A Misogynist's Anthem and a Feminist's Stand

I've been thinking about writing this post for awhile, but I think it's particularly important now.  The events near UCSB, attempted copycat killer in Washington, and subsequent commentary by both mass media and social media platforms prove how essential it is that we address sexism, misogyny, and cis hetero male sexual entitlement.

I miss New York City deeply.  Even missing the G train, paying more for just about everything, and continually apartment-hunting.  The one thing I do not miss is street harassment.  Getting "Hey gorgeous, where you going?" as the only catcall of the day felt like a small victory.  I mean, hell, if I made it home without invitations to perform fellatio on complete strangers or unsolicited commentary on my ass, I considered it a successful commute.  It was exhausting.

So I come home, to a place where I largely drive everywhere and people tend to interact less.  I mean, sure, friendly door-holding, maybe some conversations in the grocery checkout.  But on the whole, the rest of the country isn't as much of a social pressure cooker as New York because we have the luxury of greater personal space.

I joined a gym, hoping to tone up a bit before making the move to LA in a couple months.  I've found that I do best in classes.  I get a better workout in a 60 minute class of any kind than I do on my own for an hour.  Of course, classes are scheduled back-to-back, so if you get there early/on time, you're hanging out a little counter near the lifting area until the first class lets out.  I was awaiting a class (Zumba, because I love a dance class for cardio instead of a machine) and standing quietly to myself, running over my to-do list for the day/week/month/year/decade/lifetime, when out of freakin' nowhere, this dude comes over.  He stands in my eyeline and then says, "Honey, smile.  Why you gotta look so serious?" Apparently my neutral expression while minding my own business was something he felt the need to comment upon. He managed to walk away before I could retort.

At least I have ample practice in shaking that bullshit off.  So I decide to not let Mr. Smiley ruin my day.   I head into class, take my spot, and stretch out.  Even though this is my hometown, I rarely know anybody I see at the gym.  Today was no exception.  There was a group of women in their mid20's-early 30s behind me, and they were clearly regulars in the room.  About halfway through the class, one of them yells at the instructor, "Can we do 'Around the World?'."

Now, I'm thinking, what is "around the world"?  Is certain choreography?  But before I can ponder for too long, the instructor beams and says, "Sure thing!"  She then starts the music for the next track.

I almost walked out of the room, but I realized doing so wouldn't make a point and that my heart rate was nearing its peak, so I needed to finish the class.  Besides, walking out of the class wouldn't cause any change.  So I stayed, and I danced.

The song that got me so viscerally upset isn't called "Around the World."

It's called "Talk Dirty," and you can't turn on the radio and scan through the stations without encountering Jason Derulo's autotuned hit.   I can't deny the beat itself is appealing, and if you're not paying attention, you'll find yourself moving along to the music.  To its credit, the song makes a body want to dance.

Thus endeth any positive attributes I might associate with this song.

This pop anthem disgusts me.

The gist of this song is, "Who cares if I don't understand a word you say?  Who you are as a person isn't important, as long as you're conventionally sexy and want to fuck me."

Seriously.  That's the thesis of this song that is cramming the mainstream radio airwaves.  Derulo doesn't even try to use metaphor or apply wit to his songwriting.  Here's a breakdown of his lyrics, and my inner monologue/interpretations while listening to it.

Get jazzy on it ["Be someone that my friends will think is cool and sexy."]

I'm that flight that you get on, international  [Okay, so he's comparing himself to a plane ride.  There's some ego involved, but nothing overtly misogynistic in this line.]
First class seat on my lap girl, riding comfortable ["Come sit on my lap, because associating yourself with me will automatically improve your social status."]

'Cause I know what the girl them need, ["I call grown women 'girls' and don't need to concern myself with proper use of the English language if I'm intentionally seeking out women who don't speak it."]
New York to Haiti ["All women within this 1500 mile distance want me, because at least a handful do, and all women are the same."]
I got lipstick stamps on my passport, ["Because my three thousand dollar belt isn't about to get all notched up."]
You make it hard to leave [Wait, you're speaking to a single person all of a sudden?  Good thing she apparently doesn't speak English, because bragging about how many other women you've slept with probably wouldn't improve your game.]

Been around the world, don't speak the language ["Because I'm too important to learn new things."]
But your booty don't need explaining ["It's an ass.  Oh look, and there's a woman attached to it.  Bonus!"]
All I really need to understand is [Why you're an international superstar who insists on singing his own name at the beginning of every song?]
When you talk dirty to me [So does this mean you learned all the dirty words in a handful of other languages?]
Talk dirty to me [Oh, nope.  You just want to know you have what seems like consent.]
Talk dirty to me ["You're a woman.  Why aren't you being sexually subservient to me yet?"]
Talk dirty to me ["If your mouth is moving, it'd better be so you can pleasure me."]
Get jazzy on it [Remember, Jason Derulo wants you to carry yourself in a way he and his friends find sexually appealing.]

You know the words to my songs [Anyone that listens to pop radio even once a month is forced to know the words to your songs.  And we know your name will be in them at least once.]
No habla inglés ["Look!  I learned how a Spanish person would tell me they don't speak English!"]
Our conversations ain't long ["Which is good, because I have no interest in understanding you as a person or pretending to care about you in any way, shape, or form."]
But you know what is [Wow, that's an original "check out my big dick" line.  And of course, all women will go straight to bed with you if you brag about your endowment.]

I know what the girl them want, [I really don't think you do, dude.]
London to Taiwan ["Over 6000 miles, though all the cultures of Europe and Asia, and women all want the same thing.  To be objectified by an egomaniac such as myself."]
I got lipstick stamps on my passport [So are you popular as soon as you land and go through customs?  Is that what you're saying?]
I think I need a new one  [I would say it's because the TSA is probably pissed that you've made a mess of your ID, but you mean that you've screwed so many women that you've lost count, don't you?]

Been around the world, don't speak the language ["Because I'm a famous man, so I'm too important to communicate with non-English speakers."]
But your booty don't need explaining [Seriously, Derulo, if you need asses explained to you, you're beyond help]
All I really need to understand is [That this song is a clear representation of a cultural acceptance of misogyny?]
When you talk dirty to me [Mud.  Mold.  Mildew.  Feces.  Dust.  Slime.]
Talk dirty to me [Oh, you didn't mean list things that are dirty?]
Talk dirty to me [Nah.  I'm saving my creative juices for my feminist blog entry.]
Talk dirty to me [Dude.  Seriously.  Are you done?]

Uno, met your friend in Rio ["We have a mutual friend, so you should talk to me."]
Dos, she was all on me-o  [Dude, are you bragging that you had sex with my friend?]
Tres, we can ménage à three though  ["You are friends.  You are pretty.  Therefore, you must want to have sex with me simultaneously.  Because I say so."]
Quatro, ooh (2 Chainz!)  [Ooh?  That's the fourth point in this list of horrible appeals for a threeway?]

[2 Chainz is here now.  Maybe he'll talk some sense into Jason Derulo!]
Dos Cadenas, close to genius [He's already a step ahead and can say his own name in Spanish, though I wouldn't go as far as to say it makes him a genius.]
Sold out arenas, you can suck my penis [Why are invitations to perform fellatio so often the conclusions of braggy statements in songs?]
Gilbert Arenas, guns on deck ["Lolz, let's reference an athlete that brought four fucking guns into his team locker room as a result of a financial dispute and then returned to play pro ball after a mere suspension."]
Chest to chest, tongue on neck ["Now I'll throw in something sexual, but FCC acceptable."]
International oral sex ["Another bit of bragging about sexual prowess, because I need to remind you that I'm sexually powerful"]
Every picture I take, I pose a threat ["Part of being a real man is being intimidating, amirite?"]
Bought a jet, what do you expect? ["I am wealthy and therefore you should be impressed and want to please me"]
Her pussy's so good I bought her a pet ["I'm not accustomed to actually connecting with women, but when they please me sexually I feel as though I ought to reward them with material goods, typically live animals"]
Anyway, every day I'm trying to get to it [By "it," I assume you mean her pussy that inspired you to buy her a live animal?  You are aware that it's attached to a person, yes?  So you're trying to get to her, not just it?]
Got her saved in my phone under "Big Booty" ["Because her name and identity aren't important, I just like the way her ass looks."]
Anyway, every day I'm trying to get to it [You do realize this portrays men as sex-hungry, empty-headed testosterone machines that can only think of putting their penises into women?]
Got her saved in my phone under "Big Booty" [Yes, 2 Chainz, you mentioned that.  You were no help in putting Derulo on the right track.  You can go now.]

Been around the world, don't speak the language [And apparently you have no desire to learn any new ones.]
But your booty don't need explaining ["Which is good, because what man in his right mind makes an effort to actually understand a woman?"]
All I really need to understand is [I wish you'd understand how entirely offensive and irresponsible this song is.]
When you talk dirty to me [Gonna pass on that.]
Talk dirty to me (you you you) [No.]
Talk dirty to me (yeah yeah)  [Stop asking.]
Talk dirty to me (talk to me)  [This has gone on too long.]
Talk dirty to me (oh yeah)   [We're done here.]
Get jazzy on it  [I'm gonna go do my thing, which is essentially the opposite of everything you've mentioned in this song.]

What? I don't understand! [Why should I be surprised that you're ending the song with objectifying a Japanese woman by making her sound subservient due to the fact that she doesn't speak English?]

I wish I had walked out of that class and made a request that the gym no longer play this song.   I am ashamed that I continued with the class at the gym that day instead of standing up for something that I find so dearly important.  The fact that I know without a doubt that my concerns would have been gently humored and then promptly ignored at best or outright ridiculed to my face at worst should not have been a factor.

I think a lot of women feel this way in their attempts to stand up when something that many find innocuous.  But I, we, have to learn to accept that the most important cultural changes always meet with heavy resistance at the beginning.  I would like to ask everyone, regardless of gender identity or sexuality, to stand together and speak up when oppressive speech of any kind gets a pass as socially acceptable, or even rewarded and revered as in the case of "Talk Dirty."

 

Forcefield

So, this is one of the harder posts I've written.  Well, or I think it's going to be.  This is the first sentence so, y'know... maybe it'll be easier than I think.  A gal can hope, right?

I am an insanely fortunate human.  I have the best family anyone could want, amazing friends, and an incredible partner for the journey.  I am very healthy, even after skipping several months of regular exercise.  I'm not rolling in luxury, but I want for nothing.  I am respected as a human being, as a creative person, and as a professional.  I've had strokes of luck and unexpected gifts from the universe that have made my life nothing short of extraordinary.  I am joyful.  I am grateful.

I am also mildly depressed.

The worst thing about being depressed is that I have absolutely nothing to be depressed about.  And, despite my constant fighting against unfounded stigmas, I seem to unconsciously buy into the theory that a person must be happy all the time if nothing is wrong.

But what if all that's wrong is that your serotonin levels just decide to ebb from time to time?  It's not even that drastic of a psychological low tide or anything; it's not like I have trouble getting out of bed, being grateful for my life, or laughing until my sides hurt.  Don't worry, folks (especially you, Momma) -- I still eat, sleep (as best as a lifelong insomniac can), and take good care of myself.  Though, admittedly, a little more exercise would probably round things out and make both my body and mind feel better.  Substituting serotonin with endorphins isn't the worst "fake it till ya make it" strategy I've ever heard of.

Anyway, as I was saying (well, writing) -- this depression isn't debilitating.  I can carry on a pretty functional life and still feel a full range of emotions.  Though, even at my healthiest, anger isn't my bag.  It takes a lot to get me there.  The closest thing I can muster to anger in 99% of circumstances can be best described as haughty indignation.

I do find myself getting emotional over silly things.  I've always been an easy crier, and it typically doesn't bother me.   Passing a homeless person and not giving any money or food makes tears prickle in my eyes, and it's upsettingly common in NYC.  So when I say that I'm getting overly emotional, I mean that I have deep, guttural, all-encompassing sadness and/or guilt consuming me in some moments, and I don't know why.  I've had stupid sobbing breakdowns over things that maybe merited sombre contemplation or genuine reflection over the weekend, but not heaving sobs so bad it felt like I was choking on my own tears.

Also, I find myself having trouble fully connecting with other people.  As someone who fucking adores people, particularly her friends and family, this is probably the worst thing about mild depression.  I want to be fully present and alert and connected with people I care about, but something that I can't control seems to put a forcefield between me and my loved ones.  Sound is muted, colors are duller, and I feel entirely impotent and helpless against this invisible barrier.  I want to shatter it.  If screaming would crack it, I'd shout until my voice went raw.  If crying dissolved it, I'd let the tears flow until I needed an IV drip to replenish the fluids in my body.  If pounding against it helped, I would destroy it until my hands were ripped to shreds.  It is this lack of connection that hurts the most.  It is a very specific type of agony to feel like you can't give yourself to the people you care about, and that feeling is only compounded in not being able to understand why it's happening or what you can do about it.

And I have trouble admitting this and asking for help.  I want to be able to take care of myself, and I've made it a point to become pretty decent at it.  But, something that I think brings me closer to being able to admit this about myself, to sit down and have the strength to write this blog, is having Dan in my life.  Especially since we live together in a smallish space (it's big by Brooklyn standards but small according to the rest of the country), I can't exactly hide when I'm overwhelmed with emptiness.  And I have somebody by my side who doesn't force the issue, who simply puts his arms around me and reminds me that my neurochemicals are not my fault.  That it's okay to be sad, but that to be sad about being sad probably isn't the best course of action.

And, if you've gotten this far and you're wondering why I'm not on meds or in therapy, it's not because I think I don't need it or that the problem will go away on its own.  Believe me, once health insurance is a real thing in my life, I'll be seeing a doctor to get all this straightened out.  In unrelated news, I am also inordinately excited to visit a dentist.  I haven't gone to the dentist in years!  The idea of a cleaning sounds heavenly!

And see, it's little things like that, like thinking about the joy of getting my teeth cleaned (I might be the only person on Earth that uses that phrase without a drop of sarcasm or irony) that give me a moment of genuine joy.  Seeing my friends and feeling the forcefield weaken, or even disappear, makes me want to keep going.  In lieu of prozac, the joys of life and love are my current mode of treatment.  And what's wonderful is that they're absolutely free!  No act of Congress can compromise that.

I know that I control my own happiness.  And I think, sometimes, a big part of creating your own happiness is putting on your big girl undies, taking a deep breath, and admitting that happiness is hard.  And I don't think it's just those of us who struggle with misfiring synapses who feel that way.  Happiness is a choice, and despite the ease that comes with happiness, the choice itself is not often the easiest one.  Wallowing is comfortable.  Happiness is danger, it is vulnerability.

Happiness is saying, "I'm sad," and knowing that the sorrow isn't permanent.

I am depressed.

And I choose happiness.

Academic Addie

Hi!  Wow... I got pulled away from this little guy for farrrrrrr too long.  I have a lengthy and charming explanation for my internet absence, but today's post is not about that!

Nope, today I'm cashing in my bragging rights.  I presented a paper (in absentia, so technically I wasn't there, but my paper was presented) last week at a pop culture conference.  That's right, kiddos!  There's an entire academic conference devoted to all things pop culture.  Seriously.  Name any TV show, game (video or board), cultural phenomenon, trend, or even social issue (Fat Studies is a category, for example), and odds are somebody presented about it at the conference.  Sadly, I had to miss it due to scheduling conflicts.

I've gotta say, I like this academic/presentational writing thing.  I hope to keep it up!

Turns out I've gotten some requests from attendees for copies of the paper.  In the interest of creating great accessibility to my academic writing while protecting my authorship, I started myself a fancy scholar social media page here.  So please check it out!  Here's my abstract:

Tit for Tat:  Burlesque and Pop Culture

An Exploration of the Potential Benefits and Drawbacks to the Mutual Appropriation Between Mainstream Media and Neo-Burlesque

            Today, pop-culture references cover neo-burlesque stages in as much quantity as glitter and marabou.  Jo “Boobs” Weldon includes an amazing Godzilla act in her repertoire.  Dottie Riot pays homage to Swamp Thing.  Doc Wasabassco and Nasty Canasta wrote and created a tribute to King Kong.  Nerdlesque troupe D20 cultivated an evening of burlesque numbers based on the work of iconic sci-fi writer/director Joss Whedon.  Uncle Monty’s Mollyhouse spoofed Downton Abbey with “Slagtown Abbey.”  Each of these performances have occurred in New York City within the past year, and they serve as a minute sampling of a plethora of pop-culture and mass-media inspired acts by burlesque performers.   These pieces are always crowd-pleasers, allowing the audience to immediately recognize the zeitgeist in question and feel as though they are “in” on the joke.  While not requisite as part of a show, the pop-culture-referential act is gaining solid footing in neo-burlesque, to the delight of performers and audiences alike.

             Appropriation of material has recently become mutual between burlesque and widely distributed entertainment.  Feature films such as Burlesque, starring a multitude of familiar Hollywood faces, claim to introduce audiences to the art form, while two separate crime procedurals feature burlesque performance as a facet of homicide cases.  Watching the hit television series Dancing With the Stars, a viewer often watches bedazzled dance routines featuring bump ‘n’ grind moves with FCC-approved (and therefore very minimal) striptease.  As burlesque borrows from entertainment and pop culture at large, so do writers and producers on the small and large screens.

             The cross-pollination of small-scale live performance with mass-distributed recorded performance proves inevitable in the digital age.  But: does this mutual appropriation of medium benefit the burlesque community?  Burlesque will present material inspired by large-scale entertainment with a wink and a smile, acknowledging the playful and satirical nature of the portrayal.  Does American media do the same in its diametric treatment of burlesque -- nearly Disney-fying some performances while literally vilifying burlesquers in others?  Is it possible to achieve symbiosis in this unbalanced relationship?  And, most importantly, should the burlesque community be concerned about the accuracy of the representation of our medium as it is portrayed to a national audience by artists outside the burlesque world?  Or, ought we peel off our concerns as easily as a silk stocking and keep dancing?

Kimchi Nachos, Sleeping Bag Coats, and Waiting for the G Train

That title can only mean one thing!  Yep, back in NYC!

Dan and I got incredibly lucky and are staying in Park Slope in a lovely apartment while sitting for two lovely dogs.  One is an Alaskan husky and one is a hunting dog from the Congo.  They are delightful and sweet.  And they share very different opinions about this polar vortex business (the husky doesn't quite understand why the humans and little dog need to pile stuff on their bodies before we go on walks -- this weather is her jam).

It's a great time and we're quickly falling in love with the neighborhood.  Alright, yuppies.  We get it.  A Trader Joe's in walking distance and a 10 minute stroll to Tom's Diner (the Brooklyn one, not the Suzanne Vega/Seinfeld one), and an even closer trek to get Korean BBQ nachos covered in Kimchi has spoiled our little hipster heads.

Being back in the city is a great feeling, and I'm sure will feel even more fabulous once we've got ourselves some regular, gainful employment.  We're loving having a chance to sleep in and spend time together after Dan's return from a pretty long Christmas tour -- Holla, American Horror Story Season 2 on Netflix!!  Nothing like late-night spooky stories to ensure epic cuddles.

And staying out of this chilly weather as much as possible sounds like the best idea since this amazing magical goodness came into the world.  But we will need to find a place to call our own for realsies once we're done hanging with the pooches, and having a little cash to toss toward going out into the world is a a big part of what makes living in this crazy metropolis so much damn fun.

So, my days are pretty much filled with cover letters and resume revamps, with carefully cataloging which jobs I've applied to, when, and if I've gotten any responses.  The back of my mind is preoccupied with concern about whether this freeze on extended unemployment benefits is going to last, and if so, what will happen when I reach my expiration in a couple weeks?

Finding work, particularly work in arts/entertainment/media is challenging in a town with so many highly qualified candidates, so in addition to a tireless combing of various employment databases, I'm also spending a great deal of time putting out as much positivity as I can into the world.  For anyone else going through this, the cookie butter really is fantastic fuel for such endeavors.

I visited my former home in Greenpoint last night.  In my quick move-out in September, I managed to leave behind a cart, two evening gowns, and a crockpot (like ya do).  I had waffled on whether I actually wanted to go yesterday, what with temps dipping as low as minus 14 (Fahrenheit!  Seriously, WTF?  Is Mother Nature on meth?), it sounded like the best idea was to stay in and only traverse the cold to ensure the doggies got their exercise (don't worry, our little Congolese gentleman has a some awesome winter gear for such occasions).

But, I decided that getting out of the house, if only to grab a handful of things my former roommates were kind enough to hang onto, was probably good insurance against the dreaded cabin fever.  Like these guys, but with knit caps instead of sombreros.

It was a cold walk to the G train stop in my 'hood, but surprisingly not as bad as I thought.  Here's something television is very misleading about in terms of living in New York, and you don't realize how incorrect they are until you get here:  All vanity goes out the window when it gets cold in this town.  Fuck my fashion sense, I wanna feel my face and limbs, y'all!

My winter wardrobe the past couple days has been thus:  superwarm long underwear, a heavy long sleeved tee, my loosest pair of jeans (spoiler alert: even my loosest jeans are still skinny cut.  It's a layering adventure!), a heavy sweater, my amazing sleeping bag coat (seriously, buy this if you are outside in the cold often), a knit hat, the coat's hood over the hat, two pairs of smartphone friendly gloves (pro tip: the gloves will not operate your phone when layered together.  Apparently they cancel each other out, like polarized lenses or if Clark Kent and Superman were to appear in the same room at the same time), the thickest socks I can rustle up, and some superwarm boots. 

Yes, the boots and coat have the potential to be spendy, but they are saving my ass (and other parts) from frostbite.  Also, hit your nearest Columbia outlet -- they mark even Sorel boots down superlow, especially in the summer months (so y'know... you might need to wait a bit).

Disembarking the G train, it nearly felt like I was in one of those "It was my neighborhood, but not my neighborhood" dreams.  Perhaps it was the cold and the cranky people, perhaps it was sleepiness, perhaps it was my extended absence from the city.  But as much as I always loved Greenpoint, I didn't feel as though I was returning "home," as I had so many times when I lived in different neighborhoods and would visit the area.  Even going back to my old (insanely gorgeous and spacious) apartment, I didn't feel any pangs of nostalgia.  I chatted with my former roommate, met the pleasant fellow who took over my room, gathered my random-ass assortment of things, and schelpped them back to the subway, then home again.

I sort of lost my throughline on this post about halfway through, largely due to the migraine that I managed to stave off for the past twelve hours finally insisting itself upon my left eye socket, but I know where I am now.  I'm precisely where I need to be.  I am happy and full of possibility and sharing a home with the love of my life.  Finding the job and the next apartment will come -- hell, maybe it'll even be someplace other than New York -- but tonight, I know beyond hesitation that I have found my future... the specifics will fall into place soon enough.
 

Life with Migraines

If I'd had the forethought, there would be a video attached to this post.

I just did the most liberated, embarrassing, gleeful dance throughout my house.  There was also a little song that went along with it.  I can't recall entirely, but the lines, "My migraine's gone / and I feel so much better" were a recurring theme throughout the ditty.  Sure, there was absolutely no rhyme scheme, but the genuine joy behind the tune more than compensates for it... in my mind at least.

I'm not sure if the cat was terrified or amused, but he certainly was transfixed by the performance.

If you've ever had a migraine, you know this feeling.  Hell, even if you have a loved one or close friend that suffered from these buggers, you at the very least can relate to the immense relief that comes with the lifting of the debilitating pain.  Imagine a bunch of evil pixies in your head with teeny pickaxes trying to excavate your skull from the inside out.  That's what your loved one is going through.  A deleted scene from a tripped-out claymation horror movie.  In their skull.

...I'd like to take a moment to copyright that idea here and now.  I see it in anything I didn't get a hand in producing, I get a cut, yo.

And this demonic elf brain pain doesn't subside with experience or years.  Sure, a person learns to cope, learns what does and doesn't help the pain, avoids the known triggers.  But after twenty -- yes, twenty -- years of anywhere from 1 to 8 episodes a month, I can safely say that until a migraine fully subsides, I have trouble operating at anything higher than 75%... and even that's not a guarantee.  Basically, for rare opportunities or work, I'll push as hard as I can for normativity, but in general I resign myself to being a useless heap of cuddly (albiet whiny) pain.  For the protection of myself and others, this seems like the most logical course of action.

Like most female migraine sufferers, hormones do play a part in triggering my migraines.  At the risk of overshare, I can usually mark on a calendar when I'll at least have a half-migraine (basically the same amount of pain, but less sensitivity to light/sound, less nausea, and less general misery) for one to two days out of a month.  If I have more than two to three drinks, even if I wake up hangover-free, I awake with severe pain behind my right eye the following day.  IPAs and any overly hoppy beers are like potions of pain, and I avoid them accordingly.  Also, forgetting to eat regularly is a problem.  I don't intentionally skip meals, but sometimes time get away from me and before I know it, I've been running on fumes for too long and my head pretty much force quits the productivity programming on my life.

And, fellow migraine folks, back me up here, but I can wake up feeling perfectly fine and energetic, but still know, somewhere in my body and mind, that I will develop a migraine at some point during the day.  My stubborn ass will still refuse to treat is preemptively, though, so I end up with a headache that I'm forced to suffer through and/or treat later in the day.  Apparently, it's going to take twenty-one years before I break down and actually listen to my body.  This isn't so much idiocy as obstinance.

But, as for treatment... Being without health insurance, I'm not exactly able to take preventative medication.  Though I doubt I would given the opportunity -- I have taken both preventative and meds as well as meds used only when needed for an episode before and saw very little change in the frequency or severity of the pain.  Not to mention I hate the idea of taking non-essential medicine on a regular basis.

So, knowing that some folks are dealing with this same problem, I decided to make a short list of stuff that works for me.  Just keep in mind that I'm not a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, so any at-home remedies are based on my own experience -- I can't be held accountable if you hurt yourself or exacerbate your migraine doing any of these things.  Also, I have absolutely no money, so it'll be hilariously futile if you try to sue me.

• Go to a muscular skeletal therapist and get an adjustment. I prefer this to a chiropractor -- having my neck popped wigs me out. Pete Jurgensen in Martinsburg, WV is a great therapist if you're nearby.
• Go for a massage.  Nikole Bosley is a fantastic massage therapist in Charles Town, WV.  Tell her I sent you.
• Ice.  But not on your head.  The pain's usually not actively coming from there.  Try placing it on your upper neck or along the back or your head, near the base of your skull.  Alternate the ice with gentle pressure from your hand.  Don't hold the ice in place for more than a few seconds, and don't use it for a total time of more than a minute.
• Two words:  Jaw massage.  You have no idea how much jaw tension can contribute to migraine pain.  Theatre kids, use your training from voice class.  Everyone else, this is a handy intro.  However, I recommend relaxing your face a bit more and letting your jaw fall open if you're so inclined.  Yes, you'll feel like Cletus the Slackjawed Yokel with your mouth handing open, but trust me on this one.
• A massage from your partner.  They don't have to be a professional massage therapist, but the calming contact from someone you care about can be immensely comforting.  And yes, it can lead to...
• Sex.  Even if it only takes your mind off the pain for the duration of the act, it can be a relief.  Obviously, this hint is only if you're already sexually active.  Don't go losing your virginity under the auspices of curing your migraines.  
• Sleep.  Take a nap.  Go to bed early.  If you can swing at least an hour of sleep (preferably two or more if you can), that should make a huge difference.
• Get away from screens.  Put away your smartphone.  Close your laptop.  Turn off the telly.  Those backlights are gonna kill your eyes, head, and patience.  If anyone needs to get in touch with you urgently,  I'm sure they'll call you directly.  It won't kill you to unplug for a little while.  I promise.
• Caffeine.  Now, this is a controversial one.  I know lots of folks that say caffeine makes their headaches worse.  Not this gal.  Caffeine deprivation can also be a trigger for me, so I have one caffeinated beverage a day.  Except for migraine days.  Today alone, I took 2 Excderin Migraine (yes, that has caffeine in it) and had a glass and a half of Diet Coke.  I have a feeling all the stimulants had a lot do with my little dance number.

I know this isn't the most exciting blog post, but it was on my mind after I kicked the migraine that decided to take up residency in my skull this morning.  As much as I hope this info was helpful to anyone that can use it, I really hope nobody reading this needs it.  Because that means you get migraines too.  And I like you and don't want you to have these damned headaches.

Until next time.

Do You Ever Wake Up...

And realize you have a stellar idea for a new Food Network series?

No?  Just me?

Fine.

Anyone have the contact info for Scripps Networks' development department?

First!

Hrm.  Those douchey people that always type "first" in comment threads seem so satisfied with themselves.  This feels pretty much like a petty, empty victory.  Of course, I am doing it on my own blog, so there's very little competition to proclaim "First!" with such fervor.  That must be it.  Because people on the internet are always correct, well-meaning, and genuine.

Hi.  I'm Adrienne.  Odds are, if you're reading this first post, you likely already know me.  If you don't, then: Hi.  I'm Adrienne.

I swear, I don't always write like I've suffered a recent concussive trauma.  Or then again, maybe I do.  Maybe I do and nobody's told me!! Oh no!!

That's actually a very real fear that I thought I was a freak for having for a long time.  I had this weird paranoia that I'm actually not terribly bright or interesting, or that I have some severe and distracting tic or habit of which I am entirely unaware; and that my family and close friends somehow run interference ahead of me in social and professional situations.  They encourage the people I'm about to meet to be supportive and kind, so really everyone's just protecting me from myself.  That everything I've worked hard to achieve is a gesture of kindness on the part of relative strangers.

...If only the world were that altruistic.

I kept this paranoia to myself for a long time, until a childhood friend -- who has since joined the priesthood -- was giving me a ride to the airport this past summer.  The drive was long from Deep Creek, MD to Pittsburgh (yep, that's the nearest airport), so we found ourselves chatting about anything and everything as we traversed the highways in the grey of the early morning fog.  About halfway through the drive, my friend said that he always had a weird fear that he wasn't actually smart at all and that his family had convinced people to give him a shot.

It's strange to be so happy to hear someone divulge something like that, but I smiled immediately.  This intelligent, interesting, kind person that has devoted his life to the service of other people had the same concern as I did.   And later, I was telling Dan (for those of you that somehow don't know me, that's my fella), and he said he'd thought that as well.

So apparently it's completely normal to assume that we somehow are afraid we're overestimating ourselves?  That we stumbled into jobs, lives, and situations of which we're somehow unworthy due to the kindness and generosity of others?

Better than assuming the world should fall at our feet just because we exist.  I've seen that too, and while everyone's got their own journey through this life, I'd prefer to keep mine as far distanced from folks with an unjustified sense of entitlement as possible.  Not always easy in a large city, but still doable.

Anyway, where was I...?

Right!  Hi, I'm Adrienne.  I sometimes, but not often, introduce myself three times in a single blog posting.  I oscillate between living in West Virginia and New York City.  Being asked by people in either location if the other is a culture shock has gotten tiresome very quickly.  I have a kickass family, fantastic friends, and the best partner a gal could ask for.  My furry companion is a three-legged cat named Harris, though he stays with my family when I'm in NY to spare him the upheaval of moving back and forth.  I love writing, theatre, reading, baking, ziplining, thrifting, burlesque, dancing, teaching, and exploring the world around me.  I love a good laugh, but don't find racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, or jokes about violence at all amusing.

I loathe street harassment and more often than not will hollaback at idiots that participate in bothering women as they walk down the street --  When it's safe! Never do that when you're alone, it's dark, etc... always make sure you're not compromising your safety!.  But we need to do everything we can to make sure we don't let those assholes get away with taking your freedom to be a person in a public place!

I started this blog because I'm neck-deep in a crazy job search and am looking for a writing outlet that gives me more freedom than a cover letter.  I'm also currently writing a television pilot, but a girl needs a break from that too sometimes.  So who knows where this little website'll go in terms of subject matter.  But I plan to keep writing if you'll keep reading.  So if the numbers show up on my metric page, I'll make an effort to be interesting in your general direction on a regular basis.

Until next time.