Discover Kansas City: 39th street loves Room 39

When I moved to Westport two and a half years ago, I had no idea how much I’d fall in love with this district of Kansas City.  I think our initial thought about this location was that it’s a cool place to live within walking distance to local night life and great restaurants.  And not to boast but our apartment is pretty lovely for what we pay for a two-bedroom in midtown. We live on the west side of  39th street and couldn’t be prouder to call it home.  Most 39th streeters also share this love and pride for our striving neighborhood. 39th street is home to restaurants, bars, unique boutiques, record stores, a book store that will have you feeling like Belle, and even a resident chiropractor, Dr. Cobb at Alpha Chiropractic. When Small Cakes Cupcakery moved in they were well received until they painted over a mural on the side of their building. I think a lot of people in the neighborhood felt like they were stepping on some toes as the new kid in town.  When I visited the first time, the shop owner assured me they were hiring a local artist to paint a new mural.

Sometimes it seems hard for businesses and new restaurants to stay afloat in this area.  There is a space off Terrace and 39th that has changed from several different restaurants in the short years I’ve been here.  Why? I think because 39th street is a hard district to crack and it’s about finding your niche. We already have a sushi place.  We already have a Thai place. We just got a GREAT barbecue place, Q39.  Owner and chef, Rob Magee took his award winning competition barbecue and turned it into a restaurant. And it worked. The atmosphere is fun and the food is great.  (I recommend the burnt end burger!)

Basically if there isn’t something unique about you, you won’t be received well.

Room 39 owner and chef Ted Habiger gets it. Last night I had the pleasure of dining with Ted and some other great company via the Pitch’s First Bite Club.  I’ve eaten at Room 39 in the past but last night I was able to learn a little more about the restaurant and try some things off the menu I would have never been brave enough to order for myself.  Before I get into the food and this wonderful gem of 39th street- I want to talk about Ted.

This guy comes out in his white chef jacket, scruffy salt and pepper hair and beard, and starts talking with his hands. His well worn wedding band glints in the low light.  His eyes illuminate his entire face when he talks about what he’s trying to do with Room 39.  Habiger in a past life was a bartender and a teacher.  He said when he created Room 39 he wanted it to be a fine dining experience for everyone “from the hippies around the corner to people in suit jackets”.  His passion is that food brings people together.  He’s a story teller and rattles off how he used to take young college kids out for a meal on the college’s dime. Room 39 showcases dishes based local produce and livestock.  Habiger has developed relationships with the farmers joking, “Sometimes we’ll talk for 30 minutes before we actually get down to business.” He smiles as he tells us about a 70 year old farmer he gets mushrooms and nettles from.  Nettles typically grow in early spring but they found a variety that grows in the summer and this farmer agreed to grow them for the restaurant. There is this partnership with farmer and what we see on the plate that makes the food somehow even more magnificent. During our meal Ted takes the time to explain what things are, where they have come from, and sometimes even about where the idea came from to create a dish.  He’s gracious and inspiring- he might be my favorite thing in the whole restaurant. It was really refreshing and fully charged my heart meter to see someone so in love with what they do.  Room 39 has tables with lit candles and linen tablecloths. A question was raised about how much each linen cost per table- the answer is $6.  He spends $6 even before you’ve ordered anything off the menu.  In a world filled with greed and the bottom line is always scrutinized, here’s someone that just wants you to have an experience.  That’s what this is really about, the experience.

The Bite Club had a five course tasting.  We started with the Charcuterie Plate: foie gras torchon, chicharrones, duck rillette, and lamb pate with mustard, capers, housemade pickles and peach-jalapeno jam.

 

If you are like me, you have no idea how to say foie gras properly or even know what it is. It’s a duck liver cooked in it’s own fat. And if I’m honest, it’s delightful. The texture is strange, like a meat butter.  The flavor is soft and with a hint of sweetness. I thought it was great with the peach-jalapeno jam.  The duck rillette was also very good and added a great smokey contrast to the rest of the plate.

Second course, an excellent watermelon salad with queso fresco and jalapeno vinaigrette.  Again we have the sweet and spicy theme that carries out throughout the whole meal.  The watermelon was of two different seedless varieties from Simply Foods in Milo, Missouri.

Third course had everyone was head over heels in love, including myself.  We had a savory goat cheese gnocchi with lobster, local mushrooms, and nettle cream.   First, did you even know you could eat nettles? I certainly didn’t.  The dish smells like heaven in a bowl- you can smell the lobster and the mushrooms just as the plates are being sat in front of us.  Ted says we really shouldn’t call it gnocchi because there is no potato- just goat cheese, flour, and milk. By far the most amazing thing I’ve eaten in a long time.  The combination of the goat cheese and lobster just made my toes curl.  I would have licked the bowl if I didn’t think it’d be inappropriate to my dinner companions.

The fourth course, main course we were able to choose one of four entrees.  As an avid meat lover, I went with the locally raised grilled steak with smashed Thane potatoes, Mexican elote, and chimichurri.  The steak was fabulous as one would expect from the quality of food we’d already seen here at Room 39 but what floored me even more was the Mexican elote. It’s a Mexican street food.  A grilled corn cob with cheese and a chipotle sauce.  Street food with a steak? I’m totally in. What a whimsical delicious combination.

Our fifth and final course was dessert.  They brought plates of each dessert for us to sample. My favorites were the pizzelles, Italian waffle cookies, with ice cream and the churros with this amazing chocolate sauce.

The experience I had a Room 39 was awesome. I had a great time getting to know my dinner companions and enjoyed listening to Ted talk about his passion for food. He’s truly created a one of a kind place that will stick around for years to come on 39th street.

editors note: Ugh those pictures are terrible and certainly do not do the food justice! My phone is pretty useless! Next time I’ll take a real camera and show you guys some better examples!

Bank Accounts.

Some of the best advice I’ve ever received was from a good friend of mine to always think about my relationships, romantic or otherwise, as bank accounts.

You’ve got to put money into a bank account to make a withdraw and if you continue to withdraw without replenishing funds you’ll overdraw your account. We’ve got to invest time and energy into our relationships to make them worth their weight in gold. I don’t think my friend meant that we should keep a running tally of our deeds in the relationship.  “Last week I bought Sally a gift.  This week she didn’t say anything nice about my new hair style or come to my dinner party. What a bitch! I just don’t think I can be friends with her anymore.”  I think really we just need to be mindful of how we “spend” the funds within our relationships a how we can replenish them.

I also like using this theory as a guide to know what relationships we need to invest more time in and what relationships are just taken as a loss. There is always going to be someone taking or someone giving more.  A friendship or romantic interest should be symbiotic. I think there are different levels to our bank accounts.  When we talk about people we have been friends with for years, your line of credit is already established and it’s a long term, indefinite account.  We know we’ll be there for each other for life events and for the little things in between.  We have new accounts that we’ve just opened that are still establishing what our credit limit is and how far we want this fund to grow.  These relationships require a little more investment initially because we aren’t sure what kind of an account it’s going to be or if it will be worth keeping this account open.  Sometimes we offer people accounts that really have bad credit or that continuously withdraw their account with us.  Romantic relationships are extremely hard to run background checks on- sometimes love and infatuation can blind us from making a good sound investment decision.

The past year has been a little crazy for me. I have taken on a second job to get myself financially fit and pay off my remaining debts. I’m not married or have kids so it seems like this is a perfect opportunity to take the time to do those things.  I’d like to earn enough money to take a trip and see some things before life passes me by.  My bank accounts have suffered some this year because of this choice I have made.  I have missed birthdays, back yard barbecues, and other events.  I’m terrible about returning phone calls and texts.  The text part was pretty normal for me before- I’m a person not a robot. I’d like to talk to your face please.  I have shown up when I can and tried to fit in an active lifestyle.  I know most of my friendships have an established line of credit that won’t go away or close in this time I’m taking for myself but I also feel bad about not investing in my accounts more or having the energy to put into some of my newer accounts.  I just hope I’m not overdrawing or in the red with most people.  My favorite time of the year is around the corner and life is about to get even busier. Fall always seems to just get out of control.  Going forward I’m going to try to be more diligent about carving out investment funds for my bank accounts.  After all, this is really about balance and making time for the important things.

The monster under my bed.

Depression is like a mental cancer.  This disease goes away and returns. Sometimes people defeat it, sometimes it defeats its host. It feels like the loneliest place on earth.  Which is strange because according to the World Health Organization, 350 million people globally suffer from depression.  It doesn’t discriminate. This disease doesn’t care what color you are, your age or what your socioeconomic background is.

My personal battle with this debilitating disease is something I don’t talk about often. And if I’m honest, mental health is something we don’t talk about enough in this country anyway.  How do you even know the difference between being depressed or just a moment of earned sadness? How we can prevent it? How do we combat it? How do we treat it? How can we overcome it?

For me this idea that there was something not right within me happened when I was driving and considered it just might be easier for everyone if I just drove myself into a concrete median.  I didn’t act upon this thought but I subsequently thought to myself, ‘Jesus,that is nuts. What is wrong with me?’ I cried heaping sobs in the shower that night.  My instinct here is to insert a joke or to tell you something nice.  It’s uncomfortable.

The truth is just like those other 350 million people, I have suffered from depression.  I have felt that dark passenger next to me, within me. I have spent daytime hours interacting normal with others and come home and fallen into my bed as a disheveled mess.  I have withdrawn from family and friends on nights that I just can’t bear to get myself together.   I have self medicated with drugs and alcohol only to find myself wanting and no better than where I started.

But I’m also here to tell you- I survived and have come out the other end. The basement prison of depression doesn’t have to be your permanent home. Your dark passenger will always be there.  But you can conquer it.  The first step is to ask for help.  I don’t know why but this seems to be the hardest thing to do.  I think for me it was because I was ashamed of not being able to manage my sadness.  I felt like you should just be able to “get over it.” Looking back- asking for help is the bravest thing you can do.  Pride is such an asshole sometimes.

I started seeing a therapist and she put me on antidepressants and some sleeping pills to help with my insomnia.  I will be honest the pills helped jump start my recovery but the side effects just weren’t worth the benefits in the end.  I am not in any way, shape, or form telling people not to take their medications.  Any course of medical treatment should be discussed with your doctor. Once I stopped with the pills, I continued going to therapy,working on a healthy diet, going to yoga, and involving myself in my community. Just like you are what you eat- you are what you feed your mind.  There is no shame in going to see someone about your problems- a licensed professional can give you the tools you need to start rebuilding your healthier mental lifestyle.  And I’ve written before about how yoga has saved my life.  It’s the moment in my day or week that I can just allow myself to breathe and reflect on what is going on within myself.

It’s been even hard for me to write this.  But I want people to know they aren’t alone. Those that say suicide is a selfish act, really have never been here.  You’d understand that most people that are depressed don’t want people to know- they don’t want to burden others more than they feel like they already have.  It’s a very useless feeling.

Even a Fireball, that seems to have it all put together sometimes has been in that basement of uselessness. Not everything is as it seems- please be kind to one another.  If you are hurting, please swallow pride, fear, or whatever is holding you and seek help.  I promise life doesn’t have to be in the basement.  You are deserving.  Your beautifully battered soul deserves happiness.  And if you’re scared- you can stand by the rest of us because we’ve been there too.

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we’ll see
No I won’t be afraid
Oh, I won’t be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

Red, Kitty, and my brother’s goat roping outfit.

My parents will be married 35 years this spring.  My father is an average sized middle aged guy.  He’s been an electrician his whole life and when he laughs his eyes crinkle up into barely visible lines like a cartoon character.  I know this because my laugh is the same. His face is weathered form years of hard work and sun that make his green eyes stand out even more.  He’s balding but that doesn’t seem to stop him from combing his dark hair, now flecked with grey, into something of a hair style. I rarely see him out of his Texas Tuxedo- Carhart jeans, a blue button down tee shirt, and a fabulous multicolored braided belt- unless it’s Sunday or someone is either getting married or dead.   He’s hardworking and stern.  He can be moody when someone doesn’t recognize his efforts or chores are not done.  He gets super pissed at my mom when she stays with her friends too long or she sneaks a cigarette after a long day.

My mother is short and average sized. She complains about the extra pounds she’s gained because of too much ice cream or Mexican food. But she always looks the same to me.  She’s been many things in her lifetime. Before I was born and sometime after, my mother did some type of administrative work in an office.  Then she went on to be a stay at home mom with a small in home business selling educational toys.  These days she is a supervisor at a local law firm.  My mom used to wear pleated pants, now she wears lady suit jackets from Coldwater Creek and trendy tortoiseshell glasses.  She takes Zumba on her lunch hour. I can just imagine her dancing about with her short cropped red hair and flaying arms.  She’s funny.  I have a saved voice mail of her just laughing.  She can’t even get the words out.  She does funny things too.  Her old Ford Escape, with its leather upholstery and sunroof, had a sticker on it with a cowboy sprawled out in his own blood with “Are you going to lay there and bleed or are you gonna cowboy up?”  Can you imagine this tiny redheaded woman crawling out of her mom SUV and this hilarious sticker on there? She’s the one that holds our family together and she makes a damn good casserole.

I, along with many others, affectionately call my parents, Red and Kitty, after the parents in That 70’s Show. My mother especially does things things at Debra Jo Rupp’s character, Kitty, would do.  Kitty has a temper at times, like a little kid throwing a fit.  And she’s not observant at times.  She once made a chicken dish with 3/4 cup of garlic powder instead of 3/4 tablespoons.  We all smelled like Doritos after dinner.

My father repeatedly tells my younger brother that he is going to “put a boot in his ass” if he doesn’t get something done. The only difference between Red and my father is that my father was never in the navy and he doesn’t complain about politics every night at dinner. He is a straight up blue collar conservative though.

When I go have dinner at Red and Kitty’s house- it’s very much like That 70’s Show.  My mom cooks and everyone sits down at their eat in kitchen table.  We even have this hideous knitted place mats that someone made my mom for her wedding day laid out for us. (They are 35 years old if you missed that part.) We say prayer, eat and discuss our daily lives.  My brother lived at home until he recently got married, so he’d usually be at the table too.  My brother is something else to write about.  We are nine years apart in age, he’s the youngest child and only boy.  We grew up in suburbia, but from an early age, my brother wanted to be a cowboy.  He loves bull riding and  John Deere tractors. He’s never changed who he was for the benefit of others even in high school.  He wears Carharts like my dad and a disgusting greasy baseball hat.  He does not own a pair of tennis shoes- only work boots and cowboy boots.  After high school he took on a job as a welder.  He always looks like he has dirt on his hands and face even when he’s just taken a shower. He’s like my dad and I when he smiles- his whole face crunches up.  He’s bright, hardworking, and a little bit of a hot head (like Red). I’m proud of the man he’s grown into.

My brother’s job is specific. He welds for a company that works on coal plant fabrications. Although he has explained a million times to me what this actually means- I still have no idea what he actually does.  I just know whatever he does requires him to travel to different sites around the country.  One night over dinner we were discussing his most recent trip to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  He and some of the others in his crew wound up in a hip-hop dance club on the outskirts of Philly. My brother might be country but he loves himself some Nelly. I have images of him as a kid dancing in the backseat of my car to Country Grammar.  I guess they all had to take off their cowboy hats and John Deere baseball caps to get into this night club.  My brother just really couldn’t believe that.  That is ridiculous to ask them to take off their cowboy hats in a hip hop night club!

Red while chewing on a piece of asparagus completely deadpan, “I bet you fit in really well with your goat roping outfit.”

No one else erupted with laughter but me.  While writing this I’m still giggling- goat roping? I asked my father between gasps what that even meant.

“You know, his goat roper outfit,” he says to me still not even cracking a smile.  My mother beside him is looking at me incredulously like this is a normal day term for my brother’s style of dress.

My brother is still pissed about not being able to wear his John Deere cap into a hip hop club.  I forever will refer to him as a goat roper.  He has never roped a goat in his life and I still don’t understand the correlation.  My family is unique and I love them dearly. There isn’t a dull moment around the holidays.  I seriously think Red and Kitty need their own reality show. Or maybe just a book written about them..

Why you should think before you put your foot in your mouth: mothers vs childless

I sat in this office with shiny posters on the wall about prenatal care.  There is a severely pregnant lady in the seat next to me.  There is a young couple across from me holding hands, no doubt eagerly awaiting a sonogram. The nurses all wear these pink or blue scrubs with baby themed characters on them- like baby animals. Everyone is excited to be here.

Everyone but me.

I haven’t slept well in days.  My blood pressure is through the roof.  I’ve lost weight.  I drink too much coffee and eat not enough. This is the soonest my doctor could see me.  I’m here to get tested for STDs.

I make it through the gates of the lobby into an exam room.  My nurse, she’s asking me about my history and what all I’d like to be tested for, “Would you like the whole panel?”  I’m starring at a picture drawn by Anna, age 6, of a rainbow and some flowers. Anna. That’s a pretty name.

I reply numbly that she should test me for everything.  I’m scared.  I’m not even truly worried about these tests as much as the other question burning a hole in my brain.

How did I end up here when two weeks ago I was sitting in a pizza place holding hands with my boyfriend and talking about getting married? What in the fuck happened? Why am I sitting here this tissue sticking to my bare ass, sweating so much you’d think I just ran a marathon? I cannot believe this is happening to me.

I’m here because I know I need to protect myself.  I need to be responsible because someone was irresponsible with me.

I’m 28 years old and I’ve just been cheated on by a guy I thought I was going to marry and have kids with. I have moved out of our shared apartment and back in with my parents.  A few days ago, my father and brother came while my boyfriend was at work and helped me move my things out.  I left him the blender but took the silverware and what was left of my heart.

The doctor comes in.  She’s the same doctor that I’ve seen since I was 19.  She asks me questions while she does my breast exam. As if I need to be violated more, she  proceeds to do a pelvic exam.  She’s pretty gentle and is quick about it.  We talk a little more.  She’s going to send me down the hall to get my blood drawn and I’ll have results in about a week.  Finally I need to ask her-

“Do I still have time? Like can I still have kids? Is it going to be too late now?” I get the last question out with a choking sob. She grabs a tissue and smiles, “Oh my dear. You have plenty of time. You are so very young and beautiful.  It’s just not time yet.”

My doctor, she tells me that most of her patients are in their 30’s these days.  People are waiting longer to have kids.  She had her own children at 34 and 36.  She pats me on the back, hands me my paperwork for my blood-work and says she’ll call me in a week.

Fast forward to present day, I’m now 31.  I still do not have children.  It still hasn’t been the right time for me. I don’t know if it ever will be.  I’d like kids some day.  But here’s what I’d like to say to those of you that say condensing remarks, funny anecdotes about the lady that doesn’t have kids, or tell me I don’t know what I’m missing, or how hard it is to be a parent:

You can shut your mouth when you are talking to me or anyone else that doesn’t have kids.

Did you ever think for two seconds that someone doesn’t have kids because they can’t? Won’t you feel really terrible if in the future that person you are bugging about having kids has fertility problems?

Do you ever think how hurtful these things are to some of us?

And sometimes frankly I want to reply back with:

Sorry for being a responsible adult.

I have been on some type of birth control since I was 17.  I know things happen- nature will always find a way.  But I have taken the precautions not to get pregnant with the wrong person at the wrong time.  And even at age 31, IT IS NOT THE RIGHT TIME.  I am an adult that eats pop-tarts for dinner and puts my car keys in the freezer. I lose my cell phone at least twice a week.  I don’t do laundry on a regular basis and am a terrible driver.  I haven’t settled down enough to be a parent.  I’m not married and I don’t know when that will happen either.

And if you say, “If you wait for the right time, it’ll never happen”

I will shoot you in the face.  It will happen. And I’ll be a damn good mom when it does happen.  I’ve had my time to be selfish. I think the sign of a great parent is when someone is ready to be selfless.  Kids are a lot of work and they require everything you’ve got.  I know some of you think I’m some kind of idiot for waiting so long and to quote my sister “have no idea what it’s like”  And you know what? You are right, I don’t know what it’s like.  To refresh everyone, I don’t have kids. But I have great parents. There are pictures of my mother, her hair a hot mess, throw up on her shirt, and children climbing all over her and she’s smiling. She’s smiling.   My parents never took vacations. They raised four kids on my father’s middle class job and my mother’s small part-time business. My mother never wore the latest trendy clothes.  If my parents went on a date it was rare or for someone’s birthday. My mother worked part-time to be able to be a stay at home mom most of the time.  She was always there when I got home from school.  They sacrificed a lot to be good parents. I may not have had the experience yet but I think I’ve got some great role models to follow.

A lot of women that have had kids young seem to feel this strange entitlement that something is owed to them because they have had children earlier than everyone else.  Be proud that you made it through that. I don’t know how you’ve managed. I really don’t because I couldn’t keep a house plant alive in my early 20’s.  But please, don’t sit there and lecture me about how great being a mom is unless you want me to lecture you on how great my 20’s were without kids. I’d also like to state that you could have prevented or at least attempted to prevent having a child that young, a lot of people do.

That was bitchy wasn’t it? Well I think it’s bitchy when you say things like, “Being a mother is so great. You just have no idea. When are you going to have kids by the way? My baby changed my life. It just gives my life true meaning now.”

So what my life has no meaning without children? For the record my life is pretty great without kids but I can’t wait to experience that adventure with the right person when I’m ready.  It hasn’t been the right time or the right guy. And it may never be the right time for my body- I may have to adopt.

Please think about these silly things we say to each other, especially as women.  If you are a mother that has lived the joys of a family and little ones- you should be most considerate of others that haven’t had this experience.  What would you feel like if you were told, knowing what you know now, you may not ever have kids? Or just never met your spouse to create the family you love so much? You’d be pretty sad, wouldn’t you?

And also it shouldn’t be any of your damn business if someone chooses NOT to have kids. It’s perfectly okay, and it doesn’t make someone a bad person for not wanting kids.  And shame on you for not being open minded to the idea that one doesn’t have to have kids to give their life meaning. I think it’s more responsible for someone who doesn’t want kids to not have them than to give in to the pressures of society and family and have a kid they didn’t want.  That’s how we end up with serial killers.

 

The Lionheart Club

I think it’s no secret that most people are products of their environment.  This idea of a positive and negative energy that surrounds our daily lives.  There are some people that tend to feel or be more sensitive to the emotions of others.  They often can absorb the situation and feel the same emotions themselves.  These types of people are commonly called Empaths.

But I like to call them something else because sometimes the word empathy in western culture can sometimes be seen as a weakness. And there is nothing weak about this gift, this ability to feel what others feel.

I call them Lionhearts.

I don’t think you are born as a Lionheart. I think it’s often something you become after you have experienced a great loss, devastation, a heartbreak.  I think it’s because you’ve experienced your own kind of pain that you can now you can see it in others. There is always a calling card of the brokenhearted.  Even those that are great at hiding their brokenness- I can always spot them by their laughter. Life doesn’t seem so serious when you’ve lost something.  Now you’ve got nothing left to lose.

Lionhearts love fiercely.  They dance more.  They eat bowls of ice cream with intense pleasure- down to the last melted spoonful. They are great lovers and friends because they will hold you close and cry with you when you are broken. A Lionheart will also be the first one standing up for injustice.

We are the anti-bully.

Lionhearts are powerful persuasionionist. This is one of my personal gifts and curses.  There is a difference between manipulation and persuasion.  Manipulation is an immature game of terror.  I learned early on how to spot people’s weaknesses, their brokenness. I admit I have use this gift to hurt people when I am angry.  I believe this to be the only dark-side to being an Empath.  Sometimes it feels like this is some kind of mutant power- you have to choose to use it for good or evil.  My favorite Empath, an extreme case, and obviously not real, is E.T. I like the part when he tells Elliot to “Be Good”.

Because we can feel what others do, a strong Empath, a Lionheart, can actually change the energy in another person or group.  If you don’t think it’s true, think for a minute about the most positive person you know.  Think about who you call when you are feeling down or need a pick me up.  Chances are that person you are thinking of is a Lionheart.

Today I celebrate the Lionheart club and our code of conduct.

I’ll always roar with you or for you when you are unable.

I’ll always hold you and cry with you.

I’ll always be strong enough to turn things around.

I’ll never be ashamed of my heart that breaks for others.

I’ll won’t extinguish but ignite and inspire passion.

Because I am a Lionheart.

 

Giving thanks to my disloyal love and the 5 date rule

The majority of my 20’s was spent in monogamous long term relationships. All my relationships have always lasted over year and some tumbled into four and five year relationships.

It wasn’t until I was 28 that I was truly single for the first time in my life.  My last relationship had left me raw and jaded.  A four year affair with a man that cheated on me for the last three to six months of our time together.  Our sex life had dwindled down to a thing of necessity rather than of intimacy and passion. When sex did happen, it was infrequent. My disloyal lover made a habit of taking much of my body for himself and leaving nothing for me.  His selfishness in the sack should have been my first red flag- but how was I to know? I’d only known a few other men at that time in my life.

But all of my lovers after him, should write him a thank you letter.

I remember after leaving feeling so insecure.  It’s something I had never known.  My parents may not have been perfect people but they raised three girls with self-esteem outside of surface beauty. I’d always been smart and could charm just about anyone.  I felt like all of my femininity had been stripped from me.  Funny that all that self esteem goes out the window the second your lover tells you he prefers “muscles” to your flabby thighs and sometimes dimpled ass.  It made no sense whatsoever to my rational side. My lover, that said he preferred muscles, was 5’6 and weighing at nearly 300lbs the majority of our relationship.  But I never even noticed how much weight he had gained or lost- probably because I loved him. I kissed his stretch marks and shaved his back hair. Seriously-I shaved his back hair.

I’d catch him watching porn before work when we hadn’t had sex in months because he “wasn’t interested”.

I’ll never have an uninterested boyfriend again.

I’ve made a lot of changes to how I view men, relationships, and sex since my disloyal love. He was the only man I’ve ever slept with on the first date. He will be the last man I’ll ever sleep with on a first date.

This is always a debate between my girlfriends and I-

How long do you wait to have sex with someone you are dating?

We can all agree that we are sexual creatures.  After my relationship left me so emotionally and sexually disheveled- I made a decision to sleep with an old boyfriend to get my groove back. It just made me feel worse about myself and my situation. It tore me in two again when my old love rejected my further advances.  What little pieces I had managed to stitch back together-just ended up in a more disturbing disarray of hurt.

I took a few months after that and got myself picked up off the floor.  After 3 months of long trail runs in the evenings, red wine, Ambien, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s- I started dating again. And I adapted the “5 date rule”- I must go out with someone 5 times before I sleep with them. I admit my early attempts at this failed. I was sexually starved and wanted to feel that fire again.  The first guy I dated after my relationship was a tall, handsome, aspiring artist. He was magnetic and oozed sensuality and all things pleasing to a hungry sexual appetite. We made it three dates before I gave in and let myself be with him.  He was gentle and good to me. He awakened that lioness that had been dormant for so long and loved her for who she was.  The relationship ended as fiery as it began- as it often does with moody artsy types. I went on to date others and take on a new lovers.

Most of my dates would end after date 1 or 2.  The first date is always a ball of nerves and no one knows what to do or say. Unless a first date is extremely bad, I’ll almost always consider a second date just to make sure the first date wasn’t a missed connection due to awkwardness.  I know you are thinking- 5 dates is forever! But it’s really not.  And if they are really the kind of guy you want in your life- they’ll be okay with waiting and more than that- they’ll be excited you aren’t the type of girl throwing your cat around.  It’s also one of those self-preservation things. Sex is a mental thing no matter who you are or what you think you might be gaining from it physically.  You are letting someone see your most vulnerable state. You are letting them touch your fire and you are setting them ablaze with it. This is powerful stuff we are dealing with.  Wouldn’t it be a shame to waste your beautiful luminosity on someone unworthy?  Waiting five dates ensures you are making the decision to sleep with someone because you are into them- not because you just want to touch their fire (or want them to touch yours..)  If a relationship develops over time, this whole waiting thing sets a precedent for other things to come.  It seems to me that my partners respect the relationship we create and cherish the sex we have.

The build up to that first time you sleep together is also super exciting.  I’ve had man basically make me have an orgasm just by kissing me. It’s probably the hottest sexual experience I’ve ever had and I didn’t even have to get naked.  Some of my girlfriends will argue they want to know if a man is good in bed before they pursue dating them further- that’s why they give it up on the first date. That guy that made me cream my pants with just kisses from his lips turned out to be one of my greatest lovers of all time. The sensory memory of his skin makes my heart race.  If they are willing to put in the effort to woo you- they will be willing to put in the effort to make your toes curl and your whole body ignite with pleasure.

I feel like I’ve grown a lot from this simple rule I’ve made for myself.  In the bedroom, I’m more willing to put effort into someone that waited for me.  And having a selfish lover for all those years- taught me a thing or two about giving myself fully over to the experience and letting my lioness wash over my partners.  That intimacy of creating a fire within someone else is one of my greatest gifts and pleasures.  It seems like this is a much more fulfilling path- my fire always has kindling these days and I never waste sparks on an undeserving love. And for the record, no one complains about my 31 year old body and it’s flabby thighs anymore.

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Just consider the possibility that true intimacy can’t be experienced in a one night stand and to fuel that fire that burns within you- you’ll need something a little more substantial. Someone that can make you laugh, make you banana pancakes, that can hold a conversation with you about  politics or the economy, someone that can hold their own around your friends and family, someone that makes you feel completely magical without ever touching your body, someone that will pick up your broken pieces and make you whole again, someone that thinks you are the the moon, the stars and the sun .  That’s the real fuel.

DO for your BO- homemade deodorant fiasco and recipe (that works!)

Anyone that knows me well enough knows that I carry around a deodorant stick in my purse.  I do this for two reasons: I have a terrible bad habit of forgetting to put on deodorant in the mornings. I also sweat a lot.

My vegetarian friends will tell you it’s from diet. While I do not wholly disagree, diet affects everything, I do think I come from a long line of heavy sweaters. A day of yard work will have my father sweating through his Carhartts and a soaked through shirt within an hour or two.

I’ve been using men’s deodorant since high school.  It smells nice and seems to work better than any women’s deodorant. I’m sorry Secret, but you really aren’t strong enough…for anyone.

Over the past few years, since starting my yoga practice I’ve started to become more mindful about the things I put into my body.  I’m not going to say that I only eat a local organic diet all the time or that I recycle all the things I could.  I just am mindful of these things and I try to do what I can to strive towards a better quality of life for myself. I do what small things I can do to protect this planet that we have so badly abused.

That being said, I don’t judge people that shop at Walmart or don’t recycling their glass.  I’ve done it too. I just ask that people try to be mindful of what they are doing. I’ll also let you know that local organic produce beats anything you could ever buy from a green house. It tastes like heaven and you don’t have to worry about pesticides. You’re also help support you local economy JUST BY BUYING THINGS YOU ALREADY BUY!  And it takes 2 seconds to throw something in the damn recycling bin.  You don’t have to go buy a hybrid car to make a difference. You can start with something super simple like recycling your milk jugs.

This more mindful lifestyle got me to thinking about the chemicals I put in, on, or around my body.  Especially this damn deodorant problem I’ve had my whole life. WHO makes this stuff? WHAT is in it? WHAT makes it work? IS there something that works better and is cheaper?

Turns out that stuff you buy off the shelf is filled with a bunch of crap you can’t pronounce and has been linked to breast cancer and Alzheimer’s. And if you are a skeptic about that, the other reason you should try a homemade deodorant: you can make your own deodorant for cheaper than what you can buy in the store. Shout out to my fellow frugal friends!

I started off with nature’s Tussin: coconut oil.  I’ve used coconut oil for cooking, to moisturize my cuticles, to spot treat a pimple, mixed it in with protein shakes, to treat a bug bite, and to heal cuts.  It’s rather magical stuff.  Coconut oil is a natural anti-fungal and antibacterial.

I started by just slathering coconut oil on my armpits.  It’s an oil so it makes your armpits a little slippery and it also leaves stains on your clothes. That is a no go from me or anyone that likes to wear clothes.

Upon further research I found this great blog:

http://www.wellnessmama.com

She has recipes for everything from homemade soaps to homemade donut holes.  I found this great homemade recipe for deodorant on her site and it works!  It works seriously better than any store bought deodorant.  It doesn’t even really have a fragrance and it doesn’t leave stains. The other benefit is that it leaves your armpits really soft!

You can find the original article here:

http://wellnessmama.com/1523/natural-deodorant/

You can follow this recipe:

• 3 tablespoons of coconut oil
• 3 tablespoons of baking soda
• 2 tablespoons of shea butter
• 2 tablespoons of arrowroot
• essential oils for fragrance (totally optional)

So the coconut oil is easily obtainable from your local grocer these days.  The two things you might have a hard time finding are the arrowroot and shea butter.  Just substitute some extra baking soda for the arrow root and you can leave the shea butter out.  I found a small tub at my local herb shop for $6 but you can find it in bulk online for cheaper if you are wanting to keep it on hand for other things.

Melt the coconut oil and the shea butter (if you have it) in a double boiler then add your dry ingredients.  I let it sit for about 5 minutes away from the heat then I poured the mix into an old empty deodorant stick I had saved for this purpose.  The article says you do not need to refrigerate- but I’ll tell you that you do.  It might look odd with a deodorant stick in your fridge but for me it helps me remember to put it on!

I don’t have to reapply it or worry about being the smell kid anymore!  I also no longer carry a stick of deodorant in my purse! Here’s to being more mindful and not having sweaty armpits!

Where you can stick your “Real women have curves” campaign

So about six months ago I picked up a second job as a waitress at a bar and grill.  At age 31, I’m older than most of the women I work with by about five to ten years. Three big huge realizations hit me in the face when I took on this adventure:

1. I am not as young as I used to be. Everything hurts..seriously.

2. I really am not as much of a fan of my day job as I thought I was and I need to find something else that involves people or I am going to pretty much die a slow death in a cubicle.

3. Your 20’s is a rough time. You really are coming into your own. You’re making mistakes. You’re taking risks that at a later age seem crazy.

Mostly, you’re insecure for no reason.

 

The young women I work with at the bar say these things to me sometimes:

“I am saving up for a boob job”

“I wish I had a better ass”

“I wish I was smaller”

“I wish I had curves”

I think, was I that insecure with my body? Wait, AM I? DO I talk like that? DID I talk like that a few years ago?

Every single one of the girls I work with is absolutely stunning.  They have great hair, smiles, and some have legs for days.  Their youth is something tangible- something most of us will try to chase for the rest of our lives. It’s heartbreaking and completely daunting to me that some of them don’t even realize just how beautiful they really are.  All those wishes are wasted because they’d never need to change those silly things about themselves to be beautiful.

The truth is- I did talk like them. At age 21, I told my friends at a party I’d love a boob job.  Or even a nose job. (My nose is something I’ll save for another day to write about)

A boy that I had went to school with since elementary school through college with looked me straight in the face and said,

“Why would you ruin a perfect body by doing something stupid like that.”

To this day, I could kiss him for saying something so blunt.  To me my body wasn’t perfect. My entire life I’ve been tiny. I’ve never been chubby or overweight. I’ve never filled out more than a B cup- without breathing really heavily and eating a bunch of my grandmother’s pie over Thanksgiving. And even then, my C-cup dreams are for a few weeks and I go back to normal.  And I felt like I was totally disproportionate tiny top on a big bottom. When I’d look in the mirror I’d see giant thighs and ass- then to only be slightly confused when photos were developed of me looking completely normal.  No fun house mirror looking me with this tiny head and large bottom half.

That’s the thing:

Everything you see in the mirror is a complete illusion.

I always tell people the first two years of my 30’s have been better than anything I experienced in my 20’s. I finally accepted how beautiful I am inside and out.  Those giant thighs and ass? Only a size 4 but I love that size 4. And obviously I was smoking crack and looking in the fun house mirror too long.  Those tiny boobs? Well at least I’ll never have to wear two sports bras at the gym. That nose that I wanted to change- is the most unique thing about me. It makes me different than everyone else.

Self acceptance is a beautiful gift.

Now I’m going to get a little sassy:

I’ve accepted myself, flaws and all.  I don’t need your approval or roar at the top of the mountain for everyone to hear loud and clear:

I am beautiful!

Because that is another thing about body image.  We want so badly to be APPROVED by others.  The only damn approval you’ll ever need is from yourself. Other people have already recognized your beauty and they will always see it- regardless of what you see in the mirror. That stupid fun house mirror.

I get really annoyed when I see women say,

“Real women have curves”

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

I will never be able to fill out a strapless dress without help from Wonderbra.

I will never be more than a size 6- even after children.

My grandmother is about 80 years old. She has osteoporosis and her boobs are down to her waistline.

My sister had a kid and went from an almost D cup to a B cup.

My friend is a Crossfitter. She has a 6-pack and shoulders that are beautifully sculpted by hard work and diligence. But she has lost her boobs and has little body fat to fill out her yoga pants.

My friend on her wedding day wore a size 20.

Another wore a size 2.

Every single of those women is A REAL WOMAN.

Shocking right?

If you have a vagina, curves or not- you are beautiful and you are a REAL woman.

I studied aboard the summer of 2008 in Argentina.  I was exposed to things that a middle class white girl from suburbia would never have a chance to see without such an experience. Buenos Aires is a beautiful busy city.  It’s twice the size of New York.  But few hours north is poverty and unimaginable conditions.

I went on a hiking expedition close to the boarder of Brazil near the Iguazu River.  A young boy came up to me as I was walking through a nearby town and asked in Spanish that was so bad I could barely understand him if he could have a bite of the banana I was eating. I took one look at his shoe-less feet and gave him the whole thing. I glanced behind him to see a tin roof house and his mother standing in faded torn up blue jeans. She had this beautiful honey skin and azul eyes. The beauty of Argentinean women always astounded me.  She thanked me for being kind with a crooked smile. She also wasn’t wearing shoes and looked in need of a shower

Do you think that lady ever thinks about her thigh gap or getting a boob job or if she can fit into her jeans from last year?

So let’s do this- take your “Real women have curves”- take all your crazy body image issues that are only for the privileged and shove them in the trash. Because that’s where they belong. Let’s stop building this unrealistic idea of what a “real” woman is or isn’t based on how she looks or what her dress size is.  It’s just complete and total bullshit.

Swan dives.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been an envelope pusher and somewhat of a firecracker.

Genetically speaking, I never had a chance to be anything less. My mother is a fiery red head that has a hard time taking “No” for an answer- especially when it’s something she really wants or believes in. She’ll lend you her bold opinion- even when it’s never requested. My father is devoted to diligence, loyalty and honor. He’s never made excuses for himself and he doesn’t take them from other people. He’ll be the first to help you move into your new house- but he’ll also tell call you out on not showing up to help others.

Each of my three siblings carry the ‘envelope pusher’ gene. Each kid turned out to be daring in their own way. My brother has been fired from a job for standing up for what he believed in. After a few weeks of working with another company- he decided to try to persuade his old job to hire him back. He went back and apologized for his heated comments, stated he still felt he was in the right to get upset. His old company made some modifications and he got his job back. My brother at age 21 had balls of steel and he made changes happen. Even my 2 year old niece, shows great promise. The kid is absolutely fearless. Just a few months of walking and she’s already trying to jump and swan dive off stairs and furniture. Her little face scrunches up and she balls her tiny fists when you make a quick grab to save her from injuring herself.

A friend of mine told me once that he believed great writers have to be ballsy.

That’s where I want to start my 30 day writing challenge. When I started this blog- I made it public to display vulnerability as a strength. I really want to work on finding the edges of that vulnerability. I use humor a lot to mask what I really want to say or write. No doubt I want to work on some humor writing over the next 30 days but I’d really like to push myself to work on something a little deeper than that. I was watching NBC’s Last Comic Standing haphazardly one night and Roseanne Barr said to a young aspiring comedian,

“That was good but I want to see more of you in the routine. I need to see a little more pain”

This correlation between funny people and broken people isn’t new to me. It seems natural that humor is the weapon of choice to those of us with some other chinks in our armor. I’m ready to be bold enough to lay my weapon down. I’m ready to push that envelope off the table.

I’d also like to dust off some skills I haven’t used in 10 years and give the old college try at some interviewing. After all, I’m not the only person with a story to tell.  Maybe even some health and wellness writing in there for good measure.

I started writing because it’s something that comes natural to me. Purpose is what came to follow. Now that I’ve got a purpose- it’s time to challenge myself a little more.

I’m also going to work on being detached from the opinions of others. So much I don’t write because I’m scared it is going to offend someone. Being a forward thinker gets people in trouble sometimes. Maybe I should change ‘envelope pusher’ to ‘troublemaker’. If I don’t invoke strong feelings- if I don’t make readers ponder for just a moment about what I’ve said- then really what the hell is the point? And where is that fearless two year old in me? I should get pissed when someone tells me not to do something…

Here’s to pushing that envelope and swan dives. 30 day writing challenge? I’m coming for you.