I Love Poop

HAH! I feel funny writing that title where people will actually see it. Sure, I say it all the time with my friends but telling the world (ok, the small population of loyal blog readers) seems odd. It's like spilling a deep and dark secret. I love poop, I love to poop, I love to poop in public, I feel like poop (not now, but sometimes), do you have to poop? You name it, any sentence with "Poop" in it is the sentence for me.
But what happens when poop becomes a terrible word? Or a terrible thing. I am speaking the big portion of you "non-public" poopers. I wish that I could even begin to feel some empathy or scrap of understanding for what you go through, but I just can't imagine a world without pooping in public. I think that it is almost as liberating as running naked through the woods (or anywhere for that matter). And for those humorists out there, I have to tell you that nothing is funnier than knowing that the person who just went into the bathroom after you is going to have to do their business smelling your insides.... and the fact that they will be embarrassed about it, even though they had nothing to do with it. Ahhhhhhhh... the joys of simple humor.
Ok, so two days ago I am out with my poop-phobic boyfriend. We are wandering aimlessly through a large and common bookstore looking at books and listening to music. I mention to him that I must make poop and he says he does too. We are standing right next to the restrooms. I look at him and tell him "there is nothing like the present to get over this phobia" he just shakes his head as he watches me skip, skip, skip to the loo.
I come out of the bathroom feeling refreshed and can see by the look on his face that if we don't get out of there soon, he won't be feeling even remotely fresh. Unfortunately he has decided to buy out the music section on what seems to be the busiest night of the year. As we walk down the stairs, hand in hand, I can feel a little limp in his step by the way his hand pulls awkwardly at my arm. I can hear him grunt as we walk by the cafe, and a little yelp as we pass by the center isle of books. I can see the pain in his eyes and I laugh, on my god, do I laugh!!! I try hard not to, but man, I just can't help it. This pain, this agony, this embarassment, could all be rectified (ha) with one small jaunt to the men's restroom, not 6 steps away. But he remains stubborn. He clings as tightly to this phobia as he does to his bowels.
He asks me what I am doing, why I am laughing and looking around at everything in sight. I tell him, "I want to remember you exactly as you are, in this place, having to poop so badly, but having to wait because you are terrified to public pooping. I want to remember this moment, exactly as it is, so that when I tell the world, they will understand."

Christmas Blues

I promised myself when I started this blog that I would not get all personal, and sappy and unhappy. Sure I will vent, I will examine and search things not entirely related to my life as I live it (The Rules, my vagina, The Gilmore Girls) but never, I decided, would I divulge my own personal feelings for the given moment. Well, it's Christmas Eve, I am sitting alone in my boyfriend’s house with nowhere to go, and so I changed my mind.
When I left home in 1998 I imagined fun and excitement. I would move all over the country, I would travel by way of sea to ports unknown (to me). I pictured fun care packages sent from all my family, in Mexico, San Diego (at the time, although now it would be South Carolina), Montana or Michigan. I could almost hear the static-y conversations as I called internationally just to tell someone that I had just seen a Galapagos Tortoise in its own habitat. It was on that fateful October 27th as a guy in a funny hat told me that I was the biggest piece of shit on the planet, that I had just stepped off the bus into hell, in that southern New Jersey town while my mom, my closest friend in the world, in rural California celebrated her 38th birthday with the disappearance of her only child, her only daughter.
I hate to admit it, but I did not think about my mom much that day. I couldn't think of anything besides my inability to follow the simple demand (TURN RIGHT YOU MORON, HOW DO YOU THINK YOU WILL EVER MAKE IT THROUGH) as I turned left and ran face first into my neighbor, a girl named Lisa who looked just as scared as I did. My mom did not even cross my mind as I lay on a top bunk, so close to the ceiling that I would become used to sticking my head through the push up slats every morning when I woke up, so tired, so scared, so clueless as to what was to come. I did not even wish her a happy birthday on my initial drift into sleep. Little did I know that this would be the first, in a very long list, of the important days that I would miss.
The day of my 18th birthday, a big one in our society, at least where I am from, came and passed like any other. Still in that abandoned (for winter) southern New Jersey port, November 7th was the fated day that I would receive my "piece", the hollowed out and refilled with pure iron ore, civil war issued rifle, serial number 2398756087 (yep, I still remember even after 6 years) weighing in at somewhere around 17.5 pounds. The big guys in funny hats were to torture us that day, in the whipping 6 degree shore winds we would march to and fro, up and down, backwards and sideways across the parade field (picture professional football field with foreboding statues and the most heartbreakingly beautiful American flag on either side) holding our pieces out in front of our bodies with one hand yelling things like, "Sir, We Never Relax, Sir", "Sir, Golf Company Loves It When You Torture Us, Sir" or "Thank You Sir May I Have Another".
When our ears started to turn purple from the cold, and the wind kept taking our beanie caps out to sea our torturers took us inside to the brick and linoleum building where we marched up and down the five flights of stair to the beat of Pink Floyd's "The Wall". We Don't Need No Education has never sounded more frightening as I envisioned myself walking off the top of the staircase into a meat grinder, a la the film behind the soundtrack. No mention of my birthday was made, and I was glad. I had heard horror stories of boot camp birthdays of people being hung on the flag pole covered in wrapping paper as various companies from around base came out to pay homage by doing a variety of basic calisthenics to honor the birthday boy or girl. So by the time mail came that evening I was thanking God, I promised her that for the rest of my life I would praise her name before any and all who came before me.
But then it happened, the unthinkable, in with the mail carrier came a big, brightly wrapped and sparkly box. I hung my head in shame. I tried to guess who it could be from and once I had the package in my hand it was not hard to guess. There were phrases all over said box that said things like "Marine Corps for Life", "Semper Fi, Do or Die", "Honor, Corps, God, Country" and my favorite "Happy 18th Birthday Sis! We Sure Do Miss You Out Here on the Farm". My brother, the Marine, stationed at that time in San Diego (CA), was paying me back for all the care packages I had sent him while he was out in the field.
I mistakenly thought that this package might go unnoticed by the three men who held my life in their hands for the following months, but the instant the package met my hands I could hear the dreaded click, click, click of taps on the bottom of shoes coming right at me. The package was stolen from my hands and the package was read aloud to the 100 other recruits surrounding me. The more people laughed the angrier the man got, I could actually see his blood vessels starting to burst. He looked at me and said "So, you've got a Marine in your family? Do you know that we carry them around when they are lost at sea?" I said the requisite "Sir, Yes Sir". He pointed to a spot on the floor, in the middle of my company, and said "Sit there and open it"! I opened the package watching multi-colored popcorn, shreds of newspaper, and other trash fall onto the floor. I dug for at least twenty minutes, looking for some sign of a present, until finally I hear "TURN IT OVER, EMPTY IT OUT" As I flip the box, I feel my heart sink into my stomach and my brain drift somewhere into out-of-body status, and I watch as a photograph floats right over to the wearer of the tappy shoe. He holds the picture for a moment before he says, "Well, his joking has just cost you all your night." He passes the picture around and when it finally gets to me I see my brother (who I will later pummel for his joke) with his wet suit on to his waist, surfboard in hand and dopey grin. On the back it says "have fun riding the pain wave!" I determined right then and there that the next important day in my life would be spent with just my family, no sign of trouble in the horizon. I would surround myself with love and mushys, bake in the California sun and try and forget this day.
Thanksgiving that year came and went sadly. I made my first phone call to my folks and cried at the sound of my mom's voice on the other end of the line. I told her I could not wait to come home and spend Christmas with her. I promised that I would never miss another holiday, and I would come home willingly and clean every speck of her house before people came over, and I would bake cookies until my fingers turned to chocolate themselves. Hm.... this is why Patrick tells me not to make promises that I don't have any control of.
I graduated on December 18th and looked forward to my weekend in Atlantic City with my parents, even as I cried when my company walked out before I did my rifle presentation for the Captain of the base. We got home, planning to get ready for Christmas, we would get a tree that day and start to decorate the house, but instead we came home to a message on the answering machine "Seaman Lamb, you are to report to duty on December 24th. We have also taken the liberty to schedule you to work on both Christmas and New Years since you will be new here and do not know anyone."
Needless to say, I had no idea that I would not spend another Holiday with my family again. The year's holidays passed by quickly as I was comforted by the feeling of excitement in my new unit in San Francisco. I spent Christmas and New Years meeting new people on base and watching dolphins and otters swim playfully by my window. The next year I almost had the option to go home, until my boss deemed me a trouble maker (which I was) and told me my punishment was to work the holidays again. On New Years 1999 I watched on TV for a friend in NYC and when I saw him, standing next to the metallic ball, I had the realization that this might be my normal holiday routine and that I should just come to terms and accept it.
That year I moved to Detroit and knew again that the holidays would be spent in the company of myself. What I hadn't suspected was that I might actually get those days off, and have to plan something to do. On my first Turkey day there I was living with three boys in a little suburban house that did not have any insulation. We had become quite close as we spent our nights curled up on the futon mattress to sleep with the cat and ferret somewhere in the mix as we tried to stay warm, so we decided to do T-Day right. I made a huge meal (even though I forgot to take the bag out of the turkey before cooking it) and called my family. It was the first holiday I had had in two years that I called smiling. And for the other two holidays I took to traveling the 9 hours to D.C. to visit friends and party my ass off, hoping to forget the fact that I hadn't seen my family in over 2 years.
The following years got better, I got used to spending my holidays with other people's families. I would travel great distances from Detroit to St. Louis by car to celebrate with my now ex-family which is actually where my problem comes in now. I moved to St. Louis thinking that I would be close to a family, people to share holidays with. I had pre-conceived notions that I might actually make a gaggle of friends who would be rooted here (instead I have found wonderful friends who are rooted elsewhere and leave for holidays) and that I would spend the rest of my life wrapped in my new "home-town".
Guess I was wrong on that.
Over the previous weeks I have gotten over my inability to pay for a Christmas tree, I have come to accept that all my Christmas decorations (there were HUGE boxes of them) sit in someone else's storage shed, I have come to appreciate my friends' ability to travel home and have cherished the invites to far away states to celebrate amongst families, even as I decline for the lack of funding. I really thought that this would be ok, I am a strong and independent woman. I have overcome far worse, in this year alone, than spending a holiday away from loved ones. But now, I sit here, alone in my boyfriend's house, holding the dog in my lap, wishing that it could be different. I wish that for one day in this fucked up year could make up for all the shitiness it has dealt. There have been happy days, so many happy days, over the last six months. But this day, Christmas Eve, my favorite day of the year, I feel like I might break. I just want my mommy.
Anyway, New Years is coming soon and I know, with everything in me, that the next year will be better. And that I look forward to.

The Rules and Colors of Life

"Greetings, fellow Rules Girls. I am new to this board.
Hope all is well.
Thanks for letting me join in.
Lacy "

Did you know they have their own chat board???? Wanna have some laughable fun check it out at "http://www.thirdage.com/WebX?7@16.uNmIbnSNEDf^2@.ef5a2fb/19".

I know all the girls out there have heard of this book "The Rules:Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right" but most have never read it. I, on the other hand, was blessed with a mother who not so secretly hoped that I would fall in love at 16, get married, have lots of babies, and be adored by my husband (as if 16 year olds with loads of babies ever get off that easy). So on my 14th birthday, along with my first box of Tampons, I got a copy of this highly coveted (are you surprised?) tome.
So... what is it about this book that drove the women to Barnes and Nobel in swarms? I have to say, the book is fantastic (well, almost)! It is about self-empowerment, setting boundaries, and running the show (all the feminists will rage at this I am sure.... but don't fret girls, I'm still one of you). Unfortunately, with all this great self-empowerment talk comes only manipulation (of yourself and those you seek) and essentially marriage. They don't tell you do all of these things because it makes you feel good. They say, do it because a man wants his wife to be that way. Play hard to get (which is not much unlike protecting yourself from all the initial emotional crap, which we all do to an extent) but keep it up, forever, never let your guard down, once you do you will not appear to be a challenge and then the man will no longer want you (which might be true in some cases, but when those arise shouldn't you be THE HELL OUT OF THERE anyway?)
This I think is the part, the eternal quest for marriage (and male acceptance after marriage), that really gets me, it really irks me to the core. It says to me (although maybe I am jaded) "If you are unhappy, if you are poor, and feel like you have no one to turn to, if you have low self esteem, or just need someone to pay attention to you all the time.... FIND A HUSBAND! A man will complete the life that you can't fullfill yourself." Now if that is not the biggest load of bullshit (ooooh, I should really try and think of a more eloquent word to use... nope, bullshit is good) I have ever heard then I will bow and apologize to anyone and everyone who thinks that I should.
What I want to know is, why can't we run to the bookstore for books about being fantastic, beautiful, pround, impressive, individually strong women? Of course some of us do, but why are there soooo many women out there who will never, NEVER know what it's like to be proud of themselves, of their accomplishments (even if it's the ability to accomplish nothing). These are the women who will trail on the curtails of her husband's successes, and then possibly (more than likely) 4 ,10,12,15 or 20 years down the road, wake up to either 1. A cheating, lying, scoundrel of a husband 2. No accomplishment, no true joys, no true self, or Both 1 and 2 (is it starting to sound like I might know what I am talking about?). I think maybe a more important question is, will there ever be a time when women don't need a book to tell them they are spectacular?
I often sit with my friends and disscuss the joys and pains of being women. There are so many things that I have learned and been conditioned to since childhood, so many that I try and realize so that I can break the bad habits before I have my daughter -tangent- is it bad that this is the only lifetime goal that I have? One daughter, possibly named after my mom, who also had only one daughter. Of course I have short term goals... finish school, travel everywhere, help lots of people, love even more people, survive, enjoy life, all of those things.... the only real life changing goal I have though is my one daughter -end tangent- but still everyday, as I struggle to be a part of the sisterhood, I find that I have been terrible at it, and that there are sooooo many girls who don't realize that there is a sisterhood (thanks Melanie for that fabulous word and concept).
Example one... You meet a guy, fall into him (as I tend to do...) and realize he has a girlfriend. What do you do? Do you keep hitting on him, hoping that one day they might break up and he will come after you? Or do you leave him alone because there is a woman on the other side of that relationship, one that as a part of the sisterhood and that you should look out for. So, someone does the first one to me (but was it really about me, or do I just feel like it?) and I get pissed right? But then I start to think about it, and I did the same thing, not realizing the effect that it had on the other woman. So what does this mean? I just contributed to the never ending cycle of girl competition! GIRLS!!!! If we compete with each other where does that leave us? To men (the ones who rule our world...) if we compete we are catty women. If we stand together, if we look out for each other they see us as man hating, heartless feminists. Ok, both are equally annoying right? But which would you rather have, men and women against you? Or men against you and a whole gaggle of girls behind, and beside you.
Example two... You are starting a relationship with a guy and he does something that makes you mad, or annoys you, or hurts your feelings, what do you do? You want to call him out, but you (total generalization, based on me, no one else) feel a pluthora of other emotions that should not be involved. Will he still like me if I tell him he did wrong, will he think I am over reacting, will he just ignore me, will it actually help anything if I say something, or will it just stir the pot? But then after all that pondering and wondering, and worrying, you realize, it's the way I feel and therefore it's valid. Why not bring it up, why not communicate your feelings? Because he won't like you anymore? So what will you do? Just keep ignoring things until you wake up and realize that you have taken so much inside that you are a wreck of troubling emotions, and that the realtionship you are in is just a lie? Hell no girls, stand up for yourselves! Be ready to stay true yourself, a guy worth keeping is one who will understand. Don't feel guily for having emotions and do not let a man make you feel that way (and thanks to the ones who always try to understand!).
Example three... A boss once told me (a man) that I should try and be softer, a little more feminine. Maybe I could wear my hair down and be a little less business like. Well guess what Mister... THIS IS A FREAKING BUSINESS. But that's not what I said in the heat of the conversation. I CRIED, I became the girl he wanted me to be -tangent - how is it that men can always wait until the day you start your emotional monthly girl time to come at you with a bunch of crap that you don't really don't need to hear. Why can't they wait until you are not a weeping pile of mush, so you can remain composure and a least a little scrap of dignity. - end tangent -. You know what he says to this? "I am glad to see your reaction, it lets me know you are being honest". So, I am thinking to myself, the fact that I have work with integrity, professionalism and honesty means nothing to you? The fact that I am crying means that I have a soft "girl" heart. So, I am feeling at that moment confusion and anger beyond all reason. What exactly are we supposed to be, I later questioned my friends about this too? If we are strong, professional women we are heartless and cold, most men think too that we have penis envy (which I do, but for totally different reasons). If we are soft and loveable
we are stupid, incapable, and emotional. So which is it? Which are we supposed to be? I am asking these questions to my fantastic group of girl friends and they all say the same thing "WOW, SEXUAL HARASSMENT" (although I know he wasn't being vindictive as he is of the 50's generation and doesn't know any better. And although this is no excuse I need this job.) and then you just be yourself, be free and fun loving, be professional and be strong in your beliefs.
-Motto- You see, we all need to realize this one thing, life is NOT black and white, there are many different shades, and if you live it right, a TON of color!