The Right Way To Do It

Ten tips for a good sex life that also apply to horrible, terrible, magic, stupid new year's eve.

1. It's not just about kissing.

2. Exfoliate.

3. You won't get what you want unless you ask for it.

4. Sometimes you won't get it.

5. Lower your goddamn expectations.

6. Breathe, bitch.

7.  It doesn't matter how anyone else likes to do it.

8. It matters quite a bit how you like to do it.

9. Remember any of us could die at any moment.

10. Stay hydrated.

Happy Fucking

New Year

On Mixed Blessings

It's two days before Thanksgiving, and I'm putting cinnamon oil on my feet. I'm trying to drive down the sporadic fever this cold brought along. What a small miracle it is that I can do this, that I have a body that responds to this, that I have a body that can fight a cold. What a small miracle it is that I live in the kind of house where there's oils and someone who can tell you what to do with them.

Earlier in the week I was cursing this cold with all my might. Everyone at work had it before me, the same cough, same weakness, same fever and chills. I cursed the crazed mindset of the American worker who cannot bear to miss a day of work even when contagious and the corrupt financial system that effectively prohibits one from doing so. I'm driving a rental car up the snow-threatened Northeast corridor tomorrow from North Carolina. Roommate and her dog in tow. I am desperately worried about money and worried about the jobs I'm not finding and the pieces I'm not writing because my body is sick. I spend so much of my time wrestling with how to spend it that when I have to face a physical reality, when I am forced to rest, there comes a twisted relief that I then feel guilty about feeling. Call it faking-a-sick-day syndrome.

But here I am, rubbing cinnamon oil onto the soles of my feet, feeling it draw the heat down from my temples. I'm drinking the fanciest orange juice I could find at the discount grocery store and filling the tub, rubbing cedarwood and eucalyptus onto my chest, watching streaming Gilmore Girls on my parents' Netflix account.  The dryer is churning in the back room. The dog pads in wearing her green sweater and gives me her soft, sweet, single-tongue-swipe kiss. I activate my credit card so I can rent this car and the sweetest woman named Beth wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving.  I have friends coming over later to celebrate our departure, still others that have reached out to check on me while I've been sick.

There are too many disgusting and horrible things happening in our country this week to handle. My head is awash in homeopathic cough medicine and hours of smart, snappy dialogue and endless images of cities torn apart, families suffering, so much hate and fear that I find myself astounded--wounded, even--to realize that there is no moral consensus when it comes to atrocity. How I hate knowing this, how dumbfounded and powerless I feel in its raw, basic truth.

What relief I might feel if it were true that everyone reacted to murder in the same way, if everyone reacted to rape the same way. Just on a human level--some kind of a stable response to injustice, to trespass. But it's not that way. We all empathize to different extents, we all have blind spots, we all react out of fear in some circumstances and with love in others. And a lot of those characteristics come from our backgrounds, the experiences we have had or not had, the education we've been granted. I know this intellectually but in practice it is dark, it is enraging, it is threatening, and it is fucking sad. It's sad to me that I can look in the face of someone I know--even love--and see that we will not agree on Ferguson, will not agree about Bill Cosby, will be incapable of arriving at the same conclusions.

I'm shaving my legs, visions of snow-proof outfits dancing in my head. I'm drinking tea with elderberry and hibiscus. I'm rubbing vegetable glycerin into my face, into my new tattoo to make it soft. The beauty of my rib cage with its new black words in the mirror takes my breath. And even so my own existence is making me angry. My own complicity in these disgusting and horrible things taking place, my own inability to do anything to assuage the grief my heritage has directly produced.

A day or two ago I explained to the politically-minded man I'm sleeping with that just because my rapist will never be convicted of a crime doesn't mean a crime didn't occur. I found I have to ungrit my teeth to do it, I have to relax, I have to trust that I will be heard. Saying it out loud melts something in me, tempers somehow the unfathomably deep well of anger. But it still hurt. It still cost me something.  But the melting happened and the gap that had been between us for a moment suddenly wasn't and I also have to take that as a small miracle.

My body is racked with this cough. These sparse connections and disconnections are racking my mind. I want to take the whole world by the shoulders, shake it into waking up. The sheer frustration I feel is hot grit, a glaring, malignant error, a pebble in your shoe that is actually crippling you. My legs are smooth under the hot water. Luke is forgiving Lorelai for saving his dead father's boat. I received a book of poetry recently. On the last page it says "Explaining will get us nowhere." On the last page it says "We are all just trying to be holy."*

*Richard Siken, Crush

Beauty Tips For The Mentally Deranged

Read on if you are one of the following:

A bad bitch

Living in relative poverty

Lazy femme

A witch

Struggling under the nightmarish oppression of the capitalist patriarchy (hint: you are)

Not likely to be fazed by knowledge of my most intimate and outlandish beauty rituals.

I may have refused to wear a shirt until the age of 11 or 12, and thrown many a tantrum against the hegemony of scratchy tights and underwear, but I've also always been drawn to the girly side of life. Even as a small child, watching my mother get ready, selecting perfume, applying her makeup, brushing her hair, I recognized the power of female beauty rituals: the staking of a claim, the celebration of the mysterious, the cultivation of small, sensual pleasures, the attention to self. In becoming a woman, I felt I had found something worth belonging to and worth fighting for--I had a strong instinct that pursuing the feminine would not weaken me. I saw and still see these routines as one way to navigate a world that is brutally unkind to female bodies and female expression.

Over years of experimentation, I learned how to make my appearance into one tool of many to wield; I learned how to incorporate my sexuality, my contradictions, my personality into a series of coherent looks that I could always rely upon to make me feel better no matter what was happening: the failing grade, a relationship ending, odious social events. During the inevitable dark times, I clung to this cultivation as a life-saving device that helped restore my equilibrium when I’d been knocked on my ass.

Now, I see my beauty routines as a core part of who I am, a core part of the way I choose to fight my way through life. My rituals are my refuge. The care I take with my appearance is how I access my creativity, my subversion, my power, my joy, my don't-give-a-fuck. It's part of how I practice self-care, how I draw boundaries for myself, how I prepare myself for life's challenges. It's how I experience freedom. Every lesson has been hard won. Here's a few of my best.

Get weird with it The only real reason you need to do anything to your appearance is to make yourself happy. If, at the same time, you look hot as fuck constantly and scare the shit out of people (read: men) on a regular basis, all the better. Face glitter on a random Wednesday, mixed patterns, daring hair--there is really nothing too out there that you can’t try at least once. No one is watching you as much as you think. There’s nothing new under the sun--that can depress you or energize you.  Make all the combinations, revisions, and decisions that please you the most and you can’t go wrong. Fear nothing. Trial-and-error is everything. Experimentation is the reason that adorable sweater vests from Goodwill are now safe from me, and fake eyelashes will remain unattached to my body.

Take your time I am rabid about my getting ready time, whether it’s a full hour in the afternoon or the ten minutes before my date gets to the bar or the five minutes in the bathroom before work. That is my time, and god help the person who impinges on it.  Taking my time with my appearance is how I mentally prepare for whatever I’m about to do. Life is very short and goes by very fast. Outfits are how I mark occasions (even the Tuesday farmer's market) and how I celebrate myself. Also, getting ready is fucking fun. I put on music, arrange all my tools in front of me, sashay around the room gazing at myself in the mirror, noticing each tactile step: pulling on my tights, my fingers on my face, that split-second wetness of fresh mascara, the way my hair smells while I’m drying it. Claiming my time and my right to use it however I wish is powerful. No one else tells me when I’m ready but me.

Dirty as you wanna be Most of the time, my finished look is pretty damn girly, and if not exactly conservative, contains some element of class and restraint. But I only cultivate that by channeling my inner beast. You know, the one whose hair gets that sheen from the potato chip crumbs in her bed and crazy afternoon sex. The one with secretly ripped tights and menstrual blood underneath her fingernails.  Being a little wild and frankly, gross with some of my beauty rituals frees my spirit. Digging the dirt means I have to be more inventive--the quickly unsmeared eyeliner from the night before, the half-damp paper towel used in the bathroom to bring a flush to my cheeks. The curiously effective exfoliation from the dirt trapped in the lipstick rolling around the bottom of my bag. Embracing filth keeps me from becoming a slave to my beauty standards--I know how to find a way to look as good as I want to even when I've spent the day tramping around the woods, driven a car through the night, been caught in a rain-storm, or just slept through my alarm. Beauty becomes a survival strategy for me in this way, makes me into less of a weird slob and more of a dirty-haired, no bra, dark-circles hungover witch who’s gonna ride her red-wine stained lips into history.

Feel your way Looking good is feeling good, and vice versa. Sometimes I look my hottest when I'm actually feeling sad as shit, because I use my beauty arsenal to work out my feelings and adjust my look accordingly, and I use my feelings to adjust my beauty arsenal. Confrontations with roommates require muscle tees and braided hair. Drab afternoons when I've spent all day in bed require short, tight dresses and unruly waves. When I feel out-of-control I bring out the fancy underwear, collared shirts, and slightly binding mini-skirts. Feeling picked on and I go for baggy jeans, pale colors, and extra lipstick. Thick eyeliner and perfume when I'm meeting someone new. Anger is obviously a black dress. Feeling your way means wearing lacy tights because i like how they feel when I'm sliding myself into my lover's car, or asking myself what Buffy would wear to work if she also had to bus tables for a living. I have a coat I wear when I need to feel like a rich, impossible bitch and one I wear when I need to feel like a country fairy-tale princess. I've busted more than one bad mood just by putting my hair in a side ponytail.

Damn the man The man is out to get you to buy as much shit as possible, unrelentingly and without exception, from now until civilization collapses (so only a few weeks left to go). Don’t throw good money after bad and spend your hard-earned cash when you don’t need to. Shampoo is body wash. Conditioner is shaving cream, lipstick is blush, men’s razors are cheaper, fingers are just as good as most any makeup brush. I aspire to buy only all-organic fair-trade locally-sourced unicorn-tested products but until that happy day arrives most of my beauty shit comes from the dollar store or the grocery store. Baking soda, coconut oil, vaseline, sea salt, witch hazel, apple cider vinegar are some of my cheap go-tos. You can make a delightful scrub just using some sugar and the coffee grounds you were going to throw away (er, compost) anyway. Sticking to the drug-store, combining/re-purposing products, or making my own shit helps me stave off the class envy and depression I go through looking at the Sephora website and keeps me able to afford all the lavender oil my anxious little heart requires.

Be a healthy-ass evolved bitch Being hot is about a lot more than products. It’s not even really about technique. Being hot is a state of mind. When I do push-ups while I’m getting ready, or meditate to the sound of my blow-dryer, I’m getting myself into an optimal state of hotness.  I take my vitamins while I get ready, create mantras, fantasize about my writing, drink huge jars of water, put garlic everywhere (yes, there) stretch and move, light incense and pray. When I eat a really good meal I feel it in my hair, no joke. So use your beauty routine to get right with yourself and become stronger. Masturbate before you get ready. Dance. Make your shower a crazy sacred temple where there’s always a  candle ready to be lit and you’re allowed to think anything you want.  I had a boyfriend who hated when I wore makeup, another one who nearly cried when I cut my hair, another who forbid me from wearing sheer tops. Every time I shake my ass in my mirror, put on red lipstick, take off a layer someone else might want me to leave on, every time I take a risk or a breath, I’m setting myself free.

On Having A Day

I had the chance to engage in some truly superlative activities today. A five-dollar yoga class, a drive by myself, coffee and water, sitting in the steam room, thrifting. A dream day off--floor swept, dishes done, time to myself, plenty of sleep, the prospect of a long afternoon spent luxuriating in preparing for a dinner date in the evening.

And some truly superlative things happened.

I wore my roommate's amazing yoga pants that are somehow deliciously comfortable and make me weep over my own ass. I had on my favorite hoodie that I rescued from a broken relationship, soft and grey with "KINK" instead of "PINK" written in white across the chest. A perfectly worn-in white bra under an orange tee that grazes my hips exactly. Beat up blue tennis shoes I bought in Las Vegas this summer.

I managed to bring water, cash for the class, my debit card, an elastic for my hair, a banana, and still have time to stop and put ten dollars of gas in the car. Triumphs all for the attention-deficit.

There was a choice parking spot in front of the yoga studio I pulled into with a minute to spare.

Ten other women and I breathed and stretched and balanced and sweated and rested for an hour.

I bought coffee and garlic and boric powder capsules and a spinach-ricotta croissant for myself.

I went to the place I used to work and held my longest-ever headstand in a glowing patch of sunlight on a black yoga mat on a wooden floor.

At Goodwill I found my dream red blouse, a slouchy-but-tailored grey sweater from J. Crew, a lacy black shirt I can wear to work in all weather, little grey stripy socks. Elton John was on the radio and I fingered all the baby Halloween costumes and admired myself even in the awful fluorescence of the dressing room--my strong freckled arms, the hair falling down my back, the shadow of a bruise on my inner thigh. No one talked to me or hit on me or gave me a hard time in any way.

The ride home offered crisp breeze, falling golden light on mountains slowly becoming a riot of color.

When I got home, there was a warm, tan egg left in the nook of our porch recliner on a blue blanket.

And yet.

I scuffled with my sister over coffee and putting gas in the car and slammed the door when I left the house. "Everyone here drives like a fucking idiot" was my audible soundtrack on the drive downtown. I bitched inwardly all through my opening meditation because the class I thought I would be attending is no longer offered.  Every time a piece of clothing dropped off its hanger and onto the floor I let out a sigh the sheer force and desperation of which could move governments.

I ran into my old boss and friend at the Y and followed the interaction down into all the ways I had failed in that job and all the ways I had failed in that friendship. I cursed the ache in my back as I bent to try on clothes, brought on by a long, hard weekend at the restaurant. The thought of my sixteen-dollar purchase against the enormity of my debt and my dreams worked me over, punishing in its narrowness. The tiny batman costume made my insides clench with sorrow.

Sometimes truly perfect days offer themselves to us at a time when we are unprepared to accept them. Writing this down helps. Taking deep breaths helps, movement helps, and eating something good. Music can get me there, or cleaning up my bedroom. And sometimes even taking these small steps to feel better can be the hardest goddamnest son-of-a-bitch of a thing to ask of ourselves. We have to try, I think, to do them anyway, even when the benefit is not immediately forthcoming. We have to trust that it's on the way.

In some ways I cherish these days even more than the easy ones. The days I feel like ungodly shit for no reason at all, the days where I am 112 pounds of sheer rage one moment and a puddle on the floor the next, restless, despairing, scared, at loose ends.

I remind myself I'll feel differently soon. I ask myself questions about what I am experiencing and why. I try to notice all the good things that are happening even while there's an anvil on my chest or a vise around my brain. I sit with my sadness and my stupid hurt feelings and my pain and I make allowances for them even when I feel to do so is a waste of precious time.

It's not. It's good work if you can get it.

A Note On Sleep

A revelation I had this weekend that cannot wait for a full-length post to relay: Your day should prepare you for sleep, not the other way around.

Think about that, witches!

Weekend Superlatives

My facebook status upon returning home from my Saturday double at the restaurant reads as follows:

to the man who tipped me a dollar for bringing him a to-go box and some mustard, you are a class act and you deserve a lifetime of unequivocal contentment and peace. to the man who asked me if i'd dropped my smile, you are no gentleman at all and you deserve a lifetime of increasingly disquieting impotence occuring at the worst possible moments.‪#‎weekendsuperlatives‬ ‪#‎becarefulwhatyouwitchfor‬

You really are exposed to the best and the worst of people in my line of work. The table of thirty-somethings who complimented my guns from across the restaurant get an a plus. The bachelorette party rendered deaf by their own screaming, not so much.

I think customers and servers alike could benefit from trying to be the best part of someone's day rather than the worst.

And with that corny sentiment, this is one ketchup-dipped debutante who's putting herself to bed. Here's to the rest of the weekend.

How To Not Lose Your Shit at Work

There's a passage at my work that connects the kitchen to the bar. Actually, the passage is a brewery. I announced to one of the bartenders, on a recent afternoon, that I routinely find myself talking aloud when I'm walking through that space alone.

"What do you say?" she asked me.

 "Oh, I just give myself little pep-talks!"

She laughed and gave me a look I've grown accustomed to receiving in reaction to my more cheerful moments. We chatted about the content of these private outbursts. Then, this slow, rainy, moon-y Thursday evening, she suggested that I write a post about those talks to myself in the brewery. I've elaborated on her idea with a few of my best tips for staying sane in the soul-sucking chaos of the modern workplace. While this refers specifically to restaurant work, I think these life-saving strategies will assuage the pains of a range of jobs, especially in the service industry.

1. Preparation is everything. My shifts go much more smoothly when I've prepared: sleeping as well as I can, eating a meal, having the tools that will get me through the day, from an emergency banana, to my watch,  to a favorite essential oil. Provide for yourself and you'll be amazed how much lighter you feel before even setting foot in the building. Make sure you have any extras you need: a couple elastics, pain-killers, tissues, gum, a tampon for you and a friend, your phone charger, adjust freely. A server with a full and organized bag is a happy server.

2. Flair is real. It may have prompted the most righteous flicking off ever in Office Space, but expressing your personality with your style is one of the most honest-to-goodness ways I know to stay calm and happy in a work setting. Work drains me. Work can feel like a place where I'm erased. The right earrings, a scarf, my shirt tucked in just so--these little things help me hold onto my self. I need to wear all-black and no tank-tops, for god's sake!  I cope with the dehumanization by wearing my hair in a signature style, dressing consciously, and performing some basic grooming rituals beforehand. This can be anything from a full-blown home-spa bath experience (try epsom salts!) to just splashing cold water on my face in the bathroom and tying a bandana on my dirty hair. (Speaking of which. Dry shampoo. It will change your life). Dressing the part distinguishes between who I am at work and who I am at home, and bringing some of myself into my work attire bridges that gap.

3. Don't take it personally. I try to approach each shift as a radical experiment in practicing detachment. Whether it's a glance, a sigh, a rant, remember: it's not about you. Not taking it personally means drawing a boundary around yourself. This border of protection means you need not concern yourself with what others are thinking or experiencing in a given moment: that is theirs to deal with. The most you have done is provided a stimulus that triggered someones shit--that doesn't make it yours. Take a deep breath, notice how you are feeling, and then let it go. Not taking it personally doesn't mean you can't own up for mistakes or notice the mistakes of others--it just means you needn't identify with them. Bonus tip: When I was first starting to realize that not everything another person did was a hidden slight against me (what a revelation!) I visualized this boundary with a simple image--a glow-y bubble, a circle of light, whatever your cynical little heart can stand.

4. Don't shit-talk. Don't shit-talk yourself, don't shit-talk your co-workers, don't shit-talk your customers, don't shit-talk your boss. Resisting being drawn into negativity is doubtless one of the trickiest endeavors we face, period. But practice this credo and experience true freedom. Don't be afraid to change the subject or walk away if you feel like you're being entangled in gossip or drama. You'll be the most popular person at work if you refuse to talk shit--people will wonder how you do that thing you do. The integrity you develop by not allowing yourself to spew with the vicious abandon your id would love pays spiritual and financial dividends.

5. Take care of number one.  When you're thirsty, drink. Hungry? Eat something. Don't let the fact that you are at work and your time is being paid for make you neglect your own needs. Far better to take the thirty seconds to adjust your too-tight tights or stretch your arms over your head than remain distracted and tense. Whether it's drinking a glass of water every hour or taking a moment to apply some chap-stick, allow yourself the tiny gestures it takes to keep you feeling good.  It's insane how many times a night I hear a fellow employee mention they've been so busy they haven't been able to pee. You're not that busy. Go pee for fuck's sake. Bonus tip: Be a little fancy. Go ahead, put a slice of lemon in your water. Straighten your tie, whistle a tune, put a little more cream in your coffee.  You deserve it.

6. Get it while you can. When I run to the bathroom, I make sure to take deep breaths while I'm in there. If I'm cold, I'll pay extra attention to the warm water on my hands. If I'm hot, I'll rest a cold, wet hand on the back of my neck for a few seconds. Waiting for a drink at the bar? I stand up straight and adjust my posture with a few breaths. Being mindful when you have a minute for yourself conserves precious energy and emotional resources for when you inevitably get frazzled.

7. Manage your time. I have ADHD and staying focused for long periods of time (like 7 hour Saturday night shifts) can be difficult. I break my time into chunks (I'm going to wipe down table 20 and 23, go get more ice, then refill the linen) to get me through larger amounts of time without projecting too far into the future. I try to have a playful and elastic relationship with work time. It soothes me to have a mantra: "I can do anything for one hour," helps me a lot, so does "This is temporary." Make a (lame) game of it: I'll challenge myself not to look at the clock for as long as possible, or time myself sorting a tray of silverware.

8. Practice positive self-talk. To me, this means questioning and then filtering the content of my inner monologue. Do you put yourself down in your head or find certain phrases "This blows and I hate it and I suck," just for example, running on a loop when you're distracted or feeling poorly? Change the script. As corny as it sounds, telling yourself nice things really does help you feel nicer. I amplify this practice by talking to myself out loud if I've found that I can't censor the flow of negative judgement.  I find an opportunity to say "You can do this," or even just "You're ok and nothing is wrong right now." This anchors me in the present and reaffirms my commitment to treating myself with respect and kindness. As always, a deep breath is your cheapest, most reliable, and most accessible source of instant self-care.

9. Pay attention. When I'm wiping down those tables or scooping ice into a bucket, I notice what I'm doing: how the cold metal handle feels in my hand, the sound the ice makes as I move it, the weight of the bucket. I match my breath to this work and it becomes a brief mediation, a way of staying grounded. If there's a breeze coming through the windows, a good song on the radio, rain just about to fall, a glorious sunset, I do myself the favor of noticing it. Paying attention to what is actually happening right here and now makes it easier to stay in the zone.

10. But not too much. The beauty of practicing mindfulness is that you get to choose what you pay attention to, and you get to choose what's happening inside your own head. I dream of sections of my novel at work, write impassioned emails, enumerate the components of a perfect Sunday afternoon. What's happening inside my head is mine alone, and it can co-exist with the task at hand. I can choose to pay attention to the drunken man leering at my body, or I can choose to pay attention to the mom telling her daughters, "Wow, look how strong she is," as I'm clearing the dishes from their table.

So there you have it. Fight the good fight.

TL; DR: Stay hot, don't talk shit and breathe, bitches.