Ode on a Pair of Proton Pistols

Any time she,

tried to be the superhero instead of the damsel,

tried to be the one coming home from work instead of playing in the kitchen with the plastic broom and dishes

wasn’t allowed to ride, play shortstop or stoke the fire

was chastised for going out alone at night, not knowing what it does to a man when she dresses like that, asking for it

“Because, you’re a girl.”

Any time she is told,

be rational, calm down, she is too emotional, she will balk when making difficult decisions

that being a mother is the only way to be fulfilled, feeling maternal is an instinct, it is something all women are meant to do

she is not as strong, is not as fast, cannot understand, that her body or brain are biologically inferior

“Because you’re a girl.”

For every,

mother who taught her daughter to apologise even when she was not at fault, to be agreeable, not to draw attention, to smile in preparation

time she was reduced to T&A, sent a dick pic in lieu of a hello, passed over professionally

woman who hoped that the way she lived would finally prove that it does not have to be this way

“first woman”, “only woman”, “never before woman” who shoulders the burden and the pride.

“Because you’re a girl.”

Holtzmann, laying waste to a host of shades,

the answer to them all

confident, decisive, fearless

all of us who refuse to listen when we are told--

She reminds us that being a girl is not a curse, not a threat, not an epithet.

Because a girl is not the only thing you are.

How Being the New Girl is Ruining My Rep

Ok, we all know I don't actually have a rep to ruin because, well, who cares? Least of all me.

But seriously, this moving business still kicks my ass on the regular.

An alternate title for this post could be "How Decision Fatigue is Destroying My Ability to Human in 20 Minutes or Fewer."

Trying to find the face cream I've been using for the last four years (I never bothered before that because I'm no good at being a girl). I can't find it in the store. I walk into Ulta. They have Nivea, but not my product. Tired of looking and not finding, I decide just to pick up something else (also known as: The Fatal Flaw). Do you know how many different types of moisturizers and creams and toners and masks a place like that has? Too many. And not the one I want. I recently heard about toner (no, not the copier kind, that kind I knew about years ago), and as I am easing into my 30s, I am noticing some particularly unkind discoloring (especially on my upper lip, so it looks like I have a stache --which, despite their meteroic rise to popularity, are still not fashionable on women--that needs bleaching or shaving or both), and I am told toner will help with that.

I finally make a selection (Eenie Meenie Minee Moe would have been equally as effective as my process) and make my way to the register. I am whipped into a savings card process where I give out my name, number, address, birthday, maybe my mother's maiden name, my social, and rights to my first born (ha! Jokes on them this time!), but don't-worry-it-is-not-a-credit-card.

After that, I walk up to the "Push" door only to realize I nearly walked right into it, expecting it to open for me automatically. This epiphany nearly causes me to trip over my own feet as I make my way through the second set of doors and I feel similtaneously dizzy and giddy and nauseous. I feel like I could maybe identify with a two-year-old tantruming in that moment.

Can I just not be new anymore?

The Big Move: Day 1

We survived the first leg of the trip (which we have broken into five days) from Cedar City, UT to Gallup, NM.

Other than a few unanticipated stops for a tire strap that doesn't seem to want to stay ratcheted on Adam's Passport that we are towing, things have gone very smoothly.

I, of course, have been a basket case at times. During the first fifteen minutes of the drive I received a phone call that turned into a short phone interview and made it into the second phase of the hiring process. Lack of proper cell phone service during a stretch from Kanab to Flagstaff made trying to figure out our housing difficult. At one point I received a phone call that our former landlord needed to fill out a form regarding our rental history, but he hadn't done so yet. I called and left a voicemail which he promptly returned, only to find that the Windows 10 updated had locked him out of his email.

So far Arizona and New Mexico have felt a lot like Utah. Of course, we barely crossed the Arizona/New Mexico border, so I'm sure the landscape will change more as we go, and as we get to Texas tomorrow. It's so strange to drive through places we've heard of but never seen (like Winslow, which every time I say triggers the Eagles' song "Take it Easy" in my head).

We're staying in La Quinta hotels the whole way because of their great pet policy. The hotel here in Gallup even has a little fenced mini-dog park which was nice because the drive so far has been significantly less than dog-friendly. It seems finding dog-friendly stops was an oversight on my part when planning the trip.

We ate at a local Mexican restaurant for dinner, since we figure the further east we go the less access we'll have to proper Mexican food. When the server mentioned that the green chile was a little spicier today we knew we had authentic food, and it was delicious.

Now to prepare for the next leg tomorrow. Over 400 miles today and nearly that many tomorrow. Our Google map told us the drive today would take just over seven hours and it was closer to ten. Tomorrow's drive says just under six, so we'll see how accurate that is.

Spilling Feelings

Too many thoughts keep competing for space in my head. It is as though I am shattered into tiny pieces - one piece worrying about work, another worrying about a place to live, another concerned about the drive to South Carolina, and another concerned about how the dogs will do, a piece for finishing work here, a piece for saying goodbye, a piece for Adam, a piece for each member of my family, a piece for selling the house, a piece for each friend, piece, piece, piece, until I feel like there are no pieces left. No pieces for me.

Yesterday, as my sister dropped me off from our customary pre-school pick-up and Pepsi (yes, we are VERY into alliteration), I teared up as I thought about saying goodbye, and that I had a limited number of chances to do it again before I left. For good. Not for a year. Not for school. Not for a mission. For good. You know, the thing I've always wanted to do since I was four? Anyway, I choked back the tears. I reeled it in.

I learned something. I can control when I cry now. I didn't used to be able to do this. If you had told 14-year-old me that I would learn how to do this, she would have thought it akin to a super-power. But with that control there is a cost. The emotions come bursting out in different and sometimes ugly ways. So I realized, it's ok to cry. It's dialectic really. I can be tremendously thrilled about leaving, and completely heartbroken at the same time.

I made a rule for myself, if I have feelings, I am going to feel them. In the moment. Even if that means I cry at work, sobeit (I cried five times today, three times at work--I'm a rules and regulations kind of girl, so if I make rules, I stick to them).

Because really, how does one say goodbye to her home of 31+ years? Piece by piece, I suppose.