Modern Skepticism, Attempt At Reconciliation

Skepticism. No word has gained a worse reputation in a short amount of time. The expression started a long time ago, with good prospects, high hopes. Greece, I think. Yet there it is now, sinking like a stone...

What it truly means to feel skeptical as "in doubt" of people or ideas I think every person alive knows. It is an intrinsic part of being human to have the feeling, that something is wrong, "off", a certain fact, an idea, maybe even a generally considered truth. Similar to a sense of foreboding - when you think something bad is about to happen - it can be quite overwhelming. 

That's why I'd like to define skepticism as a state of feeling, not being, because unlike the philosophical movement, it is not a product of thorough thought or opinion formation - no, feeling skeptical is typically what happens before that process starts, maybe even the foundation for it. Theoretically, you could remain in skepticism mode for a longer time period, but people usually don't. Same as with feelings of premonition, it is a state of mind that passes once the occasion, the trigger for it is gone.

A world pandemic is a substantial occasion for skepticism, because not only does the virus target our lives, the safety measures to contain it challenge our ways of living. And the truly agonizing part is, that we can't escape the situation, and the complete control it exerts on all of us.

Some say these feelings of lacking control are justified, others say, they are excessive, and a small price to pay for all our physical health. Whatever your position on it may be, the fact is, that at the moment, many people feel confined, trapped, and that feeling is real and needs to be taken seriously. 

Confinement usually starts when someone's personal freedom is in some way limited, controlled, watched over, even a public topic of discussion. "How to sneeze" is a new etiquette, same as not showing one's nose and mouth in confined spaces. "Not be too many" is a hard rule to follow, maybe the hardest. I think, this may be the one linked to skepticism the most.

I have a suspicion, that at its core, skepticism is a direct result of feeling confined. Societal normalcies like being close to each other, hugging or talking to someone while seeing their face are tumbling right now. People are afraid to stand too close, thus, we as a people, feel separated from our own tribe. But the tribe is our history, our existence, our everything. It has always been the solution, not the problem. It has been the most basic human need ever since we stepped out of the mud and decided to live on dry land. So, feeling skeptical, when our world is turned upside down, is a completely understandable reaction.

Too symbolic? Oh, well.

It may take crazy turns once we decide to "side" with Covidtruthers, ProCovidmeasurists or anyone, who, motivated by a feeling of skepticism, is loud and opinionated. These are not tribes we can rely on, but a mere "signaled" affiliation to some people we feel close to in our shared anxiety. And we feel the need to attach to someone, something, during this crisis. So what can we do?

I don't know. We need to try and get through it, somehow, and let the feeling run its course. Usually, what happens after skepticism is opinion formation. Let it be based on facts not fear. Don't let fear overrun your thoughts. This may sound simplistic, but you just tell your fears to shut up for a minute. "Shut up fears, while I check these facts." These fears will be much quieter, once you've collected your information.

Let me just say this: we belong to one tribe, all of us, even the loud obnoxious ones, who seem to be on the opposite side of what you feel is right. Don't let anyone or anything drive a wedge between you and someone else. We all share the same anxieties, we are all afraid. We all want to survive this, and there are no two sides to beating this virus. Let's just agree that separation is not the answer, neither to the virus, nor to the feelings we have concerning this matter.

And speaking of an enemy image: this virus is more than enough, so we really don't need any fights amongst ourselves. Let's just try and kick its ass instead. 

Love in the Time of Corona

It has been way too long since I did this. Way waaay too long. With the constant stream of everyday life, I haven't been listening to my muse..but now...corona! Doesn't it sound like a pretty royal excuse to not leave the house and do something all by our lonesome?

All joking aside, the fears and dangers of corona have been largely discussed and mused about these past few weeks and I don't plan on doing a special on healthcare here, on this blog. What I'm more interested in is how to spend this newfound time we have on our hands - due to being housebound. To stay put can be a scary command for those of us who are used to busying themselves socially, in large groups of people.

I imagine, it can be quite awkward silently reading a book. Or staring at a wall, thinking, if you're not used to doing something like that. Philosophers supposedly do that all day, but these are a rare breed of people with really special needs. You may not see the immediate appeal, but I think being quarantined can be an awesome experience; it all depends on your expectations. And as a couch potato queen, procrastinative genius, lazy-boned blob myself, I promise you, if you just let it happen, you will have a blast.

There are no rules for procrastination in times of corona, except maybe to not let panic mode destroy your precious time of being in the moment. So I would not recommend on doing corona-related research on the internet. Mortality rates, nah. Stay up to date, yes, but pandemic crises reports? Only when directed by Roland Emmerich!

I have several ideas on how to spend the next few weeks. Gardening is high on my list, it would have been anyway, because it is the type of outdoors solitude I enjoy with the advantage of not having to sneeze into my crooks. I plan on reading even more, but that of course means I have to park my two kids, currently home bound with me, somewhere, where they, in turn can procrastinate all by themselves.

Shut up, you, I'm raising a new generation here!

I want to finally immerse myself in The Witcher 3, I want to watch the new season of Better Call Saul, I want to do some more illustrations, do nothing at all, paint a cabinet, declutter my kitchen. This time I will have, it's not all me running wild. I imagine it is much like life in a monastery. Solitude, a nice herbal gardening project, and lots of walking around in my robe, turning inwards for reflections and stuff.

Well, the reality will be, that I'll probably have to do a lot more kids stuff than I planned on, and I have a sneaking suspicion that solitude, when prescribed, will throw me into a reactant spiral of "You can't tell me what to do!" unrest. So maybe I'll start a rave or something, just to be a bit subversive. Other than that: greener pastures, my friends.

What are all of you going to do? Will you befriend yourself all anew? Will you practice being alone with your thoughts? That doesn't mean being asocial, you know. It just means that you, for a certain time in your life, are enough and content being around you. It's good. You're close family. Being you is one of the best things you have in your life. So, take care. Have a ball, you.

Home Is Where...

I'm in the business of arriving.

We bought a house and moved into our new place of residency two weeks ago. My boxes arrived before me, they came in a large truck while I drove up to the house with my kids and a couple of suitcases. It's good that we're all here now, finally. I know I'm supposed to be dancing. But in terms of being here, finding myself at this new place, I'm still on my way. It's a funny thing, when you leave behind an area that's trusted, well-known roads and short cuts and a house that is so familiar, you know every noise you're about to hear when someone from your family moves through adjacent rooms. 10 years is a long time. New house, new town, and it doesn't sound or smell familiar. It will someday, but it takes a lot of time. I think I need spring, yes, maybe that would be a great time to arrive, to meet everyone and shake a couple of hands. Right now I feel like I'm at the airport, waiting for my luggage to arrive. Everything's in boxes and I don't know where anything is. And my kids keep saying they want to go home. I can't argue with that. Home is a state of mind I haven't gotten around to just yet. I tell them and myself, that this is our home now. The other house is empty, another family will move in there shortly. We are here. They then nod, as though they'd understand, but I know that they don't. How can this be, their glances ask. The large truck came, it took all our belongings and it brought them here, I tell them. How can this be, I ask myself. And it's hurting a little to think that someone else will be living where we lived, invading our space. Yes, we moved. Yes, I am still moving.

Hoist The Freak Flag!

This thing that I'm about to tell you may sound extremely odd. OK, here goes. Lately, I have been worried about my freak flag. Let me explain what that means. A freak flag is a symbol for a person's level of weirdness. Everyone is a bit weird and, usually, a person's freakishness is visible to others by their flag. Brave people let them fly high up in the air. Like colorful birds, they tell the world that they are flamboyant, unique beings. The higher it goes, the farther you will see it. Hah, space even!

OK, so, in regards to my own freak flag: I think it has been in hiding ever since I had my first kid. Especially having a special needs child, I felt it was time to tuck it in. The thing is, I was afraid that people would link my boy's condition to me, and somehow look for an easy answer to why he is the way he is. I'd rather let them judge and diagnose him by an objective standard. Don't get me wrong, I think it's quite normal trying to figure out why a person is tuned a certain way, and looking at the parents for clues is one of the first things we do. Personalities vary though. My boy is odd. He's very unique. I am too. But while I'm quite shy and introverted, he's the opposite of that. Unlike him, never in a million years would you see me throwing a tantrum in public.

He's suspected of being on the verge of the autism spectrum, but, as things are progressing right now, it could still be a delay in his general development. There currently is no diagnosis that exactly fits his condition. Since most of his problems are centered around speech and social abilities, that area is where his oddity is most visible to others.

So in trying not to be at the center of blame, I made an effort to be less suspicious. I even got accustomed to talking to people. Yes, people. This may not sound like a big deal to the major part of the population, but it is to me. I'm not much of a conversationalist. Small talk makes my palms sweaty. Remembering names and faces and details to me is like playing Sudoku. Once I get it, and I know someone, I'm OK, but it's hard getting used to it. So, when my first kid was born, like all parents, I knew I had to let the world in a little. Talking to other parents, moms, professionals, doctors. And while I got a little bit of practice in doing so on a regular basis, I still feel uncomfortable at times. I think in trying to hide the freak flag, it has become even more elbowing. Because nothing is more odd to people than talking to someone who tries to hide a freak flag. It's like trying to hide a speech impairment by not talking. It's super freaking weird. And that's what I think has happened.

I should have known that overcompensating for my inner freak would not create "normal" behavior. Sometimes over-compensation works that way, with minor flaws it certainly does, but not with a whole personality. So in my quest to appear normal and together to the outside world, I forgot about my own well-being. I got a lot of stomach trouble. Now I want to go back to the old me, at least meet her halfway between crazy town and where I live now. That old me was a super creative, sensitive person who would look at her world through matted glass. I want to be her again. I am her. Freak flag, get out from under there. You're all sad and crinkled. Get up there. Fly.

To be continued!

For The Moment

I was talking to our pediatrician the other day, about how parents will do anything for the health and safety of their kids. They will drive thousands of hours to see the best doctors and do whatever it takes, and give their limbs and organs, if necessary. This conversation sparked a little stream of consciousness on the drive home. I was thinking about those moments, when kids are small babies, when, for the moment, all their needs are fulfilled and they just happily lie there in your arms and doze off, while you, as a parent, can't help but think about all the things yet to come.

Autism And Other Minor Concerns

As human beings we worry a lot. We don't seem to ever stop. We worry about our health, our safety, money, sometimes even stupider stuff, like which car to drive in our thirties, which meals to eat on a Sunday. If a burglar may kill us in our sleep, or if cancer will do the job during the light of day.

As parents, we worry about our kids, if they get enough sleep, if they eat enough of everything, if their poop's consistency is to our liking, if they experience enough of anything. These are somewhat understandable parental worries.

So, I, newly a mother of two, have been asking myself: am I doing a good job mother-wise. It's highly questionable, I will ever get an answer other than the one I can provide myself. Something scary has been going on, and it has been going on for quite a while. We have been concerned about our son's speech development for a few months. It hasn't progressed normally, even along the normal parameters for boys (expected to being slower than girls), he is far behind. At two years, kids should be able to produce 50 to 200 words, they should be able to understand up to 400 words. Plus they should be able to do such things as look a person in the eye, and, not resort to screaming when having to perform certain tasks asked to do by other persons than the immediate family.

Well, you, what can I say. Our boy didn't do well in any of said tasks. Until recently, he didn't say a single word, he didn't interact socially with people outside the family, and he didn't perform to the pediatrician's satisfaction. The result of this was an under-average performance in the developmental test, and the pediatrician telling me that judging by his behavior, my son may be in the autism spectrum. All I could say was, yes, well, OK. I didn't add the classic retort "That is yoooour opinion!" and "I'll get another opinion, you!" . No, I didn't. My reflexes were a bit off that day.

I tried to find flaws in their test, the whole setup. I couldn't. It is a standardized test, with the same conditions for everyone, so the results are representative for his age group. I then alleged a conspiracy. Doctors being greedy money makers who want to sell you stuff and services. Maybe they are. Still, they couldn't sell you anything if there wasn't a kid in need of those services.

I was next in line. It's me. Too much iPad, too little parenting. We jokingly call the iPad parental unit c in this house, just to give you a little grasp of its importance. So, it had to be me. Either something I did wrong or something my crummy genes did wrong to cause that in my boy. As it turns out, my genes are rather likely to cause that kind of disorder. Not gluten or the iPad. At least I think they don't. As it turns out we know so little about autism, or the brain in general, that there's plenty of room for all kinds of crazy theories.

"If he has it, it's all my fault, OK?" hubby said to me, while we were driving in the car. Hubby's so sweet. "I mean look at me, the way I am." Awww, my sweet little Asperger! I replied that we're both a couple of odd people with some variance of social strangeness. So in my mind, it has to be a rather explosive coming together of crummy genes. Romantic, if you think about it. We combined our flawed gene pools and what came out was an even bigger water, a big muddy sea of crummyness. Awwww!

And that changed my perspective. Yes, we're both old and horrible but we created something genuinely unique. Not saying that special always means good or easy. But no matter how this turns out, if it really is autism, some other disease or nothing at all, our boy is extraordinary, the way his brain is clocked, the way he sees and assesses objects, people, concepts. I like to watch him watch the world and it's fascinating and endearing. And that is something to be happy about rather than sad or worried. He'll be an interesting human being no matter how this plays out. It won't always be easy for him to find his place in the world. But in this world, there should be a place for interesting, off-beat, difficult and lovable.

Are We Judgmental Bitches?

I read a post on Facebook a little while ago, about a young woman who had made the conscious decision not to have any children. I think she used the word never with some exclamation points. She wrote that afterwards she got a lot of headwind for openly refusing a life with children, and a backlash was sparked amongst mothers who allegedly have a big problem with that. She continued to appeal to the rules of a civilized and equal society, to let her do what she wants and just leave her be.

A reasonable request. I found myself wondering however to what extent the societal pressure she was talking about is an issue, if though a perceived reality it may be. Is it really other people, who make her feel badly about this decision, and by extension, is it even possible for other people to make us feel anything along the lines of doubt and insecurity?

First of all it seems to be pretty demure to not want something as a life choice. It's the opposite of needing stuff to exist. Some people think they need a Porsche to survive. In case of anything materialistic, usually people go for it or they don't, depending on the effort they are willing to put in. Either way in my experience, people generally don't really care about other people's harbored ambitions or even openly voiced desires.

We may take notice when you have something that we don't have, be jealous, or decide we want it too, but that's a different story. Most of the time, other people's aspirations don't even register - we're all much too concerned with what we want anyway.

Yes, sometimes mothers, parents, will appear judgmental, mostly in comparing their own parental style which they claim to find flawless, to other, allegedly inferior styles of parenting. This is what I think it's really about: being defensive about our own shit. Attacking not to be attacked.

I don't believe there's a single mother on planet Earth who thinks she's perfect. You may have days, moments, when you think, man, I'm great, I got this whole thing figured out, but the next minute you find your kid sitting in the corner, suckling on a beat-up cat toy and you think to yourself: damn, I'm raising a monkey. Stop licking the wall, Bingo.

Anyways, so what I think it comes down to is that parents are not in the business of judging anyone for refusing the whole child experience. We may think you're missing out on something big. Because we think it's pretty big. Parents don't know what they're missing out on by having children. Adventure, travel, the great escape? Just a wild guess. Childless people don't know what they're missing out on by not having them. There is no grounds for either of us to judge here.

Be that as it may, the declaration to adhere to a certain lifestyle, any lifestyle, for the rest of your life just isn't very reasonable. How often have you thought, OK, this is it, I'm settled, this is me. Life usually doesn't work on our terms. In case something completely surprising happens, and chances are that it will, our cores may be shaken, personalities will be disheveled and everything we thought we knew will be turned upside down.

So when it comes to life, there may be no other way than to stay flexible. It seems like a bad idea to close your mind to anything, even ideas that may seem bad or plain wrong at the time. They may appear more convenient a minute from now, or when things happen and you have to deal with the altered reality in front of you. Most of the time stuff happens despite our grand proclamations. And in a moment of crisis and change, we will find out we can deal with pretty much anything, and tackle things that are very different from our current agenda, our own prejudice, and yes, even those pesky children may add something to your life you never even imagined you'd love so much. Same goes for everything else of course. New doors open. It's out of our control when they do. And that's the terrifying and fantastic thing about life.

What To Expect When You're Not Expecting

I can't say that I ever officially decided to have children - I as in my conscious decision-making self making a choice. I was quite unsure until my thirties if it would be a good idea for me at all. I presume what happened after the glorious age of 30 was that my primate brain did something to me. The cliché of the loud ticking noise, I suddenly began to hear it. First unobtrusively, then, all the time. The tinnitus I got from this must have smashed the insubordinate parts of my brain, the ones that used to yawn whenever I got the feeling I had to do something or to be a part of something, to fit some kind of stereotype. I never exactly knew how to behave around children. I was not relaxed being around them, still am not, at times. Yet it happened one day, when I saw a mother lovingly with her child in her arms, that I noticeably gasped for air. It felt liked suffocation. I wouldn't define the feeling as wanting something. I realized I didn't as much want one, as I needed a child. For my sanity. For my primate brain. This post is not a guide. This is about how I tried to remain sane during the long years of not having one, but needing a child, and badly so. In hindsight, I merely partially succeeded.


Let me think. No. Let's say you've already found out you want a child and you're working hard towards that goal. You've tried for a while and it didn't work out. Or maybe it worked, but then it didn't. What do you do to pass the time until it does? I've had three strikes in five years. Unfortunately none of them made it through the first trimester. Starting fresh after a miscarriage was hard each time. You're losing confidence in your body. You're getting super obsessive about every little circumstance that may or may not be responsible for you not getting pregnant. First of all, you have to accept, that certain things are simply out of your hands. Think positive if you can muster up the strength, but if you can't, don't feel bad for being angry. It is frustrating. It makes you crazy. Babies is probably all you can think about. If all you can think about is what you can't have, that is one very sad mental spiral to be in. It may seem as far out of reach to you as sitting on a rusty bike and dreaming about a Porsche. And then again, it may just be around the corner. Your body is torturous. Biology is a bitch. You know.

<< Don't put your life on hold This is important. You can't stop everything else, because you want a child. If you live as though you were pregnant to become pregnant, you're not doing yourself any favors. Eating raw fish, cheese, or drinking coffee or a glass of wine, lifting stuff, it's all allowed. Yes, you may blame yourself if it doesn't work out at the end of a cycle. You will do that no matter what you do, what you eat, if you did or didn't do sports, if you ate or didn't eat certain foods. I wrecked my brain each time I miscarried or didn't conceive for what I might have done wrong. The list is incredibly long when you're looking for something that can't be found. It's not that third cup of coffee. The most likely thing is that it didn't work out for a myriad of reasons. None of them are in your control. Nothing you do will guarantee the right circumstances. What did I do right when it finally happened? Nothing. Everything. I ate whatever I craved for, chocolate, mainly. I drank lots of coffee. I was too lazy to work out, and around conception time, I read a really boring fantasy book. Find the answer anywhere in there? If there is one, it says, try to mentally detach yourself from the biology behind getting pregnant. You can't finetune the incubator. Trust it, for it knows best.


<< Create your own voodoo You feel like you need to do something. Yes. Doing something seems to put people in an exceptionally positive mood. Treat your body like a temple. Imagine you're a fertile riverbed or whatever. Be aware that voodoo is voodoo. There is no medicinal value in dancing around a totem pole except the one you create in your head - placebo the hell out of it! Your state of mind is important. Placebo is your friend. Go massage your stomach with your left hand. Bath in mud. Stick needles in your chi, feng shui your bedroom. It's all good and healthy as long as it makes you feel good and there is no real chemistry involved. Stay away from strong substances. Let the doctors handle strong substances. You go to your happy place and relax.


<< Be aware of hormones There's one tiny little piece of chemistry you need to be aware of: progesterone. Especially if you have passed the presumably best childbearing age of 20. Progesterone can have influence on the actual occurrence and continuation of a pregnancy. If you're having trouble conceiving or sustaining a pregnancy over a period of time, go see a doctor. Let them monitor progesterone and hormone levels throughout your trial runs. It will help you figure out a possible deficiency and help you fix it. I took progesterone during my last (successful) trial. It may have helped. I took it some time earlier that year and it didn't. No guarantees, but chances are, it will more likely help than hurt your efforts.


<< Don't be mean to your partner (unless he or she is responsible - then, go ahead and nag him or her endlessly about it) Kidding, of course! It's so hard to stay rational. I've tried to explain this to men several times. Being theoretically able to father children until they drop, they don't seem to fully grasp the pressure-filled window we're in. It can put a serious strain on relationships when fertility is an issue. Fertility. Even the word sounds discriminatory. Whatever you do, try to hold on to the big picture. Testicles are not baby juice jars. A man is not just a donor, a woman is not an oven. Don't reduce people to their baby-making qualities. I know it sounds like a d'oh sort of thing to say, but it can be hard when you're on emotional edge. What you should think and talk about are possible consequences. Talk much. You need to be able to talk about your options. How much do you want children? More than you want to be with your partner? Think about it, and without being resentful or fearful, just play it through in your mind. Can you imagine alternative scenarios? Then think about it some more. The important and excruciating part is to not guilt your partner into staying the childless course if the problem is on your end. It's scary to think that way, but you need to do it for the sake of your relationship.


<< Cuddle your inner child

Be kind to yourself. You're of worth, you are or were at some point someone's child. What you do and how you feel is important. Find an outlet for your frustration. Do things you want to do, things you know you couldn't do with a child. Travel the world, take that crazy job offer in Helsinki. We're all just finding ways to pass the time. Having a child means passing over time to someone else entirely. You will stay the center of your own life if you don't have a child. There's an upside to that way of existing. People say that having children is the most important thing in life. I know it has changed a whole lot for me, and opened my eyes to another perspective entirely. I have never felt such love for anyone or anything in the world. It's unbearable at times. But in a larger sense, it's not that important for the world if I do or do not have children, at least not as much as it is for myself. I find that caring for someone, for a partner or a pet can do that also. My cats were my babies long before I knew my son. It doesn't matter that they never needed me as much as he does at the moment. Cats are self-sufficient beings. My son will be self-sufficient as well at some point. The transition will be painful, but I care for them either way. Cleaning the cat toilet or cleaning a diaper. One's a little less messy than the other, but in the end, it's all coming out of the same area. Poop, everywhere! Doesn't matter whose. It's all love. Good old sappy love.

Sexism Rant *Explicitly Offensive Content*

(I have been wandering around this post for days. I almost didn't publish it. I almost called for male protection aka asking hubby to publish it on his blog. And my chicken-ness infinitely disgusted me, so I had to do it. I think it speaks volumes about how dicey this actually is. Here are my two cents - I may be wrong.)

I'm sure every woman has experienced being hit on in certain situations at least once in her life. What the people who do this usually want is quite obvious. OK, I'll just say men, because they mostly are the ones to do it, fully aware that it's utterly sexist to call the bull by its name. But since women initiating flirtation with men doesn't seem to be that big an issue I feel like I'm allowed to say it. Anyways, every woman instinctively knows how to react; what to do if someone shows interest in them. If the feeling's not mutual, she usually doesn't respond or she responds negatively by saying "No, thank you" to the guy. 99,9 % of all men accept that and don't automatically cross over to raping mode. I bet most of them didn't bank on shouting "hubba-hubba" as the woman walks by would get them anywhere closer to their pants.

There's degrees of subtlety when it comes to flirtation, some approaches are more socially accepted than others. Some men say stuff like "I think I know you from somewhere" and offer to buy drinks. Usually not a problem, because it involves a polite line and freebies. Others don't beat around the bush and tell women more directly what they want. And there are those minimalists who simply grab a butt in passing. These are basically all varying degrees of the same thing, except at least one of them qualifies as harassment. Sexual advances against one's will are, of course, at all times completely illicit. No discussion necessary. But since harassment is not only a legal term but also a matter of personal interpretation, the boundaries can be quite blurry.

Call me oldfashioned - but when did the mere act of making contact become a cause for alarm? I'm talking about that infamous video with the woman walking through Manhattan. Why is it considered sexist to tell anyone that you're sexually interested in them? To my understanding it's not discriminatory to declare your interest, except if there's a disadvantage for the other person in case she does not reciprocate the feelings, like in a situation of subordination eg. But is it disadvantageous to be any random person's object of desire? Even if this person just thinks about you in a certain way, no real world consequences? I say, flirtation itself is not discriminatory, well, except, of course, to those trolls men have a preference over by choosing you. But since they're not the target, they will never file a complaint.

The way I see it is that legally we're either heading towards a unified gender - because pointing out the differences between them is considered an act of sexism - or that we're approaching an age where every remark, every lecherous glance, even every perceived un-materialized intent will be cause for legal action. I clearly woke up in the wrong century.

And these so-called modern feminists do nothing to further the cause for gender equality. And I mean true equality, not tiptoeing-around-alleged-offense equality or - yes I have to say it - professional victimhood. Equality means that certain things are either allowed or not allowed - regardless of gender. Like me, walking down the street, randomly wolf-whistling men. Allowed, and so far, none of my victims ever screamed rape. Or could it be this newfound need for awareness in truth is all about the prejudice in regards to a woman's lack of physical and or mental strength compared to the alleged male "dominance"? I have this nagging feeling some women may think that. And if that's the case, it's at the core of the deepest and darkest sexism there is, women seeing themselves as helpless victims of the much-cited patriarchy. Ladies, you seem unaware that we as a species have evolved. We have acquired laws. In fact, why do you feel the need to diminish our foremothers achievements by pretending we still live in the stone age? Thanks to legislature it is not common practice to hit women with clubs and drag them away to some remote cave. I fear that since you ordered that Victorian, we'll all be going to pay for it at some point. No freebies. Holy shitballs!

A list of all sexisms listed in this rant according to modern feminist standards

Naively calling the abuse of women "hitting on".

Degrading canine behavior to the level of male humans through the use of "hubba-hubba".

"Getting into pants" as an expression of sexual advances when clearly every woman is allowed to wear a skirt.

Calling women cheap, because they like freebies.

Using the vulgar expression "beating around the bush".

Discriminating against unattractive people by calling them trolls.

Using the term Victorian as a cocktail. A Victorian is not a drink, but a dark age of oppression which no one should ever be allowed to make fun of.

"Holy shitballs" - Accusing men of being such pigs, fecally soiling their babymakers is a natural occurrence. Blasphemy also. My guess is most women wouldn't have a problem with either of that.

So...happy!

Remember good old me; me whining, me complaining? In fact - I'm known for that - with whiny rant being my street name and all that. That's a big part of this blog, ranting, finding some kind of fault in many of the things regarding..well, all things. It's as vague as that. I guess you could call it "judgmental". So what happened? In short: I don't find fault in things anymore. I have been walking around in a haze of awwww! Pretty scary. Could it be as simple as squeezing out life, giving birth to another human being?

Yes, I guess it could. I must have shed some of the bad stuff as well as baby and baby juice. Awwww! (Ok, I at least manage to make fun of me.) So, dear audience, what is more annoying - someone who complains or a happy, mildly besotted person who smiles a little more often and lets go some of the stuff that would have bothered her before. Please don't answer - rhetorical question!

There is an undeniable creativity in being mildly angry at the world. Finding quirk to all things is an original activity, like you wouldn't believe the calories being burnt that way and the satisfactory feeling you get by being able to do this without having to do squat thrusts. Well, for now, goodbye soul-eating quirk. Not sure that I liked you all that much to begin with. Say hello to silly momma, your bundle of joy. Still some kind of edge, but more fuzzy and covered in chocolate.

This change must be a residue, caused by some of the hormones, right? It must wear off at some point. Because I didn't just have brain surgery. And I can't remember having suffered any other kind of other head trauma. I'm not eating differently. I'm not even doing anything differently except for the additional baby routine. Sleeping less, well, yes, there's stupid in that. Other than that, nothing. Nothing but contentment and not a single cloud in sight.

I guess the demons of the world must be assembling rrrrright now..

A Myriad of Farts, Pay and Perks

Wow, this is exciting, maybe one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me - becoming a parent. Before Junis entered this world I was aware in somewhat vague terms that the birth of a child would supposedly turn one's life upside down. But to what extent - I had no idea. Starting with the process of giving birth. What a horrible piece of train wreck biology! It must be one of the most flawed things in all of nature. Yes, there are several drugs to make it bearable, but still, it's no pony ride - unless those ponies were sent from hell. I'm still in recovery and except for the permanent psychological trauma, I'm expecting to be back to my old self until the end of this year.

Anyways, with the delivery slogged out, the fun part starts - which entails tending to the needs of our baby boy. It's an adjustment, for a lack of sleep and a wild cocktail of hormones keep rocking my body. I'm getting used to it, and all the other things that have become more important now than pretty much everything I used to take for granted before - like personal hygiene or writing blog posts. These new priorities revolve around baby's well-being; his feeding schedule, my breasts, anti-colic bottles, strollers, burps and digestion, vaccination, and my breasts. I did mention my breasts twice, because of their significance in the baby equation. I'm sure I'm forgetting 3000 other things, but at least half of them do also have to do with my breasts. It doesn't matter, as there will be a few hundred new ones with each new week.

The baffling thing about all of this change: it is the ultimate happy drug. Having baby is a pleasure, even grumpy, moody and sometimes whiny baby is a joy to be around with. Knowing it's suddenly there when it wasn't a few months earlier is mind-boggling, and it even makes mundane things, like driving a car or going grocery shopping more fun.

Chillin' at the doctor's lounge

Suddenly I know there is a purpose in me doing these chores. Over the last few years, the excitement of self-preservation has slightly worn off. Yes, my own survival has always been important to me. But now it's even more important for me to stay alive. Baby needs me and my breasts (amongst other things, but mainly those two). It's a bit daunting to be needed that much, but it's also somewhat flattering.

Another thing I have been thinking about is how community pays court to parents, and especially mothers. There is this club you suddenly belong to. Gift bags get sent to you by the local council, banks are eating humble pie just so you open an account. Even the local tax office welcomed baby with bureaucratically open arms. It seems like women are given premiums for having their vaginas shredded. And then there's tax breaks, pay and perks, getting treated like royalty, just as if we have done something extraordinarily. It is a life-changer for us parents, yes, but what do the authorities have to gain? Another tax payer I guess, and possibly a potentially hardworking bee.

I'm still amazed at how I survived the delivery. But as to the act of conception, and to quote Bill Maher: it's something a dog can do. Well dogs can and they do do it, but not all humans can or want to do it. For most of us thirty-somethings, the act of procreation is not left up to chance. We're not completely surprised when that strip turns pink - as we know we doinked that month. It's good we have an awareness about it and a choice to do or not to do it, unlike our mothers and grandmothers. Yet, having belonged to the other, "less glamorous" club of childless couples for quite a while, I feel a teensy bit uncomfortable about the fact that we're rewarded for one and not the other.

Cell Lineage: In Rememberance of What I've Lost

The thing Wikipedia so lovingly calls Microchimerism is a beautiful concept. It implies that a woman's loss is not solely a loss, as research has shown that fetal cells transfer to a mother during pregnancy and remain there for decades. And what's surprising is that even if a pregnancy doesn't come full term, those fetal cells remain in the mother's body. Women may have long lost a child, and still carry a memento of it within themselves, in my case, it's even more than one blueprint. What exactly these cells do, and how they affect the mother's body is largely unknown. Autoimmune reactions like Graft-versus-host as in bone marrow transplants are discussed as a consequence, in which the host's body cells are attacked; another, more positive theory is that feto-maternal cells act as rejuvenating stem agents, said to support healing processes. It's possible they do nothing but innocently stand by and mind their own business.

In any way, I have never thought about my past miscarriages as anything but painful events that cruelly display the finality of mother nature. Since statistically most of them happen for genetic reasons, I can't even get mad at mother nature for screwing with me and my hopes and dreams. Each time I hoped to pass the maternal inspection, and failed within the first trimester. Until now.

Luckily, this current one has passed that stage and is well on its way to be living proof of cell lineage in my body. And although I couldn't be happier, I'm thinking about those past losses quite regularly. Not that I miss those fetuses, as I wouldn't know how to miss the raw potential of lives I haven't gotten to know, but dealing with loss is never easy. I don't know if the comparison is particularly suitable, but when I lost my very first cell phone several years ago, I didn't know exactly why and where, or how it happened. I just saw that it was gone after the fact, and since large amounts of alcohol were involved that evening, retracing my steps seemed impossible. After the realization had sunk in, I didn't even know where to look for it. Not knowing haunted me. In nature as in pregnancy, the reasons for hit-and-miss may be conceivable to the initiators, (as to the thief who potentially took my cell, or mother nature, who potentially took the fetus) but they are never as clear to us humans, potential mothers - or cell phone users.

Hearing about Microchimerism propitiates me, as it sheds new light on the concept of existence, thus proving me wrong. In nature nothing is ever final. Existence is a definite state, like the number 1 opposed to 0, and it means that if there once is something, there will always be something else. Something can never have nothing as a consequence. Once we get used to the concept of transformation, remnants of life can be seen everywhere, for everything that exists once existed, even if the cause for it may have long disappeared to the naked human eye. Since everything always leads to something else, there is no such thing as true loss.

Those fetal cells, albeit detached and altered as compared to their initial configuration, are alive in my body, same as my old cell phone may exist on a pile of trash somewhere in Ghana; not alive, but present, somewhere. It may be a small consolation to anyone who has lost something, or someone close to their heart, but it is comforting to know, that although things and beings are in a state of flux, some part of them remains - in some form or another.

Can't wait to get to know the little guy - or girl!

Decomposing Buttocks Rant

The older I get the more I think of my body as a letdown. I'm astonished at what a rotting, quickly festering meat bag it is! The process of aging is like moving into a relatively new building, where, once you sit down to unpack the crates, cold gusts of wind blow through holes in the walls and start tearing them down. And while I tend to care less and less about such trivial things as appearance, it's still not a very good feeling to lose confidence in one's vitality with teeth, rotting; organs, asleep or failing and hair, falling out in some areas, springing like bamboo in others.

How could anyone say that the human body is a well-designed masterpiece? This thing?! Only if it had been done by a drunk four-year-old would I be mildly impressed. We're basically walking compost piles, and we have no control over which parts grow and which ones fall off; yes, it may be ecofriendly to be living in a world of compost, but it's not pretty. And it smells.

Just because our bodies work for a limited period of time doesn't mean that either they or the system that created them are flawless entities. By the way, bio-degradable is not the stamp I want to proudly wear on one of my flapping butt cheeks, I'd rather be totally non-degradable.
I don't care for half-life, I want doubling time!

Me Whining, Part V

Hi, my name is Dana and I live in fear. Fear is my constant companion, you might even say she's one of my close personal friends, and many of the things I do are driven by the dark nagging hunch that there might just be something going terribly wrong with this world. Unfortunately, deep down I know that everything is wrong. How can things be right anyhow, in a place, where life is the most impossible and random event ever, the most arbitrary of all things to occur. I know the pains of trying to conceive. It can be difficult for some people, including myself. So on the one side, there is not-life, the hindrance towards something, the positive gatekeeper. And then also, we have Death, the eternal party pooper, to the other end of the spectrum. I almost wrote rainbow instead of spectrum, but I'm much too bitter to even think rainbow right now. What is there to say about horrible, selfish, gut-twisting Death, the sad end to a concept that wasn't exactly cheerful to begin with? I know. I'm turning into this depressed wailing creature and I can't blame it on anyone but myself. As far as I know, this year I'm giving good old crybaby Nietzsche a run for his money! Sorry about that. The issue has been dealt with before, whined about a lot, by poets, scientists, and walking, thinking, conscious beings all through the ages, and still, I feel as though it hasn't been said quite enough.


You suck, Death. Go away.

Me, Whining Part IV

What to do in a crisis - who to turn to for guidance. The self-help isle offers a lot of things, books with promising titles, such as "Twitter your way to a better life." If only...

There is lots of stuff out there, on how to deal with your loved ones' illness. You know, the basic world asunder kind of manuals.
I don't think any of them can help me. For these last few weeks, David has been quite unwell. Ever since this year the medical issues have changed for the worse, a vertiginous downwards spiral of life-threatening instigators and residue from it. We can't seem to clean up the debris fast enough.


Having one problem area opened the floodgates for other stuff, problems on top of problems.
I have lost some things in the fire. Body weight, first of all. That's not too bad actually. The second thing is worse. My spark. Although things are looking up now, I'm still missing it. For whatever reason, I've always gone through life assuming I was born under a lucky star. Yes, I always kept my eye on that rainbow. Well, not anymore. Now I'm thinking I may just be the anode of tragedy. Someone or something is punishing me, and I don't understand why.


I used to be convinced of another thing, that is to say that "everything happens for no reason." Not to eliminate physical cause and effect from the equation, but in the sense that there is no moral incitement in what we do here on earth, other than the one society provides (like jail-time for bad behavior). All my life, I've felt neither punished nor rewarded for the things I do, least of all by some cosmic force. Lately, however, I can't shake off the thought that there just may be someone out there to get me..

Who and what is it this entity wants? Me to live in fear? Done. Me to realize that all is mortal? Done. Me to expect the worst rather than the best? Also done. Yes, it could always be worse. But it could also be better. That's how chickens talk.

If it's all a scheme to make me a worshiper, forget it. I won't be bullied into making curtsies. If you can hear me, great spirit of cosmic sanctioning, then state your claim. Post a comment. Let's negotiate.

Me, Worrying Part III

Sunday, 10/2, later that day


I'm yelling at the poor woman at the doctor's office. My voice sounds unusually loud and hard. "Don't give him just Ibuprofen..I wouldn't have taken him to the emergency doctor if that was all he needed." 

I don't know if it's distrust on her part, or thinking him an addict wanting to score pain medication, or if she just thinks nothing at all. 

There is something deeply terrifying about watching someone you love being in excruciating pain. 

My husband squirms on that bench like a snake, holding his stomach with both his hands. He can't talk, and if he makes an effort, the noise that comes out doesn't even sound human.

No, I'm thinking, that's not just another colic. That is something much much worse.

"How old is your husband?", the other woman asks me.
"37," I hear myself say. No, but that's not right.
"Sorry, I meant to say he's 38." She crosses out 37, and scribbles the number 38 in the column.
No, that's not right either. She runs out of the room so quickly, I can't tell her. At this point I don't remember how old he is, or what year he was born in. No, not anything, just thick clouds of fog.

The next thing I know is that the guys from the ambulance are hurdling up the stairs. They appear to have some instinct about what hubby might be suffering from. I keep thinking you're wrong, it's not the heart, but who am I to tell them what it is not.  

No bowel activity. At least that should ring some kind of bell. 
But it doesn't. 

As they carry him down the stairs and take him out, up to the ambulance I find myself looking away. The gurney shrieks, and yammers. It has been used way too often. It deserves a break. Next thing I know - I'm sitting in my car, backed into a parking space. The ambulance is behind me, and I'm parked in. The lights keep on flashing. I'm waiting for them to drive away.  

I hope they don't use the horn. 

It must be 15 minutes until they leave, but I could be wrong. I'm sitting quietly, like a ghost in the dark. I don't even remember how I got home. I shouldn't have driven myself. My hands were too far away from my brain that day. 


Even later..


I'm home. Why don't we have a sports bag? I'm packing a suitcase instead, a wheelie case. A vacation trolley does send some kind of eccentric weirdo message, but it's all I have. After all, a stay in the hospital is not a self-discovery adventure trip. Or is it?

Packing now. First things first. 

He should have his earplugs, and his iPad. To him, that's usually more important than things to wear or a razor. I'm thinking about what I would need in that kind of situation, except for the strength to hold on to dear life. I'm packing socks, all in different shades of dark blue. I grab several T-shirts, pants. I'm on autopilot now. 

I'm making surprisingly calm phone calls to people and I write emails. It doesn't make sense to me, why I do it. Just so they know? I'm just worrying everybody, including myself. I should keep my yap shut, I'm thinking as I write, and call, and tell people, what little I know about my husband's condition.

I'm on the road, it's pitch black. The night is icy and incredibly cold. I'm driving by instinct. I have been at this hospital before. Some part of me knows the way. I'm deadly afraid of arriving. What if he's dead, I'm thinking. I almost crash into a parking car on the side of the road. No such thoughts, I'm thinking. Part of me wants to cause a huge pile up. Be done with it. 

What little control I had that day.

Incredibly late


I'm there, at the hospital where fluorescent lights and ugly ambiance guarantee everyone a horrible time. The waiting area with piles of old magazines and stained coffee mugs is uninviting. People have been waiting here all day. For years. I'm approaching the receptionist. 

"Is..he alive?" is all I can muster up to say.
"Who?"
I'm thinking, shit, someone died. She looks at me like I'm nuts. 
I probably deserve it. 
I tell her his name. 
"He's still in the emergency room. It will take a while." 
And so it does. 

The hours poke along the corridors and the thick doors rarely swing open. There is Room 1 and Room 2. Voices inside. Someone tells me to stay outside and wait. Too afraid to go inside anyways. 

There are fat people, people with masks, people without teeth, bleeding people, and they are all waiting, most of them to be taken into custody. One person keeps busy talking to himself. Not a bad idea, I'm thinking. If it calms him down. I'm sitting there, waiting for some kind of sign. Maybe from god, or someone else dressed in white, who knows.

People are either idiots or they don't know how to talk to people in distress. They just swing those words around. Severe....acute..the word pancreas keeps floating around. And gall stone blockage. And transfer to another hospital. Yes, I'm nodding, OK; I get it. Another ambulance arrives, more people with masks come out. They let me see him now - my feet are like pudding as I approach the gurney. 

He's white as a sheet, and the grey in his hair and beard stands out in the harsh light. He looks unfamiliar.

And yet, when he slowly lifts his hand and puts it in mine, it feels so warm. Familiar. I'm thinking, yes, that's him. That's the one I know.

"I need my iPhone.." he whispers..
And I'm thinking, good, he's still there. 

He's all geared up. 
He will put up a fight. 

And as they carry him off into the dark, that one saying keeps flashing in my mind...

...the one about living our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.

And I'm thinking, yes, I know he will.

Me, Worrying Part II

First of all, my husband is alright. It turned out to be some kind of gastric infection, not the big C, or the little one (ulcer). He has to drink tea, not coke and eat soup, not chips and he will live to be a hundred. I feel very relieved.

As I wrote the reply to John's comment to Part I earlier, I thought a bit more about the whole concept of being worried and what it all boils down to, with me, not being worried about my husband dying within short time anymore.

My worries are pretty much like the little red warning light flashing in my car. I don't always know what it means. It sometimes lights up when I drive faster than the tiny car thingy can handle, but I couldn't put my finger on the exact moment it will appear.

It oftentimes feels like a seemingly mundane worry is a serious one in disguise. I was seriously worried about poor hubby, so let's not take that as an example. The flashing light in my car, that's a different story. Brave little Peugeot might never break down, even with the red light being there, flashing from time to time. Then again, it might break down without some kind of prior announcement.
After all, it's a warning light, not an omen.

That should be the lesson. I might not be warned before something horrible happens. But still, the light keeps on flashing in my mind. In case my car breaks down tomorrow, I will have to deal with that horrible guilt. Because then I'll tell myself that I knew that something was up and I told me so, several times! It's the guilt I know I'll be feeling for not doing it regardless. And that is the most dreadful thing there is. Guilt. I try to avoid it as much as I can.

In the end it doesn't really matter if the car breaks down or not. It might even be some kind of rewarding experience if it did, and not the nightmare I imagine it to be. So I will have to force myself to ignore the light. That's my new motto. Ignore the light. There will be other ones that cannot be ignored, but until then, I'll live a little. And enjoy velocity.

Me, Worrying

The most pitiful thing about me is that I am a worrier. Not warrior. That would be cool.
No, I am worrying. Constantly, about everything. It's not always justified.

Tomorrow is trash day. OMG, did I take out the trash or will I have to sit on stinky leftovers for another week or two?
Did I make a mistake with the salary statement I submitted? Will they think I did it deliberately? Will they be mean to me in jail?
Why does my car make these strange noises? Should I really continue ignoring that flashing control light?
Did I tip the lady in the bakery enough?
(In case she hands out the poisoned bread to unfriendly no-tip customers!)

I could think of a million other trivial things.

Interestingly enough all those minor concerns dissolve into nothingness when there is one giant reason sitting on my chest. I can't eat nor sleep. My husband is sick. He has severe stomach cramps. He is vomiting nonstop. Even the water he drinks doesn't stay inside. There is nothing left in his system but he still can't stop. What if it's an ulcer?
Or something else with c?
I am not worried anymore. By now, it's full-blown panic.