Underneath the skin there’s a human.

A beautiful, captivating woman said to me yesterday, “When you make yourself vulnerable, you are actually safer.”

…I would tend to agree.

I am sitting here on my grungy sofa, listening to my little people talk themselves to sleep through the monitor, with a chill YouTube playlist in my ear, and pinot grigio on my tongue. The FINALLY warm air is on my shoulders, and I smell the damp earth carried in through the window behind me.  For the first time in several days, I am letting down my guard, and I am letting my thoughts and ever stormy feelings melt through my fingers.

I have known “guarded”.  As much as I lay myself out there for the world to see, I tag on a little follow-up of “fuck you” to anyone who has a problem with it. I guard myself against those who will potentially hurt me with that threat.  How I decide they fit into this category is a messy, tainted process.  You will find things in there like racism, sexism, religious baggage, affiliations by the thousands that carry a poor vibe in my mind… past memories of hurt and resentment.  These are not your friend when it comes to the playground of my mind.

When you choose to live in a “life-long” partnership with a beautiful person… you damn them—your best friend and lover—into the jail of both predator and prey.  Those are roles they will play in your life. They will hurt you, you will hurt them.  It is no easy task for two broken people to care for each other to the degree that an ideal marriage/partnership demands.

So now what?

What are your options when there is such high risk of hurting and being hurt?  Why do people even do this? It can’t just be because of the babies. There’s more to it. I think we as humans want to feel vulnerable to another person. Protected, cared for, exposed. Naked.

Maybe we have to be exposed and vulnerable in the relationship, the personal connection, to really relate sexually. To be naked physically, and connect in a really authentic and meaningful way, there has to be some sort of meaningful exposure of the human spirit…  BOTH the beautiful and the dark and ugly parts of your humanity.  Otherwise it’s guarded. It’s closed up and wary, self-conscious. It almost feels violating.

“Guarded” has not worked for me in this relationship.  After ten years, I have found that it is only vulnerability that brings good things between us.  It ends up being a safer, happier place.  In the process of achieving that end, we take a risk. And we hurt each other. Pretty badly. We are broken people. We cannot possibly care for another person’s emotional or physical needs perfectly all the time.

The question I’m left with is—Is it worth it? The pain?  So far I’d say yes. But you know what, it’s a real fucking hassle.  And it gets really fucking old sometimes.  It’s fucking exhausting. To be so fucking vulnerable all the goddamn time, especially when that person is struggling through a place of hurt and insecurity, caused by you and a myriad of others from the past.  Who wants to open themselves up to that level of unpredictable volatility? It’s a huge risk.

I think it’s the only way to live.

~

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I want my baby where that cake and that icing is.

Get the money, get the money, that’s what I know
I’m hoping that my seeds know a little more than I know
I know, I know, but baby this what I know
If we ever settle down, well baby this what I hope

Please let her be a hustla, baby be a hustla
Hope my baby girl grows up to be a hustla
Let her be a hustla, baby be a hustla
If not, then you’re only a customer

~The Roots, ‘Hustla’, How I Got Over (2009)

Alright all you sexy geeks and gangstas. I’ve got to throw out a little word of gratitude. Every single person who has read this blog or left your amazing and demented ideas in the comments, or even contributed ideas and stories for me to expound upon– you have been part of a very serious event, for which I am quite grateful. Let me ‘splain.

I started writing this blog shortly after leaving my career back in January, in order to stay home and care for a very sick little baby. I had just turned 30, I was fat from being pregnant, complete with saggy stomach skin that was challenging, DARING even, every pair of pants I owned to look normal. I was adjusting to staying at home, which I had never seen myself doing, and I was exhausted and an emotional wreck from my baby’s health scares, extended hospital stays, open heart surgery, and other issues. I was grieving the loss of my career, and my friends who I’d made as colleagues from across the country, because I wasn’t sure I would ever see them again. In short, I basically felt like I’d lost my life, myself, and it had all been replaced with bittersweet heartache.

Recently, Sugardaddy’s cousin had her kid in the hospital for four days with an infection. Seems like a short stay, but to a mother even one night is an eternity. This was also one event in a string of difficult health scares they’d had within the past 6 months. Now, I don’t know how many of you have kids, but if you don’t, I can’t really explain to you what they do to you. They basically take over your heart and soul. There’s no other way for me to explain it. They move in, settle all their shit all up in your soul, permanently occupying every cell in your body.

So I emailed her and just let her know that I was thinking about her, and if she needed to talk or get negative with someone, that’s my specialty. She asked how we’d done it. How had we coped with months and months of what she had recently gotten a small but very heavy and real taste of?

So I began to give that a lot of thought.  I’m not suggesting you do any of these things necessarily, but they worked for me, so farbeit for me to deny you the truth. I touched on a couple of these things a little bit back in February, in my post about how to settle the fuck down.

1) Own it. Get real with the fact that life fucking sucks today (or this week, month, year, etc.). Denial is not going to get you anywhere. Just own that shit.

2) Move your sexy ass. Now, crises in life can be paralyzing. I want to warn you of that if you haven’t experienced that before. It’s depression, really, but if you find yourself paralyzed, for the love of God GET UP AND MOVE! I don’t care if you walk in circles in your living room, just move. Do. Not. Stop. Moving. Which brings me to…

3) MEDICATE. I’m serious people. Get yourself some antidepressants, and please do not stop taking them. Just freakin’ take them. Hustle ’em up off the streets if you have to. Take that shit.

4) Drink. And I mean draaaaaank! Drink** yourself something that, to a degree, numbs the pain and fear in your sweet little soul.  **Please drink responsibly by not driving directly thereafter.

5) Lose yourself. What I mean by this is, do something occasionally that really lets you check out. My personal favorite is to go dancing with friends who make me feel good. But maybe you prefer reading or fishing or running. I’d do a lot of running when the baby was in the hospital. For some reason, it felt cleansing to go out and run so hard that it just hurt. Like I was purging pain from my heart and mind.

6) Fuck. If you don’t know already that sex makes you feel AMAZing, then I’m sorry for you. But it’s fucking science. It releases all kinds of endorphins and shit that make you feel so good that it keeps you coming back for more. Over and over and over… just do it. I don’t care who you fuck– mama ain’t here to judge. Just be safe and try to only fuck people who don’t leave you feeling like shit afterward. Let’s not perpetuate the hard times you are already experiencing.

7) Dump. And this is where all you mutherfuckers come in. This blog has been a really nice place for me to just dump all the shit in my head so I don’t have to carry it around inside all the time. And I think this has been a really important part of the processing that must be done when coping with crisis. It’s okay to get cynical, negative, sarcastic, etc. But find a place to deposit all that shit, and move on. You’re going to need to emerge from the place of pain you are in eventually.  I think that process gets stunted if you hold on to the negativity.

So I want to thank you all for basically being my garbage recepticals. Kisses!

Mama just got a job, so I don’t know how often I’ll be throwing shit up on this blog, but I always love good material to get stupid about, so feel free to send stuff my way at thiswaygeeks@gmail.com.

I love you assholes. Get in here, let’s hug it out!!!!

The lost art of keeping your 4-year-old off the pole.

If you haven’t figured it out already, your role as a parent includes keeping your daughter off the pole, which requires setting standards of how she should expect to be treated by others, as well as explaining her anatomy to her.  As much of a free spirit as I am about sexuality and femininity, I found the latter to be one of the more difficult lessons for me to relay to my 4-year-old.  It all started when she was 3, and stopped wearing diapers. I was so proud of myself.  Potty-training– DONE. The next thing I know, we’re watching cartoons and I see her chubby little toddler fingers exploring her nether regions. I mean, you can’t blame her– she’d never had access to that part of her body back in diaper-land.  Undies offer a freedom that I had to teach her to respect.

“What are you doing, pumpkin?” “I’m touching my privacy,” she says matter-of-factly in her high-pitched little voice. (That’s what she called her private parts at the time.)  I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to teach her that it’s not socially acceptable to finger herself in the presence of others without making her feel ashamed? Knowing your body and the eventual art of masturbation are healthy parts of life, but not in front of your Mom. NOT IN FRONT OF YOUR MOM. Luckily, my fellow mom-boss Holly was there, and she’d already traversed this scary frontier with her two boys. “Bathroom or bedroom, bathroom or bedroom,” she whispered to me hurriedly, so that the madness would end.  It was at that point that I realized I needed to have some answers ready… coming up with them in the moment was not an option.

And she’s going to have a lot of questions, your daughter… and you better have the answers ready that you want settled into the little “sex corner” of her mind.  Otherwise, our fucked up world has answers ready and waiting, and they’re not the answers that will give your daughter a long and happy life with a satisfying and self-respecting relationship with her body, or with other people’s bodies.  Like these “pole-dancing parties”. And I’m not talking about for adults, I’m talking about the ones that 12-year-olds are currently doing for their birthdays.  Or the “rainbow parties” that involve junior highers, a line of girls with different colors of lipstick on, and a line of little dudes who, in my opinion, have years of work to do to earn that kind of love from a woman.

Mark my words: My. Daughters. Aren’t. Gonna. Do. That. Shit.

So here is what I’ve learned. It’s okay to shake your booty with your daughter while you listen to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”. It’s NOT okay to let them watch the video, and not just because it is not attractive when a guy can only lift ten pounds, or when groups of guys have penis-wiggling contests in bars. Also, it is not okay to let her say “shake my hot booty” (because she should not at the age of 4 know what “hot” means in that context). And when the word “sexy” pops up in the verse, tell her she can’t sing that word because, while sexy is not a bad word, it is a grown-up word.

When you explain her lady parts, don’t use words that have negative connotations that might invoke a sense of shame for having a vagina.   Like “naughty” or “no-no”. Because the world is telling her that it’s a dirty, wicked thing. And it is NOT. The world is also telling her that, if she has a vagina, that she is dumber than her penis-bearing counterparts, and that she shouldn’t hold positions of power, authority, decision-making, strategizing, or influence.   I find it’s simplest to use the technical term, but then apply a nice little word for her everyday use. Like “bottom”, or “private parts.”  A nice little analogy to help your daughter understand what private means can be found in Where the Wild Things Grow, where the kid has a private boat. The boat is JUST HIS. And people have to ask nicely before they can ride in the boat, and he’s allowed to say no to anyone who wants to ride in the boat if he doesn’t want them to. And if people insist on riding in the boat after he says no, then it is more than acceptable to kick that person’s ass so they think twice the next time they feel like riding in whatever boat they fucking want to.

Also, try to avoid using the following terms to refer to her vagina:

Penis glove, cock sock, cock pocket, cum dumpster, sperm bottle, goop chute, love rug, poontang, poonanie, cooch, vertical bacon sandwich, bearded clam, meat curtains, hatchet wound, fur burger, front bottom, kebab, minge, snapper, catfish, love canal, the cum dump, chocha, black hole, sperm sucker, fish sandwich, cock warmer, whisker biscuit, deep socket, cum craver, cock squeezer, slice of heaven, flesh cavern, glory hole, man in the boat, DNA dumpster, tuna town, split dick, bikini bizkit, cock holster, cockpit, snooch, poody tat, cold cut combo, furry furnace, slop hole, nether lips, serpent socket, hairy doughnut, fun hatch, spasm chasm, bacon hole, belly entrance, sugar basin, sweet briar, breakfast of champions, wookie, fish mitten, fuck pocket, hump hole, Republic of Labia, fetus flaps, sausage wallet, Yo Yo Smuggler, Ninja Boot, Chia Hole, Furrogi (Poland), Fortune Nookie, Calamari Cockring, Displabia, Bluntfrunt, moneymaker, The Helmut Hide-A-Way, toolshed, snake charmer, Furby, Enchilada of love, queef quarters, cream canal, punash, salami garage, slurpee machine, pink cookie, penalty box, meat crease, pole hole, one-eyed python trail, bubble gum by the bum, horn of plenty, the indoor picnic, hamper of goodies, the welcome opponent,  devil’s hole, pooswaa, south mouth, Lawrence of A Labia, ponchita,The Notorious V.A.G., baby oven, penis parking, cooter muffin, the promised land, cha cha, the virginator, scrumpter, cucumber canal, dick dungeon, cock curator, nice slice, weiner wrap, pachinko, fuck donut, the unmentionable, jaws of life, love cave, Indiana bones and the temple of poon, or pushin cushion.

If she, upon maturing, and from a place of self-awareness and long-established self-respect, decides to adopt any of those terms (really more because some of them are funny) then so be it.

UPDATE:

A good one: Holie of Holies. Brought to you by the man who explained to me that, if a man wasn’t crazy about me, then he wasn’t fucking worth it. And that’s truth, people.