Wetting your pants for celebrity status

Because I desperately - desperately - needed another thing to distract me from my brilliant legal studies, tomorrow I begin participating in National Blog Posting Month.

That's right. Starting tomorrow I will post EVERY SINGLE DAY for the month of November.

I know. It's exciting. Try not to pee in your pants.

That would be embarrassing.

But it would give me something interesting to blog about. So...let me know if you do.

Deep Breath - It's a Long One

My dear friend T is very interested in reproductive justice and is involved in the reproductive justice group at school. A few weeks ago, she helped in hosting a panel about sex education. I watched videos of people who specialize in abstinence-only education doing their thing, and I participated in a sample lesson-plan for abstinence-only education. It involves a piece of tape that represents a girl being applied to the arm of a boy (which represents a sexual relationship connection). When he pulls the tape off, it’s not quite as sticky anymore now that his skin/hair debris is on it. The lesson, of course, is that every time you have sex with a different person, your ability to create an intimate bond is lessened. I have so many issues with this lesson that I don’t even know where to start. So I’m not going to. I’m just putting it out there as a jumping off point.

So this was all on my mind when I had brunch with my dear friend C the other day. I told her about the lesson. Turns out she’s got a client right now who teaches the sex ed classes at his Unitarian church. He’s about 65 years old, and she says they’ve been having these wonderful conversations about what he’s teaching and how he’s teaching it. Of course it’s comprehensive – he is a Unitarian, after all. And C has a new interest in it now. Because she has a daughter. Her daughter is only one, but it’s got C thinking about the future and about what she’ll teach her and how she’ll teach it.

We started talking about our own sex education – not at school, necessarily, but in our homes, from our parents. C’s education was the opposite of abstinence-only. Her mom’s basic message was “F*cking feels good. Enjoy it.” You might think that it’s refreshing in its honesty, but C felt like something was missing. She didn’t grow up with a lot of the hang-ups about sex that many people do, but she also didn’t get any messages about the intimacy that you can experience, about making good choices, about how sex is emotional and that sometimes there are emotional consequences. She wants her daughter to get those messages.

And we talked about my sex education. I don’t remember much from school. And I don’t remember very many specific conversations, but I do remember that my parents were pretty open and that I felt like I could talk to them about anything.

I wasn’t without my hang-ups. I grew up in a very religious community in the South – I went to Wednesday evening teen groups at the local Baptist church. I’m not sure who could survive that without hang-ups. One day I’m going to give my long-time high-school / college boyfriend a giant trophy for being such a trooper for the 5 years that we dated. Pretty much every time we took a new step forward in our physical relationship – the first time he went up my shirt, the first time he saw my boob, the first time….well, you get what I’m saying – I would end up crying and telling him that we could never do that again. Of course, a few days or weeks down the road, there we would be again, and I would feel a bit more comfortable with whatever it was we were doing. And there wouldn’t be anymore crying until the next thing.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think a high-school boy is owed anything or should get a medal for sticking with his girl when she doesn’t want to take the next step. It’s more that he was great through all of it, and it wasn’t like he was pressuring me or anything. I was going willingly – I would just have second thoughts afterwards. And then, I think, make him feel really bad about it. And it really wasn’t his fault. At all.

When we were 19, I decided that I was ready. To take the big step. And here’s the really important part. Here’s what I think is a testament to how great my parents were in this respect. I asked my mom to come into my bedroom, and I told her that I was ready to have sex and that I wanted to go on the pill. She didn’t jump up and down or anything. In fact, she had to take a really deep breath. But then she talked to me about it. About making sure that I was safe. And when I asked her questions about what it would feel like or whether it would hurt, she talked to me about that too. She talked to me about her first time and things that I could do to make sure that it was a good experience for me.

And it was. It was with someone who I cared about and who cared about me. Who was careful with me. I was ecstatic, and there was no crying afterwards.

Obviously that relationship ended. And I’ve had other relationships. And other sex. (And I definitely haven’t lost my ability to bond.) I’m a relationship sex person. It’s just who I am and how it works and feels right for me.

But the point is that I had the space and the permission to figure that out about myself. My parents never demonized sex, but they also never pretended like it didn’t have the power to be something really special. And I love that I got both of those messages. Because I think that’s where you get the ability to make the choice that feels right for you.

My children might be ready to sit me down for that conversation when they’re fifteen or sixteen or maybe even earlier. I don’t know. But I hope that I will have created an atmosphere where they feel like they can. And I will take a really deep breath…

WOOOOO-HOOOOO!!!!!!

PHILLIES!!!!! WOOOO-HOOO!!!

The babe's crying.
Philadelphia is happy.

What would Sandra Day think?

Because I am an incredibly blessed and lucky person, I have an appointment set up to meet Justice O'Connor next week and have her take me on a tour of the Supreme Court. The babe is coming along.

Though I haven't broadcast this information widely, those friends that know are super jealous.

In fact, two of my dear friends have offered to engage in romantic relationships with me in exchange for an invitation to join me in meeting O'Connor.

J said to me today, "I'll be your girlfriend too. I won't have sex with you because, well, I don't do that. But I'll cuddle. I'm good at cuddling. I'll let you touch my boob."

That's right. She offered a boob grab in exchange for meeting Justice O'Connor.

Unfortunately for J, I'm deeply devoted to the babe and keep all of my boob grabbing for her.

But, being the kind and giving person that I am, I wanted to put this information out there for any of you hoping to hook up with a lady. Supreme Court Justices are the way to go. Pick a Supreme Court Justice and set up a meeting! That lady will be offering all sorts of things in exchange for the opportunity to tag along.

Government = Ridiculous

I just wrote this in my government contracts notes:

"DLA got DPA from GSA to do ADP."

And it's not just blabbery. That actually means something.

One win away

A special post today - for the babe.

I just read an article on ESPN. I have never in my life read an article on ESPN. In fact, I think I've only ever been on the page to look up something once for the babe. And just now I read a whole article - I even read the second page. This is a big deal.

This morning when I grabbed the Washington Post Express as I headed into the metro station, I turned to the sports section. The sports section has previously been known as the section-that-i-skip-over-to-get-to-the-other-sections section. And yet today, I turned to it. And then I got all cranky and crotchety because there was nothing about the World Series. I railed against the paper in my head. "What the eff? What is going on here? Oooh, the Redskins. Big deal. The Phillies are one win away!" This is a big deal.

Off the top of my head, I can name at least seven players and tell you which positions they play. I could tell you right now how the Phillies scored all of their runs last night. This is a big deal.

You could judge me for being a fair-weather fan, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. It's not like I didn't like the Phillies before because they were losing or something. I just didn't pay much attention to sports in general. I watched with the babe sometimes, and we went to some games together. I always enjoyed it, but I just wasn't invested.

I'm invested now. I sit on the edge of my seat while we watch the games; I gasp and cheer and high five. I care. I'm looking forward to watching the game tonight. That's really not true. I'm anxiously awaiting the game tonight.

I want to cheer for the Phillies and rejoice with all of those fans, like the babe, who have loved them all along, who have cheered for them and believed in them, who get angry when people suggest that their presence here in this World Series is all just luck or a fluke. Who knew that they had it in them.

I want them to win. Tonight.

And yet...

I will be so sad to say goodbye to baseball until next season. I feel like I made a new friend, and I'm going to miss him.

Thank You for Bein' a Friend

Betty White still delivers.

I'm going to go watch some Golden Girls re-runs now.

I Am a Real American

Inspired by jen, who I sort of want to be when I grow up.

I sat in my feminist legal theory class yesterday and watched a presentation on critical race feminism. The presenters showed a portion of the video A Girl Like Me. At one point during the video, the creator performs the famous Brown v. Board of Education doll test with young black children. I watched as a young girl chose the black doll in front of her when asked which doll was the bad doll and chose the white doll when asked which doll was the nice doll. She wasn't confused about why. When the interviewer asked, she said, "Cause this one's black...cause this one's white." And then the interviewer asked her which one she looked like. You can see it on her face. She starts to reach for the white doll. She wants desperately to pick up the white doll. But she knows the truth. She picks up the black doll.

I cried.

It's enough to make you want you to cover your head and quit - that over 60 years after the original tests, these kids are still getting that same message.

But we talked about it. We, a room of racially-diverse people, sat and discussed what it means to be black or white or African or Jamaican or female or male in this country. We agreed and we disagreed.

It doesn't fix it, I know. But I think that, for me, it's part of what it means to be A Real American.

It means acknowledging the state of things. It means acknowledging that there are still little black girls in America who think that being black is bad. It means taking that information in and crying about it and breathing it into all of your cells so that you know that when you breath back out into the world, you're breathing out something better.

It means accepting that the history of America is not only one of hope and promise and resourcefulness and freedom, but also one of fear and discrimination and pain and untruths. Not so that we can flog ourselves. But so that we can see it and learn from it and make the conscious choice to do better, to be better.

It means learning to embrace gray. To see the story from the other side, and to see all the myriad of stories that occur in between.

It means embracing your own story, the parts that make you proud and the parts that make you ashamed. It means sitting with the knowledge that you are part of what this country is and that you are part of what it will become.

It means acknowledging what an amazing gift it is to call this place our home and these people our people - this flawed home and these flawed people - and to get to play our own role in its growth.

It means believing that nothing real is perfect.

Starting the day off right

I had to park my bike on the other side of the street last night when I got home. For some reason, there were three bikes already on my side of the street - where there are usually none. At any rate, I parked it and locked it up and went inside.

This morning, I came out with all my stuff and started to unlock it and get it all set up to head to my internship. I was doing this all in front of a building that is having construction work done. Construction men were coming in and out, laying drop-cloths, and doing other construction-prep type things.

Anyway, I get my bookbag netted down to my bike and unlock everything and roll up my pant leg, and something seems not right. Ah! No helmet. I see people everyday who ride without helmets. However, since I prefer my brains inside my skull, I propped up my bike and rushed inside to get my helmet. I walked out of my apartment, helmet in hand, and when I was about 15 steps from my bike, it crashed to the ground. With my bookbag on it. With my laptop in my bookbag.

All of the construction men - about 5 of them - stood and stared at it. I don't know whether any of them had anything to do with it falling over. I'm not suggesting that they did. But nonetheless, they just stood there staring at it. So I ran over and started trying to lift it up, which was a bit difficult since it was all off-balance because of the bookbag strapped to the back of it. The men continued to just stand there, and then they started to laugh. As I struggled to get the bike back to standing, they laughed. And as I struggled to keep it standing while I readjusted my bookbag and made sure that everything was secure, they stood there and watched me.

WHAT THE EFF? Who are these people? Is it so much to help somebody out? And not laugh at them?

And let me just say that I have met some really nice construction workers in my day. Once two years ago, my car was stuck in the snow, and a group of about 7 guys came over and lifted it off of the snow and pushed me into the street. Lifted it. Like actually picked up my car. I didn't ask them. They just came over because they saw that I was struggling. Clearly not the same construction workers.

These guys. I don't even know what to say about these guys.

Pema, are you out there?

Why is compassion so hard?

Let me clarify - why is compassion for myself so hard? Why is it that I'm filled with understanding and compassion for everyone around me, but as soon as I act in a way that feels less than my best, I can't stop beating myself up over it.

Let me clarify again - When I don't do good schoolwork, when I don't give good interviews, when I answer stupidly in class - I'm bothered by these things, but that's not what I'm talking about.

What I'm talking about is when I am rude or selfish or needy or lacking in understanding, when I'm not the kind of person that I want to be.

I used to have a therapist who asked me why I thought I was so special that I got to be perfect. It's a good question.

My therapist now says that the compassion I have for others now is nothing compared to what it could be if I learned to have more compassion for myself.

So I guess all I'm saying is that I'm trying to keep on with this journey - this journey of becoming vehemently imperfect and wildly compassionate.