Super Nose

Guess what's in the bag?

My ex-husband once told me that he thought I was a super-taster or had a super-nose (he's a chef), but my kids always mock me when I ask, what's that smell? They think I'm prone to exaggeration in addition to being, possibly, the most annoying human on the planet. I don't want to make this post one of those kid-basher ones, filled with the cliches of teenagers and the insufferable arrogance of young adults (I am perfectly aware of my own insufferable young adulthood but shhhhhhh, don't tell my parents). I don't want to badmouth The Brothers because they are divine in many respects, but damn if they haven't been helpful or even supportive in the rat saga of this past week. Neither agreed to handle any trapped rats (my feminism comes to a screeching halt when it comes to dead rats in traps) and last Saturday, after the traps were set and lined up behind the stove and the microwave stand in the kitchen, and we all heard the most horrific clatter and then silence, no one stepped up to check it out. Well, Henry did actually come out of his room with a bat and Carl did shine his phone light behind the stove, but the only thing we saw was one of what we thought were five (this is a crucial hint) traps a little skewed. No rats, though, and everyone carried on their days and nights as if nothing was the matter, as if roof rats, flying through trees and into the attic and jumping from vents onto pot racks over stoves and nibbling beautiful pears and cherries and making their way into the dining room to feast on the bits and pieces of food that fall from the wheelchair and then making their way back to their home or nests in the Christmas decorations and vintage toys and suitcases and skittering all about were NO BIG DEAL, were a problem that would magically take care of itself because that's the way things went in their home with their mother lying about all day.










The days went by.












I think I smelled something a couple of days ago but was met with the usual derision and mockery. I don't smell anything, they said and then rolled their eyes or did what boys do when my back is turned. I'm annoying -- it's annoying -- when I twitch my nose and sniff.  Today was the day that The Rat Man was coming back to seal all the holes in the house where the rats were coming in and out. I planned my day around this event because The Brothers were busy. I imagine the gears in their adorable heads clicking, clicking, pondering. What does she do all day, anyway? Does she even exist outside of my supreme sphere? The Rat Man arrived on time, bless him, and began his work. He is a peculiar guy in the way that certain occupations command peculiar, but Reader, I love him. When I told him about the clattering episode and asked him to shine his light behind the stove, he complied and then I swear I saw his nose twitch and he said, I smell rat. I practically shouted, I SMELL SOMETHING, TOO! and then thought about jumping up and down in excitement (not about the rat but because having someone actually confirm my suspicions which means affirm my skills, my extremely honed intuitive senses, my super-nose, my infallibility, etc. etc. is everything in these late middle-aged times) but instead said nervously, Do you see that fifth trap a bit at a distance from the other four? And he got down on his knees and claimed that the smell was urine and then he said, no, it's rat, and where's the sixth tra -- and before he got out the p and just as I said, SIX? I thought there were only FIVE? he said, I got him! Do you have a plastic bag? and I ran and got him a plastic garbage bag and reverently shook it out and handed it to him and left the room.

We have one rat bagged and every little hole in this hundred year old house screened up and against them. I texted The Brothers and Carl the good news and included a bit of my own exultation over smelling something funny. No one has acknowledged this, of course, but Henry did text me back:

Things That Made Me Cry in My Mind, 5/1/19

1. Kamala Harris grilling Barr (so much money and time literally wasted on these hideous people running the country even as we watch it burn, drown and fall)
2. The briefing filed by the Trump administration calling for the complete and total dismantlement of the Affordable Care Act (anxiety, again)
3. The story of the young man in North Carolina who charged the shooter and tackled him and was killed, the photo of him and his impossible life, interrupted by training on how to do such a thing and ended by doing such a thing (disbelief that people think owning guns ensures their safety and freedom)
4. The man in Georgia who lured a teenaged girl off a website for girls with eating disorders to come live with him, engaged her in brutal sex acts and kept her in a cage for some of that time but will not serve any prison time because of the eight months he spent in a detention center prior to sentencing
5. The New York man who was sentenced to probation only for raping a 14 year old girl he met while driving a school bus, who, according to the judge, only raped one girl, rather than multiple
6. People close to me who recently made statements supporting the racist POSPOTUS who is also a sexual predator  and who also would take away the very thing that enables my family to live somewhat more comfortably with Sophie's epilepsy (the tears were real)
7. The article about retail botox centers where you can get injectables as conveniently as hair blow-outs

Reader, I imagine you'd rather see a list of things that make one grateful. 

1. The fluke of a blue whale, seen yesterday from a boat just off the shore of Newport Beach (the tears were real) 

Short-Winded and Sharp-Tongued

I've been writing a long time. My father sent me the scrap of paper above which I'll add to a little box full of poems and stories that I wrote long, long ago.

As the dreary news trickles in, my tongue smarts and the words to an old American song drift inside my brain.

Oh give me a home

As I wrote on a previous post, my arms aren't long enough to reach, always, with compassion toward everyone. Mea culpa. 

As my friend said in a text this morning, Trump is the whetstone where we sharpen our tongues. 

where the buffalo roam,

The picture of our President Resident Lech with six other white men standing round watching him sign legislation that tells women what we can't do with our BODIES

where the deer and the antelope play

Our President Resident Lech has given the go-ahead to fuck with sacred land and clean water, and we are being asked to reach out with compassion.

where seldom is heard a discouraging word

I don't think softened words are going to do much of anything.

and the skies are not cloudy all day.

I'm in the mood for

Lucille Clifton. 

listen,
you a wonder.
you a city
of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.
listen,
somebody need a map
to understand you.
somebody need directions
to move around you.
listen,
woman,
you not a noplace
anonymous
girl;
mister with his hands on you
he got his hands on
some
damn
body! 

Thank you, Lori, for sending me this poem! Lori Brozek and Jeneva Burroughs Stone and I had the best conversation the other day about what it means to be a middle-aged woman. We talked about bodies and sex and things both licit and illict. We talked about inhabiting fully our own. All three of us are writers, and all three of us are mothers of young adults with disabilities. Both Lori and Jeneva, as well as my friends Erika and Alicia, work on and put out a beautiful literary journal called Pentimento. You should check it out sometime. Buy a subscription. Support them and people with disabilities and artists with disabilities. Here's the link: 

Pentimento 

Dear Tina Turk, "Pharma Rep":

Something tells me that you're not really a Tina and might not even be a "pharma rep," but I'd like to give you the benefit of the doubt and will address you as so. After reading your interesting comment to me this morning on my last blog post, I have a number of questions that go beyond my perhaps knee-jerk, immediate response to the comment. I'm going to bank on you actually being a pharma rep and therefore hope that you'll visit here and perhaps respond, again. This being said, I do hope that you'll refrain from attacking me or my family personally.

I'll remind you of your comment:

I am a pharma rep and it really is not like that. You sound too angry and maybe you should help for that. Pharma has been ragged on too much, and it is not true. I feel sorry for you because that anger and bitterness is in your body and the only person you are hurting is yourself. I can see why some people in your family get upset with your rage.

My first question addresses your claim to being a pharma rep and "it" really not being like that. Like what? In the blog post and elsewhere on my blog, I've mainly written about my experience with "pharma," and whether it's paying $16,000 for a vial of ACTH or $949 for a 30-day supply of Onfi or going through the slow and torturous process of weaning a powerful narcotic from my child's 75 pound body, there are very few emotions other than despair and anger to express. I am perfectly aware that pharmaceuticals can also work powerfully toward the good, but other than writing some kind of caveat, I'm probably going to just write about my own experience and expertise. That being said, have you read the latest ten-part series on Johnson and Johnson? How about the story of just how the manufacturers of Oxycontin managed to saturate the market with their painkillers, snow physicians about their efficacy and contribute to the raging heroin addiction problem our country faces? I can write about that from experience, too, as I have several -- yes, SEVERAL -- relatives currently addicted to opiates and heroin. The goodness of pharmaceuticals has eluded us. So, when you say "it really not being like that," I'm interested to know what it's really like. I know for a fact, too, that other minds would love to know.

My second question refers to your assertion that I "sound too angry" and should get help for that anger. Thank you for that concern, if you are, indeed, concerned. To tell you the truth, I did waffle a bit about that post and asked myself whether it sounded too angry. I have friends and family who were very much helped by pharmaceuticals, by painkillers used at the end of life, by antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications, by chemo for cancer and so on. I am sometimes painfully aware of my anger, my biases and the ineffectiveness of being and seeming so. I feel conflicted about expressing my anger, but I also believe that anger to be a justified response to the hegemony* of our medical/industrial complex over those people who dissent. Perhaps it's also a response to the patriarchy's hegemony over angry women. It's completely and utterly justified in reference to the clusterfuck that is marijuana policy in this country. In any case, what would you have me do otherwise?

Finally, this isn't a question -- or even a defense -- but I am aware of the corrosive effects of anger as well as how, when directed wisely, it can galvanize and energize. I am gifted (by chance, by luck, by the universe) with a talent for stringing together words to express myself. I'm going to always strive for truth, for expressing the world and my life as I see and experience it. Sometimes, I'm going to sound like a bitch, a whining and spoiled first-world ingrate. I appreciate when people call me on that and promise to always accept that criticism humbly and work on it. Other times, I'm going to rage and rant despite the "anger and bitterness" in my body and take my chances on it "hurting" myself. Why? I'll answer that. Not a week goes by that I don't get a telephone call, an email or a comment on this blog from someone who is grateful for my expressing my experience because it so closely resembles theirs, and they don't feel so alone. That makes any slights to my body worth it.

My final question concerns your stated understanding of why some people in my family get upset with my rage. Dragging my family into it sort of blows your cover as concerned Citizen Pharma Rep. Or are you actually in my family, Tina?

Sincerely,
Elizabeth











*Thanks to my friend Allison Ray Benevides who taught me everything I know about hegemony. You can read her brilliant take on everything here.

Fresh Hell

Useless Bay, Whidbey Island
June 2015

Oh dear lord. Did ya'll hear that Lands End has "apologized" for featuring Gloria Steinem in its most recent catalog? Evidently some influential customers, namely the Missouri Catholic school system, pulled their support (they buy school uniforms from Lands End) from the company because they disagree with Gloria's stance on women's reproductive rights or something to that end. As my sister said on Facebook, The world's gone mad. I admit that when I got the catalog in the mail and saw Gloria Steinem posed in various conservative outfits, I thought it was weird and then kind of cool. I buy the bathing suits that make you look 100 pounds lighter, but this morning I went online and typed out a quick email to the company telling them how silly their apology was and that I'd never buy anything from them again. I guess you could say that makes me as silly as the Catholic Church, but so be it. Wearing a bathing suit that makes you look 100 pounds lighter because you're uncomfortable with your body size is really just as contrary to feminist ideals as anything else. Maybe I'll just go out in my backyard naked, build a little fire in the fire-pit and burn the catalog in protest. I might wait until there's an open house in the McMansion still going up behind me and kill the two birds of conservatism and commerce with one stone. I'm that powerful.

On Being Beautiful and Angry

Tonight I dragged my sorry ass self, newly recovered from a cold and cough, to a screening of a remarkable documentary about the movers and the shakers of the feminist movement from 1966-1971. It's called She's Beautiful When She's Angry.

Wow, people. Just wow.

I watched the movie with a few hundred other women and a scattering of men in an historic building in Los Angeles called the Ebell. The women were of all ages and races. The movie is funny and moving and most of all, rousing. I feel such gratitude toward these women who came before me, who so doggedly and -- yes -- angrily demanded their rights as equal citizens. The movie isn't just about white, straight women but about all women, including women of color and homosexual women. It does an excellent job, too, of demonstrating that despite all the radical goings on of the time -- the anti-war movement, the student rebellions, black power, etc. -- women were left out and not counted even by these so-called liberals and radicals. I sat on a little hard-backed folding chair and laughed and teared up at the audacity of these pioneers and radicals, realized how much I take for granted and how much left there is still to do.

I felt galvanized by these women and their history, and I felt strengthened and more accepting of my own anger and radicalism -- not just about women's equality and, particularly, reproductive rights that are being whittled slowly away, but also by this cannabis movement and my role in it as, often, a quite angry mother in confrontation with an established power structure.

I received an email the other day from our local Epilepsy Foundation affiliate with an announcement of the annual Epilepsy Pipeline Conference in San Francisco. Last year, I attended this conference and was an invited speaker on a panel. I spoke of our experiences with cannabis and didn't get the greatest reception from the physicians and "professionals" in the room -- they were either dismissive or uninterested, one was downright hostile -- but I had numerous people come up to me privately and confide their gratitude that I had spoken so openly and honestly about our experience. One guy told me that when I spoke it was as if a bomb had gone off in the room and blown everyone up. I have to say that my ego surged when he said that, but deep down I was embarrassed, too. As a woman pushing against boundaries in the medical world (and it started long ago for me and well before the cannabis revolution began), I haven't always been confident. I'm even now not always confident, particularly when I am admonished for being angry. I've been called too angry, too outspoken, undiplomatic. Several relatives have publicly shamed me and called me a miserable person. Someone anonymous not too long ago left the condescending comment You're a great writer, but you're too angry. I'm going to be honest and say that those comments hurt me, that I hold remnants inside of me that dictate what a good girl is, what a humble woman does, what makes a lady, and that I'm none of those things.

This year's Epilepsy Pipeline Conference, as far as I can see (and the schedule could very well change), has no representation of cannabis as therapy except from a huge pharmaceutical company. This doesn't surprise me, and my initial impulse is to feel cynical and bitter. Now, don't think that I haven't done a lot of soul-searching, wondering if maybe I am too angry and combative, that I'm not going to ever be invited to speak at any of these functions again because I don't tow the party line. I wonder if I should be less angry, perhaps even tone down the truth of our story with the goal of persuasion. Is it better to tone it down and try to reach more people? Is it better to compromise one's truth?

Nah.

Watching this documentary and seeing what those women (and those before them who struggled for suffrage) did and how they handled oppression opened my eyes and strengthened me.

I am beautiful when I'm angry. You are beautiful when you're angry.

Here's a trailer for the movie:



Here's the website with information about screenings and the forthcoming DVD issue.

She's Beautiful When She's Angry

Thinking About

Today is the day that ended with me getting my boys back, and I'm glad about that. I puttered around today, cleaning up, organizing my crap, reading some magazine articles, researching Chechen food for the salon on Friday and mulling over the fate of the universe, albeit the universe of my own tiny little mother mind.™ This would include my observations about the first episode of Wolf Hall on Masterpiece Theater (no, I did not read the book, but so far so good) or rather the period that is depicted (16th century King Henry the 8th/Catholic Church/Church of England and all those shenanigans) and how really ridiculous most men look in history when they're striving for power and territory and keeping down the women-folk and the poor. I'm in, though, particularly as the actor who plays Cromwell bears a striking resemblance, even in that sixteenth century get-up, to Dr. Paul Weston, the shrink from In Treatment with whom I carried on an affair, at least in my tiny little mother mind.™

I also had an interesting conversation with a mother who is very active in the movement to defeat the proposed bill here in California that would make every single vaccination mandatory for every single child in the state unless they have a medical exemption or else they will not be allowed to go to public school. I definitely do not support this bill for various reasons, some of which are kind of, sort of, connected to even the patriarchal values that were demonstrated even farther back than old Henry the 8th and his ignorance that it was his mighty sperm that lacked the necessary Y to give him an heir. Basically, that is the fact that I'm not going to let the government or the medical world force me to do anything to my children that I believe will hurt them. That led to me thinking about my instincts (which work quite beautifully, most of the time, with my tiny little mother mind™) and how they tell me that, really, we're on the edge here in 2015, with the dregs of allopathic medicine. Apparently, the libertarian Rand Paul, whom I loathe because I just don't gel with the libertarian aesthetic (or lack of one) or the cult of individualism that it espouses, is probably the best bet to keep out government over-reach (we can throw in medical marijuana, too, here), but it's just the way the guy frames it all that makes me sick, and that's because he sort of denies women's issues in an incredibly patronizing way.

Anyhoo.

Where was I?

Where are you?

We just had one of those very big jolts of an earthquake which evidently registered 3.5 on the old Richter scale and which I'm realizing is probably the reason why Sophie has had a terrible day with lots of seizures, jitteriness, clamminess and otherwise uncharacteristic behavior. I'm certain she senses these things or feels quite exquisitely the subtle changes of the planet. You see? I've brought things right round to the universe and my tiny little mother mind's™ mulling over its fate.

Silenced Women, Books and Poetry

via The New York Times

I've been listening to Elizabeth Gilbert's novel The Signature of All Things on the recommendation of our dear Mary. To be honest, I was not a big fan of Eat, Pray, Love but have always admired Gilbert's writing and speaking, her take on life and her gentle demeanor (I saw her once, live, with Annie LaMott). Her new book is read by Juliet Stevenson, the great English actress, and perhaps part of the love affair I'm having with the story and the writing is due to Stevenson's exquisite interpretation. I think, though, that the book is just plain interesting and beautifully written. I generally take forever to listen to an audible version of a book -- I have a hard time staying with the story and don't think my ears are as connected to literature as my eyes, if that makes sense. In any case, though, I'm getting toward the end, unable to listen to it in my car because of some lurid details that I don't want the boys to hear, and I might even lie on my bed and finish it up -- just lie there and stare at the ceiling with earplugs in my ear. 

I'm struck, over the last few days, as I immerse myself in listening to this story of a late eighteenth, early nineteenth century woman by just how constrained women's lives were for most of written history. The constraints were so pervasive and affected every aspect of their lives, including sexuality -- maybe especially sexuality -- until very recently. And then I think about how women are shamed and silenced even today, sometimes spectacularly but more usually, silently and subtly -- even by themselves. I can honestly say that I've felt stifled over the last couple of days, perhaps over-aware of my opinions, my outspoken-ness, my sharp tongue. I wonder if men feel this way regularly, whether they feel the need to second-guess their intentions, apologize for the way they deliver their thoughts or feel "less than" because of them.

Although I can't begin to fully understand it, I think Emily Dickinson was hinting at these things -- at anger and constraint -- when she wrote this poem.

Here's the poem for your eyes:


My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -
And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -
To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -
Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--


And here's the poem, read by Juliet Stevenson (!) for your ears:


Emily Dickinson - My Life Had Stood A Loaded Gun by poetictouch

Bare Arms, Not Bear

The woman in the black cardigan is my Italian grandmother, and she's standing next to her sister outside of their ramshackle house in the small town of Cosenza in the Calabrian region of southern Italy. I imagine it's nearly 100 degrees outside despite the heavy clothing, but they're all protected from drafts, the kind of wind that grabs the neck and kills you if you're not careful. I have lately begun baring my arms after a period of many years. My attitude is a sort of screw it, I'm fifty years old and who the hell cares if they look like my Italian grandmother's? Covered or uncovered, my grandmother was a very strong person physically, if not mentally. Legend has it that she carried bags and bags of groceries for many blocks in New York City and then up many flights of stairs unassisted. I, too, have pretty decent upper arm strength which has come in handy with the disabled child, but my arms are just not cut in that sinewy way that comes from exercise or genetics. They look soft, and they are soft and their strength is buried deep, like the plastic king in the middle of the dough of a King Cake. How's that for metaphor? This summer I was inspired by a friend of mine at Expressing Motherhood who made an amusing video about baring one's arms, and for three days in a row I've worn three different outfits and bared my arms and am now crafting a post about the act.

That leads me to something a bit more substantial -- or should I say as substantial as my bared arms?

Anywho.

Last night, Cheryl Strayed, the mega author of Wild, posted an interesting article by Katie Roiphe on Facebook. Listen, I'm not really friends with Cheryl Strayed, I just "liked" her Facebook page, and every now and then I'll "like" what she posts along with tens of thousands of others. Roiphe's article was about the very hot (both literally and figuratively) Karl Ove Knausgaard's new series of memoirs that are slowly being translated into English. Her article basically proposes the question "what if a woman wrote it?" Knausgaard's memoir evidently outlines in minute detail his every personal struggle, including the minutia of his daily life as father. He talks about diapering his babies, I think (I haven't read it), along with philosophy and whatever else is going on in his life and mind. The books are a huge sensation. I want to read them, frankly. But, yes, what if a woman wrote it? Roiphe makes an amusing case that a Karla Ove Knausgaard would probably receive a far different response than her male counterpart were she to publish the same, and much of that negative response would come from women.

Generally, I'm beyond bored by things like the mommy wars and the work vs. nonwork stuff. I think the extreme parenting I've done has given me a sort of trump card that I admit to periodically over-using, but this article by Roiphe really struck me, particularly in the context of my own recently published ebook. Now, I'm not comparing myself to these fancy pants writers. I have a $2.99 ebook that is about 36 pages and covers roughly one and a half years of my life. I've gotten a great response to the book from people of all persuasions, and I've also gotten some criticism that I believe was considerate and worth absorbing. However, one person made the comment that she (a woman!) didn't see it as a book, really, for a literary community but rather as a "passionate article for a mother's community." I've been thinking about this statement for days, actually -- not in any obsessive, upset way but more in a curious, cud-chewing way. There's a tiny ding in that statement, a criticism not so much of my writing's literary quality (which is always arguable) but rather in the suggestion, however faint, that a mother's community holds nothing literary.

Like I said, I'm chewing on this quite placidly. With bare arms.

Vaginal knitting and other Sunday thoughts in this big world

This morning I wasn't two sips into my coffee when my eyes scanned the headlines of Salon (an online news source that I admit is really no better than a tabloid) and lit on a story about a woman who knits yarn that she has inserted into her vagina. She's an Australian performance artist, and looky-loo gawking aside, it's actually an interesting article about misogyny, feminism, taboos and general outrageousness. What I'm grateful for today, this gorgeous Sunday morning, is my own opened-up mind that is so, not because of any great effort on my part, but due to chance (meaning I could have just as well been born a woman who reads something like this and dismisses it as being bullshit or even disgusting). Reading about the Australian woman's skein of yarn, rolled into a ball and inserted into her netherparts (unlike her, I'm still close-minded enough to shirk from using the "c" word), I was able to even read through the part where she describes what happens when she menstruates, and I didn't even flinch but rather raised an eyebrow figuratively as I can't do that literally, and read on. I even nodded my head at parts of it, and to tell you the truth only balked when the language became too theoretical. I hate theoretical talk more than visualizing a ball of yarn inserted just so into a vagina, tugged little by little on needles and then knitted into a long scarf, to tell you the truth. Years ago, and I might have already discussed this on the old blog, I read a story in Vanity Fair, that other great tabloid, about men who dress as stuffed animals and have a fetish for it, who actually number in the thousands and who call themselves Plushies. I remember reading about this and, again, not being particularly grossed out, felt more amazed than judgmental. I was hard put to thinking anything theoretical at all and could only come up with what could become a mantra for the more simple-minded like myself, and that is:

It's a big world.

So, years after reading that article, I attended a healthcare conference in Orlando, California for my job, at the time, as a parent co-chair of a national collaborative to improve the access and quality of healthcare for children with special needs (what a theory, right?). While lunching in a nearby hotel with my elderly aunt and uncle who had driven to meet me, the three of us noticed a series of men dressed in animal costumes. There were wolves and squirrels and bears. One man walked by our table with a darling raccoon tail coming out of the back of his khaki shorts. My aunt said in her sweet voice that they all looked adorable. My uncle wondered if it were a mascot convention. I think I was digging at an avocado half and bringing a spoonful of chicken salad up to my mouth when it suddenly occurred to me who these men, masquerading as stuffed animals, actually were, and in lieu of spitting my food all over my plate, I probably raised my figurative eyebrow and nodded sweetly at them. Later, on my way out of the hotel, headed back to figuring out why children with special healthcare needs were treated so abominably in our great American healthcare system, I followed a puppy who walked into a huge banquet room of playmates. It was, indeed, the annual Plushie convention, and I could only shake my head in wonder that I had the great good fortune to be at the hotel in that exact moment in time, with my lucky open-mindedness and think it's a big world.

Sipping my coffee, I thought about how so many of we humans believe that things like cursing, particularly if you're a woman, make you somehow less of a woman. I thought about how so many of we humans like to nod our heads in admiration at those women we think of as real ladies -- you know, the kind of women who dress properly, speak properly, act gently and with humility and how thinking of these women, these ladies, make people like myself feel insecure, like we don't measure up, like we're somehow less than because we curse or rail or complain or knit scarves from yarn inserted into our vaginas. I have no theory for this kind of musing on a Sunday morning sipping coffee and skimming tabloids other than it's a big world.

Reader, are you more a theorist or someone who has been chanced with an open mind? Or both?