Whale

Wherever you are, I'm here to remind you that today is hump day, aka the longest day ever. How's your endurance? Mine's never been anything to write home about, but I can usually wing it. Here we are halfway through the week and halfway not, and I think hmm, what is the light at the end of my tunnel? Homebodying central quarters, aka anywhere I can lounge in jammies without a bra and no one to impress. Obviously.

Here I go, off to finish my hump day. But at the end of the week, you will find me here on this couch, pleasantly sprawled out like a, like a, well, the only image that comes to mind right now is a beached whale. So a beached whale I shall be.

Royal Thoughts... And Mulan

Any day now, the baby of a very famous British couple is due to enter the world.  When that happens, you're going to catch me rolling my eyes every time I hear anyone talking about the new addition to the royal family.

I love babies.  I really do.  Ask anyone who knows me.  They'll confirm it.  But why is it that this baby will receive more attention than say, a child born to farmers in a rural farming community?  Or one that's left orphaned after some unfathomable tragedy strikes?  I'd argue that it should be the other way around, that a child with fewer resources and fewer role models deserves the loving adoration and support of its community more than the one who will have a lifetime of top caregivers and butlers and private tutors.  Maybe more isn't the right word.  Maybe as much as is more appropriate, because every child is equal.  Well, they are in theory, at least.

I recognize and respect that the royal family does a lot of work with charitable causes and carries out the dutiful job of representing an entire country's people, but really, how are these anymore important than the contributions of any other family that brings a child into this world?  What is it about famous children and their families that compels the rest of us to admire and idolize them so?  Is it because we want our very own fairy tale lives, too?

Ending rant and starting new, lighter topic: I'm making a public announcement that there is a Mulan II.  How I didn't know about this earlier is beyond me, but in case you were in the same boat, now you know.  You better believe that I immediately dropped what I was doing to watch it.  I'm quite fond of animated films.  They remind me of things that I sometimes lose sight of.  This one reminded me that there is a special strength required of being kind to oneself.  It's difficult, yes, but not impossible.

James Turrell

The Guggenheim washed me in violet, red, and yellow hues.  And then I almost threw up.  Sexy.

Guggenheim. Saturday. 22 June. 2013.
What you see here is an illegal (I didn't know. The museum usually allows pictures from the ground floor of the atrium!) shot looking upward, toward the skylit domed roof of Wright's famous round building, only the light source at the top is artificial and part of the James Turrell installation.  The installation is a beast, fitting just inside the perimeter of the museum's rotunda that, as some of you may know already, is formed by a long looping ramp that wraps around to the top. The installation, in other words, was hugely tall.

Despite its height, with all the people inside the newly narrowed width of an atrium area which I was accustomed to being much wider, I felt uncomfortable.  When the feeling of nausea intensified instead of dissipating as it usually does, I made my way to the exit hoping to explore the space behind, on the ramps of the museum.  That's when I found myself standing in a tiny walk space created by the exterior of the Turrell installation on my left and sterile-looking white walls to my right.  I felt like I was trapped inside a windowless sanitarium.  People were disoriented, unsure of where to go with no signs to direct visitors.  My stomach flipped, I tasted something that I would have liked to stay put in my stomach, and gave into the reality that I really must be claustrophobic.  So out into the summer sun I escaped.

If you don't mind closed, windowless spaces, this could be a very cool experience. It's around until the end of September, but if you ask me, I can't wait until the museum reverts back to its open atrium!

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

There is a large mirror in my gyno's office. It's positioned in a typical, unassuming location, above the bench where the nurse places the shrink-wrapped gown you'll don for your appointment. At my last visit, this gown was coral. As I admired how well the color worked against my yellow undertones in the reflection that stood before me, mixed feelings brewed inside.

I thought maybe it was my hair being pulled back.  I thought maybe it was because I was looking at my profile instead of straight ahead at the mirror.  I stared suspiciously.  I even quickly opened my robe, flashing myself before finally concluding that no, everything is exactly the way I remember it.  But in the mirror, I still appeared less chubby than usual.  Thin, even.  It was so odd to see less of her, the chubby one I know as me.

It seemed unfair that at the offices of the one medical specialty dedicated to women's health, even there we're set up to question our self image. I don't know about this whole size thing. When you're about to see a doctor about [insert embarrassing thing here], shouldn't you at least be secure in knowing that you are however you are?  Not distracted by a warped image of yourself right before you discuss the workings of your most intimate parts?

I guess my point is: let's freaking lose the slimming mirrors, shall we?  The image is misleading, entirely inaccurate, and just not right.  What good does any woman have to gain from seeing something that's not really her?

Despite the mirror game, I marched out of that office feeling like a million bucks.  The doctor had declared, "Julia, that is soooo common!"  Just like that, instant relief washed over me.  "Oh," I managed to squeak sheepishly.  Phew.  THAT's what going to the G-Y-N should be about: regaining confidence in knowing that your body's doing what it should be doing and faith in the comfort of knowing that you're fine as you are, not how you might look minus a few pounds.

Here And Now

Don't mean to scare you with the deathlike selfie, but um, hello.  Are you well?  I hope so.  We all deserve to be well.

I might appear pissed in this photo, but rest assured that it's only because I'm freaking tired as hell all the time.  This is a shit time.

When I saw this shot of myself, taken at 11:11 pm last Friday night, I immediately thought, goodness, Julia, get your shit together, woman!  For starters, how about a little girl grooming?  There are, ahem, areas, that require your attention.  My eyebrows have been left to their own surly ways for um, gosh, nearly six months.  My locks haven't seen a blade in over a year.  I don't remember the last time I put on some blush or eyeliner or even the most non-committal of all make-up products: tinted lip gloss.

The thing is, as long as I'm clean and don't have a booger hanging out of my nose, I'm usually just dainty.  It's enough for me.  That being said, I know how good it can feel when your hair's did and your nails did, too.  But day in and day out, I feel ready for the day with just my ponytail and facial moisturizer; the fact that I'm thinking of ways to look better in hopes of feeling better signals that I'm pretty beat.  I guess it's time to pay a visit to the lady who can shape my eyebrows again.  She'll probably tell me to take better care of myself, like she did last time.  You gotta love women who weren't raised in America.  They tell it like it is, without any filter whatsoever.

Are you looking forward to the long weekend?  Because I sure am.  I'm usually meh about long weekends, but damn, am I hungry for this one.  I need it.  I'm going to turn everything off, light some candles, and soak in a hot bath.  Every night.  That's my idea of living it up.  Hopefully it'll be the beginning of getting rid of this death look.  As you can see, it's very unbecoming.

Carry On

I know this sounds unimportant and trite, but I am impossibly tired right now.  I feel hungover and if I'm honest, a bit loopy.  I was up until 3:30 working late on Tuesday night and then working late again until 5:30 last night.  Not enough sleep is a bitch, yo.  I don't remember the last time I sunk into my pillow as the sky woke up. This must be what it feels like caring for a newborn, only add to that your lady bits healing and your breasts feeding that newborn and well actually, no, I guess I'm wrong - that's probably much more trying than my current state of exhaustion.

This morning, thrilled that it was finally Friday but unable to scrounge up the willpower to act like an adult, I did something that I'm rather shameless about sharing here: I opted out of my daily shower in exchange for fifteen more minutes in bed.  That all the senior folks were out of the office attending a conference several time zones away was all the justification I needed.  When I finally stepped into the shower tonight, I turned the knob to the maximum hot water setting.  I drowsily leaned against the tiled wall.  After a few minutes, I turned my back to the water and sat down in the tub.  It felt odd sitting there facing the back wall, but I was off my feet which felt heavenly.  Before long, I closed my eyes and let the steaming stream pelt my back.  I massaged my neck, in the best way one can manage on her own.  I could have sat there all night.

And now that I've deliberately stayed awake for as long as I have, midnight is finally near, which seems like a reasonable time to turn in so that I might awake refreshed, bright and early for my day tomorrow.  Saturdays are my hardest days, but they are also days when I witness a lot of good people doing good things.  Especially this week, with all that's been going on, it seems right that this is how my week will end.  On the train home tomorrow evening, I know I'll be spent and maybe even unusually quiet from the tiredness, but I'll also have spent the day being reminded that among humans, as ruinous and harmful as some may be, there are also those, too, that carry on with the radiance of love and kindness and respect.

Entrance to the Met.

It's decided to rain the entire weekend.  That's a bummer seeing as how this is my last free weekend for a while, but you can't win 'em all, you know?  After five hours of sleep, four of them on the living room couch in a failed attempt to mute the incessant thuds from the apartment above, and at least two spent begrudgingly inhaling the stink of wine and liquor that permeates from Soeur and her man when they return from a night out, I arose from bed the couch this morning feeling less than cheery. Sometimes I hate that I can't afford my own place.  And that my ceiling is my neighbor's floor.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I will move on.

I should be at the office today to mitigate the madness that is scheduled for next week, but procrastination slapped me hard this morning.  There is now a surprisingly tasty tray of scones hanging out on the kitchen counter.  After patiently working with the delicate demands of cold butter, I'm very pleased that these turned out so well.  The chocolate morsels, littered and smashed across the tops of each dough wedge at the very last minute, were a brilliant afterthought.

I think I'll put off my work for a little while longer and run to the market.  I feel like some chopping and sautéing in the kitchen will be good for me.

Brr. It's Just Me.

No point in sugarcoating this one: It's a bitch of a winter we're having over here.  The wind chill has stayed above zero for the most part, but I'm still running to indoor, heated sanctuaries every chance I get.  Piercing cold winters are routine parts of the East coast experience, but I think I got too comfortable with the milder winters of the past few years.  My spoiled body finds it a nuisance to don wool socks before crawling under the weight of four blankets at bedtime.  It's true: I curl up into the fetal position every night under the protection of first a flat sheet, then a comforter, a wool blanket on top of that, and then a dense cotton blanket at the very top.  The weight of the cotton helps keep the pile of blankets from moving around too much at night.  Have I shared one too many boring details of my winter bed's textile choices?  Perhaps.  Have I shared useless information?  Most certainly.  But there it is in all its mundane glory anyway.

This, I took by accident earlier tonight.  My frozen fingers were having a fantastic time trying to get my phone's screen to respond to my touch.  If the train hadn't whirred by at this very moment, you would most certainly have been spared this rather dreary reflection of yours truly.

Stay warm out there.

UWS.  Manhattan. Tonight.

She's Here

For the same reasons you shouldn't ask a woman when she's due unless you know for sure that she is, in fact, expecting (I am ashamed to admit that I speak from personal experience), you should never underestimate wet snow and high winds during evening rush hour.  You're just asking for trouble.

I was pretty miserable when I grabbed this shot waiting for the train on Wednesday night.  My fingers were naked without gloves, the wind from Athena was a little stronger than I cared for, and icy bits of the pretty white stuff were painfully smacking my face.  It had been a long day and I was impatient to get home.  I was debating whether it would be worth the trouble of transferring three times to avoid walking long city avenues through icky wet snow and gusty cold winds.  It was only the very beginning of November.  Winter couldn't wait just a little while longer?

Like it or hate it, winter's here.  I'm dealing...

From uptown, looking downtown.  NYC.
7:28 pm.  Wednesday.  7 November.  2012.

Herbert

The building my company occupies happens to be the one freak facility that actually has electricity on a block otherwise blacked out.  It's a good thing that my office is open, mainly because I can have human interaction with people who aren't related to me.  It's important to exercise your vocal chords and jaw muscles and mental thought filters, lest you forget how to talk and carry on a real conversation, you know?

Every evening since this whole ordeal began, I've been lucky to have company.  Yesterday, a couple girlfriends swung by with enough junk food to feed a small army.  In the broad daylight of the morning, I saw chocolate cookie and Doritos crumbs sprinkled atop the dining room table.  It's amazing what you can't see by candlelight.  Especially when you're busy stuffing your face with Reese's peanut butter cups.

I learned this afternoon that our building's staff has been camping out this entire time in one of the vacant apartments!  Cots, they said.  I am a privileged idiot for not piecing that together on my own.  I can't imagine what it's like not to see your kids for a week because your job requires you to stay behind and take care of rich needy people.  I am so grateful for their presence and perseverance this past week.  Their patience has been extraordinary.  Even the gruff ones that usually do the bare minimum, they're much more human this week.

There is one female on the building staff.  She's more proper and prim than not, so it didn't seem that far off when she mentioned that she's been crashing at a resident's apartment, separate from the boys.  I totally feel her; who would want to share a bathroom with a dozen grown men without their wives to keep them in check?  Gross.  I asked Marilyn if she needed anything.  PJs, she said.  Only, uh, I stopped wearing proper PJs a long time ago.  It's usually a tank and undies for Julia.  Still, I climbed the stairs back up to my apartment and threw some oversized tees into a bag.  I rummaged through my closet looking for some tights or comfy pants that might fit her, but Marilyn is considerably hippier than I and all my loose lounge pants were in the laundry pile.  I grabbed a pair of mid-calf knit socks and underwear (don't worry - they were both new with tags still on).  I handed her the bag with a note including my phone number in case we could provide anything she might need during her stay.  She nervously thanked me with a hug and promised to launder everything before returning the items.  Like, really, Marilyn?  Stuck at work for a week straight taking care of us brats?  Please don't worry about it.  I don't know how she's doing it.  I'd be a heaping mess by now if I were in her shoes.

I'm dreading sitting in the cold and dark with candles for another night, but the good news is that ConEd will restore power by 11 pm tomorrow night.  At least that's what they say.  Tonight will be the first night I'm on my own.  I told a friend at work that I will be drawing a face onto a volleyball and naming it Herbert.  For company.

(Won't you be glad when the electricity's finally restored and I finally shut up about it?)

You Make Do

When was the last time you brushed your teeth and washed your face by candlelight?  All sorts of things to be careful of: rogue water splashes putting out the flame, towel catching on fire, knocking hot wax over the counter, etc.  With no electricity to power the elevators, trick-or-treating in my building has been cancelled this evening.  (The poor children, I know!)  So tonight, instead of handing out fistfuls of sugar to cute ladybugs and dragons and superheros, I'll likely be doing the dishes and washing my hair.  Both with cold water.  And by candlelight.  That should be interesting.  Or mildly painful.  Probably both.

You Might Want To Skip This One...

...if you're not a girl.  Or if you start sweating at the thought of standing in a checkout line with a box of tampons.

No?  Ok, well, I warned you.

There was a frozen pizza.  And then there were ramen noodles.  And then there was mochi ice cream.  It was enough for four meals and yet, I downed it all in a single sitting.  I won't mention the handfuls of other nibbles like dates and nuts in between but I will mention that preheating an oven and waiting for water to boil have never taken so long in the history of forever.  And that pizza?  I devoured it leaning over the kitchen counter because I couldn't wait the three whole seconds it would have taken to walk the five steps to the table.  Face-stuffing: it is not pretty.  Ask my sister who walked in on me last night.  I offered her some pizza, but warned that if she didn't have any now, there might not be any left twenty seconds later.  She was wise to take when she did.

I have no explanation other than my appetite has once again mistaken my body for a 14-year-old adolescent male's.  It demands nothing but white carb after white carb after white carb.  And in bountiful, no, limitless, quantities.  Every month, I tell you.  Every flipping month.  I thought I had missed my cycle this time (it happens, no big deal), but apparently my period's just late.  Rude.

To those who optimistically offer up a "Well, at least you're not pregnant," yeah, I ALREADY KNEW THAT, but thank you for trying to show me the bright side of things.

If you think this is all nonsense, the woes of monthly bloating and aches and mood swings that are due to take over my body some time in the next twelve hours or so, I trust that you are a man and did not heed my warning in the first paragraph of this post.  As such, I think you should march yourself right over to the local pharmacy and ask the cashier where you can find their biggest box of tampons.  Because that discomfort doesn't even begin to touch what women go through for the privilege of growing babies one day.  To be clear, I'm not mad at you for being a guy, but before I explain that, why haven't you asked me which brand and size of tampon I need and can you bring back a pint of pistachio Häagen-Dazs, please and thank you?

Whining

I can get myself into a bit of trouble when I have the apartment to myself; like spoonfuls of creamy peanut butter and chocolate hazelnut spread (like Reese's!) on Saturday mornings; and taking pointless pictures wearing nothing more than the tank and underwear I slept in the night before (classy!).  I didn't know the camera had caught me in the frame, but well, there you have it.

I wish I weren't feeling so, shall we say, tender everywhere.  A little cold this week sapped a lot out of me.  Being high on electric blue pills to get through the day and clawing through restless nights with congestion is no way to live.  On the plus side, I was proud of myself for sticking it out and not taking time off from work.  It was a godsend that I could go home for lunch.  Have you ever tried lying on top of your comforter?  It's kind of nice.  Also, walking into your office with pillow crease wrinkles on your face in the middle of the afternoon makes you feel very self-conscious.

I'm feeling what I can best describe as urban claustrophobia.  It's muggy.  It's smelly.  It's gross.  There are too many smokers standing at stop lights next to me.  I even sought out Central Park hoping for a little break.  I wanted to be somewhere where I couldn't see a single taxi.  I wanted a lot of green grass and open air and flora.  I arrived at the south end of the Park and walked all the way up and around in circles looking for a quiet spot to...well, I don't know what I expected to do.  I just wanted a little break from the furious strollers and the anorexic couture-clad women and the tall business men that walk so smartly around me every day.  Instead, the park was packed to its gills: lovers wedged on top of another; artists hocking their acts along the winding walking paths; kids throwing tantrums; bikini-clad iPhone-yapping locals packed like anchovies across precious lawn space.  It was all just too much.

I think I went to the wrong place.  I should have headed west to the Hudson, maybe at dusk, when the air's a little cooler and the water catches the amber of the sun.  It's finally September which means that the crap of summer in the city is only around for a tad bit longer.  Hallelujah.

A Man on 32nd

There was an old man barely able to lift his feet, even with the help of the metal walker he propped his gaunt body against.  He nearly glowed white, so painfully thin was the flesh that surrounded his skeleton.  He was pushing ninety, maybe more.  He was alone, in a tissue thin white undershirt and shorts that struggled to cling to his hips.

It was evening rush hour and every cab whirred right by his raised arm.  A group of three young men, probably Irish, maybe visitors from New Zealand, slowed down their gaits, unsure as to whether they should lend a hand.  In fact, it was their pausing at the corner of a busy subway intersection that turned my attention to the old man in the first place.  "What can we do?" one asked.  "He needs a cab," the second said, stating the obvious.  Then silence among the three friends as they looked sadly in his direction.

I should mention that it was suffocatingly hot on this particular day last week.  I started to wonder if the man might have a heat stroke standing there.  A cab would not stop for him.  Even with the walker, he seemed like he might tip over if a cab drove by too close to his frame.  They often do that in this city, you know.  He was clearly agitated.  What remained of his gray eyebrows arched fiercely.  Out of frustration, a bony hand waved without aim.  Probably from the heat, probably from the helplessness of the moment, certainly from being old, from being overlooked by urbanites too busy trying to make a living to be bothered by the task of helping an old man into and out of their cab, the man grew visibly impatient.  His angry, punctuated mutterings kept every fellow pedestrian at bay.  Meanwhile, orange yellow blurs whizzed by one after another.

The three young men continued to hesitate indecisively before one of them finally declared defeat.  "There's nothing we can do.  He doesn't want help."  They walked along.

Shadows on Park Ave.  NYC.
Sunday.  12 August.

Another Time, Whitney

Carlito Carvalhosa's Sum of Days.  MoMA.  NYC.
2011.  October.
At this very moment, I'm curled up in a loose, long sleeve cashmere sweater.  To my left is my living room window through which, if I strain my eyes just enough, I can make out the soft summer rain painting the grey of Lexington Avenue into an ash black.

My plan on this remarkably cool (73 degrees!) summer Friday was to spend the afternoon at the Whitney. Instead, I am pitifully at home with a tummy full of the most delicious Indian food you can get in Curry Hill.  There might be some pistachio gelato in there, too.  Um.  And coconut sorbet.  Don't judge.

I'm having trouble sitting up straight, or walking, or burping, for that matter.  Like a clumsy fool, I took a slippery fall this morning when reaching for a towel from the bathtub.  I broke my fall on the side of the tub, against my rib cage right under my breast.  Of all places to land, you know?  And so gracefully, at that.  I'm lucky I didn't break anything.  I'm left with a tenderness around my rib cage I've not experienced before. The soreness stops me sharply every time I take a step, every time I reach for something, every time I laugh.  Nothing a little ice pack can't cure, I hope.

May your Friday be way more fun than mine.

Summer, Baby

In a car.  Martha's Vineyard.

1:44 pm.  Saturday.  2012.  26 May.

Surely, I am not the only one who feels like she's being baked from the inside out every time she graces the steamy sidewalks of New York with her presence?  I might have melted a full inch waiting for a light to change on Madison this afternoon.  That does not bode well for someone who's barely 5'4".

If my tone sounds self-important, it's only because I'm feeling mightily neglected by the weather gods.  When can a gal get a break from this oppressive heat?  Woe is me.

In the dead dank of winter, when it's dark before I enter my office building and then dark again by the time I emerge at the end of the day, sure, I yearn for her.  For Summer.  I dream and long for her warmth just like all the other shortsighted fools who forget about the chest zits, blistery red nose pimples, and twice daily showers.  If you could see my skin right now...oh, the horror.  And don't get me started on the stink of human sweat trapped inside poorly ventilated elevators.  And the dog poo in the sun, oh, the dog poo in the sun!  Yesterday, I barely missed a smoldering heap.  I was wearing capri sandals and threw up a little thinking about the close proximity of my bare feet to the wee excrement atoms of our canine friends.

All these unkind affairs of Summer, these are the parts of her that make me turn up my nose and wonder how people manage to live in a city like this so happily and joyously among the wretched smells and dirt.  And then I remember: because they spend halcyon summer weekends at their delicious beach homes in the Hamptons.

So, the moral of this story is that I need a beach house.  And not one of those six-to-a-bedroom deals either, because I'm not ten anymore.

Tossing

I'm looking around at my tiny apartment and all I see is useless crap eating up precious square footage.  My closet is -very disturbingly- beginning to resemble my sister's.  No, it's not that it's full of nice clothes; it's that I can't close the door.  Too much dirty laundry spilling out across the threshold.  How unladylike.  The six square feet of free space at the base of my bed is littered with bags brimming with clothes headed to the Salvation Army.  And this week, after finding the living room bookshelf a new home in Brooklyn, I'm left with the thankless task of purging nearly a hundred twenty-five books that called that shelf home.

A hundred and twenty-five.  Cripes.

It's time to get serious.  I hate the fact that I don't have enough space for my few belongings.  This nonsense stops right here.  Today.  I'm rearranging, I'm tossing, I'm making room.

Hey

Hello, my haven. I’m in need of a serious break; a breather, or a mental break, if you will, to say hellooooo here, in this, my very own godsend of a space.

[Breathing.]

I haven't been sleeping much. Restless nights. Racing thoughts. Splitting headaches.

[Breathing.]

As of yesterday, paint fumes have replaced the faint hints of lingering smoke damage from the fire, but there is now the post cleanup dread of repainting the space you’ve called home for over two years. I’ve crammed piles of donation items into my tiny bedroom for months now. The extra disarray and clutter from the paint job make me want to cry. In case I don’t know you in person, you should know that I’m not very dainty and pretty in many ways - crying is a classic case in point.

As if on cue, my sister and her boyfriend arrived back home ten minutes after I did last night. It was past eleven and I was exhausted. As I stuffed my face with avocado smeared atop a slice of some artisanal loaf or other, I watched the two la-la-la’ing in their drunken stupors. I wondered if I should have a glass of wine to calm the hell down about the mess in the apartment. It was in that very moment of watching two carefree drunk people that I confirmed that yes, this is exactly how I could benefit from the bottle. I am too tightly wound for my own good.

I can feel it coming, that crashing point.

[Breathing.]

You know what I need? A firm, stinging smack on the butt. You know what I mean. A little kick like the bit o’ spice in radishes. That would help snap me out of this minor funk.  And because I’ve brought up radishes, let’s look at these vibrantly punchy vegetable hues together. They’re doing something good for my mood already.

Union Square Greenmarket.  NYC.

1:23 pm.  Saturday.  2012.  16 June.

Incomprehensible

While impatiently waiting to hear Adele's gorgeous voice on the Grammy's broadcast this past Sunday, I couldn't help but feel amazingly disappointed by the fact that Chris Brown received any performance time in the show, no less two performances.  The fact that he won a Grammy?  Here we are almost four days after the award show and I'm still reeling from that blow.  During the broadcast, I said something out loud about my distaste for how the entertainment industry has condoned his problem with violence.  None of the other four people in the room blinked an eye.  Two of them were my siblings.  That made me want to vomit.

After a long December hiatus, when I finally caught up on my blog-reading the first week of January, one very upsetting post made me fall over.  A popular blogger with a lot of sass, a lot of gumption, and a lot of opinion posted a picture of a bruise on her naked body.  Immediately beneath the image was a collection of select, choice words about how she had checked herself and her kids into a hotel because she needed to distance herself from her husband for a little while.  Her husband had hit her.  Again.  She played her part in instigating it.  She has no intention of ever leaving.  Those last four sentences, although mine, neatly sum up her post.

I cannot tell you how alarming it was to read her words, the thoughts and convictions of someone who appears to be a relatively sane and strong woman with a blog that draws hundreds of comments to a post.  It reminded me that bloggers, whether consciously or not, curate their online identities.  No site is purely organic.  An author chooses what to share and what to withhold, when to speak and when to stay silent.  On this day, this woman showed her troubled side.  It made me physically ill and for the next few days, I had no appetite.

Commenters, of course, advised her to run for the hills with the children in tow.  The author went on the defense, flabbergasted that well-meaning readers might deign to believe that they know what's best for her.  She insisted that she chooses to stay with her husband, that she will not dissolve her marriage over domestic abuse.  She firmly told everyone to shove it.

I guess I misinterpreted her stubborn pride for strength and her insecurities for sassy independence.  How a woman with such success and resolute attitude can choose to stay in a marriage that puts her and her children in harm's way - this is beyond the limits of my comprehension.

Let me tell you how I cringed and winced, how I felt so run down as I read this blind woman's words.  I felt so helpless.  Not for her.  Goodness, no.  For her children.  It's always the toughest on the little ones that never asked to be a part of their parents' crazy.

Blech

The rain is fierce today.  The mugginess outside, simply unbearable.  All of it suits me just fine, though.  My back is giving me grief.  My neck and shoulder blades, smug and persistent, are causing such a ruckus.  Calling out today was in order.  As I sit here atop my bloated exercise ball to keep the old back straight and in check, it's official: it's too uncomfortable to type.  So I think I'll go back to the hard work of resting up and leave you with this photo.  Um, happy weekend, too.  Even though I'm totally being a Debbie downer.

fom a MoMA visit back in 2010