The lizards were anti-climatic.

a fat lot of good this'll do you.


What  


I may or may not have just tried to crawl inside an Amazon.com delivery box to teach my cat that she’s not so special.



Updated Things You Shouldn’t Do When Expecting

  • Tell anyone for 12 weeks
  • Become “one of those obsessed babymakers”
  • Worry about your body
  • Express doubt over the morality of having biological children
  • Draw boundaries around the things you love and insist they matter as much as raising children
  • Insist on self-care
  • Tell people you still want to foster/adopt
  • Burst into tears when someone makes you mad at work
  • Expect signs of life on one ultrasound to mean much the next week
  • Think of the still hollow inside you as your own personal graveyard
  • Worry about the river of blood and endless pain that comes with expelling it.
  • Cry about it. It wasn’t even a baby, after all.
  • Feel ashamed, it happens all the time
  • Feel alone. It happens all the time. Not to me, it doesn’t.



Sometimes you have to be braver and stronger than you ever thought you’d have to be. And, despite how unfair it all seems, you are in awe at the resiliency down in the middle core of yourself.



A haiku about you (but mostly me)

Thank god, I whisper,
I lost all those phone contacts,
Keeps me safe from you.



My husband stopped making his dainty lady hippie salad to point out a familiar profile that the bean sprouts have.

My husband stopped making his dainty lady hippie salad to point out a familiar profile that the bean sprouts have.



Reblogged from sarahchristine
“

Allow me to suggest an even stronger push: If it’s important to you that your family all share a last name, make it the wife’s. Yes, men, that means taking your wife’s name. Or do what this guy did and invent a new name with your wife. And women, if the man you’re set to marry extols the virtues of sharing a family name but won’t consider taking yours? Perhaps ask yourself if you should be marrying someone who thinks your identity is fundamentally inferior to his own.

The suggestion that men change their names may sound unfair given everything I just wrote about the value of your name and identity, and the psychological impact of growing up in a world where your own name for yourself is impermanent. But men don’t grow up with that sense of psychological impermanence. They don’t grow up under the shadow of several thousand years of gender-based discrimination. So if you’d rather your family all shared a name, it actually makes much more sense to make it the woman’s. Or we can embrace a modern vision of family where individuals form social and legal bonds out of love and loyalty, instead of defining family as a group coalesced under one male figurehead and a singular name.

Why should married women change their names? Let men change theirs | Jill Filipovic

Thank you. Exactly.

(via sarahchristine)

I hate that the narrative around this is so black and white. Mainly white mind, you.

Also tired of meeting women that identify as feminist telling me how unfeminist it is that I took my husband’s name. Infantilizing the process we went through to come to that decision, disrespecting the notion that we could have possibly had motivations more nuanced than this tired, color-by-numbers politics of middle class womens’ studies.

Because I’ll tell you right now: I’ve had more “feminists” get in my grill about the name change (not to mention the marriage) than any other personal decision. So yeah.

(via nellienellie)


Reblogged from waronxmas
“ If your partner were terrible all the time, it would actually be easier to deal with in many ways; you would tell yourself, “Well, he turned out to be a jerk.” But when someone you love goes back and forth between kindness and cruelty, generosity and selfishness, tenderness and intimidation, loving you and cheating on you, you can come to feel that it’s impossible to understand people. Your feelings for the primary person in your life tend to carry over into how you view everyone. Your partner may further feed the problem by encouraging you to think badly of others. He may tell you that people are lying to you or taking advantage of you; that your friends have hidden motives; that you are naïve in your dealings with people; that “everyone is just out for themselves.” He’s talking about himself, though he probably doesn’t know it. Lundy Bancroft, Healing and Hope (via waronxmas)

(via muckrakingiswomenswork)


Reblogged from sicktomyheart-deactivated201304
“ Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street. Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell, by Marty McConnell  (via theclotheshorse)

(via muckrakingiswomenswork)


Reblogged from kaseynese
“ You have my permission not to love me;
I am a cathedral of deadbolts
and I’d rather burn myself down
than change the locks. Rachel McKibbens; “Letter From My Brain To My Heart” (via yagazieemezi)

Yes.

(Source: kaseynese, via muckrakingiswomenswork)


When I returned to San Francisco the first time, I laid flat on the floor of my 1-bedroom Tenderloin apartment with my bare chest on the hundred year old wood flooring. Just so I could feel my heart beat out the rhythmic of freedom from over half a decade trapped inside a grey, cloud-filled bell jar up north. Being free from Seattle didn’t feel like the ending of a chapter so much as it felt like a fucking jailbreak. I laid on that floor and said a rosary of apologies to the beat of my own  ill-tempered heart. 

Every bad and beautiful decision I made in the past decade has an epicenter of the same 10 block radius. Here’s the building where I took him back under false pretenses. There’s the corner where I got into a knock-down screaming match with your “real” boyfriend. Over yonder, I can see the Huntington Hotel sign, under whose light I’d lay out under when I was trapped on your roof for the 19th time. Every strange and beautiful character, every sobbing night on a fire escape or door stoop, every single resolution to stop wasting time torturing art school kids and their endless fascination with the manic pixie dream girl I could casually take off as put on.

When I left you, I did not leave my heart behind - I left every goddamn shred of who I was. I left it all on the pavement, on the hills, inside the crevices behind post boxes where I left you unsigned love letters. I limped back and forth across the bay every day and told myself that this was progress. But we both knew that was a lie. Abandoning you was just another way to run away from myself.

When I came back to San Francisco this time, I looked for us. In all the normal places, in all the regular haunts, in the spaces between my youth and my fading. But you had moved on. And when I return to the heart of where I remade myself, after pulling myself off that bare wood floor, all I see is a slight impression we left behind. You, with your new honesty, and me, with my incision still fresh. I can’t be honest anywhere but inside of you. And you don’t feel the same. It’s the last great lesson for a girl who has been so afraid of being wrong that she gave in.