Category Archives: blogging

May11

Tattoo Neglected

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Come here. No, closer. Let me prick you—not poke. I am not that needle which injects your flu shot or draws a vial of blood from the crook of your elbow. But I may steal some. Have it smeared on your skin. It’s up to you and your intoxication, you’re responsible for the amount you bleed—let’s hope you didn’t lie on that permission form sheet with your signature. To which do I owe this pleasure? A false identification and the need to rebel? A craving to be under the pinpricking, rhythmic needle? Peer pressure and insecurity? Liquid courage? Oh, never mind. It hardly matters.

Your body is my canvas, unappreciated by others—don’t worry, those idle judgments from yesterday have not caught up with the times, still living in the olden days, pre 1970s. I’d like to thank MTV and pro athletes for implying my permanent marks are cool. And for organizations, like the Alliance for Professional Tattooists, for cleaning up the industry, finally—finally!—realizing “safer practices protect the clients—and the tattooists.”1 Thanks for saving my job but the help was uncalled for; I have been surviving in traditions and on outcasts for many years before the general public was willing to accept what I do, who I am.

Before entering jail cells, before parlors popping up on main street meant whorehouses next door2—irrational fear if you ask me—I was the sacred instrument to grant Dhegiha women “their proper place in the cosmology of their community.” I was fired from that honorable role by the mid 1950s.3 I simply couldn’t have the best of both worlds when mainstream, my sudden popularity, shot it—the private, quiet, treasured practice I performed for the Dhegiha—to hell and people suddenly began to seek out this form of expression.4 But I am fashion crazed, wanting nothing more than to please (except for the judgers—screw the judgers). And am entirely dependent on the needs of my artists and victims—that first bite from the needle always relinquishes a response, no matter how ready or willing one is, and I crave that intake of air, irregular heartbeat, or first bead of sweat. I am a machine, made of many-pointed needles holding the ink within my layers and puncturing the skin—what a lovely, lively canvas—so the ink can be drawn down,5 permanently marking, embedding itself in that smooth and enticing skin.

It’s this permanence they—the incessant and relentless judgers—can’t stand, the desecration of God’s perfect image forming my best canvases.6 In my mobility—the walking portraits of my artwork—I am greater than the brushes of Van Gogh or Picasso,7 for these “symbols of ownership by, devotion to, identification with, and protection by a deity or master can demonstrate the image of god.”8 My audience is greater. My persistence and prevalence over the years are slowly but surely wearing these horror-stricken Christians down. It helps that my creator, Samuel O ‘Reilly, modernized me back in 1891 when he invented the first electric tattoo machine; and certainly, Thomas Edison deserves my gratitude, for it was his embroidery machine that the invention was based on.9

Don’t deceive yourself into thinking I’m only a century old. When I was first born, I was mostly made of needles from bones. To the Polynesians who inhabited Hawaii, I was better known as kakau, guarding their health and spiritual well-being. My depictions of lizards, greatly respected and feared, and the Hawaiian crescent fan, to distinguish society’s highest-ranking members, were revered. Their bodies were further adorned with intricate tribal patterns and designs on the hands, fingers, wrists, and tongues for women; arms, legs, torsos, and face for men. I was only “a needle made from bone, tied to a stick and struck by a mallet” to apply pigment to the skin. After each use, I was destroyed. The secrecy of the practice was so highly guarded.10 (You didn’t hear it from me.) For the Inuit in the American Arctic, I was nothing more than eyed-bone needles and pigment-rubbed sinew stitched through their skin.11 But it was the Tahitians who gave my work a name, derived from their tatau, “to mark.” First used by Louis Antoine de Bougainville, the French Navigator, in 1771 to describe my decorations on the body canvas. He translated my name to “tattoo.”12

Responsible for these markings, I am the identifier of lost sailors. In their fear of shipwrecks, I was called upon to ensure their Christian—yes, the irony!—burial. I was the badge for the prostitutes’ profession. For prisoners, I am the favored way to rebel against society and express their protests. Then there are the SS men—the bloody bastards!—who had me mark their blood group on the inside of their upper arms. My least favorite role, though, was playing slave to the Nazis, forced to permanently ink numbers on their victims’ arms.13 Keith Underwood may have clipped the cord, revolutionizing me into a battery-operated machine gun.14 What a terrible term. I despise the accuracy that negativity—“gun”—can convey. For the surviving Holocaust victims, I am the gun that triggers their memories with the worst artwork imaginable.

I told you I have existed much longer than the simple, cordless machine, as I am most commonly recognized. Since the Neolithic Period, some 5,300 years ago, I have been producing artwork on this earth.15 Please, don’t judge my age. My work has survived centuries. Didn’t you ever hear of the frozen corpse found trapped in a melting glacier in the Otztaler Alps back in 1991?16 No?! What do you mean No?! That’s a damned shame. I survive in the memories of Holocaust victims—in work I’d love to erase—but am neglected for traversing time and honoring traditions.

My popularity is no longer derived from tradition and honor, but rather controversy and personal experience. It’s the negative biases people have that I cannot forgive. I am harmless. Despite the nightmares the sight of my permanent mark may give Holocaust survivors. Or the cringe I receive from people who sought out my artwork in haste to showcase a love that didn’t last or an intoxicated decision they can’t remember. I do not discriminate. Soccer moms, veterans, athletes, rock stars, sailors, prostitutes, convicted felons. I have done them all. They do not deserve my rash judgment when I don’t know their stories. And I am worth much more than the harshness afforded me over decades by those who don’t know mine. But now you do.

 

Notes

  1. Berkowitz, Bonnie, “Tattooing outgrows its renegade image to thrive in the mainstream,” The Washington Post, February 8, 2011, accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2011/02/07/AR2011020704915.html
  2. Berkowitz.
  3. Betsy Phillips, “Unearthing the Secrets of North America’s Tattooing Traditions,” Think Progress, March 2014, accessed November 1, 2015, http://thinkprogress.org/culture/2014/03/17/3410711/native-american-tattoos/
  4. Phillips.
  5. Rachel Feltman, “Watching a tattoo needle in slow motion reveals the physics of getting inked,” The Washington Post, September 24, 2014, accessed November 1, 2015, https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-science/wp/2014/09/24/watching-a-tattoo-needle-in-slow-motion-reveals-the-physics-of-getting-inked/
  6. Lorne Zelyck, “Under the Needle,” Christian Research Institute 28, no. 6 (2005). Accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.equip.org/article/under-the-needle/
  7. Janet S. Fedorenko, Susan C. Sherlock, and Patricia L. Stuhr, “A Body of Work: a case study of tattoo culture,” Visual Arts Research 25, no. 1 (1999): 105-114. Accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20715974
  8. Zelyck.
  9. Zelyck
  10. “Skin Stories: the art and culture of Polynesian tattoo,” PBS, 2003, accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.pbs.org/skinstories/history/hawaii.html
  11. Phillips.
  12. Fedorenko et al, p. 105.
  13. Fedorenko et al, p. 106.
  14. Keith A. Underwood, 2003. Tattoo Technology. U.S. Patent US6550356B1, filed September 15, 2000, and issued April 22, 2003, accessed November 1, 2015, https://www-google-com.ezproxy.emich.edu/patents/US6550356
  15. Fedorenko et al, p. 105.
  16. Fedorenko et al, p. 105.
Apr9

The False Fad.

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Gluten free is not a fad yet the market is exploding as more and more people request gluten-free options at restaurants and purchase gluten-free products in stores. Many of these people are not required to follow such a diet—they don’t have celiac disease or gluten sensitivity. Like other diet trends before, people are misconceiving gluten-free as a healthier option. Often times, unless they seek out information on the diet and are careful, the consumer lacks sufficient fiber, vitamins, and minerals. What is gluten? It is the proteins found in wheat, barley, rye, and oat. Abstaining from eating gluten is neglecting the other nutrients that gluten foods offer. So why are people going gluten free who don’t have celiac or gluten sensitivity? Gluten can be hard on the digestive tract. For some individuals, limiting gluten can help increase bowel movements and reduce constipation. For others, eating less gluten can lead to a decrease in migraines or fatigue. However, it is the misunderstanding of “gluten free” automatically meaning healthier that has lead most of the gluten-free diet population to refrain from consuming gluten.

Mid-January 2015, I came across a past coworker’s post on celiac disease. It had been a year since she was diagnosed with celiac. We used to constantly discuss fatigue, battle it out for who required more sleep, and regularly complain to each other of the weekly migraines we endured. I decided to look further into the disease.

Every year in high school, I was required to write a letter to the principle, requesting not to be held back due to absences and getting signatures from my teachers agreeing that I had the academic performance and grades to continue. Once, I missed an entire week of school due to a migraine. I’m fairly certain my professors in college assumed I was irresponsible or uninterested in their class. The absence policy in one class turned my A- into a D+. Friends were lost as I consistently cancelled plans due to migraines and fatigue. Bosses became annoyed as I often randomly called in to work sick. I grew up with a “weak” stomach. I didn’t gain weight during my pregnancy. A week before I was induced, I quit Jimmy John’s—my coworkers never knew I was pregnant, the tiny belly bump hid so well behind the apron. When I went in to be induced, my already low platelet count plummeted. My daughter was born at the 7th percentile. After giving birth, I lost weight quickly from breastfeeding, or trying to. Getting my milk in and then keeping up a supply was a hassle, and I only lasted a few months. My weak stomach became weaker, causing a dwindling appetite.

I called my doctor. The internet is great and all for finding information, but I wanted an educated and valuable opinion regarding this celiac disease I had stumbled upon. I wanted to know what was true and what was false. I wanted a credible source. My doctor recommended I remove gluten from my diet. Test it out. She was old school—and old—and the only test she knew of to test celiac was invasive. Removing gluten was my only other option. After two weeks the changes became apparent. The migraines came less often and food was kept down. When I visited my hematologist after five months of gluten free living, my platelet count was the highest it had ever been. He was thoroughly impressed. And perplexed, the man didn’t know what to make of the drastic change until I informed him of my new gluten-free diet. The full effects of gluten are still unknown as researchers and doctors continue to learn about celiac disease and gluten sensitivity. Twice a year I get blood drawn to monitor my count. If it remains up come October, I might be considered “graduated” from his care. After a couple months on my new diet, I saw a gastroenterologist who specialized in celiac disease. As I was already on a gluten-free diet, I underwent genetic testing which only required a simple blood test. It was negative. Celiac was not my diagnosis.

“Or” was my new enemy. I could be sensitive or intolerant. Doctors don’t give enough information regarding what foods contain gluten. It’s in everything: dressings, lunch meats, pastas, dips, soy sauce, ice cream, pop. The list is endless. Reading labels became a must and my already health conscious mind grew a new ego. Nothing was overlooked on any food or drink package—good thing I love to read. Contamination was not to be ignored and a family member informed me of marshmallow root, a wonderful dietary supplement that can reduce any pains that might occur from gluten contamination. In fact, when her son wanted to indulge in a gluten delicious donut or pizza, the pills would allow him to eat without dealing with the consequential pain. However, simply because he doesn’t feel the pain doesn’t mean the damage isn’t being done. He had celiac and the pill can’t prevent from damage being done to his intestines over time when he does choose to indulge. The intestine will still become inflamed but like Advil can reduce swelling for a sprain, the injury still occurred.

After I found out I didn’t have celiac, I decided to savor a cinnamon donut—not roll—and two to be exact. It was pure heaven. There was no pain. But a month later, I was still fighting fatigue and migraines again; proof the marshmallow root was only a short-term relief. When I went in for my next blood draw and visit with hematology, my platelet count had gone back down (still slightly higher than my previous average). I learned the severity of my intolerance. I had to buy a separate toaster for me to use and all my condiments are labeled “GF.” Contamination is kept to a minimum but for a safety protocol I take marshmallow root daily. Despite popular belief, my gluten-free diet does not keep me thin.

My choice of a plant-based diet and lack of snacking is why I’m thin. I don’t drink my calories away. I eat when I’m hungry and not when I’m bored. It’s no preservatives and none of the artificial trio (sweeteners, flavoring, coloring). I listen to my body. If I’m feeling shaky, I up my salt or sugar intake. If I’m feeling queasy, I lay off any spices, sauces, and oily or greasy foods. I eat one serving of meat a day. I incorporate nuts into granola or salads. I aim to drink mostly water. I refrain from relying on rice as my gluten substitute—no thank you arsenic. I don’t eat out. Most of my meals are home cooked and prepared from scratch. Most importantly, I don’t buy into the assumption that gluten-free baked goods are healthy—they are still baked goods! They can be, given the right substitutions. However, it’s a safe bet that the gluten-free option of a product is less healthy than its gluten counterpart. But to make sure, read the nutrition facts label and the ingredient listing. If you don’t know what an ingredient is, google it. If you can’t get service because grocery stores are notorious for having bad reception, try to pronounce it. If you can’t sound it out, chances are it’s artificial or an unnecessary ingredient used to make it taste better. You should be knowledgeable of every ingredient on that list.

Before embarking on any diet, education is important. For example, it isn’t uncommon for novice vegans to neglect consuming necessary complete proteins. They have to be knowledgeable of adequate supplements or plant food combinations. Unless it’s printed and the restaurant is known for providing gluten-free options, I won’t consider the menu. At the last establishment where I served, I had to ask the head cook what menu items were gluten-free and his response was simple: “Well, gluten is anything with wheat, barley, and rye, so your breads and your pastas. Tell them they can have anything that doesn’t contain pasta, a hamburger without the bun, the salads.” The reality is gluten-free diets are much more complicated and I’m surprised the guest didn’t call back with a complaint—he had warned me of his severe sensitivity. Rice flour is commonly substituted in gluten-free products and meals but there is a concern regarding arsenic because it is so easily absorbed into the rice. Unfortunately, the best gluten-free tortillas I’ve found are brown rice tortillas. I’m not a fan of many of the corn-based products, like noodles, as they can taste gritty. When baking, almond flour can be a decent substitution among many others. Research is key.

In one of my health classes last semester, my group was asked to rank four different yogurts from healthiest to least healthy. Another group member and I disagreed on the appropriate ranking because we recognized we had different dietary needs and preferences. Whereas she was more concerned with sugar and was willing to consume artificial sweetener, I have a strict no artificial rule I follow and prefer more natural ingredients.

More gluten-free options may be popping up on the market, but that doesn’t mean you should be flocking to consume such products simply because of a “GF” label. It’s a learning process. Research what the diet entails. By definition, “diet” does NOT mean “healthy,” it simply refers to the food you consume. If you want to eat healthy, do research and listen to your body. The random aches, changes in bowel movements, sudden eczema or acne issues, or increase in migraines could very likely be due to the food you eat. Lunchmeat once a week doesn’t bother me, but if I eat it consecutively, I will get a crippling migraine. I love sandwiches but my body doesn’t. Gluten free may be popular, but your body might disagree with that assumption.

Only a small percent of people have celiac disease, and many are undiagnosed. The only way to know if you have celiac is to get tested. There are multiple screening options available for an individual to be tested for celiac. As for those who are sensitive or intolerant, know your body. With all food consumption and physical activity, it’s important to understand your body, the limits you can push and the boundaries set in stone.

 

Mar29

Put down the picket & backpack.

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“Murderer!” the picketers ruthlessly scream because at about five weeks in the fetal development, the baby’s brain, spinal cord, and heart begin to develop. It’s during the third week, arguably, that the zygote develops into an embryo. For my government class back in high school, I spent the better part of a term researching abortion and the various methods. I lost my appetite. I couldn’t eat when my mom called for dinner. Just shy of seven years later, the stick was positive and I found myself in an unexpected pregnancy. I wasn’t ready. And I sure as hell didn’t believe myself capable. I wasn’t exactly known for being motherly or nurturing.

No lifting more than 20lbs. you dependent weakling. Say goodbye to coffee in the morning because there’s no caffeine. I hope you love migraines; they’re the friends that eat all your food and never leave. Good luck coping after a rough day at work because there’s no drinking alcohol in the hot tub. Instead, get ready to greet your new therapist twice a week as she helps to realign your spine. Think twice if you plan to dye your hair. Stay away from the sushi, deli meats, soft cheeses, and artificial sweeteners and coloring. Hope you prefer your eggs scrambled because that yolk will be fully cooked. And you can forget about your medium cooked steak or hamburger. Double check with your doctor regarding all your medications, previously prescribed or not. Don’t you dare sleep on your back—can’t put pressure on that spinal cord—but you best be getting that recommended nine hours each night. More likely to have serious car crashes when pregnant, you may not want to get behind that wheel. Or at least drive like the grandma you will be one day because the male in your life has an even higher crash rate.

Say hello to swollen ankles and that teenage acne that is coming back like a long lost best friend. You might even want to break out the matches for the constipation, and have fun with road trips, considering the constant need to urinate. If you don’t want cramps, stay away from the ice cream—it’s just willpower, those cravings don’t mean anything. Mind over matter and all that bullshit. And if you didn’t work out regularly before, you sure aren’t starting now. It’ll have to wait at least six weeks after birth when your doctor might give you the clear. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait even longer. You think that baby is magically popping out on your due date? WRONG. You may be induced early or it may come two weeks late. You want an epidermal to deal with the pain? Well shit, your platelet count better be high enough. Otherwise, you’re breathing and cussing your way through that natural birth. But let’s not forget that average minimum thirty pound weight gain. Hell, you might as well not even get out bed. Might as well learn to love that bed rest while on maternity leave.

I didn’t know the rules. For the five days between the night I found out and my doctor’s appointment, it was a self-educating process. I had a sandwich from Jimmy John’s because that’s what we always ordered for lunch at work. I didn’t know. I was a server; my tendency to lift a heavy tray was a daily habit. Habits die hard. I prefer my eggs dippity style. What the hell am I expected to eat for breakfast? My ex (boyfriend at the time) lived across the state and had a DUI; the driving to see each other was all on me. I sleep on my stomach but suddenly my little bump wouldn’t allow it; the body pillow became my new best friend. And the morning sickness was not just the first and second trimester, and it definitely was not just in the morning. That shit did not discriminate. It partied all day for all three trimesters.

If you wield a picket sign outside an abortion clinic, you sure as hell better have gone through a complicated pregnancy because not all are a happy dance in the sunshine. And even if it is a glowing pregnancy where everything goes as planned and expected, the mother still gave up a lot. Oh, you’re a man? You can’t get pregnant? Get a backpack and fill it with thirty pounds of weights and strap the bastard on—to your front. You, sir, are in for one hell of a backpacking trip. And don’t even think about taking it off when you sleep or use the loo. That shit is glued to you.

It is not possible to force a woman to continue with an unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancy is a highly selfless act and the expecting mother must be prepared to follow through with all the limitations, eat her daily vitamins, and educate herself on proper pregnancy care. Reality is not all mothers are willing, even those who are elated and want to be a mom. Then, how can you expect a mother who doesn’t want children or who isn’t ready to undergo the battle? Because it is a battle—them hormones can be a bitch, the cravings can cost a pretty penny, and it’s useless fighting the tears.

Abortion was never an option for me, but I will never understand the abortion debate and I will always question the integrity of pro-life picketers. Pregnancy is one hell of a commitment, even if it goes as planned, the mother is “glowing,” and it’s considered a healthy one. By no means do I think abortion should be a form of birth control, and it is highly unfair that unwanted babies get aborted everyday while other couples grieve over the inability to conceive, but if a female wants to terminate a pregnancy, I doubt she is willing to provide a healthy womb for the baby.

When I was five months along and my doctor prescribed me to eat ice cream everyday because I couldn’t gain weight, Worry began to nag. When she called me at 9 P.M. to tell me I had to be at the hospital at 8 A.M. the next morning to be induced, Worry took root. When my doctor told me my platelet count was too low for an epidermal, that they were concerned my blood wouldn’t clot if I bled, Worry rammed me like a freight train. After I gave birth and my doctor told my mother it was a good thing they induced because my amniotic fluid was unhealthy, Worry was finally derailed. Worry was constant during my pregnancy and I followed every recommendation given to me. It was deep-seated and the hormones didn’t help. The pregnancy wasn’t expected but my daughter was wanted. I couldn’t imagine being in that situation as an expecting mother who didn’t want the baby, the pregnancy.

It’s still unclear as to whether I should ever undergo a pregnancy again. My doctors have no idea if it will be the same battle or different results, if it would be detrimental to my health or if the baby would survive, but that doesn’t change anything. Abortion will never be an option for me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to condemn those who choose to exercise their right. Every pregnancy is different. And you never know the battles another is facing.

Mar21

I do it all for me.

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There’s a dispute among body types, even as we dismiss society’s view on “the healthy body” or what qualifies as beautiful. People use demeaning arguments to defend their weight: no thigh gap is one step closer to becoming a mermaid and overweight means harder to kidnap and real women have curves. Some misconceive skinny as healthy, when health has nothing to do with body shape or form. Some girls are blessed with curves and others are graced with a high metabolism. Guys think girls want to hear “you’re so beautiful” as if we need the affirmation—hint: we don’t. I can’t post a picture of my legs to Instagram without a guy asking if I will wrap them around him. I don’t workout and tone for you. I don’t even shave for you. I do it all for me.

Six weeks after I gave birth to my daughter, I went out with my boyfriend (now my ex) and a few girlfriends to celebrate my 25th birthday. I adorned a mini-dress and I looked stellar. I turned heads. And I should be able to say that without being labeled conceited. By that time, we had been dating for almost 18 months and he had never called me beautiful, but that night he told me multiple times and it was nails on chalkboard to my ears. After a complicated pregnancy, I lost all the weight and then some. 5’ 5” and I weighed 118 lbs. on a good day (bad days: 115 lbs. or below). The last time I weighed that little was my sophomore year of high school. As an ex of his walked into the bar, he warned me, “Don’t break up with me because all my exes get fat. It’s karma.” I wanted to be fat. It had never bothered me how he would comment on how “hot” a friend of mine or a coworker of ours was until it took me to lose weight for him to say it to me. And I didn’t want to hear it. I had never considered myself overweight before pregnancy. Looking back, I still don’t consider myself as having been overweight. I was a solid 140-143 lbs. I was healthy. I could outrun most girls (and boys) and I made healthy eating choices. I was a boss at soccer, could score off a corner kick, and played multiple times a week. I didn’t have high blood pressure and wasn’t concerned about diabetes. I started working out when I was in middle school. I had muscle. But suddenly, I wanted to be fat. Overweight: 1. Skinny Me: 0.

Working out has been a rollercoaster. For the past year, I have worked hard at putting on some weight. And for me to utter that sentence would be offensive for some people who can’t lose weight. How dare I? I’m not allowed to complain about not being able to gain weight. That’s unspeakable. But strong is the new skinny. My health is more important than any label given, doused in another’s insecurity. I realize I could easily eat unhealthy, consume preservatives and the artificial trio (sweetener, coloring, flavoring), sodium nitrate and MSG, and I’d quickly gain weight, but I’m not willing to eat junk and risk heart disease and diabetes. The seesaw of gaining muscle and burning calories is tipped in the wrong direction. Overweight: 2. Skinny Me: 0.

I lied. I want to be tone, not skin and bone. To my daughter, I am all bone. (I don’t care what other people think.) When she was younger and only weighed five or ten pounds, I could easily fit her along my body without my clavicle or rib cage or sternum—mine points outward compared to the flat norm—poking into her. As she grows older and taller, I’m not always the one she wants to curl up with. It became apparent early on that I have to wear a sweatshirt or a thick sweater to rock her to sleep most nights. Even then, some nights, it’s not enough. There are nights she cries because she wants the cushion her grandma can provide for her but she wants the comfort of her mother. Overweight: 3. Skinny Me: 0.

Look in the mirror and be thankful you’re overweight because your baby loves the cushion you can provide, not because you feel the need to defend yourself against society. Better yet, look at yourself in the mirror and accept your body because it is your body. Who cares if the girl on the train is skinnier than you? Who cares if your best friend has gained a few pounds? Are they happy? Are they healthy? Why do we have to follow up questions of “Did you lose weight?” with “You look awesome!” when it doesn’t matter. Tell them they look amazing. Tell them they look strong. Tell them they look confident. Tell them they look HEALTHY. People may label me as skinny—or as having an eating disorder because how else could I not be able to gain weight?—but I can promise you, I am so much more and I will not demean other body shapes by giving an excuse for mine. Society: 0. Me: Kiss my boney ass.

 

 

Feb27

Secret Is Out

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Still want to know my secret? Still think there was more than sickness to my lack of weight gain while pregnant? Well, truth be told, you might be right, though I highly doubt it. However, for argument sake, I’m willing to indulge you. Briefly, that is.

Morning sickness was a lie. It was all day everyday and it was the one reason why I never had to purchase maternity clothes. Yes, you heard me right. Now get over it and let’s move on. The reason I had a healthy baby and felt healthy, despite the sickness, was much simpler. I have always been aware of the food and ingredients I consume. Pregnancy only exemplified that notion. I was conscious about everything I put in my body. I read all labels, every damn thing that was written on any food product. I read it all. If it was low fat or low sugar, I deciphered the ingredients to determine what was used as sweetener.

The doctor may have mentioned it was okay to have diet pop but I refused to put aspartame in my system and I stayed away from high fructose corn syrup or artificial anything. I had enough trouble keeping bland and normal food down; I didn’t want to waste time trying to consume junk or harming substances. Instead, I devoured as many fruits as possible. They were hydrating and despite the acidity, fruit settled the best. Some days, it was the only thing I could keep down.

I gave up caffeine entirely. College was survived by guzzling about four cups minimum of coffee a day. Caffeine was kryptonite. It was the hardest thing to give up and I turned to Kool-aid. Not my smartest choice. There has been discussion over a direct correlation between artificial coloring and autism. Upon realizing this, I gave up the Kool-aid, too. For half my pregnancy I only drank select teas and water.

If I thought coffee was hard to give up, giving up sandwiches was a slow painful death. Sandwiches have always been one of my favorite foods–only to be outdone by hamburgers. Cold sandwiches, specifically. For nine months, I somehow survived on paninis and hot sandwiches, making sure to heat up the lunchmeat in a fry pan before, and I only ate the uncured. Sodium nitrate didn’t have a chance in hell to enter my body. It’s a pink powder that shouldn’t be an additive.

Read that last paragraph again. Notice how I heated up the lunchmeat: fry pan. Don’t get me started on the uselessness and utter unhealthiness of microwaves. Actually, screw that. Sometime in high school–or maybe it was back in middle school–my parents removed our microwave from the kitchen. Previously, all of Taylor’s meals had been warmed up via microwave. Between the heat and rays of a microwave, the vital nutrients and vitamins that make up a meal are killed. When eating a microwaved meal, whether home cooked leftovers or out of the freezer, you are consuming empty calories. Everything that was once healthy about the meal perished. Instead, use the bake option on an oven or a fry/sauce pan on a stovetop to heat food up. It may take a bit longer but that’s the benefit. Those key nutrients aren’t being zapped away.

Unfortunately, when I was pregnant, I hadn’t been aware of the effect gluten had on me. I continued to consume bread and oatmeal daily. This was my greatest fault and I didn’t know it. I had been able to give up all processed food and leaned instead towards the all-natural food products. It wasn’t difficult. The mind is a powerful thing. When you make a decision and actively pursue that lifestyle choice, your body begins to follow suit. I gave up salty food like chips and pretzels because they made me dehydrated and sick. After awhile, my body no longer craved such snacks. Telling my body “No” took discipline, following through took restraint, but the end result was motivating.

Evelynn may have only been 5lbs when she came home from the hospital but she’s healthy as a cucumber. Her doctor was consistently impressed those first few weeks she was home. There may have been constant worry over her health and “normalcy”–God I hate that word, it implies imperfect in the abnormal–but I also knew she was going to be a force to be reckoned with. It was a bone-deep sense if assurance and it was magnificent. My food and drink choices gave me comfort in this.

Giving up coffee and cold sandwiches, Kool-aid and salty foods, was difficult but it was also empowering. I learned my limits and I learned what I was capable of. I gave up Ben & Jerry’s and dippity eggs because of raw egg and uncooked egg yolk. I gave up tossed and garden salads because I couldn’t handle ranch but indulged in taco salads weekly. Homemade salsa made for a great dressing. We got meat from the local meat barn because sodium nitrate didn’t interest me. We sought out no GMO products. It was harder than hell but I survived. Being healthy isn’t as expensive as we believe it to be. Instead of paying for preservatives, growth hormones, and additives, pay for raw nutrients, vitamins, and all-natural ingredients. Your bank account won’t see that great of a difference but your body will reap some amazing benefits.

Feb23

love me not.

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Believe it or not, not every girl wants flowers. I can promise you this. My ex got me flowers (strike one) for Valentine’s, my least favorite holiday (strike two). Hell, I don’t even like recognizing the day when I’m actually in a relationship. I’ve always been under the firm belief that it’s a hallmark holiday. Commercials and sales a constant reminder that for this one day of the year people need to show their appreciation and love for their partner. A make up for all the mornings they left for work without a “good morning, beautiful” and went to bed without a simple “I love you, I’m so glad you’re mine.” A designated day to remind some that hey, you are in a relationship and hey, spoil your damn partner, prove your love for them. Horse shit. I don’t want a gift because society says it’s a must. Screw cupid’s arrow.

Don’t get me wrong. I love seeing friends get excited because their boyfriend bought them flowers. If I’m feeling down, sure, I might actually appreciate them. However, 99.9% of the time, when a guy gets me flowers, my first response is what the hell am I going to do with these? They are all high maintenance. I don’t want to have to remember to water them every other week. Hell, I need an alarm in order to remember to take my birth control, and that’s more pertinent. The bastards that last a few weeks need to be dusted. Dusted! The leaves collect filth like any normal knickknack and surface. And I sure as hell don’t want to double trash bag because they ripped a hole in the bag when they got old and needed to be thrown out. They always rip a hole in the damn bag and yesterday’s coffee grounds always leak out onto the tile. Fucking high maintenance flowers.

When I see flowers, I see wasted money. Money that could have been better spent on a nice juicy hamburger—at least that satisfies my hunger—or the Nike athletic shoes I’ve been drooling over for the past month—help motivate me to get my gym membership on. Am I cruel for thinking like this? Probably. Heartless? Wouldn’t be the first time someone called me a cold bitch.

Nothing says easy like flowers. Go to Meijer’s or call 1-800-flowers and pick out the first that catches your eye. Hell, send the same bunch you bought your mom to your girlfriend. Then slip up that you did. Yeah, that will really make her feel special. It’s the go-to for “I’m sorry” and “I fucked up,” and nothing says I love you like a dozen red roses. Cliché much? If you want to get a girl flowers, put some thought into it at least. Know her favorite and surprise her with them on a completely random day. Key note: completely random day. Get her exotics, something she has never seen let alone received before. Or hell, build a damn garden with a comfortable bench for reading or to enjoy a morning cup of coffee. First and foremost, though, make sure she actually likes flowers.

If a guy gets me flowers, I also immediately think of just how little they know me. I’m not one of those girls that say something but mean something completely different. As in, if I say I don’t like flowers, I mean don’t ever think to get me flowers unless you’ve exhausted all other gift possibilities; and since hamburgers are endless, I’d say that’s an impossibility. How does that childhood pastime go? He loves me, he loves me not? Buy me flowers, I love you not.

Feb10

my wish for you

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When I was pregnant & waiting to meet my little girl, I used to wish her a life without heartache. Since then, I’ve changed my mind. I want her to know trials; & that statement probably won’t win me any mom of the year awards.

There’s a lot of tragedy in this world. It can drive a person to have a pessimistic outlook and for some to commit suicide. There’s also people overcoming the tragedy. I want my daughter to become one of those people. I’m not so naive to think nothing will ever happen to her. Those hardships & obstacles that people face are what build character. I want to know she can make it in this world. I don’t want her to grow up to be naive or have a god complex, thinking nothing can touch her. Nor do I want her to buckle at the knees with the first sign of trouble.

I want her to know success. I want her to feel accomplished when she overcomes an obstacle. I want her to know compassion & have empathy for others. I want her to know how lucky she is to be living even when she’s suffering. I want her to have faith that good will persevere over evil. I want her to be able to smile & genuinely wish her worst enemy a good day because she feels sorry that person can’t–won’t–choose to be happy.

And I want her to know heartache. I want her to know just how good love can be. I don’t want her to take it for granted & I want her to know how to walk away if she is being taken for granted. I want her to know how to respect others & recognize when she is not being respected. I want her to have pride in herself & in where she came from without being egotistical. I want her to have a backbone & an unwavering faith in herself. I want her to feel secure in her future but understand that life happens, shit happens, & people have bad days.

When she is at her wits end, because everyone has a limit to the number of bad days they can handle, I want her to be able to tie a knot & hold the hell on. I want her to swing from that rope like a kid & take a leap of faith into the chilling water of reality; & when she comes to the surface for a breath of fresh air she becomes so sure of herself that she can survive, that she is surviving, & that she wants to survive.

Lord help me, I want her to know some heartache, I do. More importantly, I want her to have the strength to survive it.

Jan17

let’s get intimate.

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Words are powerful. They cut through air sharper than any knife, making invisible impact while leaving a trace, a pathway to where they originated. They can destroy and push one down. They bully and threaten. They are also the cause of assumptions. Writing has always been an intimate form of expression. Some people hide behind their words, creating an alternate persona. Others embellish, building themselves up. Many more find the truth, strength, relief, and hope they need. Allowing one to read these written words specifically strung together in a precise way can be intimate. Giving one access to your innermost thoughts is intimate. Trusting one not to judge or harass you based on these choice words is intimate. Words build relationships, bind vows, and create promises. A single action can destroy the hope that words generate. As powerful as words are, they are also more fragile than glass. I created my last blog, an assignment for a journalism class I took back in college, with this intimacy in mind. Sharing my words, putting them out there for an audience, was scary…scary intimate. Unfortunately, these days, people’s minds live in the gutter and I have been forced to move on from tiffanyjoy69.blogspot.com & here now lies my future love with words.

Jan15

Webster Is Wrong.

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The world is a habitat for tragedy. It can be cruel & break us down; the suffering surrounds us. The talented have the ability to hide behind laughter, gifting those around them with a smile when all they know, all they feel is loneliness. Asking for help has become a weakness because society portrays it as such, an emotion that depicts failure. In a new age of false feminism (& even partly a homophobic reaction to LGBT pride or bullying), emotions are shoved aside in fear of being seen as too sensitive, too mushy, too soft, & worst of all, too girly; when asking for help equals giving up one’s independence.

Its all a damn shame, how moving forward in this world has turned us into robots. Never have I met so many bad drivers on the road. Few people hold the door open for strangers these days. Students are seen as part of a mass rather than treated as individuals. Cell phones have become people’s lifelines, & not in a good way. Cops are faulted & chastised by the public for what one cop or one precinct may have made a poor decision on. Don’t even get me started on the rudeness servers & bartenders deal with.

There is a growing disappointment I have when it comes to the greater population & humanity.

There was a video that circulated the media a couple months or so ago where a guy was walking down a busy street with a loaded rifle & taped the resulting episode with the cops. Apparently, he had great cinematography skills because his intention was widely accepted by viewers. The comments it received cursed the three deputies at the scene who made the guy unload his gun & punished them for protecting the public’s safety. He wasn’t in the country to hunt and the parking lot/road where it took place did not have a shooting range or Cabela’s. If I were a citizen who happened on the scene, I would have been terrified of the guy & turned to walk in the opposite direction. Hell, I might have called the cops myself. Simply because one wants to use his right to bear arms does not mean that he should abuse it. When these laws are blown out of proportion, its no wonder why they have become such a huge debate for society.

I’m becoming more & more convinced that people want to create issues for the sake of argument & entertainment—or rather, to gain the most likes on YouTube. I’m disgusted by it. I’m not saying I agree with every decision this country has made or even a lot of them, but I’m not going to provoke a situation just to stir up trouble and fuel a fire. & I’ll be damned if its going to be for some media recognition & one million likes.

Recently, in GR there was a 9-year-old boy who was stabbed to death by a 12-year-old. In another city, a guy had put razor blades all around a playground so kids would cut themselves playing on the monkey bars or climbing a jungle gym. When T went to WISD for schooling, he would be left alone long enough for us to find pompom strings in his diaper and paint in his nose, ears, & eyes. Who knows how much he digested.

“Fine” has become a word indisputably incorrectly defined by Webster’s Dictionary. It has become a code word for help & “I’m not ok” yet people either fail to register its meaning or choose to not care about its undertones. With all the grief-stricken Robin Williams fans circulating his greatness on the web, there was one post that stuck out to me. Andrea Gibson made a vow: “I want to never ever again answer ‘fine’ when someone asks me how I am. I am officially boycotting the word ‘fine.’ Fuck ‘fine.’ What a hoax that word is.” She undoubtedly—and unintentionally, I’m guessing—nailed society’s selfish demeanor when it comes to the reactions of another’s pain. If society is going to choose to play dumb then individuals must choose to be courageous; part of that is admitting our emotions to others and ourselves.

Of course, then lies the problem of those people just whining because of an unhealthy need for attention. Thanks for ruining it for the battling few who do need help but never receive it.

I could rant endlessly about what seems to be going wrong with society & the world around me, but honestly I’m trying to be a more optimistic person…or at least not a pessimistic bitch.

Still, there is no wonder why I am scared to bring my daughter into this world. Everyday I feel more excited to meet her but half those days my heart tugs on the idea that I am scared for her to come out of this womb, where I know I can keep her safe. I’m not sure I’m ready for her to witness the cruelty, deal with heartbreak, & become a part of this society.

& I really don’t want “fine” to become part of her vocabulary, but if it does I won’t be consulting Webster for the meaning of the word.

(DISCLAIMER: This was first published to my former blog tiffanyjoy69.blogspot.com two weeks before I gave birth to my daughter. It was my last entry for that blog site.)