the modernity ward

Sunday Mourning

I was just thinking, "Wow, Josh Brolin is in everything these days!" and then I realized that "everything" was two separate previews for Milk and then...Milk.

Milk seemed a fitting movie choice for today. An assassination, really a martyrdom. Dr. George Tiller is dead, shot in a church about a quarter-mile from the house I grew up in, where my father still lives. I'm sickened and sad and furious, not just at Dr. Tiller's murder but at the ugly din coming from anti-abortion ideologues who hate -- who? Women. Some of them are women. It makes me want to get out the battering ram. It makes me sort of homesick for Wichita. I remember when they bombed his clinic, I remember the Operation Rescue Summer of "Love," I remember when they shot him the first time, for God's sake. I want to be with people who understand Wichita right now.

May God be with his family, who must have been expecting this -- but how can you ever prepare yourself? -- and may the cops keep Randall Terry away. May the good people of Wichita form a circle around the Tillers and keep back the evil ones who rejoice in the murder of a doctor who saved women's lives.

Oh, and if anyone is considering posting something in the comments along the lines of "But he MUURRRRDERED all the babies!" consider that I will come through the computer and punch you in the neck. And then I will delete your comment. I'm not in the mood.

The Big Dunk Approaches

Oh, y'all. I haven't been posting much beyond the stuff I have to write (my weekly 23andMe paid post), partly because I've been out of town, and partly because, well, you know how it is. Summer approaching and kidlets and big move on the horizon, and oh yes, that conversion thing. Right now I need to be working on my statement of belief, but it is righteous hard to digest theology when you're pleasantly tired from being pleasantly busy, and danged near impossible to articulate any synthesis. I had a dream that I went before my beit din and had totally neglected to do any preparation, and constructed some elaborate lie that would allow me to go all the way back home from the mikvah and, like, quickly whip up a beautifully articulated statement of faith, except my hands wouldn't write or the pencil was broken or some stupid dream shit.

So I'm reading Arthur Green's Seek My Face: A Jewish Mystical Theology and loving it, and Judith Plaskow's Standing Again at Sinai: Judaism from a Feminist Perspective and rolling around on the ground, it's so awesome, and Cynthia Ozick's Heir to the Glimmering World because hey, fiction written by a preeminent Jewish intellectual, plus it's really good and I already know who the Karaites are. Also, it's funny to imagine Judith Plaskow and Cynthia Ozick blessing each other out about referring to God in the feminine. Well, funny to me, and maybe three other people in the world, but SHUT UP.

It's so strange to be moving back into this place where I feel comfortable talking about religion and faith and God. It became so deeply uncool in my eyes after my experiences in Christian church circles in Kansas -- just emblematic of an anti-intellectual blind belief that allowed unscrupulous leaders to control people, and also saved some of those same people from having to do a whole lot of uncomfortable thinking. (I'm not talking about you -- just my own experiences in a particular time and place.) And my experience of Judaism has been the polar opposite of that experience (again, not talking about you -- I have met many Jews who would describe their experience with religion exactly as I have described mine) -- in my (extremely progressive) community there's such a respect for learning and knowledge and growing and changing and encountering the divine. And yet there's a respect for the wisdom of the rituals of long standing, an unceasing contact with history and everyone who came before. It's just...very much fun.

Thankfully my Bad Jesus Experiences and my Happy Jewish Experience were interpolated with the meeting of many wonderfully progressive Christians to take the taste of Presbyterians-going-conservative out of my mouth, as well as a long stint in Agnostic Pagan-Land, so I'm saved the sensation of running from one tradition directly into the arms of another. At the same time, the words "God" and "faith" feel so strange in my mouth, redolent as they are of church youth group and the general Christian-ness of the country. I'm grateful I can pray in Hebrew, so nothing feels like a retread of Vacation Bible School. I'm glad to have a new set of metaphors to work with.

What amazes and pleases me so is that my beliefs, even as I struggle to articulate them without saying "...dude!" too many times, haven't changed very much from my childhood intimations of some great underlying overarching One Thing. Judaism as I currently experience it feels, ironically, like a return to something I abandoned long ago.

I Got All My Sisters with Me

As I write this I'm sitting in my mother's living room. My sisters, my mother, a couple of husbands, forty-three children (well, four, but the two who are not babies managed to open enough cans of seltzer to hydrate thirty-nine small people). Right now I'm wishing I had a 23andMe spit kit for every single one of them, so that we could discern once and for all whether what's genetic and what's just...Jo being Jo. I'm the dark horse when it comes to eye color, so I guess I could have been the genetic loser when it comes to Guitar Hero. Sure. Genetics. That's why I suck at Guitar Hero. Moving on. Read more...

And...Done.

You know how when kids act like tiny raging despots and emit bloodcurdling shrieks at whim? And then it turns out that they were working on some new developmental skill, and as soon as said skill is acquired they go back to acting like slightly more reasonable despots? My favorite part of that whole beautiful process, besides the property damage and glares from passing strangers, is how the skill that finally emerges is so utterly unforeseeable. Like, they'll start wetting their pants all the time and screeching every time you come around a corner, and bam! They can tell time on an analog clock! Or something equally random.

This time around, the following skills have emerged:

• Ability to count to ten...en Español
• Ability to add any two number that total ten or less
• ...also en Español

There have also been huge leaps in the art and writing department -- buildings have doors with knobs and even rows of square windows, people have blobby appendages, ladybugs have delicate curled antennae. SOPHIA SOPHIA SOPHIA covers every exposed surface in her bedroom. And she knows that N-O spells "no."

She can fix her own cereal in the morning -- plain flakes or O's, almond milk, a squirt of agave nectar. With help she cooks her own eggs, scrambled or over easy. Trifles all, apparently, as today the pinnacle of self-sufficiency was reached.

Sophia: I want water!
Joanna: Pitcher's on the table, Sean, can you --
Sean: Sophia! Did you pour your own water out of the big pitcher?
Sophia: Yep!
Joanna: !
Sophia: Guess I don't need a mama anymore!

Like it was the last box on the checklist. Total independence: achieved! CheckMATE!

Send me a postcard, kid.

All Up in My Genome

My biggest concern when I sent off that little vial of spit to the 23andMe lab didn't have much to do with what I might learn about myself. Most of the big genetic bugaboos -- Parkinson's, diabetes of both flavors, breast cancer -- will have already made their familial presence known. Since I have a pretty good idea of what exactly is wrong with every single person in my extended family, and it ain't just diabetes, I didn't figure any nasty surprises awaited me in the results of the genetic analysis.

Read the rest...

Look Upon My Style, Ye Mighty, and...well, Don't Despair. That's Really Not What I'm Going For.

Yes indeedy! I got me a damn fine haircut courtesy of Miz Kateri. It looks amazing, feels even better, and you can totally see my pink halo.

The halo is left over from my homemade pink highlights, and at first I thought I'd pick up a box of Feria on the way home from the salon, but I've reconsidered and will be keeping it. Maybe I'll even re-pinken it. What? That's a word!

So...yeah. I took a walk around the block and counted nine different varieties of iris (they don't call it Garden Court for nothin'), and sniffed each one as hard as I could. Each has its own kind of smell. The air is muggy and heavy and crackling with the electricity of advancing storm. Sophia put herself to bed for the third night this week, after eating half a raw green pepper, lettuce dipped in balsamic vinaigrette, tomatoes, and cheese AND THEN THANKING ME FOR THE LOVELY DINNER; she asked for "drinkin' yogurt" (that would be kefir) as a treat.* I have a fridge full of baked oatmeal, meat loaf, and salad ready to eat.

And it's all because my hair is awesome. Thank you, Kateri, and thank you Sean for contending with a nonplussed baby.

*Notable because it's been a nothing-but-macaroni kind of week.

Good Shabbos.

Yeah, I know! Blogging! But Sean has to work on a grant, so lousy Jews are we. Well, not me. Yet. My mikveh date is June 9 (woo!).

Dinner was Trader Joe's chicken-and-sugar-sauce-in-a-bag. There are several slightly different flavors of this, and all are excellent substitutes for takeout. We skip the rice (because of the lazy) and serve it over a bed of broccoli. Total cost: about $5 for two adults and Two-Bite Tootsie here. Challah was a stale hoagie roll from the deli downstairs. We does what we can.  Anyway, here are some terribly important things:

1) I am totally cutting my hair short tomorrow. And will share pictures. As much as I love how long hair looks on me, I hatehatehate how it feels. HATE. Off it's coming.

I have all these lingering issues from a lifetime spent under the umbrella of the patriarchy (dun dun DUNNNN!) about hair and how it ought to look and when it's okay to wear it short (on me personally, my insane rules don't apply to anyone else), and what invariably happens in my long-short cycle is that I make a deal with myself in which I say okay, Self, you get down to Arbitrary Weight #37 (always 8-14 pounds below present) and you can cut your hair. And then I have an argument with myself about the Internalized Male Gaze* and the stupidity of it all and then I justify things by deciding I hate how it feels anyway and but then I could dye it all kinds of colors and shit and then I get a haircut without having met any of my random conditions.

It always looks awesome.

2) I bought a stretchy belt. I am all about the belts on top of loose shirts, because between my abundant bosom and my ample hips I do actually have a waist, and I would like to share it with you, world.

3) White Chocolate Macadamia Luna Bars. They are terrible, and you must never buy one, and if you do buy one by accident you must not eat it. They taste like toenail parings marinated in flea shampoo. Leave them on the shelf at the store.

Heh.

4) With regard to #1, #2, and possibly #3: I go through periods of thinking mostly about things like Wife Swap and Go Fug Yourself, alternating with periods of radicalization and shopping. Yes, both. Shut up. I have been doing the radicalization in stages over the years, starting with some basic feminist consciousness in high school and body awareness in college (helps to get suddenly fat thanks to PCOS! you really notice the difference in how the world treats you), and then discovering Mode magazine (god, remember Mode?), the onto various types of privilege awareness and culminating in a sort of Health at Every Size/Shapely Prose/feminist/whatever else conciousness. It still blows my mind how some big feminists websites can be some of the uckiest places for fat hate.

And when I'm feeling positive about my body and not sensitive to the Male Gaze I tend to want to wear clothes and hair that I find awesome. That is all.

I totally want to talk about fatness and body positivity and stuff, but I'm feeling drained. Maybe later. Any thoughts?

*The only Male Gaze which actually matters to me, not in a creepy "I can't cut my hair because my husband loves long hair!" way, but in an "I'll take your opinion into account because we have a relationship that is a marvel of egalitarianism and I like to be attractive to you and thank you for shaving your ironic used car dealer mustache quickly and without fanfare that one time", belongs to Sean, and he finds me exceedingly hot with short hair, long hair, or no hair at all, and in my ripped maternity underpants and Team Building Exercise '99 t-shirt.**

**I wish I had one.

Won't Somebody Please Think of the Children?

Another 23andMe post!

One of the more interesting things about producing children who are biologically yours is that you get to see the combining of your genome with somebody else's, the tug-of-war for dominance and co-dominance that provides you, a brown-eyed, brown-haired mother, with two blue-eyed dark-blonde girls. They have similar coloring thus far, those girls, but look to my eye pretty different otherwise. Sophia looks like Sean from the nose up, and maybe a little of me in the smile (final shape of nose TBD), with curly dark blonde hair like her grandmother and like my little sister. Blue eyes like everyone in Sean's family, and my sisters. Skin like skim milk, and that's definitely the Eastern European side. Daphne's eyes are sort of mid-blue, hair a light brown, but the shape of her features are 100% me and my own mother. Her skin looks darker than Sophia's, so maybe she'll tan brown as a berry, as they used to say of me. (And yes, I check my moles regularly now.) Read more...

In-Between Days

That's a weird word, huh? Between? Look at it. No, look. See how weird it is? It doesn't even look like a real word.

Yeah, so. I'm having this sartorial crisis, probably brought on by the fact that I allowed my bangs to grow 1/4 inch beyond the point where they do more or less what I want them to, and I have this closet full of seriously old stuff that kind of doesn't work but it close enough that I can't in good conscience get rid of it, not in this economy, but none of it really rocks my casbah, if you know what I'm saying. Well, one or two things.

So I'm sitting here, simultaneously cheering myself up and bumming myself out with the flickriver Fatshionista pool, and thinking, damn, I wish I had some sort of venue in which I could talk to people of somewhat like mind, air my thoughts, get feedback, but not in that taxing exhausting oh-my-god-I-am-SUCH-an-introvert way of actual human social interation. And then I remembered! Blog!

But wait, you ask. How could the Fatshionista pool ever bum you out? And here is where the reality of my life intrudes upon the dreamy fun times in my head: It is damned hard to do the necessary shopping and dressing and planning to look awesome when two tiny people have other agendas. One of those agendas involves screaming! SCREAMING! when, say, you pick up that puzzle piece that was arranged JUST SO on the floor right where you need to be walking, and did you just hand that abandoned rag to the baby? Well, you give it right back to me this SECOND, Mommy, because that is my very special rag and I have loved it forever and booooohoohoohoo SCREAM I love you Mommy your earrings are very pretty. Can I have them. BUT I WANT THEM AAAAHHHH.

And the other person's agenda is a lot more flexible but involves a lot of being carried about, and that person weighs almost twenty pounds (yes), and needs some small maintenance action performed every thirty-five seconds. 

Also there is no point to wearing a pretty shirt when all the world sees is GIANT BABY STRAPPED TO CHEST and no point to wearing a necklace because aforementioned GIANT BABY (ditto belts and scarves) and no point to earrings because apparently I get contact dermatitis from even surgical steel now.

And also, I am a bona-fide in-betweenie right now, too small for the smallest size at Ye Olde Stout Shoppe and too big for more standard-y sized stuff which isn't really cut for people in the 12-14 range. I have two pairs of size 12 jeans that fit okay; one is from Old Navy and is a total outlier, and the other is from the distant past. And why the hell is everything so revealing this season? Look, I am all about having my tits hang out for the world to read, but there is a lot there right now, and a low-cut blouse will leave me with more skin showing than most people actually have, so.

I have the skills and necessary machinery to make a series of simple peasant blouses that would be pretty, loose, and flattering, but bleah. The tiny people. You want to tear a three-year-old away from Dora, just get out a sewing machine, or possibly a drill press. (At night I am too cross-eyed tired to be trusted with dangerous machines.)

Of course a good portion of my problem would be solved if I would do two things: one, the laundry, which holds the favorite clothes (including this, which is so great that I bought two. Soft and thin and drapey and washed-out black like an ancient concert t-shirt, and if you squint the dolphins might be, like, the Jesus and Mary Chain or something) and two, get a fucking haircut. Seriously. Look, people, I have tried my damndest to grow out my hair, and I really do like how it looks, but my God! On a warm day it feels like going out in a woolen balaclava that also gets tangled up in the Ergo and hurts when a three-year-old attempts to put it in a ponytail for you. Was I the only one who hated when other little girls would try to play with her hair on the bus? God, I can't think of anything more unpleasant.

So I am forthwith declaring myself beaten by the Hair Monster. You people with long hair, I don't really know how you do it. I'm going to assume that my Highly Sensitive-ness is what makes hair touching my neck, or things touching my hair, or seams in underpants so utterly untenable. My mother-in-law claims she doesn't even notice her hair on her neck! What good fortune. If I were dressing for comfort alone, I would buzz my head with a #2 setting and drape myself in really old t-shirts and jersey gauchos.

Although...maybe I should just do that anyway.

(No. Can't shave head yet. But can get cute short cut! And can force self to visit fabric store for printed voile and elastic!)
(Also can wash t-shirts and gauchos.)

What do you do, when things are blah and you're all ideas and no execution?

Over-the-Shoulder Boulder Holders: An Overview

Here's the thing about nursing bras, and to a lesser extent bras in general: Everybody is going to like something different, because everyone's body is different. Breasts vary as widely as faces from woman to woman (as do vulvae. Ask a midwife), and experience a huge amount of change over a lifetime. For every woman who loves her basic Bravado, there's one who absolutely fucking hated it, and nobody's wrong. (For the record, I've been both women, on which more in a bit.)

That said, there are some things I like. For informational purposes, I tend not to have a problem with uni-boob, but do require some lifting/corralling. If you tend towards uni-boob, you may like totally different things.

There are two categories of nursing bra: the kind that spans several sizes and offers some expansion and contraction room, which is usually easier to fit but less likely to lift and separate, and the sized bra, like a regular bra, good for one size and one size only. The first kind is better for the first month or five, and the next once your size has settled down somewhat. I'm only just now getting into the second category.

So, in category one, I have:

• the good old favorite, Bravado. Now I used to have one that I hated -- let things splay out all over the place, crappy support. Then I figured out I was wearing totally the wrong size. Most bra sizing directions are WRONG -- I never got a good fit following the standard "measure rib cage, add four, carry the two" kind of instructions. Check out Breakout Bras' directions for a far more accurate fit. Instead of the 38C the old directions gave me, Breakout Bras says 34E/F -- and it's totally right. All my bras fit now. So back to the Bravado: I had been wearing the M+, which has a crossover design in the front, and the band would ride up and breasts would head east and west and it was not a good scene. Then I got a S++ -- it looks like a sports bra in the front, but the band stays where it should and it lifts and supports pretty comfortably. Added bonus: the front of the bra passes for a tank top underneath wrap top and plunging V necklines for a modicum of modesty. Even if it's leopard-printed modesty.
• the new Bravado Body Silk. It fastens in the back and is made of some microfiber, and generally I am opposed to synthetics on my skin but I like this stuff. It gives a surprisingly good shape for a non-underwire -- and again, the right size makes a huge difference. This is my favorite bra.
• Melinda G Soft Cup in fab Curvy small (yes, small!). It has a nice deep plunge in front, gives decent support, no uniboob. Some shaping, no underwire. Definitely separates. Also a synthetic but you know, it really keeps its shape better than cotton.

In category two, we've got:

• the Bravado nursing tank. No underwire, but it's sized. Inside is a wide elastic band as with the standard Bravado. I'd love this -- it has a nice long length, good thick fabric -- except for two things: one, the clasps are not entirely trustworthy. In their effort to make invisible clasps that don't scream "nursing bra!", they went with something that's not quite as secure...when you're busting out of the dang thing. The second problem is that the sizing just doesn't go big enough for me. I got a 34D/E, their largest cup, and the band is right and the cup is nearly indecent. So this may just be a sizing issue on my part. I'm going to try to make it work, especially as my cup size goes down over the months.
• Medela underwire. The 34DD is plenty adequate. Amazing support and shaping. Makes my rack look awesome. Only thing I don't love is how very much coverage it gives -- I can't wear it with my scoopier scoop-necks or deeper Vs. But WOW. (Side note: I also ordered this bra at the same time, and immediately returned it. One unsnapping and resnapping, and the fabric was so deformed that it totally stood away from my breast.)
• Plain soft-cup bra from the Gap. I have a hand-me-down one of these in not quite the right size, but I like it enough that I plan to order the right size as soon as black is back in stock. Soft shaping, not mega-supportive but nice for everyday. Comes up high enough in the middle to pass as a cami, as with the Bravado.