Pregnancy.

Your life has completely changed already and the baby isn't even here, yet.  

The words were like an echo in the cavernous space of my emptying baby-brain.  

I sat at brunch as my good friend and once-roommate told me about my own life.  

I sat on the hard metal bench, my thighs spilling over the sides and my baby-bulbous-belly pressed against the table.  

We were talking about life and pregnancy, and I don't think I had realized that.  In that way that life sometimes just happens to you.  I just kind of nodded in agreement, not fully registering, looking away quickly and closing my eyes tightly against the burning tears that are always on the precipice of falling these days. 

Don't worry, Alyssa.  You'll figure out the oven, eventually. 

In the first week at the new house, Nash found me sobbing in the kitchen two or three or five times.   

The tears are triggered by any and everything.  Sometimes it's deep, inexplicable sadness.  Sometimes it's just an outlet for the build-up of uncontrollable humanness, as if I'm existing solely in the state of the id.  

I had decided to make mac and cheese for dinner.  I went to the corner store and I bought noodles and a block of cheddar.  I turned on the oven.  I pressed the bake button, beep, selected "start / on," beep -- watched the timer count-down its preheating process.  But when the block-cheddar and cut-up mozzarella sticks with a dash of ground mustard and simmering cream-cheese milk combo was ready to bake, topped with potato chips because I didn't have bread crumbs, I set it in the oven that... wasn't hot.  It was maybe a touch warm, but certainly not baking.  I called out to Nash that our oven doesn't work. 

Impossible, he told me.  He had used it that morning for toast.  He pressed the same buttons that made the same beep-beeps, flashed me a smile, and left the kitchen.  

And it worked this time.  He came back in to check, and turned to me like he was a hero.  I erupted into tears.  I'm not an idiot!  I yelled at him.  I know how to work an oven!  

He hugged me, confused.  Said he was just looking for a thank you -- words I had to choke out through my wounded pride.  He held me as I hiccuped with angry tears, not able to work an oven, not able to do anything other than cry about it.  

"What did you do with your first Friday off?" my friend Doug asked later. 

"I'm at the point in pregnancy where I cry about everything.  So I cried because I couldn't turn on the oven, and then later I cried because I remembered not being able to turn on the oven, and then I sat alone and worried Nash might meet someone out at the bar and not come home and then I cried myself to sleep."   

"Jesus!" he said.  "I used to be the one with all the uncomfortable topics."

"HaHA!" I said, victoriously, as if I've won something.  If all I have is this excess of emotion -- maybe being the saddest of all my sad friends is the one thing I can rejoice in.  

"Don't worry, Alyssa.  You'll figure out the oven eventually," Doug said, jokingly reassuring.  

Yeah.  Don't worry, Alyssa.  You'll figure out the ______ eventually.  

Prosthetic Nipple

I have listened to this clip multiple times.  First with confusion, then with fascination, then with investigation.  

Did this really happen?  Was it a dream, or a fantasy, or real life?  

Why did he choose to wear his prosthetic nipple to the gym, where I'm assuming - based on the context of your usual gym habits - he went swimming, the first place I would anticipate a prosthetic nipple to be rendered useless?  Or perhaps his brand of nipple is a knock-off, and more prone to solubility than other adherences?  

Why didn't he acknowledge your return of his lost nipple?  Was he embarrassed?  Did he fear your judgement?  Did he think you had stolen it?  

Why did you choose me to be the recipient of this audio file?  Did you mean to send it to me?  Was it meant for another?  Ann, perhaps?  

To quote another, this tale sounds oneiric, symbolic, and possibly monumental.  

Beyond belief.  

But I'm learning to let go of such silly concepts of truth and real when participating in stories.  

Frogs and Friends

1 hour and 16 min remaining

I’m sitting at my friends’ house.  We’re watching an earth-based TV show. I think it’s called Life? It’s close-ups of creatures and broad sweeping landscapes.  It’s Planet Earth with a different name.

Currently it’s documenting the natural life cycle of snakes.  I’ve been working on my computer and not quite paying attention.  I hear comments from my friends like, “I’m constantly at war with my wiener!” and, “Holy shit look at THAT snake sex!” 

1 hour and 3 minutes remaining.

I open up a document to write this blog, having meant to spend a few intentional hours composing something of substance, but my workday was long and my subsequent wind-down-friend-hang slash post-work-work-session has fed me too many vodkas to coherently construct anything meaningful. 

I’ve just spent a few hours combing through footage to select the perfect beauty-shots and fun-focused-action shots from the latest commercial shoot on which I worked to appease the producers’ anxious demands.  I'm uploading the stills to send to those powers that be.  

59 minutes remaining, my Google Drive upload status bar tells me.

I suddenly hear, “What the fuck is that?!”

I look up at the screen and see a giant bullfrog’s eyes explode out through the mud that it was hiding under.  It’s mating season, the show informs us.

Apparently male bullfrogs are quite competitive and aggressively attack and dominate each other in order to win their chance at mating with a female. 

“It’s like the Fast and the Furious but with frogs!” Doug exclaims, as the camera displays low-angle-slow-motion-close-ups of frog legs whipping through the air, water fan-faring in its wake as if to punctuate the aggressor’s victory over competitor and nature.

I’ve missed some of the video in documenting this.   

Somehow, the males have not all destroyed each other and a few alphas have managed to impregnate some females.  There are tadpoles in abundance. 

A high camera angle with a wide lens accentuates the overwhelming amount of tadpoles in an oppressive display of LIFE.

The narrator states, “One male stays behind—“

Before he can finish his sentence, Doug definitively claims, “That would be me!” his arms crossed in resolute-highness. 

 “—to watch over his own and all else’s offspring,” the narrator finishes.

I perk up for the joke, “To watch over your offspring?!”

“Nevermind,” Doug concedes. 

We giggle. 

The edit shifts from stately imagery of this species-specific Father Figure to one of the blazing sun in a cloudless sky.  The narrator continues, “The sun comes out, and it shrinks the water to a sinkhole pool.  The tadpoles might be stranded.”

Whatever body of water they were inhabiting – the specifics of the locale are lost on me and my editing – are shrinking before our time-lapse-documenting eyes.

There are two separate pools of water.  One houses the millions of sperm-swimming tadpoles (why do sperm look like tadpoles, when tadpoles have already been inseminated and will grow into full frogs?!), the other abundant pool houses the guardian bullfrog.

The guardian bullfrog sits contentedly in his abundant pool, but then hops over to stand watch over the evaporating pool containing his species’ dying young. 

“Look at that Doug,” I say, continuing the joke. 

“Oh man, how do I get more water over there?” Doug plays along.  “I don’t know.  I give up.  I’m gonna get drunk.” 

The bullfrog starts to dig its legs through the mud to save its future, funneling a channel between the two water sources. 

There’s an extreme closeup of the mud squelching over and through the bullfrog’s legs, as he messily continues to flail about.

Eventually there’s a small irrigation connecting the two pools.

“They’re safe because of Doug’s balls!” Steve proclaims victoriously! 

The Planet Earth show continues.  I’ve stopped paying attention in order to write this.  Brian just left to go to Lost Bar.  Danielle is long since in bed, post our Franco’s feast.

We for a few minutes narrate the animals’ thoughts, making side jokes and what-if statements about the bar where we all work. 

13 minutes remaining.

“Giant straw-colored fruit bats inhabit the Congo, their wings nearly a meter across.”

Doug falls asleep, and Steve feels uncomfortable staying while our hosts sleep and disperse. 

I revisit the earlier paragraphs of this post, refining and regretting. 

2 minutes left to finish uploading. 

“In late October every year the fruit-bats set off across the Canopy.”

A Danielle stirs upstairs.

1 minute. 

Doug stirs as Steve whispers a sweet goodbye.

  

Less than a minute left.

I promise Doug I’ll leave soon.  He insists I’m welcome as long as I want. 

“Flocks of hundred become thousands and tens of thousands become hundreds of thousands.”

63 uploads complete.

“How they know when and where to travel is a mystery.”

I pack up my computer, never learning the mystery of fruit-bat travel habits. 

Wednesdays We Write

I wanted to start this blog to give myself incentive to write again.  For so long now I've pushed off writing -- for somedays and when-I-have times, but the days are never some and time is never had.

And even now.  Sitting at my desk, the cursor blinking its steady, mocking at-the-ready -- I feel empty of words, just like the page.

Sometimes, I'll be working and listening to podcasts and feel a spark of inspiration and make a note in my phone to fill it in later, but the later never arrives because, I think, if I just keep saying I WILL write, it means I haven't given up.

But I had.

I had given up out of fear and frustration and expectations that are too high to be met.

I never feel productive enough.  I always have something pulling at me, nagging my brain, telling me - this, and this, and this.

Edit that commercial you just shot.  Edit that music video you said you'd finish two months ago.  Re-edit that thesis film you shot three years ago.  Finish your kickstarter prizes.  Make that logo to put on DVD sleeves.  Find out how to make DVD sleeves.  Create that annotated script you promised.  Learn how to manipulate documents in Adobe.  Learn After Effects.  Learn all the editing programs better.  Take up sound mixing?  Start selling things to make extra cash. Sell the clothes you no longer fit in.  Post that old phone online.  Clear it off first.  Clear off your current phone of its 21,966 photos.  Archive old continuity photos.  Look for jobs.  Find a more stable career that's still creative.  Pay for Mandy.com?  Get PA license plates.  Get PA auto insurance?  Get your car inspected.  Fuck, get your expired passport renewed.  Learn how to file your own crazy freelance taxes so your mom doesn't have to do it.  Read that book.  Read that other book.  Submit stories to that podcast you love.  Write stories so that you can submit to that podcast you love.  Write stories just so you have stories written.  Try standup comedy.  Write some jokes for standup open mic nights.  Go somewhere other than The Nut Hut.  Vacuum your stairs.  Clean your room.  Scrub the kitchen.  Scrub the tub.  Tile the entryway.  Lookup how to tile your entryway.  Call your friends.  Call your nana.  Call your parents.  Volunteer for a cause.  Learn more about politics.  Stand for something.  Stop being so conflict avoidant.  Donate to a cause.  Be a better human............

The mountain of duties and obligations and responsibilities is untraversable.  The murk of day-to-day gets in the way and prevents any productivity.  And then after my six-day work week, I'm exhausted and I just want to relax and feel like I've deserved it.  But I never feel like I deserve it.

A friend of mine told me that I'm too hard on myself - I work three jobs and the idea that I'm not "doing enough" is absurd.  But I will always feel like I'm not doing enough (read: that I am not enough).

And that feeling manifests itself most when I'm home after work and doing nothing.  Because if I'm doing nothing?  I am nothing. 

But the pressure to create is just so heavy that I can't bear the obligation, so I drink to quiet my mind and quiet my fear and turn off my brain.

I used to write all the time.  For fun.  To create stories.  In journals.  In co-written adventures via notes.  On random pages.  In word documents.  On every blank surface.  I relished the beauty and potential of a fresh notebook.

I found this poem I wrote when I was 12:

Sure, it's a dark and depressing poem for a 12 year old.  But I love it.  It's feelings at their rawest - it's the angst of a preteen letting herself explore and express the depths of her sorrow.  It's the indulgence of an urge unfettered by society and grades and self-doubt.

I don't know when that instinctual urge left - I expect it came about somewhere in the college days. When criticism and stakes became prominent.  Like when I was in grad school and no longer a big fish in a small pond, just a normal sized fish in a giant city and a cohort full of intelligent and talented people.

I think it definitely faltered when the Hollywood-writing professor told me after my first assignment, "no one would ever want to watch that," when suddenly I had to face my biggest fear, and forfeited my writing because the idea of sharing with the world became too vulnerable to sacrifice; because it was too much to lose when my dream had been crushed.

I want that uninhibited 12 year-old instinct back.  The one that says, "write about taboo subjects and use curse words!  Break the rules and express yourself and change the structure for dramatic effect!  Follow your instincts and explore your emotions and to hell (in a cofin) with others' expectations!"

It's awful to sit here and hate my own voice.

I think I just need to get used to hearing it again.

30

I've been plagued my entire life by my struggle with obesity.

I’ve been overweight for almost as long as I can remember.  I developed body dysmorphia at a very young age.  Part of that was due to an undiagnosed gluten intolerance that left me overly bloated to an alarming degree (there are pictures.  I look like a pregnant 5 year old.  That is not an exaggeration).  Part of that were parents and parents’ friends and kids at school and random people on the street who constantly reminded me how overweight I was.

I don’t remember a time in my life where I wasn’t worried or self conscious about my size.  My entire life I’ve hoped and I’ve dreamed of better, beautiful body.

I used daydream of how over the next summer break, I’d lose SO much weight and I’d step onto the school bus and I’d strut that walkway as if it was a goddamned catwalk in my faded high-waisted bell bottoms that would accentuate my hips and a flowing sheer floral blouse that would show off my burgeoning pubescent cleavage.

But it wasn’t that easy.

I’d lose a little here and there, but then the hungry and terrified and sad little fat girl inside would beg to be quieted with calories.

It’s a weird struggle.  It’s like eating is this dirty little secret that I have to hide from everyone.  Because spending a life in a fat body, you’re treated differently.  And as a fat person, you can’t be seen eating anything, ever.  Regardless of what you select, there are remarks.  As if being overweight grants people an opinion over your choices and inherently begs for their advice.

Because I’ve realized, the only good fat person is a fat person who is trying not to be fat.

So I tried not to be fat.  I wanted to lose 50 lbs before my 30th birthday.  And I did it!  I lost 60, actually.

And it’s been SO difficult.  It’s a struggle every day.  I know it will be a struggle every day for the rest of forever.

And while I’m happy with the success I’ve had, happy to experience new successes of being smaller, happy to have better range of motion and better options when shopping and better options when dating and better options for pretty much everything—

What this weight loss journey has given me most?

It’s given me way more sympathy for who I was in my fatter body than I ever had when I inhabited it.
Everything is more difficult when you’re fat.  The extra pounds weigh so heavily on your bones and your self esteem.  Common daily tasks are exponentially more laborious.  Climbing stairs.  Squatting to pick something up.  Walking to work.   Sitting in chairs – either not fitting or fearing to break them.  Being invited to any physical activity.  SLEEPING is even a challenge.

And yet I survived 30 years with those oppressive struggles and made myself a fairly successful existence.

I cultivated a personality and I made countless meaningful friendships and I got two degrees and I worked my way into the field I dreamed of and earned the trust of celebrities—all while being fat.  And that’s pretty badass.

I’m proud of myself for losing weight – and I’m proud of me before, too.