An Open Love Letter to Dan

On this Valentine’s Day, my husband, Daniel John McBee, drove us to Madison so that we might protest the proposed budget cuts in the bitter cold. After about 45 minutes standing in the UW-Madison Library Mall, I could stand no more (-11 degrees dude) and he drove me home. He’s not an educator, but not only did he don his snowsuit and make the trip with me, but he spent hours constructing wind-proof signs for us. His featured a pretty awesome photoshop of Scott Walker's face on John Blutarsky's body – his idea.

Frankly, I always thought a man this supportive, creative, and selfless was too much to ask for someone like me. Even when I was young and pretty, I didn’t know I was, and the reality of my disability and its effects on my appearance constantly loomed over my confidence. I struggled with unrequited love in high school and college, unable to approach the men who I liked and unwilling to accept those who liked me (even the cute ones.) When I finally blossomed into sexuality, it was late, and I still couldn’t find myself connecting to anyone for any length of time.

I had was familiar with this concept of love – read, watched, was told of many iterations of the idea. I saw my mom marry twice and then three times. Saw her identity morph around each new love in a way that I think made me hesitant, though I was happy she was happy. (I am somewhat possessive of my identity – it took so long to embrace it.) I saw my father weep and grieve the loss of his first marriage only to be made sublimely happy in the second, and in quick succession. None of it seemed to fit the concepts I’d been exposed to. I never knew what to look for, although everyone kept telling me that surely I would “find” it if I wanted to.

After a two-year relationship during which I felt angry and unloved most of the time, I began to toy with the idea that “love” was a figment of our collective imaginations. You said it to a person, performed it in your actions, but it wasn’t a “feeling” as such. You could love your family, your cat, a song, even a friend, but the idea that there was this person who, out of billions worldwide, who not only made you feel this certain special thing, but felt this certain special thing about you, was ridiculous.

Years of fruitless and disappointing dating when I moved to Milwaukee did not disprove this theory. At one point I made a pact with a male buddy that if we were both still single at age 40 we’d go ahead and marry each other. (He's married now, too - man on the right below.) I began to think I didn’t really want a permanent relationship. Surely if I’d wanted a man, I’d get one. My ongoing single status was a choice, I realized. A selfish choice that I made to spare my own happiness. I’d met plenty of inspiring, beautiful, powerful, feminine and completely happy women at that point who had never married and likely never would. I guessed I could take the same route.

But there was this problem of intimacy, and my overwhelming desire to share it with someone possessing a penis and testicles. I’m not proud of it, but it happens to be something I can’t do without. For that reason I delved into the world of match.com and after one rather disheartening experience after another, cancelled and switched to Okcupid, which was a least free of charge. (See my profile photos below.) This lead to more disappointment, and by the time I accepted a brunch date with a man named Dan I was actually hoping I wouldn’t like him. I kind of felt that the entire male gender could be flushed down the toilet and the world would be better for it.

Dan was this guy who was into grilling, and I was looking for advice on how to grill pizza. He was relatively decent-looking, and never once asked if I would like to ride his cock. He worked with homeless people. Like mine, his profile was understatedly cheeky and had no misspellings. After a few casual, brief messages, he asked if we could meet. I was lukewarm about the idea, but at least he wasn’t pushy. On the phone, he had a very high voice and talked a lot and loudly. I found myself rolling my eyes a bit. But brunch couldn’t hurt, and what was I doing on these sites if not fishing for a free meal now and then?

I didn’t dress up or look my best. I wore sneakers and I think my jeans were dirty. I was late. No fucks given in other words. Dan was waiting for me at the bar in Lulu’s. He was cuter in person. Very cute. Never thought I would think that of someone with a beard. He wasn’t as annoying as I predicted. He had opinions though. He wasn’t boring. He took me to look for my Halloween costume.

Fast forward. I vowed I wasn’t going to sleep with guys right away any more, and Dan was respectful of that. One week does seem like right away, I know. But you should know we saw each other five times in that week. It was that fast.

 

There isn’t really a narrative about love I can think of that matches what I experienced with this man. I felt something happening, but I didn’t know how to articulate what, and I still don’t.  I had never so looked forward to seeing a person in my life. I had never been so excited for a phone call from someone. Never felt so comfortable with someone else’s body. I mean we were farting on each other before the end of a month.

I don’t feel so much that I changed as a person, but I think I came to appreciate the person I was more through Dan’s eyes. I love Dan because he makes me love myself. After we had fights 1-? my love for him didn’t diminish. It hasn’t diminished as we’ve nested and the sexy part has waned. It just gets thicker and thicker. It surrounds and envelops me more and more. At first, it felt like I was going crazy. I actually entertained the notion that I just imagined him. Sometimes I still think he’s my imaginary husband and I’m actually living in my apartment alone, buying myself flowers and eating those frozen pizzas myself.

 

 It was such a strange and otherworldly feeling that I wrote a poem about it, which was published in Ellipsis: Literature and Art. Mainly it’s about the way I felt, which was that I was actually losing my mind. I think maybe it was like that because Dan made me see my flaws and all the parts of myself that I hid from – my disability, my past emotional issues, my idiosyncrasies – as somehow beautiful and sacred.

 The truth is, I never thought anyone could compare to my father and my brother. But Dan invites that comparison. I’m constantly proud and awed by the work he does, his humor, his ability to be himself without slavish regard to societal conventions, his devotion and genuine interest in my feelings. Of course he has flaws – Gary Stewart and Gary Jr. have theirs too – but I’m angry at him very infrequently. I never feel like I hate him. I had previously thought that constant rage was a given. You couldn’t be with a man and not spend most of your days boiling with anger and/or annoyance. Such is apparently not the case. Even after four years of marriage.

 

Dan and I married in Las Vegas in a small ceremony before our siblings and a couple of friends. The wedding felt like hardly the point, but weirdly we were both nauseous with nerves beforehand. What has followed has been a difficult time for both of us. Our financial situation is constantly in turmoil, and I’ve had an overabundance of death in my family lately. I am fighting depression and so is he. But the sweet feeling I get from seeing him come home, getting a text or call, looking forward to a trip together, any chance to spend time with him even doing nothing, is as satisfying as ever. It’s as if nothing can unravel that joy…the knot keeps getting tighter.

 So, for Dan, my love and my happiness, I donate a short-short I wrote about our engagement to this blog. I thought about getting it published, like I did with “Fatal Vision?”, but now I think I’ll keep it. Enjoy. (I love you Danny!)

I Said Yes to All

Was it two hours seven minutes from the time on Thursday that the ring was brought home to the time it was given? And was the explanation for his absence believable? (A client with chronic flatulence. Likely story.) And was it that which gave him away or the invitation to the Milwaukee Domes on Saturday? (The very place you might expect to be proposed to, hopefully in some humid, flower-veiled corner away from screaming kids.) Did you make love not long after you knew? (Actually, as a child I would have loved the giant glass orbs – inside a garden, a jungle, a desert. He must have known that.) And was your hair matted now as well as dirty, bent from a pony tail and greasy from spin class sweat? (And my makeup smeared over my face like a contrail. Wearing a pajama top and bottom – not matching.) And did you look forward to your dreams, while he sat frantically awake and asking strange questions? (What if I proposed to you while you were taking a crap? What if I were taking a crap?) And did you explain that you have no fantasies about proposals, didn’t cut out pictures in magazines of your future wedding, like some girls did. (What if I had married earlier? Would I have maybe met the one I love so much, later, when the shadows grew long anyway?) And did he believe you, eventually, and did you feel it coming? (He was wearing a KOSS promo shirt and a pair of boxers with reindeer on them. It’s late March… going out like sweet little lion.) And did he run, not walk, into and out of the bedroom? (I was laughing, because now it was a surprise again.) And did he get down on one knee and place the sparkly, gleaming, special thing on your finger? (He pulled it out of the waistband of his shorts. He also had on mismatched socks. He is beautiful.) And did you want to hug him forever? (Like always.) And was it like always?

Fox News Can Kiss My Lazy Butt, or An Argument Against the Neoliberal Rhetoric of ‘Hard Work’

Of late, the governor of this fair state has been threatening my livelihood because he feels professors need to work more. My tenured and non-tenured colleagues alike have fired back saying not only that proposed budget cuts would irrevocably harm public education and Wisconsin as a whole, but that, dammit, we do work hard! Prof after prof can be heard defending the job they earned through years of study by listing all the arduous tasks they must complete and the tremendous responsibilities they and other teachers have. It was the same when Walker made earlier cuts to education and when he broke the public unions. Look at how hard our jobs are! And frankly, for not much pay!

Look I'm on TV!

Now I too, for the purpose of disclaiming what will follow, will assert that I do work 40 hard hours a week. What I do in the classroom is just a tiny part of the job description. Planning for those few hours a week involves: making copies, building a distance learning site, composing assignments, writing lesson plans, constructing handouts, researching and selecting updated reading materials, and revising my syllabi. In addition I need to write and answer dozens of e-mails every day. I am responsible for advising, counseling, and writing rec letters for current and former students. I attend meetings, forums, conferences and staff readings. I serve on committees. I submit my own work for conferences and forums. I maintain a program of writing and publishing, because students should be taught by a writing teacher who is a published writer. I do this while coping with a lifelong disabling illness, and make less than 35K a year after taxes. I also keep a clean home, work out regularly, and take good care of my pet. So there.

Having said that…

What if I didn’t? What if I had plenty of free time and felt my job was more fun than work? What if I like to take naps and do so whenever I can? What if I spend a considerable amount of time on Pinterest and watching American Horror Story and blogging? What if I like to go out and throw my money away on frivolous entertainments? What if I’m going to Vegas this spring with my husband where I plan to play the slots and get polluted? What if Ozzy’s toenails sometimes get long and my end tables get dusty? And what if, despite this sloth, I still think I need to be paid more? What of it?????

I am sick of conservative rhetoric that forces us all to defend how much of our life is hard and miserable. Since when did our suffering become the only thing that gives us value? It seems that even 40 hours a week isn’t enough for these people anymore. My husband now works about 50, and my friend Kerry sometimes reports a full 60 – and both of them are salaried. This because their employers ask them to do two jobs not one. But should someone complain, we get bombarded with examples in the media of even harder-driven slaves that we’re supposed to look up to. I work 80 hours a week and I go to school full time and pay my own tuition! I work 100 hours a week and I don’t even have health insurance! And we all hang our heads in shame, afraid to suggest that health and education should be a right whether you work your ass into the ground or not. The story about the carless Detroit man who walks 21 miles to a job that pays him 10.55/hr was meant to be a critique of a spotty public transportation system, but instead has been used to perpetuate the idea that we have no excuse for not working or not working enough. This man is a glorious example, right-wingers say, of an old-fashioned work ethic that us whiners who demand good pay for a normal week of work have forgotten.

No one points to the lack of public funding that made it hard for this man to catch a bus – that would be entitled of us! No one points to the stinginess of the employer for whom this man provides a needed service either. He’s a job creator (ugh how I loathe that term), not someone who wants work done but doesn’t want to pay what’s needed. You know what I’d like to see? A news story about a boss who brags, My employees all drive Escalades! Or, I pay for a limo to pick up all my employees! And for some news station to say all companies should follow their example of the days when employers treated their employees like damned human beings. But no one expects that. A generous college student raised thousands to help this man out, so once again, middle class people came together and covered what the rich won’t part with. Kind of like we do every tax year.

Should someone complain about their wages, or the amount of work they have to do, they are instantly compared to that old myth: the lazy welfare turd who sits on the couch all day watching soaps, eating Cheetos and smoking crack (arguably not more dangerous or addictive than Cheetos). This unicorn dominates the discussion much more than the fact that Americans work harder than anybody, and are more productive than ever before. And should one dare to suggest that full time is MORE than enough, and that one should receive higher pay for even – gasp – fast food work, then all hell breaks loose. We all buy into it. Liberals too. It’s just not kosher to suggest that the employers, on the whole, ask too much.

Well I’m suggesting it, and I’m not the first. During the great depression, the Kellogg company’s owner WK Kellogg (for whom my junior high was named) and the company president proposed lowering the work week to 30 hours in the interest of decreasing unemployment and increasing the “mental income” of “the enjoyment of the surroundings of your home, the place you work, your neighbors, the other pleasures you have [that are] harder to translate into dollars and cents.” Greater leisure, president Lewis Brown hoped, would lead to “higher standards in school and civic . . . life” that would benefit the company by allowing it to “draw its workers from a community where good homes predominate.” This is from Jeffrey Kaplan’s great article titled “The Gospel of Consumption,” which you should read.

Fewer hours means less pay, and at the rate bosses pay these days, that’s a lot to ask of society. Well guess what bitches. I’m proposing we all work less and get paid the same. Yeah I said it, and I’ll say it again. I’m tired of being tired. And yes, I like my sitting around time. If I worked an even 30, I could be more involved in issues I care about, make my home look amazing, exercise my dog, play games with my husband, read books, and write write write write write! And I could sit around. And I would sit around. I wouldn’t smoke crack and eat Cheetos or watch soaps (are there still soaps?), but I might smash some popcorn with a stiff brew and some Judge Judy. (I find the show's courtroom depiction of the human condition frickin hilarious.) And yes, I still want my 35K.

Why? Because I’m not a machine, I’m a goddamned human. My life has value, regardless of how much I produce. Just like colleges should not just turn out industry fodder, but new and greater knowledge, human beings are not made for just work. Leisure, however you want to define it, is a human need. And not just for those of us that suffer from a disability, for which sitting around time serves a healing purpose. People need to waste time, just throw it away, on activities that serve no purpose other than to make them smile (or not frown for a minute.) I could argue that leisure activities usually equal purchasing and therefore are good for the economy, but I won’t. People should be allowed to slack off, lounge, play around, as much as they want. Working full time, especially when you also have a million other things to get done, is not the ideal. Or it shouldn’t be.

I resent that the standard is being set by those who do absolutely nothing but serve their employer because they have no real choice. I want to stand up instead for the mother who stays home and enriches the life of her kid because she collects disability. For the unemployed worker who takes long naps between applications and filing for unemployment as a defense from sadness. For the working middle classer who takes a long break to enjoy the sunshine and uses company e-mail to organize a protest against iron ore strip mining in Northern Wisconsin. I defend you, lazy Americans. I defend your right to breathe.

Little Fish: A First Draft Begun

Here is the rough opening of my new story inspired by the lionfish, an invasive predator who evidently makes a great ceviche:

Killing him could be easy…just a matter of lowering the salinity to a certain level in the tank. Pour some faucet water in, maybe disable the monitoring contraption on the side. Heinrich’s parched cells would absorb water until they drowned and floated upside down to the surface. He’d bloat a bit and become taut at the skin, but wouldn’t explode, as I might have hoped. How satisfying to watch him dart from side to side instead, panicked, whipping his brilliantly striped spines in and out like some southern belle snapping a brisé fan. Not so easy though to spear the asshole through his gillhole with a carving knife, my least favorite knife. My father kept it sinfully sharp. All of his knives were kept in white paper sleeves and never washed in the dishwasher. Now used by the daughter he abandoned to slaughter his only friend. Heinrich the dickhead lionfish.