on wedded bliss

I've been officially legally separated for 3 months. As anyone who's experienced such life events knows, the separation begins long before the boxes get packed and the contract gets signed. So this is not a recent event in my life.

The number one question I get asked is: "Why do you still wear your wedding ring?"

To clarify, I don't still wear my wedding ring. I wear a silver band that I bought after my separation. Now that I have my diamond band back, I do occasionally wear it, but I don't wear my engagement diamonds, and most days of the week I just wear the plain silver band.

At first I told people I just felt more comfortable with wearing it since I'd been wearing a band for so many years, or I'd say something like "It's just a ring, it doesn't mean anything."

But, the truth about why I still wear a wedding ring is much more prophetic, and honestly it's sad but it's raw and true.

I still wear a wedding ring because it validates me.

And that's ironic, because if there's anything the last 6 months of my life has taught me, it's that I have far more self-worth than can be defined by my relationships with others; a true purpose for being on this Earth by myself. I have no intention of speaking of my marriage in a way that describes it as a burden or a mistake but to define myself as me and me alone has been incredibly freeing.

And yet....taking off that ring makes me feel somehow...unloved. Unworthy. Incapable. Scared. Marriage validated my worth in a way I understand much more now that I'm trying to shed its bonds. It's prohetic because that's certainly no reason to get married in the first place, and it makes it even harder to let go when it's time. I won't speak for him, but I knew it was time nearly a year before we set the separation into motion. I believe he feels the same. Letting go of that validation was much harder than letting go of the actual marriage.

I don't regret a second of my marriage. I don't regret that we made vows in front of our family and friends and I don't regret that we ended it. I would never regret falling in love and I would never regret making the most adult decision I've ever made.

I can't bring myself to take it off. I feel like I can conquer the world now that I'm free from marriage, and yet, the ring is my safety. My validation of worth. I know in my heart that's not the source of my worth, but I guess I'm just not ready to present myself to the world that way.

It's a process. I never expected it to be like a lightswitch. It's been a beautiful journey of self-discovery, even if the very thing whose absence has set me free is giving me the freedom to be myself.

shine in your church, gathered today

The Obama administration believes that contraception should be offered to women as a means of improving public health and women's autonomy. The Catholic church would be violating one of their strongest helded beliefs by offering contraception to its employees and affiliates. (link)

This is the kind of dilemma I face as a Catholic feminist who holds the separation of church and state as an indispensible virtue of government and religion.

I believe that the availability of contraception is directly correlated to the improvement of women's health. I also understand why the Catholic church is against contraception and I fully support their position on denying the use of contraception in the confines of being faithful. No seriously though. I get it. I understand why arguments such as "but contraception use reduces abortion rates" and "but 92% of all Catholic women have used birth control" don't hold an ounce of water against "contraception is against the teaching of the Catholic church".

And yet, the feminist in me is cheering for birth control.

As tomorrow begins the season of Lent, a time of reflection and fasting, and for me the beginning of of my 10th year in the Church, I'm going to be seriously trying to figure out how to reconcile these differences in who I am. Maybe I'll never see an end to this struggle, but it seems to me like I'm unable to keep them as seperate facets of my life and so I keep trying to blend the two as if they could possible exist within one person.

where I've been...

A couple people have suggested that I blog about my separation. When I started this blog I vowed to myself that it would not become my personal diary, and for the most part, I've kept that promise. The problem now is that I have nothing to blog about.

I think that I may write something meaningful when I'm ready to publish some of my feelings, but that time hasn't come yet. Stay tuned. :)

title unknown

For the most part, my life is pretty boring. I’m fairly routined and I stay out of trouble, but you know, sometimes adventure comes to you, and I’m okay with that, spice of life and such, you know?

I feel like this adventure needs a name. Like “The Great Hooker Adventure of St. Paul Street” or “The one where Kate meets a drunk mortician”. Read the story, leave title suggestions in the comments.

Yesterday morning at about 5:30am, I woke up to the sound of someone falling down the steps in our apartment building. I was sound asleep, but the sound was pretty loud, and the girl who fell was wailing pretty loudly. I immediately heard a little commotion which consisted of a man’s voice asking if she was alright, and a quiet exchange. Now, don’t think I’m a monster when I tell you that I considered staying in bed. Just because someone hurts themselves doesn’t mean that a thousand people should run to their rescue, and maybe it made sense for me to just stay out of it. But the man’s voice disappeared and the girl started screaming for someone to help her, so I grabbed my phone and my glasses and went out.

At the bottom of the steps was a girl that looked about 21 and probably about 100 pounds, laying at the bottom of the steps crying. This girl had clearly had a rough night, but at first glance, I just assumed she was drunk as hell and that she was upset over the fall. I did a quick survey of the situation, to make sure she wasn’t injured and to see what she really needed. She claimed she didn’t need an ambulance, and she didn’t look like she was hurt, so I didn’t push it.

“Help me. They don’t care about me. I don’t know where I am. I just want to go home. Please help me, don’t leave me.”

Holy crap. What?

When someone says to you “please help me, don’t leave me”, you’re kind of stuck. You can’t just walk away from that situation, and I was still trying to figure the situation out so I just sat down on the floor next to her and hugged her. Sisterhood and ovaries and shit, right?  She was sobbing and repeating the same thing over and over again. “I don’t know where I am, they don’t care about me, please don’t leave me.”

This is when I thought shit, son, this here is a real life sex worker.

“Baby, you hookin’?” (I have street cred, so I can say that, and yes, I did actually say that.)

“No, no, I would never do that, I’m not that kind of person.” More wailing. Sobbing into my shirt. (Have I mentioned that I was just in my pajamas? An old Planet Fitness t-shirt and some embarrassingly short booty shorts.)

Okay, okay. She says she’s not a hooker. Fine. But it would make perfect sense. Man picks up this hooker, brings her to his fine apartment home (lol) and for whatever reason, kicks her out on her butt without paying her, maybe because she’s drunk? I don’t know. At this point one of the neighbors comes out to see if we need anything. I’m still of the belief that all this girl needs is a friend so I give him the thumbs up.

“How did you get here? Who did you come with? Do you live in this building?”

She didn’t know, she didn’t know, and no. More crying, sobbing and don’t leave me’s.

“What’s your name?”

“Paris.”

“I’m Kate. I’m not going to leave you. It’s going to be okay.” This girl is literally clutching at me. She seemed really scared. Which then made me realize that maybe I should be scared too.

“Are you here for drugs?” (Couldn’t remember the “street” way to ask that.)

My life flashed before my eyes. This girl was here for some kind of drug deal, and it went bad, she got pushed down the steps, and I was involved now. Someone was going to come out with a gun and I was going to die and how would my parents know that I was never involved? Should I write a quick email to them letting them know that I love them and that I wasn’t involved in any kind of drug deal because I’m a good girl, and maybe I should leave a note for the police so that they know how I got into this situation, you know just save them some foot work….

“No, no, I’d never do that. I’m scared. Please help me.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, I’ve never been in trouble with the law. I’m not that kind of person, please don’t leave me.”

Okay. The situation is getting to be a bit much. I still don’t know how she got into the building (you’d need a key) and I am still not convinced she’s not somehow high. In fact, she’s kind of groping me, the way I’d imagine one does on drugs, or a lesbian high on life. Either way, this girl was really taking advantage of me being braless. Her fake eyelashes were coming off, and her makeup was all over her face and shirt. Paris had had a really rough night.

After a series of questions, I did find out that she’d come home with a couple of guys from a club and that she just wanted to go home. Perfect. Paris, I’m going to call you a cab. Where do you live? She gave me the name of two major streets in Baltimore that do indeed intersect. Perfect. Let me call her a cab.

Side note: apparently, in Baltimore, if you need a cab, you have to give them the exact address of your destination or they will HANG UP ON YOU. So I had to look up the cross-streets and pick an address as close as possible in that vicinity to get a cab to come. (You suck, Yellow Cab of Baltimore.)

Right as I’m calling the cab though, two men come downstairs, and it’s clear that these are the men that brought Paris into our building. Nice looking well adjusted guys who clearly don’t need a hooker like this. (Look, I know she said she’s not a hooker, but dude, she was a hooker.)

Some words are exchanged, quite peacefully actually, and one guy leaves while the remaining guy tries to talk some sense into her. He tells me that they tried to call her a cab but she refused and was ripping up their apartment so he had to kick her out. He suggests that we go out for a smoke while he tells me the whole story. Awesome. Let me just put on jeans and a sweatshirt.

I run inside, grab my nearest jeans and my Ohio State fleece and when I come back Paris has vomited all over the floor. Oh. Back in for paper towels. Are you serious? I’m helping to clean up this girl’s puke? Wtf, sisterhood? You suck.

After some more tense words about us leaving her, my neighbor (who is still kind of drunk) and I get outside. His name is Charles. Great, thanks Charles, now can you please tell me what the fuck is going on here?

Charles and his friend met a rich guy at a bar who invited them back to his penthouse a few blocks away for a party. At said party, they were told there was an after party club they should all go to, which means it’s a place that has found a loophole around state laws prohibiting the service of alcohol after 2:00am. This girl was supposedly super drunk and kept getting kicked out, but was hanging on both of them outside and when they got in their car she just got in saying she was going to fuck both of them, and she was so drunk they just brought her home.

Real casually I was like “Oh did you guys fuck her?”, hoping that my nonchalant way of asking would garner the truth.

“No fucking way. I have standards.”

Fine, Charles, you didn’t fuck her, gold star, anyway so she trashed your apartment and so you kicked her out?

Yeah, that was the story. Fine.

“Oh, are you from Ohio?” (Referencing OHIO STATE across my chest, yeah, he was looking at my boobs, so what?)

“Yep.”

“Neat, I’m from Cincinnati, I just moved here last year.”

“Oh really? That’s cool. What do you do?”

“I’m a mortician.”

...what?

Paris figured out how a door works. She came outside and asked him for a cigarette, which she then waved in my face and nearly caught me on fire, and then right in time the cab showed up. The cab driver was pissed and insisted that she paid up front. What a fucking ordeal.

“I have cash, I’m not that kind of girl, I just need to go home.” She is crying and falling all over the car. The cab driver gets out to talk to Charles while I try to figure out if Paris has any cash, she only needs $15, but I only find $6 in her purse. Paris keeps trying to attack the cab driver and I pull her off. We all want her to just get home. None of us want any sort of alternative ending to the story, so we empathize with the cab driver and try to get the cash from Paris. 

I am literally standing barefoot on the streets of Baltimore with two people I've just met and a cab driver trying to physically find cash on the person of this drunk girl, all while promising her that I don't judge her and I know she's not "that kind of girl" but please, Paris, do you have the $15 for the driver?

After a while of this back and forth of Paris feeling judged and telling the cab driver that she has money but that she didn’t do anything illegal to get the cash, (The $6? Really??) Charles goes inside and brings out a ten. (Yeah buddy, I know she’s off her rocker but you got her into this mess, that’s a small price to pay to get her home.)

After some quintessential “I love you guys, no really, you guys, you don’t even know, I love you so much” drunk goodbyes, we get her in the car and it drives away. Great. Good deed done. Night is over. Bedtime? Oh. No.

Charles and I stand around talking a little more.

“Do you want to see pictures of dead people?”

“Sure!”

We went up to his apartment and looked at his embalming textbooks. None of that phases me and we discussed different embalming techniques and procedures as well as the art of being a funeral director. I talked about my work in tobacco control while he lit another cigarette and we talked a little about Ohio. That’s when I noticed an urn on his shelf.

“Whose cremains are in there?” (He was totes impressed with my use of the word cremains.)

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You have some random person’s ashes on your shelf?”

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

“….sure.” I mean I know what ashes look like, but he seemed excited to show me.

So you know how in TV and movies the perpetual joke is when someone opens the urn and ashes get everywhere? Well, Charles opens the urn, and the cremains are in a bag. As he’s opening it, ashes fall all over his shirt, all over the table, and all onto his futon. I mean, he didn’t empty it out or anything, just a little bit, probably like a couple fingers worth or whatever, but holy fucking crap. All like it’s no big freaking deal. No, that’s cool Charles. Just a dead body all over your apartment, that’s chill. God.

Seriously though. I can now say I’ve taken my hand and cleaned some dead person’s ashes off of a futon. As if I’d spilled some Cheeto’s crumbs and brushed them onto the floor. Something about this is just not normal.

The sun was coming up, it was basically daylight at this point. We actually ended up jamming a little bit, he has a band and I messed around on his keyboard while he played bass, and while we’re not the next big thing, it was fun. I went back to bed and slept for another hour and a half.

So that was that. I hope that Paris got home okay. I still think there’s more to the story of why she ended up in his apartment. (Really? Drunk girl jumps in your car so you just bring her home? I don’t know about that….) Maybe she was raped and I was an accomplice. Likely though, they had the intention of fucking her but she was genuinely too drunk and being belligerent. Who knows. Paris doesn’t even know.

i am like the cool teacher

Okay guys, it's not really that bad. Sometimes a girl just needs to whine, right? Things are actually pretty good. An adjustment, sure, but good. :)

I have a kind of more relatable post coming up soon, I just need a little time to myself to finish it. :)

and cheese

I just need to whine for a minute.

I can't control the heat in my apartment, and it is always either too cold or too hot. My kitchen doesn't have room for my pots and pans. There's too much light in my bedroom in the morning. My modem only has one ethernet port so I can't watch movies and use my computer at the same time. Parking is ridiculously hard and I don't like Mo being out in the weather when he's used to being under a carport. I don't completely feel safe in my neighborhood. I am not a city girl, and I know this after a week. It's a long complicated story but I was sick last week and due to that I'm losing 6 days of pay because I have a job without sick pay and with an unachievable standard for vacation pay. Because of this I went a whole year without a dental cleaning and without having cavities filled.

I miss my husband and this is really hard, on both of us, and because it's hard on both of us, it's even harder on us individually. Every single person who has said anything about my divorce has said the wrong thing. It's possible that there isn't anything right to say, but every person has made me feel worse. Even my closest friends. I both can't handle people being excited for me or people being sad for me. My boss makes me want to scream. I don't like my life right now. I want to take a vacation and come back and have it all make sense.

you're way too beautiful girl

I used to think that marriage was putting my feminist ideals to the test. I now realize that being single is going to put my feminist ideals to the test. Don't get me wrong, I'm not like, on the market or anything, but I could be if I wanted to. It feels way too soon to be dating, and in fact, my goal is to spend some time intensely focusing on myself instead of focusing on relationships, but I can't lie, the world around me looks so different. When you've been attached for your entire adult life your outlook on other people is different than your outlook when you're single. And this, somehow, is how my feminist ideals are being tested. The comfort and security to be myself while married makes me wonder just how much of my identity was wrapped up in being "taken" instead of my identity just being my own. It's not a scary time, it's an adventurous time, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous. Nervous to be a feminist out there, not looking, but not not looking, and discovering how to manage this new person I'm going to become.