of Lake Chelan is the author of "Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House," released in June. The book is a collection of hilarious essays and musings on marriage, womanhood, parenting and society. Wright - the mother of seven children - shares her fabulously funny tales of adoption, step-families, religion, politics, veganism, hunting, teen fashion and more in the compilation.

The authors will read selections from their books, take questions, and sign books (available for purchase), while the Edmonds Winery staff offer up selected wines for tasting. Don't miss the opportunity to sample great wines, and meet these local authors on the rise!

Summer issue is here!

2010-07-02T13:16:00.000-07:00

Volume 7, Issue 3, Theme: Lessons
In this issue:
Fabulous art by Courtney Putnam
The Furry Underwear, by Erin MacNair
Can You Find the Divine in Stir-fry, by Leta Hamilton
How a Baby Gave Birth, by Joanne Penney
Moaning and groaning lessons from yours truly.

Order yours today via paypal (to the right)

Running Shoes

2010-06-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

I recently met a woman at a party who was troubled by the fact that after an all night date with a man, he promptly left in the morning scarcely saying good-bye.

“Has that ever happened to you?” she asked my friends and me.

Willow answered, “I’m usually the one who leaves first.” We all nodded, knowing this to be true.

My other friend said, “Yeah, I pretty much sleep with my running shoes on.” We laughed, again because we know this is true.

“Oh,” the woman said. “Well, it felt weird. What should I do about it?”

“Get some handcuffs and next time strap him to the bed,” suggested Willow.

We nodded at her sage advice as well as smiled at the thought of handcuffs. I looked at the woman, who wasn't smiling, but at least she was finally realizing she was asking the wrong people for advice.

Chelan Hottie

2010-06-20T23:35:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Chelan where the beautiful Christina Marie and I had a reading at the fabulous Riverwalk Books. Contact Christina Marie for a copy of her brave and humorous tales of life in a house with seven kids, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House.

Bottles, Books and Babes

2010-06-15T11:44:00.000-07:00

Come join me and two other fabulous authors Christina Marie Wright and Monica LeMoine at Edmonds Winery on 8/14. And yes, you can drink wine while listening to us.

Memoir Class at Hugo House July 17

2010-06-09T15:40:00.000-07:00

Writing Your Memoir: What to Say, What Not to Say

Three questions every would-be memoirist ponders: “Do I have to wait until my family dies before I write my memoir?”; “Do I have to tell the whole truth?”; and “Do I need to get approval from everyone I know as I write it?” The answers: “No, no and hell no.” Writing your memoir does not mean narrating your whole life; instead it involves choosing one specific theme or struggle in your life to explore. In this class you will choose the theme you want to explore, map out the characters and time frame to focus on, discuss the arc of the struggle and leave the class with a clear idea of what you will—and won’t—say in your memoir.

Instructor: Corbin Lewars
Meets: Saturday, July 17, 2010,
Saturday, 1:00 PM to 5:00 PM
Min: 5 Max: 15
General: $96.00
Where: Richard Hugo House
1634 11th Avenue
Seattle, WA 98122

Contact Hugo House to register Phone: (206) 322-7030

What’s that moaning sound?

2010-06-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

As proves to be the case frequently, my children have made me out to be a liar. Mere hours after claiming they are too young for verbal or visual sex ed lessons, (see Writing About Sex) I read them bedtime stories, carried them to their respective beds, tucked them in and said good night.

I returned to my living room to find a beautiful man lying on my floor. I happen to know and like this man, so I joined him in his supine position. Within a few minutes my breasts were being caressed, my neck was being nuzzled, when I wasn't being kissed passionately and I moaned my appreciation of all of these acts.
“What’s that moaning sound?” my four-year-old daughter asked from her bed upstairs.
“Holy shit!” I whispered to beautiful man. ‘I can’t believe she’s awake. They always fall asleep as soon as I tuck them in. What should I say?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged “but you need to go up there.”

I readjusted my shirt, tried to think of something savvy to say, but all I could keep thinking was, “How does she know the word moaning?”
It only took me two minutes to reach her, but she must have asked “What’s that moaning sound?” at least eight times before I crawled into her bed with her.
“Are you scared honey? Because mama’s fine. I’m not hurt or anything.”
She wasn’t scared, she was curious, so she repeated her question again.
“Well, you know how good it feels when I rub your back? When mama feels good, she moans. And we were kissing downstairs, which feels good, so I made some noises. But I’m not hurt, I’m happy.”
She seemed satisfied with this answer and asked for her Curious George book.
“Are you sure you don’t have any more questions?” I asked.
She didn’t and I falsely assumed this would be the end of the conversation for a while

The following morning I staggered into the kitchen in search of coffee to overhear her say to her brother, “You know that 'uhhh, uhhh' sound we heard last night? It was mama!” She cackled with glee and pranced around the house imitating her groaning mama. Having slept through the entire thing, her brother had no idea what she was so delighted by so I briefly caught him up. He dismissed me as well by reading a book half way through my explanation. I’m obviously a slow learner, because I falsely assumed (once again) that this meant he wasn’t interested in the topic.

Later that afternoon I found him poring over Where Did I Come From?
As the subtitle says, Where Did I Come From? is “the facts of life without any nonsense and with illustrations.” It was published in the early seventies and I’ve never been more thankful for my packrat ex for keeping it around for thirty years. Up until this point, only my kids’ friends had seemed to be interested in the book’s clear, but not too scientific, address of genitalia, sex, orgasms, and babies, but on this day, my son was reading “the facts of life” to his sister and they were both absorbed in the illustrations. I hung around to see if they had any questions, they didn’t, but this time I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that would last.

The week progressed with my kids showing an unprecedented amount of interest in my life. Questions about beautiful man and how I was going to spend my time when they were at their father’s were asked for the first time. Just as before, they seemed to know the answer to their questions and only wanted the briefest of validation or explanation from me and then further questions were asked at a later date.

I thought about surveying friends with older kids or checking out some parenting books to help me navigate this road I unwittingly found myself on, but I never did. Winging it seemed to be working for me as it always has as a parent because it allows me to stay focused on our needs. Other parents and parenting books will fill my head with other kids’ needs and the “right” way to deal with those needs. I prefer to take my guidance from my kids when figuring out what they need. Because even when I think I’m unprepared and don’t know what to do, if I really listen to what they are asking of me, the answer isn’t that complicated. They just want to know the truth “without any nonsense” and illustrations sometimes help as well.

Other People Writing About Sex

2010-06-02T09:39:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Luscious Lulu sent me this poem today to help kick start me to write about sex. It's from Molly Peacock's collection "Raw Heaven"

She Lays

She lays each beautifully mooned index finger
in the furrow on the right and on the left
sides of her clitoris and lets them linger
in their swollen cribs until the wish to see the shaft
exposed lets her move her fingers at the same time
to the right and left sides pinning back
the labia in a nest of hair, the pink sack
of folds exposed, the purplish ridge she'll climb,
when she lets one hand re-pin the labia
to free the other to wander with a withheld
purpose as if it were lost in the sand when the Via
To The City appeared suddenly, exposed:
when the whole exhausted mons is finally held
by both hands is when the Via gates are closed,

but they are open now, as open as her
thighs lying open among the arranged pillows.
Secrets have no place in the orchid boat of her
body and old pink brain beneath the willows.
This is self-love, assured, and this is lost time.
This is knowing, knowing, known
since growing, growing, grown;
revelation without astonishment,
understanding what is meant.
This is world-love. This is lost I'm.

And this, is from Sensual Sonya, another Seattle writer extraordinaire that I am honored to know

"And I knew that she would be inviting to her bed a man whose concept of women was likely traditional, steeped in expectation and custom. She hoped they were exotic to each other, that every touch and gaze and lick would become an inquiry into otherness. She’d had enough of boys like herself: brash, selfish, sensational. What she wanted was to see where constraint led, how abandoned the mannered man could become under her recklessness."

Writing About Sex

2010-05-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

At a recent Gaia’s Temple service we were asked to state what we were currently receiving an abundance of. “Sex!” I told the woman standing next to me. Just so you know, at Gaia’s sex is not only spoken of frequently, it’s encouraged! You have to love that from a place of worship. But I digress…

The woman next to me said, “Good for you! I’m having an abundance of writing.” I congratulated her as well and we hugged one another. I sat back down in my seat with a smile on my face and an openness in my heart. But then a dark realization dampened my mood: I am no longer having an abundance of writing. Even worse, I think it’s directly correlated to my abundance of sex.

This is unbearable not only because I’m a writer who writes about her life, who is currently not doing so, but also because for the first time in my life I haven’t known how to articulate myself. Many blocks stand between me and free flowing sexy words; the first being society’s negative opinion of sexual women. If they were admired and respected, as they should be, words such as whore, cunt, and slut would not be used in a derogatory fashion. Add that I am a sexual mom and you may as well brand that scarlet W (or S) on my chest right now.

As Sallie Tisdale explains in Talk Dirty to Me:
“Many sexual attitudes hinge on the belief that women either are not or somehow should not be as sexually aggressive, voracious, or emotionally disinterested during sex as men. Women are more interested in relationships than in sex is a cliché repeated in a thousand ways, ad infinitum. The real message is that women should be more interested in relationships than in sex.”

She goes on to explain that when women act sexually aggressive, they are punished, yet they are supposed to be ready and willing at a moment’s notice. This is not only a “merry-go-round of illogic,” but also causes our society to be misogynistic.

I do not want to perpetuate a misogynistic culture, nor do I want to adhere to society’s conservative and ill informed opinion’s of women’s sexuality. Therefore, I consider it to be my responsibility to not only embrace my healthy libido and sexuality, but to write about it as a way to encourage other women to do the same. So I shunned my shackles, got out my laptop, and then froze again. This time, it wasn't society I was worried about, it was my kids.

They are no longer babies, they are individuals, one of whom can read. Do I really want them to know about my fantasies? Or that I like kinky men? Or that while they’re at their father's, I’m having more out of body experiences than I thought humanly possible? Yes, is my tentative answer. But first, they need to understand why this is not only acceptable, it is important.

In order to provide my kids with an alternative to the misogynistic and sex fearing culture we live in, I want them to feel secure in their own and other's sexuality. At seven and four, I don’t feel as if they are ready to have sex explained to them, nor should they witness sexual acts, but they are ready to feel comfortable and in charge of their bodies. I have had many, “Your body is yours and you alone get to decide who touches it,” as well as “when kids want to play doctor, it is your choice of how much, if at all, you want to participate,” to which they groan and say, “We know mama. And if it feels weird, we’ll tell you.”

I used to be satisfied with these responses and even praised myself for my excellent parenting skills. But then I remembered the cardinal rule: kids learn more by your actions than your words. And what were my actions telling them about sex? Not much.

All flirting, kissing, and most interactions with men were conducted while the kids were at their dad’s. Again, this was intentional, because at this point in my dating life, the guys I see are for me, not my kids. They are helping fill the void of attention, and yes, sex, I felt for years and frankly, I don’t want to share. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t show my kids, rather than merely tell them, how important it is to have a positive body image and be comfortable with one’s own sexuality.

The body image part was easy. We’ve been dancing naked since they were babies and I’ve never once doubted my kid’s respect and connection to their own bodies (see Girl’s Night for an example). The “being comfortable with one’s sexuality” part was more complex. So I worked on it, a lot. And am proud to say, I think I’ve got that one dialed. I know what I like, I know how to ask for it, I usually receive it, and am open to most ideas/suggestions from a partner. But before I gave myself another parenting gold star, I had to translate this to my kids in an age appropriate way.

For now, they glean this from me by the way I carry myself, the way I talk to people, my confidence and creativity, and the way I no longer hide myself from the world. Eventually, they will read about or hear more specifics from me, but only when it is appropriate. And only if I continue to overcome my hurdles and start writing about sex, rather than merely having it.

Self-lover

2010-05-24T13:44:00.000-07:00

Not once, but twice in one day I was accused of being a man-hater. “Me?” I laughed. “No way!”
All I received was a shrug from the person (OK, both times it was a man) so I continued to explain myself. “But I date and think about men all of the time.”
Another shrug.
“And I have a lot of male friends whom I adore.”
Another shrug.
“And a son.”
Shrug.
“And I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
You guessed it, another shrug.

When I relayed this conversation to the Fabulosities the following day, they howled with laughter, “You? You like men more than any of us!”
We were sitting in my backyard, or rather they were sitting and I was wrestling a rhododendron out of the ground. Rose continually told me to call helpful guy to come dig it out, but I insisted I wanted to do it myself.

“You never ask for help,” she chided me. “Let him do this for you.”

I ignored her and continued my digging while analyzing my supposed man hating tendencies. All at once, we looked at one another and said, “That’s it. It’s not that you hate men, it’s just that you’re self reliant.”

A filmstrip of events raced through my mind such as the time we were grilling fish and the propane ran out. The previous time this had happened Rose’s boyfriend had made a big deal about how complicated and difficult it was to change the tank, so I said, “T is on his way over, let’s have him fix it when he gets here.”
Willow laughed at my absurdity, told me to get a wrench, and within five minutes the fish was cooked to perfection.

Camping trips with women, midnight crying sessions with friends, even amazing all night dates with men are usually followed up with the post-coital eating and talking with the Fabulosities. Scene after scene of meeting my own needs or relying on women to help me flashed through my mind as the refrain, “The girl who goes alone” played as the soundtrack.

“The girl who goes alone,” is the title of Elizabeth Austen’s chapbook as well as a refrain that has been haunting me since I heard her read it on May 5th at the Hugo House. She explains that no matter how much she shows a man she wants him, she doesn’t need him, and they both know the difference. And how people assume that by being a girl who goes alone, she isn’t afraid, but “This girl, who goes alone is always afraid…” Yet, that doesn’t mean she stops taking risks or living her life in the way she chooses, because it is worth it to be afraid, in order to “…hear myself. So I can feel real to myself.”

Chills covered my body while listening to Elizabeth read this poem and the audience was silenced for a full minute after she finished. The poem, and chills, continue to provide insight that “a girl who goes alone” may doubt herself at times and perhaps isn’t even alone, but she is someone who listens to herself first and foremost. She challenges herself to face her fears and takes risks. She knows how to get her needs met and with that, comes confidence and abilities. She loves and desires others, possibly even men, and can be hurt, but does not crumble when alone.

But she is not a man-hater, she is a self-lover.

Come hear seven female Seattle authors at Hugo House

2010-05-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

Please join us for "She Said: Women's Lives in Poetry and Prose"
Wednesday, May 5 at 7:00pm at Richard Hugo House, 1634 11th Ave., Seattle

Seattle writer David Schmader of The Stranger will host an evening featuring local women writers: Elizabeth Austen, Janna Cawrse Esarey, Monica Murphy LeMoine, Corbin Lewars, Midge Raymond, Susan Rich, and Katharine Whitcomb. Cafe Hugo will serve beer, wine, and specialty cocktails, and the event is free and open to all

Girl's Night

2010-04-29T17:42:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, my son finally agreed to a sleepover at his friend’s house. After numerous horror stories involving two a.m. phone calls which result in sleepy parents driving across town to pick up their sobbing child, I formed a bit of trepidation about the situation. My son, a very sensitive homebody who cried when he read the notice from his teacher that his class was going on an overnight camping trip, could all too easily be the sobbing at two a.m. child. I kept my nervousness to myself, not wanting to spread the anxiety, and gave thanks that the friend only lived five minutes away.

On the eve of the big night, he ran out of the car and into the friend’s home, only to return to give his sister and me a hug when beckoned.

“I guess he’s all right,” I said to the parents.

“He’s fine,” the dad joked, “and he’ll sleep great after we give him half of a bottle of Benadryl.” Unlike some parents, sick humor is just what I need to feel comforted, so I smiled and said good-bye.

Once I was settled back into the car, my daughter asked, “Where is my sleep over?” My heart sank in the all too familiar, “Oh shit, I forgot about my second born,” feeling.

“Honey,” I said as my mind quickly raced through cool activities I could bribe her with, ”your brother is seven years old and this is his first sleep over. You’re only four, so it may be awhile before you sleep at someone else’s house.”
She thought about this and then asked, “Can Natalie sleep at our house?”
“Sure, if her mom says it’s all right.”
I cursed my daughter’s ingenuity of picking her only friend who is a third child, meaning the one most likely to be given permission to sleep at our house. As a way to distract her from her scheming, I told her she and I would have a special night together.

And we did. After many rounds of Candy Land, a dance party in the kitchen, a spinning game which she excelled at and I failed at, and burgers and beer, well one of us had a beer, which is probably why I sucked at the spinning game, we went upstairs to read books.

While she brushed her teeth, I marveled at how often she is overshadowed by her incessantly talking older brother. It is only on rare occasions such as this evening that I am able to see who she really is, learn her thoughts on things and gain an insight into her brain and personality.

As if on cue, she skipped into the room, naked except for a hand-me-down, been wearing it for a week straight princess shirt, singing:
I love my vagina
I love being a girl
Because they get to wear pretty clothes
And are more interesting than boys
La, la, la, la , la
I love being a girl

She sang a few rounds of this and then yelled, “Girl power!” as she karate kicked the air.

Holy shit, I thought to myself, where did she learn that? Sure, I am all about girl power, and used to take karate when I was young, but I have never said the words “girl power” to her, nor have I ever shown her any of my surely outdated karate moves.

Whereas my son is a mix of his dad and me, therefore I can almost always predict what his reactions and responses will be; my daughter is part who I strive to be and part mystery. Her personality has been fierce, independent, and truly her own from the minute she shot out of my womb screaming her head off.

Sure, I could say that the fact that I am much more likely to have women over to my house than men, that our dance party consisted of almost all strong female vocal bands, and that I too share her favoritism of Snoopy movies, full of strong and bossy, with somewhat lesbian overtones, female characters may have had some influence on my daughter’s need to cover the man’s face in several family photos we received from friend’s and announce, “Now that’s better.” But singing a love song to my vagina? I wish I could take credit for that. But that’s the beautiful, creative, mysterious part of my daughter that she comes up with all on her own.

Book Release Party

2010-04-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

Come join moi and fellow author Monica LeMoine at our Book Release Party and benefit for Page Ahead Children's Literary Service on Wednesday, April 28 at 7:00 at the Richard Hugo House. Bring new children's books to donate to Page Ahead and enjoy free music, booze, appetizers, and conversation all while benefiting Seattle's disadvantaged youth. RSVP to murphymonica@yahoo.com

Backlash

2010-04-07T15:11:00.000-07:00

Last week I asked a friend if she could watch my son while I was at the courthouse finalizing my divorce.

“Sure,” she said, “but didn’t you get divorced a year ago?”

“I filed for divorce a year ago, but it’s taken the court over a year to catch up where I am emotionally.”

“Right,” she smiled, probably having no clue to what I was babbling about. “How long do you need?”

“I hear it’s pretty quick, so I’m guessing an hour or so should do it.”

If this were a horror movie, now would be the time the audience stats screaming to the heroine, “You are such an idiot! Don’t do it! Turn around, turn around!” Unfortunately for me, I don’t have an audience to tell me when I’m being stupid, until it’s too late. Even more unfortunate is that even though I have written a Courthouse 1 and Courthouse Part II column, I conveniently forgot that when it came time for my Courthouse III experience.

I was falsely reassured that my three phone calls to the courthouse to verify that I had all of the paperwork I needed to get divorced, and the fact that although they told me only I needed to be there, both Jason and I were taking the day off that we would indeed become divorced. What I failed to remember is that every time I go to the courthouse what I think is going to happen doesn’t happen and whatever time I think I am going to spend there becomes multiplied by five. This is when the collective memory of the audience would have come in handy.

On the eve of the date, several friends called to ask if I was sad. “No, I replied, “I’m actually more relieved to finally have it over. I may get sad later, but I’m not feeling it now.” The next morning I amazed myself by actually showing up on time for my hearing, but was slightly derailed when I saw about fifty other people waiting to get into the courtroom. The derailment turned to dread when I saw about sixty names on the “dissolution of marriage” sheet, but my name on the bottom of the “other” list.

“Fuck!” I said to myself. “I’m not only not getting divorced today, I’m going to have to sit here for three hours until I find out why” It was worse than that, I sat there for four hours watching countless of couples approach the bench, state their names, and two minutes later be told, “You’re divorced.”

I seethed with envy, and then merely seethed as a courtroom facilitator told us we had the wrong forms, although another court facilitator was the one that gave me, and helped me fill out the said form. When she told me we would have to go home to print the form, I bit my tongue, but when she said we needed a signature that we didn’t have, but the person wasn’t in that day, so we’d have to come back again, I barked, “Why would someone have told me three times that I had every thing I needed when I clearly don’t?”

“I don’t know she smiled, and then crept away from the crazy lady who was clearly about to lose it.

I saw no reason to continue torturing myself by watching other couples earn their freedom for two more hours, so I decided to try to utilize my time while I was there getting the forms and signatures I could get. As I bustled from office to office and plead pathetic to get what I needed, Jason calmly sat there as if he was enjoying the show and had nothing but time on his hands. This caused me to seethe all the more.

Not only was his passivity a huge reminder to why we were getting divorced, but in all fairness, I had felt the backlash brewing for a while. I had even named it to my friend Jill, “There’s no way our divorce can continue to go this smoothly, with everyone seemingly happier and better off from it. There will be some serious backlash at some point.” But I had assumed the kids would start acting out or start showing signs of distress or that Jason would finally reveal some of his anger at me. I didn’t think I would be the one to have the backlash, seeing as I had gone through my denial, rage, and grief stages repeatedly and was “over” it. But if anything is going to set me into a rage, it’s spending the day at the courthouse.

I ignored all of Jason’s attempts at making the horrendous day all right and I resented his personal questions about my life and any attempt at friendly conversation. I wanted to get divorced and I wanted to go home. And when I couldn’t get what I wanted, I just wanted to get the hell out of there so I could scream obscenities in private.

We (somewhat) made it through the day and went to our separate homes. For a few days, I ignored his phone calls with questions that I knew he knew the answer to and kept the conversation on transition days to a minimal. Finally, he broke and said, “Are you going to talk to me or what?”

I said, “No, I don’t feel like being your counselor or your friend anymore because it reminds me of all of the years you weren’t there for me, so I don’t feel like being there for you.”

This conversation escalated a few times over the course of the week, sometimes with positive revelations and sometimes with me screaming, “Fuck you!” and hanging up on him. I guess I’m not “over” it.

“But I thought you guys were really close. I’ve always envied your friendship,” a friend admitted.

“Yeah, we were,” I said. “And I am sure we will be friendly again, but I’m also sure I’ll be pissed at him again too.”

She nodded, knowing the grief cycle all too well. Just as I feel firmly planted in one phase, I move to another phase. The rub being, I have no control over any of the phases. Just as I clearly don’t seem to have any control in actually becoming divorced.

Asking for Help

2010-03-25T16:35:00.000-07:00

For years I suffered from the “never ask for help” conundrum. This really became a problem once my kids were born, because as you well know new moms need a shit load of help, but rarely ask for it.
I not only didn’t know how to ask for help, I thought I shouldn’t have to. Although I never imagined, nor desired being a stay at home mom, that’s what I became. Or even worse, I was a stay at home mom who worked. I fell privy to the belief that it was best for my children to be with me, so even while I worked, they were still under my care. I’ve never been good at math, but it didn’t take long to realize full time mothering, plus a part time teaching schedule equals hell.
It wasn’t until my kids turned three that I finally accepted that not only did I need a break from them to be able to focus on work, I needed a break from them because I was bored out of my mind. It felt unnatural and extremely taxing to spend so much time with people who couldn’t engage in intellectual conversations, so I finally let myself believe that it was best for three year olds to be with three year olds and thirty eight year olds to be with adults.
It was a huge hurdle for me to admit that I needed help, but I was still only accepting physical help in the way of childcare. It felt like such an indulgence to have someone else watch my child that I made sure I worked and was productive the entire time they were away. I couldn’t let myself relax, call a friend, or even run any errands during that time, I only worked. I wasn’t thinking about my emotional needs, nor was I looking for any help in that regard.
Once I separated from Jason, I had more time for myself away from the kids but I still spent most of it working. I began to feel empowered by my single mom status and “Single moms kick ass” and “Single moms do it better” slogans ran through my mind. Most of my single mom pride came from my “I can do it all” beliefs. If something broke, I felt determined to fix it rather than ask someone else to. I even enjoyed the sense of accomplishment from doing the “manly” tasks around the house as well as being the supportive, nurturing mom.
I relished the connection I had to my feminist, single mom role models and although I worked really hard to form a supportive community for myself, I rarely asked them for help. And when I did ask for help, I was already in the midst of a mama break down.
One such break down occurred while trying to edit four stories, write a press release, and answer thirty three emails with a too sick to go to school, but not too sick to run around the house like a maniac Little Dude at my heels. I put the tasks to the side, I hoped momentarily, and took him to the doctor and pharmacy. Domino after domino continued to fall that day, the final one being wrestling with his bike chain for a half an hour while Odo ran out into the neighborhood to create mayhem. I couldn’t be two places at once, and frankly, I didn’t even want to be in either place, I just wanted to get shit done.
I corralled them into the back yard, told them we weren’t going to the park, and went inside to call Willow. She let me yell “fuck!” and “this sucks!” and then said, “Sounds like you need to let something go. How can I help you?” My brain could only think of how she could physically help me, as in take the kids away so I could get my work done, but that wasn’t possible seeing as she was at work. I thanked her for her offer, told her it helped to talk, which was true, and slipped into, “I can do this, I have to do this” mode.
“OK, call me if you change your mind,” she said. “I’m hugging you in my mind.”
I hung up the phone and burst into tears. She intuited what I really needed was a hug, but wasn’t asking for it. It’s so much easier to yell, “Fuck” over and over again than to be vulnerable and cry to someone or ask her to hold you. Every time my kids have a break down, I just sit back with my arms open so they can collapse into them when they are ready, yet I couldn’t apply the same theory for myself. My “Single moms kick ass” methodology was biting me in the ass and it was time to change my slogan to allow for some vulnerability.
I started off by practicing with the Fabulosities, who I felt very safe with. Rather than try to spin the story to be funny or turn out positive in the end, I’d just admit to having problems and vulnerabilities. And then I’d accept their hugs.
The next step was to try this with men and I am afraid to say, it didn’t go well. One guy froze and said, “You aren’t going to get emotional are you?” Another one held me, but he didn’t understand my tears because in his mind I was a strong, capable woman. Which I am, but sometimes I’m not and that has to be all right. But the third and most recent guy opened up his arms, enveloped me in them and said, “Let it out.” He didn’t freak out, he didn’t withdraw, he didn’t assume my tears were about him, nor did he ask a bunch of questions, he just held me.
I don’t think I have been held like that since I was a little girl and it brought me back to a time when I felt as if it was all right to be vulnerable. When I cried easily and ran to mama to fix it. When I frequently asked for help and didn’t judge myself for my needs. When I knew I would feel better after I cried so I didn’t hold back.
I hope I can remember those feelings the next time a mama break down occurs so I ask for what I need, a hug, rather than quoting a slogan.

Write Your Birth Story Class

2010-03-24T10:45:00.000-07:00

Write Your Birth Story
Saturday, May 1, 12:00-3:00 pm
Ballard neighborhood
Seattle, WA 98117

$60/per person (Via check or paypal)

Spend the afternoon sharing your birth story in a comfortable, nurturing environment. Whether your child was born three months or thirty years ago, taking the time to remember and write about his/her birth is an amazing gift, for yourself and your child. This special workshop will get you writing, inspired and connected with other moms. You will leave with a draft of your birth story.

Led by Corbin Lewars, author of the memoir Creating a Life and mother of two. Her daughter's birth story was featured in Mothering magazine and more of her essays can be found in Hip Mama, Midwifery Today, and Mamaphonic. To register, please email corbinlew@clearwire.net

What Women Want

2010-03-08T13:05:00.000-08:00

While sitting in a café, I can’t help but overhear the girls’ conversation next to me.
“I mean, he totally didn’t even listen to what I said. I was like, dude, I told you last week that I didn’t want to go to that party and he was like all, ‘but I thought you did.” And I was like, ‘I did, but then I changed my mind, and...”
A week later, I had a similar conversation with one of the Fabulosities, minus the “dudes” and “likes.”
“He doesn’t know what he wants. He says one thing, but then changes his mind and he says that’s because of me.”
And several days later, a woman in her fifties shared a recent struggle she had with her husband. “I know he genuinely wants to please me, but even when I spell out what I need from him, he doesn’t seem to get it.”
In each and every one of these situations, I nodded and commiserated with the woman and then said, “Poor men.”
“Poor men?” they exclaimed. “What about me? I’m the one not getting my needs met.”
“Yeah, but that’s because your needs change all of the time. There’s no way in hell he can follow them.”
I’ve learned from my male friends that trying to understand their partner’s needs is an ongoing struggle. One friend, who regularly sees a counselor with his partner, is in his own male counseling group, and discusses the needs of women with his coworkers on a daily basis told me, “I still don’t have a clue what she wants from me. Every man I know feels the same way. We love you, but we don’t understand you.”
Like I said, poor men. I have two dear friends who actually seek and fall in love with unbalanced women. The more erratic, the better, in their poor, naive opinions. “But all chicks are crazy,” I tell them. “Why would you actively seek the really insane ones?” They shrug and smile, unable to give me a reasonable answer.
When I say we are all crazy, I am not insulting womankind. Nor am I saying, “You’re all crazy” and excluding myself from this statement. I am totally crazy, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. My craziness fuels my passion, my creativity, and makes me/us very interesting people. Plus, knowing and admitting to my looniness, makes me the reliable, good kind of crazy, not the slash your tires in the middle of the night crazy.
Part of being a woman, and therefore being crazy, is that what we want changes on a daily, if not minute to minute basis. If you are recently divorced, pregnant, pmsing, peri-menopausal, menopausal, nursing, or going through adolescence, what you want changes every second. When men get into trouble is when they try to rationalize this fickle behavior. Or God forbid, think what they do and say one day will actually receive the same results on a different day. Or make the grave mistake of not being psychic and being able to read our minds and moods without asking us annoying questions. Poor men.
Most of them see the wild ride we are offering them as exhausting rather than thrilling, but a few of them actually do understand. One such soul is my dear friend and astrologer, Greek Prophet, who walked into my house the other day and told me all that he has learned from a woman’s cervix.
“I forwarded you the link,” he said excitedly. “A guy took extreme close ups of his girlfriend’s cervix every day of the month to document the changes. It’s amazing to see. It really proves how much women change--chemically, biologically, hormonally--every day. No wonder what you say one day holds no bearing the next day. All I can do is sit and listen, offer a hug or a spanking, depending on her mood and then let it all go. And when the next break down happens, I start fresh again.”
Now that is a brilliant man. But he didn’t learn this on his own, he has had many women teach him this beautiful skill. Because let’s face it, whether we like it or not, the male and female brain operate very differently. We need to stop hoping that men will learn how to read our minds or understand us like our girlfriends do and instead start telling them exactly what it is that we need today. The poor saps are still trying to understand what you needed yesterday, so you need to think of your needs/mood as a weather report. Give it frequently and accurately. And continue to do so for the rest of your life.
I know it’s difficult to articulate your needs when you are upset, but if you don’t know what you need, how can you expect him to? Get in touch with your body, pay attention to what triggers you, what makes you feel secure, and what turns you on and then tell him all about it. Don’t be shy, don’t be coy, and by all means don’t think that just because you have lived with this man for twenty years that he “knows” you. No one knows you, because you change every day. But he wants to know you, so let him in. You may fear that he’ll think you're crazy if you open up, but guess what? He already thinks you’re crazy, so show him that you’re the good, vivacious kind of crazy, not the scary kind.

Upcoming Readings in Seattle

2010-02-24T11:21:00.000-08:00

Hey all Seattle Folks, here are two chances to come show the love. Or at least have fun.

Saturday, March 6, 4:00 at Qwest Field, NW Women's Show. Leta Hamilton, author of The Way of the Toddler, and I will be discussing the REALITIES of motherhood and balancing (or not) it all.

Tuesday, March 9, 7:00. I will be reading at Third Place Ravenna. Join us in this cozy environment with wonderful people who care about keeping creativity and freedom of expression alive.

Rad Dad/Reality Mom Event in the Bay Area

2010-02-22T22:27:00.000-08:00

Come join us!

Watery World

2010-02-17T12:33:00.000-08:00

While visiting a fellow Pisces friend last night, we laughed at the wonders of being in our own world.
“Sometimes I just sit and stare out the window and an hour will pass without me knowing it,” she confessed.
“I know, “ I squealed, “I do that almost every night once the kids are asleep. The weird thing is, I don’t even know what I’m thinking about.”
“It’s not really thinking, it’s more like transporting yourself to another world. A watery world, where your reality is the only reality.”
We sighed in unison and said, “Life is so much better there.”
And that is where I have been for almost two weeks now, my own watery world. I slipped into it while preparing for my reading in Bellingham. There’s not much room for others in this world, my Pisces brain keeps it full, and I slip into it whenever I have something big occurring in my life. It’s how I prepare myself and become grounded in what is me and what is other people, a very murky concept for Pisces.
Greek Prophet, aka my astrologer and dear friend, has been warning me for months that February will be a time of people coming towards me, that what I say and do will attract many interesting people. This sounds great, on my extroverted days, and exhausting on my introverted days, and an absolute given when going on book tour. So into the watery world I went.
I emerged ready to read and discuss my most personal truths to strangers. Village Books hosted a reading for me and the following day I was a guest faculty at Fairhaven for two classes. After each occasion, I was approached by many people eager to share themselves with me. Their stories sometimes related to mine, but often didn’t, but it didn’t matter. As one of the professors said, “They sense an openness in you, so they feel comfortable sharing whatever is on their mind.” Stories of depression, isolation, triumph, fear, and uncertainty were all gifted to me and I felt honored by all of them. I didn’t lose myself in the story, or come home with twelve new roommates, which could have easily occurred if I hadn’t gone to the watery world first, but rather I returned home buoyant and energized by the knowledge that I am finally truly living the life I have always wanted. This is where I need to be, writing and speaking. And after a few days of being out in the world talking and listening, I need to retreat back to my watery world, in order to prepare for the next round of stories.

Come hear me read!

2010-01-27T12:47:00.000-08:00

It's here! Creating a Life, my memoir, and the book I have been talking about for months (years?) is in print and can be purchased through Indiebound, Catalyst Book Press, and Amazon. Or ask for it at your local bookstore.
Better yet, come hear me read and buy it then.
Here are some upcoming dates and locales. Hope to see you soon.
love
Corbin

Readings

February 10, 7:00pm Village Books, Bellingham
February 11, 1:00 -3:00 pm Fairhaven College, Bellingham
March 9, 7:00 pm. Third Place Books Ravenna, Seattle
March 11-12, University of Oregon, Eugene, OR
March 13-14, San Francisco Book Fair
March 15, Powell's Books, Smallpresspalooza, Portland, OR
March 28, 7:00 Simply French Cafe, Vancouver, B.C.

March reading at Elliott Bay Books in their new Capitol Hill location. Stay tuned for details!

My Life as a Stereotype

2010-01-25T16:49:00.000-08:00

I recently visited with a friend whom I hadn’t seen in over a year. After catching her up on my life as a single mom, complete with dancing and dating horror stories, she said, “Wow, you’re so different now.”
I laughed and said, “You mean because I stay up past 8?”
“That’s the least of it! You stay out until two, drink whiskey, and date a different guy each week.” (Disclaimer: although the first two are true, the third statement is not)
“The way you say it, I almost feel like a stereotype. ‘Divorced woman gone wild.’”
“That’s what you are!” she laughed. “Next thing I know, you’ll get a tattoo.”
“Uhhh,” I said as I lifted my shirt and showed her the 6” x 6” tattoo covering my shoulder.
“Damn,” we said in unison.
In defense of what appears to be my current reckless lifestyle, getting a tattoo is something I’ve wanted to do for fifteen years. And no, the whiskey had no bearing on helping me actually do it. But getting divorced may have.
I spent a lot of my twenties and early thirties thinking about things, but not always following through with them. Getting divorced changed the tide for me to stop over-thinking and over-analyzing my desires, and to instead, check in with my gut, if it says yes, I go for it. And so far the worst thing that has happened is I laughed at myself the next day. And the best thing that has happened is I’m doing and getting what I want rather than merely pining for it.
My previous barriers to a tattoo were 1) I didn’t know what permanent design I wanted on my body 2) Fear of the pain 3) Both female tattoo artists I had envisioned working with were unavailable. This winter, I said, “Who cares?” to all three barriers and called a Ballard tattoo shop. Again, the women were booked for months so I let go of my “only see women professionals when it comes to my body” rule and scheduled an appointment with “Bill” for the following Saturday.
“Bill,” is exactly what you would expect, a young guy covered in tattoos. wearing rocker jeans and smoking cigarettes. When I asked about numbing cream, he laughed and said, “Yeah, I call that Vaseline.” Yet his eyes were warm and I knew he was the person I wanted to permanently scar my body. I gave him a vague idea of what I wanted, using terms such as “fish, feminine, yin yang, do what you want.”
The following week we met over his design. “You don’t like it,” he immediately intuited. When I cautiously said, “They look too much like Koi,” he balled the drawing up and tossed it in the trashcan without a hint of being insulted. “I’ll start over and we’ll meet next week.”
Every once in a while I’d think, “I’m trusting this guy to read my mind. Maybe I need to be clearer on what I want.” But I’d quickly go back to, “Who cares?” and left my fate up to Bill. And sure enough, the next design he showed me was perfect. “I love it!” I squealed (which by the way, is a very uncool thing to do in a tattoo parlor) and took off my shirt. No I wasn’t stripping to make up for squealing, I had a camisole on and was merely showing my readiness.
Friends offered to come and hold my hand through the procedure as well as to try to illegally confiscate pain medication for me, but I declined all of their offers. I brought my iPod as an escape and planned on using several breathing and pain coping mechanisms, but I never needed them. Bill and I immediately fell into our own world, him alternately massaging my shoulder and then sticking a needle in it and me snoozing, yes I actually fell asleep, on the table.
When he said it was almost over, I moaned, “Not yet.”
“I’m afraid so. You were great by the way. Some women fidget, but I could tell you were into it.”
“Thanks. It was so much better than I thought. You have a really nice touch.”
Is it just me, or does this conversation has a post-coital ring to it? I blushed, thanked him profusely, asked him if I could give him a hug, and avoided all thoughts of prostitution when I handed him a forty dollar tip.
After relaying this story to the friend I was catching up with, she said, “OK, we can cross the tattoo off the list. The next thing you’ll do is dye your hair and join a punk rock band.”
“No way!” I laughed and then thought, “never say never.”

Momoir Writing Class

2010-01-11T15:28:00.001-08:00

Have you ever wanted to write about your experience with motherhood, but never had the time or energy? The Momoir Project offers writing classes for mothers interested in learning how to translate their personal stories into words. Whether you want to write as a keepsake for yourself, your children, or to publish in a newspaper, magazine or book, these supportive classes will help you get started and inspired. Classes are open to all kinds of moms, and all kinds of writers.

The classes are led by Corbin Lewars and will be held every other week in order to give participants time to keep up on the writing and reading assignments. We will meet for six sessions in the Ballard Neighborhood of Seattle starting Saturday, January 23 from 11-1:00 pm. Register now to participate in this fabulous experience! Cost is $375.

For more details and examples of students work check out the Momoir Project.

To register via paypal, visit here.

or email corbinlew@clearwire.net.

About the facilitator: Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is an editor, writing instructor, author, and mother of two. Her memoir, Creating a Life is being published this winter, her novel Swings is out for submission, her zine Reality Mom is in it's seventh year of publishing, and her essays have been featured in Mothering, Hip Mama, Midwifery Today, A Wild Ride, Stories with Grace, and numerous of other publications. She was the editor of Verve, a Seattle women's magazine, and Mamaphiles 3, an anthology of mother writers. She has taught at Shoreline Community College, North Seattle Community College, Antioch University, Richard Hugo House and in Seattle public schools.

New Tricks

2010-01-04T21:43:00.000-08:00

It was three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon and I found myself in bed, box of tissues next to me, on the phone with my friend Jill. “This is becoming an all too familiar situation,” I lamented to her after I described my most recent trial and error at dating. “How do you tolerate it? I’m sick of the story and it’s my story.”
“No it’s not. I think you improved this last go around. Plus, I’m just proud of you for continually getting out there.”
“I actually think I took a step backwards this time.”
After dating several “dudes,” I attempted to date a “Man.” It seemed like a step in the right direction; to move away from playful, fun loving, but perpetually immature “dudes” and go for someone more established, more solid, more of a “Man.” By the third date I couldn’t get the adage, “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks” out of my head. Now I’m not saying he was a dog or that I was trying to “train” him, I’m just saying that what I misinterpreted as maturity was actually repression and his stoicism left me yearning for those expressive pups I had once romped with. Although I knew he wasn’t right for me and I wasn’t getting my needs met, I still found myself in bed crying.
When I said, “I can’t believe I was dumped again” Jill laughed her ass off. This was not the sympathy I expected.
“You weren’t dumped, you chose to leave.”
“But I liked him and I’m still sad.”
“I know,” she reassured me, “but sometimes you have a funny perspective on things. Remember how that guy who was emailing you canceled the date and you claimed he ‘dumped’ you as well?’”
“He did dump me!”
“How can someone dump you when you’ve never met him! You only emailed each other two or three times, that does not count as being dumped.”
“But he…”
“And the woman you were flirting with who got pissed once she realized you weren’t gay. You claimed she blew you off as well.”
“She did! She asked for my number and then walked away in a huff.”
“Yeah, because you were being a lesbians biggest nightmare. You wanted to flirt with her, ogle her boobs, maybe even kiss, but you had no intention of taking it any further. Think of how you would feel if someone did that to you.”
“Well, I just…” Jill was on a roll and I quickly saw I had no say in the matter. That’s why she’s my new surrogate husband, because she lets me cry and gush all I want, but puts me in my place when I’m being ridiculous.
“That’s what dating is all about. Sometimes it works, but a lot of time it doesn’t. But you weren’t ‘dumped’ all of these times, it just wasn’t a match.”
“Then why do I feel so sad?”
“Because you genuinely cared for these people. You could have dragged it out for longer, but you knew things weren't going to change so why bother? You should be glad that you got out when you did. Even if it wasn’t your choice or by your doing.”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “I think I need to take a break from all of it. I’m afraid I’ll just keep making the wrong choices.”
“No you’re not,” Jill scolded. “You’re going to keep getting out there and each time, you’ll learn a little more about what you want and what you don’t want. And each time you’ll be able to discern a little quicker when it’s wrong and won’t hang on to the fantasy for as long.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“I know so. Because you dear, are not an old dog.”

Christmas My Way

2009-12-22T17:48:00.000-08:00

Seven years ago, while pregnant with my son, I declared I wasn’t going to travel anymore on Christmas. “If they want to see us, they can come here.” This seemed like a perfectly reasonable request, seeing as my baby was due at the end of November. But in actuality, I packed my two week old up and drove and ferried to all three sets of grandparents’ houses and have continued to do so ever since.
This year, I am not pregnant (thank God!), but I am newly divorced, so I made the declaration again. To say it is causing some stir would be the understatement of the year, but I’m not budging. Any relative who wants to join us is welcome, but for once I am spending the holidays in my own home. Because at home, I can celebrate the way I want to.
My emphasis has always been on the lights, glitter and spending time with people I care about (as long as I don’t have to drive far to do so.) The kids and I decorate the tree with as many tacky, shiny ornaments as we can find. I string lights in their room and the living room. I’m too lazy to string them outside, but we are blessed with neighbors who perilously hang from their rooftops so we can sit in the comfort of our warm living room and watch the lights twinkle on and off. Plus, we make several rounds to the land of Christmas light orgies, Olympic Manor, so my kids and I have our fill of sparkle and glitz. We join friends on solstice, to celebrate the days getting longer, and otherwise use the holidays as an excuse to gather with friends to eat and drink as frequently as possible.
As far as the man in the red hat, he is rarely mentioned in my household. I’ve waited for the kids to show an interest, but it has yet to happen. And yes, you remembered correctly, I have a seven and four year old. They have never made a Christmas list, never asked to have their photo taken with Santa, and as far as they are concerned, Santa is some scary drunk guy they saw at a party one time so they would prefer to never lay eyes on him again. Sure, I buy my kids a few books, tea sets and satsumas for their stocking, but it is not gluttonous. When grandparents ask them what they want for Christmas, they say, “We don’t care.” And they really don’t. Toys gather dust in my home, but pillows, blankets, spatulas, and the prized item, the turkey baster, get a lot of action.
Their father and I, and perhaps some begrudging grandparents, will gather on Christmas day and eat and talk and occasionally remind the kids that they have presents to open. The kids will immediately eat all of the food in their stocking, open a present or two, start reading the sure to be book inside and we won’t see them for a half an hour. And when they return, it will most likely be in search of the turkey baster.

There's No Avoiding the Political

2009-12-02T16:37:00.000-08:00

The kids and I got home right before 5:00, grabbed some pillows and plopped down in the den to watch Obama’s speech about his plan for Afghanistan. It felt as if it was an every day occurrence, rather than something that has only happened a handful of times. We are basically a non-TV household, which led me to believe we are therefore a media and political free household. But I was wrong.
“Why are those people all wearing grey?” Little Dude asked immediately.
“They’re in school training to be in the army,” I replied.
“But I saw a woman. Women can’t be in the army.”
“Yes, they can.”
“You said women never start wars and people in the army fight in wars.”
“Uh… that’s generally true. But women want the right to be in the army as well.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Shhh, let’s listen.”
One minute later he asked, “How did the men use the planes to kill so many people?”
“Remember how I told you about the airplanes being full of gas and then flying into the World Trade Center? That’s how.”
“Is that going to happen again?”
“I hope not. That’s what Obama is saying he is trying to prevent.”
“How could …
“Shhhh.”
Two minutes later Odo asked, “Why does he keep talking about Vietnam?”
“We were involved in a war there and some people think it’s similar to the war in Afghanistan.”
“Did we win?” Little Dude wants to know.
“Depends on who you ask.”
“Do you think we won?”
“I think everyone loses when so many people are killed.”
“Are we winning in Afghanistan?”
“No. Shhhh.”
When your kids are this inquisitive, and my kids don’t experience anything without asking 1001 questions, there is no avoiding the political. Even a simple trip to the grocery store turns into a discussion about what pesticides are, the difference between organic farming practices and GMO foods, farm raised versus wild caught salmon, and talks about money and budgets. And although my kids’ television watching has been limited to the occasional National Geographic video and Obama’s inaugural speech, we do listen to NPR and we listen to music constantly. Not Raffi, Barney, or Elmo, but adult music. And with adult indie rock music comes complicated stories and therefore, many, many questions.
One of my kids’ favorite CDs is the Mountain Goats’ The Sunset Tree, an album full of stories about John Darnielle’s abusive stepfather. “Why is he afraid he is going to break his stereo?” my daughter asks, leading us to a discussion about alcoholism and child abuse. After hearing “I’m Bound to Pack it Up” by White Stripes, “The Line,” by Black Rebel Motorcycle or a variety of songs by Elbow, we have various talks about the complexities of love and relationships, and the fact that sometimes even when you love someone, you need to leave.
Propagating my myth that I am sheltering my kids, was he fact that I send them to an alternative school where commercialization (aka anything related to Disney) is frowned upon and students learn how to write and read a report way before they learn how to turn on a computer. On the first day of school, each grade is taught a version of the big bang theory and every day the kids are able to explore a topic for as long as they want and ask as many questions as they want. So, in reality they’re not sheltered at all. The big bang alone opens up topics of various religious beliefs about evolution, and how these differing opinions often lead to conflicts, and before I know it, we are talking about the witch trials.
And it’s not only the content of what they are taught at school that can turn political, it’s their interactions with the other kids. Newly four-year-old Odo announced the other day that she wants to be a beautiful princess when she grows up.
“Where did you get that idea?” I nearly shouted.
“From Lela at school.”
“You are pretty honey. You’re beautiful, but you are also smart, creative and very funny. Everyone is smart in different ways, but sometimes when girls get older, they forget this about themselves and only worry about their looks. Or even worse, they try to pretend that they aren’t smart and…” A ten-minute condensed version of Howard Gardner’s and Carol Gilligan’s life work followed.
On the way to school the next day, she announced her princess desire again.
“What kind of princess are you going to be?” I asked.
“A beautiful, smart princess!” she shouted.
Little Dude and I cheered her on and then went back to listening to NPR. Or rather, I tried to listen while fielding, “What’s an oil rig do?” “Why does he keep talking about a recession?” and “Why would someone kill policemen?” questions. But just like with the Obama speech, I heard what I needed to hear.

Volume 7 Issue 1, Lightning

2009-11-29T22:07:00.000-08:00

In this issue:
Shades of Grey
Doppleganger by Erin MacNair
Act 3 by Karen Floyd
Change is a Powerful Word by Marga Britto
Changing the Script by Regina Walker
Love = Divorce
Meet the Fabulosities

Meet the Fabulosities
Last January, at a reading I was doing at the Hugo House, a woman with a faux fur coat, cat eye glasses, and a fluffy hat approached me to say, “I love your work. We’re going to be friends.”
Within a minute, I found out she was at the reading as a way to celebrate her divorce, which was finalized that day. Jason had recently agreed to move out and I was desperate to talk to someone who had traversed this messy thing called divorce. I grabbed her hand and said, “I need to know you.”
“I know,” she smiled. “I will be your divorce buddy.” She introduced me to her friend, who she had kidnapped and brought to the reading because, “she needed to come.” The friend smiled and said, “I met Misty when she offered me warm chocolate from her bosom.” And this was my first encounter with the Fabulosities, a group of amazing women I am honored to know.
A couple of months after the reading, I found myself walking around my home in a daze. Where my sofa used to be were now only dust bunnies. When I opened the used to be overflowing cupboard, all I saw were a handful of glasses. The stereo, all of the CDs, and the queen bed were gone. I wasn’t robbed, I was getting divorced.
Being highly intuitive, Misty chose this day to come over and whisk me away from my stupor. “We’re going to a party,” she said and ushered me out of the house. Once we arrived at the party, she scampered off and I, still numb from Jason’s move, stumbled over to the table of food to add my paltry contribution of a bottle of wine to the mix. A woman with brown pony-tails, glasses and a lion tattoo smiled at me. “I’m Corbin, I know no one here,” I said as I extended my hand to her. “You’re Reality Mom,” she said. “I’ve been reading your stuff for a while. I’m a writer too.”
Not only was Willow a writer, she had a son Odo’s age, lived five blocks from me, and was also getting divorced. “We will be friends,” I said. “I know,” she smiled.
An hour later, I met the hostess of the party. A beautiful blond waif with a twinkle in her eye that immediately told me this woman was capable of magic. And she is. Another Fabulosity.
Most of the Fabulosities are divorced, but more importantly all of them are making positive changes in their lives and continually question, and seek their truest desires. They are honest, funny, warm, incredibly powerful women who know when to be quiet, when to offer support, and when to serve margaritas until we don’t care about anything anymore.
On the nights we get together, I am more giddy than if I were going on a date. There is no ambiguity with the Fabulosities. I know I will be heard, I know I will learn something, I know I will laugh, most likely cry, have my creativity, intellect, and self-confidence sparked, and I know I will feel loved and cherished for hours afterwards. And most of all, my life and seemingly unconventional choices, will be validated and I will be inspired to take even more risks, to follow my heart fully, and to do things my way. I don’t have to apologize or censor any of the self-indulgences I am allowing myself lately. I can just be me and feel supported.
The Fabulosities not only support one another through margaritas and by listening, but by making food for one another when we’re sick and by watching one another’s children, something I have craved, longed for, and cried about my lack of many times since having kids. I finally have my village.
I recently watched Willow’s son for her so she could have a night of passion with a lover. Although I was jealous, and could have quite easily felt as if I was getting the short end of the deal, the opportunity arose at a time when I actually wanted to stay home with my kids and was more than happy to add another child to the mix. The kids played together without any problems, we all read stories in my bed, and then I tucked them into bed. Five minutes later, little Z came pattering into my office to announce he would be sleeping “here,” as he crawled onto my lap. I explained that it would be difficult for me to write with him in my lap, he offered several other horizontal surfaces, and we finally agreed on me lying down with him in bed until he fell asleep. I spent the next forty-five minutes having my hair played with, my face stroked, and with a little three year-old boy wrapped around me and I thought to myself, “I’ve had worse dates.”
The next day when my kids ran into Willow’s house and barely said good-bye to me, I knew I was not only getting a lovely, warm exchange of childcare, I was getting something my children and I would benefit from immensely. A family. A big, lovely, charismatic, diverse family that allows our kids to feel special and fortunate, rather than deprived or as if their family is “broken.” There is nothing broken about the Fabulosities.
At a gathering that evening at Willow’s, I looked at the table of five precocious, wise, sensitive children eating chicken, beet salad, and cornbread along side four beautiful, strong, yet not afraid to show our vulnerabilities, women and I thought, I am so thankful for this. This is what I always wanted.
On the way to our car that night, Odo said, “Mama I want to live with them.” “I know,” I said. “Me too. Let’s put it in our dream pile and then maybe it will come true.”
Because that’s what the Fabulosities are all about, making dreams come true.

Six Week Writing Class for Moms

2009-11-23T19:59:00.000-08:00

Coming Soon!

2009-11-09T14:27:00.000-08:00

My book is here! Well, sort of. The Advanced Review Copies are here. But I had to show it off anyway, patience never being my strongest virtue. I'll let you know when the "real" copies are available.

Losing a Husband, Gaining a Friend

2009-11-03T22:28:00.000-08:00

My phone rang as I was cruising the aisles of Fred Meyer.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Jason asked.
“Buying condoms. Do you need any?”
“No, I got the jumbo pack a while ago.”
“Good for you. Want to hear about how I was trashy mom today?”
"Sure.”
I proceeded to tell him about how staying out until two in the morning making out with a man had caused me to not only forget Little Dude’s conference with his teacher, but also be late to pick Odo up from school and otherwise flail and flounder my way through my unproductive day. “And I just tried to convince Odo to go into the Freddy Playland for a half an hour so I could buy the kids' socks and q-tips in peace.”
“You hate that place!” he laughed.
“I know, that proves what a rough day it’s been.”
“Where’s Little Dude?”
“Soccer practice. Shit, I’m late…”
I hung up the phone and raced as fast as I could out of the hellishly large Fred Meyer. On my speeding way to get Little Dude, I rehashed the conversation with Jason and smiled. A year ago I never would have admitted to being late to pick up the kids, for fear of the scolding I would have surely received from Jason. But now, when I needed to confess my parental sins, and it is never about something as irrelevant as being late, Jason is who I call. “That’s why we got divorced,” I muttered to myself. “Because I loved him too much to stay married to him.”
People never understood me when I claimed I loved Jason and that’s why I wanted a divorce, yet it makes perfect sense to me. We couldn’t be who we really wanted to be when married to one another. I knew there was a far more courageous, more creative, sensual and certainly able of kicking some serious ass Corbin inside of me, yet I couldn’t let her out while married to Jason. And I knew there was a happy-go-lucky, sweet, compassionate, and very confident and content Jason inside of him, yet around me he berated himself and was anxious. We were both depressed and didn’t know how to unravel ourselves from the bad patterns we were in.
As soon as we separated, things improved. We liked one another again, had lengthy phone conversations several times a week, and even went on dates once a week. But as soon as we tried to be more than that, whatever “that” was, it all went to hell again.
He never moved back in as was originally planned and instead I filed for divorce. And while filing, I resisted being friendly with him. I felt as if I needed to make it clear to us and the kids that we were no longer together. I would refuse his offer of a beer when I picked the kids up from his home and always tried to keep the conversation limited to the kids and their activities. He questioned this several times and said he didn’t understand why I needed to be so cold, to which I probably said, “I don’t care.” I needed to draw a line between us and the only way I knew how to do so was to show no feelings toward him.
But the thing about becoming divorced is you not only lose your husband, you lose your best friend. I had been with Jason for fourteen years, which means I grew up with him. Very few, if any, people know me like he does and vice versa. And no one understands my Rip Van Winkle experience of dating again after fourteen years of being out of commission like Jason does. So after a month or so of shutting him out, I braved the waters. “So, is it just me or is everyone in the dating pool a mess?”
“I know!” he screamed. ‘This one woman….” And we were off and running. Swapping most horrendous date stories, but also repeatedly saying, “Isn’t it fun?”
A couple of weeks later, we stood in my kitchen swapping sex stories while Odo and her friends played tea party. On his way out to get the birthday pizza, he said, “You don’t think they overheard us, do you?”
“I hope not. And if they did, I just hope they don’t tell they’re parents.”
We started talking more and Odo’s birthday pizza was delayed further.
Everyone I’ve shared this story with has the same response, “Don’t you mind hearing about his sex life? Aren’t you jealous?”
“No,” I admit. “I find it fascinating. And this is what I’ve been hoping for for years—for us both to feel good about ourselves, for us to be happy and feel as if we can go after the things we want. We’re doing that now. Even better, we can tell each other about it. By getting divorced, I didn’t lose Jason. I actually got him back.”

One Day Writing Workshops in November

2009-10-28T10:43:00.000-07:00

Introduction to Momoir Writing
Saturday, November 14th
Birth and Beyond
2719 East Madison St.
Seattle, WA 98112
2:30-5:30 pm
$60/per person

Special one day workshops will get you started writing down your motherhood stories. Spend a few hours with a group of women, sharing your ideas and words. Learn to write your own “momoir” and get a glimpse into the world of publishing. Through a combination of writing and reading exercises, students will leave with their first story written, and the inspiration to keep writing.
Facilitator Corbin Lewars is author of the memoir Creating a Life and founder of the zine Reality Mom. Her essays have been featured in Mothering, Hip Mama, Midwifery Today, as well as numerous of other publications. To register, please email Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net

Write Your Birth Story
Sunday, November 22
Birth and Beyond
2719 East Madison St.
Seattle, WA 98112
11 am-2 pm
$60/per person

Spend the afternoon writing down your birth stories, before you forget them! This special workshop will get you writing and inspired and connected with other moms. Led by Corbin Lewars, author of the memoir Creating a Life and mother of two. Her daughter's birth story was featured in Mothering magazine and more of her essays can be found in Hip Mama, Midwifery Today, and Mamaphonic. To register, please email Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net

Courthouse Part II: The Improved Version

2009-10-22T12:17:00.000-07:00

It takes several weeks, but the Fabulosities (my friends, who of course are fabulous) finally set a date that works for all of us to get together. The agenda: to drink margaritas, talk, eat spicy tamales, and perhaps burn some shit. Not in an arson way, in a “letting go” way.
Jason agrees to have the kids spend the night at his place and one of the Fabulosities offers to be my chauffeur, allowing me to eagerly anticipate a night of gluttony and being ever so grateful to have the morning to sleep it off. My thrill is ruined when I flip the calendar and see I am expected to be at the courthouse at 8:30 am for a mandatory parenting class.
“Fuck!” I yell. “Getting divorced is such a pain in the ass. Getting married was so easy compared to this. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
As usual, I am talking to myself and know the answer, I just don’t like it. Getting married is simple and takes about five minutes, whereas getting divorced involves stacks and stacks of papers to be filled out, countless visits and conversations with “officials,” a four plus hour parenting class, and more hours than I care to recall working on (and bitching about) all of these processes.
I pick up the phone to reschedule the parenting class, but stop when I recall that it took several weeks to register for the class and it is mandatory that both parents attend before the divorce will be signed off on. Am I willing to delay my divorce further just because I want to party with my friends? “Hell, yes!” I decide and proceed with the call. While on hold, I remember my previous visit to the courthouse where I crouched in the stairwell ready to vomit until my Greek friend said, “Corbin, you can do this. You’ve come so far and you’re almost to the end. Just get through this day.” I hang up the phone and console myself that it will be worth it to have the class behind me. Plus, I won’t be in my peak of productivity and creativity after the Fabulosity gathering, so why not sit/sleep through the class and therefore avoid missing another day of work? Satisfied with the revised plan, I call my chauffeur and tell her I’m ready.
We arrive at Misty’s and bask in beauty. Not only each other’s, but Misty’s house which is decked out in twinkly lights, a roaring fire, burning candles, and a spattering of glittery kitsch, because who doesn’t love sparkles? We recline on red velvet and leather sofas, snack on garlic prawns, organic basil, mozzarella and tomatoes, heaps of guacamole, and imbibe several margaritas with salt on the rim, another nice touch. The hours of conversation that ensue are impossible to replicate, but several high lights are, “What I want is a man to come over and fuck me good, fix some shit around the house and then go back to his own house.” And, “He doesn’t want the cat, he just likes the pussy.” Both of which earn howls of laughter and cheering. Not all of the conversation revolves around sex, but our desires and needs are the focal point of the evening. And for women in their mid-thirties to forties, this often includes sex.
All night long Misty amazes and delights us with her hostess abilities, ending by pouring a beautiful crystal decanter full of absinthe into small glasses and serving this alongside a peach cobbler soaked in Grand Marnier, which she lights on fire. Sugar, alcohol, and fire? I couldn’t ask for more. I arrive home full, grinning, and satiated. Well almost. A call to a was asleep, but no longer is, man takes care of the final cherry on top.
After three hours of sleep, thanks to said cherry, I find myself singing along to Radiohead as I drive to the courthouse. I am surprisingly alert and amazingly not hung-over after the potentially hazardous combination from the night before. It’s such a contrast to the previous time I drove to the courthouse stone cold sober, yet feeling as if I was going to vomit the whole way.
The irony of going to a parenting class after drinking, having many lewd conversations, and then participating in lewd activities does not escape me. But the guilt and shame I feel only lasts a second and then I cackle, “Who cares? I’m just getting my needs met after so many years of negating them. And if I have to come to this hellhole again I’ll remember the secret remedy: margaritas, absinthe, and a cherry.”
The instructor promptly informs me that I can’t use my laptop or phone during the class. So much for my plan of getting work done or at least entertaining myself by calling and texting friends. I regress to my high school self by ignoring the instructor and writing anyway, but in a notebook so as to appear compliant, I turn every ten minute break into a half an hour break, add a few extra twenty minute breaks for myself, and in the final stretch when I think I can’t take another minute, I take a nap. After four and a half grueling hours of tedium, repetition, and not one iota of useful information I hear the magic words, “Corbin, come get your certificate of completion.” I wake from my slumber, race to the front of the class and beam at the instructor as he hands me my ticket to freedom. “And remember,” he calls after me, “The most important thing is self-care.” It took him four and a half hours, but he finally says something useful.

Getting Published Classes start in November, sign up now!

2009-10-14T14:33:00.000-07:00

I love, love my current writing class. So much so, I am going to offer it again in November. And I am not alone in my adoration, here is a testimonial from a current participant:

In the days following our first class, I write more in my journal and on the computer, and I work on the piece I read in class. I finally start to think about marketing myself as a writer in the same way I market myself as a business consultant. All of a sudden, it doesn’t seem so different.
As I churn away with an energy and enthusiasm for the creative process I’ve never felt to this degree before, I realize that I’ve been inspired by these women from the writing class: women who are all getting on with their writing despite having kids, husbands, jobs, and other challenges. Inspired by them, I work even harder.
In a few weeks, when class finishes, my motivation and inspiration will be put to the test, and I wouldn’t dare claim that I won’t continue to seek the comfort and security of writing classes and groups, but suddenly, writing no longer feels like something I should do or wish I could do; it feels like something I must do. And for that, I thank Corbin and the other women in the class.

And check out their blogs/websites website. They created these in two weeks!
www.isoldmypearlstodoit.com/
www.mywildskies.com

Class details:
Get Your Stories Published
Mondays, 6:30-8:30 pm • November 16th-December 14 • $120
Ballard

This workshop is designed for those of us who want to be published, yet seem to find 101 other things to do instead of submitting our work. The class will begin with identifying suitable publications for each participant to query. We will craft enticing query letters, strengthen a current piece or create a new piece of writing, and explore DIY options for publishing short stories and essays. Class size will be limited to eight people in order to provide everyone with individual attention. By the end of the five week workshop, all participants will have a solid query and several options of editors to submit to. The only thing left to do will be to push the "send" key!
For more information contact Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net.

About the instructor: Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is an editor, writing instructor, and author. Her memoir, Creating a Life is being published this winter, her novel Swings is out for submission, her zine Reality Mom is in it's seventh year of publishing, and her essays have been featured in Mothering, Hip Mama, Midwifery Today, A Wild Ride, Stories with Grace, and numerous of other publications. She was the editor of Verve, a Seattle women's magazine, and Mamaphiles 3, an anthology of mother witers. She has taught at Shoreline Community College, North Seattle Community College, Antioch University, Richard Hugo House and in Seattle public schools.

The Drawer

2009-10-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

Besides a Room of Their Own, all women need a private drawer. One they can fill with all of their secrets and things that make them smile. My drawer has been referred to as the “sex” drawer, but it is much more than that. Sure, it contains two different kinds of lubricant, condoms, and a few battery-operated necessities, but it also holds love letters, a lavender sachet, worry dolls and mementos from the past. It is my sacred drawer and somehow my kids have never shown an interest in it. And although I only try to put my special things inside, at times, in a quick attempt to clean up, I’ve been known to throw a few blocks or plastic dinosaurs in there and then forget about them.
That is, until these long forgotten about toys began to reemerge like tiny bread crumbs leading me to the witch’s house. First, a stack of sure to be led painted blocks appeared in a stack on my nightstand. “Wow, I thought I threw these away after Odo chewed on one,” I said to myself. But then the phone rang or the kids screamed or something else caught my eye and the blocks were forgotten about. A few days later, a half broken music box appeared on my bed. “Hmmm, I haven’t seen that in a while,” was as a far as I got with that bread crumb. A few days later, I found my kids had bookmarked several of their books with my “Good Clean Love” samples of organic lube and several condoms. Lube and Trojans were saving the place between when the pigs in Pigs Ahoy bat a meatball across the room to when they meet the sultry dancers, which made the vastly inappropriate scene before me suddenly feel very suitable.
As I gathered my goods I contemplated whether or not I should talk to my kids about privacy, special places, or lube for that matter. Or should I consider myself lucky that they are still fairly young with short term memories and I could avoid all of these discussions by merely moving my precious stash to the one drawer in the house that they still can’t reach?
What would you do? I'd love to know, even if you don't have a special drawer.

Courthouse

2009-09-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

Although I bitched and moaned and resisted it for months, I knew if I wanted to be officially divorced, I was going to have to fill out all of the paper work myself. For fourteen year I was the one that filed our taxes, I was in charge of our finances, and I filled out the kids’ school forms and medical forms, so why would I expect the divorce to be any different? Plus, I was the one who needed closure.
So I made it my summer goal. And at the time, filling out some forms while the kids played seemed quite doable. But soon enough, “some” forms, turned into 49 forms, all in a language I didn’t understand. I believe it’s called legalese, but really it should be called bullshit. Every time I waded through the bullshit, I got pissed. “Why do I have to do this? It’s my summer too and I deserve to have some fun,” I complained to my therapist.
“Because,” she said. “In order to really have fun and feel free to date and have sex, you need to be divorced.”
She was right, so I trudged through the forms. I rarely felt sentimental or any emotion besides frustration while doing so, so was surprised to find myself crying on the morning I was scheduled to file the papers with the courthouse.
“I’m getting divorced today,” I cried to my mom when she showed up to watch the kids.
“I know,” she said.
“I’m so tired of doing every thing myself. Why do I have to take care of everyone? When is someone going to take care of me?”
“I don’t know,” she said and gave me a hug.
I drove to the courthouse feeling as if I was going to vomit the entire way. I wasn’t having second thoughts about ending my marriage, I just felt violently ill and didn’t know why. I parked, naively filled the meter with forty five minutes worth of change, and walked to the courthouse. Three hours, several sprints to the meter, and five offices later, I was still in the courthouse. I was not divorced, nor did it seem that becoming divorced was ever going to happen. I had successfully spent the last three hours completely numb, not understanding or feeling anything, but rather merely doing as I was told while in a fog. But while waiting for a court appointed attorney in what must have been the sixth office I visited that day, the haze lifted and nausea returned. I walked out to the stairwell, crouched down on the marble floor, needing desperately to feel something solid and grounded, and breathed deeply. That helped a bit, but I needed more, so I called Greek Prophet.
Greek Prophet had only recently entered my life, but when I thought about who I could call that would be 100% available to me for ten minutes, who wouldn’t be distracted by kids, coworkers or Blackberries beeping, and who would know what I needed, because I didn’t have a clue, I knew it was him. When he answered the phone I said, “I’m crouching in the middle of the courthouse and I think I’m going to puke.” He soothed me with beautiful mermaid stories and fierce Kali tales and then told me I was going to be all right. Because I was a powerful mermaid/Kali as well and I’d come this far, all I needed to do was make it through two more offices. “You can do this,” he said. “You’re an amazing woman.” And once I believed him, I hung up the phone and resumed my waiting, nodding, and filling out of even more paperwork.
Two days later I attended an art show and new Reality Mom debut with my friend Courtney. A woman named Karen with beautiful purple glasses approached me. We skipped pleasantries and she immediately asked, “Have you ever been to Salem, Massachusetts?”
“No, why?”
“Because I think you’d be moved by the courthouses there.”
“Because I was a witch?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I just spent the day at the courthouse here and thought I was going to faint,” I said.
“I know,” she smiled. “Something is moving through you. I think the worst is over.”
This may seem like a strange conversation to have, but to me it was the only conversation to have. I was still trying to understand why I was so rattled by the courthouse, but as soon as Salem was mentioned I understood. Courthouses are just like churches and every time I set foot into either, I feel sick. As if I’m being persecuted.
As a little girl, I always felt nauseous when I attended church. In my twenties, I nearly passed out walking down the aisle of a red Episcopalian church for a friend’s wedding. After catching me and fanning me, my friend Lori said, “Most people don’t have such a strong reaction to churches. I think you were a witch in a past life and you’re afraid you are going to be burned at the stake.” I believed her and have avoided churches ever since. And now I realize courthouses have the same affect on me.
Similar to my church experiences, I didn’t understand anything people were saying at the courthouse, I just understood I had done things “incorrectly.” As a child, my sin was being an unbaptized heathen. In the courthouse, my sins were not having a lawyer fill out my paperwork, being as vague as possible on our parenting plan so we could adjust it according to the kid’s needs, and our schedules, and refusing to ask for alimony from my ex, even though I am considered low income. And my punishment was hell, otherwise known as endless lines and unyielding city officials. Although I believe this is a perfectly rational, humane, and respectful way to deal with divorce, in the court’s eyes, it is wrong. I wasn’t supposed to leave the office to call a man I hardly knew, I was supposed to make my ex pay me money he doesn’t have, and I should know how I’m going to spend Martin Luther King day for the rest of my life.
Doing things my way was ruffling feathers and causing me to be admonished, just like women helping other women give birth, save lives, and offer spiritual advice was considered “wrong” so many years ago. So wrong, that she could be hung or burned for her “crimes.” And as we all know, similar punishments are still inflicted on women world wide.
My courthouse experience has become so much more than getting divorced. It is about seeking and obtaining the freedom and liberation I need and having the confidence to do things my way. And when I start to doubt this, I’m learning that it is all right to ask for help. In fact, it’s crucial that I’m able to accept that help and stop feeling as if I have to do everything myself. And most of all, it is about being true to myself and making sure I will never, ever be persecuted for my beliefs again. And if I have to vomit in public to remember this, it will be a small price to pay.

Writing Classes for Kids at Richard Hugo House

2009-09-16T10:41:00.000-07:00

Hugo Classes for Kids: Writing Honor and Admiration for El Dia de los Muertos
Come and write beautiful poetry on the theme of El Dia de los Muertos--The Day of the Dead, honoring and celebrating those whom we have lost and admire, as well as those who have fought for social change. Through poems, short prose, dramatic monologues and dialogues, we will tell our stories of remembrance and gratitude. An alter of our work will be assembled and put on display at the annual El Centro de la Raza's Day of the Dead exhibit.

Instructor: Ann Teplick
Writers: grades 3-6
Date/time: Tuesdays, October 6 - December 8, 4-5:30 p.m.
Location: Richard Hugo House (1634 11th Ave. on Capitol Hill)
Tuition: $50 per session, pay-what-you-can
To register, or for more info, please contact Richard Hugo House:
youth@hugohouse.org or call 206-322 7030

About the instructor
Ann Teplick is a poet, playwright and prose writer. She works with young writers in schools, through Coyote Central and with The Pongo Publishing Teen Writing Project.

Real Mama book looking for submissions

2009-09-06T20:16:00.000-07:00

Got a story to tell?

For Real Mama Stories: on New Motherhood, I am seeking mothers interested in contributing a story or essay about their experience of new motherhood (recent or reflective). This collection will include a range of stories – funny tales, reflective pieces, thought-provoking rants– but above all, real stuff. Stories should be authentic, honest, and be based on real experiences of the ride of motherhood.

At this point, the following are working themes for the book, though themes may be added or removed depending on stories received.

Birth – labour stories, reflections on birth, unmet expectations of labour, celebrations of birth, etc.
Afterbirth – the heaven and hell of bringing baby home, breastfeeding (or not), post-partum feelings, learning to parent, other people’s advice and reactions, etc.
Redefining Relationships – with your spouse, your kids, your family, your in-laws, the grandparents; the negotiations, assumptions, spoken and unspoken conflicts, asking for help or receiving unasked for help, etc.
The Push and Pull – juggling priorities, attempting to take care of self and baby, being pulled in multiple directions, managing work and child care, trying to find balance, etc.
Recovering Identity – determining who you are again now that motherhood is part of your identity, revisiting old desires/hobbies/people, exploring new paths, returning to work, self-care, etc.

Submission Guidelines

All submissions must be from self-identified mothers, and of previously unpublished work (blog okay)
Word count: 750-2500 words
Deadline: November 15, 2009 (early submissions appreciated). Depending on volume of submissions, all stories may not be able to be included but all will receive a response before the end of the year.
No financial remuneration is possible at this point– just the satisfaction of being part of something new that celebrates and bears witness to our new motherhood experiences.

To submit:

Place your story in the text of an email message (do not send attachments).
Be sure to include your full name, contact information (name, phone, email, city), and a bit about yourself in the email
Email to realmamastories (at) gmail [dot] com

Questions or queries?

Queries and questions prior to submission are welcome.

Email realmamastories (at) gmail [dot] com

Introduction to my memoir Creating a Life

2009-09-03T12:22:00.000-07:00

Phyllis Klaus, MFT, LMSW is a perinatal psychotherapist, researcher, and co-author of several books. Recently, she wrote a poignant and heart felt introduction for my memoir Creating a Life. Here is a snippet of Phyllis' kind words:

In Corbin Lewars’ book, Creating a Life, you take a profound step into her inner world. It is an autobiographical window into her soul, her searingly honest voice, facing her worst demons and how they affected her and how she dealt with them and found her voice could give hope and permission to others to take such a risk.
As we step into her world, she writes so openly, that she gives the reader an opportunity to test out one’s own honesty—Could we ask for what we want?, could we discuss our bodily functions, could we make personal choices different from our closest friends or relatives even if they protested or did not understand?
But even more than that we follow her “independent” way of thinking, of being, her willingness to check out and research all possibilities, and finally through psychotherapy to learn to trust her gut, her intuition, to listen to her feelings, to go into them, to not avoid them, and in doing so, to learn even more strongly to trust herself.

Contemplating Roofies

2009-09-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

I didn’t just dangle my toes into the dating world, I dove in head first. I don’t necessarily recommend this tactic, it just seems to be the way I’m doing things these days: with my eyes closed and a cavalier attitude. That is, until I smack my head against cement and say, “Ouch! Why the hell did I think that was a good idea?”
The first crash came quickly and suddenly. One day I was stating I wasn’t ready to date yet and the next day I walked into a friend’s living room and saw Trouble. My soul sister, and dearest friend who has known me since I was fourteen, stopped midstride, looked at me, and said, “He’s for you.” And then we both said, “Oh shit.”
It was in the nineties that evening and when not being captivated by what Trouble was saying, I kept thinking, “Why doesn’t he take off his shirt rather than complain about how hot it is?” He never did, so a few days later, I called him. We hung out a few times, I broke all of my, “I’ll never do that” pre-divorce rules, and I was captivated. Not only by his mind, but by his body, which I thankfully was finally able to see. I called him Saturday morning to see what time he was going to come over to ravage me, or vice versa, and he said, “I can’t do this.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Do this, with you. It will only end badly and I’m a mess and you’re clear and….” he babbled on. I didn’t catch most of what he said, because I was stuck on “this.” I didn’t know what “this” was, but for the time being I thought it was sex. And I thought a man would be thrilled to hear that was all I wanted, but instead I was getting blown off.
“You can’t be my booty call?” I asked.
“Apparently I can’t,” he said.
Still in disbelief, I had to call my sister for a reality check.
“What!” she screamed. “What’s happened to the world as I knew it? It’s been a while, but back when I was dating if a girl wanted to get laid, a girl could get laid.”
“I know,” I said. “ I thought it was the one constant you could always rely on.”
I walked around in a stupor for a day and then became captivated again. This time with a Greek man, which is double trouble. After three nights of talking about sex, beautiful mermaids, and the stars, I asked him if I could kiss him. And he said no.
“Wow, twice in as many weeks,” I muttered as he babbled about boundaries and the huge transition I was in. As soon as he left, I called my friend Angelina.
After several, “No ways!” and “You’re making this up,” she grew contemplative. Then she asked, “Do you know where you can get any roofies?”
I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair, but she was dead serious. So I gave it some serious consideration.
In less than two weeks I went from being happy to have time to myself to thinking about drugging guys so they’d kiss me. What’s happened to the world as I knew it?

Doughnut Porn

2009-08-28T14:25:00.000-07:00

A friend recently described her visit to a Krispy Krème where she and her kids were able to watch a conveyor belt of dough become fried and then sprayed with sugar and lard in order to become the ever so tasty “Hot Original Glazed.” I was equally disgusted and salivating over her description of the fried beauties, but once “Hot Original Glazed” was mentioned the nausea passed and I was left feeling strangely aroused.
I relayed this story to a guy over drinks and he proved to be one of the wittiest people I’ve ever met by saying, “It’s Doughnut Porn.” I wish I came up with that myself. But in order to do so, I would have had to accept the slightly demented fact that I was turned on by doughnuts.
The guy continued to entertain me with more food erotica, stating that a truck full of doughnut glaze had tipped over earlier that day, filling the street with white, sweet, gooey fluid. Who knew doughnuts could be so hot?

Sybil

2009-08-25T21:49:00.000-07:00

“They” say kids aren’t good with transitions, but I say it’s not the kids who mind shifting gears, it’s the adults. At least in my house.
I’ve learned to be perfectly honest with people when they invite us over on a Friday night. “If we can come straight from school/work, maybe we’ll make it. But if we go home and I have a chance to wash my face and pour a glass of wine, forget it. We’re not leaving.”
For years I wrestled with my dual role as writer and editor while the kids were in school and mama from 3:00 on. Add to this becoming divorced, and I’m in transition overload. I am writer/ editor during the day, mama from 3-8:30 p.m. and regressed adolescent on the weekends. I admit it, I am reliving my twenties and it’s pretty fuckin’ fun. I highly recommend it. But after staying out until two in the morning with a girlfriend flirting and drinking (more on that later) or until 5:30 with a cute 26 year old boy (much more on that later), or any act that involves a Wonder bra (or removal of said item) it’s hard not to feel completely discombobulated (or like a whore or Mrs. Robinson or at least as if I need a shower) when it comes time to pick up the kiddos.
I was milling all of this over while I sat at a bar waiting for a friend. A woman came up to me and said, ‘Sybil? Is that you?”
I smiled at the irony and couldn’t refrain from replying, “Yeah, I’m Sybil.”

Writing Classes for Moms

2009-08-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

Art Opening and New Reality Mom Celebration

2009-08-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

Please join Courtney Putnam and Corbin Lewars (Reality Mom) for an evening of celebration, art, writing, and delicious merriment on Friday, August 14th from 6-9 p.m. at Makeda Coffee House in the Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle (153 N. 78th Street)

Makeda Coffee will be the home for Courtney's mixed media and encaustic art pieces for an entire month! Please join us in celebrating the opening of this show as well as the release party for the fabulously redesigned Realty Mom, which will feature Courtney's art for an entire year.

This show is in conjunction with the Greenwood-Phinney Art Walk, so feel free to check out the other art in the neighborhood!

Flying, Volume 6, Issue 2

2009-08-03T10:42:00.000-07:00

In this issue:
Screw Stages, This is Real Life
No Photos to Bear Witness by Liesl Jurock
Flying
Shuttle Express Prophet by Wendy Chisholm
The Other "D" Word
In the Rearview Mirror by Robin Barbier
Kind of Slutty

Kind of Slutty
Odo swung from the bicycle rack on 85th Street and flashed all of the rush hour traffic with her bare bottom. Rather than tell her to get down, I considered it fortunate that she at least had a dress on. A remarkable improvement from the field trip we just attended where one of Little Dude’s classmates said, “Hey, how come she’s naked?” I looked around for the addled brain flasher, but instead saw Odo streak across the grass.
Not to be all “Free to Be You and Me,” but I do think one of children’s inherent rights is to be naked. And rather than scold Odo for wanting to be, I’ve been using her as a role model. No, I don’t streak in public, but I have been trying to embrace my body more and stop hiding it. For years I’ve isolated myself from men and ignored my sexuality. I have no, meaning zero, male friends and live in a world filled with women and children. This is lovely in many ways, but it strikes me as unfair that I’ve written off half of the population. I know why I’ve done so, partly due to misdeeds done to me in the past and partly because I didn’t think it was right to hang out with men since I was married. I’m ready to change that pattern. But before I open myself up to men, I have to trust and love myself first.
So I bought myself a Wonderbra. I know it’s a cliché, but for me, someone who calls seeing a counselor and taking a bath “treating herself,” this was a milestone. It wasn’t boring, it wasn’t “enriching,” it wasn’t cerebal, it was just a way to feel good. And let me tell you, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt good about my saggy, nursed two children into nonexistence breasts. For this lady, the bra did create wonders, cleavage that I thought I lost long ago.
Decked out in my new Wonderbra, and a new orange, low cut tank top, I drive to the pub to meet a friend. At a traffic light, a man whistles at me. I roll down the window to thank him and tell him he made my day. When I arrive at the pub my friend says, “Is that a new shirt? It’s kind of slutty.” She sees my face fall and quickly adds, “That could be a good thing.”
And it can be a good thing. When it makes me appreciate myself and my sexuality and no longer fear it. And when I can feel like a strong, sexy vixen who actually enjoys being admired by others. But it can also be a bad thing. Like when attending Little Dude’s Kindergarten graduation.
Odo and I were running late, as always, and in my haste I agreed to wear the cherry red sundress she held out for me. We strapped on our sandals and raced to our car. My neighbor greeted us by saying, “Wow. You look beautiful.” “Thanks for noticing,” I tell her and peel out of the driveway.
We crowd into Little Dude’s classroom where I unfortunately have to sit next to the perfect couple. You know the ones, who both have lucrative, demanding jobs, but somehow still find time to volunteer in all three of their kid’s classrooms. The one’s who run marathons, and bike all over town with their kids, and never, ever show up at their son’s graduation sweating and with a blueberry stain on their ass. I lean as far away as possible from the perfect couple, so as not to offend them with my coffee breath and b.o., when I hear the mother say, “Whoa!” Her eyes are wide in horror and she’s staring at my chest. I glance down, sure I’ll see a scarlet letter there, probably a big “D” for divorcee, and instead see one of my breasts trying to release itself from the magnificent Wonderbra. Sure, a little cleavage is sexy, flashing Kindergarteners is just tacky. And illegal. I’ll try to remember this the next time I let Odo dress me.

Get Your Stories off Your Computer and Into Print

2009-07-16T17:49:00.000-07:00

Tuesdays, 6-8:00 pm • September 29th- October 27th • $120
Ballard

This workshop is designed for those of us who want to be published, yet seem to find 101 other things to do instead of submitting our work. The class will begin with identifying suitable publications for each participant to query. We will craft enticing query letters, strengthen a current piece or create a new piece of writing, and explore DIY options for publishing. Class size will be limited to eight people in order to provide everyone with individual attention. By the end of the five week workshop, all participants will have a solid proposal and several options of editors to submit to. The only thing left to do will be to push the "send" key!
For more information contact Corbin at corbinlew@clearwire.net.

About the instructor: Corbin Lewars is an editor, writing instructor, and author. Her memoir, Creating a Life is being published this fall, her novel Swings is out for submission, her zine Reality Mom is in it's seventh year of publishing, and her essays have been featured in Mothering, Hip Mama, Midwifery Today, A Wild Ride, Stories with Grace, and numerous of other publications. She was the editor of Verve, a Seattle women's magazine, and Mamaphiles 3, an anthology of mother witers. She has taught at Shoreline Community College, North Seattle Community College, Antioch University, Richard Hugo House and in Seattle public schools.

Motherhood Egg to Zine Performance

2009-07-15T12:24:00.001-07:00

Chelan, WA • August 1, 2009 • 6:00-10:00 pm

Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) (ME2Z) is a literary and arts performance tour of moms, grandmas, and would-be moms whose mission is to celebrate motherhood and passionate creativity of women.

Pack up your beach blankets and festival chairs, because the mamas are bringing their “mamapalooza” to Chelan’s Riverwalk Park Pavilion. This summer’s event will open with music by Two Wannabe Divas and One Real One, the “divalicious” trio comprised of CherylAnn Ellingson, Jeannie Kappple and Kathryn Castrodale. Readings by Corbin Lewars of Reality Mom Zine, Rosie Weagant Norton of Riot Mama, The Gonzo Mama’s Christina-Marie Wright, Christy Cuellar-Wentz of Mommy-Muse.com will follow as well as the indie folk rock stylings of Ilka Haley of Small Town Girl Productions. More performers are added every day and their will be a wine garden, so please join us on the 1st!

For more information, call Christina-Marie at 509-670-8823 or email her.

What We’re Reading

2009-07-05T15:02:00.000-07:00

After delving into our childhood books, saved thoughtfully by my mother, who obviously does not share my purging gene, my kids have settled on their favorites. Their taste is remarkably similar to mine and even after thirty plus years, I still enjoy these books.

Odo’s current obsession is Best Friends For Frances and although I was always partial to A Bargain for Frances, all Frances books by Russel Hoban kick ass. She knows what she likes and when she doesn’t like something, she makes up a song about it. Bread and jam is deemed the perfect food and slimey eggs get this:

I do not like the way you slide

I do not like your soft inside

I do not like you lots of ways

And I could do for many days

Without Eggs.

When her friend Albert wouldn’t let Frances play baseball, but then wants to join her and her sister for a picnic, Frances wisely says, “Maybe you’ll be best friends when it is goodies-in-the-hamper time, but how about when it is no-girls-baseball time?”And when she gets her friend Thelma back for screwing her out of a tea set, Frances says, “Being careful is not as much fin as being friends. Do you want to be careful or do you want to be friends?”

She was and still remains my role model. And if these tactics don’t work for me when I’m navigating relationships, I can always follow her lead and pack a stack of cookies and run away to under my dining room table until things improve.

Little Dude is devouring all 26 Sweet Pickle Books. Unfortunately, these books by Jacquelyn Reinarch are no longer in print, but can still be found on line. Each letter is represented by an animal and characteristic and each book features one animal. Accusing Aligator, Bashful Bear, Clever Camel, you get the idea. The other animals often try to teach the featured animal a lesson to change that characteristic, but usually the animal continues on in their, perhaps annoying, habits. I appreciate this true to life lesson that Sweet Pickles offers to kids. People are frequently annoying, and you probably can’t change them, but you can choose to be friends with them anyway. Or not. Little Dude’s (and my) current favorite is Zany Zebra, because he follows his own path and therefore, seems to be the most content character.

I went to the reading for Candace Walsh’s Ask Me About My Divorce and was thrilled to hear her say the theme behind the book is to show some positive sides to divorce, to show women thriving, rather than crumbling. Tired of being treated as if I had cancer whenever mentioning the big “D” word, I raced to buy her book after she spoke. And sure enough, the women ahead of me said, “I’m so sorry you’re getting divorced. It’s good that you’re able to get out sometimes.” She obviously wasn’t listening very carefully.

I got home and stayed up until two reading the book, but then I panicked because I was dangerously near the end. I wanted the sisterhood feeling to last, so since then, I only allow myself one essay a night. And each night I am treated to a delectable tale of a woman moving on and benefiting from being alone, or having very hot, non-married sex. Either one sounds good to me.

Once my savory essay was read, I basked in the freedom to devour as much of Sarah Bird’s How Perfect is That as I wanted. Not only is How Perfect is That a substantial book, Bird is a prolific writer, so I was comforted in the knowing that there was plenty more to come.

Although I didn’t immediately warm to Blythe Young, a wannabe Texas princess and How Perfect is That’s protagonist, I did find her funny and appreciated her honesty about her foibles. She marries for money but loses everything in a divorce, because she signed a pre-nup. Forced to care for herself, she goes back to catering, but tries to cut corners on lavish affairs. Catfish is died pink and called Copper River Salmon, Cream of Wheat is called polenta and when the hostess start to ask questions, a roofie is slipped into her Dom Perignon, which is really box wine with an alka selzer thrown in. Blythe gets caught in her lying and drug slipping antics and is forced to flee the land of the rich and live among the poor. The book dazzles from this point on with its rich cast of characters including street kids, homeless winos, and international college kids.

Separate, Volume 6, Issue 2

2009-06-15T16:09:00.000-07:00

In this issue
Motherhood: Egg to Zine
The Blue Hair Club by Kristin King
New Beginnings
Separation
From Separated Mom to Single Mom
Snapshots

Snapshots

There isn’t an easy answer to the question, “How’s it going?” when you’re newly separated. Emotions, feelings, and experiences vacillate in the extreme. I’m continually surprised by my answer to that seemingly innocuous question and from the looks on their faces, I can tell I’ve astonished the asker as well. Sometimes a person who I assumed would pull away upon hearing that Jason and I have separated, actually comes closer. We have a meaningful conversation or perhaps even make a date to have coffee with one another. Other times, people withdraw from me when I don’t expect it. As if being separated is contagious and they don’t want to catch it.
It’s all a surprise, it’s all a blur, and it’s ever changing. Similar to my children’s babyhood, I’ll never remember all of it, but glimpses come to mind from time to time. Here are my glimpses, or snapshots, of the last couple of months.
It’s nearly Christmas and our counselor suggests we wait until after the holidays to tell the kids that we’re separating. We stuff our emotions, problems, and trepidation and let Christmas be about the kids. Well, that’s what we claim we’re going to do.
In actuality, stuffing our emotions takes all of our energy leaving nothing left for hanging lights, decorating trees, or shopping. We string one measly strand of lights on our living room window and call it good. The kids decorate the tree, meaning one square foot has forty ornaments on it and the rest of the tree is bare.
Once the kids pull their satsumas out of their stockings, open their two books, and eat their dried mango, they look at us expectantly.
“Is that all we have?” Jason whispers to me.
“Yeah, I thought we were going to see your parents yesterday so I was counting on them for the gifts.” A freakish snow storm prevents us from visiting Jason’s parents, so my kids are left with a Little House on the Prairie Christmas. OK, that’s being generous. Ma Ingalls would have given her kids more gifts than I did.
I spend Valentine’s Day retreating at my parent’s guest house. I’m so thrilled to have time by myself, that I don’t even mind that I’m alone and separated on Cupid’s day.
My birthday approaches and for the first time in six years, I actually throw a party for myself. After emailing several friends, “Bring your family and a dish to share for dinner,” I receive several inquiring emails back. “Is this for women and kids only or can my husband come?” The first time this happens, I figure “family” is a nebulous word. The third time I am asked, I know my friends think I’m a man-hater. I reassure them hubby’s are considered part of “family” and confuse them further by having Jason open the door when they arrive at my house.
“But Jason’s here,” they whisper to me.
“Yeah, I know. He made the appetizers. Aren’t they yummy?”
“But you’re separated.”
“I still want him here. It’s my birthday!”
They walk away and help themselves to large glasses of wine.
If I am going to be considered someone who only enjoys the company of women, I figure I may as well take advantage of that reputation and plan a “mom’s only” weekend away with four friends. I get drunk for the first time in years and float around in the hot tub until two a.m. My friends continually try to tell me that nobody has it all and suggest that perhaps I am being unreasonable in my expectations for my relationship. “Bullshit!” I scream, thanks to the copious amount of gin I’ve ingested. “I don’t have to settle. I can have a it all if I work hard enough.” I wake up in the morning, relieved to not have a hangover, but skeptical that my friends will agree to another weekend away with me anytime soon.
Fortunately for them, they are not invited away with me again because Jason travels for a month causing me to become a single mom, glued to her home and kids. Two weeks into single momhood I come down with the flu, which turns into strep throat. The kids entertain themselves (or destroy the house, how would I have known the difference?) while I sweat, hallucinate, and groan in bed. Hours later, guilt overrides the pain, and I stumble downstairs to check on them. I make them some toast and crawl back into bed. They find me there crying. “I’m so sorry. You’re too young to be fending for yourself. I wish papa were here, he’d take care of all of us.”
“Feel your feelings,” Little Dude says.
“Let it out,” Odo chimes in.
I see my emotional work is paying off. We’re all in bed crying when the phone rings. It’s an angel, a goddess, my patron saint, the friend who seems to always be the one who calls or is unfortunate enough to answer her phone when I’m in a bind. She’s inviting us to dinner.
“I have strep throat,” I whine.
“I’ll come get the kids then.”
“What if they’re contagious?”
“So what, you need help. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Put their pajamas and toothpaste in a bag and tell them to meet me out front.”
Over the past six years, I have wished for this to happen more times than I can count. While sick, while sleep deprived, while frustrated, while depressed, I have fantasized about the magic woman who would show up at my house and take my kids away. And it actually happened!
Fueled by antibiotics and my friend’s benevolence, I get creative about how to give myself breaks. I’ve already tapped the friend lifeline, so I solicit the help of an adolescent neighborhood girl who is thrilled to babysit for $3.50 an hour. I should have done this years ago.
$7.00 buys me a glorious walk by myself and an uninterrupted phone call to birth educator extraordinaire, Penny Simkin. For the second time, I’m speechless by the fact that I have a famous writer on the other end of the phone. And she expects me to say something! I stammer about my book, as unobsequiously as possible rave about her work, and then ask the big one. “Will you write a foreword for my memoir?”
And she says yes! Not only will my book finally have a life outside of my computer, but it will be adorned with words from Penny Simkin. That is so worth $7.00.
At the end of two months I know several things. I like time to myself, but don’t want to be alone. I am able to be a single mom, but don’t want to be. We can’t afford two households. And I miss Jason. It would be so easy to move back in together. I’m burnt out, worried about money, and lonely. But I know nothing has sustainably changed and I won’t go back to the life I was living.
I stop wearing my wedding ring as a reminder that I am only willing to move in one direction: forward. Maybe Jason will come with me, maybe he won’t, but either way, the future will be different. Going backwards is no longer an option.

I am David Sedaris' Mom

2009-05-30T14:46:00.000-07:00

It was the end of a long, hot week and all I really wanted was for a handsome man to fan me while serving me cool, refreshing beverages. What I got instead was the playdate from hell. Two minutes after shoving three children into the back of my very small car, I had to pull over in a "oh my god I've become my mother" episode.

"I can not drive with all of this screaming. You HAVE to settle down right now, damn it." Both of my kids' eyes widened and they looked at each other with the all knowing, "She's in one of those moods" looks. But my son's friend, the one I was mainly yelling at, didn't bat an eye. He resumed his thrashing and screaming, I yelled again, he yelled louder, so I turned up the stereo and sped home. Once there, I told the kids to play outside, threw them some snacks, and locked the door.

Occasionally, I would hear a scream or yelp and drag my sorry butt to the window.

"Put that shovel down, someone..."

"Bang! Owww!"

"Are you bleeding?"

"No"

And the window would close. My resourceful three year old daughter came inside, using the unlocked front door, and found me sprawled out on the couch.

"Those boys are crazy," she stated.

"I know. Did you get hurt?"

"No, I just watched them. What are you drinking?"

"Juice," I lied.

"Can I have some?"

"It's special mommy juice."

"Why are you drinking it in a coffee mug?"

"I have no idea. Let's go upstairs and spy on the boys. They won't be able to see us from the top window."

And that's where we remained until we saw the friend's mother pull up, which caused me to stash my "juice cup" in a potted plant and pretend I was a normal, if at least somewhat attentive, mother.

Show Your Stuff

2009-05-29T11:46:00.001-07:00

It's that time in her life when Reality Mom needs a little help. Botox and sunscreen are only helping her so much and she wants to be seen as the beauty she is. So she's going under the knife and will reemerge beautiful. Even more beautiful? you ask. Yes, can you believe it?

She will have a color cover, she will be tastefully designed, she will have new fonts, and as always, her words were make you laugh, cry, and swear. She will be glorious. And she wants to show you off as well. Starting with the fall issue, Reality Mom will be featuring an artist in every issue for an entire year. That's right, your art in Reality Mom for all to see. She will also be hosting several readings, where once again, your art will be displayed (in the flesh this time). So, if you have some fabulous art you would like to show the world, send me an email and we'll see what we can do. Reality_mom@yahoo.com

Motherhood Egg to Zine performance

2009-03-13T10:52:00.001-07:00

My first public reading started off with a bang. After months of planning, a thousand and one phone calls and emails, I had nine writers lined up to read at the illustrious Hugo House. Press releases were sent, the venue was paid for, we were all set, right? Wrong.

The evening before the event I came down with the flu. All of my family already had it, and I was just starting to feel smug in my ability to avoid it. That will teach me to be smug. Jason rouses me from my hallucinations (or was I sleeping? hard to tell the difference with the flu) and hands me the phone. "It's one of the writers and she sounds.... Well, I think you better talk to her," he says.

Before I can even muster a hello, I hear, "I'm still drunk! They were pouring Southern Comfort down my throat all night long!"

"Where are you?" I ask the not so sober Angelina.

"On our way to Chelan."

"What!" I sit up in bed, no longer hallucinating, but wishing I was. "But you said you were going to stay the night in Seattle so you'd be here for the first show at 2:00"

"Yeah, but we needed to come home for something. I can't remember what. But don't worry, I'll be there by 1:00, no problem."

After more drunk ramblings, I am finally able to get off the phone. Just as I snuggle back down into bed, the phone rings again. It's another writer, this one claiming she is sorry she didn't get her bio to us when we asked for it (weeks earlier) but will do so tonight. "Yeah, once I get the kids down I should be able to write it and email it to you. Then I'll write my piece."

"You haven't written your piece yet?" I gasp.

"I've thought about it, but no I haven't written anything."

I hang up the phone and this time, I turn the ringer off. We're reading tomorrow in front on not just one, but two audiences and so far one of us is drunk, one is puking, and one hasn't written anything. This is not how I imagined my first public reading.

Do we bomb? Was it fabulous? Was anyone drunk? Was puking involved? Find out how it all turns out in the spring issue of Reality Mom. Order your copy today.

And read more from our fabulous performers and learn about our next performance date at Motherhood Egg to Zine.

Published!

2009-03-13T10:42:00.001-07:00

What happens when you fire your agent, put your first two books to the side, and write a book proposal for a third book? You get published! Yes, it's finally happened. My memoir Creating a Life will be published this year with Catalyst Book Press. I suppose the third time's the charm. For books that is, not children. Stay tuned for book tour dates.

New Editing and Mentoring Services!

2008-12-23T19:35:00.000-08:00

Do you struggle with finding time to write? Do you have several complete essays, but don't know where to send them? Do you have an idea for a book, but don't know how to get started?
Let me help you. It's too much for us to expect ourselves to be a writer, editor, marketing guru, and cheerleader all in one. We work alone, when we have time, and we can't do it all. Certainly not for our own work.
To help you get over these hurdles I am offering two services on a limited basis. Editing and shaping critique for written work or on going mentoring services. The mentoring would involve a longer commitment with weekly homework, conference calls, and editing services. Email me for details: reality_mom@yahoo.com.

Winter Issue and Events

2008-12-23T11:08:00.000-08:00

The Winter Issue "Seasoned" is now available. Order your copy or give it as a gift. A year of laughs for only $12!

Politics, lying about Santa, losing a baby, pulling your child out of public school, these are the things that make us wise, crazy, vulnerable, but most of all seasoned. Buy your copy today!

Live Nude Girls!

Not really, just myself, Christina Marie Wright of Gonzo Parenting zine (www.myspace.com/gonzoparenting), Christy Cuellar-Wentz of Mommy Muse radio talk show and E-book (www.mommy-muse.com) and Monica LeMoine of Exhale zine (www.exhalezine.com) will be reading, dancing and cavorting at

Play Matters (www.playmattersseattle.com) at 2:00 on Saturday, January 24th

and again at 7:00 at Hugo House (www.hugohouse.org)

Come join the debauchery.

Seasoned, Volume 6, Issue 1

2008-12-22T11:24:00.001-08:00

In this Issue:

Parenting + Politics (results may vary) by Christina Marie Wright

Whoops, I Did it Again

Am I a Mom by Monica LeMoine

The Problem with Christmas by Tanya Ruckstuhl-Valenti

Taking Over the World

Dreams Versus Reality

Done in By a Tooth

Dreams Versus Reality

The Dream: Taking my kids downtown to see the Christmas lights, giant train in front of Macy’s, and horse drawn carriages will be fun.

The Reality: My kids act like bats out of hell downtown and it’s twenty one degrees outside. I don’t even think about chasing them because I can barely move under my ten layers of clothes. They leave a pile of tourists, homeless people, and the Salvation Army lady in their wake. When not apologizing profusely and picking old ladies off of the ground, I try to keep on eye on my kids so they don’t get run over by downtown, rush hour traffic. Within twenty minutes of my supposedly sweet winter wonderland fantasy, I am staring longingly into every bar I pass.

The Dream: Downtown restaurants are kid friendly.

The Reality: Several downtown restaurants claim to be kid friendly, but as soon as my motley crew enters all well-coiffed, cell talking heads turn and stare. I could hear a pin drop if it weren’t for Odo’s shrieks of, “I want dessert!” as she tears past tables adorned with white tablecloths and long-stemmed wine glasses. She nearly trips several waitstaff along her way and I start to second guess my insistence on eating a decent meal. This may be a good time to break my boycott on McDonald’s.

The Dream: My children know how to behave in restaurants.

The Reality: Little Dude waits patiently for his food to arrive, eats his ordered meal, and then reads quietly to himself. Odo grabs all of the knives from the table and wields them frantically as she jumps up and down in her seat. When everyone at the table refuses to join her, she deems us boring and races around the restaurant looking for allies. I eventually find her behind the bar, shaking every colorful, breakable bottle she can get her hands on.

The Dream: A night out on the town with my children is fun.

The Reality: Now that they are tucked securely in their beds, a night on the town with my children was fun. And next time I plan an adventure with them, I won’t remember any of the realities, only the dreams.

Favorites, Volume 5, Issue 3

2008-09-17T13:42:00.000-07:00

In this issue:
Confessions From a Mommy Group Drop Out
We Don't Forget
We're Having Some Concerns, by Diane Porter-Brown
Did I Say That?
The Good, Bad, and Confusing
I Don't Want to Play
Is This Fun?
Yanky
Role Model
Tricked Again! by Kristin King

Yanky
(Also published in Hip Mama, Fall 2008)

Little Dude has found his penis. I suppose I should be thankful that it has taken him almost four years to do so, but really I’m just mortified to realize that I’m a prude.
I am the first person in my household to initiate naked dancing, I worked at a clothing optional center, and the large red phallic item in my dresser drawer is not an ear cleaner, yet when Little Dude started masturbating, I found myself blushing. I couldn’t believe I, the person who taught her son what a vagina and penis were before he was one, taught him what tampons and periods were before he was two, and let him watch me give birth to his baby sister before he was three, was now made uncomfortable by the sight of her almost four-year-old son stroking his penis. With all of these discussions of body parts and fluids I thought I would be fine when the day came that he wanted to play with himself. But I wasn’t.
The explorations started over the summer. Anytime he was naked, which was frequently, he would grab his penis. It was right there, so why not? He would give it a yank and go on his merry way. I often mistook this groping as a sign that he had to go to the bathroom. After numerous, “Do you have to go potty?” he finally informed me, “I don’t have to go to the bathroom, I just like doing that.” Oh.
Being naked or going commando are common states at home, but not so much the case when in public. This fact reassured me that he probably wasn’t going to earn the nickname “Yanky” at preschool. With the fear of early osterization out of the way, I confessed my discomfort and newfound prudishness to Jason.
I said, “I hope you’re the one who has to deal with all of those talks. You know, the wet dreams, masturbation talks.”
“That’s fine,” he said laughing at the woman who just changed the batteries in her bedside companion, but can’t talk about masturbation with her son.
Over time the yanking became softer, with a bit of stroking and squeezing thrown in. I tried to tell myself it was perfectly natural, that I would probably be doing more of it as well if I hadn’t turned into such a prude, but I still found myself averting my eyes or even walking away when Little Dude started up. We probably could have coexisted in our denial (me), yet merry (Little Dude) way if the stroking didn’t tend to mostly occur while lying side by side together in a twin bed while reading If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. I didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious or as if there was anything wrong with touching himself, because I believe everyone has the right to feel good, but I also didn’t want to watch him give himself a boner while I was attempting to have quality snuggling time with him. I also knew that any moment the mouse’s antics would become less interesting than what was going on in his pants and that I would be asked the dreaded penis questions.
The cosmos took care of me and Little Dude’s awareness of his hard-on state occurred on Jason’s watch. He asked Jason why his penis was getting bigger when he touched it and they had a full-fledged, unabashed discussion about erections, scrotums, penises, and testicles. When Jason filled me in on the discussion, I let out a huge sigh of relief and said, “Thank you. I owe you one.”
A few days later, Little Dude asked me, “Do you want to see my balls?” Please be talking about a toy, please be talking about a toy, I chanted to myself as I smiled and hesitantly said, “sure.”
He dropped his pants and pointed to his “balls” and said, “Papa’s balls are bigger than mine and his penis is longer, but see these are my balls and that’s my scrotum, it’s next to ...”
I don’t remember what else he told me about his anatomy, I tuned out once he pointed to his testicles. “That’s great,” I said and breathed yet another sigh of relief when he pulled his pants back up and ran back outside.
I surveyed my friends and learned that self-bodily exploration can start as early as a few months old and can range from a constant act to a rarely-done-in-public act. Each and every one of my friends had a masturbating child story and they quickly morphed into kids touching kids stories.
“What!” I shrieked. “When will that happen?”
“Any day now,” they laughed.
“I’m not even used to the self-exploration thing yet, I’m certainly not ready for any games of doctor.”
“Well get ready,” they said with evil grins on their faces.
Although they had a great time sharing stories and laughing at my discomfort, none of my friends had any solid advice on how to deal with the playing doctor situation.
“You’ll figure it out,” they said. “You have to do what feels right for you.”
I know they’re right, but I still haven’t figured out what I’ll say when the time comes. My hope is that the cosmos will bless me twice and that the first doctor game will occur on Jason’s watch. Better yet, let it happen at one of my friend’s house.

From Reality Mom

2008-09-16T19:19:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was because I wanted to take the summer off from writing and solely spend time with my kids before they started school in the fall. Or maybe it was because when I asked my medicine card deck what I should do next with my writing I pulled an upside down Lynx card, which is akin to being told to shut up. Or maybe it’s because I have two drawers and a computer full of Reality Mom stories and I wanted an excuse to look them over and see what I’ve been babbling about for five years. Whatever the reason, it was time for a “Best of Issue.”
Each year, or volume, seemed to have a theme. The first year being the “why didn’t anyone tell me?” year, when I was continually shocked and dismayed to find myself woken up at one, three, and five a.m. Not only that, but I lost my “dream job” as an editor who worked from home and had no idea what I was supposed to do with myself. I spent my incoherent days talking to myself, wishing I had another adult to hang out with so I could stop my quick slide into insanity.
An excerpt from my very first From Reality Mom reads:
Reality Mom came from a three o’clock in the morning inspiration. This means it is either brilliant, or insane, but either way I have to listen to my three o’clock muse. I was lying in bed wishing I were asleep instead of consoling my teething eleven-month-old when I started to think about my situation. I am a mom looking to meet other like-minded parents and a newly unemployed writer. I let myself mourn the loss of my writing venue and income for a a few months and then the solution came to me. At three in the morning. I could write my own zine and hopefully connect with other like-minded parents by doing so... Voila, problem two solved. Problem one solved if any of the people who read this, and don’t want to burn it or call CPS on me, contact me. Hence, Reality Mom is conceived and born.

Through this zine and other means I’ve formed some friendships with other mamas and these friendships have become my lifeline. But I didn’t find another editing job. Instead, I accepted a position as a parent educator, which led to the second volume of Reality Mom being filled with proclamations and advice, and for that I am sorry. I falsely believed that my job gave me a free liscense to state my opinion. I also only had Little Dude, the least defiant child in the universe, so I had a grandiose impression of myself as a mother and was sure I was doing things “right.” As you know, there is no “right” way to parent and I don’t think you should ever listen to me or anyone else who tells you how to raise your child. I never follow my own advice, why should you?
Not having a second child was one of my brilliant ideas at the time and about nine months later Odo was born. On the same day an agent contacted me to say she wanted to represent me. So long teaching job. And so long Jason, screaming newborn Odo, and incessantly talking Little Dude, I wish you the best. A couple of days a week I packed up my backpack and laptop and headed to my friend’s studio to write. Since then, Jason has never, ever said I am “lucky” to be the one who stays home with the kids.
I had been talking to myself rather steadily for three years by then, but while waiting to hear back from editors about my book, it heightened to a point that even concerned me. I started seeing a counselor and began to question everything. Did I really want to be a writer? Could I handle more years of rejections and isolation? Was I happy in my marriage? Was I happy in general? What did I want? All of these uncertainties and more circulated in my brain. This not only caused insomnia, depression, and fear for me, it created a typhoon in our house. Throw in a remodel gone awry and the death of Jason’s mother and it was a Type III disaster.
Although we are still suffering from some after affects of the storm, at least we are no longer in the middle of it. Reading over the past five years of Reality Mom helped me to see the good things that have happened, rather than to only worry about the things that haven’t happened. Sure my book still hasn’t sold, I still have a potty mouth, and can’t seem to stop talking to myself (or lying), but at least I know other people are listening as well. No matter what I said in each issue, I heard from a reader. And that’s what keeps me going.
Thank you for being there with me for the past five years. I look forward to sharing another five years with you.
Love,
Reality Mom

Lyrics, Vol. 5, Issue 2

2008-06-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

In this Issue:
Dandelion Therapy
Fake Church
Confused About Sex
Boxing Gloves
Making It

Confused About Sex

“I used to be so afraid of sex. I used to be afraid, so afraid. I didn’t understand the sexual tension between me and so many men, so many men, so I’d just sleep with everyone, with everyone, because I had to get rid of some of that sexual tension…”

The first several editors that read my book claimed they didn’t know how to market it, seeing as it was “cross genre.”
“What genres?” I asked my agent.
“Erotica and Fiction,” she replied.
“Erotica!” I shrieked. “But there’s no sex in the book. One lousy kiss between two women, that’s it. Is that all it takes? I had no idea.”
“I don’t think it qualifies as erotica,” she said, “but they do.”
“So what do I do about it?”
“Nothing, I’m not marketing it as erotica, it’s fiction. Other people will see that, don’t worry.”
“All right,” I agreed, more amused than worried about the erotica label.
But a month or so later, my agent called me again.
“The entire book is about sex, yet no one is having sex.”
I should have never pointed out the obvious lack of sex.
“That’s because it isn’t about sex. It’s about intimacy, the allure of sex, loneliness, losing yourself to…..” I tried to explain.
“Whatever, it needs more sex. Somebody should definitely be having sex. Not just alluding to sex, but having it. Spice things up a bit.”
“Married sex is boring,” I told my agent. “No one wants to read about that.”
“Then write about other characters having sex. And make it good sex.”
I didn’t want to write about sex. It was winter, I was walking around in sweats all day and feeling a lot of emotions, none of them being sexy. Write about sex that wasn’t married sex? I wasn’t sure I remembered what that was. I wasn’t even sure I remembered what spontaneous sex was. It was time to consult the experts.
No I didn’t email Dan Savage or Dr. Ruth, I merely walked up to my neighborhood thrift store and bought a couple of fifty-cent erotic books. Real erotica, no one measly kiss erotica. These books were hot. Steam up the sheets, make you wet hot. I couldn’t believe how turned on I could get just by reading.
Until the ending. Each and every story ruined a perfectly good smut session with a proposal. After having her ultimate sexual fantasy fulfilled (hint, it involves handcuffs and silk scarves), the heroine receives a marriage proposal from the relative stranger she just tied up. Maybe for some women that completes the fantasy, but for me, it ruined it. It symbolized society’s confusion at best, disdain at worst, of sexual women.
If the heroine was only depicted as a strong sexual woman she would be considered a whore, so the author threw the marriage proposal in to make her and her sexual desire acceptable. Instead, it made her and the story less likable. I admired her courage for going for what she wanted and directing the man in bed, but once she swooned and said, “I do,” I felt as if she relinquished her powerful role and turned into a romance character.
In another story two people meet at a sex club on a tropical island where people are encouraged to remain anonymous. After a night of sweaty passion the woman leaves the island and returns to her normal life. A few weeks later, her anonymous partner shows up at her workplace. Instead of calling the cops for being stalked, she jumps for joy and agrees to a future with this anonymous man.
Again, I felt as if the ending was not only unbelievable, but disappointing as well. The point of being anonymous was for everyone to feel free to do anything they want, for a short period of time, and then never have to see one another again. I believe some women would find this very alluring, but the author obviously disagreed. Again, in order to justify or rationalize a night of hot sex, the author attached a commitment to the act.
It seems as if people assume that romance and erotic are one in the same when it comes to women. I for one, can’t disagree more. Romance is sweet, it makes you smile and feel tender. Erotic is hot, it sparks your sexual imagination and libido and arouses you. It makes you feel gooey in the pants, not in the heart.
I was determined to find a book that was erotic, without the words “I do” in it. I knew I couldn’t be the only one looking for just sex. I gave up on the thrift store lot and headed to my neighborhood bookstore. A small book nearly jumped off the shelf and into my hand. Porn for New Moms.
“Perfect,” I squealed and poured through the pages. I was quickly disappointed. Sure there were plenty of photographs of attractive men, but they were fully clothed and never touching a woman. Not only were they dressed, but they were holding vacuum cleaners and talking about dirty dishes and diapers. That is not my idea of dirty talk. I don’t want any mention of household chores or poopy babies to interfere with my sexual fantasies. It’s worse than a marriage proposal after being handcuffed. At least then I was aroused before I was disappointed. With Porn for New Moms I never even got wet, just angry.
“Moms like sex too,” I yelled to Jason and any friend who would listen. “In fact, we like it a lot, we just don’t have any time to have it. We, more than anyone else, deserve to be titillated. If some hunky guy wants to watch my kids and clean my house after fulfilling all of my sexual needs that’s great, but let’s take care of number one first. And let’s not ever, ever call mopping a floor sexy, it’s just not.”
I ranted and raved and fumed and then I decided to do something about it. I added a steamy sex scene in my book. Not because I think the book is going to be marketed as erotica nor do I claim the book is about sex, just because women deserve to read a good sex scene. A sex scene without dirty dishes, without crying babies, and without proposals. A sex scene for moms.
I’d never written a sex scene before, so I consulted the experts again. I poured back over my thrift store erotica books, this time reading them for research, not pleasure. I took note of the author’s word choice, looking for less clinical ways to say “vulva” “clitoris” and “erection.” I also looked for creative ways to say “sex” and less corny phrases than “turned on” or “aroused.”
I wrote the scene, including a man and two women, but no mops. It proved to be so much fun, I added another scene, this one taking place at a dance club. Hot, young, half naked men grinding up against the heroine, I was swooning with envy. I even included some married sex, which was anything but boring. I was becoming a modern day Anais Nin (not really, but…).
I finished revision number thirty-nine, complete with lots of sex between multiple people, and waited to hear back from my agent. A couple of weeks later she emailed me, “I love it, let’s talk.”
We set up a time to talk and her only suggestion was, “Take out the sex scene with the man and two women. Or if you leave it, you have to make the (married) heroine feel much more guilty afterwards.”
“You’re the one that kept screaming for more sex!”
“I was?” she giggled. “All right, you can leave the scene in if you want, I just think she would feel guilty afterwards, don’t you?”
“No!” I scream, “She feels as if she deserves it after all she’s been through.”
“But she would feel strange around her husband afterwards.”
“No she wouldn’t because by then he’s been....”
And on and on we discussed my heroine’s motivations, thoughts, and desires as if she was a real person. Because after a year of thinking about her, writing about her, and analyzing her, she is a real person.
I remained adamant that the sex scene remain. I was willing to tone it down a bit, but I certainly wasn’t going to show any guilt on my heroine’s part. Sex should not be linked to guilt. And a promise of a future together is not sex and believe it or not, sometimes women just want sex.

Even if you don’t have the energy or opportunity to have sex, you can still enjoy reading about it. And no matter how tired you are, or how dirty your house is, or how many times the baby nursed today, I can guarantee that fantasizing about or actually partaking in being touched, stroked, perhaps even penetrated, is going to be a million times more satisfying than having your floors mopped. Really.

Fake Church

2008-06-23T14:44:00.000-07:00

That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no I’ve said too much….

As a little girl I used to beg my parents to take me to church. My father, being an avid member of the sleep until noon on Sunday sect, would reply, “Yeah, we could do that sometime as long as it’s not in the morning.” I failed to find a church with afternoon services, so relied on my friends for invitations to church.
My first obliging friend was a sweet little blonde girl named Angela. She was a Pentecostal and her family was very eager to take my unbaptised seven-year-old soul with them to church. Everything inside the church was deep, deep red. People spoke in tongues and women wept and rolled around on the ground in perceived agony. I was mystified and slightly scared by what I saw, but continued to accompany Angela to church whenever invited. Fortunately, my family moved away from that small Louisiana town before I was able to speak in tongues as well.
The first friend I made in our new town (outside of Los Angeles) was the youngest of seven children from a large Catholic family. They were also willing to let me accompany them to mass every Sunday. I stood, sat, kneeled, and sang when told to without understanding a word that was said. They weren’t speaking in tongues, but seeing as I had no knowledge of the bible, Jesus, or God, they may well have been. The entire Goswitz clan (all nine of them always went to church, even the oldest members who had long moved away from home) would rise and stand in line to take communion as I remained in the pew. I longed to join them, probably more due to hunger than devotion, but knew it was forbidden seeing as I had not been through communion. I remained where I was and fantasized about the pancakes Mrs. Goswitz would make once we returned home as a way to distract myself from the shame and humiliation of having to remain in the pew.
I loved the foreign language and ritual, the pretty stained glass, and the feeling of community so much that most weekends I asked to join them. It wasn’t just the Goswitz’s and their Catholic pancakes I was drawn to, it was anyone with a strong belief. I routinely sought out people with strong convictions that there was something more than life as I knew it. I was envious of the stories they had to make sense of their world. They believed that they would go somewhere after they died, somewhere beautiful and peaceful, whereas I was deeply afraid of death. I imagined total blackness, nothingness, rather than beauty or peace. I wanted to share their beliefs, I wanted to understand their myths and stories, so I continued to attend their services even though I didn’t understand what was being said.
I went as far as to beg my parents to be baptized, certain I was ready to have my “soul cleansed.” My mom handed me the four-inch thick Los Angeles yellow pages and said, “Set it up and we’ll be there.” Needless to say, designing and arranging my own baptism proved to be a complicated task for an eight-year-old and I remain “uncleansed” to this day.
When I reached adolescence I stopped following my devout friends around and began chasing boys instead. I started smoking pot and drinking and forgot all about saving my soul. In fact, when I was forced to enter a church for a wedding or special occasion I almost always felt faint and nauseous. This continued all throughout my twenties and early thirties. When I nearly fainted at a friend’s wedding (Episcopal Church this time, but the bright red closely resembled my earlier Pentecostal experiences) my friend Lori said, “I think you were burned at the stake in a past life. I’ve never met someone with such a strong reaction to churches.”
Lori introduced me to dark moon rituals, tarot cards, and the notion of spirituality rather than religion. That old yearning returned, but rather than looking in a church for it, I looked to myself. I worked with Lori for the Beltane Papers for a bit, visited a Quaker service or a Buddhist temple occasionally, but didn’t want any one deity or organization to dominate my belief. I wanted to make my spirituality my own.
On my bookshelf are several books about myths and fairy tales, Buddhism, and various tarot decks, but they are all unread. I’m drawn to these items at books stores, yet never seem to look at them once I bring them home. Above them lies my alter with candles, rocks I’ve found on beaches, fairy dust, essential oils, a rose quartz, three pieces of amber, pictures of Jason and the kids, a Buddha incense holder, a poem about long lasting love, and a mixed media collage depicting eggs. I never intentionally created this altar, rather over time gathered these meaningful items and placed them on top of the bookshelf. But that is exactly what an altar is. I stare at these items every night, light a candle with intention when I’m struggling with something, frequently use essential oils to calm me down or change my mood, and carry one of my rocks or gems with me for protection. Along with an occasional animal card reading (from a much loved deck handed down to me from Lori), or ritual, this has become my religion.
I have always included my kids in my rituals and we all begin the New Year by stating what our hopes and desires are and then writing them down to put on our respective “alters.” Odo and Little Dude are quite familiar with my animal deck and know what certain animals symbolize.
Last year Little Dude started asking about churches, mainly, why we don’t go to one. I could have explained that we have our own spiritual practices, our own church within our home, but I didn’t think of that. Instead, I said, “I don’t know. Want to check one out sometime?” He said yes and I found myself excited, rather than nervous, about the prospect of entering a church again.
Like many of my good intentions, it remained that, an intention. Until about six months ago when my friend Cedar emailed me an announcement for a pagan church. The service claimed to be goddess and nature based, no guilt attached. It was right in my neighborhood, only met once or twice a month, and it started at 10:30, perfect for me, who like my father is a firm believer in do nothing before ten, maybe eleven if it’s the weekend.
When Sunday rolled around the kids and I dressed up and headed to church. We walked up the ramp of what used to be a house and were greeted by a smiling woman who asked us if she could place lavender oil on our foreheads. We agreed and found our seats on folding chairs next to Cedar and her daughter. I looked around at the large windows with tons of light pouring through and the simple royal blue drape hung on the stage and felt comfort rather than awe or fear. My heart quickened as I watched a woman with wild grey hair approach the front and sit down with her drum. Tears welled in my eyes as she began a steady beat and everyone joined in with a song about how we come and will return again to the earth, “like a drop of rain.” When the song ended, we were welcomed and invited to close our eyes for a guided meditation.
After the meditation the children were all invited to come up front to be recognized and honored. The tears I had been fighting fell from my eyes while watching Little Dude and Odo run through a bridge created by people holding hands as a song about believing in magic and that we are all stars was sung.
Every song that was sung and every word that was spoken made sense to me. Although it was our first time and we weren’t “members”, my children and I were included and embraced by the community. We weren’t told to sit on a bench while everyone else gathered before the Priest. We were greeted, touched, and included in every aspect of the service. We were even offered juice and raisins, making my kids instant converts.
I learned about legends and myths, was captivated by stories that related to my every day life, and was inspired, rather than shamed, to make positive changes in my life. I danced to music that I couldn’t help sway my booty to and was encouraged to cheer loudly along with the song. I whooped and hollered in church! Who knew it was possible?
Raisins and juice aside, my kids and I immediately became church devotees. I joined the email list and have attended every service since. I catch my kids singing or humming the songs and don’t cringe with embarrassment because the songs are about nature. How could that offend anyone? I even like saying to the kids, “It’s time to get ready for church,” or “see ya at church,” to Cedar. Words I was certain would never come out of my mouth.
The other day I overheard Little Dude telling a friend about the crown he made at church. Perhaps the friend looked quizzical, because he quickly explained, “It’s not a real church, it’s a pagan church.” I cringed upon hearing this. I am pretty sure “pagan” is not a word his five-year-old friend is familiar with. And if he is, it’s not a good thing, seeing as most people mistake pagan as being related to the devil.
But mostly I cringed upon hearing “it’s not a real church.” I am certain Little Dude heard those words from me. Although thrilled to say the church word while home, I still find myself stammering in embarrassment if someone asks us how we spent our Sunday morning. Although I love our new church, I don’t want to be considered a church person. The agnostic in me is still wary of such people.
As frequently happens, my kids picked up on my feelings before I did. Hearing Little Dude make excuses for our church made me realize I was doing the same. I thought about saying something in the moment, but figured it wasn’t the time nor place. Plus, Little Dude and his friend had already moved on to dinosaur talk. But a few nights later I had my opportunity.
I read a story to the kids about a boy who wanted to hang his art for all to see. After being told no by a bank president, art curator, and fire chief he asks a priest. The priest shows the boy that his church doesn’t have any walls, only stained glass windows.
“Why our church not like that?” Odo asks.
“Because our church is different,” I explain.
“It’s not a real church, right?” Little Dude asks.
“It is, but rather than having stone walls and stained glass windows like the church in the book, it has walls and windows like we have in our house.”
“And a big room to play in!” Little Dude squeals.
“And trail mix!” Odo chimes in.
“And candles we get to blow out!”
“It has all those things and more,” I explain. “It’s a place where we learn and sing and have a chance to think about things….”
“And plant seeds. Where my seeds?” Odo interrupts and I am sure the church topic is over and we are now going to have to discuss all of the precious items we have lost. Which we do, for a minute, but then Little Dude comes back to the church topic.
“So our church is different?”
“Yeah, there are lots of kinds of churches.”
“But ours is best, right?” he asks earnestly.
“Yes,” I smile. “Ours is best.”

What Are We Reading?

2008-05-23T13:17:00.000-07:00

Me
I just finished Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It is profound, lyrical, spooky, and thoroughly captivating. What else can I say except go buy it.

Little Dude
Little Dude can read! And read he does, all day long. Forget about Dr. Suess and the "I can read" books, he prefers A Field Guide to Western Birds by Roger Tory Peterson and his beloved Animal Encyclopedia. He keeps both books, as well as other Field Guides, by his bed and gazes longingly at them as he falls asleep, eagerly anticipating being reunited with them in the morning.

Odo
After reading The Story of Frog Belly Rat Bone fifty-nine times to Odo, I felt fairly confident that I could leave it at home when we went away this weekend. I was wrong. "Where Frog Belly Rat Bone?" she demanded several times and was not pleased when I replied, "At home. But look at all of these other books we have." Needless to say, I have read this delightful tale by Timothy Basil Ering three times since we've been home (a mere two hours ago).

Darkness, Vol. 5, Issue 1

2008-01-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

In this issue:

Symbiosis by Erika Lukas

Falling

The Second Tree

Letting Go

Boundaries

Letting Go
Before Jason travels for work, I usually prepare a few meals, invite myself over to friend’s houses for dinner, and make sure there are not too many blank days on the calendar. One time when he left, my preparation consisted of stopping by the library to pick up several kid videos and buying two bottles of wine and a bag full of frozen dinners at the grocery store. When I walked into the house that day, I looked down at my provisions and said, “I’m not sure this is ‘letting go.’ This may be going down.”
For months I had been working on “letting go.” Letting go of my anxiety, anger, and frustration over our contractor. Letting go of my expectation of being published NOW. Letting go of my fear that counseling wasn’t going to help Jason and that I would be stuck in a lonely marriage. I lit candles in the evening with the intention of “letting go” and after weeks of doing so, my massage therapist noticed the difference.
“Have you been meditating?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“Because usually when I work on your shoulders, they won’t budge. They’re really stiff, but today there was some give to them. They moved more freely.”
“Oh,” I smiled, “I’ve been working on letting go, maybe it’s working.”
And often, I did feel as if it was working. I rarely woke up in the middle of the night due to stress and I didn’t fixate on the things that were out of my control. But in order to do this, I often had to distract myself.
Being unattached to outcomes is not my natural state of being. I am attached to my attachment and gravitate towards other attached people. I view them as being passionate and involved in their lives and am confused by laissez faire people. I don’t understand how I can still care deeply about something and then let go of any expectations or desires about that thing. I never really “let go” of my desires or concerns, I just tried to ignore them. Hence, the wine, frozen pizza, and videos.
My demise into oblivion was a slow, slippery slope. For years, we abided by the “no television for kids” philosophy. It was relatively easy to do, seeing as I didn’t watch television and the television we owned only received three channels with the aid of rabbit ears, tin foil, and everyone in the house remaining perfectly still, otherwise all reception was lost. Up until the time Little Dude was four, his only exposure to television was an occasional twenty minute glimpse at a National Geographic video or a few minutes of watching sports with his grandpa. That slowly slipped into a gift of a Cailou video from his grandmother and several viewings of Amazing Animal videos from the library. I was concerned when one of Odo’s first words were, "Watch movie,” but hearing her recite a passage from a Cailou movie chilled me to the bone. Sure, they still had never laid eyes on a Disney movie nor had they ever been exposed to violence or swear words (except for the football games they witnessed…), nor did they know what a PokeMon, Power Puff, or Transformer were, but still, my less than two year old could recite a movie.
“What about the thousands of books I’ve read to her?’” I complained to Jason. “Why doesn’t she recite those?”
“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “For some reason, she loves Cailou.”
If you have no idea who or what Cailou is, consider yourself lucky. Watching this little PBS character, with the perfect parents who display an infinite amount of patience and joy, makes me turn into a surly thirteen-year-old. When Cailou accidentally lets go of his cat and his father says, “That’s all right, I’ll go find him,” I can’t help but adlib, “What the fuck did you do that for? Now, I have to go chase the damn cat,” to myself. When Cailou’s sister drops an egg on the ground and her mother cheerily cleans it up, I think, “Here’s a rag, do it yourself,” and smile. After sharing some of my mental adlibbing with Jason, he solemnly shook his head and said, “I don’t think you should watch it anymore. It’s dangerous for you.”
And it’s dangerous for my kids. I don’t like the zoned out look that passes over their faces as they watch the ever peppy Cailou family. I don’t like the way they don’t see, hear, or feel anything that is happening around them while watching television. And perhaps most of all, I don’t like how these characters start to replace kid’s natural creativity. Nine times out of ten when Little Dude is playing make-believe with a friend, the friend chooses a character from a television show or video where as Little Dude makes up a name or chooses to be an animal. I want the same for Odo. I don’t want her choosing to be Cailou, nor do I want her to quote Cailou’s mother and father to me, because we all know, I’m no Cailou mama.
At the same time, here I was for ten days on my own armed with several free gifts from the library that will absolutely guarantee that I can have my thoughts to myself, perhaps for the first time all day. What’s a girl to do? Have a glass of wine, that’s what.
But even that, holds complications for me. Coming from a family of drinkers, I am acutely aware of how much I and others around me are drinking. When my zero to one glass of wine a night started sliding into two, three glasses a night or I started to pour myself a glass at five o’clock it wasn’t unnoticed.
The week of single momhood progressed with the low of me pouring myself a glass of wine and watching a video myself at four o’clock while the kids napped. For the most part, the videos went unwatched and we played and talked instead, but I still decided to let go of letting go. It was too much pressure. My new motto is "whatever it takes to make it through the day safely."

Memory, Vol. 4, Issue 4

2007-10-16T14:32:00.000-07:00

Inside this issue:

Eyes by Courtney Putnam

I Want to Be the Dad

Amnesia

Tricked Again! by Kristin King

Oldies, but Goodies

The Horror!

(Not) Reading List

The Horror!
I’m not a huge fan of Halloween. To me, a holiday that involves a lot of walking only to ask for and maybe receive candy, which my kids will get very excited about only to break down and scream when I throw ninety percent of it away, is not a good time. But I do like the pumpkins. So, I decided to try to get into the spirit of all things ghoulish this year and provide you with a few of my own horrifying stories. They are sure to be more frightening than any ghost or goblin.

As I walked the kids to the neighborhood park I breathed a sigh of relief as Little Dude (and Odo for that matter) completely ignored the kids practicing football with their shiny white uniforms.
“Thank god,” I muttered to myself, “one thing I don’t have to worry about them showing any interest in.”
I started to push Odo on the swing and looked around for Little Dude. I found him rapt with interest watching the girls practice their cheerleading routine. It was all I could do to convince him to not join their precision lines and cheers of “Be aggressive, be be aggressive.”
Maybe football wouldn’t be so bad after all.

After putting the kids down for their nap, I walked into the kitchen and saw their lunch plates were empty.
“You didn’t eat that quesadilla did you?” I asked Jason.
“Yeah, I was hungry. Why?”
“Well, Odo was putting it up her vagina.”

When my neighbor told me she found my keys dangling in my car, where they had been all night long, I was chagrined.
“I know, someone could have stolen your car. And broken into your house,” she exclaimed.
“Who cares about that?” I moaned. “I’m just pissed because I thought that with pregnancy, sleepless nights, and nursing behind me I finally had my brain back. But I was wrong!”

Talking to the same neighbor I said, “I can’t wait for the next big milestone.”
“What’s that? Odo being potty trained?”
“No”
“Kindergarten?”
“No. The day when the kids can wake up on their own, pour their own bowl of cereal and let me sleep in on the weekends.”
“Oh, good luck,” she laughed pointing to her fourteen-year-old son. “He still doesn’t do that.”

My friend calls it chicken skin, I call it disgusting. Whatever it is it is what my legs look like when I’m wearing shorts and dare to move.

Speaking of bodies, how is it possible that my butt continues to get larger as my breasts get smaller?

I told my therapist about a recent dream I had of being kept up all night by children. “First it was my nephew. For some reason I was sleeping in the living room with my sister and nephew and he woke up shrieking. Then Little Dude and Skyla woke up and started to screw around, waking Odo up. It took a while and the bedrooms started morphing into Little Dude’s preschool, but eventually I got all of the big kids to sleep. Just as I was closing their bedroom door, Stacy walked up the stairs with her still-screaming-son in her arms. She looked at me and said, ‘I hate my life.’ I nodded in agreement.”
My therapist looked at me and said, “I thought we were going to talk about one of your dreams.”

Naughty, Vol. 4, Issue 3

2007-06-18T14:40:00.000-07:00

In this issue:

Breakdown

Away

Quality Time by Don Baker

Naughty

Role Model

Enrichment

Naughty

With Spring came the itch. The itch to get out, to have some fun, to leave my house occasionally. I started my “getting a life” plan by having dinner with a girlfriend. We were the first people to sit down in the bar and the last ones to leave. We laughed, caught up, and drank pretty martinis in pretty glasses. We probably would have stayed all night if the waitress hadn’t finally kicked us out by reminding us that it was a “school night.”
A few weeks later I stepped it up a notch and called my friend Cedar.
“I’m finally ready to go out with you. I mean, really out. You know, when adults go out.”
“Cool,” she replied, “We’ll see a band and have some drinks next Saturday night. This will be so fun, I can’t remember the last time I went bar hopping with you.”
“That’s because I’ve never gone bar hopping with you. I always make you go to happy hour and then I run home at eight o’clock to nurse a baby to sleep or go to sleep myself.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she sighed.
But that was going to change, I thought smugly. As often as possible, I casually mentioned how I was going out to the Tractor, “to see a band you know,” as if that is how I spent every weekend, instead of in bed by ten curled up with a book.
Cedar arrived at my house around seven, I kissed everyone good-bye, and drove down to the bar like a giddy school girl. We had some margaritas, and then some beers, and visited a couple of bars. In one of the bars we spotted a video game with a fake rifle. We shot video-enhanced animals, laughed, and inserted more quarters. Everything was going great until Cedar went to the bathroom. It was then that I had a chance to observe some of my fellow merry-makers.
“Didn’t I have Econ with you at WAZU?” a portly youth asked a giggling girl with a headband.
“So, I totally bitched him out and then I said, ‘Listen I make more sales than….’” a buxom brunette screamed into her cell phone as the rest of her friends scanned the room with boredom.
Why are they letting sixteen-year-olds into this bar I wondered. And why is everyone still talking on their phones when they are out with their friends? Is this what people do on Saturday nights? Try to pick each other up, while feigning complete indifference? And, why hasn’t anyone tried to pick me up? That was the biggest realization, and disappointment. Not one person had flirted with me all night. Whereas every bartender had smiled and flirted with Cedar and one very drunk, but sort of interesting man followed her from bar to bar, I received zilch. Not even a wink. Suddenly, getting a life was sort of getting me down.
Several times during my visit with Jill we mentioned going to clubs in Denver or even having a couple of drinks at a local dive during the day, but on that trip, “getting a life,” meant getting sane. Just as it was time to go, I started to feel as if going out at night with Jill was just the thing I needed. She claimed she knew some bars where most of the people would be our age, not the sixteen (or more likely twenty-two, I am just older than I think) year-olds I saw in Seattle and I would probably get flirted with. Yeah! But instead of going out on the town, I got on an airplane and came back home. And we know what happened then.
Once I was back it was Jason’s turn for a break, so my “getting a life, but with someone less attractive than Cedar, and in a place where there will be other thirty, if not forty-year-olds” plan would have to wait.
For months Jason and his buddies have been planning a trip to Vegas. Once they found a date that worked for all of them their talk changed from discussing logistics to debating the merits of various Vegas hotels. During this time, his friend Chris sent him a stack of information about Vegas. Amongst maps, various casino information, and hotel prices, I saw “The Naughty Vegas Tour.” It contained questions such as “Where can I find the best prostitutes in Vegas? Are there any swinger-friendly places in Vegas?” and “Is there an S&M scene in town?”
“Wow,” I teased, “I had no idea you and Chris were swingers. I knew you guys went to strip clubs, but S & M? Don’t you think that is something I should know about?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The Naughty Vegas tour. Sign me up.”
“What?”
He claimed to not know anything about it and assumed Chris sent it as a joke. Chris pleaded innocent as well and nobody wanted to claim ownership of “The Naughty Tour.” Either way, I am sure their trip will include seeing some exposed breasts. I am sure they will drink too much whiskey and stay up very, very late. And I am positive they will lose money at the black jack and craps table. Perhaps even on the slot machines when funds get low. But use whips and chains or be in a ménage a trios? I doubt it.
While Jason’s excitement about his trip builds, I am left to fantasize about my own Naughty Tour. In my version, the black jack tables are a beach, the whiskey is wine, and his buddies are my girlfriends. The strip clubs can stay. And if I’m still not flirted with there, I may have to consider the prostitutes.

Enrichment

2007-06-18T14:38:00.000-07:00

Odo stood at the top of the slide and gave the other eighteen month old trying to climb up stink eye. The other girl, angelic with her smile and blonde curly hair, greeted Odo with a “baby” and a light touch to her cheek, but Odo wouldn’t return the smile. Instead, she looked the girl up and down, frowned, sighed, and then walked away disappointed.
Odo is only interested in babies and her brother. All other kids seem to bore, if not annoy, her. When we drop Little Dude off at preschool she cries. Then she torments me all day by saying, “Baba peeschool?” in the sweetest singsongy voice imaginable. When I explain, for the hundredth time, that yes, it’s a preschool day, she comes back with “Baby?” “All right,” I agree, “I’ll try to find you a baby. But don’t poke it’s eyes out this time. We’re losing friends because of you.”
I had refrained from joining any co-ops, Gymboree classes, or other activities because… well because I don’t want to do any of these things. I am an introvert, I don’t like pep, bright lights, and being asked to act insincere, and groups make me nervous. Odo didn’t seem to mind so we went along on our merry, somewhat isolated, way. But once she turned eighteen-months-old and I realized she thought kids started out as babies and then immediately grew up into interesting four year-olds, I decided she could benefit from some socializing.
A friend recommended a dance class for toddlers at a community center. It was cheap, relatively close, and I was promised no bright lights and only the occasional request to sing along with the teacher, so I signed Odo up.
During the first class she watched the other kids with a disgusted look on her face. She would occasionally shake her head, say “no,” and then lead me to the door. As I crawled around on the floor like a bear, danced with her in my arms, and tried to fit my large body into a tube made for people under three feet tall, Odo stared at me in disbelief. Then she tried to open the door herself. For the second class she stopped her “nos” for a few minutes to screw around with the VCR player (not part of the class design). She found another renegade girl and they crawled and rolled on the bags of balls when it was time to play with bells. And when it was time to play with scarves. And when it was time to skip around the room. When it was finally time to play with the balls, she sat on the sidelines and stared at everyone as if we were all assholes. And we were.
I crawled, slithered, and jingled my way through the class all for my daughter. All the while my daughter was trying to tell me to quit embarrassing myself and let’s get the hell out of here. After the third class, I listened to her.
We never returned to the class and instead started spending our Friday mornings swinging on swings, going for walks, and perhaps visiting the paint store. No matter what we did it didn’t involve slithering around on the ground and we are both really happy about that. I am also pleased to say that I think I have been promoted back to the acceptable crowd again and she no longer looks at me with disdain.

Quiet, Vol. 4, Issue 2

2007-03-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

In this issue:

Princesses and Guns

The Talk

He Ain't Easy, He's My Son

To Hades and Back by Ann Teplick

When a Leopard is Not a Leopard

Self-love

And the Baby Came Back

Self-love

As Odo stood on top of the train set, stomping her foot, and yelling at the top of her lungs, I was reminded of old film clips that I have seen of Stalin. Or perhaps, even a hint of Hitler. I am not sure all of what she was trying to convey, but it was clear that she was the queen of the mountain. She always reigns over her own mountain, ninety percent of the time her followers include Little Dude, and eighty percent of the time Jason and I are included as her subjects.
Her first word was “Baba,” which is her name for Little Dude. This surprised, and pleased us, because we were sure it was going to be, “Get me…” “Listen to me,” or “I will rule the world one day.” A few weeks after “Baba” was heard, she started saying her own name. Just in case we didn’t understand her, she would point to herself as she said it. This continues to be her favorite word. She points to all of the pictures in our house of anyone two and younger and says her name, while pointing to herself. “No honey, that’s not you, that’s….” I tell her, but then she tells me I’m wrong and walks around the house carrying the picture of “herself.”
She hasn’t realized that we don’t have any pictures of her in our house. I would feel guilty about this and fear that it is going to give her insecurities, but then I see her looking at herself in the mirror and shaking her fists as she practices another speech and I think, she’ll be just fine.
A friend gave me a spritzer of water, lavender oil, and rose oil and it is called “self-love.” Odo loves this bottle and carries it everywhere she goes. Recently, I have tried to convince her to share the love. “Mama’s feeling kind of down today Odo, can I have some of your self love?” She usually agrees to share the love with “Baba” and I, as long as she can have several generous sprays herself. She beams and looks up at the mist as I spray it over her head. When she asks (or demands) more, I think, I suppose there is no such thing as too much self-love. Right?

Listen, Vol. 4, Issue 1

2007-01-16T14:59:00.000-08:00

In this issue:

The Bees Know

Penis Fear

Diana Knows

And Then He Came Home

Say It Again

The Scrooge Has a Heart

Is Anybody Listening?

Diana Knows

While drinking wine with several girlfriends, one friend admitted, “My worst mommy moment was when my five-year-old told me to ‘get off the fucking phone.’ Twice, in one day.’” Although we all laughed at the story, we also flinched. “Yeah,” my friend Diana agreed, “you think they are just words, but then you hear them come out of your preschoolers mouth and it hurts. After visiting my Fundamental brother and his wife, Shale said, ‘shit!’ one day. When I asked him where he heard that word, he said ‘From auntie.’”
Hardly a Fundamentalist and definitely someone with a potty-mouth, I laughed at this story as well. And then I tried to defend myself, “I don’t know. In a way I think, what’s the big deal? They are going to hear the words anyway, why do I have to censor everything I say?” “You’ll see,” Diana claimed, “You’ve gotten lucky so far, and you do have a foul mouth, but one day Little Dude will scream out a swear word and you’ll cringe.”
That day happened about a week later.
Odo, Little Dude, and I were at the park on a beautiful Fall day. Just as I got Odo positioned in the baby swing and got ready to give Little Dude an underdog push on his swing, I heard him say, “Fuck.” He didn’t say it with anger or frustration, just clear out of the blue. “Where did you hear that word?” I asked, bracing myself for his reply, which I was sure would be “from you mama.” Instead, he claimed he didn’t remember where he had heard the word. I told him that people only said that word when they were really angry or frustrated and that it wasn’t a nice word to say. “It makes people sad or uncomfortable when you say that word, so don’t say it again. And if you ever hear mama or papa say that word, you tell us that isn’t okay, all right?” “Okay,” he agreed and we resumed our swinging. I thought of Diana’s warning, conceded that she was right, vowed to try to clean up my language, and then thought, “Shit, that was a close one.”
The same wine drinking evening, the sage Diana shared more wisdom. When I commended her on her ability to step into single-momhood frequently while her husband traveled, she said, “It’s not that bad, especially if I make sure to have some adult company while Zach is away. Sometimes I invite girlfriends over for a glass of wine after the kids are asleep. That really helps, you know to talk to an adult. Mostly, it is just a scheduling nightmare.” “Wow, I’m impressed. I rely on Jason way too much. I don’t even put both kids down myself at night,” I admitted. Her eyes widened, but being Diana, she didn’t make fun of me.
Sure enough, a few days later Jason announced that one of his bosses wanted to send him to California for eight days to work. He asked if that was all right with me. How could I say no? He really wanted to go. It has always been a dream of Jason’s to get to travel through work. Plus, it would be fantastic money. “I’ll get you all set up before I go, I promise,” he said as he raced off to call his boss.
I immediately called Diana. “So much for never having to watch both of my kids, Jason is about to leave for eight days. Any advice?”
“Everything will be fine,” she comforted me, “as long as no one gets sick.”
“Hmmm, (OK, really I said something much fouler, but I am trying to clean up my language) that sucks, because Little Dude has had a cough for over a week now and I am pretty sure Odo is about to catch it.”
“Oh, then it may get a little rough. Bad karma huh?”
“I guess so. What should I do?”
“Just remember, it’s the logistics and scheduling that get hard. Everything else is manageable. Except when they’re sick, then everything falls apart. Bummer dude, call me if you need some help.”
And with that, the sage hung up to chase down her sons who were knocking something very large and very heavy over.
Yes, I had some bad karma coming my way. Not only did the kids have colds and coughs, they both came down with raging ear infections and I had a sinus infection. My pediatrician became my favorite person in the whole world when she agreed to squeeze us in to her already over booked Monday morning. She escalated to a person worthy of praise, worship, or at least profuse thanking when she not only wrote prescriptions for my kids, but for me as well. “I know how hard it is to drag two sick kids to another doctor office, so here, here’s a prescription for amoxicillin. It should help you within a few days.”
We filled our prescriptions immediately and became a family of pill poppers. Without Jason there to fret over our medicinal intake, I figured anything that helped any and all of us sleep, was fair game. And sleep we did. Every day the kids took long naps, with me in the bed next to them. And we all went to sleep by eight o’clock at night, an unheard of in our family. Maybe it was because I was finally catching up on some sleep or maybe it was because the ear infections (or drugs) were mellowing my kids out, but I found myself really enjoying myself with them.
For a week before Jason left, I cried at least five or six times a day. Partly because I was going to miss him, partly because I was nervous about having to take care of the kids on my own for eight days, and mostly because that is what I do now when I have my period. I cry. A lot. For days on end. The day he left, I was still a crying mess. My crying had given Jason a stomachache, but it also caused him to make a pot of soup large enough for us to eat every day while he was gone, if it came to that. My tears also elicited offers from friends to check up on me or watch my kids while Jason was gone. Every one seemed a bit worried about the crier.
My friend Erika was the first to rescue me. She came on the worst day, the day Jason left, and listened to me babble incoherently and cry, of course. She didn’t make fun of me, offered to watch my kids the next day, and invited us over for dinner one night, so I finally agreed to let her go home. Several other friends offered to watch my kids or keep me company as well, but as the week went on, I stopped accepting their offers. The kids and I were so in sync, that it seemed easier to just stay together and not worry about where or when everyone would sleep and eat. We ate, slept, walked, and played all at the same time. We were always together and had formed a routine that was quite comforting and peaceful. And instead of that togetherness being the hellish experience I thought it would be, it was actually very enjoyable.
I didn’t try to do anything except be with my kids and get us all healthy. I remembered the bees. I also remembered what Diana said, the devil is in the logistics. By removing as many logistics as possible and making very few plans or attempts at productivity, I was able to be totally present with the kids. This allowed them to stop competing for my attention. I don’t remember a single fight or red ball of hate moment for any of us. Sure we may have all been sick and on drugs, but we were happy.
If this is karma, I got off very easy. And if it isn’t karma, it’s a lesson learned—Always Listen to Diana.

Control, Vol. 3, Issue 4

2006-08-10T11:58:00.000-07:00

In this Issue:

The Problem With Free

We're Not Easy

We're Having Some Concerns, continued by Diane Porter-Brown

All Yours by Kristin King

Gestating

Is This Fun?

Don't Mess With Odo

Don't Mess With Odo
The first word most people use to describe Odo is sweet. I chuckle to myself whenever people say this and think, “That’s funny, I think she is strong, loud, determined, fierce, easy, funny, beautiful, and a host of other adjectives, yet sweet is certainly not at the top of my list.”
Odo came out of the womb screaming and nine months later she’s still hollering. The first thought that crossed my mind when she was born was not, “Oh, let me hold my sweet baby girl,” or “Thank god she’s all right,” it was, “Oh my god she’s loud! Is she always going to be this loud?” I am afraid she is. It isn’t that she is always pissed off and screaming, she just likes to scream. When she is happy, she makes gibbon-type, high pitched yelps. When she’s bored, she hollers. And when she is pissed off, she screams bloody murder.
Jason has very little tolerance for Odo’s loud voice. He’s constantly trying got get her to quiet down by talking to her in a quiet voice and saying, “Shhhh, you don’t need to yell.” She looks at him and then continues to scream. Then Jason looks at me and sorrowfully asks, “How did we become the loud house?”
I have mixed feelings about Odo’s vocal intensity. Some days I let it rip with her. I cheer her on and say, “You go ahead and be loud. People always want girls, and women for that matter, to be quiet. Screw them! You are a force to be reckoned with and don’t let anyone try to silence you.” She was a mere week old when I proudly made the prediction that she was going to be the lead singer of a punk rock band.
On other days, I can’t celebrate her strength, nor stand her need to be loud. When she gets loud, Little Dude gets loud, and then I get loud. I either try to talk over them and say, “Every one needs to calm down! I can not stand all of this screaming.” Or I walk outside for a few minutes and wait for the screaming to stop.
Odo’s voice is indicative of her spirit. She is one tough cookie. I have seen her stare down a three-year-old until the three-year-old slowly backed away from Odo’s high chair. I have also witnessed, many times, Odo’s ability to wrestle toys away from other children twice her size and three times her age. She has made a five-year-old cry. One of her favorite things to do is look me straight in the eye, unwavering, and pinch the hell out of my nipple. Needless to say, this is not one of my favorite activities. She growls at us, snorts at us like a bull, and squishes her face up into what we call her Popeye look while spitting on us, but we laugh at all of this, because it beats her ear piercing screams.
We often wonder where Odo and her Texan-style attitude came from. If it’s not big or loud, she wants nothing to do with it. If I place a basket full of toys in front of her, she’ll toss all of the toys to the side and start swinging the basket over her head. She could palm a sippy cup when she was five-months-old. She then quickly started smashing her brother’s head with that palmed sippy cup. She likes to greet us by slapping us in the face. When she first learned to pull herself up, she liked to do so by using the dresser drawers. The problem was the drawers would open and Odo would fall down and become trapped under the drawer. I let her do this a few times because I thought after a few self-inflicted trappings and head traumas, she would find something else to pull up on. I was wrong.
While everyone else in the world has been calling Odo sweet, Little Dude’s preschool teacher pegged her accurately. Very early on, when she was a mere blob of a baby and barely acclimating to being out of my womb, Little Dude’s preschool teacher walked up to her, looked her in the eye, and proclaimed, “Oh, she’s going to rule the roost. Watch out Little Dude, she is going to own you.” I laughed, perhaps nervously, and thought, “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, she’s just a baby. In fact, she is a really easy baby.”
And there lies the paradox of Odo. On one hand, I am continually amazed at how easy she is. She started sleeping for eight or nine hours in a row, on her own, when she was five months old. I put her in her crib when it is time to sleep and she actually smiles, rolls over, and goes to sleep. And when she wakes up, she will play in her crib and sing to herself for a half of an hour, or until someone comes and gets her. She attends my meetings with me and plays with the rug or her toys for the whole time and I am able to pay attention to what the other people are saying. Although she prefers three naps a day, if she only gets one, she just rolls with it.
I never knew a baby could be like this. When people told me stories like these, I assumed they were lying. So far in Odo’s life span, there have been zero red ball of hate episodes. By the time Little Dude was nine months old, I thought Jason and I were going to get divorced. So in my mind, Odo is easy.
But a dark cloud looms overhead when I watch her grab hold of another child’s hair and it takes two adults to pry her off. I become a little bit nervous when she screams at me because I won’t let her dive head first off of our bed or I won’t let her drink my coffee. I start thinking about when she gets older and I start to sweat. If she screams at me now when I refuse to let her eat plastic bags, how is she going to be as a toddler? Or even worse, a teenager? I wonder, “Who’s going to rule the roost then?” It won’t be Little Dude or Jason that’s for the sure. Poor saps have no idea what’s coming.
It’s going to be the battle of the females and it may get ugly. I’ll be going through menopause just as Odo hits adolescence. If Jason thought the hormones were flying during pregnancy, just wait until there are two of us raging with hormones. Somehow I think he may look back on the screaming, growling days and think, “What was I complaining about? That was nothing.”

Instincts, Vol. 3, Issue 3

2006-06-19T13:21:00.000-07:00

In this issue:

All My Lies Are Always Wishes

Snot by Natasha Grossman

I Don't Want to Play

Made My Day

My So-Called Vacation

Made My Day

Call me sadistic, but it actually makes me feel better to know other people are having a hard time. I am not saying that I enjoy hearing about famine or war, just the run-of-the-mill complaints. When I start to wonder why my three-year-old is so emotional, it brings me great comfort to hear a friend’s story about how her three-year-old threw a glass of milk on her just as she was heading out the door. Or how another friend’s three-year-old shouted, “You’ve ruined my life!” and then slammed her bedroom door. I love these stories. They make me smile and grateful that I have such honest friends. Friends who don’t mind if I use their misfortune to not only make myself feel better, but to entertain others in my zine.
In order to be fair, I will share my own misfortune first. Although, I suppose that is what I always write about in this zine. But this story may top them all, even the forest fire and tropical storm stories.
After several days of a lot of use, due to a vicious round of the flu, I noticed that there was hardly any water in our toilet. I mistakenly thought flushing the toilet would be a quick way to remedy the problem. I was wrong. I realized how terribly wrong I was as poopy water spilled out all over our bathroom, hallway, and kitchen. “Aahhhhh!” I screamed as I ran for the plunger. I plunged and plunged, but nothing happened. For the first time in thirteen years, I actually remembered and followed something Jason told me, “If the toilet overflows, turn off the water.” That seemed to work and the poop stopped overtaking the house.
All the while, Odo was screaming bloody murder in her exersaucer. She had a cold, was teething, and was generally miserable. I didn’t bother explaining the circumstances to her, I just let her scream while I quickly tried to stop the poop river. When I ran the twelve, now dirty and sopping wet, towels down to the basement I felt a drip, drip on my head. “Aahhhhhh!” I screamed again. “It isn’t bad enough that my hands, arms, feet, and ankles are covered in poop, but now it’s dripping from the ceiling on to my head as well.”
It was all too much to deal with, so I didn’t. I washed my hands, rinsed off my feet, rescued Odo from her prison, closed the bathroom door, and went to the park. While at the park I thought of all of the other things Jason would have done, such as sanitize the floor, wash the poop covered towels instead of leaving them in a heap on the floor, fix the toilet, and above all else, not pick up our daughter until he was properly cleaned and sanitized himself. “Oh well,” I said to the poop and booger covered Odo, “we all can’t be like your dad.”
Before the poop explosion, but during the flu explosion, my sister called and said, “Here’s a reason that you should be grateful you aren’t me...” “No offense,” I interrupted, “but there are a lot of reasons I am glad I am not you. Your partner is in Argentina for three weeks, leaving you alone with a two and a half year old. Even worse, you are pregnant, have morning sickness, and your OB isn’t in practice any more.” “Good point,” she responded, “and I have the whole unwed thing too.” “Not being married is the least of your worries,” I said. “Well, here’s my latest problem,” she started, “I just went to mom and dad’s house to drop some things off when I heard a muffled voice. I followed it to the den where I found dad lying face down in his tighty whiteys getting a back massage.” “I am so sorry you had to see that,” I consoled. “No one should have to see that, especially not someone with morning sickness.” After that story, I considered myself lucky to have the flu.
A few days later I asked another pregnant friend how her skiing trip went. She explained that although the trip was made before she knew she was pregnant, she was pleasantly surprised that she was still able to ski a bit. Very carefully. The downside was all of the turning back and forth made her really nauseous. Although she had many opportunities to discreetly throw up on the side of the trail, the crucial moment didn’t present itself until she was at the base of the hill. She ended up puking in a flower bed outside of the lodge where everyone was enjoying lunch at outdoor tables. After I heard her story I thought, “At least I had access to indoor plumbing.”
The flu passed and I started to be able to do something besides lay in bed and groan. And run to the bathroom. I checked my email and learned that things were not going too well for my friend Diane either. The email stated, “Friday was one of those no good horrible days. I woke up late, missed an appointment, and remembered at the last minute that I was going on a field trip with Gabe and his classmates. We trudged about a mile up a dirt road in the mud and pouring rain and I thought, this is really adding to my day. We got to the top of the hill and there waiting for us was a Park Ranger with a bunch of little cups of baby salmon that the kids were to release into the creek. We went down to the creek where the ranger handed Gabe his cup and said, ‘Now, hold it carefully, kneel down, and gently pour it in the water.’ Gabe looked at the cup, looked at the wet ground he’s supposed to kneel on, and then tossed the fish into the air. The poor fish flipped and then slammed into the creek. The ranger looked at me and said. ‘We’re hoping there’s no brain damage.’ It made my day.”
Another thing to be grateful for, at least I wasn’t slammed on my head while being tossed into a creek.

Running, but Not Looking, Vol. 3, Issue 2

2006-02-20T11:47:00.000-08:00

In this issue:
Don't Say It
Take Me Back to the Dark Ages
Baby Sucker
Cruel, Cruel World
Little Spawns
Should I Worry?
Keep Both Shoes On

Keep Both Shoes On
I freely admit I did not enter my pregnancy with Odo with rose-colored glasses. The two years of sleep deprivation I endured with Little Dude were still fresh in my brain so I began my pregnancy with a mixture of excitement, fear, and dread. Thinking about having to live on two hours of sleep again was painful enough, but then I decided to further my torment by pestering all of my friends with two children to tell me all of their horror stories. “Don’t gloss any thing over, “ I’d say, “Be brutal, I can handle it. It’s better if I am prepared for the worse.” They shared tearful stories of their first born crying and saying, “I liked it better when it was just me,” and horror stories of first-born aggression and violence towards the baby or mother. I soaked it all in and braced myself for the worse.
Then Odo was born and instead of imagining what it would be like to have two kids, I had two kids. For the first month we didn’t do anything. I sat on the couch and nursed Odo and Little Dude told us story after story. Whenever I thought about packing them up to go somewhere, I became overwhelmed by the logistics, so I opted to stay on the couch. I was able to walk them to the park relatively easily, but the day Odo was born it started raining and it has not stopped since. We try to tell her about the big yellow thing in the sky that shines brightly sometimes, but she just laughs at our make-believe story. I can handle a bit of drizzle, but standing in the pouring down rain with a nursing infant and three-year-old is not my idea of a good time.
One day I found myself at the grocery store with both of them. “Huh,” I thought, “How do I do this?” I quickly realized there are a variety of ways to “do this” and my method is directly correlated to my energy level. If I am exhausted, I fill Little Dude’s hands with stolen bulk food, dried fruit and goldfish crackers are usually his first choice, and I set him free while I try to shop. I pray no one tries to steal the three-year-old thief running around the store. I bank on the probability that his incessant chatter would drive any kidnapper insane by the time they reached the car, so he would probably be set free within a few minutes of his capture.
A few days later I was at the Children’s Museum and I said to my friend, “Look at me, I’m out with two kids.” Before I knew it, I found myself at the library, at friends’ houses, and at Discovery Park with both kids in tow. Without thinking about it, I had gotten off the couch and ventured out in the world.
Whenever I talked to other moms they always wanted to know how I was handling having two kids and how Little Dude was coping with having a sibling. My reply was always a tentative, “We are doing all right, but you know...” I was convinced our happiness and adjustment were temporary and at any minute all hell would break loose. Every time Little Dude threw a fit or had a bad day Jason and I would exchange worried glances. We feared his bad mood was due to the baby and we wondered if he was growing to resent her.
One week Odo didn’t sleep very well. After a few days of being woken up every couple of hours I suffered a Post Traumatic Stress flashback. I called my friends and wailed to Jason, “I can’t do this you know. I can’t live on two hours of sleep and watch two kids, I will surely kill someone.” While I planned and strategized ways to save my sanity and get some sleep Odo slept. In fact, she slept for so long I had to wake her up to feed her otherwise my breasts were going to explode.
It finally hit me. Maybe it is possible for us to survive the transition from having one child to having two without Little Dude packing his bags and moving out or Jason and I getting divorced. While I am waiting for the worst case scenarios to occur, my family is having a great time. I am even having a great time. Jason and I are getting along great, both of us extremely relieved to be living our lives with out any red ball of hate moments. I find myself doing the same things that I have done with one child, the only difference being it takes me twice as long to do them. Once we spend the three hours it takes us to get out of the house, doing things is relatively easy. Little Dude’s fits seem to be related to being sick or well, being a three-year-old, more than they have to do with Odo. In fact, it appears that he is glad she is here and enjoys playing with her, reading to her, and singing to her.
What really convinced me that he had accepted Odo as a part of the family was the day his beloved baby koala bear became Odo’s alter ego instead of his own alter ego. For several months now, almost every sentence out of Little Dude’s mouth begins with “baby koala bear wants/thinks/did…” Baby koala bear’s tastes are remarkably similar to Little Dude’s. He also has similar friends and often spends his day doing the same exact things that we do. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?
Recently, it seems as if baby koala bear has added another amazing feat to his repertoire. He has grown younger! Instead of doing three-year-old activities, he does three-month-old activities. Little Dude lifts his shirt and nurses baby koala bear frequently and then walks around the house burping him. When I have been up all night with Odo, surprise surprise, baby koala bear kept Little Dude up as well. I will hear him on his toy phone saying, “Yeah Nate, hi. I am really angry because baby koala bear woke me up every hour to nurse. Yeah. OK, bye.” The similarities are striking, really.
Having baby koala bear morph into Odo has shown me that I can finally relax and quit waiting for the other shoe to drop. Going out on adventures or merely running errands has not proven to be the difficult Olympic sport I thought it would be. Little Dude is not going to disown us as parents just because we had another child and hopefully I will not go insane from lack of sleep. Sure, we will have rough times, but I am pretty sure we will survive. Although I know I will regret saying this and you will have to hear about it in the next issue, so far life with two kids is proving to be a million times easier and more joyful than I could have ever imagined.

From 1 to 2, Volume 3, Issue 1

2005-12-29T16:08:00.000-08:00

In this issue:
How Preschool Turned Me Into a Whiner
Queen of Breaks
How It All Began/Ended
What's In a Name
Dirty Little Secrets
The Day I Loved Television

From Reality Mom
Although I tease Jason and call him a pansy and threaten to divorce him, for the most part I am kidding. I have never appreciated him as much as now that we have kids. In fact, when I get together with girl friends and they complain about how their partners do not help them with the kids I am usually quiet. Jason is a fabulous father, a huge help around the house, and the main reason I am still here and not in an institution (either the incarceration kind, or the kind with padded cells). I can’t imagine being without him. At least as long as the kids live at home.
With the birth of our second child I am reminded again about how hard it would be to be a single mother. When I was in my twenties I had several friends who were single moms. They made it seem as if being a single mom was no big deal and relatively easy at times. I romanticized those women’s lives and for several years thought I too would be a single mom one day. THANK GOD I WAS WRONG. Even when I was only a mom of one child I thanked the higher beings that I had a partner to share the responsibilities, care, and burden with and someone to talk to (or complain to) at the end of the day. I marvel at the abilities, strengths, and patience of single moms. I have an even greater respect for them now and I truly don’t know how they do it.
My mother says her generation thinks my generation is full of wimps when it comes to parenting. When I told my grandmother that I was nervous about Jason going out of town for a week and leaving me alone with two kids she said, “In my day all the men went off to war. You’ll do just fine.” I get it, I am a wimp. But you know what? I don’t care. My rule of thumb is that whenever possible the adults should outnumber the children. If that is not possible, strive for equal numbers. Hillary was right, it takes a village. At least at my house.
When Jason went out of town for a week, I asked my mom to come stay with me for a few days. When she had to go home, I went with her. I knew I could probably take care of the kids by myself, but why would I want to? If this makes me a wimp, that is all right by me. At least I am a happy wimp. And by calling in the “village” for help, when Jason returned I ran outside in the rain and hugged and kissed him. If I had watched the kids by myself for a week, he would probably come home to a tirade starting with, “Don’t ever leave me alone again!” Either that or he would have returned to an eerily quiet house and found a note saying, “I’ve snapped. The kids are at their grandparents and I emptied out the savings account and flown to Hawaii. I hope you didn’t want to retire anytime soon.” A hug and kiss in the rain is so much better.

The Good, Bad and Confusing, Vol. 2, Issue 4

2005-09-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

In this Issue:
Party of Two
We're Just Going With It
Beware of the Master Swordsmen by Jason
Which is Worse
Some Thoughts on Raising Children by Reality Mom's Dad
Brings the Boy out in Him
Scorpios, Libras, Boys, and Girls
The Good, Bad, and Confusing

Party of Two
I am not sure why, but periodically I am struck by group envy. I listen to my sister talk about her support group of women designers or a friend talk about going away for a weekend with four other families she met through a mom’s group and I drool with envy. I think, "That sounds like fun, I want to do that."
What I fail to remember is I am not a group person. I never have been, so I assume I never will be. Family legacy says that when I was young and invited to one of my classmate’s birthday parties, chances are I would tell my mom I didn’t want to go. Stacy (then and still an extrovert) would run into the room and say, "I’ll go!" And she would. Even at my own birthday parties I was often found standing on the sidelines observing, while Stacy was usually in the middle of the circle of kids directing the activities and laughing. When I watched the videos of these parties I wondered why my parents only filmed Stacy’s birthday parties, but then I realized those were my friends and my presents, I just didn’t want anything to do with them. People would frequently comment on how shy I was and my mother would say, "She isn’t shy, she just doesn’t have anything to say to you."
In order to not sound or feel like a complete curmudgeon, I take my mother’s words to heart. It isn’t that I dislike all people, I am just picky. And when I socialize, I prefer to do it with one person, not a group of people. I know this, yet I forget it and try to make myself and now my son be group people. Next time I attempt this I hope I remember my childhood birthday parties or at least reread my own zine (Confessions of a Mommy-Group Dropout, Winter 2003).
After hearing about my friend’s weekend on Orcas Island complete with kids laughing and playing and parents staying up late chatting and drinking margaritas, I convinced myself that I wanted the same. I shared my insight with my friend Lori and she laughed at me and said, "You would hate that. One night of kids running all over the place and you would come home." I chose to ignore her insight and complained to Jason, "Why don’t we ever go on trips with people? Why are we so picky about our friends?"
He thought about it for awhile and then proudly exclaimed, "We like Jill and Mike!"
"That’s great honey," I replied, "but they live in Colorado."
"We’ve gone on trips with Jenny and David" was his next attempt.
"Yeah, again that’s great except they live in Portland."
His statements only increased my determination to find a group of people to hang out with who don’t live a thousand miles away. An acquaintance told me about some moms who were going to start getting together on Thursdays. The purpose of the group was to give each other breaks and to rotate watching the kids one-day a week. We all live near one another and work part-time, so the hope was we could also provide childcare for one another on a more frequent basis. I figured it was a win-win for me. I would get a break, meet some other interesting moms, and hopefully increase my network of people willing to trade childcare with me.
It started out well. Little Dude seemed to like the other kids, the other moms seemed nice and every two out of three weeks I got a couple of hours to myself to write. I began to notice that while all of the kids were wrestling and playing in one room, Little Dude would be sitting by himself in another room looking at a book. This caused me to say asinine things such as, "Honey, don’t you want to bring your book into the other room? All of your friends are in here." He would say no and continue to read. Eventually he would join the group, but he always wanted to play with one kid at a time and that kid was usually a girl. Just as I started to wonder why my child was such a freak, I realized that I was behaving the same way. Most of the moms stayed the whole morning, even if it was their day off from watching the kids. They didn’t appear to want to leave and instead looked perfectly content to spend the entire morning socializing with one another. When it was my day off I dropped Little Dude off and hit the road immediately. When it was my day to stay, I chatted and drank tea as well, but it was usually with one other mom in the corner of a quiet room.
Around this time we went to a party at a friend’s house. Little Dude had been very excited about the party because it was at his girlfriend Bella’s house and he adores Bella. After an hour or so he kept coming inside to find me, or any other willing adult, to ask if we wanted to play with his horses. This time when I asked that ever-so-annoying-yet-I-can’t-help-my social-conditioning question, "Why don’t you want to go outside with your friends?" he enlightened me to another problem with groups. "Mama, they’re crazy," he announced, "They keep chasing Jacqueline around and wrestling her to the ground." I went outside and watched four girls, all of whom had eaten brownies and popcicles for dinner, run, squeal and chase each other into hysterics while Little Dude pushed his shopping cart of toy horses around the backyard asking anyone if they wanted to play. The girls were oblivious to Little Dude’s request and continued their shrieking and tackling. It didn’t look like very much fun to me and I realized groups of kids often equals mayhem so I stopped insisting that Little Dude stay outside with the kids. He eventually found a susceptible dad to play horses with him and I continued my quiet conversation in the corner.
A month later, we were not as fortunate. We attended a work party, complete with kids ranging in age from two-months-old to eight-years-old. Kids and adults alike were crowded into two small and very warm rooms. When we finally made our escape and headed to the car Little Dude asked, "Was that a little crazy?"
"Yeah, it was," I answered.
"Do you like parties?" was his next question.
"Yeah, I like some parties, as long as they aren’t too big. What about you?" I asked.
He thought about it for awhile and then said, "I like parties with two people. That’s the best."
I couldn’t agree more.

First Trimester Blues, Vol. 2, Issue 3

2005-06-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

In this issue
Made Me Think Twice
It Couldn't Be More Different
From 0 to 60
You Can Do That?
What is a Slacker?
Cheap Champagne
Man at Work

Cheap Champagne
Several friends have admitted to me that as their second pregnancy progressed their ability to discipline their first child diminished. "Diminished" is too generous, I think they said it went down the toilet. One friend admitted to repeatedly asking, then begging, her two-year-old to get off the kitchen table. After being ignored several times she weighed her options—get off the couch and remover her daughter from the kitchen table or stay where she was and hope her daughter didn’t fall. She chose option B and there went her discipline plan.
I understand how hard it is to get off the couch when you are sure it is going to lead to puking, if not at least require a huge amount of energy that you no longer possess. But I also know how awful it is to see parents say "no" when they don’t mean it or offer idle threats that everyone knows (including their offspring) they are never going to follow through on. So what’s an exhausted, nauseous, pregnant woman supposed to do? Pick your battles, it’s all anyone can do.
As you know from "Pansy in the House" (Spring, 2005), Jason is pretty much a big softie when it comes to Little Dude. I don’t claim to be the Queen Disciplinarian either, but there are certain things I draw the line on. Pregnant or not, Little Dude can not throw his toys at people or things (except the floor), "give me" will get him nothing, "please" works like a charm, no shoes on the sofa, he has to hold my hand when crossing the street, we will not entertain him all day long, whining is a no go and toys are put away after we play with them.
Even when I can barely get off the couch and really want to submit to horizontal parenting, I follow through on a few basic standards such as these. Other things, I have let slide. Like food. I used to consider sugar the white devil, but quickly realized my aversion to sugar only made every other adult in the world want to give my kid cookies and cake. What am I supposed to do when eight kids are sitting down eagerly inhaling ice cream? Say, "Here Little Dude, I have a sliced pear for you instead." Yeah right. I try to make sure he has a decent breakfast and dinner and we don’t have very much sugar in the house so dessert is usually fruit or yogurt. If all he eats between breakfast and dinner is crackers, nuts and raisins (which it is), so be it. And if we are at a friend’s house or out to dinner and I’m in need of a mother’s little helper (see "From 0-60," p. 15) and we pig out on the white devil, oh well. Whatever gets you through the day.
Another perceived evil in my household is television. Although I have yet to give in to the electronic babysitter, I know my time may be limited on that. For now, I use music as a pacifier and entertainer instead.
We have always shied away from kiddie music and Jason’s musical preferences have had a huge impact on Little Dude. Since Jason has been home a lot more lately, Little Dude has become even better versed in "papa’s music." As soon as the opening chord plays on one of Jason’s CDs, Little Dude runs into the room and says, "This is Modest Mouse, ‘Float On,’" or "White Stripes, ‘Button to Button.’" He usually knows the CD, song title and the name of the band. If he doesn’t know, he asks us and then commits it to memory. He knows his music and let’s face it, the boy likes to rock. When not memorizing bands and song titles he is begging for his latest passion, Scissor Sisters. The Scissor Sisters remind me of a cross between the Bee-Gees and Hedwig and the Angry Inch and they are Little Dude’s favorite past time. He is especially enthralled with their song "Take Your Mama," which he asks to listen to every day, if not several times a day. The chorus to his favorite ballad is:

Gonna take your mama out all night
Yeah we’ll show her what it’s all about
We’ll get her jacked up on some cheap champagne
We’ll let the good times all roll out

When I think about it, I realize watching Sesame Street would probably be healthier than the Scissor Sisters or White Stripes for that matter, but I have my principles, as messed up as they may be. For some reason I will let him listen to loud rock with drunken debauchery, but the thought of him zoning out to the boob tube makes my skin crawl.
Every once in awhile I grow weary of "Take Your Mama" and try to listen to something else. I contemplate introducing Little Dude to something a little bit more mellow, positive or even uplifting. I try some strong female vocals or at least something without a lot of screeching guitar, but I never get past two songs without Little Dude asking, "What is this song? Who sings it?" and then immediately requests to hear "papa’s music." A squeal for "Take Your Mama!" usually follows and that is when I give up. I tell him to go find his papa and I go for a long walk. When I return home, I hear guitars, bass and drums blasting through the windows and find two smiling boys inside.

Vol. 2, Issue 1

2005-01-10T21:50:00.000-08:00

In this issue
Celebrations
Nanny Blues
Judging Mommy
Claiming Motherhood
Parenting Is...
Surprises
Bookshelf

Celebrations
Jason and I were standing in the kitchen the other day when I said, "after eleven years of being together I think I know you and I know what you are going to do." This confused Jason on two levels. First of all he likes to believe he is a man of mystery and anything but predictable. I burst his bubble and alter-identity whenever I can predict what he is going to do or say. And this happens a lot. He was also confused because he thought we had only been together ten years, not eleven. Somewhere along the last sleep-deprived year, he lost track of time. He didn’t believe me because he had no recollection of our tenth anniversary celebration. Even when I reminded him of the day we spent at the aquarium, our failed attempt at finding a special meal at Pike Street Market because all of the stalls were closing and the very memorable, for me, drive home where I burst into tears and said he ruined the day by being a "black cloud of doom."
I don’t blame him for not remembering any of this, I wish I didn’t. These were our "red ball of hate" (me) and "black cloud of doom" (Jason) days and to put it mildly, they weren’t a lot of fun. But instead of laughing about our horrible 10th year anniversary and leaving it at that, Jason had to say the fatal words, "this year we are going to do something great. We’ll pretend it’s our tenth year and make it really special." He obviously doesn’t read my zine, otherwise he would have remembered from "Dates Suck" (Summer, 2004) that high expectations kill us or at least cause serious harm to our relationship. I laughed at his grand plans for this year and said, "Oh honey, I’ll be happy if we make it through a somewhat edible and warm dinner without being interrupted fifty times and can have sex (again, without be interrupted).
Little Dude’s second birthday and the first year anniversary of this zine fall in the same month as Jason’s and my anniversary and I have to say I have about the same energy for both of these celebrations. As for the zine, I will consider it a celebration and huge accomplishment if I complete this winter issue sometime before March. As for Little Dude’s birthday, I’ll look to last year for another hard-earned lesson.
For Little Dude’s first birthday I went all out. I’ll be honest, it had nothing to do with Little Dude and everything to do with me. I don’t think a one-year old requests salmon, champagne and chocolate fondue for his birthday, but those do happen to be some of my favorite foods. I wanted to do something special because lets face it, the first year is tough, no matter how you do it and if you don’t celebrate yourself and your own survival of that year, no one else will.
My mom and I shopped all day and bought all of my favorite foods and lots of champagne and wine as well. We cleaned the house, I put a skirt on and wore jewelry for the first time in almost two years and we invited about twenty-five people over to help us celebrate.
This may not sound like a lot of people, but if you knew how small our house was and how rarely I cook, even for Jason and I nonetheless twenty-five people, you would understand what a huge deal this was for me. Besides spending the majority of my time in the kitchen pulling food out of the oven and wondering when I was going to be able to get another glass of champagne, I had a good time. I wish I could say the same for Little Dude. I didn’t see him much that night, but when I did he usually looked a little concerned, if not downright irritated and exhausted. The only time I saw him laugh all night was when everyone left. Once the house cleared out he crawled around in the buff, except for a fake fur collar from my friend Jennifer, and laughed and squealed at the sheer delight of being naked and no longer being passed around by amiable, but probably rather loud, friends and family.
For Little Dude’s second birthday I’m thinking about forgetting the salmon, the shopping spree, the twenty-five guests and the manic two-day cleaning and cooking spree and just keeping the fake fur collar and the naked time. Oh, and maybe the chocolate fondue can stay as well. As long as someone else makes it.

What is Reality Mom?

2003-11-14T15:52:00.000-08:00

The day my son was born the paper I was the editor of called me up to say I no longer had a job because the paper was bankrupt. For the first year of my son’s life I thought a lot about applying for new editing or writing positions, but thinking about applying for a job and actually finding the energy to apply are two different things. At the same time, I was maniacally visiting playgroups, parks and music classes in hope of finding some other like-minded parents to save myself from talking to myself, my infant and the cats all day long.
Both goals proved to be harder than I expected. Editing positions proved to be rare and my hope of becoming a free-lance writer was short-lived. I spent my "free-time" submitting stories to literary journals and magazines, but often wouldn't hear back form these publications for months. And often the news was a form rejection letter.
As for my search for like-minded parents, that proved to be full of rejections as well. I found my attempts to talk on a deep, honest level were met with exhausted sighs or the conversation was changed to baby spit up. This wasn’t the meaningful conversation I was looking for.
I was sharing some of my hardships with a friend of mine when she said, "Why don't you start your own publication? That way you can say whatever you want and maybe you'll even meet some other moms."
I was intrigued by the notion, but quickly became overwhelmed with the details. "I don't have the money or energy for that," I said, and went along on my not-so-merry-complaining way. The rejections from editors continued as well as the discussions of how to puree peas from the other moms causing me to think more and more about starting my own writing project. But how? What would it look like? What would I write about? All I do is take care of my son and then race tot he computer as soon as he is asleep. How would I fill an entire zine with stories?
I let all of these thoughts simmer as I continued to stalk all other moms with babies, looking to make a connection. The other moms usually appeared to be friendly and nice, until I started talking.
"You're too honest for them," a friend confided in me. "You freak them out. They aren't ready for you. You're the uncensored version of parenting. You're like Reality Mom."
"That's it!" I squealed, excited for the first time in months. "I'm Reality Mom. I want to write about being Reality Mom."
Thus, Reality Mom had a title and a focus. I was still not sure all what I'd say or how I'd put it together, but I knew I would do it. I'd start writing my own zine and see what happened.