Yesterday, when Zeca got home from school, I asked her how her day had gone and she gave me a serious stare and began shaking her head as she unpacked her lunchbox. I waited for a few moments and she finally said, “I had a bad day.” I’d already gotten a call from Miguel’s teacher on Monday so I wasn’t sure I could take any more “bad days”. I took a deep breath and gave her the look that said, “Go on…I’m ready and I’ll try not to yell.”

Zeca: Well, Rebecca will be visiting my class tomorrow.

Me: So?

Zeca: Mom! REBECCA. Don’t you remember? She beat me up last year* and made fun of me having two moms.

Me: Oh yeah, I remember her. You are an elementary kid now and she is still a kindergartner. She won’t do anything to you so just ignore her.

Zeca: It’s worse now!

Me: How can it possibly be worse? You’re not even in the same class.

Zeca: Now, she thinks I’m a boy and tries to kiss me all the time.

And then I laughed so hard that I had to hold on to the counter to keep from collapsing in a heap on the floor! It’s true that Zeca was all flowing hair and skirts and pastels last year and now she has short hair and wears plaid shorts and polo shirts but still. I wanted to say, “Oh honey, if Rebecca can’t tell that you are the same person, she’s too dumb to be a threat.” But I didn’t. Because I’m nice…and because I’m a parent and can’t say such things out loud.

Me: Maybe you should tell her who you are. Maybe she’s changed.

Zeca: She still likes princesses! She thinks she’s Rapunzel or Cinderella or something.

Me: Maybe she thinks you’re a prince

Zeca: I’m not a prince, mom.

Me: Sorry. I thought you might identify more with princes than princesses.

She rolled her eyes at me and said, “Obviously I would be the king.”

Obviously.

 *Note: Rebecca didn’t beat her up. She pushed her. 

On the other hand, Minneapolis is probably the most popular vacation destination. We have unpredictable weather and dirty dishes and loud children and a piece of frozen tortellini that skittered under the fridge and could not be reached. Who doesn’t love all those things?

I don’t generally resent Luisa’s trips because she usually goes to places in Africa that barely have electricity. But the Bahamas? I’m a little jealous and also a little worried that she’ll stumble off the plane with a wicked tan, a tattoo on her bicep that says “Jessie’s Girl” and no recollection of anything but palm trees and poolside cocktails.

Also, this week has been rough. The parenting part has been fine for the most part. Sure, I burned toast, forgot an activity, raised my voice a few times and had that incident with the tortellini but that’s pretty good. The work part has been horrible, however. Almost everything that could go wrong at work went wrong spectacularly this week. Things are getting a bit better but not much. I have survived, however, and because I love you I want to share my helpful tips for coping with anxiety.

1. Pick up a new hobby like biting your fingers down to the second knuckle.

2. Pace. A lot.

3. Repeat “oh my god oh my god oh my god” while doing either of the above.

4. Eat cheese.

5. Pretend you don’t have a job.

6. Stay up late and get up early. Sleep deprivation always helps with anxiety.

7. Avoid every single thing that can be avoided.

8. When you can’t avoid something completely, procrastinate dealing with it until the last possible moment.

9. Get caffeinated lattes at 5:30 p.m.

10. Pretend you are in the Bahamas.

I haven’t been writing because I’ve been busy doing all those things. BUT the good news is that it is Thursday and that means it’s almost Friday and that means that the weekend is almost here and that means that this week is almost over.

So, let’s move the fridge and get that piece of tortellini and – well, let’s just throw that away. Then, let’s hope that next week is better!

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Her answer came quickly – “No.”

I smiled and said, “Yeah…me neither.”

I met Luisa when I was 24 and filled with all sorts of romantic ideas about love and relationships. I expected poetry and rose petals strewn across my bed. I wanted to feel that we were destined to be together. I felt we should spend large portions of our day staring into each other’s eyes. I thought that I should be able to act like a total whack job and still get the girl.

Basically, I wanted to be the adorably quirky star of my very own lesbian romantic comedy.

But life isn’t a romantic comedy. It doesn’t unfold from a script and there are no guaranteed happy endings. The truth is that you build a life with someone a day at a time and hope for the best. Sometimes, it works out and sometimes it doesn’t.

I wish I had some trade secret to share. I could tell you that love, respect and hard work are the keys to maintaining a long-term relationship but I know some relationships end despite all of that. So, I don’t have answers.

What I do know is that, somewhere along the line, I learned a few important lessons:

Poems are lovely but I really want someone who is willing to tie a giant volcano to my car without complaint.

Clean sheets are just as amazing as rose petals.

Staring into each other’s eyes is boring. I’d rather have a well-crafted cocktail and a smile.

You have to be nutty in moderation to keep the girl.

 Sometimes, our kids ask us if we’ll be together forever. We both know that the easy answer would be “yes”. After all, we have done pretty well so far. But, neither of us ever make that promise. We say that we love each other and hope to be together for a very long time. We know we can’t predict the future. Our 19 years together have proven that.

So, Happy Anniversary Luisa! Thanks for the volcano thing and the clean sheets and for enduring all the crazy things I do (though I am disappointed that you scratched out “live rattlesnake” on the Target list earlier today).

Tonight we celebrate!

(And yes, I did make the reservation even thought technically that falls under “business” which is your domain but whatever.)

I was at the salon last week getting my hair done. Well, I don’t really get it “done” – I don’t want you to picture me sitting under the dryer with my hair in teeny tiny curlers while I read Reader’s Digest. Also of note, my hair is not yet blue and does not need to be “set”. Anyway, I was at the salon getting a haircut when my stylist (who has cut my hair for 16 years) suggested I get a facial. She is not pushy about these things and rarely suggests anything so she must have sensed that I was somehow open to the idea. Maybe I had complained about my perimenopausal acne  - I can’t remember. So, she suggested a facial and – much to our mutual surprise – I said, “Sure. I’ll do it.”

My appointment was this afternoon which meant that I could spend the morning saying things like, “Oh, I can do that but I have to be done in time for my facial” and “I really need to grab lunch before I go to my facial”. This made me laugh…and also made me feel ridiculous.

So, I showed up at my appointment and checked in by answering all these questions about my skin like, “If we pop that big bump on your chin, will spiders crawl out?” and “Have you ever used a palm sander on your face?” Okay…those weren’t real questions but only because I am not the one who wrote the questionnaire. There were, however, many questions about my skin care regimen and I am going to share my trade secrets with you right here, right now – I wash my face with water in the shower in the morning. Sometimes I use soap. Sometimes I do not. Do with that information what you will.

The facial person took me to the back and suggested that I go to the bathroom. I had been told that this was a 16 minute facial so I figured I could probably hold it that long but then worried that I wouldn’t be able to and would be squirmy so I went to the bathroom. The woman then escorted me into the room which was softly lit and had lovely classical music playing and I noticed that there was not a chair. There was just a bed. Suddenly, I had a bad feeling that I was going to have to take my clothes off which confused me because 1) I don’t wear clothes on my face and 2) see #1.

I am only comfortable naked when I am in bed with my lady friend, skinny dipping in the dark with friends after I’ve had adult juice and at the gym. I had not mentally prepared to be naked for my facial. I stared at the bed. I stared at the woman. She smiled at me and I said, “Um…how does this work?” She then told me that she would recommend stripping to my underwear. Because I need precision in my instructions, I asked, “What do you mean? Like just underwear? No bra?” She nodded. She said, “If you’re not comfortable with that, I have a robe that you can wear.” Because I was not in bed with Luisa, was not drunk and was not surrounded by old ladies at the gym, I said, “I’ll take the robe.” So, she handed me a robe like the one pictured and left the room. I must be tall for my face because my robe basically covered boobs to pubes. I took off my bra and put on the robe and then wondered if my black dress socks would be considered “underwear”. We had not discussed socks. I decided to leave them on.

Fortunately, she had told me which end of the bed was the head because I was thoroughly confused. Without a regulation pillow, how do you really know which end is which? There were covers on the bed and I had no idea what to do about that so I just sat cross legged on top of them in my black socks and my little robe (which I now realize I had on backwards). She came back in and suggested that I get under the covers and I did. The bed was heated and the blankets were kind of heavy and I felt safe in there – black socks and all.

She explained that she was going to do a facial and light upper body massage. I closed my eyes and she began to apply mysterious unguents to my face in a very slow circular rhythm. I didn’t want to tell her how to do her job but I was a little concerned that she wouldn’t finish in 16 minutes. It went on and on and it was very relaxing and I started to forget about the minutes and, when she started to massage my arms, I began to worry about other things like, “Did I shave my armpits this morning?” and “Did she think it was weird that I kept my socks on?” and “Oh god…I hope she doesn’t touch my feet because I’m not ready for that type of commitment.” She did not touch my feet. She just massaged my face and my arms and the top of my chest for a really long time and, when she finished, I realized that it was a sixty minute facial, not a sixteen minute facial.

She left the room and, despite all of my ruminations, I felt relaxed…for me. That is to say, I was still wondering about things like, “Do they wash those sheets after everyone?” and “How many warm towels did she use on my face?” and “What kind of laundry bill must they have to deal with the sheets and the towels?” I wanted to stay under the covers on the warm bed and ponder these questions until I fell asleep but – though it had not been discussed – I knew I couldn’t stay in there forever. So, I finally got dressed and stumbled into the light.

I liked it. Who knew that I would enjoy a facial? And now…my face is as soft as a baby’s butt. One that doesn’t have diaper rash or other weird baby butt things.

Next month, I’m going to get a massage. I know it will be an underwear only kinda deal so I am mentally preparing for that now.

Photo Credit

I rub a small amount of gel between my hands and run them through my short grey hair. I close my eyes, giving myself over to the feel of soft hair beneath my fingers. When I open my eyes a minute later, every hair is in place and I am grateful for such simplicity.

As I’ve grown older, I have developed a fondness for black. It contrasts with my grey hair and fair skin. It strengthens my presence, makes me feel visible. When I slip into a tailored black dress shirt, I revel in the feel of the soft cotton on my skin as I slide my arms through the sleeves. I appreciate the way the cuffs hit my wrists at just the right place.  My fingers march up the row of buttons, leaving a couple undone so the neckline opens enough to expose part of my chest.

I choose a pair of dark jeans that ride low on my waist. They fit, hugging my curves and my thighs. I tuck in my shirt before slowly threading a black belt through the loops and through the silver buckle centered at the front.

I pull on a favorite pair of black socks. They are soft and my freshly shaved legs tingle at their touch. I run my hand over the blood red and grey swirls of my shoes, the leather smooth and cool as water beneath my hand. The shoes are bold and make me feel bold. I slip my feet into the soft leather and pull the black laces taught.

I wear few accessories – silver earrings, a black and silver watch, and glasses with dark, chunky frames.

Everything I do, I do with intention.

Confidence.

Femininity.

Difference.

These are the brightly colored strands that I forever try to braid.

I stand before the full-length mirror in my foyer and take in my appearance. In that moment, I hold the strands tightly in my hands but when I step out into the world, they are picked loose and unraveled.

There have been many moments when I have felt the schism between who I am and who the world expects me to be. So many that they blend together and lose distinction. The edges of each individual experience are worn away until they cease to be memorable incidents and simply become my life. People call me “sir” until they notice my breasts or the high pitch of my voice. People define me as “butch” without ever asking how I define myself.

For years, I had long hair.  I permed it and curled it and spent hours trying to style it. I wanted to look like all the other girls and didn’t want to be different. After coming out, I went to a barbershop and got a flattop – an act of rebellion against my past, an act of conformity to what I thought a lesbian had to be.

Now, the days of perms and flat tops are gone. I keep my hair short because it fits me.

For years, I shaved my legs because that’s what I was told to do. Then, I stopped shaving because I was told that I was conforming to traditional femininity though my hairy legs never did bring down the patriarchy.

Now, I shave because I want to, because the act of doing so connects me to my body and, when I finish, I run my hands over my legs simply because I enjoy the feel of my own skin.

For years, I was at war with my body. My shoulders were too broad, my arms too long, my breasts too big, my stomach too soft, my thighs too thick. Every part of me was just too much. I tried to change the things I could and hated the things I couldn’t. I starved myself. I wore clothes that were too big so that I could hide.

Now, my tailored shirt, the bra that accentuates my rack, my fitted jeans – these are the peace offerings I make to my self after years spent trying to look like someone I’m not.

This is the real me. I am recreating femininity in my own image.

Confidence.

Femininity.

Difference.

These are the brightly colored strands that I forever try to braid.

Each day before leaving the house, I stand before that full-length mirror and whisper, “Be yourself.”

I take a deep breath and add,  “I dare you.”

After this…we will return to our regularly scheduled non-peep programming.

Enjoy.

This year’s movie was inspired by a simple image taken in Pompeii last summer.

This:

Became this:

The set took a week to build. The volcano was 54″ square and 42″ tall. The market stalls were made with cardboard, cloth and matchsticks. The Temple of Apollo was built using cardboard, toilet paper rolls and peeps.

The movie itself took two full days to shoot and we took 1,428 still photographs.

ONE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT!

Between each of those stills, we had to move everything in the shot a tiny bit to create the action that you see.

It was tedious.

It was exhausting.

It was totally worth it.

Without further ado, I present this year’s Peep Week finale: Peepeii!

Special thanks to Melissa Hansen, Todd Wardrope and Kristin Swanson for bringing Peepeii to life. Without you, there would have been nothing but a volcano bathed in my tears of frustration.

Kristin and I took a field trip to the store so that we could do a little shopping and show you what Peep heaven looks like.

The store was packed with Easter shoppers and we were a bit overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise. The staff were very friendly and helpful despite being busy. I could never be that nice which is why I blog about Peeps rather than sell them.

The sound on the video isn’t great because of the ambient noise. Listen carefully and you can hear people screaming as they ride the roller coaster just outside the store.

For additional Peep Week fun, you can watch this video and play a drinking game – do a Peepy B52 every time Kristin says “wormhole”.

Enjoy!

Peep Week takes a lot of work and I’ve been living peep to mouth this year – filming and editing for the next day.

I’m sure that it’s just as exhausting watching all these peep videos so we all deserve a drink, don’t you think?

This year’s peep cocktail is once again from my friend, Grace Yip. It involves Kaluha, Bailey’s, Bacardi 151 and FIRE!

We shot this last night and I watched the footage and edited it this morning. One of the funniest parts is…well…I don’t want to give it away. Just keep your eye on the match that I use.

Cheers!

Until now.

Luisa is out of town and the kids are on Spring Break and I have completely overextended myself so it seemed like the perfect time to take on a labor intensive project!

Martha Stewart has a recipe that looks amazing but I still have PTSD from The Great Spider Web Egg Debacle of 2007 so I passed on that one and went with this one instead.

There are some things you should know about this video. One – the camera adds 10 pounds. Two – my shirt apparently adds 10 pounds too. Three – I had to shoot it myself which means that the footage required a lot of editing. Four – I’m short on time and couldn’t spend as much time editing as I would have liked.

The video is long. You don’t have to watch it. Of course, I’ll know if you don’t. How will I know? Because I’m omniscient on Thursdays.

The video is family friendly because I edited out the swearing.

You’re welcome.

Untitled from Vikki Reich on Vimeo.