all jammed up

Justin:  Hi.

Kate:  ...   ...  ... What?

Justin:  I said Hi.

Kate:  Hi.

Justin:  What's up?

Kate:  ...  ...  ... Nothing.

(a slightly noxious-looking cloud emits from Kate's ears)

Justin:  Your brain just farted.

Kate:  ...  ...  ...  What?

Justin:  Your brain just farted.

Kate:  Sorry.

Justin:  What's up? You don't say anything. You just sit there chewing on the end of your finger. What's up?

Kate:  Nothing.

+++

I haven't been telling him but I'll tell you. I look like I'm six months pregnant. I need to stop eating bread. And cheese. And butter. And salt. And beer. Or maybe I'm just old. Maybe this is what happens when you're eleven days away from 37. Your belly and your brain go flaccid at the same time. Ben plays with it, my belly. He pokes it and giggles when it springs back. It's not supposed to spring back. It's supposed to be an unpokeable or at least suckinnable wall of taut skin. And the grant... oh my god the grant. If I get the grant I can write. But I haven't been writing. I've been staring at the manuscript. Every few days I open it up and stare at it and it stares back and then I close it. This year's June cut my legs off at the knees and I'm not recovering from it, at least not creatively. June cut my legs off at the knees and my arms off at the elbows and so I can't type or move and I'm just sitting here feeling all chopped up, and all I can do is spit to defend myself against people who think that all I need to do is Choose To Not Be Chopped Up, like all those sad-looking cripples who should really just choose to grow their arms and legs back, even the ones who are mostly smiling and happy. And I saw this thing on Facebook the other day about this woman whose doctors warned her she was in danger of having a premature baby but she thinks doctors are EVIL and OUT TO RAPE HER WITH THEIR CUTTING, SLICING KNIVES either that or their GOLF CLUBS and so she decided against the BABY-KILLING ULTRASOUNDS they recommended and lo! her baby was born full-term and it was all JUST FINE and not only JUST FINE but damn-near ORGASMIC. Why? Because she TRUSTED HER BODY. And all of a sudden I am enlightened. People who think I am missing the opportunity to Not Be Chopped Up are, in fact, closeted members of a cult that worships The Secret. And I feel much better because I already know that people who prescribe The Secret after they've decided that you are TOO NEGATIVE are certifiable douchebags, and so I feel somewhat better now, with my newfound understanding. And so it's all that. That's what's on my mind. My jelly rolls and being 37 and money and fiction and clients and all of it fizzling and softening and drying up and a going-to-sleep and oblivious, self-congratulatory twits that make me want to hit them over the head with the contents of an entire NICU. And that would hurt. Really. It would. It's a lot of machinery and electronics and rubber tubes and stuff. And doctors. Big, nasty, mean, egomaniacal doctors and all their instruments of womyn-hate.

But I can't tell him that because if I tell him that he'll get angry and he'll say Why do you pay attention to douchebags on the internet who say things like that? They have no idea. And he'll look at me, right at me, with eyes that have seen the same things I have. They say these things, these insane and ridiculous things, and it makes you crazy. The internet is a giant douchebag magnet, Kate. He was 72% correct last Tuesday but today, he's only 34% correct. There are nice people on the internet. Really, truly, lovely people. There are people on the internet who only look like douchebags when they dress up like douchebags for Halloween. They're so lovely that when you're all jammed up with douchebaggery, they send you a picture on twitter of a DOUCHEBAG DOLL. And then, just then, you'll love the internet.

I'd tell him this, all of this, if I could just find a way to start. Because if I did, he'd pull up his shirt to pinch 3.75 millimetres of skin around his midsection and call it his spare tire and he'd make me look closely at the top of his head, insisting that he's bald. And he'd say Let's crack open a couple of beers and we'll get old together, Kate. And I'd say Okay. I'll try not to fart.

Comments

[Natalie]

farting is perhaps the greatest thing about getting married...

i need to see the picture of the douchebag doll...i think it would be useful to me, often.

ps - i have have an asshole-husband who is somehow looking better with age...stupid muscly arms and "elegant" crows feet....while my gut gets larger DESPITE working out...and my crows feet are ANYTHING but elegant....thank god he's ok with my farting...otherwise I'd have to kill him.

pps - love to you ladybug...keep opening up the manuscript...the words will come when they are ready to be written.

[April]

Our thirties are strange, aren't they? I've been telling everyone who is twenty-nine-going-on-thirty that thirty means you can just accept who you are. We spend our twenties figuring it out, and trying to keep our bellies tight, our thighs from giggling, and then you turn thirty and you realize that this is what you've been given. While we can work at maintenance, significant change doesn't come without a knife and a surgeon with the same first and last name (preferably practicing out of a 5 star hotel).

I decided this year, on the eve of my 32nd birthday, that I'm going to wear a bikini. Not a skimpy stringy one, but a nice skirted one with a reasonable coverage top. I've had two children, I love to drink Pepsi, and I love cheese. I try to take care of myself by running three times a week, but the round bum I inherited from my mother's family is not going to go away, so I might as well embrace it, figuratively speaking.

Drink the beer Kate, eat the cheese. Real life is not about flat bellies and tight asses. Music videos are about flat bellies and tight asses, and last time I checked, any time I try to do a duckface, I get laughed at, so I know I'm no homey.

[Neil]

I KNOW the SECRET, Kate. And I will tell it to you in New York. Please bring $29.99 plus shipping and handling.

[red pen mama]

Oh, Kate. I so hear you.

Right now, I am annoyed at the people chirping on Twitter about "happy bloggers" or "bloggers in happy places" and AREN'T THEY GREAT TO READ?

Fuck happy bloggers. (Unless they are AMAZING writers, and I mean AMAZINGLY AMAZING.) Happy bloggers are boring bloggers.

I need a little dark, a little twisted. An ear fart or two. I need you, Kate.

I also need a beer and some anti-anxiety meds, which is what I've been blogging about lately, which may be expodentially increasing my annoyance with happy blogs and people who like them. Also increasing my annoyance: the fact that I can't have either meds or beer, and it's hard to meditate with two under-6's jumping around and a house falling apart around me.

And I'm sorry I'm ranting in your comments section. I hope you will forgive me. I hope you will have that beer and grow old with your husband, and I hope your limbs grow back so you can write more for us, because we need more pirates and less happy eff'ing bloggers.

Or at least I do.

[Ryan]

I'm brining Cole and Tessa with me to NYC. Besides the Friday lunch we are having with you, we have to find some time to run around the city and take your picture. There is a great spot on Bleecker St in Soho I was thinking of for you. Cole can do stuff to your hair, and instead of "smile" I will say: "Say Douchebags!"

[Megsie]

I just needed to tell you how much I loved this post...LOVED. Now, can you tell me why I got all teary as I read it?

[Richard]

Kate:

You will forever remain one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. The little fox understands... It is with the heart that one sees rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

I didn't apply for a grant this time, and I'm soooooo kicking my ass. Our employer just cut our salary by one-third. But I'm two or three weeks from finishing, so I hope to start taking some paying jobs in August to supplement our diminished contract.

[Jett]

Index finger, thumb, circle.
Ohhhhkaaaaay.
My daddy used to say --when he was still my daddy-- "You'n'Me, we's okay. The rest of 'em is assholes.'

[Jett]

pee ess....if you're going to be on Bleecker anyway, wander a little bit further down and go to the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe around about Alphabet City. You will hear important and lovely things there.

[tanya]

I made milk this morning ... it dripped out of my breasts as I took a shower. The fucking universe reminded me that I would be due in about a month, had things not gone the way they did.
I came out and cried a little to my husband. He said, "Then we need to do something fun today. Let's have a couple of beers and sit outside together."
He had the right answer, and so would Justin. And that is why we are with them and not the idiot douchebags all over the internet.
Love you ... I hope it gets better.

ps - I have a pudgey-pudge tummy too, but I have this crazy swimsuit from Land's End that SUCKS it all in with this super-fabric. And I continue to eat my four cookies and a glass of milk per night because it keeps me sane, because I need chocolate chip cookies like I need oxygen, or goodnight kisses from my kids. Because I'd rather be pudgy and loved.

[Sara]

Coming out retirment in stalkerville to thank you for this. This is what I needed to read today.
Thank You.

[Bon]

i'm smiling at you. mostly because of your description of the NICU. and because you think you have a spare tire.

i raise my drink to yours for all that is unspeakable. xo

[Sarah]

on a completely personal and selfish level, THANK GAWD! because you were too pretty before and i was insanely jealous. so just gain away so i feel normal. screw it, you'll be beautiful no matter what.

[loribeth]

I LOVE this post. Thank you!!

[Emily]

Kurt Vonnegut once said, "When I write, I feel like an armless legless man with a crayon in his mouth." So... as far as he's concerned, you're already there, eh?

I love Anne Lamott's book on writing, 'Bird by Bird.' In it, (I say, wildly paraphrasing), she advises thusly: write at least 300 words a day , no matter what the subject, no matter if it has to do with your Big Project or not... and WHATEVER you do, make sure to allow yourself to write a Shitty First Draft. Ok, I'm hauling out my copy.

"I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not ONE of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them who writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much. We do not think she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can even stand her."

Bottom line is, no matter if you never publish another book (which I sincerely doubt), you will never cease being a writer. It's in your bones, in your marrow, and yes, in what I assume is a tiny, adorable roundness to the area under your belly button. Spare tire. PSSHHH.

[Betty M]

Life without butter,cheese,bread, salt and beer doesn't sound much fun. I've decided to he'll with a flat stomach. It is still going to have a big scar on it so me in a bikini ain't never going to be like Halle Berry emerging from the surf however hard I try.

The secret is a crock of shit. Thankfully it hasn't really crossed the Atlantic.

[Betty M]

Hell. iPad has bizarro ideas about what I am writing about.

[René]

That Neil is a total scammer. If you're already going to be in NYC anyhow, the least he can do is waive the shipping and handling.

[Amy]

So I was sitting in this room at BlogHer last year, whilst in the process of ending my terribly dysfunctional and broken marriage and starting a new life with the man who was the best man in our wedding 11 years earlier and I was ignorantly feigning this notion of finding my voice again in my blogging when all of the people who were angry about the whole thing were spending lots of time douchebagging it up in emails, on Facebook and most definitely in the comments section of my blog and I heard you talking about writing about walking around with your open wounds and how you had things to say and a place to say them that helped you even though other people didn't understand it. And even though I had my own gaping wounds from my marriage and before some douchebags didn't care and just wanted to make sure I knew what a bad person I was for making the choices I was making to take my life in a new direction. And even now, one year later, those same douchebags are insisting on creating fake anonymous Twitter accounts and leaving out of context comments to me just to remind that they still disagree with the choices I'm making and they are not to be satisfied until I REALIZE IT. I guess what I'm trying to say that I know how it feels to be chopped up and squishy around the middle and sometimes I don't want to hear my own lovely partner tell me these things that I too know to be true. So one year later I have a different blog, and a new email address and phone number and a super locked down Facebook account so that I can talk about my wounds without having to listen to the douchebags pass judgement. Until they find me out of course, at which point I will begin to bleed again, sit paralyzed for a few months to a year and reinvent myself again. Or maybe I will be a little stronger and heal a little faster with the help
of a wonderful man, a couple of beers and some good cheese (and chocolate of course).

[Rebecca James]

The closer my deadline draws the more I stare blankly at the computer screen. I have spent whole days (well, whole school-hour days) staring stupidly at computer without writing a word. Don't tell anyone.
Hope you get that grant.

[tash]

This douchebag uses her jellyroll to open her beer bottles. It's all about function over form.

When The Secret people started to get under my fingernails I googled "The Secret Parodies" and omigod, did I ever feel better after about 20 minutes of laughing so hard I peed.

Hon, I'm 41. Gravity happens. Hang tough. Have that beer.

[mosey]

I will join you in that beer and we can pat our round squishy tummies like the buddha.

My daughter, when asked to choose which of us she wants to read stories at bedtime, will apologetically say to my husband "Mummy is soft and squishy to cuddle with" and I silently cheer. It's either that or go to the gym and really... c'man.

[Lisa b]

Aww that is love. Sweet.

If you can figure out how to slam someone over the head with a NICU can you let me know? Thanks.

[Aimee Greeblemonkey]

I knew a couple once who didn't fart around each other. Seriously? I would EXPLODE.

And I look NINE months pregnant.

[shadymama]

must.de.lurk.to.say:
please don't give up the beer. and please do continue to be the loveliest brilliance that you are - even...no, *especially* on the days you are mired in squash and wordlessness.

[Anne]

You are so gifted and talented and beautiful and smart and funny. You're not all chopped up...at least not forever....it comes and goes.

[Allison from New Jersey]

I read somewhere...(doesn't it always seem someone says that)...that "I wasn't put on this planet to worry about 10lbs."....

I have much bigger issues than this...10 lbs. or even 5 lbs. or even the way my stomache looks after 2 children (very large, overdue by 2 weeks, FAT ASS BABIES...meant with all the love in the world).... my small frame is small but NOT small...swollen...puffy...borderline bloated....not small.

Hmmm...I glance in the morning...shake my head and think back to myself at 25...oh...25...head up the arse, skinny 25....troubled 25...

34....bloated...somewhat tipsy on white wine every now and again isn't so bad....but I'd give anything for just one more week of 25.

hang in there....

[Rebecca S]

You don't have to defend yourself against any internet a-holes. Just keep writing, and you win.

Thanks for saying this.

[sweetsalty kate]

April, I can't imagine not wearing a bikini. I've never worn anything else, only because it feels so much nicer to me. That doesn't mean I'm not distressed at what it might show. I just think that once you get to the bathing suit stage, there's no foolin' what you've got and don't got, so you may as well feel water on your bare belly.

That's one of those things I'm going to tell my granddaughters when I'm an apple doll, and they'll either smile or wince. :)

Neil, I'd pay you five times that much for any secret spoken by you.

red pen mama, back when things were imploding around here, I used to see referrers to my blog, people talking about how much of a car crash it was. And commenters on those posts saying 'ugh' and 'eww' and 'yikes', pretty much, that they preferred reading about happy people. It was weird. I worry about people like that, how they'll fare during their own implosions. I don't mind happy people or places - this blog might not always reflect it, but I'm alright and very grateful most of the time. I just don't like erecting facades or going silent when I'm not, y'know?

Ryan, I can't wait to meet Cole and Miss Tessa. I promise I'll smile if you say douchebags.

Richard, that's very sweet. I like trying to figure out what's essential. And congratulations, I can't wait to read your book.

Tanya, ugh. those reminders. But yay for timely beer. Love to you.

Emily, that's an amazing Vonnegut quote. I was shooting for 500 words a day, way back. It's getting to that point, now. Time for daily discipline. Thank you for hauling out your Anne Lamott. I have that book somewhere... I should haul mine out too.

Amy, good for you for going on lock-down and creating your own space like that. If those people find you again, I suggest that they take up knitting. Or tai-chi. Or hell, anything. Who has time like that? Sad.

Thanks to all of you. This was breathing. xo

[AnnGeeDee]

I'm with you - I prefer the honest approach. Because, let's face it - it's not always sunshine and popsicles. To be able to come to terms with all the pieces (even the flabby bits) takes courage. And I'd hate for the minority of douchebags to ruin it for the rest of us.

[Alison]

I've been drinking and will most certainly read this comment tomorrow and wonder what exactly I was thinking. Pink lemonade Long Island iced tea? What? This is so much more obnoxious than being second-wine drunk at your parents' house. I am shameful, BUT:

You are not. And happy bloggers can just go and get EFFED. Because even if there was a switch you could flick it wouldn't be worth flicking because the easy way out is lame. You are entirely excellent in your own time and your own story and anyone who believes that it's as simple as finding wisdom in themselves can truly just shuuuuuut upppppppp. God, I know I haven't been there and really have no idea, but I can know BULLSHIT when I see it, and you are so far from bullshit. You're real, Kate.. you and the boys and Justin are real and lovely and honest and there are no blurry lines with honesty and good people. Done. Okay. Now I'm rambling and it's drunken and I really should just backspace the lot of it but this is Alison Self #23/Hardly ever seen DRUNKEN WENCH WHO WOULD REALLY SAY ANYTHING. Authentic drunkenness.

You're the best. xo

[Veronica]

Starting is HARD. Hard enough that I had to capitalise it anyway. But the longer you let the silence sit there, the harder starting is. I've gotten to the point that starting? pffft, I'll just cope thankyouverymuch.

Bleh.

So sorry you're having a hard time.

[Mamie]

So, if you are heading down the bleeker street you also have to swing by Houston St (pronounced house-ton....not like the city in Texas. NYPD almost scalped me the first (and only) time I pronounced it incorrectly...to a shop named Russ and Daughters where their bagels and lox and cream cheese and herring will make you beg for more belly because it is that good.

I don't know why this post just made me excited about NY. Probably because I might Be able to see your brain fart out of your ears. Sounds exciting and gross all at the same time.

[elizabeth]

Oh, God. I'm with you but ten further years along. And, I have to admit, getting out of those thirties will help with the superficial stuff.

Why, why, are we subjected to The Secret? I think the subjection is the big secret --

[Denise]

Hubby is turning 56 tomorrow... and that wouldn't be upsetting to me only it reminds me that in a month and a day, I'm turning 48 -- so 37 should be a piece of cake! I am processing already to prepare myself... 48 sounds so terrible in that it's 2 years till 50 and membership in the local seniors centre...

@ AMY -- Would love to read your blog... I have had similar naysayers -- my 13 yr marriage ended and two weeks later, I shacked up with my neighbour -- since married a yr and a half... most of my friends and family were opposed -- and even when we married my Mum said, "Don't do this on my account" ... but life is happier...

I know the arms and legs cut off feeling ... I've been paralyzed for years and unable to keep house and live life like I should be doing -- mired in a dark hole of depression (due to bipolar previous spouse and all the craziness of my dysfunctional life)... It's been 3 and a half years since all that ended and only NOW am I feeling better and recovering enough to begin to dig myself out... but it's a long process... and my clutter didn't emerge overnight and so it will take a while to get it all in check... but each piece of my universe I "take back" so to speak, makes it easier to reclaim the next... There, that was a confession good for the soul....

I had a miscarriage in November 07 (with new partner) and some days I feel like I am still getting over that -- and I know it would be far worse to go through something like you did -- losing your wee one after a fight for life in the NICU -- hugs and prayers to you for continued healing as you journey...

Keep writing and we'll keep reading!

[Erica]

The Secret makes me feel helpless and angry, the more so because I usedto buy into it before I was hit over the head by a NICU. But maybe The Secret is kind of like Calvinism & only applies to the Elect. I love reading here because it reminds me that while I'm not one of the Elect, I'm in good company.

I'm right behind you & turning 36 this month, and my belly is so squishy that looking at it makes me realize that, while I was never happy with it before, it actually used to be a nice belly. Wish I could've known that in my 20's, but I think of my grandma who spent her entire life dieting & now she can't gain enough weight, and of how my squishy belly carried two babies in spite of various things going wrong & it deserves to be squishy if it wants to, and I deserve to be at peace with it. I hope your beer is delicious.

[Maria]

More evidence that you are wiser than I am. I spaz out to my husband about the Internet People. I have for years. He gets this head-tilted "sympathetic" look and something behind his eyes goes zbbbbbbbbtbzzzzzzz and I'm just talking and talking and talking. Ha.

Loved this, Kate.

And yeah, that story is DOUCHETACULAR.

[schmutzie]

I'm pretty sure that I turned 37 and transmogrified into an old lady, but I know that that's just a lie, a complete a total pile of bullshit, and it is for you, too. Also, grief can make you fatter. When I had cancer and they were going to cut an organ out of me, I gained a bunch of weight and turned into a soft egg.

[EarnestGirl]

*whispering* because I am too shy to say most of it out loud, but I came back here here to speak of flesh I try mostly to ignore because you & your lovely commenters should know that this post & subsequent conversation inspired me to take my belly (which has not seen the sun since melanoma, to which I try to be kind but with which I struggle) to the beach in a bikini top and board shorts and we went for a swim all exposed to prying eyes and the sunshine as it slipped towards the cool murky sea. and it was fine. thank you for the inspiration.
also? douchebaggery & it's pernicious echoes be damned. you make lovely ripples.

[Alison]

Oh yikes.

So, I guess my drunken 'you're real, Kate' sounds so wanky. But, in light of this post and more so your last, I guess it's just kind of more like... you write what you are and you are what you write...? Of the thousands of people who read your blog, so few are privileged to have seen that, but, I just mean that seeing you and hearing you talk is just like a personification of the blog. So many people are either infinitely more interesting than the way that they write, or they write fairly well but have zero personality. So. Just sayin'. AND, one of the first things I thought about the boys and Justin is that they are exactly has you describe them. So. Yes. Okay. Not drunk today (hahaha), so, I think I'm making more sense, but probably not. :)

Hope you're well.

[Joy]

I just hope that it is a deliciously dark and richly flavoured beer that you drank. Anything less, such as no butter or cheese or chocolate, is just not worth it. Peace to you, with chocolate and beer and butter in hand. Firm bellies be damned.

[Janis]

I do not believe for a second about your belly. If you look six months pregnant, I am having triplets.
You will rock, at 37, 38... until forever. xoxo

[misty]

This place the internet reminds me of living in residence at university. People of all sorts, each with a room but sharing a common living space and a bathroom. Some people wash up and some people stink up the whole place and you can't even go down the hall for hours.
Be well.
Mart and I were sitting on the couch, in a quiet house to ourselves, the kids with my mother. Through the quiet came a muffled pfffft. Farts are still funny. 7 or 37.

[Christine]

Oh lady, I look like I'm about four months pregnant, and I've never had a baby in there, so you know.

You're gorgeous, inside, out. And it sounds like the husband's quite the winner too.

June and the internet can be real douchey sometimes. But hey it's July now and if it isn't sweltering, July can be lovely.

[Deb Rox]

Douchebag magnet, he's right. Or maybe a magnet that pulls whatever douchiness it can out of users. What is it about a keyboard and an open blog post box that brings out the cheesy talk show host or Nike commercial or self-help book author lurking within for so many, so often? Creepy, really. It doesn't make me mad anymore, but it is creepy.

[Amanda]

And they say it's the stopping that's hard. Pffft.

[hodgepodge]

If you weren't such a dear I would hit YOU over the head with some large inanimate object, for suggesting that you have a jelly roll. People with actual jelly rolls really, really get snarly when ethereally beautiful long-legged creatures in $300 jeans prod their dainty little tummies, you know. ;)

The internet is MADE of douchebags. The true kindred spirits you find are like the park that is built over top of the reclaimed landfill. There are treasures, but the whole thing is shifting on top of layers of crap. Ignore the crap. Feed the ducks. Run around that park a bit. Just don't go digging.

(Isn't it common just before BlogHer to start obsessing about your personal appearance? Just sayin'. And I haven't worn a bikini since high school. I consider it a major personal victory that I wear a bathing suit at all.)

[sweetsalty kate]

Hodgepodge, I don't mean to be a douchebag, but I hereby claim my right to angst over my twin skin and my unsuckable pot belly. Don't make me get naked in front of you. Everything is relative, weight does not equal health or strength or happiness or contentedness, and carefully-chosen clothing is the ultimate deception. Besides. People who wear one annual $200 bra don't get to throw stones at people who wear one pair of annual $300 jeans (said while smiling at your awesome rack).

It's not so much BlogHer that makes me worry. The collective angst of two thousand women in the same room cancel out individual angst.

Also, that's about the best description of the internet I've ever seen.

[hodgepodge]

Fair point my dear, and you know (I hope) that I was teasing you gently. Because I get it - if you feel uncomfortable in your skin then it really doesn't matter if I would perform unmentionable favours and black magic-voodoo to have your physique. Big hugs.

Just imagine if we could both wear the $300 jeans AND the $200 bra at the same time. We would be unstoppable. XO

[sweetsalty kate]

Gotcha, H. I knew you were being gentle. Me too.

I could still get naked in front of you though. I may as well. I've already seen your bra.